On Music and Time

On March 22, 2016 I said goodbye to my boyfriend; Žilvinas had a plane to catch, one of his many trips home to Berlin while I continued my life in Brussels. He made his way to the bus stop, looking back once before turning the corner out of sight. I waved one more time and went back to practicing and packing for my own train at the end of the morning.

And then, an hour later, I checked the news: deadly explosions at the Brussels airport.

I raced to my phone and saw seventeen missed calls on my Belgian number and twenty-three on my German one. A wave of relief hit me: Žilvinas was alive. It took a few minutes before he answered my call and when he did, he explained the situation: he had gone through security twenty minutes before the explosion, while the last passengers who boarded the flight had heard the blast. He was one of the thousands who, while spared injury and death, would be in limbo for the rest of the day.

Not knowing what to do I called M., a family friend, and asked her if I could leave her my house key so Žilvinas would have a place to return to. I assumed he would not be leaving Brussels with the airport in disarray and expected to find myself on a train in another hour.

M. was sympathetic, understanding, reassuring. She agreed to take the key and even offered me a ride to the station, so I finished packing and waited by the door.

The minutes trickled by and I became restless, then impatient. I started to think that it would have been better to walk the five minutes to the Maalbeek metro station as I’d originally planned.
Still, I needed to give her the key and was looking forward to a calming presence.

When M. did arrive, I saw stopped traffic up and down our street. She told me that the five-minute drive had lasted nearly twenty and we weighed the pros and cons of my going to the metro after all; would I miss my train if we drove?

Just as we were figuring it out, a concerned friend gave me a call. He told me that, first of all, all public transport in Brussels had been stopped and that my train would not be leaving at all. And then he asked me if my metro station was called Maalbeek.

“Yes,” I answered, “I was just about to get out of the car and walk there. I’m a minute away.” “That’s the last thing you’d want to do,” he said. “There was an explosion inside the station. Fourteen people lost their lives. Go back home or get to a safe place.”

***

It was one of the most surreal days of my life, comparable perhaps only to the way COVID-19 brought everything to a halt overnight. And on that early spring day, time took on a new dimension. It became fluid, viscous, pliable, like a melted plastic container which was as startling as it was familiar in its new, ominous form.

Time separated me from Žilvinas now. It had separated us from death just hours earlier. I had no idea how he would get back to us, or if we would make it through the day safely.

And the only thing which could give sense the long hours to come was music.

It happened almost by accident. M. brought me back to her house, to a world in which she had recently been diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. A world of uncertainty that collided with the events of the day, leaving us both paralyzed as we parked the car and walked cautiously inside.

And so I looked up a piece which had served as both a childhood lullaby and as a soundtrack to hours spent in adolescence, wondering if my hopes and dreams meant anything measured against the backdrop of infinity: we played the second movement of J. S. Bach’s concerto for two violins and orchestra.

M. was a psychologist by profession, but a music lover. We didn’t have words to talk about the present, so I talked about the different ways in which the piece can be performed. We listened to the iconic recording of David and Igor Oistrakh and the English Chamber Orchestra, along with contemporary recordings of baroque ensembles and soloists.

I explained to her why some ensembles tuned up to A=444 while others were as low as A=415, and talked about how historical performance practice has changed the way we see Baroque music today. I told her that we can perform Shakespeare in period English or in standard American but that ultimately we are all saying the same words. As listeners, what we perceive is the marriage of those words to our own cultural context; within the uniqueness of both performance and perception lies the universality of music. She listened to Bach and listened to me, and we were both relieved to have this way of measuring time when all other methods failed. The second violin and orchestra start the second movement with a ray of hope. The soloist’s initial high F begins a beautiful phrase which gently descends, making its way down the octave in a lilting 12/8 meter. The concerto itself is in d-minor, making the F-major Largo a place of refuge within a more somber reality.

And for me, the most special moment of the entire piece is the entrance of the first violin in the third bar. If the F of the second violin is already radiant, the C of the first violin is heavenly. It’s the best way I can describe the simple but brilliant progression, the twin rays of light that greet us with each violin’s entrance at the beginning of this remarkable movement.

The fifth, as an interval, is often described as the most basic measuring tool within classical music. And here was this fifth, defining and immortalizing our own makeshift measuring stick of time. After that incredible C, slowly but surely, the first violin begins its descent just as its counterpart had already done, while the second violin is already blossoming, gently unfolding into a string of sixteenth-notes that carry us forward. The entire movement springs from that beginning with its gracious, self-evident flow until the first violinist’s sixteenth notes finally bring us home.

And eventually, we too came back to earth; she made us a wonderful lunch and we turned on the news. One of the perpetrators of the attacks at the airport had last been spotted three streets away from us. People were searching for their loved ones, injured victims were being rushed to hospitals.

Žilvinas, who had been in a hangar with a thousand other distressed passengers, had not had our calm oasis. He had been forced to leave his clarinet in the plane and had been watching wearily as hungry, exhausted, and increasingly worried passengers argued over emergency blankets and small batches of sandwiches. He hadn’t eaten but wanted to stay away from the shouting and grabbing, so he observed those around him. A group of Orthodox Jews had determined theirposition in relationship to Jerusalem and had begun praying together. Turbans, Saris, Kente cloth, and jeans swirled together, then fanned out and separated into small groups. For a short eternity, there was no further news.

And then, little by little, passengers were released from the hangar in small busloads. After four hours of waiting, he was assigned to a bus going to the city of Zaventem.

M. and I got in the car once more, finally meeting him outside a local church. Reading a book, Žilvinas looked pale but calm. And seeing him there on the park bench with no luggage felt abstract, like everything had been a huge misunderstanding, or like meeting an old friend after many years. And yet we knew: like the Bach concerto, this moment of uncertainty had ended.

***

I thought about that day many times, asking myself what would have happened if 20 minutes in either direction had cost us our lives or taken away our ability to make music forever.

I thought about that moment in the summer of 2017, when visiting the Jewish museum of Vilnius, Lithuania. The museum was small and there were no other visitors. I stopped in front of the display on music in the Lithuanian ghettos; in the Jewish ghetto of Kaunas, the arts had flourished. There were poetry competitions and music competitions, with makeshift juries and malnourished competitors. I thought about how often we discount competitions today as inhumane, problematic, or corrupt, whereas in the 1930s it helped to organize the hours, a lifeline during a time of dread in which the end, though impossible to predict, was looming closer each day.

I thought about it in the summer of 2018, when M. passed away; I thought about her struggle with cancer, about her incredible spirit and willingness to come to terms with both life and death. I thought about generosity on every level, and how she welcomed the music I care about so deeply into the madness of that unbelievable day.

I thought about it in the autumn of 2019, getting off a bus after 12 hours of sleepless travel just in time to say goodbye to a close family member. I was handed a cello and our friends and family gathered around him, the air thick with unsaid words of parting. While playing, I felt intense gratitude for this ability, learned over the decades, to produce sounds which could open the floodgates and allow the process of mourning to begin.

I thought about it in 2020, when everything was cancelled overnight and performers, audience members, and concert organizers had to come to terms with the slow but relentless passage of time without any of the signposts that they had relied upon their entire lives.

A friend recently asked: “what would this world be like if classical music had never existed?” and I think about the moments of solace, understanding, and interconnectedness that music has given us during weeks and months of isolation.

From either side of every musical instrument, listening tells us with certainty that we are a part of this world. And with that same certainty it tells us that this moment of time, this phase of being, will come to an end. At breaking points, it is the most powerful tool with which to understand the passage of time that I have ever encountered.

Natania Hoffman

Part Two

JULY. SONG OF THE REAPER.

All the melancholy of June is dissipated by the very first “sunny” E-flat Major chord of this piece. Open air, wide fields, sun, fresh wind. July and August, an incursion in the peasant life, core of the Russian spirit. Lively and vigorous character, energy in the movement though not very fast (Allegro moderato con moto), always free cantabile feeling. To feel your own shoulders free when playing, like it is said in the poetical epigraph by Koltsov (« Move the shoulders, shake the arms! »).

To my taste the half note (and not the quarter note) is the unit of the movement, thus there is much more flexibility and freedom in the phrasing. The melodies seem to me deeply connected to the Russian popular songs.

The construction of the first phrase is not regular and quite original: 3 and 4-bar patterns connected – one can imagine the rhythm of Russian epic poetry, with descriptive adjectives placed after the nouns, returning echoing repeats, etc.

The orchestral thinking is quite present here too: for example, with the bass pizzicati in the C Minor central section. The fast and vigorous sixteenth-notes contain a part of the general melodic line and shouldn’t be played dryly. It is also important to think a long melodic line in the beginning of the C Minor part, despite the constantly and regularly repeated breaks.

The expressive legato slurs in each pair are equally important. The climax repeated twice should be played with bravery but still in a singing way, with a powerful and expressive cantabile sound.

The accompanying triplets in the recapitulation are as if a light breeze was blowing, mildly whirling around, becoming more and more the principal element of the musical material and flying away to the skies.

AUGUST. HARVEST. 

This piece was defined by Tchaikovsky himself as a Scherzo. One of the most virtuosic pieces of the cycle, it is from a pianistic point of view quite uncomfortable. The tempo is undoubtedly fast (Allegro vivace). The idea of a Scherzo movement based on quick, restless and anxious triplets are also to be found in the C Minor Scherzo for violin and piano and partly in the Scherzo from the 6th Symphony. The contrasting middle section (Tranquillo) also doesn’t seem to sound natural in a too slow movement; indeed it is much easier to consider the long and beautiful melodic line of this part as rather fluid and flexible, than static. The unit of the movement here is, for me, the two-bars segment.

From all the pieces of the Seasons August seems to me the least connected to the meaning of the title. The harvest should be a very busy time and hard work, but it is an accomplishment and somehow a feast at the same time – yet there is no joy in the piece. There is much more of a troubled mood, agitation, confusion, almost despair. There are sobbing, crying intonations in the descending seconds of the main theme. The choice of B Minor for the main tonality is also hard to associate with happiness.

The first phrase seems extremely important to me as a general key to the whole piece. Of course we could say that about nearly any piece of music, but the beginning of the “Harvest” looks particularly delicate.

To feel the unity of the phrase (always long-line thinking) one can follow the direction of the melody: the B Minor scale is exposed fully in a descending motion, turning around as if trying to break during this fall (bars 1-4), then, is repeating up and down movements. Always make the crying intonations of the descending minor second expressive (a « living » relation between two legato-tied notes), and especially important are the ones between the quarter note and the following 8th-note, as if sliding down from the first to the second. Listen to the beautiful fluid harmonies. The constantly fleeing, whirling movement does not facilitate the task.

This movement should never be faster than the capacity of your ear to listen, to follow and, with your fingers, to shape the living melody.

The middle section in D Major is a peaceful contrast to the turmoil of the Allegro vivace. Legato cantabile, fluidity and flexibility in the phrasing. At the end, the sudden turn to the minor and the connection to the returning main part are bitterly melancholic. The end of the piece is powerful with a kind of desperate courage. Summer is going away, Autumn is coming.

SEPTEMBER. THE HUNT. 

And now come joyfully and vigorously the hunting horns – « there blow the horns! ». The poetical epigraph is the famous initial verse of Pushkin’s poem “Count Nulin”.

The piece is indeed describing this joyful, agitated though slightly pompous entertainment. The brass instrument’s sound color (essentially horns and trumpets) is majestically powerful, rising to the overwhelming FF at the end of the middle section.

The “orchestration” of the middle section is extremely contrasting with the beginning: instead of the brass and mighty tutti, we can hear solo woodwinds and strings, sometimes pizzicato. Everything becomes transparent and disquiet. Igumnov’s image for this part, “hounds sniffing in the bushes”, is extraordinary:

The excitement is growing, the hunters and the horns are closer and closer. About the B Major fortissimo chords Igumnov was saying – “the dogs are barking here”.

Speaking about the harmony, one can notice the absolute domination of the minor in the middle section, another great contrast with the main part. The recapitulation after thus seems even more amplified and powerful. 

The tempo shouldn’t be very fast (Allegro non troppo), holding an extremely powerful and vigorous rhythm. The concentrated and a little bit intentionally rounded hands, the tonicity in somehow more vertically than usual positioned fingers are helpful in the research of the round, full and penetrating sound imitating horns and trumpets.

OCTOBER. AUTUMN SONG. 

It is the deepest and the only fully tragic piece of the cycle. Here, maybe for the first time in Tchaikovsky’s music, we feel deep mourning, words of a last farewell, like later in his Trio and his last Symphony. And in this sense the “Autumn Song” is very difficult to play. A true masterpiece among Tchaikovsky’s miniatures, this piece cannot stand (I would even say survive) neither a cold-hearted, well-calculated execution nor falsely exaggerated feelings. This extreme fragility places the piece in the same rank with some of Brahms’ late Intermezzi. Absolute sincerity and, as deep and natural as possible, cantabile sound are the necessary and ultimate conditions if you play the “Autumn Song”. Tchaikovsky’s tempo indication Andante doloroso e molto cantabile is explicit enough.

Concerning the “Autumn Song” Igumnov evoked the “Autumn elegy” by Alexander Blok with its “slowly whirling yellow leaf” and ” an unavoidable decay of the soul”. 

Everything should be done for a real legato playing (consequently quite a few special fingerings with changements of fingers on the same key could be used), for the deepness of the longing sound.

Though quite slow, the tempo should keep enough movement in order to unify long phrases. The full use of tempo rubato is not only possible or desired, but is strictly necessary. The dialogs between the two singing voices are extremely expressive and full of speaking intonations.

The middle section, beginning in F Major with a kind of suggestion for a slow waltz movement, leads to a heartbreaking climax, mournful and full of hopelessness. Igumnov suggested the following fingering:

The recapitulation is an exact repeat of the exposition. In the coda the left hand suggests the sound of a death knell far away. The mourning intonation of the minor second is fading away in a last attempt to rise.

NOVEMBER. TROÏKA. 

One of the most popular pieces of the cycle. Partly because of the great recording made by Rachmaninov (a true performing masterpiece!); but although Igumnov’s recording is certainly not so perfect, his version is still closer to my heart. 

In both last pieces the epigraphs, though poetically beautiful, seem to fit the music less. Nevertheless nowadays they are inseparable and it is surely the best thing that could happen!

The wonderful poem by Nekrasov “Troïka” describes a young peasant girl following desperately with her eyes a troïka (a carriage with three horses) with a handsome young officer inside, as a dream flying away. The miserable reality will transform her life into slavery.

There is no tragic bitterness in Tchaikovsky’s music. We can however really feel the fast ride of the coach, open air, snowy fields, bells jingling.

The tempo is Allegro moderato and this moderato could be important when we are trying to find a beautifully sparkling light staccato for the right hand in the recapitulation, imitating at the same time the steps of the horses trotting away and the ringing little bells. The width of the splendid melody, sounding as a true Russian folk song, does not give the desire of taking a too fast tempo. The marvelous illusion of the ride is achieved by the regularity of the syncopated accompaniment chords, as if we could feel the springs of a good carriage. The same role is played by the special articulation of the melodic line, combining legato and spotted staccato notes (which I prefer to think more as portamento), giving an impression of the small irregularities of the road.

But by all means the continual unity of the melody should be preserved and cherished.

The initial E Major theme is based on the pentatonic scale. During the first six bars Tchaikovsky thoroughly avoids A and D#, which makes the following nostalgic modulation to G# Minor so natural and so necessary. At the beginning, the melody is played in unison by both hands, suggesting a harmonious romantic duo. The lower voice is as important as the upper one, though colored softly. Full and mild cantabile. After an intermediate melodic development the principal theme returns, flourished and powerful, exposed with full cantabile chords in the right hand. Deep, powerful and expressive cantabile. The triplets in the left hand’s accompaniment should be unified, played in equal waves, without noticeable crescendo. In the melodic line the difference in the articulation, compared with the beginning, should be underlined in an expressive way.

The middle section with the somehow oscillating tonality (A Minor – G Major – E Minor – B Minor, etc.) is written in a rather characteristically dancing manner – decelerating, stopping, then suddenly accelerating, stopping, etc. Tchaikovsky gives grazioso as a general character for this part. If we continue our comparison with the ride, the road becomes more rough or windy.

The recapitulation comes when the road gets once again smooth, like at the beginning. The light, silvery, « ringing-trotting » staccato 16th-notes of the right hand should be played as equally as possible and this is not an easy task. The initial articulation of the principal melody returns, played this time by the left hand only. The wonderful image of a carriage riding farther and farther away before it has completely vanished reminds me a lot of the ending of Schubert’s D Major Sonata D.850.

DECEMBER. CHRISTMAS

Tchaikovsky gives Tempo di Valse as the tempo indication for the last piece of The Seasons. Igumnov said that it is “a waltz in the intimate, family circle”.

The long phrase is made in two-bars units. It suggests a fluid and quite going forward general tempo. The Molto ritenuto in the 7th bar (and similar after) should be naturally compensated here and there with small accelerando tendencies and fluidity of tempo.

The pedal should be quite accurate, respecting the constantly returning silences in the melody, and mostly light. However the silences should not cut the continuous long melodic line, but on the contrary they could become helpful in keeping the constantly going-forward, turning round and round movement.

The E Major Trio, even if there is no indication of tempo change, could be felt in a slightly more calm movement (as a traditionally slower classical trio). A wonderful image for this Trio is given by Igumnov: the elder guests are playing cards meanwhile the young people keep dancing. The repeated (on the first beat of each bar) pedal on B in the left hand is as if the cards were dropped one by one on the table during the deal.

This image is interrupted by a kind of intimate dialog between the dancing couple. The cards play comes back and in the end of the Trio there is a sudden transformation, with a wave of bitterly melancholic intonations so characteristic for Tchaikovsky’s style.

The whole piece is composed in a Da capo form with a full and exact repetition of the first part, which is connected to the Coda. The later correction with the cut of the first part’s last bar seems less convincing.

In the Coda the movement becomes more and more whirling and agitated and then, rather suddenly, with a gradual diminuendo, the music mildly escapes to eternity.

Serguei Milstein, Lyon, 2020

Some reflections on Tchaikovsky’s Seasons

In these notes I don’t intend to give an exhaustive overview. They rather are an attempt to sum up my personal experience of practicing and performing this masterpiece of Tchaikovsky.

My musical background as well as my musical disposition and understanding took root in the tradition of Igumnov’s piano school. Constantin Igumnov (1873-1948) was one of the greatest Russian pianists and pedagogues of the first half of the 20th century and was in particular considered as the best performer of Tchaikovsky. A few of his Tchaikovsky recordings, among them The Seasons, but also live recordings of the Piano Trio with David Oistrakh and Svyatoslav Knushevitsky (unfortunately only the first movement was captured), the Grand Sonata opus 37 and several other pieces, even if not always perfect technically, should enter in the choicest collection of performing masterpieces and remain for me unequalled in their deepness, passion, poetical inspiration, natural and simplicity.

Both my father and mother were Igumnov’s students. During more than ten years my father also was his assistant. Some of the performance suggestions and tips for The Seasons I received directly from them.

The history of The Seasons creation is well-known and all the details can be easily found in accessible sources. In short, the whole cycle was composed at the end of 1875 and in 1876. It was commissioned by the monthly music magazine « Nouvellist ». Nikolay Bernard, the editor, decided to publish in each issue a new piece by Tchaikovsky, as a musical image of the month. It was also Bernard who proposed the titles and provided short poetical epigraphs for each piece, which were obviously to Tchaikovsky’s taste. Thus, throughout the whole year of 1876, month after month, all the pieces were published.

Thinking about the well-known Tchaikovsky’s affinity with Schumann’s music and spirit, we could suppose that Tchaikovsky was pleased with the idea of composing a piano cycle unified in one program, a colorful and characteristic suite of pieces, a mixture of picturesque and deeply emotional, of brilliance and intimacy (Schumann’s Innigkeit).

From the numerous recollections of Igumnov’s and my father’s students we know how long they could work on a short phrase, a few bars or even just a few notes, sometimes throughout the entire lesson, searching for the true intonation, the most natural and expressive connection between notes which would give this phrase an unique taste of true life. Not necessarily but often these short phrases were at the beginning of the piece or in one of the decisive moments of its dramatic development (climaxes, brutal changements of character, etc).

The reason of this insistent focusing on small parts of the piece is obvious. I would liken these parts to keys opening locked doors of an imaginary palace hiding a treasure, which you would find and reveal to the world. Somehow the search and discovery of these keys is one of the most essential part of the performer’s practice. These keys could be very personal and yet aiming at the same purpose – finding your way to the heart of the piece and trying to unveil its inner life. The following lines are thus just an attempt to describe some of my personal keys issued from the performing tradition of Igumnov.

JANUARY. AT THE FIRESIDE.

Calmer and dreamier than Schumann’s homonymous composition from the Kinderszenen op.15, the opening piece of The Seasons is in perfect harmony with Pushkin’s lines accompanying the piece, describing a peaceful and tender evening, growing dusk, intimacy, dreams and hopes. The proximity of the music to the poetical epigraph let us suppose that in the today lost letter of Bernard to Tchaikovsky, in which he commissioned The Seasons, he suggested not only the titles but also some of the poems.

The tempo indication also is an indication of the general character : «Moderato semplice, ma espressivo». The melodic line made of short but expressive intonations (mostly two or three notes, connected by legato or portamento) should be played as an unified phrase throughout its four bars. I would like to note the importance of the crescendo leading to the upper F# (climax of the phrase, then calming down). Both the dominant with the culminating F# and the B minor chord in the third bar are on the same level of tender expressiveness (not too much diminuendo before the next bar):

A very important key to this opening phrase was suggested to me by my mother: to listen attentively and shape (without rushing the sixteenth notes!) the first three notes (freely articulated, singing-speaking). And in general, no rush in the following 16^th notes.

Mildly fluid and flexible movement. A surprising first C Major chord is starting the middle part, deep, and tenderly melancholic. The connection between the first and the middle parts as if to suddenly fall into this C major, then switch gradually through a calando to the much darker E minor (light, arpeggio-like rising line), like shadows in the growing dusk, the lightest wind blowing:

Igumnov played these ascending sextuplets apparently without pedal, almost non legato and with an extremely, incredibly light touch.

His words about January are – “(…) near the fireside, how we laid down on the floor, chatted and dreamed”. And Tchaikovsky’s own words : “nothing in the world inclines more to fantasy and sweet dreams than a burning fireplace”. This dreamy mood, mixing hope and melancholy, is for me the main character of the whole piece.

All the pieces of The Seasons are composed in an A-B-A form, sometimes simple, sometimes freer and more elaborate. The contrasting characters between the different pieces of the cycle, between the different parts of one piece, the different themes inside one part and, sometimes, even inside one bar, seem to be an extremely important element in Tchaikovsky’s process, and the performer should pay attention to it. Even in the most peaceful pieces the drama is not far away.

There is a version with a cut in the middle part (there are two bars missing in the autograph) that is not really organic and, in my opinion, shouldn’t be played. These two bars were most probably added by Tchaikovsky himself in the first edition.

FEBRUARY. CARNIVAL.

This piece offers a totally contrasting mood compared to the dreamy tranquility of the first piece.

Sparkling energy and dancing, leaping, whirling fast movements, kaleidoscopic changing images. It is important to remember that the original Russian title “Масленица” signifies Shrovetide, la « Semaine grasse », a week preceding the Lent. In fact we find the same title in Stravinsky’s Petrushka, describing the same feast although in a much more grotesque and disturbing way.

Tchaikovsky’s tempo indication Allegro giusto is unfortunately often understood as «Allegro molto». This piece is often suffering a lot from its too direct, primitively percussive execution. The complicated harmonic life, the numerous details of the articulation, dynamic and phrase markings, everything is erased by an exaggerate rushing.

It seems to me that the natural limit for the tempo is given by the possibility to play the sixteenth-notes staccato (in a way it could be played by some woodwind instruments) as Tchaikovsky explicitly requires in many places:

Here are Igumnov’s words describing the piece: “Revelry, reckless people, masks, tame bear’s show…”. Igumnov spoke also about the image of a drunkard in the middle part of the “Carnival”. The man is trying to find his way, running into the walls, etc. All these images are completely irreconcilable with a straight, too fast, strictly metronomical and “sporty” execution of the piece.

The harmony is extremely rich and moving. It is interesting to note rise the substantial amount of minor-colored harmonies (resulting from the use of the harmonic major scale or quick modulations to minor keys) from the very beginning and throughout this supposedly joyful piece.

The important keys to me technically were the use of the full weight of the arms, seeking a powerful, energetic but never harsh sound switching quickly to the light fingers energy for the staccato notes.

Here is Igumnov’s fingering facilitating the otherwise quite uncomfortable rising passage of sixteenth-notes :

MARCH. SONG OF THE LARK.

Probably the simplest, pianistically speaking, and also the shortest piece of the cycle. The “Song of the Lark” is often given to children as the first piece to study from The Seasons. The tempo Andantino espressivo suggests a not too slow movement. The ornaments imitating the birds trills should be played quite fast but always as a part of the cantabile melodic line. The left hand, when accompaniment, is polyphonic: the pedal bass G should be played as tenuto as possible, the inner chords, with two and three contrapuntal voices also tenuto and molto legato.

I remember how my teacher at the Central Music School of Moscow, Anaida Stepanovna Soumbatian, strongly insisted on this way of playing. I was given a quite complicated fingering for the upper line of the left hand:

When the melody goes to the left hand, it is better to avoid a heavy, exaggerate expressive sound, as if a cow was trying to imitate the lark. It should be more a reflection of the bird’s song into your soul.

The beautiful poetical epigraph by Maïkov describing the flourishing meadow is a bit incoherent. In Central Russia, the meadows in March are still frozen and under the snow. But the larks are indeed the first songbirds coming back from the southern countries.

And the first flowers come out in April: snowdrops.

APRIL. SNOWDROP.

If the “Song of the Lark” is overwhelmingly melancholic, the “Snowdrop”, even with its touch of sadness (so typical for Tchaikovsky), presents a very contrasted character to the preceding piece – aspiring, moving, intimate. It is in perfect harmony with the poet’s lines: “the last tears of the past sorrow and the first dreams of the future happiness”. A truly spring mood.

Igumnov’s words – “it’s an awakening of new life. In my childhood in Lebedyan we used to go to the monastery to gather the snowdrops; they were nowhere else but in the monastery yard, where there were lots of them”.

The tempo is fluid and flexible – Allegretto con moto e un poco rubato. Continuously and totally melodious, overwhelming cantabile. But the sound is light and by no means thick; the left hand continues to go forward even in ritardando moments, tenderly quivering. When the melody comes in the lower register, both hands alternatively taking it, the legato and the unity of the phrase become quite a problem:

To practice this place without pedal looking for an inner, lively, true legato line could be really helpful.

MAY. WHITE NIGHTS (could also be translated as MIDNIGHT SUN).

The piece is referring to the famous white nights in Saint-Petersburg which are beginning at the end of May. It almost never gets dark during several weeks, and the city becomes particularly, poetically beautiful in this very special lighting. The range of emotions we could feel in the music goes from the quiet, silent admiring contemplation to the breathtaking delight brought by the F-sharp Major climax at the end of the middle part.

The tempo is not too slow (Andantino), calmly fluid, and the middle part (Allegretto giocoso) is quite animated though not extremely fast. It is easy to imagine the piece orchestrated with its clearly harp-like arpeggiati as well as the portamento descending single flute-colored voice (or another woodwind instrument when in lower register), etc.

Intense but not heavy legato cantabile in what is in general a 4-voices polyphony. At the same time naturally spoken phrases, always being aware of the longer line. Tchaikovsky ingeniously expressed this wish for an ample and flexible phrasing by composing a theme in two while using a three-beats time signature (9/8). All this could result in a quite elaborate fingering, a frequent use of finger-substitutions, etc.

I would like to underline once more the vocal roots of Tchaikovsky’s themes. Being one of the greatest opera and romance composers, his melodies in instrumental music are so natural that they could be easily imagined with words behind the notes, which you could sing or declaim. One of the most important components of the practice should be, I think, this research for the most expressive, true intonations, creating lively connections between notes.

After a moving and animated middle part the recapitulation is an exact repeat of the first part except for the last bar of the conclusion.

JUNE. BARCAROLLE.

One of the most popular pieces of the cycle. “It has to be on the river, – Igumnov said -” not really a big Russian river, a summer evening, small waves splashing, a starlit night”. The general movement is not too slow but certainly not rushing at all (Andante cantabile). The left hand in the first two bars should find this very calm, slightly monotonous rhythm of paddling. A well-chosen tempo could be very helpful.

The melody is fluid. It is itself so natural that you can nearly let it live its own life. It shouldn’t sound at all artificial.

There is a beautiful polyphonic dialogue between the soprano and the middle voices. It is important to keep a good balance between all the elements. One should think of the use of the natural weight of your hands, of the feeling of deepness in the touch, especially in bar 12 and similar, when all the notes of the scale-shaped melody are marcato under the legato mark – a kind of deep and intense portamento (but always fluid!):

This B-flat Major middle part of the A section seems to me possible in a pochissimo piu mosso tempo.

The middle section (B) in G Major is a sort of Intermezzo, an intersection with a different world – the song could be issued from Russian folklore with its syncopated, a bit accordion-like accompaniment (Poco piu mosso) leading to a joyful popular dance (Allegro giocoso).

This short intermission is broken by an ascending suite of the harp-like arpeggiati (ff till the end of the rise, no diminuendo!).

And after a short recitativo full of true bitterness, the recapitulation begins with a developed and enriched contrapuntal voice. The nostalgic coda is entirely based on a G Minor pedal chord, the music flowing away as a farewell.

Serguei Milstein, Lyon, 2020

If I remember correctly, I started playing the Fantasiestücke op.12 because of one recital Murray Perrahia gave in Amsterdam. The week after I came to my piano lesson and told my teacher I need to learn it. I was 15.

Now it is funny to come back to it, because it is as if it had never disappeared: I am 10 years older, have played many pieces in between and hope I improved !
I never considered Fantasiestücke as if they were following me during my development in music. But while coming back to it I start remembering things about the time when I was playing them I would never think of, for example, one concert that I gave in the foyer of Carré (editor’s note: emblematic theatre in Amsterdam). I would never think about that concert which was not very eventful in itself, but all things like that come back.

Some general thoughts on Fantasiestücke

The Fantasiestücke are just «perfect»: there isn’t one weak movement; it doesn’t pretend to have a large form but is still has, somehow. What separates it from other pieces of Schumann is, I would say, the chamber music character it has, it is obviously intimate. Other cycles are as well, for example Kinderszenen are maybe even more, but they are as if written specifically for a drawing room. The Fantasiestücke in its entirety represent a true concert piece for me, although they might not look as such.
Schumann was apparently playing around with the order; In der Nacht, for example, was going to have a totally different place in the cycle. But there is a balance in the end: slow and fast, light and heavy pieces are alternating ; it sounds as if it comes together by coincidence, maybe also because we know Schumann was trying different orders. It is as if he was not planning to write a big cycle and still ended up doing so.
I find it perfect that In der Nacht doesn’t go immediately to Traumes Wirren but has Fabel in between. Before that you have Warum and Grillen which are in the same key despite the minor color at the beginning of Grillen. After the latter there is a break in the global form, it is the half of the piece: In der Nacht seems to me as a departure from what has been, although this is very subjective. But for me this is where the climate changes from being still a light-hearted piece to not at all. Then Fabel is seemingly nice but the mood is never completely cleared. And in Ende vom Lied even less so…

About performing Fantasiestücke

I would love to say that when I play the first note I am already thinking about the last. I am more looking forward to surprise myself when I start playing.
For instance I have tried to wait between Grillen and In der Nacht, but it doesn’t work: the beginning of In der Nacht is like a shock, so when it starts without being calculated I know it works better.
However I am not sure whether I thought about this connection in the practice room or is it something I found on stage. I would say I can rely on the fact that what I feel is what the audience might feel, then I see and can say what « works ». And I definitely noticed that with this big break between Grillen and In der Nacht, the latter can sound just like another piece in F minor.

I try to leave things « open », and what I have noticed from playing Schumann’s Carnaval a few times in a row is that one learns, throughout performances, about certain phrasings and inflections.
But as accidents happen, they open up something that makes one see the piece in a completely different light. One note could come out too loud and you would have to adjust all of what comes after. A whole set of possibilities is changed. And because you have to solve this, it gives you an insight that you could not think about with rational practicing. Maybe on a piano which doesn’t allow it, you are not going to try and risk so much, but this is a practical side.

Some of those things that happen in performance I try to remember and reproduce again. A Beethoven Sonata doesn’t leave much to chance ; one has to have a concept and go for it, and it is already so much to do. With Schumann I feel it is different – I feel really free when I play his music. I try to understand how much I can be, because this is of course different for everyone. Everyone has also his own complex – indeed I could not possibly stand that someone would say my playing is boring. I prefer someone to say it is outrageous, and stupid and exaggerated, but not that I played notes and looked satisfied with this fact. Perhaps this translates in my way of playing and I can do too much, but I try to balance it.

It is such a cliché to say it, but with Schumann one wants to feel on the edge of what is possible to achieve. Carnaval is like a weird dream. But the dream of someone who would wake up and see actual people, or figures of people showing up in the real world ; what are Chopin, Clara, Ernestine doing in a carnival ? It is simply too crazy to be a simple depiction of a German or Venetian carnival! You cannot just make it square as you play.
In this sense the Fantasiestücke give maybe more freedom to imagine what is behind the pieces.

I really like performing one work multiple times. With repetition, everything becomes more interesting. The level of comfort one develops on stage doesn’t resemble anything one reaches in a practice room.
So how does the balance work between this level of « insanity » demanded by Schumann’s music and the routine of playing it many times ? I guess one has to suggest this more than actually be « insane » . Once you repeat a piece, maybe it becomes less difficult, but the effect of it on the audience could be the same, while for the performer it becomes more pleasant. I would say the highest form of pianistic communication is just feeling completely at ease with the material while what it is expressing is this insanity.
I really dislike it when one reduces the contrasts between slow and fast pieces of Schumann to a clear separation between Florestan and Eusebius, although it is true in many ways; but they also often appear together in one piece.
Furthermore, In der Nacht has a program, which Schumann added after writing the piece, related to the Greek myth of Hero and Leander. This could mean that every piece can have its own program.
Although it is a fact Schumann was obsessed with literature, wanted to be a writer himself, gave titles to his pieces and attributed to each of them one of his alter egos, and so on, but in my opinion the music is still free from the title, as the example of In der Nacht proves it. One can maybe get closer to the « truth » through the title, but fixing a program on top of it can be suffocating.
In that respect, Warum also makes me think about the bigger « Why », not so much through the eyes of one character. It is there, obviously, in the harmonies : it starts on the dominant, of a dominant, then only comes the tonic, but the main voice lands so heavily on the 3rd that it doesn’t feel stable at all. There is no end in this piece, it leaves you with a question mark.
But this is where one can say with certainty what it represents, however I would say that one shouldn’t go much further than that.

A little about each of the Fantasiestücke

Des Abends
The challenge is to get one single line in this peculiar atmosphere – it should be smooth and at the same time speak. I am not sure Des Abends can be an encore, so strong is its overture connotation.
I find it already fascinating that in the very first bars it is just written « Pedal » – and that’s it! There are not so many dynamic markings. There is this obvious rhythmical ambiguity which you can choose to emphasize or not, and it doesn’t really seem that one is right or wrong, you could also choose while you play. You have a repeat which you can do or not following your taste, and change to a more « subtle » way of playing or…

Aufschwung
It is difficult to have it agitated but also not to lose yourself in this agitation. Bring out the theme in the lower voice, played with the thumb throughout the piece. Be as passionate as one can be but not ruining it, because here an accident happens easily. Heinrich Neuhaus speaks about the distinction between what is a technical difficulty versus a piece’s “content”: if someone misses all the jumps in Paganini from Carnaval, does this piece lose all of its « content »? What the audience considers a technically difficult piece is more than the outer shape of it, and a slow piece can be as technically difficult as something else.

Warum
In Warum every little phrase should be resembling someone who sings, every note should be different from the other, as in every one note has to be played with intention, with substance, one has to manage all these micro nuances. For me it is also about not becoming rigid and loud. Warum is totally different from Des Abends. The latter is about painting a picture, or sound painting, like a Debussy Prelude ; Warum is related to speaking and singing, speech, it is definitely a Lied, with its characteristic 6th jump in which one can hear the question «Warum?».

Grillen
This word exists in Dutch as well, also as an adjective – funnily enough I was once mentioned in a review as the « grillige Van Poucke » ! – it means you are doing strange, sudden jokes ; the indication is already « mit Humor », and the piece comes up with sudden changes ; one can hear simple good spirit in the main theme, but the next section (from bar 17), is already as if more sneaky. One shouldn’t probably get stuck in the spirit of the first phrase, and make it sound Teutonic all the way through. It is also a bit clumsy.
But someone who is « grillig » also defines someone one cannot trust – a flighty nature. This is for me represented in the middle section of the piece with its contrasting short articulated phrases.
I also don’t want to choose if this piece is a depiction of someone like this or actually the direct speech of that person.

In der Nacht
There are the voice layers one has to make audible ; one has to feel as if everything was haunted, and totally unpredictable. I actually aim to create a certain mystical haunted atmosphere ; for example this could be achieved with playing the beginning extremely soft and make only the bass F really sound. A mysteriously difficult passage is the recurring descent in the left hand with the possible special fingering 1-2/1-2/1-2 etc.

Fabel
I would say I cannot consider it a difficult piece, nor very deep ; I had to think what the middle part represents, but it could be a classic hunter scene, like in the « Jäger auf der Lauer » from the Waldszenen ; I try to separate the « narrator ‘s » speech from the rest. Somehow this piece is, so to speak, very well made for performing. In those slow inputs I try to follow the inner lines as much as the top voice, so that all have some life. Those introductory phrases really make you feel as if you were reading to your kids : “once upon a time”…
But, as light as it may sound, after having heard something as haunting as In der Nacht, a simple fable like that – you cannot trust it. It is a happy piece to me, but in regard to the whole set, a happy story is a memory and is always connected with it being over, and dead…
Although it is something on the top, the whole cycle narrative puts it in a certain light.

Traumes Wirren
Definitely the most difficult piece of the set. It’s always a balance between wrist and finger work. One can get tired already in the first pages, but I guess once you have the key the difficulty is way less of a one. It is hard to start ; one cannot feel completely safe; maybe one tip would be to imagine the beginning with a slight rubato without actually doing it.
One should not make an etude out of the piece, it should sound like a vision. The middle section makes it even clearer that it is about « weird » dreams, it is a home that feels odd.
Speaking of difficulty, does one really should play without any single mistake? Is it possible even? When a musician like Sokolov, Richter or Horowitz plays a wrong note, the message is coming across shining through, the narrative is always there, the vision of the music is so directed that it is always clear what they have to say.

Ende vom Lied
The first theme gives already a feeling of « this is it ». It is of course very subjective and I would avoid as much labeling as possible, but especially the middle part feels like an epic journey that has to be done and cannot end well, a depart for a battle although knowing well enough it is lost in advance.
This piece is repeating a lot, can almost feel long, as it is in fact based “only” on chords. With a material which seems to be uniform, one has to create some kind of variety, not only with a plan. I would always try to find something new, spontaneously, since this piece sounds easily loud and boring.
But the fact that there are also written repeats make me think this piece has to be a bit tiring for the audience: if that magnificent coda came too soon, it would not sound as much of a relief as it does after all of the preceding music. This coda ties the whole cycle together.

Where to position Schumann and afterthoughts

Romantics have an obsession with the dream, with what it represents of the supernatural and the mystical, with the night and the darkness as romantic symbols. I hear Chopin pieces as if they were coming from a dream – a striking example in that sense would be his Polonaise-Fantaisie.
But Schumann is so much more connected to the literary world. Take the example of E.T.A Hoffman’s “The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr”: the book is entirely written from the point of view of a cat. In the introduction written by the author, the latter is apologizing for the bad writing of the cat. Moreover, there is a list of words that, as a matter of fact, mean something else than their original definition ; and finally, as the cat was delivering the first version to the publisher, some other leaves seemed to have fallen into the book, and these are forming the biography of the musician Johannes Kreisler, which will inspire Schumann’s Kreisleriana.
Those kind of crazy visions, absurd, are closely connected to Schumann’s music and one should be a bit familiar with this literary world to stimulate the musical fantasy.
Changing the rhythm of language purposefully, as a matter of style, as would do Jean Paul or E.T.A Hoffmann, is something Schumann could have tried to emulate in his music ; the constant use of irregular phrase structures, for example, is thus easily often related to the composer’s mental health, although it must have been for the purpose of exploring a new musical language.
I relate a lot Schumann’s piano writing to late Beethoven, with its complex contrapuntal life.

Fantasiestücke seem to me such a powerful piece, with its last three lines nailing it all down. I cannot explain why does it have maybe a less popular reputation than some other pieces of Schumann, such as the Kreisleriana or the Symphonic Etudes.
Pianists of the past would play only some of the Fantasiestücke and not the complete cycle, just as no pianist has performed Chopin’s Préludes in their entirety during his lifetime, but nowadays are hardly heard apart.
In the past there were maybe strong ideas about what is good music and what is not, there were clear boundaries defining the quality of an artwork, whereas now basically anything can be considered as a piece of art. Generally, there is less criticism, actually a big part of the audience and reviewers would not differentiate Fantasiestücke from Carnaval…
But thanks to that, perhaps, a piece which hasn’t been considered worth being performed in a cycle has now totally its place in our concert life.

If I had to name just a few pianists to listen to, those would be Cortot, Michelangeli, Rubinstein, Gilels, Horowitz.

Based on recorded conversation between Nicolas van Poucke and Nathalia Milstein

MuziekHaven, Zaandam (Netherlands), August 2020

I am an instant illuminating eternity
I am affirmation.
I am Ecstasy.

Scriabin, excerpt from the Poem of Ecstasy

Are you a pianist looking for a new piece to practice? Are you a musician who wants to learn more about classical repertoire? Or are you a music lover interested in piano music? Let me tell you a little story, and you will discover a piece which is not very often played.

Sometimes…

Sometimes something special happens between a musician and a piece of music.
Sometimes the sense of connection a musician feels is difficult to explain.
Sometimes it is even harder to describe exactly why a musician deeply loves a certain composition.
Sometimes it is not a question of analysis, comprehension, depth, passion, history or musicology.
Sometimes a piece, although not often played, or not generally considered a masterpiece, can have a special place in the heart of a particular musician.

And this is the case with Alexander Scriabin’s Sonata N°1 in F minor (opus 6) and myself.

Scriabin is best known for his later compositions, and his early works are rarely performed on the world stage. His Piano Concerto (opus 20), for example, is not generally programmed in the final round of international competitions, and not often played in classical hall concert series. The Sonata N°1 is hardly ever performed, the Sonata N°2 (opus 19), however, has always been popular and is quite often played by pianists today.

Scriabin was extremely sensitive to Nature, and its shades and atmospheres found their way into his music. His affinity with the natural world and the importance to him of colour is evident in these words he wrote after a visit to Latvia and the sea :

“Everything glowed with magnificent majesty on the horizon. First a clear purple, then it turned rose-coloured, and finally silvery flecks stained the surface of the sea…. The green of the sea blended with the blue reflection of the sky. There was such a play of colours and shades as I’ve never seen. It was a picture, a triumph of colours, a festival of truth.” ¹

Synesthesia, a condition where the stimulation of one of the senses has an effect on another, was to influence Scriabin later on. He came to associate a particular colour with a particular musical key, and developed a whole system of colours that he used in the music of his mature period.

In the first decade of his published music, pieces called “Mazurka”, “Waltz”, “Nocturne”, (even one “Polonaise”) are strongly reminiscent of Frederic Chopin. He admired Chopin and his forms, his long, singing lines, his freedom and deep expression, all of which can be heard in Scriabin’s own music. He accepted the comparison of his music to Chopin’s, while defending his own musical identity :

“What if my music does sound like Chopin? It’s not stolen, it’s mine…” ²

His Sonata N°1 was written at the age of 21. At this time Scriabin was struggling with a physical problem : he had over-practised some technical passages in Liszt’s virtuosic Don Juan Fantasy, and damaged his right hand. The doctors were of the opinion that he would no longer be able to play the piano. This was catastrophic for the young composer, and he was greatly saddened :

“ This is the most serious event in my life! What an obstacle for my ultimate goal: glory, fame ! According to doctors, this is insurmountable. It is the first failure in my life. I’m afraid I will never heal. I was expecting revelations from Heaven but they did not come…” ³

One can imagine how awful it must have been for him to feel restricted physically in the sounds he could produce, restricted in what he could express, when he could feel his soul bursting with emotion. During the same period he wrote a Prelude and Nocturne for the left hand (opus 9). Luckily for him, he did eventually recover and was able to play again. However he only performed his Sonata N°1 once in public, even after he recovered, maybe because he associated it with the difficult time of his disabled hand.

Background information such as this can help to better understand the Sonata. The fact that Scriabin’s right hand was limited explains the density and technical difficulty of the writing for the left hand. The rhythmical patterns are often tricky and complicated. The harmonies are not as complex as those he developed later, but his musical personality is already evident. The left hand often has arpeggios, and sometimes takes over the melody from the right hand. The right hand does not have fast, virtuosic lines, but singing melodies and free phrases. The Sonata is deeply expressive, intense, and generally serious in tone. In spite of Scriabin’s young age and consequent limited life experience, there is a perceptible sense of despair and hopelessness. The heavy mood of the last movement “Funebre” could apply to any tragedy.

The Sonata is in four movements : Allegro con fuoco – Adagio – Presto- Funebre. The last two are connected, as the Presto ends with a dominant chord that prepares the tonic at the beginning of the Funebre, and some editions present the work in three movements. The beginning of the first movement is very agitated, giving a tremendous feeling of torment. There are two main themes and the second one is more nostalgic, more meditative. The movement is in classical sonata form and in the recapitulation the second theme is played in octaves in the right hand. The second movement, Adagio, is a long, very slow melody with mysterious harmonies. In the second part of this movement the melody is repeated, with the variation of a rippling accompaniment in the left hand.

The Presto has crazy triplets in the left hand, a technically difficult obsessional motion of great intensity. There is an A-B-A form and the B-theme is more melancholic and cantabile. A short lento transition announces the final movement, which can be compared to the funeral march of Chopin’s second Sonata. There is a very magical, enigmatic moment in Scriabin’s Funebre. In the middle of the movement at the indication “Quasi niente” series of chords rise and hover, time is suspended, the atmosphere is other-worldly. It is difficult not to think of the sentence quoted above:

“I was expecting revelations from Heaven but they did not come.”

I think that we pianists often practice pieces that are ”useful” : useful to play in competitions, or useful in building an interesting and marketable piano recital. Music that people already know is easier to program, it is true, but this inhibits the discovery of lesser-known jewels and treasures a composer may have written. Of course everyone experiences music differently, and opinions and tastes vary. Personally, I feel almost a sense of mission to perform pieces with which the audience may not be familiar, especially when I love that music. And this can be very rewarding. For example when I played the first Sonata of Prokofiev (opus 1) in F minor, also not very well known, I was surprised and delighted how much people enjoyed discovering the piece, and how certain preconceived ideas about this Sonata that is “never played” were changed.

Hopefully Scriabin’s first Sonata will be played by the new generation, and if you are a pianist reading this short article, I hope that you will want to discover the pleasure of having it at your fingertips.

Written by Fanny Monnet – 2020

¹ Scriabin, A Biography by Faubion Bowers
² Scriabin, A Biography op.cit.
³ Scriabin’s notebook

Recommended recordings:

Charles-Valentin Alkan (1813-1888) was a French Jewish pianist and composer who spent his entire life in Paris. He soon became famous for his pianistic virtuosity and was considered by his contemporaries as one of the leading pianists of his generation. However, for reasons that are unknown to us, he decided to leave behind his performance career and seclude himself for almost 25 years (between 1848 and 1872) whilst continuing his work as a composer.

Alkan´s Symphony for Solo Piano was published in 1857 as part of his 12 etudes in all minor keys (“Douze études dans tous les tons mineurs”). Although being embedded in a cycle of etudes, the Symphony is clearly indicated and therefore usually played as a self-contained work with four movements:

1. Allegro (Etude in C minor)
2. Marche Funèbre (Etude in F minor)
3. Menuet (Etude in B-flat minor)
4. Finale (Etude in E-flat minor)

As one can see, the movements are written in different keys, thus forming a progression of falling fifths (C – F – B-flat –E-flat). The absence of a tonal centre is rather unusual for a multi-movement work of that period such as a Sonata or a Symphony and due to the fact that Alkan´s sets of 12 major and 12 minor etudes op. 35 and 39, similarly to Chopin´s cycles of Etudes and Preludes, follow the concept of Bach´s Well-Tempered Piano featuring all 24 minor and major keys within the circle of fifths.

As the musical analysis will show, Bach´s music has been an important influence not only in terms of the key concept, but also in terms of the compositional techniques used in this composition. At the same time, Alkan pays tribute to Beethoven whose Symphonies and (often symphonically conceptualized) piano sonatas have undoubtedly been a great source of inspiration in terms of the form and “orchestration” of the piano.
Compared to his other works, the Symphony is one of Alkan´s most classical, almost classicist compositions. Being roughly 30 minutes long, it is less eccentric than his Grande Sonate “Les quatre âges” op. 33 and less exuberant than his almost hour-long “Concerto pour Piano Seul” (op.39 no. 8-10). This being said, the Symphony can be considered as one of his most accomplished works, both regarding its formal balance and genuineness. Already the idea to write a Symphony for a single instrument is highly original. But it is above all Alkan´s mastery in creating suspense and imitating different orchestral instruments and their individual sounds on the piano that makes this work so vibrant and unique.

Allegro

In the beginning of the first movement, the composer introduces the main theme in the bass register of the piano, supposably having the lower string section of the orchestra in mind. The low register, but also the use of syncopations as well as the repetition of a “sighing” motive within the theme contribute to a very dark and desperate character that prevails throughout the movement:

The opening movement is structured according to the traditional Sonata form, beginning with an exposition, followed by the development section, the recapitulation and a coda. After the presentation of the main theme follows a transitional theme that is characterized by chromaticism and lyrical character:

After the transition, the composer introduces the second theme which contrasts with the main theme both in terms of the tonality (being written in the relative major key) and in its character which is rather light and cheerful. Another difference between the main theme and the second theme is the use of intervals: Whereas the main theme only consists of diatonic steps within the c minor scale, the second theme begins with an octave leap and then continues with melismatic, almost arabesque figures built upon a succession of semitones:

In the development section, the composer focusses on the main theme, whereas the second theme does not reappear. The composer fragmentizes the main theme into its central melodic and rhythmical elements and confronts them with each other, often in a contrapuntal manner:

The recapitulation begins rather conventionally. The main theme is reintroduced in the tonic key, and the transitional theme appears in C major, thus converging towards the tonality of the main subject. The second theme, however, does not reappear again. Instead, there seems to be a second development-like section that leads to the coda. It is only in this coda that the second theme has its (belated) entry, which is even more triumphant and jubilating than in its first appearance:

This passage reflects at the same one of the typical traits in Alkan´s piano music: The use of fullhanded chords creating a very dense, tutti-like sound. The chord progressions are often extremely demanding and difficult to handle in a fast tempo since the composer does not content himself with four voices per hand (which would already be difficult enough), but, requires the use of all five fingers, as one can see in the last 2 bars of the aforementioned example. In spite of all technical difficulties, his piano music is never unplayable. It requires a lot of stamina, a good sense for voicing and balance and – of course – a solid technique, but it never goes beyond the pianistically feasible.

Marche Funèbre

As the title already implies, the second movement of the Symphony has characteristic traits of a funeral march, e.g. the frequent use of dotted rhythms, the walking pace (“Andantino”) and the serious character. The large-scale form is A-B-A, with minor modifications of the A part in the Da Capo section. The way Alkan creates an orchestral sound by mixing the melodic line in the tenor voice with a pizzicato-like accompaniment is very similar to the compositional technique of Beethoven in certain piano sonatas, e.g. the slow movement of op. 2 No. 2:

Alkan:

Beethoven:

The B section contrasts with the rest of the piece. Written in major and reminding of a 6-part choral, it is much more gentle in character and less rigorous than the A section.

The descending line of the upper voices is closely linked to a melodic fragment in the development section of the first movement:

This example illustrates that the four movements, although not being related to each other in terms of a common key, are deeply connected on the motivic level. In the Da Capo part, the character of the piece becomes very severe and gloomy again. In contrast to the B section in which the composer makes use of rather bright and light colors, the music in the A section is situated in the lower registers. By the end of the movement, the main theme is interrupted by a somber trill which reminds of a timpani roll, leading to a repetition of the lowest note (b) and thus reducing the melody to its essential rhythmical element:

This reflects the imaginative power of the composer and his ability to treat the piano not only as a melodic and harmonic, but also as a percussive instrument.

Menuet

The Menuet could also have been entitled as “Scherzo” in the Beethovenian sense. Alkan follows the typical A-B-A form of the Menuet/ Scherzo. In the beginning of the A section the phrases are built in a highly asymmetrical way. By inserting little accents and abrupt dynamic changes, the composer deliberately confuses the listener and thus creates humorous effects. It is only after four bars that one can clearly understand the time signature of the piece (¾):

After closing the A section in an abrupt manner, there is a moment of hesitation in which a single note (d flat) is repeated several times, first alone, and then added by the lower third (b flat) which leads right into the lyrical Trio section:

In this passage, the musical language is most romantic and obviously influenced by Chopin who was close friends with Alkan. The clear separation of the wave-like accompaniment from the singing upper voices refers to the bel canto style which became popular in piano music of that time and contrasts with the otherwise rather polyphonic texture of the piece. After the reentrance of the A section, shortly before the end of the movement, there is a moment in which the edginess of the music comes to a head, creating an almost hysterical activity through the perpetual repetition of a progression of three chords:

After the fifth repetition, the tension is finally resolved, leading to the end of the movement in which the music disperses into Nothing:

Finale

The Finale is a perpetuum mobile in alla breve meter and Rondo form with an appended stretto. The main theme consists of a series of octave jumps with growing intervals, starting from a fourth and ending up in an octave leap:

The structure of the theme is closely related to the Menuet theme (A section) in which there is also a succession of leaps, always starting from and returning to the note b flat and increasing in terms of the intervals:

The first leap of the Finale theme embraces the interval of a fourth; this interval reappears in the most original way by the end of the movement, being repeated several times in the lower register on the same two notes while the right hand undergoes various modulations. Alkan´s obvious intention here is to imitate the sound of a kettledrum which is not in tune with the rest of the orchestra:

Once again, as in the Menuet, humor reveals itself as a central element in Alkan´s music. As for the compositional techniques in this movement, there are several passages in which the music is either canonical or Fugato-like:

Thus one can say that this movement is highly virtuosic, not only on the pianistic, but also on the compositional level. Alkan´s ability to combine different motives, textures and compositional techniques leads to a musical firework that can be rather overwhelming, especially when listening to this music for the first time. Superficial examinations have often been leading to the conclusion that Alkan´s music is nothing but a banal display of pianistic virtuosity. But this does not do justice to the underlying structure, the complex motivic work and the genuineness of his compositions.

The complexity of our modern world and an increasing lack of musical education have been leading to a certain tendency of modern audiences to think in very simple categories of black and white when attempting to evaluate music. Highly virtuosic pieces of music are often regarded as superficial, whereas music that is free from any virtuosic effect is usually classified as more serious and profound. But the truth is far more complex. There is music that is both virtuosic and extremely profound as well as music that is not virtuosic and yet strikingly banal. It is not due to these categories, but due to the talent of the composer and the complexity of her/his inner life that a composition becomes truth- and meaningful.

The idea that works of art can contain seemingly contradictory elements also applies to human beings. If there is one thing we all have in common, it is the contrariness of our nature. Insofar, it is not surprising, but all the more moving to see that one of the few original photographs of Alkan, who was considered as one of the greatest virtuosi of his time and must have been rather extroverted on stage, shows him in a very modest, almost timid posture, turning his back to the camera:

A recommended recording:

Article from “Clavier”, “Master Lesson”, February 1991 issue

Reprinted with the kind permission of the Frances Clark Center for Keyboard Pedagogy – www.claviercompanion.com 

The personality of Franck

All the friends of Franck declared that he was a man of utmost humility, simplicity, generosity and industry.

His famous former-student Louis Vierne wrote in his Memoirs that his teacher Franck showed “a constant concern for the dignity of his art, nobility of his mission and for the fervent sincerity of his sermon in sound………”

For me Franck is combining and integrating serenity and passion in a wonderful way.
It seems impossible to reconcile such opposing characteristics, but certainly in “Prélude, Choral et Fugue” he succeeds in realizing this remarkable combination in a convincing way.

Franck started his musical career as a piano prodigy. It was principally his father who pushed him in that way. Later Franck devoted himself to the organ. During his whole life the organ kept an extremely important significance for him. From 1856 until his death in 1890 Franck held the post of organist in the basilica of Sainte-Clotilde in Paris. The builder of his organ was the famous Aristide Cavaillé-Coll. He developed a new type of instrument: the symphonic organ, the tonal characteristics of which show similarities to the symphony orchestra.

Franck was an extremely gifted improviser. His former student and composer Vincent d’Indy wrote in a fascinating way about his master:

“It was in a twilight of that gallery at Sainte Clotilde, which I cannot recall without emotion, that the greater part of Franck’s life was passed. It was there that for thirty years, every Sunday, every fête-day, every Friday morning, he fanned the flame of his genius in admirable improvisations, often higher in thought than many a piece of music chiselled with finished art…………“

Between 1842 and 1846 Franck composed several piano pieces. Then Franck suddenly stopped writing for this instrument.

It is only during the last six years of his life that Franck started to create new forms suitable to the piano. One of these and a real highlight is Prélude, Choral et Fugue.

Prélude, Choral et Fugue

In this impressive piece Franck returns to the Baroque forms of the prelude and fugue, in which Mendelssohn had preceded him. In Mendelssohn’s prelude and fugue in E minor opus 35 N°1 we hear a Coda sounding like a choral at the end.

In Franck’s great piece the Choral becomes a quite personal and profoundly religious element, which holds a central position in this work, both spiritual and literally.
This is not incidental, because music and faith were closely connected for Franck, who was not only a composer but an ingenious organist improviser as well.
As improviser he greatly impressed Liszt several times when Liszt listened to Franck’s playing in the Saint-Clotilde church.

Franck was – not unjustly – called the Maître angélique.

This is quite understandable because in the music of Franck we are struck by both religious and purely human qualities: his music sounds often passionate, dramatic, tragic and on the other hand tender, mild, hopeful, generous and sometimes even ecstatic. But also solemn, mystic, ethereal and certainly also powerful!

The Prélude

The opening theme of the Prélude offers a mild, elegiac lyrical quality. The end of this theme sounds much more like a question than a clear ending.

The second theme, already foreshadowing the later fugal theme, shows the ring of a musical question, asking with increasing urgency without a satisfying reply being given.

Nor is a resolution offered by the following expressive, short phrase that already hints at the atmosphere of the Choral.

After that these three themes recur in a different key: F-sharp minor. For Franck, modulating was one of his characteristics.

Based on the rhythm of the first theme an ecstatic climax is being built at the close of the Prelude.

After a sudden diminuendo and suggestive rests, there’s a peculiar modulation from B minor to E-flat major, preparing the way for the Choral.

The moment when the note F-sharp as dominant of B minor becomes an appoggiatura for the note G is a magical one.

The Choral

This Choral could be seen as a reply to the musical and psychological questions that have been asked in the Prélude.

The choral-theme proper, introduced by a phrase containing poignant harmonies, appears three times.

First time: pianissimo, mystically, serene and devoutly in C minor.
Second time: mezzo piano and a little bit more extroverted, now in F minor
Third time: fortissimo and ecstatic, sounding as the biggest climax of this piece until now. The key is again different: E-flat minor.

At this impressive moment you hear not only the pianist Franck but above all the organist Franck.

The melody of the choral is extremely simple. Equally important is the descending line in the bass. Significant is the fact that the bass line in pieces of Franck is nearly always expressive and melodious.

Introduction to the Fugue

After the impressive Choral an introduction to the fugue follows, which is one of the most fascinating pages from a harmonic point of view. It reminds us of a well-structured improvisation, a groping for a fugal theme. As it turns out, this improvisation prepares the start of the passionate fugue in an ideal way.

Following moments of agitated culmination (Franck notates: molto vivo) the fugue begins on a strongly chromatic theme. The chromatically descending fourth is an essential part of it.

The Fugue

It seems nearly impossible to reconcile the strict way of composing a fugue with the romantic spirit and feelings of the nineteenth century. But it is miraculous how well Franck as a sincere romantic composer manages to solve this problem. Franck is controlling his incredible imagination and avoids that his passionate mind looses control.

This chromatic subject functions as a symbol of human suffering as in former times.
The exposition of the fugue, of an elegiac character at first, later more tragic, is followed by a short section in which the left hand starts the inversion of the theme. At this moment the character of this theme seems a little bit more positive.

However, immediately after this a counterpoint in active triplets increases the movement and inner agitation.

A chromatic, prolonged bass and a great crescendo dramatically leads up to a disastrous structural break in the form, after which polyphony disappears! It seems the end of polyphonic writing.

We hear a very powerful low bass on the note F-sharp against a tower of chords based on the triad: C-E-G. The dissonance between both chords is sounding in a quite painful way.

It is the most dramatic moment of the whole piece.

Immediately after that comes silence, full of tension!

The question is: how will the composer be able to restore the strict discipline of his fugue and overcome the state of real despair.

At first comes a kind of cadenza: a stormy passage, related to the movement of the first theme of the prelude. Feelings of despair are still there but step by step inner and outer agitation leaves room for an atmosphere of expectation and finally, in a serene and subtle way, the choral theme returns in the original key of B minor.

This is a wonderful surprise and simultaneously the turning point and prepares the resolution of the whole work.

From this arises the cathartic impulse that leads to its coronation: simultaneously we hear the choral theme (symbol of the religious aspect of the piece) and the fugal theme (symbol for mankind and its tragedy), while all this framed by embroideries reminiscent of the prelude. This is Franck’s masterstroke: wonderful polyphony.

The final word is inevitably spoken by the chorale which closes the Coda of this work jubilantly, now without any trace of tragedy, this time not in B minor but in B major, suggesting the sonorous sound of church bells.

In this way Franck is emphasizing the overwhelming meaning of the Choral in this masterpiece.

Willem Brons

d’Indy, Vincent – César Franck; a Translation from the French of Vincent d’Indy: with an Introduction by Rosa Newmarch (1965)