Chapter 6

6 Liszt’s late piano works: larger forms
ja m e s m . ba ke r
Nearly all of the compositions that Franz Liszt wrote later in life were smaller
pieces, as opposed to the Faust Symphony, Piano Sonata, and oratorios that
crowned his middle period. One might gather that by his later years Liszt
had lost the mental acuity and creative energy to complete big projects.
He certainly had suffered a crisis of confidence as he approached old age.
Yet three collections of keyboard pieces written in his later years exhibit
such substance and scope that they fully warrant consideration as major
works on a par with his earlier acknowledged masterworks. These collec-
tions, Via Crucis, Historische Ungarische Bildnisse, and Années de pèlerinage,
troisième année, all exhibit complex cyclic concepts carrying forward Liszt’s
work in three important categories: sacred, nationalistic, and programmatic
music.
Via Crucis
The Via Crucis is unique among Liszt’s larger late keyboard works. The
question arises whether it ought to be considered a keyboard work at all.
In many cases throughout his career it seems as if Liszt’s compositional
concepts were not wedded to a particular medium. He was in the habit of
composing versions of a composition simultaneously for various media; in
certain cases, no single version necessarily claims priority over the others –
and the Via Crucis may be one of these cases. Liszt, being the pre-eminent
producer of keyboard arrangements of large orchestral works, could have
written the keyboard version of Via Crucis simply for the purpose of dis-
seminating the music for individual study and appreciation (as was the case
with his transcriptions of much of the symphonic repertoire of the time);
such arrangements were a major source of income. But this seems not to be
the case for many of the late pieces with versions for various media, because
he seldom sought their publication. Liszt always valued having music actu-
ally performed over faithfulness to a particular medium. Even in the case
of music with text, he seemed to conceive of the music as a viable entity
on its own, unattached to a particular instrumental setting. Of his plans
for the Via Crucis, he wrote in 1878: ‘I will publish them first for piano (or
[120] organ) for four hands.’1 When he finally submitted the work to a publisher
Downloaded from https://www.cambridge.org/core. Royal Holloway, University of London, on 19 Jul 2020 at 06:36:07, subject to the Cambridge Core terms of use,
Cambridge Companions
available at https://www.cambridge.org/core/terms. Online © Cambridge University Press, 2011
https://doi.org/10.1017/CCOL9780521622042.007
121 Larger forms in the late piano works
in 1884, however, he sent the choral version, along with two other choral
works. Shamefully, the publisher rejected the entire submission, deeming
the works unmarketable.2
The Via Crucis is actually very effective as a solo keyboard piece. Unbe-
knownst to Liszt, he was creating a sacred equivalent to Mussorgsky’s Pictures
at an Exhibition (composed 1874) at roughly the same time. Both compo-
sitions represent an innovative formal concept, starting with a processional
and depicting the onlooker’s responses to a series of images hanging on the
walls of church or gallery. Audiences attuned to the serious piano medi-
tations of Hindemith and Messiaen will respond readily to the dramatic
cyclical design of Via Crucis, full of tender devotion and pathos.
We know that Liszt had formulated the project of Via Crucis as early
as 1873, for on the first of January 1874 he wrote to Princess Carolyne Zu
Sayn-Wittgenstein, his mistress and confidante since the 1840s:
In your last letter you again speak of my Christbaum. I hope to publish it by

next Christmas – and also the other little work of which I have for long been
thinking: Via Crucis. I shall need only 6 weeks of outer tranquillity to finish
writing both of them. They will by no means be works of learning, or of
display, but simple echoes of the emotions of my youth – these remain
indelible through all the trials of the years!3
It is interesting that he originally paired the piece in his mind with his Weih-
nachtsbaum cycle (published 1882). (For reasons of space, this delightful
collection of music associated with Christmas – a kind of combination of
Kinderszenen and the Nutcracker – cannot be discussed in this chapter.)
Together the Via Crucis and Weihnachtsbaum were evidently intended to
portray religious and secular aspects of his youth. He ended up completing
neither project speedily, perhaps because the emotional associations he was
working out proved to be much more complex than he had expected. The
Via Crucis took on a life of its own, and Liszt was unable to get much done
on the project until the fall of 1878, when he composed the bulk of it and
brought it to completion in the space of a few weeks:
These last two weeks I have been completely absorbed in my Via Crucis. It is
at last complete . . . and I still feel quite shaken by it. Day after tomorrow I
will go back to writing letters, a task impossible for me to undertake so long
as music torments my brain. I am barely able to keep up a few indispensable
though brief conversations during pauses in my work; and in the evening I
feel very tired. I go to bed at 9:30 and read for another half an hour; then the
wretched notes of the morning and of the day to come enter my mind and
disturb my slumber. In music as in moral matters one rarely does the good
one would wish, but often the evil which one would not wish.4
122 James M. Baker
It would seem that Liszt himself did not fully anticipate the depth of the
feelings he would confront when contemplating the passion and death of
Jesus, and the struggle it would take to complete his vision.
The following is a brief outline of the Via Crucis, with special attention
to motivic features that lend unity to the cycle:
‘Vexilla Regis.’ Via Crucis opens with a setting of the hymn composed by
Venantius Fortunatus (c. 530–609) for the installation of the relics of the
Holy Cross at the cathedral in Poitiers in 569. This hymn, a personal favorite
that Liszt set on several occasions, creates an air of pageantry: ‘The royal
banners forward go, the Cross shines forth in mystic glow.’5
The setting here is notable for its rhythmic swing and alternation of uni-
son phrases with four-part homophony. It is written in a fairly strict Dorian
(often using B) but E is introduced to avoid tritones with B. A diminished-
seventh chord occurs uniquely to set the phrase ‘spes unica’ (‘only hope’),
perhaps signalling the chromatic migrations of the close. A touching dolcis-
simo phrase in G major (‘Piis adauge gratiam’) is followed by modal shift to
F minor (‘Reisque dele crimina’). The final amen occurs in D major, turning
the previously encountered F to good use. After the opening, depicting the
procession of the populace, the chromatic conclusion seems to turn inward
to reveal the subtle emotions of the individual engaged in this meditation.
Station I: Jesus is condemned to death. The triple octaves at the opening
allude to the ‘Vexilla Regis’ but receive the response of the clashing minor-
seventh chord (bar 3), which features the E and B chromatics from the
opening number. The music works in agitated fashion to displace these
elements with their diatonic counterparts, E and B (see bars 6 and 21–5).
The B brings about the ‘devil in music’, the B–F tritone lurking beneath the
surface, as in the contour in bars 16–17, which is encountered face-to-face
in bar 19.
Station II: Jesus takes up the cross. The pitch B is the common tone for
harmonies in this number: V/E (continuing from Station I), the climactic
E augmented chord in bar 12, the G augmented chord associated with
a plodding motive (bar 18), and the concluding B minor 6/4 chord. The
upper voice in bars 18–22 sounds for the first time an important chromatic
turning motive: D–E–C–D.
Station III: Jesus falls for the first time. Here the focus is on an F dimin-
ished chord, which subsides to an F minor chord (the latter having been
foreshadowed toward the end of ‘Vexilla Regis’, bars 71–7). The latter part of
this number is a beautiful setting of the first verse of the Stabat Mater, first
in simple parallel thirds, then parallel sixth chords. The key here is A major,
the relative major of F minor. This verse actually anticipates the subject of
the next station.
Station IV: Jesus meets his mother. Wrenching harmony supports an

ascending chromatic line in the first half, culminating in a tender high-
register dolcissimo passage in the second half. The harmony of this latter
section begins in B major (bar 18) but sequences down chromatically,
reaching A major in bar 26. This harmony is then converted to A minor
(bar 30) before trailing off to a diminished chord retaining the C. This very
tender music depicts Mary’s acceptance of the fate of her son. The structure
of the first half may be understood as essentially rooted on an F pedal (bars 1,
11, 14) which supports a B minor 6/4 before switching to the major mode in
the second half. The wrenching chord in bar 1 results from the combination
of the F pedal – the dominant of B – and the diminished-seventh chord
above: G–B–D–E (the E displaced temporarily by a D appoggiatura).
The chromatic turning motive appears in bar 3 and corresponding later
measures, this time – perhaps not accidentally – at the pitch level that yields
the retrograde of B–A–C–H.
Station V: Simon the Cyrenian helps Jesus carry his cross. Fittingly, the
plodding music from Station II, formerly in G, is now taken up in the estab-
lished key of A (bar 36f.), the rise in pitch level creating a sense of forward
momentum. The first half presents a freely composed chordal accompani-
ment in impassioned syncopated rhythm, beneath a slowly moving melody
(D–F–E–D–B) sequenced up a tritone in bars 14–21 (G–B–A–G–E). The
crucial melodic highpoints of these phrases form the tritone B–E. Another
tritone, B–E, is outlined in bars 1–2, occurring as well in the last chord
before the key change (bar 24) as B–F, and again at the end (bars 51–2).
Station VI: Saint Veronica. This station begins with two phrases that
outline the B–F tritone. A third phrase includes an explicit statement of
the B–A–C–H motive in prime form (bars 5–6). The introductory passage
culminates with the arpeggiation of the diminished-seventh chord con-
taining the B–F tritone, with G as root. This chord leads to the key of A
minor, in which key Liszt’s beautiful setting of ‘O Haupt voll Blut und Wun-
den’ is offered as a communal meditation on the experience of Veronica,
who wiped the wounded thorn-crowned face of Jesus. The G diminished-
seventh chord occurs again as the climax of the brief postlude.
Station VII: Jesus falls for the second time. This number follows Station
III almost exactly, transposed up one semitone to B to create a sense of
forward momentum.
Station VIII: The women of Jerusalem. Surely one of the most affecting of
the stations, this number begins with the parallel thirds and sixths associated
with the Stabat Mater, now in the context of harmonies elaborating under-
lying diminished-seventh chords. The first eight measures are built upon an
F diminished-seventh chord (see especially the chords of resolution in bars
4 and 8). Thereafter a pedal on B is established, supporting phrases in upper
124 James M. Baker
parts in which diminished-seventh chords on F, G, and A are sequenced.

The diminished-seventh chord on A is stated three times, the third time at
the climax in bar 17, still over the pedal B. This form of the chord is the last
available, indicating an exhaustive exploitation of the diminished-seventh
chord as the basis for the progression. The G–C tritone is featured in the
setting of Jesus’s command: ‘Weep not for me.’ This number concludes with
a fanfare passage on a pedal E. Incorporated here are a number of triadic
harmonies spelled to downplay their consonance (e.g. an A minor chord
is spelled A–B–E). The original form of the diminished-seventh chord on
F appears over the E pedal at the conclusion.
Station IX: Jesus falls the third time. This station follows its predecessors
(Stations III and VII) only loosely. Although it is given the key signature of
four flats, the Stabat Mater is in the key of B minor and different from the
two previous settings, with the inner voice down a sixth from the melody. The
ending is ambiguous but suggestive of a modulation to F minor, explaining
the key signature. The first half of this station is up a minor third from
Station VII; the B minor second half essentially maintains the key centre
of that station, but with a change of mode.
Station X: Jesus is stripped of his vestments. This station retains the key
signature of the latter part of Station IX, but begins definitively in F minor.
By bar 6, however, harmony has modulated to B minor. The bass B then
moves up to B, at the distance of a tritone from F. Thus the evil F–B tritone
lurks beneath the structure of this station, which ends on B in a whole-tone
context.
Station XI: Jesus is nailed to the cross. This number is in the key of C
minor, with the dominant G in the bass. The sharps here might have icono-
graphic significance, associated with nails or thorns. The melody, which
would be sung by men’s voices in the choral version, presumably ought to
be played Molto marcato by the pianist. The D in bar 9 is ostensibly a reso-
lution of C, but forms a tritone with the G pedal at the moment Jesus is
hung on the cross. The final melodic ascent to B seems to respond to the
descending whole-tone gesture that concludes Station X with B, perhaps
providing a resolution for that pitch. (Such a resolution would reciprocate
the opening from B to B that occurred in Station II.)
Station XII: Jesus dies on the cross. This station begins with Jesus’s cry
(‘Eli, eli . . .’), based on the G–D tritone from the previous station. This
interval underlies the second line of Christ’s recitative (bar 12) as well. The
lamenting progression in bars 2–11 unfolds the D octave in the upper voice,
harmonised primarily by augmented triads, but ending with a diminished
chord featuring the B–F tritone, along with D. (The exceptional harmonies
highlight A, adding emphasis to the tritone of D.)
This station is by far the weightiest. It concludes with Liszt’s wrenching

harmonisation of ‘O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid!’ in the key of G minor. He
does not allow a perfect cadence at the end, however, but rather concludes
with bass descending C–B–B, allowing the devilish B to resolve to the
consonant B. The interlude at bar 13 (Andante non troppo lento – Dolce)
hovers between A major and F minor. Thus the preceding D–G tritone
seems to function as dominant of an A centre. The melodic motive at bar
13 (and bar 48) is the ‘Ave Crux’ motive from Station II (bar 14). Beginning
in bar 21 a sequential progression leads to a big C pedal, the dominant of
F minor. With Jesus’s words ‘Consummatum est’ (bar 38), however, the
progression retreats to A major, and this key centre is maintained through
bar 60. A transition then leads to the chorale in G minor.
Station XIII: Jesus is taken down from the cross. Station XIII begins with
a sequential solo line in G Dorian, serving as a transition to a statement of the
Stabat Mater in G major. The chromatic play at the beginning focuses on
the change from E to E. At bar 25, the E–C third of bars 23–4 is subsumed
into the trenchant opening chord of Station IV, whereupon the entire music
of that station is restated at the original pitch level and only slightly varied,
painting a vivid picture of the pietà. The station closes as Veronica arrives
to assist Mary, depicted by material derived from the opening of Station VI
(bar 58). The crucial pitch relation here is B vs. B. As in Station VI the
Veronica motive begins by outlining the F–B tritone. Here, however, this
motive receives a melodic response outlining the B triad, resonating with
the key at the beginning of the dolcissimo passage.
Station XIV: Jesus is placed in the sepulchre. The final station is firmly
grounded in D, reciprocal with the opening movement, ‘Vexilla Regis’. In
keeping with the tone of the scripture, the opening is quiet and monophonic,
but is based on the ‘Vexilla Regis’ hymn. Preparing the entry of the hymn
tune, the piano takes up offbeat left-hand chords, only adding the true bass
part after the first line of text has been completed. This accompaniment
has a quality of quiet motion which subtly complements the syncopations
in the tune. The ‘Amen’ is heard in a single voice (a solo mezzo-soprano
in the vocal version), echoed by a homophonic setting immediately there-
after. A monophonic transition (reminiscent of the conclusions of Stations
XI and XIII) leads into the closing dolcissimo section in D major, derived
from the dolcissimo material in the same key concluding Station IV and
associated with the Blessed Mother. The crucial difference is that here the
heavenly high-register chords receive a full arpeggiated accompaniment in
the low bass, signifying perhaps the earthly repose of Jesus’s body. The
progression trails off on an F minor chord (bars 77–81), associated with
death and mourning. (A full cadence on F minor had been expected but
126 James M. Baker
denied in Station XII with the ‘Consummatum est’.) The ‘Ave Crux’ then
occurs in conjunction with a descending F minor triad in bare octaves,
unaccompanied. Lingering further on F, a resolution is achieved only with
the unaccompanied D octave occurring with the last word, ‘Crux’. The piece
ends gravely with the ‘Ave Crux’ used as a cadential gesture in bare triple
octaves: A–B–D.
The Via Crucis possesses a complex cyclical structure unified on a variety
of levels through precisely controlled motives and pitch relations, many of
which take on an iconographic significance. It is impossible to do full justice
to this composition in this limited space, but a few summary comments
will perhaps convey the sophistication of Liszt’s conception. The piece is
grounded in a D tonality, probably stemming from the Dorian church mode;
the first and last numbers are in that key. The most critical pitch relation
appears to be the dichotomy between B and B, invoking the distinction
between the hard and soft hexachords of the modal system. B is in turn
often implicated in the B–F tritone, the age-old symbol of evil. The sequence
of keys of the stations reflects a certain functional logic. Station III is in A
major, the dominant, which recurs in Stations VI and XII. The central
stations, from Stations III through XII, are in keys that generally hover
about the dominant (Stations IV, VII, and IX are in B, for instance). Most
critically, two stations are at the distance of a tritone from the tonic: Station
V in A major and Station XI situated on a G pedal. These keys may
signify impending doom, for Station V features the heightened tension of
the plodding theme taken up a semitone from its original occurrence in
Station II, and Station XI depicts Jesus being nailed to the cross. Station XII,
that of Jesus’s death, begins with his cries on the D–G tritone, bringing
utmost tension at this critical moment. This strange and profound work
should silence those who cast doubt on the sincerity of Liszt’s religious
beliefs. It is the product of deep, anguished contemplation of the passion of
Jesus, a process during which one can well imagine Liszt came to identify
strongly with the suffering Christ. Via Crucis conveys not only the horror and
sorrow of the crucifixion, but also the wonder of God’s redeeming love for
humankind.
The Historical Hungarian Portraits

The Historical Hungarian Portraits is Liszt’s great cyclic composition in the
nationalist genre. This work, although ostensibly completed in 1885, was
not published during his lifetime. In June 1885 Liszt wrote to his publisher
Taborszky:
You will receive at the beginning of July some short Hungarian pianoforte
pieces, which I shall orchestrate later on, entitled
To the memory of
Stephan Széchényi
Franz Deak
Josef Eötvös
Ladislas Telek
Michael Vörösmarti
Alexander Petöfi.
The last piece has already been published by Taborszky, but must have a
few more concluding bars in the new edition.
Mosonyi’s Trauerklänge (Mosonyi’s funeral music), which you have
already had by you for fifteen years, shall make No. 7. Our friend Mosonyi,
so excellent and full of character, and so pre-eminent a musician, must also
not be forgotten.6
Probably because of his failing eyesight and general decline in health, Liszt
never got around to orchestrating these pieces, nor did he see them through
to publication in any form. However, he commissioned his student Arthur
Friedheim to orchestrate four of the pieces, and these versions were per-
formed twice (19 January 1886 in Weimar and 11 June 1886 in Sonders-
hausen) with the composer in attendance.
The idea for the cycle of pieces honouring Hungarian national heroes
probably came to Liszt in 1885. In this year, he composed four of the seven
pieces in the set – the same four performed in Friedheim’s orchestrations7 –
all dedicated to the memory of nineteenth-century statesmen who had
worked for the independence of Hungary. Stephan Széchenyi (1791–1860)
was the founder of the Hungarian Academy of Sciences and served as min-
ister of transport in the first Hungarian Cabinet in 1848. Joseph Eötvös
(1813–71), a writer and politician, served as minister for religion and edu-
cation. Ladislaus Teleki (1811–61), a member of the Kossuth party, had been
executed in ‘effigie’ by Austria in 1852, but died by committing suicide.
Franz Deák (1803–76), minister for justice in 1848, was instrumental in the
settlement in 1867 between Hungary and Austrian Emperor Franz Joseph.
To create the cycle, Liszt combined the four pieces dedicated to political
figures with revised versions of three pieces he had written earlier in memory
of two great Hungarian poets, Michael Vörösmarty (1800–55), author of
the patriotic poem ‘Szózat’, and Alexander Petöfi (1823–49), the leader of
the March youth movement of 1848 and author of ‘A Magyarok Istene’
(‘Ungarns Gott’), which Liszt had set in 1881; and the composer and critic
Michael Mosonyi (1815–70), whom Liszt greatly admired. The piece for
Vörösmarty was likely written after Liszt composed his arrangement ‘Szózat
128 James M. Baker
and Hymnus’ in 1872. He wrote the first version of the piece dedicated
to Petöfi in 1874 as incidental music for ‘Die Liebe des toten Dichters’, a
ballad by Jokai. Liszt arranged this work in 1877 as the piano piece ‘Dem
Andenken Petofis’, to which he added opening and closing materials to
incorporate it into the Historical Portraits. Upon Mosonyi’s death in 1870
Liszt had written ‘Mosonyis Grabgeleit’. This piece was slightly expanded
(additions of simple repetitions of phrases in the closing group are the only
changes) for the Historical Portraits. The following commentary provides
brief analytical observations for each of the seven pieces in the Historical
Hungarian Portraits, followed by a summary overview of the cycle.
1. ‘Stephan Széchenyi’. This piece is basically a simple two-part form,
with the main body of the work (bar 41f.) in D minor restated in brilliant
variation (bar 89f.) in D major. This form is expanded with the addition of
an Introduction, a transition between the two main sections, and a coda.
It is the eccentricity of the gestures – the obsessive sequencing of melodic
fragments and the absence of a real melody, along with frenetic repetitions –
that make the piece seem strange. The piece begins with a single line in
powerful triple octaves, and concludes on the leading tone identically set.
Underlying the introduction is an arpeggiation of the D minor triad, from
D at the outset to F (bar 9) through G (bar 17) to A (bar 23), with dominant
harmony prolonged from bar 23 through 40. The theme itself entails a
chromatic ascent in minor harmonies from the tonic D minor (bar 41) to
F (iii, bar 69). Thereafter the sequence is broken and harmony is directed
toward the dominant. With a change in key signature to D major, the main
material is sequenced up with major chords on D, E, and E (bar 109).
A new sequential pattern then leads to F major (III, bar 113), and then
onwards to the dominant, composed out in contrary-motion scales followed
by fanfare digressions to B (VI) and F major (iii, bars 125–32). We reach
the D major tonic as early as 133, and subsequent passagework extends
the tonic chord until the odd deviation to the leading tone at the end. The
subject matter of this number attributes to Széchenyi a quality of grim
determination changing over to victorious euphoria.
2. ‘Joseph Eötvös’. This piece is in a simple A–B–A form, with introduc-
tion. Certain connections with the previous piece (and others) corroborate
the impression of a cyclical design for the set of Historical Portraits. The
Introduction, in B major, culminates with the motivic figure of a descend-
ing perfect fifth, opening to the descending minor sixth: G–C, A–C (bars
19–23), a clear reference to the corresponding moment of the introduction
of the preceding number, ‘Széchenyi’ (bars 33–40). Here the A–C interval
is tonicised, as the fanfare-like A section in the key of A major (bar 24)
begins, developing the preceding P5–m6 motive, now expanded to P5–M6
(E–A, F–A). (Henceforth we shall refer to this motive generally as the 5–6
motive.) A monophonic transition leads to the dreamy B section in G major

and E minor, which has a melody based on rising thirds (B–D, E–G, etc.)
reciprocal with the descending sixths of the A section. The culminating pas-
sage of the B material (bars 68–78) closely resembles the beautiful Dolce
passage near the end of the final piece of the set (‘Mosonyi’, bars 68–77),
which was actually the first to be composed – again pointing to a cyclical
concept. The A material returns quite abruptly (bar 84), but is varied to end
with a grandiose F major chord (perhaps heard as tonicised, but bearing a
dominant functional relation to the B major key of the Introduction). This
piece conveys both the heroic and contemplative sides of Eötvös’s character.
3. ‘Michael Vörösmarty’. This piece follows from ‘Eötvös’ in a number
of respects. It is in the key of B, consigning to the F major conclusion of the
preceding piece a dominant function. Moreover, the main theme (bar 19f),
based on a phrase from Béni Egressy’s musical setting of Vörösmarty’s poem
‘Szózat’, is related to the contrasting theme of Eötvös (No. 2) in an abstruse
way; for the melody from ‘Eötvös’ (B–A–B–C–D) is the retrograde of the
beginning of the ‘Vörösmarty’ theme. The pedal on F (bar 17f.) picks up
the concluding bass pitches of No. 2 (bar 100). The piece also continues to
develop the 5–6 motive, especially in the Introduction and in the passage in
bar 29f. The form of No. 3 is quite comparable to that of No. 1, entailing the
presentation of a main theme in the minor followed by its presentation in the
major (bar 57f.), expanded with introductory, transitional, and concluding
materials. The B major tonal centre is felt strongly until a few bars before
the end, when a monophonic progression in tripled octaves digresses to a
foreign pitch (compare the ending of No. 1), in this case G. This pitch
is not tonicised but rather is probably still perceived as the lowered sixth
scale degree of B major. The odd close of No. 3 makes for an interesting, if
harmonically unsure, transition to No. 4. The subject matter of ‘Vörösmarty’
differs from the preceding pieces. There are no abrupt contrasts; rather,
the gradually evolving main theme leads slowly but convincingly to the
belligerent close, depicting a person of subtle mind and strong conviction.
4. ‘Ladislaus Teleki’. This movement is an abbreviated version of a
‘Trauermarsch’ composed likewise in 1885. It is the centrepiece of the set
of seven Historical Portraits, and stands apart from the rest in its unrelent-
ing dissonance. It is uniquely a Basso ostinato composition whose bass is
taken from the first section of Mosonyi’s piano piece, ‘Trauerklänge zum
Tode István Széchenyis’, thereby alluding to the men to whom the first and
last pieces of the set are dedicated. This work remains tonally ambiguous
throughout. The key signature indicates G minor, within which key the bass
pattern might be understood to function, but no definitive resolution to a
triadic sonority occurs (the moment of repose on the E 6/4 chord in bar 70
is the closest we come in the piece to a sense of cadence). The ostinato figure
130 James M. Baker
places exceptional emphasis on C, the tritone of G, and the piece ends on
that pitch in bare quadruple octaves with tremolo, signifying catastrophe.
Overall the upper voice traverses intervals of a single underlying diminished-
seventh chord, descending from E4 (bar 5) to G3 (bar 22) then ascending
gradually to C6 (bar 53). The chord is frequently heard in pure form (e.g.
bars 12, 59, and 72 – in the last instance as the resolution of a retardation).
The piece might be regarded as prolonging a diminished-seventh harmony –
a symmetric configuration. Liszt’s iconography, however, suggests that we
gauge the events of the piece against the tonal centre of G. We encountered
this key area previously in the dreamy middle section of ‘Eötvös’ in the
major mode. Here the piece starts out ominously in the minor, and ulti-
mately the centre of G cannot hold, subverted by the evil influence of the
tritone, C. ‘Teleki’ begins with melodic material seemingly derived from
the main theme of ‘Vörösmarty’ (see especially the Doloroso melody at bar
21). The increasingly activated texture signals mounting fear, reaching a cli-
max at bar 53 with the G–C tritone formed between bass and upper voice.
Tension is eerily suspended during the poignant passage in bars 57–73 – a
moment of sad reflection or, perhaps, false hope. The evil force of C soon
returns to seize control, however.
5. ‘Franz Deák’. As with most of the Portraits, this piece opens with an
introduction based on the 5–6 motive. It begins in D minor, but ends in B
major, juxtaposing these two chords in the cadential gesture in the last three
measures. D minor could be understood as constituting the long-denied
dominant of the G minor key of No. 4, and B is its relative major. On the
other hand, the C at the close of No. 4 may be taken as leading tone of the
tonic D, now restored. ‘Deák’ is a swaggering march (suggesting something
about the character of the dedicatee) and employs a harmonic technique
Liszt often used when writing in that genre: the juxtaposition of passages in
sharp and flat key areas. Thus the harmony modulates unexpectedly to the
sharp side for the middle section of the piece (beginning at bar 69). This
movement logically follows from the preceding movement in one particular
respect: it exploits the diminished-seventh chord that was the basis for No. 4,
now using it as a dominant in the keys of B major (bars 71) and D major
(bar 75). These third-related chords are the framework for the obsessive
descending chromatic progression that follows in bars 81–8 (repeated down
an octave in bars 93–100). Finally the C diminished-seventh chord occurs
in 101–4 as an auxiliary to B major, by means of which we return to the flat
side and arrive at the key in which the piece closes. The passage in bars 105–20
combines sharps and flats in an unusual way. The F major chord (perhaps
an allusion to the concluding chord of No. 2) here can be understood as VI
of B. Like Nos. 1 and 3, ‘Deák’ progresses from minor mode to major. It
ends with a triumphant fanfare, as does No. 2.
6. ‘Alexander Petöfi’. This piece begins with an extended introduction,

in which an unaccompanied tenor voice mulls over sad sequential phrases
based on the motivic descending fourth. The tenor voice touches upon
the main theme in the tonic key of E minor (bar 11), leading to the main
statement of the mournful theme beginning in bar 15. This theme unfolds
in sequential phrases composing out an arpeggiation of E minor from E
(i, bar 15) through G (III, bars 25–8) to B (V, bars 29–41). The passage in the
area of the dominant is extended to include unusual chromatic deviations
such as A, F, and E. A brief interlude in the major mode of E now
occurs (bars 41–52), the high register, folk-like melody, and absence of firm
grounding in root-position harmonies signifying perhaps a recollection of
bucolic bliss. The melody here drifts upward in stepwise sequence, defining
an underlying motion from G to B. The A theme returns as expected, but is
now grandiosely stated in the strange key of D minor, only to be followed
in bar 57 by the melody in the expected key of E, but in its major mode.
(This reflects a unique expansion of the basic form involving minor–major
contrast exhibited by Nos. 1 and 3 of the set.) Harmony continues to push
forward, however, to a climax on C major (with E in bass) in bars 61–3.
This harmony and other pitches in the passage are derived from the minor
mode of E, but beginning in bar 68 the major mode begins to assert itself,
and the closing passage in bars 71–8 uses only the diatonic major scale of E.
Thereafter the harmony trails off in the key of C major.8 The lack of bass
support ensures that this digression will not displace the firmly grounded
E as tonal centre. But C major, with its many sharps together with the
ethereal registration, is suggestive of the heavenly realms of the next world.
In terms of a structural function, the modulation to C plays a transitional
role, for the final E of this piece connects with the poignant F in the bass
at the beginning of the final number.9 This piece befits an elegy for a poet,
for it projects the full gamut of emotions, from sorrowful lyricism, through
tender recollection, to tragic grandeur.
7. ‘Michael Mosonyi’. At the beginning of ‘Mosonyi’, the bass introduces
a sighing motive F–E. In the context of the preceding number, E might be
understood as providing a resolution of F. The reverse ultimately proves to
be the case, however, for the main body of the piece is in D minor, with
F in the bass. (The so-called ‘gypsy scale’, emphasising the tritone above
the tonic and the augmented second between scale degrees 6 and 7, is in
evidence directly preceding the arrival of the main theme.) The main theme
modulates to the major mediant, F major (bars 22–4). (Note here the
reversal with E in the bass resolving upwards to F.) In bars 25–36, the
preceding passage is taken up a semitone to D minor (the relative minor of
F major), but revamped to modulate to B major (in effect the dominant of
D minor) indicating an underlying progression by major thirds: d-F-B.
132 James M. Baker
The touching contrasting material enters in bar 37, where it occurs in

the key of G major (the enharmonic equivalent of F major encountered
earlier), in an ethereally high register, and treated with great rhythmic sup-
pleness in 5/4 metre. The melodic motion from natural to raised fifth in
the melody in bars 39–40 connects this theme with the main theme. The
contrasting theme is then restated in the middle register beginning in E
major in bar 43 (down one whole tone) but modulating to the dominant
of B major, on which harmony the music fades away. At this point the
material of the introduction returns by means of a chromatic resolution in
the bass from F (bar 46) to F (bar 52). The ensuing passage builds to a
tremendous climax, the apotheosis of the main theme in the original key
of D minor at bar 64, but transformed to linger on the upper-neighbour of
A, B. Further chromatic change brings about the arrival of a new section in
bar 68 in B major (fulfilling the earlier expectation of that key in bar 52).
In this episode the bass descends through the whole-tone scale from D2
to E1 as the melody descends somewhat chromatically from B6 to A5,
arriving on a diminished chord on E (bar 74). This chord leads to a closing
section in D major based on the contrasting material, but citing as well the
motivic chromatic relations A–A (B) in the melody (bar 81) and F–F
in bars 89–91 and 93–5.
This final piece of the set concludes in D, the key of the beginning of
the cycle (‘Széchenyi)’, and in the major mode, providing a sense of framing
and closure to the whole. One could well imagine that Liszt had in mind
concluding the set with this number – the oldest of the pieces – from the
start. Indeed, the tone of solemnity and peace at the end provides an espe-
cially fitting conclusion. None of the preceding numbers offers this sort of
resolution. Since this piece is the longest of the set in real time, in a cer-
tain sense the cycle is weighted toward it, creating a sense of directedness
and culmination. At one point Liszt envisioned concluding the Historical
Hungarian Portraits with a ‘fanfare apotheosis’, for on 30 July 1885 he wrote
from Weimar to Princess Carolyne: ‘You are swimming in Buddhism –
and I for my part am immersing myself musically in Magyarism through
6 or 7 historical portraits: István Széchenyi, Deák, László Teleki, Eötvös,
Vörösmarty, Petöfi, and the funeral procession of my friend Mosonyi –
the whole thing ending with a fanfare apotheosis.’10 He evidently changed
his mind in much the same way that years before he had ultimately opted
for a quiet, solemn ending to the Piano Sonata. (We will see, however,
that he employed such a ‘fanfare apotheosis’ to close his greatest cycle,
the Troisième année of the Années de pèlerinage.) It is perhaps especially
touching that he chose to close this work, a tribute to the great Hungarian
heroes of his time, with his beautiful remembrance of his colleague in music,
Mosonyi.
Liszt had always had a rather casual attitude regarding the performance of
his works, and in characteristic fashion had commissioned orchestrated ver-
sions of the four new numbers composed for the set of Hungarian Historical
Portraits (the four dedicated to political heroes, all composed in 1885) –
probably with the specific opportunities of the 1886 concerts in mind.
Nevertheless, the genius of his compositional concept emerges only when
the work is examined as a whole, with the pieces in the sequence that he
ultimately specified. In the previously cited letter to his publisher of June
1885 (see p. 127), it is probably not coincidental that he laid out the names
of the dedicatees in a cruciform grid – for he, as a devout Catholic, would
have composed these memorials in the hope and belief that the souls of these
heroes rest with God for eternity. The close of the final piece of the cycle
clearly conveys the sense of a prayer: ‘Rest in peace.’ Liszt would have drawn
the cross as an invocation of Christ’s saving grace. From Liszt’s descrip-
tion of his project in the letter, it might appear that the piece dedicated to
Mosonyi was an appendix or afterthought to a sixfold structure, since his
name is not part of the cruciform design. However, many features of the
cycle point to ‘Mosonyi’ as the true goal of a carefully constructed composi-
tional trajectory. The addition of ‘Mosonyi’ to the six pieces inscribed in the
cruciform plan results in a cycle of seven pieces, the number seven bearing
sacred connotations, associated with the seven sacraments and numerous
features of God’s creation.
It is natural that Liszt would have decided to end the cycle with ‘Mosonyi’,
the most substantial and dramatically satisfying of the pieces. The extended
peaceful close of this work is by far the most suitable of the seven pieces for
concluding a memorial collection. Assuming Liszt made the decision early
on in the project to place ‘Mosonyi’ last, it makes sense that he would have
sought to begin the cycle in the same key as it ends, the key of D. Neither of
the older works, ‘Vörösmarty’ and ‘Petöfi’, were originally in this key, and
Liszt ultimately decided to retain their original keys, B and E respectively,
in the cycle. Neither would have offered the boldness he evidently sought
for the opening number, so he must have decided to compose ‘Széchenyi’
specifically to be the first piece in the set. Of the other newly composed
pieces, only ‘Deák’ is also in the key of D, but its dramatic profile is quite
different and would not have grabbed the attention of the listener the way
‘Széchenyi’ does. He wisely decided to place ‘Deák’ immediately after ‘Teleki’,
probably in order to re-establish our tonal orientation after the upheaval of
that movement.
Of the seven movements of the Historical Portraits only the last ends
definitively in the key in which it began. It is noteworthy that Liszt com-
posed new endings for the other two older pieces in the set, endings that
digress from the main key and serve, as has been shown, as transitions to the
134 James M. Baker
numbers that follow. One could infer that the endings of the newly com-
posed pieces, all of which digress from their respective tonal centres, were
likewise devised specifically for the transitional functions that have already
been pointed out. If so, then these pieces can only make sense as harmonic
structures in the context of the whole – the cycle of seven pieces in the order
specified.
The harmonic scheme of the cycle does not exist as a design unto itself,
however, but rather supports a dramatic progression, which can perhaps
best be described as a grand arch encompassing all seven pieces. After the
fierce, bombastic fanfares of ‘Széchenyi’, first in D minor then in D major,
we proceed to the grandiose march of ‘Eötvös’. This work begins in A major,
the key of the dominant (all key areas here are expressed as functions of D),
but ends in the major mediant, F major. As mentioned, the final portion of
the contrasting central section of this piece appears to foreshadow a passage
from the heavenly close of ‘Mosonyi’, the final piece of the set. ‘Vörösmarty’
builds gradually in the key of the submediant, B (minor then major), starting
as if in the distance but ending with a determined passage in octaves that
captures something of the immediacy of the first piece in the set. ‘Teleki’
starts out quietly but more ominously than its predecessor, but with weirder
harmony that remains dissonant throughout, building to a terrifying climax
on the G–C tritone. The latter half of the piece dwells in particular on C,
the leading tone, presented uniquely at the end in quadruple octaves with
tremolo. This passage, which resonates with the focus on the leading tone
at the end of the first piece, is the locus of highest tension in the cycle
and constitutes the apex of the arch form. The symbolic use of the tritone
signifies the horror of death.
‘Deák’, a brilliant march full of machismo, follows immediately in the
tonic key (minor then major), both providing instant relief from the catas-
trophe of ‘Teleki’ as well as restoration of our tonal bearings. It remains
robust throughout, as did the first number. The final page of music of this
piece, in B major (VI), seems to function not so much as a transition to
the next (it does not connect all that well), but rather to take the place of
the D major tonic, in the conventional role of a submediant function in a
deceptive cadence. It prevents the tonic key of this piece from taking hold
prematurely, which would destroy the balance of the arch. ‘Petöfi’ presents
an instantaneous change in mood from ‘Deák’. The single voice heard in
the introduction projects an individual, introverted expression. The music
moves from a melancholy, yearning expression in E minor (ii), through a
nostalgic episode hinting at E major, to an impassioned apotheosis of the
theme, first in D minor, finally attaining (or nearly so) the goal of E major
(II). The piece fades to a close in C major, bringing back the leading tone
yet again. Of particular significance in ‘Petöfi’ are the numerous repetitions
Liszt introduced when he reworked the piece for inclusion in the Historical
Portraits. The sighing figure in bar 19, for instance, occurred only once in the
original, but is here repeated in bar 20. Liszt may have decided to repeat such
figures in order to draw a direct correspondence with the subject matter of
the final piece, ‘Mosonyi’, which is replete with such obsessive sighs, creating
a mood of deep sorrow (see, for instance, bars 13–14 or 19–21). This type of
revision once again points to ‘Mosonyi’ as the basis for the cyclical scheme.
Only ‘Mosonyi’, of all the pieces in the set, projects both the depth of sor-
row and the height of tragedy befitting a conclusion to Liszt’s memorial to
Hungarian heroes. This piece touches upon a number of harmonies which
resonate with significant moments earlier in the cycle: F major and later
G major in bars 23 and 37 (resonating with the ending of No. 2), E major
in bar 43 (with No. 6), and G major in bar 82 (with Nos. 2 and 3). It builds
to a climactic apotheosis of the main theme in D minor, which subsides to
a tender recollection of the contrasting theme in D major, and closes on a
solemn note of faith and hope. In spite of the strong projection of the tonic
at the conclusion, however, Liszt rigorously avoids stating the tonic root in
the low bass, perhaps signifying that life is part of a greater continuum in
which only God has the final word.
Années de pèlerinage, troisième année

Perhaps the finest large work of Liszt’s late period is the collection of pieces
he published in 1883 as Années de pèlerinage, troisième année. At least four
of the seven pieces in this collection had been composed in 1877, and the
other two even earlier, so once again there is evidence of the composer’s
hesitancy in bringing forth his work. Liszt apparently did not begin work
on the 1877 pieces with a collection in mind, but in the brief time that
those pieces emerged, he must surely have considered their relation one to
another. Identifying the resulting collection as the third year of his Years
of Pilgrimage collections was evidently a much later phase of the process.
The music of the first two sets that he had called Années de pèlerinage had
been composed nearly four decades earlier, the products respectively of his
life with Marie d’Agoult in Switzerland and his encounters with the art and
literature of Italy. We shall consider Liszt’s purpose in rounding out the
pilgrimage series with a third volume late in his career after we survey the
individual pieces and overall structure of the cycle.
In the summer of 1877, Liszt was feeling tired and depressed. In June, he
had written Princess Carolyne from Weimar using the words of Jesus’s agony
in the garden of Gethsemane to describe his spiritual exhaustion: ‘Tristis est
anima mea!’11 At the end of August he returned to the Villa d’Este, where
136 James M. Baker
he, unlike Christ, was able to find solace and inspiration in the beauty of
nature. His letters of the early fall report a deep involvement with the Villa’s
famous cypresses:
These 3 days I have spent entirely under the cypresses! It was an obsession,
impossible to think of anything else, even church. Their old trunks were
haunting me, and I heard their branches singing and weeping, bearing the
burden of their unchanging foliage! At last they are brought to bed on music
paper; and after having greatly corrected, scratched out, copied, and
recopied them, I resign myself to touching them no more. They differ from
the cypresses of Michelangelo by an almost loving melody.
May the good angels make the most beautiful inner music for you
[Princess Carolyne] – the music we shall hear fully, in its boundlessness,
there above! 12
In fact, Liszt composed two separate pieces depicting the cypresses of the
Villa d’Este. The second piece was associated in his mind (as indicated by
the reference in the above quotation) with the figure of Michelangelo, who
was reputed to have planted the cypresses at the Roman monastery of Santa
Maria degli Angeli. When Liszt learned soon after writing the second cypress
piece that there was in fact no historical connection between the artist and
those trees, he renamed his second cypress piece, resulting in a pair of
pieces, ‘Aux Cyprès de la Villa d’Este’ Nos. I and II. Liszt conceived of these
as works of great gravity and mourning with an otherworldly detachment:
‘I shall call them Thrénodies, as the word élégie strikes me as too tender,
and almost worldly.’13 Remarkably, Liszt was able to snap out of his funk
immediately after writing the cypress pieces, for by early October he had
dashed off two other pieces of much more hopeful character – the ‘Angelus!’
and ‘Sursum corda’, which ended up as the first and last movements of the
cycle. All of these pieces arose from the composer’s sense of inner necessity,
and he recognised that they would not easily find an audience: ‘These pieces
are hardly suitable for drawing rooms and are not entertaining, nor even
dreamily pleasing. When I publish them I’ll warn the publisher that he
risks selling only a few copies.’14 Miraculously, the sparkling and brilliantly
innovative ‘Les jeux d’eau à la Villa d’Este’ evidently sprang from his pen
at this very time as well, when one might have expected him to be bowed
down with depression.
It is difficult to pin down exactly when Liszt had the idea of creating a cycle
using these five pieces. They were not published individually in advance of
publication of the set in 1883. By 1882 he had decided to bring together these
pieces with two older as yet unpublished pieces, both funereal in character,
and to publish them as the third book of Années. The resulting collection is
a highly unified arrangement of seven pieces, four of them threnodies. As
in his later Historical Portraits, Liszt creates a symmetrical form by placing

two laments on either side of the central ‘Jeux d’eau’ movement – which
provides much-needed respite from the gravity and gloominess which oth-
erwise might overwhelm the listener. The work is framed by the innocent,
lighthearted ‘Angelus!’ at the beginning and the final ‘Sursum corda’, a move-
ment of powerful intensity portraying the striving of the soul toward God.
1. ‘Angelus! Prière aux anges gardiens’. In a letter of October 14, 1877,
Liszt reported that he had just written ‘Angelus!’: ‘[I]n early October, there
was the feast day of the Holy Angels [October 2]. I wrote a hundred or
so measures for them . . . and wish I could better express my intimate
devotion to the divine messengers.’15 He subsequently indicated that he had
composed this piece for his grand-daughter Daniela, and in the first edition
of Book III of the Années he included a picture of his three grand-daughters
(the daughters of Richard and Cosima Wagner), depicted as angels with
wings and musical instruments (taken from a painting by Zhukovsky that
hung in the Wagner home, Wahnfried).16 In the blurred sonorities of the
introduction to this piece Liszt attempted as well to capture the effect of
interrupted cadences of bells echoing through the Italian countryside.17
The tune in E major in lilting 6/8 metre creates a simple, pastoral ambiance.
The simplicity of ‘Angelus!’ is not without drama, however. Most of
the tension of the piece resides in chromatic digressions from the E major
diatonic, as first occurs in bar 9, when D and G unexpectedly enter in
the lowest voice and alternate respectively with D and G in subsequent
bars. In bars 27–36, the harmony drifts off unexpectedly from the diatonic,
employing D, C, A, and B in distinctive ways. The D major chord in bar
29 lends special emphasis to the chromatic variant D first encountered in
bar 9. Such chromaticism results in extended phrases and focuses attention
on critical junctures in the phrasing, such as the resumption of the normal
diatonic scale in bar 37, and the cadence to the dominant in bars 67–8.
‘Angelus!’ may be regarded as a small-scale sonata form. Following a
brief silence after the dominant has been secured, a transition leads to the
beginning of the development section, where the underlying progression of
the upper voice in bars 74–89 is an ascending chromatic line – C, C, D,
D – developing the lower-voice motion from bars 9–10. The development
touches upon mediant (III, bar 111) and submediant regions (VI and vi,
bars 125 and 130). The transformation of the theme at bar 157 signals the re-
capitulation (at which point an alternate passage is provided in case the
piece is played on the harmonium, an option for this movement only). The
recurrence of the introductory material at bar 191 marks the beginning of
the coda. For Liszt at age 66 and in a generally morose state of mind to have
written such a piece is remarkable. This music is certainly an idealisation
of pastoral and angelic worlds, but it is not without a sense of trouble,
138 James M. Baker
regret, or loss. In its dramatic depiction of the guardian angels, it runs the
affective gamut from tender beneficence to steadfast militancy. In terms of
the meaning of the cycle as a whole, ‘Angelus!’ might be regarded as Liszt’s
depiction of the state of spiritual innocence, now in the past yet still an ideal
as we forge ahead on life’s journey.
2. ‘Aux cyprès de la Villa d’Este No. I: Thrénodie’. The first of the cypress
pieces begins with the bare F–B diminished fourth in the low bass, creating
tremendous ambiguity. Are we in B or G? The key of the piece turns out to
be neither of these, but rather G – first secured in its minor mode in bar 33,
but transmogrified to the major at the recapitulation of the Appassionato
theme (bar 131). The allusion to G is not without significance, however,
for the contrasting Appassionato theme makes its first appearance in that
key in bar 47. In ‘Cypress I’, the central chromatic opposition of D vs.
D from ‘Angelus!’ is now recontextualised in G minor as E yielding to
D. This relation is part of the opening melodic motive, consisting of a
chromatic turn about D, followed by an ascent to A. This motive is then
developed in the melody of the barcarolle-like episode at bar 33, where the
tonal centre is first clarified. It recurs as well in the melody of the Tranquillo
passage (bar 63), decorating the dominant note, and in the bass at Più agitato
(bar 87), embellishing C – at a tritone’s distance from the tonic. Tension
builds to the cathartic passage at bar 107, where the motive is sounded
over the tremolando C–G tritone. The concluding passage of the work
(from bar 191) focuses on the voice-leading tendencies of the crucial D/E
equivalency. Thus the process of developing variation might be viewed as
governing the form.
Like the first piece of the set, this piece could also be described as an
adapted sonata form, with introduction, exposition of first and second
themes (bars 33 and 47), development, and recapitulation (second theme
only, bar 131) in the key of the tonic major. Unexpectedly, however, new
material enters around bar 147 in what might be a coda. Continuing in
G major, this new subject employs open high-register chords and a good
deal of similar motion, reminiscent of late Beethoven (e.g. the first move-
ment of the Piano Sonata, op. 101). Another allusion possibly conveyed
by this new material would be to the bucolic and nostalgic contrasting
theme of Chopin’s Nocturne, op. 37, no. 2, likewise in G major (compare
especially bars 180–3 of the Liszt with the subject as stated in the closing
measures of the Nocturne). The G major ending of ‘Cypress I’ must not be
taken too optimistically; Liszt aptly described this piece as ‘a fairly gloomy
and disconsolate elegy . . . illumined toward the end by a beam of patient
resignation’.18 His use of the late style of Beethoven, which often conveys a
topic of transcendental acceptance of fate, perfectly captures the meaning he
intended.
3. ‘Aux cyprès de la Villa d’Este No. II: Thrénodie’. The second cypress
piece opens with an invocation of the ‘Tristan’ motive, bringing myriad
associations of the tragedy of star-crossed lovers. The meaning of this gesture
for Liszt may have been even more complex, for he had actually introduced
the motive – years before it was appropriated by Wagner – in the song
‘Die Lorelei’ (1841), which was one of only three pieces that Liszt ever
dedicated to Marie d’Agoult, mother of his three children. The legend of
the Lorelei was connected with the Rhine and associated in Liszt’s mind
with the island of Nonnenwerth, where he and Marie had spent several
idyllic summers in the early 1840s before they became estranged.19 As noted
earlier, when composing this work Liszt also had in mind the heroic figure of
Michelangelo, whose statue for the tomb of Lorenzo de’ Medici had inspired
‘Il penseroso’ in the second book of Années de pèlerinage. This cypress piece
is therefore quite different from the first in tone and subject matter. While
the first has an almost sinister aspect, this piece depicts not only passion and
tormented love but also heroic grandeur. Both versions end with a mood of
tender consolation and acceptance.
The introduction to ‘Cypress II’ focuses on the tritone and fifth of the
tonic E – A and B.20 The resolution of A or its equivalent B is the subject
of a pivotal transitional passage first encountered in bars 11–14 (resolving to
the dominant of E minor). This passage recurs twice in the piece, each time
with a different harmonic setting: bars 26–9 (resolving to an augmented-
sixth chord leading to D major, equivalent to the major submediant of E
major) and bars 203–7 (to an A major chord functioning as major mediant
of E major). The main theme of the piece enters in D major (= VI) in bar 31,
but moves by the end of the phrase to the tonic (bars 35–6). The consequent
phrase leads to the key of the tritone, B major, in bar 44, whereupon the
contrasting subject, a fanfare of sorts, enters, stated in both major and minor
versions of that key (bar 47). A transition based on the ‘Tristan’ motive leads
to a Dolce passage in the beneficent key of F major (bar 68), which might
depict the gentle rustling of the wind through the limbs of the cypresses.
A passionate melody emerges in bar 76, the third subject, beginning in F
major but modulating a fifth higher to C major (bar 92). The premature
modulation in bar 80 is a slight fault in this beautiful idea, which otherwise
could be among Liszt’s finest melodic inspirations. The sighing and weeping
of the cypresses is aptly conveyed in the Dolente passage beginning in bar
96, which recasts the Tristan motive in the melody.
Beginning in bar 106, the material associated with the third subject is now
repeated nearly exactly, but transposed up a minor third, so as to cadence in
the key of the tonic major in bar 132. The wholesale transposition continues
beyond this point, however, extending as far as the second repetition of the
Appassionato theme in bar 154. Here this theme is varied both melodically
140 James M. Baker
and harmonically, hinting at an unrealised modulation to D minor. Instead,

this passage is cut off abruptly, followed in bar 162 by a surging variation of
the main theme – in fact harmonically a true recapitulation of the material
in bars 31–46. The recapitulation of the military fanfare in bars 178–91 is
exact in every respect, including the original key area of B. A coda ensues
based primarily on the arpeggiated material associated with the cypresses.
The bass proceeds downward by step from third to root of the scale, from
G (bar 208) through F (bar 216), coming to rest gently on the tonic E in
bar 226. A single voice emerges amidst the arpeggios from time to time with
the ‘Tristan’ motive, expanded into a full-fledged recitative just prior to the
arrival on the tonic. This lone voice ends the piece with a phrase reciprocal
with the unaccompanied melody that closes the first piece, ‘Angelus!’ This
correspondence creates a frame which defines a formal unit comprising the
first three pieces in the cycle, lending emphasis to E as tonal centre.
4. ‘Les jeux d’eau à la Villa d’Este’. Liszt’s depiction of the fountains at
the Villa d’Este is one of the pivotal pieces in the piano literature. That he
composed this work – so youthful and fresh in both instrumental technique
and harmony – alongside the Cypress pieces is evidence of his strength of
will and abiding religious faith. Situated in the cycle between two pairs of
threnodies, ‘Jeux d’eau’ appears as a spring of water in the desert. It is clear
from Liszt’s citation of John 4:14 midway through the piece (bar 144) that
his composition is no mere depiction of sparkling water effects; he found
in the fountains of the Villa a symbol of God’s healing grace: ‘But whoever
drinks the water I shall give will never thirst; the water I shall give will
become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.’21 This piece,
being the central piece in the cycle, might be assumed to be the apex of an
arch form (a beneficent one, in comparison to the trauma experienced in
‘Teleki’ at the comparable point in the Historical Hungarian Portraits). On
the other hand, though its dazzling effects constitute a local climax in the
cycle, a larger highpoint is yet to come. So, although the cycle of the Années,
Book III does not conform to a simple arch design, the ‘Jeux d’eau’ provides
restoring refreshment to those who face further sadness and tribulation as
the pilgrimage continues.
The form of ‘Jeux d’eau’ is very different from the others of the series,
or, indeed, from Liszt’s forms in general. It consists of a series of variations
without the sharp contrast of key areas normally found in his compositions.
Harmony is rich yet vague, and continually changes without a strong sense
of modulating away from the tonal centre. The piece is in the key of F
major, which lends itself to effects of light sparkling through jets of water,
and from a spiritual standpoint is associated in Liszt’s music with heavenly
realms. The appearance of F as the tonic key fulfils the foreshadowings of
this key (by G) in ‘Cypress I’ (at the beginning and in the first statement
of the Passionato theme in bar 49) and ‘Cypress II’ (bar 68), and resonates
with subsequent appearances of F in ‘Sunt lacrymae’ (bars 73 and 124) and
especially the ‘Marche funèbre’, which concludes in F major. The harmony
even makes an appearance (as G major) over the pedal E in ‘Sursum corda’
(bar 64).
Liszt’s wonderfully crafted gestures, many of them original with this
work, anticipate the water effects achieved by Debussy and Ravel early in
the next century. Even more significant, the form of ‘Jeux d’eau’ consists
of a sequence of dazzling keyboard variations with subtly evolving har-
mony, anticipating the harmonic designs of such impressionist works as
Debussy’s ‘Reflets dans l’eau’. The dominant-ninth chord that opens the
piece establishes the characteristic sonority and places particular emphasis
on scale-degree 6, D, which is a motivic focal point throughout the piece
(see bars 36–8, the left-hand trill in bar 45, the harmonies on E major and
D minor in bars 154–5, the E major chord in bar 252, and the conversion
of the upper-voice E4 to D4 in bars 269–71, to name a few instances).
After an extended introduction, the main thematic group, consisting of
three distinct ideas, starts in bar 40 and is restated without harmonic change
beginning in bar 64. A fourth melodic idea enters in bar 88. Harmony shifts
downward by step to E major in bar 132 and D major in bar 144, but
is redirected toward F major with the shift to E and D in bars 154–5.
Beginning in bar 182, a large-scale bass progression descends from D2 to
D1 in bar 206, which supports a pentatonic passage in conjunction with a
massive crescendo. The bass descent ultimately culminates with the climactic
arrival of the dominant, C1 in bar 220. The glorious passage at this point is
the apotheosis of the opening theme of the piece. The melodic D, sounded
three times, proceeds up to E, the leading tone in bar 227, likewise sounded
three times. The melody attains the tonic F, sounded six times, even as the
dominant pedal continues in effect. (We can only speculate as to the possible
symbolism of twelve melodic strokes at this point, which might have had
a religious meaning for Liszt.) Following a brief recollection in the high
register of the idea from bars 48–51, the main motive is recalled, supported
by an exotic descending succession of chords distant from F major, at the
end of which an abrupt crescendo leads to a Sforzando A sixth chord. The
bass of this chord, C2, commences a stepwise descent to the tonic root, F1,
reached at the end. The fresh, open quality of the harmony of the work –
a masterful achievement on Liszt’s part – is the result of a new freedom
in composing out scalar motions in melody and bass, together with firm
control of registral connections across broad spans and colouristic chord
sequences based on common tones.
In January 1886 the young Claude Debussy, who had recently been
awarded the Prix de Rome and was living nearby at the Villa Medici, visited
142 James M. Baker
Liszt on three occasions. We know that Liszt played for him several of his
works, including ‘Au bord d’une source’ from Années, Book I, which surely
must have suggested to Debussy the possibilities for developing piano tech-
nique for impressionistic effects. If he did not hear Liszt play ‘Les jeux d’eau
à la Villa D’Este’, he certainly came to know it before writing such works
as ‘Reflets dans l’eau’ from Images, Book I (pub. 1905). Proof of his knowl-
edge of the piece is supplied in his ‘L’Isle joyeuse’ (1903–4), which virtually
quotes the figuration in bars 44–7 of ‘Jeux d’eau’.
5. ‘Sunt lacrymae rerum: en mode hongrois’. The title of this number,
composed in 1872, is taken from Virgil’s Aeneid (Book I, lines 462–3), as
Aeneas considers the fate of Troy: ‘Here are tears for misfortune, and here
men’s hearts are touched by human plight.’22 Liszt composed this lament
thinking back to the defeat of Hungary in the revolution of 1848–9. The
somewhat surprising dedication of the piece to his protégé and ex-son-in-
law Hans von Bülow may also have been intended to convey his sympathy to
the man who had suffered so much indignity when his wife Cosima, Liszt’s
daughter, left him for Richard Wagner.
This piece is in the key of A, but employs a Hungarian mode that empha-
sises the tritone, D, and contains many semitones and augmented seconds:
A–B–C()–D–E–F–G–A. Formally, the piece gives the impression at the
outset of beginning as the exposition of a sonata movement. The piece
evolves, however, in ways that make it difficult to pinpoint where the-
matic development ends and recapitulation begins – resulting in a form
that projects continuous development. After an ambiguous introduction
highlighting upper and lower chromatic neighbours of the tonic, the main
theme enters in the tonic (upbeat to bar 10) – a dolorous phrase followed
by a modal melisma. The theme continues as this phrase is transposed to
C minor (upbeat to bar 15), which leads through F minor (bars 20–1) to
a lilting and tender contrasting subject. This idea, which might be regarded
as a consequence of the initial thematic phrases, ultimately proves to be
in A major (bars 22–30), which perhaps should be considered a lowered
chromatic variant of the original key of A. The lowered tonic is reinforced
by the crashing explosion on A in the extreme low bass (bar 30), heard
first in conjunction with the A harmony, then in bars 39–41 as part of
a thundering diminished-seventh chord with F in the bass. Note that the
pitches of the key areas set forth in this section – A, C, F, A (G) – are all
pitches of the underlying mode.
An episode in bars 42–56 developing the main subject, consistently for-
tissimo as if involved in a struggle of heroic proportions, leads to the appear-
ance of material closely related to the contrasting idea, transformed by
augmentation and stated dolcissimo, amoroso in a sequence from A major
(bar 57) to C minor (bar 65), mirroring the key relationship between the
phrases in A minor and C minor in bars 9–19. A morose response hovers

between major and minor modes of B in bars 67–8 and 71–2. Emotions
continue to vacillate with another transformation of the contrasting theme
in F major (bar 73), which is then sequenced up to G major (bar 77) and
subsequently interrupted by further ruminations on the main idea in C
minor (bar 81) that trail off on an indefinite half-diminished chord. The
episode from bar 57 is now restated (again in A major) in slightly varied
rhythm beginning in bar 89, but in bar 97 becomes more agitated, building
with a huge crescendo to the climax of the piece, the anguished outburst
in bars 101–4. The powerful harmony of this passage is derived from the
chromatic conflicts inherent in the Hungarian mode of the A tonality: F
vs. F and C vs. C. Belligerent triple octaves insist on F as emphasised
at the opening. However, the piece ends oddly with C in the bass beneath
high-register chords sounding F major and A major. Since C is the root
of neither harmony, there is little feeling of clarity at the conclusion.
6. ‘Marche funèbre: en mémoire de Maximilien I, Empereur du Mex-
ique, † 19 juin 1867’. Liszt’s political allegiances were complex. While a
native speaker of German, his sympathies were usually with the French,
as was the case during the Franco-Prussian war. In this cycle, alongside a
threnody for the Hungarian nation subjugated under Austrian rule, he saw
fit to place a funeral march he had composed in 1867 in memory of Max-
imilian I, younger brother of Emperor Franz Joseph. Maximilian, installed
in 1864 as Emperor of Mexico by Napoleon III, was captured and executed
by revolutionary forces three years later. In 1866, Liszt had been honoured
to accept from Maximilian the appointment as Grand-Officier de l’ordre de
la Guadeloupe, and he was terribly saddened at the news of the Emperor’s
demise. He placed a line from Propertius (Book II, Elegy 10, line 6) as an
epigram to the march: ‘In great things even to have wished is enough.’23 He
saw in Maximilian’s cruel death the tragedy of the unfulfilled promise of a
noble life cut short. What are we to make of the contradictory allegiances
conveyed in this pairing of the ‘Sunt lacrymae rerum’ and ‘Marche funèbre’?
Most certainly this is no hypocrisy. Rather, Liszt’s mourning of both rebels
and sovereign in these pieces combines with his personal laments in the
cypress pieces to make the cycle a powerful threnody for the condition of all
humankind, entirely in the spirit of his citation from Virgil: ‘Here are tears
for misfortune, and here men’s hearts are touched by human plight.’
The funeral march is based on the chromatic dyad F-F. It begins with
a grim march in F minor, with a melody that features a chromatic double-
neighbour motion about the fifth, C. This passage contains a transition
which leads to the wholesale repetition of this material up a major third in
A minor beginning in bar 33. As a result, the level of C is attained in bar
50, but coinciding at this juncture with a change to the major mode and the
144 James M. Baker
introduction of a new subject, a hopeful fanfare-like melody. This melody is

at first heard dolce and piano, but recurs triumphant in the closing measures
in the key of F major (bars 104–27). From this perspective, the overall
harmonic design is simple; the A section, in minor, effects a symmetrical
bass arpeggiation – F minor through A minor to C major – at which
point the contrasting B section begins. C major ultimately functions as
dominant of F major, the goal of the work. The ‘correction’ of F to F
occurs in microcosm in the bass of the recitative passage in bars 72–98,
which involves a descent, primarily stepwise, from F2 to F1. The piece ends
gloriously with clangorous chords arpeggiating tonic and subdominant of
F major, tolling an ecstatic ‘Amen’.
7. ‘Sursum corda’. There can be no doubt of the formal effect of the final
piece of the Années de pèlerinage, troisième année. It is in every way a stirring,
cathartic culmination. ‘Sursum corda’ is structured virtually throughout on
a tonic pedal in E major, the key of the ‘Angelus!’– the initial piece in the
cycle – creating a large-scale frame for the set. This key was also asserted
by the grouping of the first three pieces in the set. The pedal tone is an
especially conspicuous feature of the finale, since it is sounded at regular
intervals, often forming astonishing dissonances with the melody (e.g. bars
55 and 59). This exaggerated emphasis on the low bass is of great significance
in the overall cycle, since the tonic bass is absent in the first piece after the
opening section, creating a structural void that remains unfilled until the
final movement. The ending of ‘Cypress II’, also in E major, is interesting
in this regard, for it reciprocates the ending of ‘Angelus!’ in its last melodic
gesture, but also duplicates the effect at the close of the first piece in its
lack of low-bass tonic support. The ‘Angelus!’ concludes with a meek 3̂–
2̂–1̂ descent in the unaccompanied melody, as if sounding in the distance.
‘Sursum corda’ takes up this quintessential gesture of melodic closure at
the conclusion, pounding out the descent from G to F in bars 91–2. The
ultimate descent to the tonic root is strongly implied, although Liszt places
equal or greater emphasis on scale-degree 5̂; at the end, a familiar concluding
gesture re-establishing the headtone of the fundamental line in Schenkerian
terms.
The theme of ‘Sursum corda’ is essentially the descent from scale-degree
5̂ to 1̂, the quintessence of melodic motion, only slightly embellished. In the
introduction, a simple version of this idea is expressed in the bass, which
begins on the decorated fifth, B. Instead of descending by step, however, the
theme leaps up by seventh to scale-degree 4̂, then proceeds by step as normal.
Note that at the moment F should descend to E in bar 9, this motion is
overlapped by the appearance of scale-degree 5̂ in the upper voice in bar 9.
This procedure of overlapping happens each time a descending line reaches
scale-degree 1̂ – even at the end – thus avoiding full closure. In its contours
and rhythmic profile, the basic theme of the ‘Sursum corda’ as it appears
at the opening (bars 1–8) and at the conclusion (bars 88–104) is a positive,
straightforward, diatonic variant of the tortured subject of the first of the
Cypress threnodies (see especially bars 33–5 of ‘Cypress I’). In this regard it
projects faith and hope as a response to the anxiety and doubt of the earlier
piece.
Whereas the theme in the introduction in the bass is diatonic, as the
piece continues the progress of the melodic line becomes more chromatic
and tortuous. The phrase beginning in bar 9 descends from A through G,
G, and F to F, which projects a strong tendency to resolve to E. Unexpect-
edly, however, the theme reverses direction at this point, and F pushes back
up to F. The tension between F and F encapsulates the basic struggle in
the piece – a striving upward against forces that pull one down. We recognise
that at the heart of this theme is the very dyad observed at the basis of the ear-
liest work in the set, the ‘Marche funèbre’. There and elsewhere in the cycle,
F was associated with evil forces, especially that of the tritone. The finale
fittingly restores the diatonic rule at its climax in bars 85–8, where the
sinister phrase C–B–F receives the definite response C–B–F. The jux-
taposition of C with C in these parallel phrases seems in particular to
allude to a motivic dichotomy important in the earlier pieces in the set in
E major. That relation comes to the fore in the development of ‘Angelus!’
where parallel phrases begin on C (bar 73) and C (bar 81). The concluding
bars of ‘Cypress II’ bring out the same relation. The close of ‘Sursum corda’
following the climax in bars 85–8 is in pure diatonic E major. It presents an
ecstatic fanfare strikingly similar to the close of the ‘Marche funèbre’, even
incorporating similar B major chords, here in the context of an authentic
rather than plagal cadence.
The meaning of the finale and its title, ‘Sursum corda’, is elucidated by
comments from Liszt’s correspondence. On 22 February 1883, just days after
he learned of the death of Wagner, Liszt wrote to Lina Ramann:
Ever since the days of my youth I have considered dying much simpler than
living. Even if often there is fearful and protracted suffering before death,
yet is death none the less the deliverance from our involuntary yoke of
existence . . . Religion assuages this yoke, yet our heart bleeds under it
continually! –
‘Sursum corda!’
In my ‘Requiem’ (for men’s voices) I endeavoured to give expression to the
mild, redeeming character of death. It is shown in the ‘Dies irae,’ in which
the domination of fear could not be avoided.24
The expression ‘Sursum corda’ is from the ordinary of the mass, at the point
just prior to the consecration of the Eucharist when the priest exhorts the
146 James M. Baker
faithful: ‘Lift up your hearts.’ For Liszt, as is clear from the citation above,
the idea of lifting one’s soul toward God brought associations of death.
Only through arduous struggle and fearful tribulation can the soul find
release. Tired in mind and body, Liszt longed for deliverance and heavenly
bliss. The finale of Book III of Années de pèlerinage depicts the completion
of the ultimate pilgrimage. The melody, like the soul, follows a tortuous
route, striving upward yet pushed back again and again, enduring agonising
dissonances, as at bar 59, and occasionally reaching moments of reward, as
with the G major harmony in bar 64. The moment of terror, the tritone, at
last arrives (bar 85), but the soul continues on to the ecstatic transcendence
of union with God. Liszt had originally considered ending his Historical
Hungarian Portraits with what he called a ‘fanfare apotheosis’.25 While he
opted instead for a peaceful conclusion to that cycle, there can be no doubt
that the earth-shattering fanfare at the close of ‘Sursum corda’ qualifies as this
sort of ending. The massive sonority of clangorous chords pealing out the
authentic cadence over tremolo tonic pedal represents nothing less than the
union of the soul with God.
We have noted a number of motivic links among the various movements
of the Années de pèlerinage, troisième année that result in the impression of
a unified cycle, but the tantalising question remains as to when and how
Liszt’s cyclic concept emerged. Manuscript and documentary sources do not
provide a definitive answer. However, I would like to offer what I consider
to be a reasonable hypothesis of the genesis of the work based on both
analytical data and the limited documentary evidence. It seems clear that
Liszt had not yet formed the idea of the cycle at the point in September
1877 when he was writing the two Cypress pieces. He was totally absorbed
in these two compositions, and felt strongly that they each should bear
the title ‘threnody’. Perhaps he remembered that five years earlier he had
used the same designation for a work he had originally called ‘Thrénodie
hongroise’26 – the piece he ultimately decided to include in the Années III
as ‘Sunt lacrymae rerum’. Now, it happens that ‘Sunt lacrymae’ bears strong
motivic connections to an earlier work, the ‘Marche funèbre’ he composed
in 1867 in memory of Maximilian, especially with regard to the F–F dyad.
That dyad is represented in the key design of the ‘Marche funèbre’, which
begins in F minor and ends in F major. The same dyad is at the heart of
the composition activity in ‘Sunt lacrymae’. Perhaps Liszt had consciously
modelled ‘Sunt lacrymae’ on the earlier work, but even if this were not the
case, it may be that this pitch relation may have had a particular significance
for him that would have caused him to employ it in both pieces. The fact that
the two Cypress pieces formed a diptych might have caused Liszt to realise
that his earlier works, ‘Sunt lacrymae’ and the ‘Marche funèbre’, comprised
a comparable pairing.
I would submit that it was at the point when he realised he had two pairs
of threnodies that Liszt recognised the potential basis for a cyclic work.
This must have occurred as he was composing the two Cypress pieces, or
almost immediately upon their completion, for he quickly wrote another
pair of pieces, the ‘Angelus!’ and the ‘Sursum corda’. His comments from
his correspondence are somewhat contradictory as to the inspiration for
‘Angelus!’ He wrote to Olga von Meyendorff on 14 October 1877 that he
had composed it for the occasion of the Feast of the Holy Angels, which
occurs on 2 October. He makes it clear that ‘Sursum corda’ was written in
direct response to ‘Angelus!’: ‘Having once started blackening music paper,
I wrote four more pages which will have as their epigraph: Sursum Corda.’27
The pairing of these pieces, which ended up as opening and concluding
numbers in the cycle, is especially obvious because they share the key of
E and both were based on aspects of the Roman Catholic liturgy. Unlike
the other pairs of pieces involved in the cycle, ‘Angelus!’ and ‘Sursum corda’
are completely contrasting in character. The former is tentative and tender,
the latter clangorous and cathartic, as befits the different roles they serve in
the cycle. I would maintain that Liszt must have developed his cyclic concept
by the time he conceived of ‘Angelus!’ and ‘Sursum corda’ as a pair, since the
latter is clearly intended as a closing piece in an imposing work. It should
be noted that Liszt’s comments in his correspondence give no indication
that he was conscious of such a plan, although his silence on the subject
cannot be taken as evidence to the contrary, since he was characteristically
very reticent about his compositions in progress.28
The choice to begin and end the cycle in the key of E is not surprising,
for Liszt identified this key with ardent emotion, often of an erotic nature,
usually depicted as the gradual progression through the full range of affective
states, from ineffable tenderness to full-blown ecstasy. Liszt had used E major
in this way in ‘Vallée d’Obermann’ in Book I of Années and in the ‘Sonetto
104 del Petrarca’ in Book II. He might have selected this key for the exterior
numbers of the cycle without considering the four funeral pieces already
composed. However, a connection noted previously would seem to indicate
that this choice of keys tied in with the harmonic structure of one of the
threnodies – for the close of ‘Cypress II’ (bars 241–4) clearly responds to that
of ‘Angelus!’ (bars 252–5). One would therefore assume that the concept for
‘Angelus!’ arose as Liszt was composing ‘Cypress II’, and here the letters offer
some intriguing information. Liszt wrote to Princess Carolyne on September
23 that the Cypress pieces had been ‘brought to bed on music paper’ and that
‘having greatly corrected, scratched out, copied, and recopied them, I resign
myself to touching them no more’.29 However, just four days later he wrote
to Olga von Meyendorff: ‘I have composed two groups of cypresses, each of
more than two hundred bars, plus a Postludium (Nachspiel) to the cypresses
148 James M. Baker
of the Villa d’Este. These sad pieces won’t have much success and can do
without it.’30 It happens that there exists an autograph sketch of the ‘Angelus!’
dated (in Liszt’s handwriting) ‘27 September (S.S. Cosmae et Damiani) 77 –
Villa d’Este F. Liszt’.31 This dating stands in apparent contradiction to his
later account of the piece’s having been inspired by the feast of the Holy
Angels on 2 October. However, there would be no discrepancy in Liszt’s
various datings if the piece that ultimately became the ‘Angelus!’ had arisen
originally as a concluding postlude for the pair of Cypress pieces. Indeed,
there is a strong correspondence between the mood at the end of Cypress
II and that of the ‘Angelus!’ It is noteworthy that, if the ‘Angelus!’ were
a postlude, its final phrase provides a clear answer to the question posed
by the final phrase of the preceding Cypress II. That relation is, of course,
suppressed in the ordering of the pieces in the Années III cycle, although
one is nonetheless aware of a correspondence.
I would submit that the occasion of the feast of the Holy Angels somehow
struck a chord with the composer and caused him to realise that what he
had been intending as a closing piece – one which would temper the gloom
of the Cypress pieces – could well be the opening of a larger work. It seems
probable that it was at this point that Liszt appreciated the correspondence
of his Cypress pair with his earlier funeral pieces, ‘Sunt lacrymae’ and the
‘Marche funèbre’, and decided to include both pairs in a set of pieces framed
by the already-composed E major piece, now called ‘Angelus!’, and a yet-to-
be-composed piece in the same key that would provide a fanfare apotheosis
as a conclusion.
At this point Liszt would probably have decided on the precise sequence
of the six pieces discussed this far. If ‘Angelus!’ were the opening piece, then
‘Cypress I’ and ‘II’, themselves a pair originally conceived to be played in
that order, would be best placed directly after the piece originally written to
be with them. This would result in a subgrouping of three pieces beginning
and ending in E major. On the other end of the cycle, the diptych of ‘Sunt
lacrymae’ and the ‘Marche funèbre’ would be followed by the concluding
E major piece. Tonally, the subgrouping of the last three pieces does not
cohere as does the initial grouping of three. However, as already noted, the
‘Sursum corda’ makes wonderful use of the F–F dyad so prevalent in the
two prior pieces. In so doing, it recasts the funereal subject matter of ‘Sunt
lacrymae’ and the ‘Marche funèbre’ in the refining fire of E major, the key
of the beginning of the cycle, thus framing the work and bringing it to a
cataclysmic close.
What is especially striking in Liszt’s correspondence involving the six
pieces already considered is that there is no mention of the central work of the
cycle, the ‘Jeux d’eau à la Villa d’Este’, Almost certainly, then, this piece was
composed last of the seven in the cycle. I have been unable to find evidence
that ‘Jeux d’eau’ was composed soon after the ‘Sursum corda’. And Liszt’s first
mentions of the third volume of Années only occur in the correspondence
of 1882, as he is sending the work to press. Therefore the possibility exists
that ‘Jeux d’eau’ might have been written as late as 1882 (even though the
biographers consistently give 1877 as its date). We thus have a possible
explanation for the substantial delay in the publication of Années III after its
ostensible completion date of 1877. Liszt would almost certainly have been
dissatisfied with the set of six pieces as it stood before the addition of ‘Jeux
d’eau’. He would have been concerned about the heaviness and gloom of
four threnodies in succession, and he likely would have sought to highlight
the two separate diptychs by inserting a composition between them. Liszt
surely would have recognised the potential for the central composition of
the set to create symmetry in the design and perhaps even to serve as the
apex of an arch form. It might well have taken Liszt some time (months or
even years) to come up with a suitable composition for this purpose, but the
remarkable work he ended up composing for the centrepiece of the cycle
fulfils its function brilliantly.
Setting ‘Jeux d’eau’ in the key of F major was an ideal choice, for this
key figures importantly in the harmonic designs of all four threnodies. The
impression at the beginning of ‘Cypress I’ is that it might be in the key of G;
the key of F major is touched upon at important junctures of both ‘Cypress
II’ and ‘Sunt lacrymae’; and ultimately the ‘Marche funèbre’ concludes with
a heroic fanfare definitively in F major. In the final design, the key of F
frames a subgrouping of three pieces – the fourth, fifth, and sixth of the set –
analogous to the subgrouping of the first three framed by E major. More
broadly, ‘Jeux d’eau’ establishes F major as the central tonal plateau for the
cycle, embracing all but the outer pieces of the set. For Liszt the key of F
major signified heavenly realms, as compared with the heroic but still earthly
striving conveyed by E major. The difficulty and importance of the task Liszt
set for himself in composing the central piece of the cycle is indicated by the
text he chose to cite in the course of the work: ‘But whoever drinks the water
I shall give will never thirst; the water I shall give will become in him a spring
of water welling up to eternal life.’ This piece had to convey the restorative
power of God’s grace. It had to provide refreshment and sustenance for
the listener who has just experienced the sadness and regret of the Cypress
pieces, and who has yet to face the traumas of the second pair of threnodies.
Liszt met this challenge by composing a work of breathtaking originality,
not only in its use of the keyboard medium but in its harmony, melody, and
form – indeed virtually every aspect of musical structure. It is one of his
finest achievements.
Liszt’s ‘Jeux d’eau’ is no mere feat of dazzling ingenuity, however. Its
true significance is spiritual. For the placement of this wonderful piece as
150 James M. Baker
the centre of a symmetrical layout of seven pieces results in a time-honoured

sacred form dear to J. S. Bach, whom Liszt held in highest esteem – a form
which conveys the central symbol of Christianity: the cross. Liszt’s Années
de pèlerinage, troisième année constitutes a true chiastic form (one based
on the Greek letter chi, traditionally associated with Christ), much like that
of many of Bach’s cantatas, for example the Cantata No. 4, ‘Christ lag in
Todesbanden’, a seven-movement work in which pairs of choruses, duets,
and solos are arranged symmetrically about a central quartet.32
Book III of the Années de pèlerinage is a profound expression of Liszt’s
abiding religious faith. He confronts death directly in four of the seven
pieces, but the work is not ultimately weighed down by these laments. The
two Cypress pieces are morose in tone – the first even approaches a state
of terror – but both conclude in quiet resignation. The threnodies ‘Sunt
lacrymae’ and the ‘Marche funèbre’ are more grim and bitter, perhaps, but
these two end heroically, anticipating the glory of ‘Sursum corda’, The cycle
opens with a piece that projects the innocence of the soul, prior to suffer-
ing life’s hardships. ‘Jeux d’eau’ provides aural and spiritual refreshment
along the way, and ‘Sursum corda’ concludes the journey with a cataclysmic
affirmation of faith.
It is no wonder that Liszt decided to identify this cycle as the third
instalment of a type of collection he had composed decades earlier. The
initial volume of Années de pèlerinage was a series of pieces based essentially
on the life he shared with Marie d’Agoult in Switzerland, and as such they
are bound to an earthly existence. These pieces do not come together to
form a cycle comparable to the late cycles we have examined. In Book II of
the Années, Liszt dramatised his passionate involvement with Italian art and
literature. Concluding with the huge sonata movement portraying Dante’s
Inferno, this set explores Dionysian realms. It is Liszt’s late cycle that realises
an Apollonian concept of pilgrimage, unfolding a narrative of the progress of
the soul toward God. Together the three Books of Années relate the journey
of Liszt’s life, from earthly passions through the transports of art to his
anticipation of death and the glories of the life to come.
Although he was one of the greatest musicians of the nineteenth century,

as a composer Franz Liszt was insecure and humble, and would have never
claimed to be the equal of the composers he idolised – Beethoven and Wag-
ner. In his later years, he would likely have gauged his recent compositions
against the late works of other composers, many of whom had written
their grandest creations later in life – whether Beethoven with his late piano
sonatas and the Ninth Symphony, Wagner with Parsifal, or Chopin with such
innovative works as the Polonaise-Fantaisie – and he would have held out
little hope of approaching their achievements. Yet he continued to compose.
Even in his final months he turned out extrovert music of celebration and
display: waltzes, marches, and brilliant paraphrases of other composers’
works. But his more important compositions – and those which ought to
secure for Liszt recognition as a composer of the first rank – are those which
explore his innermost feelings and recollections, hopes and beliefs. These
unflinching psychological explorations necessitated a music for which
he could not expect to gain much of an audience. He found himself unable
to compose such intimate reflections while working on a large scale in the
standard genres and forms. This music emerged only as brief, intense expres-
sions that left him drained both physically and emotionally. Liszt did not
give up, however, in the attempt to compose works of substance and scope.
Rather, he turned to the cycle as a means of assembling his introspective
inspirations into highly unified major works that attain not only romantic
grandeur but also genuine emotional and spiritual depth. The Via Crucis,
Historical Hungarian Portraits, and the Années de pèlerinage, troisième année
are no mere collections of short pieces. They are works of magisterial sum-
mation that allow us to take part in the pilgrimage of one of music’s great
souls.

Chapter 6

Caricato da

Informazioni sul documento

Copyright

Formati disponibili

Condividi questo documento

Condividi o incorpora il documento

Opzioni di condivisione

Hai trovato utile questo documento?

Questo contenuto è inappropriato?

Copyright:

Formati disponibili

Chapter 6

Caricato da

Copyright:

Formati disponibili

6 Liszt’s late piano works: larger forms

In your last letter you again speak of my Christbaum. I hope to publish it by

Station IV: Jesus meets his mother. Wrenching harmony supports an

parts in which diminished-seventh chords on F, G, and A are sequenced.

This station is by far the weightiest. It concludes with Liszt’s wrenching

The Historical Hungarian Portraits

motive.) A monophonic transition leads to the dreamy B section in G major

6. ‘Alexander Petöfi’. This piece begins with an extended introduction,

The touching contrasting material enters in bar 37, where it occurs in

Années de pèlerinage, troisième année

in his later Historical Portraits, Liszt creates a symmetrical form by placing

and harmonically, hinting at an unrealised modulation to D minor. Instead,

phrases in A minor and C minor in bars 9–19. A morose response hovers

introduction of a new subject, a hopeful fanfare-like melody. This melody is

the centre of a symmetrical layout of seven pieces results in a time-honoured

Although he was one of the greatest musicians of the nineteenth century,

Potrebbero piacerti anche