From Beethoven Performance to Beethoven Interpretation: Carl Czerny and Franz Liszt’s Evolving Relationship, 1822–57

CAMILLA KÖHNKEN

Pianist and independent researcher

Over the last fifteen years, and especially since the 150th anniversary of his death, Carl Czerny’s (1787–1857) diverse merits have come under closer scrutiny (Gramit 2008; Loesch 2009), with Czerny’s famous mentoring of the young Liszt during the years 1822–23 attracting particular attention. These fourteen months of intensive study have often been reduced in Liszt hagiography to two specific components, namely pianistic discipline—“when Czerny was finished schooling [Liszt’s] fingers, the boy was an artist” ¹ (Ramann 1880–94, 1:38, as translated in 1882, 1:60)—and the act of convincing Beethoven to receive the boy—“finally [Beethoven] allowed himself to be persuaded by the indefatigable Czerny, in the end saying impatiently: ‘In God’s name, then, bring me this rascal!’” (Horowitz-Barnay 1898, 83, translation based on Walker 1987, 83). ²

Because Liszt’s meeting with Beethoven has in the meantime been relegated to the realm of biographical myth-making (Schröter 1999; Knittel 2003), current scholarship focuses primarily on Czerny’s approach to pianistic education, often through the lens of contemporaneous piano virtuosity—either by situating the short master–apprentice period in a wider sociocultural context of virtuosity (Deaville 2008) or, in the rare instances that consider the longevity of the two musicians’ connection, by ascribing Liszt’s subsequent virtuosic advancements to these formative months: “Czerny, the technique builder, and Liszt, the executant of that technique,” as Liszt scholar Rena Charnin Mueller (2009, 147) puts it. ³

Little attention, however, has been paid to the fundamental musical approaches that Liszt adopted from Czerny regarding the interpretation of the “classics,” even though these persisted throughout Liszt’s career as a celebrated Beethoven (and also Bach) performer, frequently evoking objections from critics and fellow musicians. Stereotypes of a dry pedagogue—the “leathery and pedantic” ⁴ Czerny (Frimmel 1906, 95, my translation) contrasted with the flourishing, charismatic Liszt—hold strong to this day and seem to prove the two musicians’ profound incompatibility, resulting in the still prevalent notion that Czerny merely crossed Liszt’s early life briefly and with limited benefit, although the two musicians’ friendship actually lasted for several decades.

Indeed, even though Czerny was twenty years older than Liszt and their careers were shaped by two vastly different personalities in two different eras, historical evidence shows they were strongly connected by shared musical practices and objectives. Both pianist-composers developed a profound devotion to Beethoven; Czerny was able to express his esteem personally to the composer before becoming trustee of Beethoven’s oeuvre, while Liszt demonstrated his through organising posthumous tributes, such as the Bonn Beethoven memorial of 1845, and through his (in)famous Beethoven interpretations, first at the piano and later as conductor and as teacher. Both introduced little-known Beethoven repertoire to wider audiences, often using transcription as a way to disseminate orchestral or chamber music works (Christensen 1999; Schröter 1999, vol. 1). Beyond their advocacy for Beethoven, moreover, three pillars of Czernyian practice were arguably at the heart of Liszt’s success as touring virtuoso (1835–48): improvisation on a given theme; arranging orchestral or operatic works for the piano; and, finally, playing by heart in public. ⁵ Improvisation and the craft of paraphrase extended a tradition of eighteenth-century pianism, but playing by heart was a new and emerging practice that, through Liszt, would be linked inextricably with the image of a concert pianist up until our time. All three aspects are especially relevant to Czerny’s and Liszt’s interactions with the music of Beethoven; indeed, in improvising, a practice that would quickly vanish during the second half of the nineteenth century, Liszt’s prowess proved worthy of Beethoven himself, as Czerny affirmed. ⁶

This chapter traces biographical intersections between Czerny and Liszt over thirty-five years against the backdrop of the following questions: Might Liszt’s embellishments of Beethoven pieces—flamboyant at times—actually have been rooted in Czerny’s “old-fashioned” musicianship? How did their joint construction of the future Beethoven myth and canon correlate with a general change in performing ideals? And, lastly, how did their musical initiatives employ “different means” in piano performance, which both perceived to be necessary in the face of “different times and tastes” (den veränderten Zeitgeschmack . . . and’re Mittel; Czerny [1846], 34, my translation)?

1. Laying the foundations: the teacher–student period (Spring 1822–May 1823)

In 1822, Adam Liszt moved with his wife and son to Vienna into living quarters arranged by Antonio Salieri near Czerny’s home (Bertagnolli 2022, 14). For the following fourteen months, the eleven-year-old Franz would spend the mornings studying general bass, score reading, and composition with Salieri, while Czerny taught him piano “almost every evening” (fast täglich jeden Abend; Czerny [1842] 1968, 28, as translated in 1956, 315). In his 1842 memoir, after expressing his admiration for the boy’s natural talent and personal eagerness, Czerny described his pedagogical approach for the young Liszt:

Czerny adhered to this programme of study (first scales, then Clementi sonatas) in all his pedagogical publications even when contemporaneous techniques had changed. For instance, the adherence to “correct fingering,” which Czerny asserts is a basic element of any pianistic education, is a concept that had already become associated with an older school of keyboard-playing that slowly gave way to more hand-specific or effect-related approaches during the nineteenth century. Czerny himself acknowledged in 1846, referring to Beethoven’s late compositional style, that the composer did not care much about these rules anymore (Czerny [1846], 33); ⁸ similarly, Liszt would later be famous for his irregular (or innovative) fingerings. ⁹

The importance of scales is also explained more playfully in Czerny’s Briefe über den Unterricht auf dem Pianoforte vom Anfange bis zur Ausbildung als Anhang zu jeder Clavierschule ([1837]a), in which the fictitious piano student Caecilia complains: “Ah! the scales! . . . that is truly a boring story! Are these things really as necessary as my teacher says?” Whereupon the teacher replies: “Yes, Miss Cecilia, these scales are the most necessary point of all . . . ; and, indeed, the most expert players do and must constantly have recourse to practise them” (Czerny [1837]a, 13, translation based on [1837]b, 12–13, italics original to the translation). ¹⁰ And, in a letter written to Czerny on 29 July 1824, Adam Liszt confirms that his son continues to “play scales and etudes using the metronome” and that “[we] adhere to your principles because success shows me that they are the best” (Lipsius 1892, 249, translation based on Williams 1990, 22). ¹¹

Clementi’s importance is confirmed in Czerny’s chapter “On the Proper Performance of Beethoven’s Complete Works for Piano Solo,” in which Czerny again places Clementi first in the order of composers to be studied before attempting Beethoven compositions (Czerny [1846], 33). But already in 1816, Czerny’s unwavering esteem for Clementi’s sonatas in teaching pianistic fundamentals was reflected in a conversation with Beethoven concerning Beethoven’s nephew Karl, as recorded by Czerny himself in 1845:

That young Liszt embraced the importance of Clementi’s works is evidenced in his first publication, an 1828 edition of Clementi’s op. 43 Préludes et exercices doigtés dans tous les tons majeurs et mineurs pour le piano-forte en deux livraisons; Édition corrigée et marquée au métronome de Maëlzel par le jeune Liszt, suivi de douze de ses études (Clementi [1828]). ¹³ When Liszt was his student in 1822–23, Czerny’s pedagogical course of action proceeded from scales and Clementi sonatas to music by Mozart, Hummel, Ries, Moscheles, Steibelt, and Dussek. Only after acquaintance with all these composers’ music did he find the time right to introduce the boy to Bach and Beethoven—enabling a focus on the “spirit” and “character” of the music instead of wrestling with technical problems (Czerny [1842] 1968, 28, as translated in 1956, 315). ¹⁴ Indeed, we may ask how much of Beethoven’s piano music the young Liszt would have studied during his fourteen months of intense instruction with Czerny and with Salieri, who (according to Frimmel 1906, 95) also introduced him to Beethoven but whose lessons most likely focused on orchestral repertoire. Czerny (1956, 315) reports that they progressed to Beethoven and Bach “a few months later” in their altogether short study period. Since Liszt was also preparing the repertoire for two public concerts that took place during this period, ¹⁵ we can infer that there would not have been time either to learn many pieces by Beethoven or for in-depth studies of them. Still, two clues indicate that the young Liszt must have been initiated into Beethoven’s music on some level. First, we know from Beethoven’s conversation books that an attempt was made to introduce Liszt to the composer. Surely, in preparation for such an encounter Czerny would have introduced him to the composer’s oeuvre to some degree, even if only in a general overview. ¹⁶ Second, in a letter to Czerny one year later, Adam Liszt reports that his son was playing Beethoven sonatas to the nobility of Paris: “Little Putzi [a nickname for Franz] . . . is very industrious and I can assure you that you would be entirely satisfied with how well and nicely he plays sonatas by Dussek, Steibelt, or Beethoven. We often have visitors from the highest aristocracy, who get him to play them a Beethoven sonata” (Lipsius 1892, 252, translation based on Williams 1990, 22). ¹⁷ Adam Liszt’s allusion to Czerny’s presumed satisfaction implies that the latter would actually have heard Franz play Beethoven’s music early on in Vienna.

Apart from the teacher–student relationships, a more circumstantial connection arose between Czerny, young Liszt, and Beethoven: the Diabelli Variations project (Beethoven [1823]a; Vaterländischer Künstlerverein [1824]). This was the first of two joint composition projects between teacher and student organised by Czerny, and it produced Liszt’s first published piece in 1824. ¹⁸ On 16 September, Czerny sent a copy to Liszt’s father with a tongue-in-cheek reference to Beethoven’s nickname for Diabelli: “You find . . . the 50 variations of different composers on the famous Diabolinical waltz, among which one by Putzi is featured, quite honourably so” (Lipsius 1905–6, 24, my translation). ¹⁹

Liszt’s studies—his only period of methodical instruction—were terminated in May 1823, to Czerny’s disapproval: “Unfortunately, his father wished for great pecuniary gain from him, and just when the child was studying best, just when I was starting to instruct him in composition, he went on tour, at first to Hungary and ultimately to Paris and London, etc.” (Czerny [1842] 1968, 26, translation based on 1956, 316). ²⁰ The importance of this intense tuition at a very impressionable age cannot be overstated: it was under Czerny that Liszt made his entry into the Viennese circle, was initiated in Beethoven’s music (apart from the question of whether he met him personally), and was introduced to a solid piano technique and to a mindset that any pianistic goal could be reached through hard work. All these components continued to shape Liszt’s entire musical career.

2. Liszt’s four years as touring prodigy and Czerny’s “Kreutzer” transcriptions (1823–27)

The letters that Adam Liszt started writing to Czerny after their departure, which updated him on his son’s successes (as well as the exact monetary gains and conditions), confirm that the feelings were mutual and show that Adam tried to repay Czerny’s generosity by spreading the latter’s reputation both as teacher and as composer, even brokering the publication of one of Czerny’s compositions. ²²

In preparation for the Liszts’ first trip to London at the end of June 1824, Czerny in a letter dated 3 April reminded Adam what in his opinion mattered most for his son’s development:

After the departure of his outstanding student, Czerny continued his busy teaching schedule in Vienna as well as his prolific composing and arranging activities, many of which were applied to works by Beethoven. The latter had first asked him in 1805 to transcribe his Leonore for piano. ²⁴ “It is owing to the suggestions he made while I was working on this project that I acquired my skill as an arranger, which later became so useful to me,” Czerny recalled in 1842 ([1842] 1968, 20, translation based on 1956, 310). ²⁵

From 1823 to 1856 Czerny published no fewer than four arrangements of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”), starting with the second movement alone, issued as Variations brillantes tirées de l’Œuvre 47 for piano solo (Beethoven [1823]b; see figure 5.1). This was followed in the same year by the whole sonata in a four-hand version, titled Grand duo brillant, arrangé d’après la Sonate oeuv[re] 47 (Beethoven [1826], figure 5.2), a complete version for piano solo (Beethoven [1837]), and, finally, a transcription of the violin part for cello (Beethoven [ca. 1855]). ²⁶ These arrangements provide insights into Czerny’s development in handling piano adaptations of Beethoven’s music, and they may also represent examples of Beethoven’s performance practice as absorbed by Liszt in 1823. ²⁷ It is not far-fetched to imagine that Czerny read through his new and demanding four-hand arrangement of op. 47 with his talented young student. ²⁸ Indeed, this very sonata became one of Liszt’s earliest Beethoven signature pieces, with the first public performance occurring in Paris with violinist Christian Urhan in 1834. ²⁹

Figure 5.1. Carl Czerny’s arrangement of the second movement from Beethoven’s Violin Sonata No. 9, op. 47 (“Kreutzer”) for piano solo, published by Cappi & Diabelli (Beethoven [1823]b). Courtesy of the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn.

Figure 5.2. Carl Czerny’s arrangement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 for piano four hands, first published in Vienna in 1823 by Cappi & Diabelli; despite the pencil annotation “[1823],” the figure shows the second edition of 1826, published by Diabelli & Comp (Beethoven [1826]). Reproduced with permission of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv (call no. Mus. O. 17651).

Figure 5.3. Czerny’s arrangement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 for cello (and piano) published by N. Simrock (Beethoven [ca. 1855]). Courtesy of the Beethoven-Haus, Bonn.

The title page of the four-hand arrangement (figure 5.2) distinguishes itself by its choice of words (arranged “after” Violin Sonata op. 47) and also by the fact that Czerny’s name is printed in larger type than Beethoven’s. This differs greatly from the title page of his third arrangement (figure 5.3), on which Beethoven’s name is written in large boldface type and the “transcriber’s,” at the bottom of the page, is in a much smaller font. ³⁰ It suggests that, for the first two versions, Czerny took ownership of the transcription process—justified, perhaps, by the artful imitation of characteristic violin techniques on the piano—while, in the third arrangement, for cello, the message is that his contribution was more modest, making Beethoven’s music accessible to cellists without adding anything of his own (unlike, for instance, the piano version, in which he expressed violin portamenti by adding grace notes and so on).

The original violin sonata features several fermatas that, when premiering the piece with Beethoven, the initially intended dedicatee, George Bridgetower, exploited for spontaneous improvisations that famously pleased the composer. ³¹ While Beethoven did not reproduce those violin embellishments, he did write out one such improvisatory passage for the piano (figure 5.4).

Figure 5.4a–b. Violin (above) and piano (below) parts of the opening movement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47, in its first edition, published by N. Simrock (Beethoven [1805]): beginning of the Presto. The two bars with fermatas (bars 28 and 37) are circled. Images courtesy of Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Sammlung H. C. Bodmer.

In Czerny’s version for piano four hands (figure 5.5), the second fermata (the one with Beethoven’s notated improvisation) is extended to a coordinated passage between the two players, separated by a tenth, covering a range of four instead of three octaves, and doubling the length. Czerny also adds the indications prestissimo and, on the concluding bass note, fortissimo. This new passage thus represents virtuosic interventions by both violinist and pianist by circling four times around the highest note and increasing both volume and tempo. In his 1837 solo-piano arrangement, Czerny reduces the elaboration somewhat, now having the left hand join only towards the end, still separated by a tenth (figure 5.6).

Figure 5.5a–b. (a) Primo (above) and (b) secondo (below) parts of Czerny’s four-hand arrangement of the first movement, bar 37, of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 (Beethoven [1826]). Reproduced with friendly permission of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv, shelf mark Mus. O. 17651.

Figure 5.6. First movement of Czerny’s solo-piano arrangement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 (Beethoven [1837]), bars 30–36, with the point when the left hand joins at the interval of a tenth marked (bar 35).

An embellished fermata appears in the second movement (Andante con variazioni) as well, in bar 196. While Beethoven merely writes a short upward arpeggio on the dominant seventh chord, followed by a brief transitional figure for the violin (see figure 5.7), Czerny again offers different alternatives. In the four-hand version he considerably lengthens the embellishment, assigning it to the primo piano only (figure 5.8). In the solo transcriptions of 1823 and of 1837, Czerny only slightly extends the original passage (figure 5.9). However, in both the four-hand and the solo versions, he expands the keyboard range from five octaves to six.

Figure 5.7a–b. First edition of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 ([1805]): second movement, fourth variation, with the embellished fermata in bar 196 circled. Images courtesy of Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Sammlung H. C. Bodmer.

Figure 5.8a–b. Primo and secondo parts from the second movement of Czerny’s four-hand arrangement of Beethoven’s Violin Sonata op. 47 (Beethoven [1826]), bars 190–97, with embellished fermata in bar 196. Reproduced with permission of the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Musikabteilung mit Mendelssohn-Archiv (call no. Mus. O. 17651).

Figure 5.9. Czerny’s solo arrangement of the second movement in the separate Variations brillantes tirée de l’Œuvre 47 (Beethoven [1823]b). The embellished fermata in bar 196 is identical to that in the later complete arrangement for solo piano (Beethoven [1837]). Image courtesy of Beethoven-Haus Bonn, Sammlung H. C. Bodmer.

The fact that Czerny’s embellishments appeared during Beethoven’s lifetime suggests that he felt sure of the composer’s approval (compare Brown and Peres Da Costa 2021, 128). Since this was also the period in which he was teaching the young Liszt, his additions raise intriguing questions about the kind of Beethoven performance practice he actually imparted to the child. Czerny’s most widely known verdict on the matter appeared later: “In the performance of [Beethoven’s] works (and generally those by all classical authors) the player must by no means allow himself to alter the composition, nor to make any addition or abbreviation” (Czerny [1846], 34, translation based on [1847], 32). ³² But how much of this strict adherence to the original score—which, in hindsight, is often taken to be Czerny’s only stated position—had guided the thirty-two-year-old Czerny’s Beethoven interpretations in 1823, when Franz Liszt was his pupil? 

In 1816, just six years before teaching young Liszt, an oft-quoted incident took place in which Beethoven admonished Czerny for playing his Quintet op. 16 in “the brilliant style” (die brillante Manier; Czerny [1839]a, 3:72; as translated in [1839]b, 3:99) by making passages more difficult or adding higher octaves. Alexander Thayer (1879, 382, my translation) reports that Beethoven lashed out at Czerny in public—“He should be ashamed; people do know the piece!” ³³—and also relays Beethoven’s apologetic letter of the next day, in which he wrote: “You must pardon a composer who would have preferred to hear his work exactly as he wrote it, no matter how beautifully you played in general” (Thayer 1879, 381, translation based on [1967] 1970, 641). ³⁴ Czerny later explained that this letter had a profound impact on his approach to Beethoven performance; he remembered in 1845 that it “did more than anything else to cure me of my addiction to making changes in the performance of his works” (Czerny [1842] 1968, 35, translation based on Thayer [1967] 1970, 641). ³⁵ It is important, however, to note that this recollection is by a man in his mid-fifties, a man who by then had long since become the leading Beethoven specialist in Vienna.

The term “addiction” is a striking and radical characterisation of a practice that, at the time, was valued as a sign of professionalism: changes to and embellishments of notated music by any eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century musician were situated in an accepted framework of “beautiful” (professional) versus “correct” (but amateurish) performance. Indeed, this would have been taken for granted in Czerny’s own musical education with Beethoven himself, who used C. P. E. Bach’s treatise in Czerny’s lessons (Czerny [1842] 1968, 15; 1956, 307). ³⁶ Two years after young Liszt’s departure, the continued relevance of this two-level concept still continued, as exemplified in the eighth edition of August Eberhard Müller’s Grosse Fortepiano-Schule, which Czerny revised and greatly expanded in 1825. Czerny did not author the relevant passage—“beautiful performance allows the player much freedom over the work, even prompting him to make bigger or smaller changes to it” (Müller [1825], 240) ³⁷—but apparently did not deem it necessary to modify or update it. Four years later, however, Czerny began to differentiate between classical works (with no room for freedom) and music in the brilliant style (which allowed for elaboration), first in his Systematische Anleitung zum Fantasieren auf dem Pianoforte ([1829]) and, later and even more decisively, in his own Pianoforte-Schule ([1839]a, [1846]). This shift of focus from the piece to the composer is documented in the Systematische Anleitung when he states that the nature of a piece prompts additions: “In profound works of a serious character (e.g., Beethoven’s Sonata in D Minor op. 29 [now op. 31, no. 2]), any kind of elaboration would be ill-advised. On the other hand, in compositions that are primarily suited to a brilliant, delicate, or sentimental performance, . . . there are frequent moments in which such small embellishments are appropriate or even necessary” (Czerny [1829], 22, my translation). ³⁸ Later, in 1846 he deemed the nature of the composer—that is, whether the composer is “classical” or not—to be crucial for deciding whether any additions at all are permitted (Czerny [1846], 34). This paradigm shift is mirrored by Johann Nepomuk Hummel’s remarks on the topic of the final fermata in concertos or solo pieces in his Anweisung zum Piano-Forte-Spiel (1828a, 65n), where he explains that in earlier times the elaboration of such a fermata was at the performer’s discretion, while in contemporary pieces the composer determines the details of the embellishment or “cadenza”—if, indeed, one is desired at all. ³⁹

The gradual handover of detailed elaboration from the realm of professional performance to that of the composer reflects the canonisation process; but, earlier, when Czerny was a much younger performer (and Liszt’s teacher), might he have been more open to “bigger or smaller changes” in all musical styles? This would only have been consistent with his own eighteenth-century professional music education, in which the performer’s responsibility lay in conveying the best possible version of a piece to the audience, rather than in absolute faithfulness to the score and its author. ⁴⁰

Once Czerny’s personal journey from a young pianist in 1816 to the guardian of Beethoven’s legacy in 1845 was complete, he might have felt it necessary to brush off his own brilliant additions to Beethoven’s Quintet op. 16 as mere youthful foolishness. But the question stands: in 1823, how far would he have departed from a deeply rooted practice while teaching young Liszt? Can we discern some shades in the canonisation process that Czerny heeded by observing the chronology of small decisions that eventually led to the absolutist fundamental statements for which he is best known?

3. Liszt’s coming of age as a “Beethoven specialist” and Czerny’s visit to Paris (1828–37)

During the 1830s, Beethoven’s music offered young Liszt a vehicle to escape his past as a child prodigy and to re-establish himself in Paris as a serious artiste (compare Gooley 2004, 53). As early as 1828, Liszt prepared what would later become one of his most celebrated Beethoven showpieces: the Fifth Piano Concerto, op. 73 (“Emperor”), which provides us with examples of his changing attitudes toward interpretation in Beethoven repertoire during the 1830s and 1840s. On certain occasions, he played the concerto without “any addition or abbreviation”; on others, he performed it giving full rein to his personal views of a performer’s freedom. A passage in the memoirs of English pianist and conductor Charles Hallé reflects the increasing rejection of the old practice and the canonisation then in progress:

In 1823, Liszt may have simply expanded on a practice he absorbed from Czerny; but in 1841, Urhan and Hallé deemed his “example” to be “misleading”: changing Beethoven had begun to be perceived as a sacrilege. Yet several testimonials attest to a paradoxical element in Liszt’s attitude toward Beethoven’s music at the beginning of the 1830s, one that also stemmed from Czerny’s education: a great and almost exaggerated humbleness, which connected him with musicians like Urhan and which must have guided their previously mentioned performance of the “Kreutzer” Sonata in 1834. Swiss pianist-composer Caroline Boissier even reported Liszt’s dictum in 1832 that he “was as yet unworthy of executing [Beethoven’s and Weber’s] works” (Boissier [1832] 1928, 26, as translated in 1973, xiv), ⁴¹ while Joseph d’Ortigue wrote in his biographical essay of the young pianist: “Beethoven is for Liszt a God before whom he bends his head” (d’Ortigue 1835, 202, as translated in 2006, 325). ⁴²

On one hand, then, Liszt’s interpretations of Beethoven repertoire reflected what he had absorbed from Czerny in 1822–23 and what also harmonised with his own musical personality: to change or add to the score, occasionally carried to an extreme on the spur of the moment or in reacting to an audience. On the other hand, his devotion to Beethoven, also imparted by Czerny, along with generally shifting musical conventions, led to a new, stricter adherence to the notated score—and to a number of piously unaltered renditions of Beethoven’s compositions by Liszt during the same period.

In 1830, Liszt heard Paganini and withdrew from the stage in order to elevate his pianistic abilities to a comparable level through an extreme regimen of practice. His reliance on hard and persistent practice to overcome pianistic barriers was likely also rooted in his formative time under Czerny, whose comment on the difficulties in Beethoven’s “Hammerklavier” Sonata, op. 106, especially the extremely fast metronome marking, may serve as one example for his well-documented belief in perseverance and mindful piano practice: “All single difficulties are matter for attentive practice. . . . The comprehension of the entire, grand first movement . . . develops with frequent playing, after it has been properly studied in an appropriate tempo” (Czerny [1846], 66, translation based on [1847], 64). ⁴³ Tom Beghin (2014, 81) explains that pianistic “‘diligence’ (along with its synonym ‘industry’) indeed became a buzzword in early nineteenth-century piano pedagogy,” being cultivated also by Friedrich Kalkbrenner.

It was the (hitherto virtually unknown) “Hammerklavier” Sonata with which Liszt made his sensational debut as a Beethoven specialist at the Salle Érard on 18 May 1836, playing the work so that “not one note was omitted; not one, added” (Pas une note n’a été omise, pas une note n’a été ajoutée; Berlioz 1836, 200, as translated in 2014, 235). ⁴⁴ Once established as a Beethoven interpreter, Liszt continued to build his reputation as a Beethoven advocate: from January to April 1837, he organised a series of chamber music matinees in Paris, all prominently featuring Beethoven pieces. Czerny arrived in Paris in spring 1837 for a visit of almost a year, and he probably attended at least the final concert featuring the Quintet op. 16. Czerny himself had hosted a series of matinees focusing on Beethoven’s music in Vienna; spread across 1816 to 1820, they served both as a performance platform for his students and as an opportunity to disseminate Beethoven’s music, the composer joining the audience frequently. ⁴⁵

At the beginning of Czerny’s stay in Paris, a second joint compositional project took shape that Rena Mueller (2009, 161) describes as “one of Liszt’s most vibrant acknowledgements of his teacher.” Héxameron, a series of variations on a theme from Bellini’s I puritani, was commissioned by the Princess Cristina Belgiojoso and realised by six different composers between 1837 and 1838 under Liszt’s leadership; in addition to Czerny and Liszt, Sigismond Thalberg, Johann Peter Pixis, Henri Herz, and Frédéric Chopin supplied contributions. While Czerny’s variation style remained remarkably similar to that which he had delivered for the Diabelli project, Liszt’s compositional approach had of course evolved. Another musical outcome of this journey—one of the very few that Czerny undertook in his entire life—was his Souvenir de mon second voyage: Mon séjour à Paris, op. 471, which he dedicated “à monsieur François Liszt” (Czerny [1837]c, cover).

In 1842, Czerny summarised this first encounter with his former student after fourteen years as follows:

He closed his reflections by restating his regrets that the boy started touring prematurely, touching specifically on Liszt’s controversial accomplishments as an original composer: “I am convinced that, had he continued his youthful studies in Vienna for a few more years, he would now likewise fulfil in the field of composition all the high expectations that were then rightly cherished by everyone” (Czerny [1842] 1968, 29, as translated in 1956, 316). ⁴⁷

By the time he wrote his memoirs, Czerny is likely to have seen Liszt’s Harmonies poétiques et religieuses (first version, 1833–34, see Liszt 1835) and Album d’un voyageur composed 1834–38; ⁴⁸ however, this compositional output does not seem to have fulfilled the high expectations he held for his young student. Nevertheless, he must have been aware that Liszt was following in his footsteps as a Beethoven arranger with his first solo partitions de piano of Beethoven’s Fifth and Sixth Symphonies, which Liszt finished in July 1837 while Czerny was still in Paris. Czerny himself transcribed all Beethoven’s symphonies for piano four hands but focused on as faithful as possible a translation of orchestral detail—often leading to cumbersome pianistic results—while Liszt opened up a new realm of piano sonorities, mimicking the orchestra with innovative piano techniques. ⁴⁹

4. Colleagues in Beethoven advocacy: Liszt’s concert series in Vienna, the Bonn Beethoven memorial, and Liszt’s and Czerny’s Beethoven piano sonata editions (1838–57)

As Czerny recounts in his memoirs, after fifteen years of absence Liszt returned to Vienna in April 1838, where he performed Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas op. 26 and op. 27, no. 2 (“Moonlight”), and accompanied Adelaide, op. 46, a work he would transcribe for solo piano just one year later. In addition, he introduced his highly praised piano transcriptions of Schubert songs (Schubert [1838]). A review proves that Liszt continued to perform pieces by his teacher Czerny— who the reviewer categorised as a “virtuoso” as opposed to a “master”—and also gives a vivid impression of how his Beethoven playing was perceived:

His “changes and additions” (octave doublings in Hummel’s Septet are documented in Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung 1838, 324) may also have applied to his Beethoven performances, although only the unusually fast tempos of the allegro movements are mentioned. From the reviewer’s phrasing it is not clear whether the “seasoned musicians” were unable to cope with these as chamber music partners or as orchestra members. ⁵¹

In the following year, the balance in the relationship further shifted. Now Czerny’s transcriptions followed Liszt’s initiatives; for example, Czerny’s adaptations of Schubert songs for piano seemed to continue his former student’s successful transcriptions from 1838: “In outward appearance, [Czerny’s] edition is exactly like the first [volume] of songs transcribed by Liszt. . . . The inner sense of the transcription is no less faithful to the model [than is Liszt’s], as deft and expert as one can expect from Czerny” (Fink 1839, 949, my translation). ⁵² Indeed, every component of Czerny’s Schubert transcriptions was compared to Liszt’s: “Following his predecessor [Liszt] as faithfully as possible, he chose songs by the same composer”; ⁵³ and “even in the requisite bravura, [Czerny] falls in line with Liszt completely” (ibid.). ⁵⁴ Here, indeed, we find the former teacher commended as if he were Liszt’s apprentice.

In the autumn of 1839, Liszt started campaigning actively for a Beethoven memorial in Bonn. Soon after, he returned a second time to Vienna, this time playing a larger group of Beethoven pieces (Schröter 1999, 2:107). Two years later, he gave two benefit concerts for the Beethoven memorial in Paris (ibid., 2:108–9). Meanwhile, Czerny did his part by writing his Nocturne op. 647 for a Viennese publication that aimed at “contributing to the cost of the Beethoven monument in Bonn”: ⁵⁵ the Album-Beethoven containing Dix morceaux brillants pour le piano, for which Liszt transcribed the funeral march from Beethoven’s Third Symphony (Mechetti [1842], title page, my translation). The solemn inauguration of the memorial at the first Bonn Beethovenfest in August 1845 produced a second Beethoven-Album, which again united the names of Czerny and Liszt. Published by Gustav Schilling in 1846, it encompassed a large and diverse compilation of texts and compositions, among which were an Andante religioso by Czerny and a Maestoso (Klavierstück S507) by Liszt (Schilling [1846]). ⁵⁶

In 1846, Liszt gave a second, truly triumphant concert series in Vienna, in which the repertoire ranged from J. S. Bach to contemporary composers. No fewer than fourteen pieces by Beethoven were included, starting with his warhorse “Moonlight” Sonata, op. 27, no. 2 (in the first concert in March) and finishing with the Fifth Piano Concerto (at the farewell concert in May, after Czerny’s Variations op. 73 on “Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser”). Liszt also participated in a concert featuring Beethoven’s Mass in C Major, op. 86, playing the organ. Although reviews were mixed on his renderings of Beethoven sonatas, it was mostly agreed that they were ingenious—yet not recommended for imitation. An especially noteworthy event in this series was the “Beethoven-Soirée” at Haslinger’s on 25 March, during which Liszt played the second of his only two public performances of the complete “Hammerklavier” Sonata. Another piece that evening was of particularly symbolic interest: the Seventh Symphony’s first movement, in an arrangement for two pianos, was played by Liszt and Czerny together—the only documented occasion of the two musicians uniting for a public Beethoven performance.

In the same year, Czerny published his most influential contribution to Beethoven interpretation, the Supplement to his Große Pianoforte-Schule, op. 500 (Czerny [1846]). ⁵⁷ Its fourth part contained the famous chapters “Ueber den richtigen Vortrag der sämmtlichen Beethoven’schen Werke für das Piano allein” and “Für das Piano mit Begleitung,” with metronome indications for all pieces. More than thirty years later, another devotee of Beethoven, Johannes Brahms, would acknowledge Czerny’s achievement in a passage addressed to Clara Schumann: “I certainly think Czerny’s great Pianoforte-Schule is worthy of study, particularly in regard to what he says about Beethoven and the performance of his works, for he was a diligent and attentive pupil. . . . In fact I think that people today ought to have more respect for this excellent man” (Brahms [1878] 1927, 2:136, translation based on [1927] 1973, 2:29). ⁵⁸

Czerny was, however, more than just a “diligent pupil”; his advice about “modernised” versions, which reflected changes in instruments and audience expectations, was often interwoven with accounts of how Beethoven played his own compositions. The “different means” (and’re Mittel) he deemed necessary to express “a different view of the spiritual conception” (die geistige Auffassung erhält . . . eine andere Geltung) of Beethoven’s music in response to “different times and tastes” (veränderte[r] Zeitgeschmack; Czerny [1846], 34, my translation) are reflected in his alterations of phrasing marks (Skowroneck 2019, 511) or in the updated tempo indications in his edition of the Second Sonata as published by Simrock (Beethoven [1856–58]). Liszt, likewise, explicitly demonstrated his awareness of the new affordances of instruments and the new expectations of contemporary audiences, although with an example taken from Bach. The artist Jean-Joseph Bonaventure Laurens, who painted Liszt’s portrait in 1844 in Montpellier, asked him during the session to play an organ fugue from which the following conversation unfolded:

The “spiritual conception” of a musical work is thus seen as independent of the means of its realisation; it is even in need of modernisation when encountering different instruments or tastes. George Barth (2008, 127) uses Czerny’s rich additions to his edition of Beethoven’s Rondo, WoO 6 (Beethoven [1829]) as an example of Czerny’s intention to create a good reception for the early piece by a contemporary audience—manifesting the “original” intention of the composer by completing it. Barth understands Czerny’s perception of tradition as “one in which the primary vessel is the person who embodies ‘the spirit of the work,’” rather than the notated score (Barth 2008, 136).

During the next decade, until Czerny’s death in 1857, several threads of the two musicians’ friendship came together. In 1851, Liszt honoured Czerny with the dedication of his Études d’exécution transcendante (Liszt [1852]), the third version of a cycle that he had begun at age thirteen and first published in 1827. The original title—Étude pour le piano-forte en quarante-huit exercices dans tout les tons majeurs et mineurs, of which however only twelve of the promised forty-eight exercises appeared (Liszt [1827])—was changed to Grandes études in 1839, a publication that already bore the dedication to Carl Czerny (Liszt [1839], cover). In the dedication of the last revision twelve years later—now called “transcendental” études and furnished with poetic titles—the composer emphasised his relationship with Czerny: “as a testimony of appreciation, respect, and friendship / [from] his student F. Liszt” (en témoignage de reconnaissance et de respectueuse amitié / son élève Liszt; Liszt [1852], dedication page, my translation).

Czerny returned the favour in 1857 with the dedication to “Herrn Dr. Franz Liszt” of his op. 856, Der Pianist im klassischen Style, a cycle that did consist of forty-eight preludes and fugues through all twenty-four major and minor keys, announced on the cover as “preliminary studies for a perfect performance of all classical compositions” (Vorstudien des vollkommenen Vortrags aller klassischen Tonwerke; Czerny [1857], my translation). The concept certainly derives from Czerny’s deep involvement in editing Bach; and, since young Liszt had studied Bach’s works with his teacher in 1823, the concept might also have been reflected in Liszt’s planned structure in his initial cycle of Quarante-huit éxercices dans tout les tons majeurs et mineurs.

At about the same time, in the 1850s, Liszt started his famous Weimar masterclasses, which he would continue to give without any charge until his death, sometimes even subsidising young pianists in honour of the treatment he had received from Czerny. ⁶⁰ From the first group of students, it was Hans von Bülow who later assumed the role of Beethoven specialist; in 1851, the foundations were laid when Liszt taught him the “bigger Sonatas of Beethoven . . . to make such a répertoire for myself as not every pianist, or indeed no pianist, can show” (Raab 1994, 182, as translated in Bülow [1896], 86) ⁶¹—works that later became Bülow’s core repertoire, such as the “Hammerklavier” Sonata and the Diabelli Variations. Many traces of this study period with Liszt can be found in the influential, instructive edition of Beethoven piano works that Bülow began to distribute in the early 1870s (Beethoven [1872?]).

This edition followed Czerny’s and Liszt’s own editions of the same music, issued towards the end of the 1850s, which constitute their last Beethoven-related parallel activities. Czerny published his new edition of Beethoven’s piano works in 1856, one year before his death. In promoting the edition, the publisher Simrock listed its main virtues: correction of doubtful text variants, precise metronome indications and the “most practical fingering” (zweckmässigster Fingersatz)—as opposed to the “correct fingering” (richtigster Fingersatz), which Czerny taught young Liszt in Clementi’s tradition (Simrock 1856, my translation). Simrock continued with a paragraph on Czerny’s long relationship with Beethoven and closed with a unique selling point: “The number of people who knew Beethoven in his heyday and in possession of his full powers, heard him play, and witnessed the first performances of his immortal works, decreases steadily. Therefore, let all reliable accounts from this era be preserved for posterity!” (ibid.). ⁶²

One year later, Liszt started working on his own edition of Beethoven’s piano works. He adopted a philological approach, comparing first editions (where available) with Breitkopf & Härtel’s edition, adding barely any fingerings or metronome markings but sometimes strengthening dynamics or changing phrasings (Köhnken, forthcoming). The edition was published from 1858 onward as part of Ludwig van Beethoven’s sämmtliche Compositionen: Erste vollständige Gesammtausgabe unter Revision von Franz Liszt by Ludwig Holle (Wolfenbüttel), whose marketing strategy can be revealingly compared with Simrock’s: “Anyone who has heard Beethoven’s sonatas played by Franz Liszt, who has heard the symphonies conducted by him, will recognise the significance imparted to a Beethoven edition specifically prepared under his leadership, since he is unsurpassed in his comprehension of this genius” (Schröter 1999, 1:287, my translation). ⁶³

Thus, in the 1850s, Czerny was already seen as one of the last living links to Beethoven’s own interpretation, valued as a contemporary witness but without much personal profile. Liszt, in contrast, was perceived as an unsurpassable Beethoven interpreter by virtue of his own genius, while his (fabricated) personal link to Beethoven and his study time with Czerny were more and more eclipsed.

Conclusion

During his public career as a piano virtuoso, Liszt was often scolded for the textual freedoms he allowed himself in Beethoven’s (and other composers’) music. The seeds for this practice might have come from a quite unexpected source: Carl Czerny, who is often perceived as a twentieth-century stylistic advocate of strict adherence to the notated score but who actually had one foot (or hand) still in the eighteenth century—only over time growing into his eventual role as a venerable Beethoven exegete. Indisputable are Czerny’s and Liszt’s equally important contributions toward building the Beethoven myth: their celebration, imitation, commemoration, and promotion of the great composer and his oeuvre, all of which shaped a perception of Beethoven’s music that is still relevant today. Their mutual engagement with Beethoven, however, contained the seeds of an even deeper layer of lasting influence. Czerny’s profound impact on Liszt’s two-fold career—as an active virtuoso and as a teacher of a new generation of Beethoven interpreters like Hans von Bülow, Frederic Lamond, and Eugen d’Albert—set in motion a fundamental change: the transition from a sometimes turbulent two-way communication between virtuoso-improviser and audience to static, one-way renditions in which performer-interpreters delivered their readings before a largely passive audience. The construction of the Beethoven myth by Czerny and Liszt was thus central in triggering the music-historical transition from performances emanating from an appropriate “spiritual conception” of the music in question, embodied by an experienced musician (“does the piece call for an embellishment or cadenza?”), to those emanating from preconceived notions of musical exegesis (“what is or is not allowed in the music of a ‘classical’ composer?”). It heralded the shift in modern performers’ allegiance away from their living audiences and to dead composers, whose scores must be interpreted religiously and listened to humbly.