F. Chopin: Prelude in C-sharp Minor, op. 45
“Hats off, gentlemen! A genius!” exclaimed the esteemed German composer and pianist Robert Schumann after witnessing Frédéric Chopin’s performance of his own compositions in Vienna. Chopin was 19 years old at the time. Born near Warsaw, Poland, in 1810, Chopin gave his first public piano performance just one month shy of his eighth birthday. His innate compositional talents, too, were already surfacing alongside his gift and growing technical facility at the keyboard. The prodigy officially commenced formal composition studies at the age of 12, and the poetic nature of his piano writing – subtle and intimate, filled with beautiful themes and effortless melodies cast in vast ranges of colours and moods – distinguishes him from his peers and predecessors. Chopin is widely recognised for the development of modern piano technique and expanding a pianist’s potential to create complex harmonies and colours.
Of the vast quantity of solo piano works Chopin composed in his 39 years, he wrote no less than 27 preludes. Though a “prelude” is often used as an introductory work to a larger, multi-movement composition, Chopin views these pieces as independent creations, each comprised of specific depth of emotion or thought of seemingly improvisatory nature. When the manuscript for his Prelude in C-sharp Minor, composed in 1841, was delivered to his publisher, the composer proudly wrote, “Well modulated!” in an accompanying letter, signifying his distinct pleasure in the seamless blending of different harmonies.
Dedicated to Princess Elisabeth Czernicheff, one of Chopin’s pupils, Prelude begins plaintively with a descending, steady scalar motion. A dreamy, sweeping sequence follows, leading to the melody and accompanying harmonies all blending, melding together in one otherworldly texture. Taking full advantage of the flowing contours he elegantly carved, Chopin leans into the changing harmonies, offering a hazy, musical mist before swelling into an exalted elation. With the opening theme returning, Prelude dissolves quietly into the ether.
R. Schumann: Symphonic Etudes, op. 13 and posth.
Born in 1810, German composer Robert Schumann, though renowned for his symphonic and chamber compositions, is best remembered for his significant and compelling contributions to the genre of piano and song. In addition to his prominence and influence as a composer, Schumann’s keen enthusiasm and passionate study of literature also authored an impactful style of historically-informed music criticism and research. A pinnacle in musical Romanticism, Schumann’s music is imbued with his trademark lyricism and self-expression.
Schumann began composing his Études Symphoniques, or “Symphonic Etudes”, in 1834, intending it to be a set of a theme plus sixteen variations. Schumann struggled to find the perfect version of these masterpieces, and countless formations and combinations of these Etudes existed during his lifetime, one even taking on a flowery title like “Studies of an Orchestral Character from Florestan and Eusebius”. It was not until the version in 1852, edited by his wife Clara and published by Johannes Brahms, that this widely-accepted opus exists, including five posthumous variations that many intersperse throughout the set of variations.
The theme that drives this complex cycle was actually written by Baron von Fricken, an amateur composer who was also the father of Schumann’s fiancée at the time. Plodding and simple at first glance, Schumann treats it with great pathos and emotionality.
The posthumous Variation I presents a series of never ending arpeggios in the right hand, grounded with the steady beat of the bass line. In its second section, the roles reverse briefly, offering the non-stop figurations a chance in the bass line, before trading back again. The second variation in this appendix set offers a dreamy atmosphere, with fluttering, hazy gestures beneath, rising and falling before a seemingly abrupt end. Posthumous Variation III, with its rhythmic motifs, is seemingly straightforward and directly honest with an overall spirit of optimism and resoluteness.
The fourth of these variations again explores insights into a dreamy introvert, with ornate gestures so characteristic of Schumann’s writing. Almost improvisatory, it evokes the feeling of a dreamer finally falling asleep. Variation V opens at the high range of the piano, with its intricate gesture trickling down, glistening and glowing, before yet another glittering handful of notes drizzle down. There is a simplicity emanating from this variation, but rest assured, the complexity of the writing magnifies Schumann’s incredible sense of detail and fluency in this genre.
Etude I offers right away a sharp contrast with its terse, march-like rhythm. With most of the notes gathering around the centre and lower ranges of the piano, it concludes with a light touch and a gratifying dissipation of the tension percolating throughout.
Etude II, with its insistently-repeating and surging notes, opens with longing before building into unabashed proclamation. The shifts in moods are quintessential Schumann, seemingly not knowing how to feel or express truly what is buried deep inside. Etude III however takes another sharp corner, with brilliant, arpeggiated figurations in the right hand before the rising and falling filigree falls into the bass line with unconfined flourish.
Etude IV, yet another march, is driven by accented chords, with a touch of martial rhythm peppered throughout. Etude V offers chirpy rhythmic drive, almost good natured and spritely yet punctuated with heavy accents that seem to discombobulate the main beat. Marked “Agitated”, Etude VI offers a virtuosic display of rapid-fire exchanges between the right and left hands, a feat of virtuosic coordination and rhythmic integrity.
Etude VII, brings in another creative display of rhythm, is unrelenting in its feverish chase – to what, only Schumann knows. Etude VIII returns to the stoicism of solitude, with the embellished motif repeated over and over. Episodes of loud proclamations are readily intercepted by quietude and loneliness, ending with a resolute punctuation. The ensuing Etude IX, a fleeting scherzo, is at once nimble-footed and grounded, concluding with a sweeping contour that rises and falls, only to gain its footing again with three striking chords.
Etude X, filled yet another fleeting series of note clusters, surprises with sudden halts in pacing before resuming its busy quest. Etude XI opens with a low rumbling before the entrance of the expressive tune. Plaintive and wistful, it surges in unabashed emotionality as quickly as it retreats back to its fragility, lingering and hesitating to reach the very last note. The Finale, Etude XII, by far the longest of any of these variations, begins with bright brilliance and rhythmic drive. Episodes change characters subtly yet are always buoyed by the sharply-distinct rhythm; no matter how Schumann manages to manipulate it, this motif finally found its ending with bluster and bravado.
J. Sibelius: “Valse Triste” from Kuolema, op. 44, no. 1
Born in 1865 in Hämeenlinna, Finland, Jean Sibelius is regarded as the central figure who significantly shaped the Finnish soundscape during the late-19th and 20th centuries. Adapting and incorporating unique palettes of colour, structure, and harmony, Sibelius created works that encapsulate a wide gamut of inspiration and purpose: from nationalism and portrayals of political unrest, to the composer’s own introspective echoes of his temperament and his homeland’s landscape.
Composed in 1903, Valse Triste, literally meaning “Sad Waltz”, was originally scored for orchestra and intended for use as incidental music in his brother-in-law’s play Kuolema (“Death”). Later rewritten for solo piano, and though Sibelius did not think much of this particular title, the work became instantly popular, with countless other arrangements for various instrumentations to come. Like the great Viennese model of the waltz, Valse Triste comprises several continuous sections, and its pensive opening certainly alludes to the themes of the play “Death”. The ensuing section, fostered by repeated rhythms that almost feel hopeful if not nostalgic despite sudden outbursts. The waltz veers between gentle quietude and bombast, with a final gesture of unabashed vigour before concluding with accepted resignation.
F. Schubert: Moments musicaux, op. 94, D. 780
Born in Vienna in 1797 and died too young in 1828, Austrian composer Franz Schubert remains a seminal figure in the Western music canon, noted for his vast contributions to the German lied (art song) as well as his piano, chamber and orchestral works. Known for his melodic sense and richly-searing harmonies, by the time he completed Moments musicaux in 1827, Schubert was already suffering from the syphilitic infection he contracted five years prior. The ailing composer wrote to a friend:
“Imagine a man whose health will never be right again, and whose sheer despair over this ever makes things worse and worse, instead of better; imagine a man, I say, whose most brilliant hopes have perished, to whom the felicity of love and friendship have nothing to offer but pain…”
The six movements from Moments musicaux were assembled by a publisher – who in fact included two short works Schubert had previously completed in 1823 and 1824 to the four movements written in 1827 (and published in 1828 with a title not of the composer’s own). Destitute and nearing death, the composer certainly did not have the strength to challenge any disagreements. The flourishment of his earlier works, filled with bravura, carefreeness and poetic curiosity, is largely replaced by an autumnal stillness, perhaps a further deepening of emotionality only gained at the end of one’s life.
Moderato opens with a curiously idyllic scene, with its very first gesture alluding to horn calls in the mountains. The gentle, rolling figuration is interrupted by only a few outbursts, and Schubert limits the dynamics of this movement at a soft and hushed level throughout. The pastoral motif persists, capturing a sense of looking out into the far horizons of a field.
A swaying Andantino continues the hushed tone previously set. Introspective and pondering with silences sprinkled throughout, the central section turns melancholic with sustained and controlled wistfulness. The simplicity of the writing somehow highlights the unsettling calmness, with Schubert ending this section with one note insistently, repeated seven times, before returning to the cradling motif of the opening.
The ensuing Allegro moderato disrupts the stillness with a punctuated yet muted dance. Cordial but with hints of emotional flare-ups, the mood always drops back down to a low, despite what’s been written it really could be a jolly trot. In fact, Schubert indicates to play the final lines of this movement even quieter than any markings found in the two movements preceding it.
The second Moderato in this set boasts a series of running notes that suddenly ends with no conclusion, offering a grand pause before entering the second section. The contradiction remains, as this series of technical figurations could be seen as a virtuosic exercise, but Schubert specifies to play these non-stop notes legato (or “smoothly and connected”), a staple indicator found in many of his impassioned songs and long-flowing melodies. The second passage, tender in its simplicity, reveals a subtle darkness with the utilisation of syncopated rhythms in the left hand, a musical feature that places the weight of the beat just a little bit off from where it should be placed.
The following Allegro vivace finally proffers a robust and emphatic moment. With an insistently repeating rhythmic motif, the relentless movement never takes a breath anywhere, punctuated by sharp outcries left and right. Even with sudden dips in dynamics, the pressing sense of tension and urgency, perhaps for relief, forges the music onward to the end.
In the final movement, Allegretto, the overall feeling of the first four movements returns. Hushed and reflective, the uncomplicated and halting motif, uttered over and over, with short, silent pauses for thought and reflection. The moments of enhanced emotionality are more insistent than previous wistful movements, and yet, with this repeated and truncated gesture, when the outbursts are finally subsided, Schubert appears even more solitary, drifting further and further away.
By Jules Lai