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Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58 (1805–06)
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

The first decade of the 19th century was a difficult period for Beethoven—personally, politically, financially, relationally, and, with the increasing severity of his deafness, musically. But the middle of the decade was a remarkably prolific time for the composer, a kind of “sweet spot” in his career. In an especially productive burst, he completed and revised his opera Fidelio, along with the Leonore Overtures Nos. 1 and 3, the Fourth Symphony, the three “Razumovsky” string quartets, a piano sonata (the “Appassionata”), the Triple Concerto, the Violin Concerto, and the Piano Concerto No. 4, along with various smaller compositions.

While all these middle-period works represent innovative developments in form and musical language, the Fourth Piano Concerto is also something of a poignant conclusion within Beethoven’s still-developing career. As his deafness intensified, he found public performance increasingly difficult, and this Concerto was the last keyboard work he wrote for his own public use. His final concerto (No. 5, the “Emperor”) would be premiered by another pianist.

The Fourth Concerto actually enjoyed two premieres, both of them part of legendary concerts, and both with the composer directing from the keyboard. A private premiere took place in March 1807 in the home of Prince Lobkowitz, one of Beethoven’s principal patrons, in a concert that also included the premieres of the Coriolan Overture and the Fourth Symphony. The second, public premiere took place during an infamous four-hour concert in December 1808, on a program with the first performances of the Fifth and Sixth (“Pastoral”) symphonies, portions of the Mass in C, and the “Choral” Fantasy, along with assorted shorter works.

The Fourth Concerto opens not with the traditional orchestral exposition of the main themes, but with the soloist, unaccompanied. This switching of roles wasn’t entirely unprecedented; Mozart had allowed the piano to enter “early” in his Piano Concerto No. 9 (K. 271). But the effect here is quite new and laid the groundwork for the solo piano cascades that open Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto.

At the outset, the piano plays a gentle precursor of the “fate” motif of the Fifth Symphony, which was still two years away from completion. Here it is a chorale, dignified but ruffled by an elusive rhythmic unevenness. The orchestra then enters in B major, a surprisingly distant key, to continue the exposition. It is the most intimate concerto opening Beethoven ever wrote, foreshadowing the pastoral quality of the Sixth Symphony.

Throughout this movement the piano rarely asserts itself, but gains quiet authority through reserve, frequently pulling back from the brink of exuberance and retreating carefully into filigree passagework. But this endows it cumulatively with an independence that it will assert in the famous second movement.

Beethoven scored the second movement for strings and piano only, a reduction in ensemble that belies the intensification of the drama. A Beethoven slow movement is often an opportunity for utopian repose—delicate, soothing, and restorative—but famed pianist Arthur Rubinstein described this movement as having been “written by a man in mortal fear.” Beethoven’s pupil Carl Czerny suggested it was a mythological drama, which the composer’s biographer Adolf Bernhard Marx refined into a possible representation of Orpheus (the piano) taming the Furies (denoted by the forceful unison string passages). This interpretation, often attributed to Liszt, was also reiterated by the renowned English novelist E.M. Forster, who wrote that the piano’s Orphic song, unaffected by the insolent interruptions, eventually lulls the serpentine strings into submission. The movement closes in a quiet E minor that leads without a pause into the rondo finale.

After such drama, Beethoven takes a light, Haydnesque approach to the finale. The movement’s main theme, which begins in the “wrong” key of C before coming around to G major, is rife with waggishness and even a little mischief. The trumpets and timpani, which have been sitting silent through the first two movements, add their emphatic accents to the carefree celebration. And the pianist also gets to show off some of the sparkling virtuosity that was absent from the Concerto’s opening as it brushes aside the soberness of the middle movement.

—Luke Howard

Piano Concerto No. 4 in G major, Op. 58 (1805–06)
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

The first decade of the 19th century was a difficult period for Beethoven—personally, politically, financially, relationally, and, with the increasing severity of his deafness, musically. But the middle of the decade was a remarkably prolific time for the composer, a kind of “sweet spot” in his career. In an especially productive burst, he completed and revised his opera Fidelio, along with the Leonore Overtures Nos. 1 and 3, the Fourth Symphony, the three “Razumovsky” string quartets, a piano sonata (the “Appassionata”), the Triple Concerto, the Violin Concerto, and the Piano Concerto No. 4, along with various smaller compositions.

While all these middle-period works represent innovative developments in form and musical language, the Fourth Piano Concerto is also something of a poignant conclusion within Beethoven’s still-developing career. As his deafness intensified, he found public performance increasingly difficult, and this Concerto was the last keyboard work he wrote for his own public use. His final concerto (No. 5, the “Emperor”) would be premiered by another pianist.

The Fourth Concerto actually enjoyed two premieres, both of them part of legendary concerts, and both with the composer directing from the keyboard. A private premiere took place in March 1807 in the home of Prince Lobkowitz, one of Beethoven’s principal patrons, in a concert that also included the premieres of the Coriolan Overture and the Fourth Symphony. The second, public premiere took place during an infamous four-hour concert in December 1808, on a program with the first performances of the Fifth and Sixth (“Pastoral”) symphonies, portions of the Mass in C, and the “Choral” Fantasy, along with assorted shorter works.

The Fourth Concerto opens not with the traditional orchestral exposition of the main themes, but with the soloist, unaccompanied. This switching of roles wasn’t entirely unprecedented; Mozart had allowed the piano to enter “early” in his Piano Concerto No. 9 (K. 271). But the effect here is quite new and laid the groundwork for the solo piano cascades that open Beethoven’s “Emperor” Concerto.

At the outset, the piano plays a gentle precursor of the “fate” motif of the Fifth Symphony, which was still two years away from completion. Here it is a chorale, dignified but ruffled by an elusive rhythmic unevenness. The orchestra then enters in B major, a surprisingly distant key, to continue the exposition. It is the most intimate concerto opening Beethoven ever wrote, foreshadowing the pastoral quality of the Sixth Symphony.

Throughout this movement the piano rarely asserts itself, but gains quiet authority through reserve, frequently pulling back from the brink of exuberance and retreating carefully into filigree passagework. But this endows it cumulatively with an independence that it will assert in the famous second movement.

Beethoven scored the second movement for strings and piano only, a reduction in ensemble that belies the intensification of the drama. A Beethoven slow movement is often an opportunity for utopian repose—delicate, soothing, and restorative—but famed pianist Arthur Rubinstein described this movement as having been “written by a man in mortal fear.” Beethoven’s pupil Carl Czerny suggested it was a mythological drama, which the composer’s biographer Adolf Bernhard Marx refined into a possible representation of Orpheus (the piano) taming the Furies (denoted by the forceful unison string passages). This interpretation, often attributed to Liszt, was also reiterated by the renowned English novelist E.M. Forster, who wrote that the piano’s Orphic song, unaffected by the insolent interruptions, eventually lulls the serpentine strings into submission. The movement closes in a quiet E minor that leads without a pause into the rondo finale.

After such drama, Beethoven takes a light, Haydnesque approach to the finale. The movement’s main theme, which begins in the “wrong” key of C before coming around to G major, is rife with waggishness and even a little mischief. The trumpets and timpani, which have been sitting silent through the first two movements, add their emphatic accents to the carefree celebration. And the pianist also gets to show off some of the sparkling virtuosity that was absent from the Concerto’s opening as it brushes aside the soberness of the middle movement.

—Luke Howard