Beethoven’s catalogue of sonatas, a terrain of experiment, summarizes his own evolution. The Piano Sonata No. 15, Op. 28 (1801) is a serene piece, in the idyllic key of D major, hence the name “Pastoral” given to it by the publisher. The epithet does in fact reflect its jovial intimacy, with recollections of popular pieces destined to fame in the other, much better known “Pastorale”, his Sixth Symphony. Unlike the stormy “Patetica”, here we have no contrasts in the initial Allegro, whose flow of ideas and serenity conjure up Watteau. The severe Andante presages Schubert, followed by the pungent boutades of the brief, vigorous Scherzo, then a rustic Rondò – almost a “remake” of an 18th century musette, with some unexpected wingbeats and a dizzying epilogue.
The Sonata No. 21, Op. 53, goes back to the years of theEroica and Fidelio (1803-04). Brilliant and optimistic, it was dedicated to Beethoven’s patron, Count Waldstein. The energetic Allegro brings to mind Clementi with the percussive motif shifting unusually between registers. The hailstorm of chords is softened by a melody of celestial purity. It develops with alternating areas of shade and lightning bolts, restless shifts, building up a fierce tension. But the composer is anxious to get to the Finale and, with the exception of an anachronistic Andante – in its place only 28 bars of metaphysical Adagio intervene, lyrical and clipped short – comes a dawn light, leading into a luminous Rondò, like in a pre-impressionist clearing. The peak of the blaze of fortissimo comes to a rough-hewn halt, an abrupt gear change, and away we go into the exalting Prestissimo, with its risky glissandi.
Debussy’s first book of Préludes (1909-10) sets out an emblematic “manifesto” of his own art, in a refined synesthetic blend, with special preference for multiple spectaculars, some using allusive images, others much vaster structures. First come the aesthetically archaic Danseuses de Delphes, evoking an Eolian harp, and the medieval tenderness of the Fille aux cheveux de lin; there is the indeterminate charm of Voiles; the frozen desolation of Pas sur la neige and the bright éclat of the Collines d’Anacapri; then come spectral stylizations of the fury of the wind, and suggestions of water (Cathédrale); a strip of Spain is crisply evoked, then the symbolist insubstantiality of a verse from Baudelaire (Les sons et les parfums), the mercurial darts of Shakespeare’s Puck, and the noisily comic grotesque Minstrels. The set closes in a climate of easy-going good humour.

Attilio Piovano