Wigmore Hall
Piano Sonata no.1 in F minor,
op.2 no.1
Piano Sonata no.12 in A-flat
major, op.26Piano Sonata no.25 in G major, op.79
Piano Sonata no.21 in C major, op.53, ‘Waldstein’
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| Igor Levit, at the Wigmore Hall in 2014 Image: Simon Jay Price |
Even for a veteran, it must be
an extraordinary thing to embark upon a ‘cycle’ – as it seems we now must call it –
of Beethoven’s piano sonatas. It is difficult to believe that even Daniel
Barenboim would undertake such a series lightly. Imagine, then, what it must be
like to do so for the first time, and at the Wigmore Hall, no less. Igor Levit’s
achievement is, then, all the more extraordinary, for, let there be no doubt
about it, there was truly great Beethoven playing to be heard in this first
instalment. Each of these four sonatas sounded reconsidered: not for the sake
of it, but for the reason each and every performance of them should be. When
inexhaustible music becomes exhausted, the fault does not lie with the music;
when it is rejuvenated, the honours, as here, should be shared between composer
and interpreter.
Mozart came to mind throughout
the F minor Sonata, op.2 no.1. The first movement sounded, as I have never
heard it before, as a crystal-clear response to Mozart’s C minor Sonata, KV
457. They are related keys, I suppose; nevertheless, it intrigued me that,
throughout the work, and not just the movement, I heard so much in common, in
response. For it was not really Mozart when one listened, it was the
post-Mozartian Beethoven. There was, in that spirit, a fine sense of the
exploratory to Levit’s performance. The precision of the young Pollini sounded
as if it were married to the tonal warmth of an older school, to create
something quite new. (Such comparisons are, in any case, at best mere
approximations. Levit was Levit.) Another C minor comparison, this time in the
future, also came to mind: the concision of the Fifth Symphony.
There was a sense of Mozart, or
post-Mozart, to the second movement too: aria-like, also close to, again a
response to, slow movements such as those to KV 457 and also KV 332/300k. It was ornate, yet simple, just as
oriented to its goal as the first movement. Luxuriant yet honest, even
plain-spoken, this was a Renaissance performance carved in Carrara marble. Direct
yet variegated – all these Beethoven dialectics! – the minuet remained a
minuet, just. Its trio seemed to speak of, or hint at, distinctly ‘late’
counterpoint. Mozart’s C minor Sonata again seemed to hover in the background
of the finale, which also hinted at the parallel movement in the Pathétique. This was the controlled fury
of a Classical Romantic, or perhaps of two: Beethoven and his pianist. Command
of line was impeccable, but it was the dramatic use to which that command was
put that was most remarkable of all. The ending spoke with Beethovenian
gruffness; neither here nor anywhere else would there be grandstanding.
And so, to the relative major,
for the A-flat major Sonata, op.26. Again, from the first note, one heard a
near ideal (not that there is only one way!) combination of precision and warmth,
close to and yet quite different from Schubert. Haydn, rather than Mozart, came
to mind as a forerunner, in particular the late F minor/major Variations.
Through the instrumental lyricism of the first variation, the deadpan humour of
the second, we moved to an almost imperceptibly moulded pathos in the third,
following on, never merely negating. There was something of the gawkiness of a
hesitant adolescent in the fourth variation, after which Beethoven could
finally strain towards, glimpse, indeed grasp, sublimity. There followed a
scherzo that could be by none other; Levit despatched it with lightness and
fury. Its trio relaxed in well-judged fashion indeed. The Funeral March
resounded with stark, spacious dignity and gravity. Its drama was that of the
tonal universe itself, its future as much that of Berlioz as Chopin, of Wagner
as Liszt. The finale offered a scurrying contrast and surprise, even if one ‘knew’.
Further surprises proved more delectable still.
The extraordinary G major
Sonata, op.79, opened the second half. Its first movement was pristine, almost
neo-Classical, as full of interest and incident as that to the Eighth Symphony,
and as intriguing, as elusive. The sense of musical ‘presence’ was intense even
when it was light. The Andante was
rare, unsettling, yet consoling. It breathed the air of a Bagatelle, yet
remained undeniably a sonata movement. Much the same might be said of the
finale, in its very different way. Beethoven’s quirkiness was present, alive,
without a hint of overstatement.
The first movement of the Waldstein was taken swiftly, without
ever being harried. There was ample time to savour the view, the moment. It
flickered rather than insisted, ingratiated itself, even charmed us. Yet the
sense of a goal was undeniable; there was no need to shout about it. Levit’s
pianism as pianism was superlative, but one never heard it that way; this was
no ‘mere’ virtuosity. ‘Organic’ may well be a Romantic construction – what is
not? – but here, in Beethoven’s form, it seemed instantiated. The close,
fearsome in its fury, was all the more so for its apparent inevitability, keen
in its truthfulness. The ‘Introduzione’ spoke, like the Oracle in Idomeneo, both here and from beyond; its
authority, Beethoven’s authority, sounded not dissimilar, even when more
soft-spoken. I should call Levit’s touch ‘exquisite’, and it was, but that would
miss the point; it was, above all, musical.
The opening bars of the finale
and indeed the transition to that opening sounded limpid, euphonious to a degree. It was,
however, the vividness of the ensuing tonal drama that ultimately assured the performance
of its necessary outcome. One might single out Levit’s pedalling, his crossing
of hands, his voicing of any chord (whether singularly or in context), his
shaping of phrases, sculpting of paragraphs, but the play as a whole was the
thing. We had reached the coda before we knew it; it emerged as a telescoped
version of all that had gone before, almost filmic. And then, it was over.
