(MUSIC) If the first movement left any doubt as to whether muscularity or mystery were the dominant feature of this sonata, the second settles it instantly, tipping the balance decisively towards mystery with just a few notes. This slow movement is not truly a “movement” at all: rather, it’s an extensive, substantial introduction to the finale. Interestingly, this introduction was not part of Beethoven’s original conception of the piece. Initially, the Waldstein did have a freestanding slow movement, and a large-scale one at that. That movement is lovely enough to have been published on its own, under the title “Andante Favori”, but it is absolutely all wrong for the Waldstein Sonata, in really every conceivable way. Much like the finale of the Waldstein, the Andante Favori is a large scale rondo – two consecutive long movements with the same form is never a great idea, but it’s a particularly not great idea in the case of rondos, which have a certain repetitiveness built into their structure. And besides, the Andante Favori is an example of Beethoven at his most graceful and uncomplicated-- this is the theme: (MUSIC) This movement’s “grazioso” character really undermines the emotional complexity of the sonata, whereas the introduction he replaced it with enhances it enormously. Therefore, I find it incredibly interesting that it was apparently not Beethoven who had misgivings about the Andante Favori as a middle movement for the Waldstein. As far as we know, it was the criticism of a friend to whom he showed the work that led Beethoven to make the change. Given that Beethoven’s sense of structure is one of his most remarkable qualities, it’s fascinating to observe that his instincts in this area were not always impeccable. And this is not an isolated incident. The great violin sonata opus 30 no. 1, on top of its fantastic beauty, is one of Beethoven’s most complex and elusive works of that period. Initially, he gave it a last movement which is virtuosic, light-hearted, and altogether not from the same planet as the other two. Eventually, he thought better of this, replaced the last movement with one much more in keeping with the rest of the sonata, and repurposed the original last movement for the Kreutzer Sonata, to which it's infinitely more suited. But the original conceptions of both opus 30 no. 1 and the Waldstein seem remarkably “off” to me. This tells us something very revealing about how the creative process works – beyond the fact that clearly I don’t understand it so well! How ever important the overall shape of the piece may ultimately be – particularly in the classical era, perhaps in Beethoven above all – it's not necessarily the starting point, the thing the composer had in mind from the outset. Sometimes, it seems, certain details come first, and bit by bit, they accumulate and crystallize into a structure, rather than the structure coming first and the details being added in support of it. Put more simply: no matter how impressive and grand the architecture of the piece, sometimes composers work from the inside out, rather than the outside in. Schubert’s great sonata in A major, D.959 is another striking example of this: each of its four movements prominently features a two note motive: two notes of equal rhythmic value, usually an octave apart. The first movement, (MUSIC), the second (MUSIC), then the third (MUSIC), and then finally the last movement, which at the final moment, has the same figure putting a bow around the whole piece (MUSIC). This is truly part of the glue that binds the piece together, and surely, I thought, it was this germ of an idea that Schubert began with. In fact, it was not. In early drafts of the piece, the two note idea is left out of the opening – there are only these chorale-like block chords. There may not be all that many truly great composers, but evidently for those composers, there are still many paths towards greatness. Musical architecture doesn’t always begin with the support beams, even when the ultimate edifice is incredibly impressive. But back to the Waldstein! This introduction may be something less than a fully-fledged movement, linked as it is to the finale, but it is both extraordinary on its own merits, and important, as it really did help lay the groundwork for so many middle and late period works that were to follow it. Its closest relative is probably the cello sonata opus 69, which also has a slow introduction to its finale in lieu of a true slow movement. But the Waldstein also probably led Beethoven to the form of the Appassionata: in that case, the middle movement isn't an introduction, but it also doesn’t come to end – the last movement comes crashing in, instead – and in retrospect, the slow movement feels as if it has been leading up to it all along, with that terrifying finale simply lying in wait. And then the late sonatas, opus 101 and opus 110, have slow movements which are deeply tied – in all-sorts of complicated ways – to their finales. As I’ve said, in those late works, everything builds towards the last movement, and the Waldstein really points the way towards that shape. When you count the introduction and the finale proper as one movement, they exceed the length of the first in the Waldstein– and the first movement is the whole rest of the piece! That is the first time the balance has been tipped in that direction. But really, the relative length of the movements is the least of it. Because even without the introduction pushing the length of the last movement beyond that of the first, the finale, in scope and ambition, absolutely holds its own against the epic first movement. And THAT is a first. If you look at all of no. 3 and opus 7, to name two we’ve already explored – the last movements do not strive to compete with what has preceded them. The last movement of the Waldstein competes, and wins, if that is in fact the right word! In terms of structure, in terms of character, and in terms of drama, it cedes nothing to the first movement. So even though it is still a rondo – a form he generally eschewed in his late-period finales, in favor of variations and fugues – this is a decisive turning point towards the late period. And, even though it was not a part of the original conception of the piece, the introduction is a critical part of that: it is mysterious and profound on the one hand, but at the same time, it is there to set the stage, to lead us into the finale. That is such a late period value, in opposition to the great early slow movements, which stand alone and form the emotional centers of the sonatas.
