Massimiliano Motterle - Beethoven/Liszt: Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125, "Choral" (Transcription for 2 Pianos S. 464) (2022)

As in all fields of human activity, also in music, and in music teaching, commonplaces have their role. And, as in all fields, they do contain some truth, and more than a little truth. One of the things virtually every piano teacher tells his or her students at their first approach to a Beethoven Sonata is: “Think orchestrally”! Indeed, many mentors suggest that the right inspiration for a Mozart Sonata will come from operatic singing, that for a Schubert Sonata from Lied singing, and that for Beethoven Sonatas from orchestral timbres. Some teachers even suggest that the pupil attempt a kind of orchestration of the Sonata he or she is studying, in order to develop the timbral imagination and the spatiality of sound which are needed for a proper interpretation of a Beethoven Sonata.
And it is true that this kind of imagination, once ignited, seems to move as if by itself. Even though two different pianists will probably imagine two different “orchestrations” for the same Beethoven Sonata, few will renounce thinking of a bass line as played by a bassoon or of a series of staccato chords as entrusted to the woodwind section.
Beethoven’s thought, in short, is orchestral through and through; and whilst his piano writing demonstrates his own complete mastery of keyboard technique and his skill as a pianist, a common feeling when playing Beethoven’s piano works is to long for the orchestra’s multifaceted timbres.
In his Symphonies, Beethoven explored the possibilities of orchestral writing as perhaps no other composer had done before him; and this is all the more surprising if one considers that his greatest Symphonies were written when he could hear only very little, or not at all.
Undeniably, therefore, if Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas “long” for the orchestra, his orchestral works find their ideal representation in the sound medium for which they were originally conceived. However, prior to the advent of recording, it was by no means common to hear a live performance of all Beethoven symphonies on the concert stage. And since they had quickly become the paradigm of orchestral writing and of the management of Sonata forms, it was crucial – especially for prospective conductors and composers – to familiarise themselves thoroughly with these masterpieces. But, of course, even accomplished musicians and performers had to constantly return to these scores, and hearing them was no less important than observing them.
Reductions for two pianos, or for four-hand piano duet did exist; however, their quality did not correspond to that of the original. As Franz Liszt observed, “The poorest lithograph, the faultiest translation can still give a vague idea of the genius of the Michelangelos and the Shakespeares. In the most incomplete piano reduction, one may find here and there half-erased traces of the inspiration of the masters”. Which is like saying that in spite of the transcription, something of Beethoven’s genius remained available.
Franz Liszt probably employed such transcriptions as a means for his own study and for teaching, and it is likely that this experience motivated him to try his hand at producing something better. Along with his many other feats as a composer in his own right, as the most astonishing piano virtuoso of all times, and as a revered teacher, Liszt was also one of the most brilliant transcribers and arrangers ever. Transcriptions, paraphrases and arrangements were among his battle horses (as they were for many other, much less talented, musicians of his time); they were sure to catch the audience’s favour, as their musical material was already known (and therefore unlikely to frighten or trouble the less refined palates), and they allowed the performer to display his virtuosity to the utmost.
Moreover, Liszt had personally known Beethoven. How intimately, nobody knows. Liszt frequently related his encounter with the Maestro, which allegedly happened when Liszt was twelve and Beethoven already deaf. However, Liszt had been introduced to Beethoven by Carl Czerny, who was Beethoven’s student and Liszt’s teacher, and Beethoven (so the legend has it) warmly encouraged the boy, giving him a “consecration kiss” which Liszt fondly remembered for his entire life.
Even though this kiss may be meaningful more on the symbolic than on the artistic plane, doubtlessly Liszt received from Czerny’s hands some details about the “proper” performance of Beethoven’s works. Czerny did write a book on this, and it corresponds to his instructive editions of Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier, where Czerny similarly claims to be handing down the “proper” performance of Bach as he had received it from Bach’s sons and students. Czerny was a firm believer in the rule of interpretive tradition and of teacher-to-pupil transmission of the performance details.
Thus, it is highly likely that Liszt’s transcriptions of Beethoven’s Symphonies do include valuable details about their original performance; and, of course, Liszt had also his own experience as a conductor on which he could rely. In fact, Liszt was also one of the greatest conductors of his time and developed many unique insights on conducting technique, while tirelessly championing the performance of Beethoven’s symphonic and solo works for his entire life.
One has good reason, therefore, to expect wonders from Liszt’s transcriptions of Beethoven’s Symphonies, and wonders they are. As Liszt himself acknowledged in his preface to the publication of the complete Symphonies (in 1865), what had been impossible to musicians of the preceding generation was becoming possible thanks to the improvements in piano mechanics, range, and sound. “Thanks to the untold development of its harmonic power, the piano tends increasingly to assimilate all the orchestral repertoire. In the compass of its seven octaves, it can produce, with only a few exceptions, all the characteristics, all the combinations, all the most learned compositional figures, and leaves the orchestra no other advantages than those (admittedly immense) of diversity of timbre and massed effects”. Liszt is very frank and also rather humble here: he likens his task to that of “the intelligent engraver” or of the “conscientious translator, who grasp the spirit of a work along with the letter, and thereby help to propagate knowledge of the masters and the appreciation of the beautiful”. For indeed his ultimate aim, in all likelihood, was not that of providing new works for the concert stage (we do not know about any public performance of these transcriptions by Liszt himself, though, for instance, Liszt and Bülow did play in a semi-public context the two-piano version recorded here). Rather, he zealously wished to disseminate Beethoven’s Symphonies and the beauty they conveyed.
In 1833, in his early twenties, Liszt had produced an impressive transcription of Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. Shortly after, he began to think about a transcription of Beethoven’s Symphonies. He began producing actual transcriptions in 1837, starting with two of the most beloved among the Nine – i.e. the Fifth and the Sixth. The following year, the Seventh was approached and transcribed. Should Liszt have kept this pace, we could imagine the complete cycle to be finished by the early 1840s. But this was not to happen. In 1840, he did proceed to publication, but only of these three central works; he dedicated them to Ingres, the painter, with whom Liszt had played the Violin Sonatas by Beethoven during their stay in Rome the year before. Liszt then transcribed and published his arrangement of the Funeral March from the Heroic Symphony (no. 3), and left the remaining works aside. Only in 1863-4, during another, long stay in Rome, where Liszt lived a monk’s life at Monte Mario, did he resume the task, tackling the six symphonies which still awaited transcription.
But the Ninth was and remained highly problematic. In all of his transcriptions, Liszt had sought (and managed to find) a pianistic idiom which faithfully respected the notes, the texture, and the sonority of Beethoven’s original. But how could this be accomplished with the Ode to Joy? Could a movement so bound to its lyrics be deprived of them? Could Beethoven’s revolutionary idea to couple singing with orchestra be simply abandoned?
Indeed, Liszt could think that nothing could be demanded of him: already in 1851, he had realized the transcription recorded here, where the thick texture and extremely complex polyphony of Beethoven’s original are entrusted to the joint forces of two pianos and two pianists. Still, the publisher insisted, and Liszt did try. Untypically for him, however, he had to admit himself defeated by the Symphony’s Finale, which seemed to resist all attempts to transcription. Again did the publisher come to the attack, and in the end Liszt did complete the cycle, dedicating him to Hans von Bülow, his former pupil and son-in-law.
There exist, therefore, two versions of Liszt’s “Ninth”, one for two pianos and one for solo piano. Moreover, at times both versions are presented with singing; or, in the case of the solo piano version, some performers decide to incorporate fragments from the vocal part into the piano texture. It can be said, therefore, that these versions are “open works”, in a concept of art which we erroneously associate with the twentieth century, but which actually was much more common in earlier periods.
The transcription recorded here, therefore, represents a variety of meanings and opportunities for today’s listeners: an aural “glimpse” into the early performing practices and traditions of Beethoven’s Symphonies as transmitted by one who knew the composer; a possibility to savour the bare lines of Beethoven’s compositional imagination, but with the gorgeous piano writing of the quintessential pianist; a challenge allowing one of the best known musical works of all times to shine as if freshly composed; and, above all, an experience of pure aesthetical and musical delight.
Chiara Bertoglio