Certain pieces of music can make such an impact on one's life, one cannot listen to them without feeling as if the heart may at any moment stop beating, so gripped is it with an emotion impossible to fathom, much less express. If I had to single out one piece that affects me in this way, it would be, without question, Beethoven's Sonata in E, Op. 109.
I did play this piece; in fact, I used it quite often in recitals and competitions. Technical challenges aside, its interpretive and emotional demands are such that I always released the final chord completely drained and (pardon me) soaked in sweat. But I also felt, every time I played it, that I had grown a little as a human being.
When at the age of 19 I first told my college piano teacher, Andrew Mihalso, that I wanted to learn the "109," he did his best to discourage me. "You're much too young," he said. "You should wait another fifteen years at least, when you've lived life more fully." But one of my colleagues at a summer music festival who was not much older than myself had played it, and there was something in the piece that spoke directly to my soul. Since then, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I simply had to play it. After more coaxing from me, Andy finally but grudgingly consented, and I plunged into the "109" with an alacrity—and also a certain fear—I had not felt in a very long time.
I can't remember exactly how long it took me to get the piece under my hands, but it was a considerable length of time mostly devoted to the fugue and final variation of the third movement. During this period I learned to be a bit more detached about the piece (technical work always has that effect) which turned out to be a great blessing. That detachment saved me from becoming too psychologically mired later on, when I had to tackle the interpretive challenges. Throughout the learning process, Andy would speak to me about the piece from a purely abstract angle. "Picture an old man sitting by the fire with a blanket over his knees, thinking about his life and all the suffering he's endured, physical, emotional, mental. Now, at the end, he's come to terms with his journey, and heaven is just there, at his fingertips. He can almost see it." Perhaps this view of the piece is not shared by everyone, but it was exactly what I heard in it. I felt very old for my 19 years; I had recently lost my sister to a sudden and violent death, and I was at that time in a difficult, somewhat abusive relationship. I knew the suffering part, but heaven? What did I know of that? I was still a willful agnostic, and would not recover my faith for many years yet. But I did know that I craved peace of mind, so I used that craving to help me through the "109." Sadly, I no longer have my score, but I remember writing in very bold print at the big climax of the final variation, "HEAVEN OPENS." Anyone who knows the piece knows exactly to what moment in the music I refer. And after that ecstatic moment, the final bars evoke a peace and, yes, a serene resignation, that to my mind is not found anywhere else in all music.
I didn't use the piece publicly till the next year. After debuting it in a recital, one of my professors told me how deeply moved he was by the "109"; that he was astonished at the maturity of my interpretation. I don't know about "mature," nor can I agree that my performance was moving; but I do know that that piece had wrapped itself around my heart and conscience at a time when my life was in seemingly endless turmoil. In a way, it saved me.
Years later when I was working at the Houston Grand Opera, I took my score out again and reworked the "109," not with the view to perform it again, but just to see if those additional "fifteen years at least" that Andy had recommended did indeed make a difference. I can't say that they did, to be honest. Because at that moment in my life I was much happier, much more secure in myself. Perhaps—no; no "perhaps" about it—the "109" helped get me to that better place. It came along in my life at the right time, despite my youth.
Highly recommended listening: Artur Schnabel
Highly recommended listening: Artur Schnabel
Thank you so much, Leticia. That was just what my soul resounded to today. Strange that I don't recognize the sonata, although it must have been part of my father's collection of recordings. Perhaps Claudio Arrau gives it such new life that it is as if I am hearing it for the first time. My impression: Beethoven has let his inner child come out and play, and be profound at the same time.
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