As a performer I have always been interested in the Beethoven concertos. Recently I started exploring further into the cadenzas for these concertos, and since then I have become addicted to collecting cadenzas. Of those I have found, some are intriguing, some are strange, and some are funny.

Rousseau defines "cadenza" in part as that which the author leaves to the will of the principal performer. He specifies that it should be performed relatively in the character of the song, should communicate the performer's ideas, and should follow good taste. He calls it arbitrio because of the freedom with which the performer delivers his ideas.1

By way of briefly recalling the background of the cadenza, let us go back to Quantz, whose work Beethoven knew from Emanuel Bach's Essay. Quantz furnishes a historical note on the cadenza when he states that the best information that can be given on the origin of the cadenza is that some years before the close of the previous century (the seventeenth) and during the first ten years of the current one, the performer would add a short passage over a moving bass, and append a good trill at the conclusion of a concertizing part. But roughly between the years 1710 and 1716 the present type of cadenza, during which the bass pauses, became fashionable. The fermata or ritard ad libitum in the middle of a piece may well be of earlier origin.2

One should note the difference between the terms cadenza and Eingang. The Eingang is an improvised passage called for by a fermata over the dominant chord, as opposed to the cadenza, which is marked by a fermata over the tonic six-four chord. The Eingang is a simple connective "entry" or "lead-in" between structural sections of a movement. In essence it is a miniature cadenza that relates generally to one harmony and does not contain thematic material. Beethoven wrote out the Eingänge in his concertos most of the time. When an edition omits or substitutes an Eingang, a cadenza problem may ensue.3

Let us go back to Emanuel Bach, because Beethoven insisted that his students become familiar with Bach's Essay. Bach tells us that

When only a little time is available for the display of craftsmanship, the performer should not wander into too many remote keys, for the performance must soon come to an end. Moreover, the principal key must not be left too quickly at the beginning nor regained too late at the end. At the start the principal key must prevail for some time so that the listener will be unmistakably oriented. And again before the close it must be well prolonged as a means of preparing the listener for the end of the fantasia and impressing the tonality upon his memory.4

Czerny, Beethoven's student and associate in Vienna, says

Very often in the middle of a piece, one encounters a pause on a six-four chord, or the seventh, where the composer marks these words: Cadenza ad libitum; . . . one finds a cadenza here, but with such concision that one could without inconvenience extend it. These embellishments in music, even those in the other arts, are the touchstone of good taste. They awaken and call the attention of the listener to that which follows, and furnish the artist the occasion to show his refinement, his strength, even the audacity of his talent.5

Czerny goes on to say that one must improvise, but briefly, because

It must not stop the flow of the piece, and it must be in the character of the work. Strange chords would be out of place. The improvisation at this moment could only be a figuration, an ornamentation of the bass chord calling on all the resources of virtuosity. This intervention of a free fantasia in the middle of a piece should not astonish or shock us.6

It would be wrong to attribute a poor cadenza to bad taste and to the excesses of romantic virtuosity. Hummel, Beethoven's performing rival, says that it is primarily those performers lacking "natural inward feeling" who are guilty in this respect, for they try to compensate by overly decorating passages of melody "till the air and character is often no longer perceptible."7 Hummel goes on to say that extemporaneous embellishments must be done "with moderation, and in the proper place."8

If Beethoven knew Emanuel Bach, then he must have also been familiar with Türk, who says

If I am not mistaken, the cadenza's main effect should be not only to sustain the effect made by the piece, but also to reinforce it as much as possible. This can most surely be done if it presents the main ideas with extreme terseness, or at least recalls them by similar phrases. It must therefore have the most exact connections with the piece that has been played, or rather it should take its material from the latter, on the basis of what is most important.9

Türk warns of long cadenzas.

I should be saying nothing new, but repeating a complaint that has already been made many times, if I were to speak out against the very great misuse of decorated cadenzas. For it not seldom seems that a concerto, etc. is played merely for the sake of the cadenzas. In them, the performer goes astray not merely in respect of the length that is fitting, but also introduces all kinds of passage work, etc., which have not the slightest connection with the work that has preceded, so that the impression made by the work upon the hearer is to a great extent effaced. Monstrously long cadenzas lasting several minutes are on no account to be excused.10

As we see from the above quotes, the abuses by the performer when writing or playing cadenzas seem to fall into two groups. There are those who love to overdecorate the melodies with all manner of embellishments, and there are those who love to hear themselves play. They are the ones who introduce new material into the cadenza or wander off into distant keys.

During the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the performer received recognition at the end of the cadenza rather than at the end of the piece. Bach describes a concert at which Quantz shouted Bravo! to his royal scholar "at the end of solo parts and closes."11 The following extract from a letter of Mendelssohn dated July 10, 1829, would seem to indicate that it was the practice of the audience sometimes to applaud the cadenza without waiting for the conclusion of the movement. Mendelssohn is telling about a "first trial of my Double Concerto in E" with Moscheles as his fellow player, in a private reading with one or two friends present.

When it was all over, all said it was a pity that we made no cadenza; so I at once hit upon a passage in the first part of the last tutti where the orchestra has a pause, and Moscheles had nolens volens to comply and compose a grand cadenza. We now deliberated amid a thousand jokes, whether the small last solo should remain in its place, since of course the people would applaud the cadenza.

"We must have a bit of tutti between the cadenza and the solo," said I. "How long are they to clap their hands?" asked Moscheles. "Ten minutes, I dare say," said I. Moscheles beat me down to five. I promised to supply a tutti; and so we took the measure, embroidered, turned, and padded, put in sleeves á la Mameluke, and at last with our mutual tailoring produced a brilliant concerto. We shall have another rehearsal today; it will be quite a picnic, for Moscheles brings the cadenza, and I the tutti.12

Concluding the cadenza can also present problems for the performer and the accompanying instruments. Let us look back again to Emanuel Bach, who clarifies the problems when he tells us that

It is more custom than musical law that leads the concluding trill of the cadenzas to be played on the fifth above the bass, or on the sixth occasionally, in the minor mode. Because the accompanist awaits this trill and strikes his triad directly on its entrance, he must be extremely careful, in the case of cadenzas fashioned out of a series of trills, to avoid coming in with his chord on the entrance of a long trill on the third. Such a trill is usually a clear sign that the cadenza is not at all ended, and if he plays the triad prematurely there is a danger that many subsequent tones will appear that disagree with it. A competent principal performer will make every effort in such a situation to shorten and conclude his part so that no one will hear ugly sounds. But accompanists should not provoke such a change. Should it be a performer's pleasure to conclude his cadenza with a trill on the third, it must also be his pleasure to wait for an accompanist who does not play his triad immediately, but listens to the trill for a moment to make certain that the cadenza is going to be ended by it. Some principal performers take satisfaction out of playing a long trill on the fifth, leading the accompanist to enter with his resolution of the six-four chord."13

It is well to recall what Dittersdorf says of cadenza performances, "I cannot bear it, except for the pianoforte, and in the hands of men like Mozart, Clementi, and other great creative geniuses. . . . Of course they have been imitated by a crowd of little apes. It is positively sickening to listen to beardless boys, breaking their necks over things which none but the real masters should attempt."14 In conclusion Emanuel Bach says on performing cadenzas that "they must always be at least as good, if not better, than the original."15

Looking back still further, these improvised cadenzas were very important to the interpretation of Baroque music. With the figured bass, the keyboard player always improvised on the harmonic foundation, and decorated the given melody. The singers of the bel canto tradition and the instrumentalists put the ornaments and embellishments in the music that were called for by tradition. This practice can be seen in the Italian opera of the eighteenth century where the singer ornamented the melody on the return of the da capo, and improvised on the chord that marked the cadence at the end of each section of a song. The instrumentalists ornamented their melodies also, following the signs indicated by the composer, and they too improvised at the cadence.

During the Classic and Romantic eras the virtuoso did not have a figured bass to guide him, and the Romantic virtuoso no longer had the prerogative of embellishment. So the only liberty given then was to improvise at the moment of the cadence. Still, Czerny says "In compositions of high and lofty bearing, . . . (for example Beethoven's D Minor Sonata), all additions would be out of place."16 Cadenzas were not only improvised in concertos but in virtuoso sonatas as well. We see Beethoven's delight with Bridgetower when the violinist improvised a cadenza in the last movement of the Kreutzer Sonata in answer to the one Beethoven improvised in the first movement.17

By the beginning of the nineteenth century the improvised cadenza nearly disappeared. This limit on improvisation had a profound effect on the virtuoso of the Romantic era. It seems that a double standard was established in their repertoire. On the one hand minor works were allowed every alteration, even the worst embarrassments. On the other hand, the true works of art were untouchable. This distinction appeared very clear to Liszt, who was one of the greatest of the Romantic virtuosos. In a letter to a poète voyageur, Liszt implies what his attitude toward the cadenza is when he writes:

I perform frequently, be it in public, be it in the salon . . . the works of Beethoven, Weber and Hummel, and I confess to my shame, in order to wrest the bravos from the public always slow to comprehend beautiful things, I had no scruples about altering the movement and the intentions (of the composer). I even went so far as to insolently add a multitude of features and organ points, which in order to gain ignorant applause, sweeping them off with a false voice, from whom happily I soon disengage myself. You would not believe, my friend, how I deplore these concessions to bad taste, the violent sacrileges to the spirit and of the letter, because the most absolute respect for the leading works of the great masters substitutes in me the need for novelty. . . . At this time I can no longer separate a composition no matter when it was written, and the pretention of ornamenting or bringing to light works of older schools seem to me absurd for the musician who would, for example, have an architect put a Corinthian cornice on the columns of an Egyptian temple.18

The Romantic era's answer to these abuses was already stated by Beethoven in the E-flat Concerto: Non si fa una cadenza, ma s'attacca il sequente." (Do not make a cadenza, but go immediately on.) Good taste with regard to a cadenza now implied that the composer write out his cadenza within the framework of the concerto, where it would still have the character of a free fantasia and be performed in an improvisatory manner. Yet with these instructions on the part of the composer, we find the following review of the pianist Gustave Satter in the Albion of March 17, 1855, in New York:

In the first movement Mr. Satter introduced, what the program called "the celebrated cadenza." It has no business there, is in bad taste, and a sacrilege upon Beethoven. It is added to it, with as much propriety as a pair of boots and spurs would be to a fine statue of Apollo. Beethoven knew what he was about, and expressly forbid the addition of a cadenza in this place, by the following words, "Non si fa una Cadenza, ma s'attacca il sequente," which Mr. Satter will find plainly printed upon his music.19

It would be interesting to find out if Liszt wrote the cadenza before he wrote the above letter. In any case concertos of Liszt, Schumann, and Grieg among others incorporate a cadenza within the structure of that same movement!

With a written cadenza the composer would not have to supervise the performer as closely. In a letter to Count Moritz Dietrichstein, Beethoven writes:

I advise you not to let Herr Felsenburg play. Yesterday, I took to be nervousness what today I maintain to be lack of skill. I have composed the cadenza—but mark my words, he will come to grief before he reaches the cadenza.20

It is possible that Felsenburg prepared Opus 15 with the second cadenza. Though all the recognized cadenzas were presumably written for the Archduke Rudolph, I do not think that Beethoven was averse to allowing others to perform his cadenzas. Felsenburg's status as a mediocre pianist would have put Opus 58 out of his reach. However, he might have attempted Opus 37, and it is possible that Beethoven wrote a cadenza for him.21

Some argue that if a composer provides a cadenza for his concerto, it ought to be the one to be performed. Others feel that unless a cadenza is available from the pen of the man who composed the concerto, the soloist should make his cadenza as brief and simple as possible or omit it altogether. Yet who would argue this point with Beethoven, who gives us two cadenzas (WoO58) with his performances of the Mozart Concerto in D Minor, K. 466. Czerny gives us his cadenzas to Beethoven's Opus 15. Evidently there is nothing unusual about having a different cadenza for the same concerto used at each performance. When Mozart improvised cadenzas at the performance of a concerto, it is certainly fair to assume that the cadenza was different each time.

In the Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung of 1826 there is a plea to Beethoven to write down the cadenzas for his own piano concertos. It is suggested that the reason why his concertos are seldom performed by virtuosos is because not everyone wants to compete with Beethoven's genius when it comes to performing the required cadenza. The editor being a player himself, and also having heard four performances of the concertos, understands the problem. It is, he says, like appearing in full holiday dress with calico trimmings. In other words the cadenzas performed by others have tended to cheapen the entire work. Beethoven finally did write down the cadenzas to his piano concertos, excluding the early B-flat concerto WoO4, which he composed at the age of 14, and of course the "Emperor" Concerto in which he does not leave the prerogative to the performer anyway. With the exception of the cadenza to Opus 37, the autographs for all of the Beethoven cadenzas are in the Bodmer Collection in Bonn.



Cadenzas are listed in chronological order of their publication, or of their composition if not published.

Opus 15

1. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Unfinished, circa 1803.
2. __________. Circa 1805.
3. __________. Circa 1808.
4. __________. Third Movement.
5. Carl Czerny (1791-1857). Cadenza No. 1. London: Cocks & Co., 1806.
6. __________. Cadenza No. 2, Opus 200. Vienna: Haslinger, 1810.
7. Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870). First and third movements. Leipzig: B. Senff, 1854.
8. Anton Rubinstein (1829-1894). First and third movements. Mainz: Schott, 1862.
9. August Henrik Winding (1835-1899). First movement. Leipzig: Steingräber, 1875.
10. Anton Ree (1820-1886). First movement. Copenhagen: Hansen, 1888.
11. Ferruccio Busoni (1866-1924). First movement. Leipzig: D. Rahter, circa 1890.
12. Joseph Labor (1842-1924). First movement. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1890.
13. Carl Heinrich Reinecke (1824-1910). First and third movements. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1890.
14. Julius Roentgen (1855-1932). First movement. Amsterdam: Alsbach & Co., 1896.
15. Johannes Brahms (1833-1897). First movement. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1907.
16. Camillo Horn (1860-1941). First movement. Leipzig: C.F. Kahnt, 1909.
17. Georges Sporck (1870-1943). First and third movements. Paris: Marcel Jumade, 1918.
18. Rudolph Ganz (1877-1972). First and third movements. New York: Composers Music Corp., 1921.
19. Tobias Matthay (1858-1945). First and third movements. London: Augener, Ltd., 1882, revised 1929.
20. Ruth Slenczynska (1925- ). First movement. New York: G. Schirmer, 1934.
21. Ignaz Friedman (1882-1948). First movement. New York: G. Schirmer, 1936.
22. Robert Casadesus (1899-1972). First movement. Philadelphia: Elkan-Vogel, 1945.
23. Julian Carrillo (1875-1965). First movement. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1947.
24. Leo Weiner (1885-1960). First movement. Milan: S. Zerboni, 1951.
25. Edwin Fischer (1886-1960). First movement. Mainz: B. Schott's Söhne, 1958.
26. Glenn Gould (1932- ). First and third movements. London: Barger & Barclay, 1965.
27. Wilhelm Kempff (1895- ). First movement. Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1967.


Opus 19

28. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). 1809.
29. Carl Czerny (1791-1857). London: Cocks & Co., 1810.
30. Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870). Berlin: Simrock, 1855.
31. Anton Rubinstein (1829-1894). Mainz: Schott, 1862.
32. August Henrik Winding (1835-1899). Leipzig: Steingräber, 1875.
33. Ferruccio Busoni (1866-1924). Leipzig: D. Rahter, circa 1890.
34. Carl Heinrich Reinecke (1824-1910). Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1895.
35. Bernhard Stavenhagen (1862-1914). Copy in possession of Dr. H. Lewy, Munich, 1905.
36. Camillo Horn (1860-1941). Leipzig: C.F. Kahnt, 1909.
37. Gino Tagliapietra (1887-1954). Padua: G. Zanibon, 1920.
38. Ignaz Friedman (1882-1948). New York: G. Schirmer, 1936.
39. Julian Carrillo (1875-1965). Paris: Editions Jobert, 1942.
40. Leo Weiner (1885-1960). Milan: S. Zerboni, 1951.
41. Maurice Lewis. Copy in Library of Congress, 1954.
42. Wilhelm Kempff (1895- ). Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1967.


Opus 37

43. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). Circa 1809.
44. __________. Circa 1809.
45. __________. Circa 1809.
46. Ferdinand Ries (1784-1838). 1804.
47. __________.1804.
48. Carl Czerny (1791-1857). Opus 61. London: Cocks & Co., 1810.
49. Friedrich Mockwitz (1785-1849). Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, circa1825.
50. Franz Liszt (1811-1886). Stuttgart & Berlin: Edition Cotta, 1853.
51. Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870). Leipzig: B. Senff, 1854.
52. Sigmund Thalberg (1812-1871). 1855.
53. Charles V. Alkan (1813-1888). Paris: Costallat & Cie., 1860.
54. Alexander Dreyschock (1818-1869). Vienna: C.A. Spina, 1860.
55. Anton Ree (1820-1886). Copenhagen: Hansen, 1862.
56. Anton Rubinstein (1829-1894). Mainz: Schott, 1862.
57. Adam Henselt (1814-1889). Opus 29. Berlin: Schlesinger, 1865.
58. Gyula Beliczay (1835-1893). Opus 4. Vienna: Haslinger, 1867.
59. Hans J. Hampel (1822-1884). Opus 20. Prague: 1867 (?)
60. August Henrik Winding (1835-1899). Leipzig: Steingräber, 1875.
61. Joseph Wieniawski (1837-1912).1878.
62. Johannes Brahms (1833-1897). Berlin: Deutsche Brahms Gesellschaft, 1881.
63. Amy Marcy (Cheney) Beach (1867-1944). Boston: A.P. Schmidt, 1888.
64. Joseph Labor (1842-1924). Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1890.
65. Theodore Pfeiffer (1853-1929). Paris: Jobert, 1893.
66. Carl Heinrich Reinecke (1824-1910). Opus 87. No. 3. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1895.
67. Max van der Sandt (1863-1934). Cöln am Rhein: Tischer & Jagenberg, 1895.
68. Julius Roentgen (1855-1932). Amsterdam: Alsbach & Co., 1896.
69. Bernhard Stavenhagen (1862-1914). Opus 7. Munich: Dr. H. Lewy, 1905. (See no. 35)
70. Julian Carrillo (1875-1965). Paris: Editions Jobert, 1906.
71. Ricardo Castro (1864-1907). Berlin: Hofmeister, 1909.
72. Camillo Horn (1860-1941). Leipzig: C.F. Kahnt, 1909.
73. Harold Bauer (1873-1951). Boston: Oliver Ditson, 1911.
74. Gino Tagliapietra (1887-1954). Padua: G. Zanibon, 1912.
75. Sigismund Stojowski (1870-1946). Paris: Heugel et Cie., 1913.
76. Clara (Wieck) Schumann (1819-1896). Leipzig: Peters, 1918.
77. Georg Alfred Schumann (1866-1952). Leipzig: F.E.C. Leuckart, 1919.
78. Mischa Levitzski. New York: G. Schirmer, 1924.
79. Gabriel Fauré (1845-1924). Paris: P. Schneider, 1927.
80. Oswin Keller (1885- ). Leipzig: C.M.F. Rothe, 1927.
81. Ruth Slenczynska (1925- ). New York: G. Schirmer, 1934.
82. Ignaz Friedman (1882-1948). New York: G. Schirmer, 1936.
83. Leo Weiner (1885-1960). Milan: S. Zerboni, 1951.
84. Ennemond Trillat (1890- ). Paris: E. Trillat, 1952.
85. Edwin Fischer (1886-1960). Mainz: B. Schott's Söhne, 1958.
86. Wilhelm Kempff (1895- ). Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1967.


Opus 58

87. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827). First movement, 1809.
88. __________. First and third movements, 1809.
89. Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870). First and third movements. Leipzig: B. Senff, 1854.
90. Anton Rubinstein (1829-1894). First and third movements. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1874.
91. Solomon Jadassohn (1831-1902). Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1874.
92. August Henrik Winding (1835-1899). Leipzig: Steingräber, 1875.
93. Camille Saint-Saëns (1835-1921). First and third movements. Paris: Schoenewerk et Cie., 1879.
94. Ignaz Brüll (1846-1907). Mainz: Schott, 1880.
95. Ferruccio Busoni (1866-1924). Leipzig: D. Rahter, circa 1890.
96. Natalie Janotha (1856-1932). First and third movements. London: Chappell, 1890.
97. Joseph Labor (1842-1924). Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1890.
98. Albert Fredrik Orth (1849- ). Copenhagen: Hansen, 1891.
99. Eugen d'Albert (1864-1932). First and third movements. Berlin: Bote & Bock, 1893.
100. Carl Heinrich Reinecke (1824-1910). First and third movements. Leipzig: Breitkopf und Härtel, 1895.
101. Max van der Sandt (1863-1934). First and third movements. Cöln am Rhein: Tischer & Jagenberg, 1895.
102. Julius Roentgen (1855-1932). Amsterdam: Alsbach & Co., 1896.
103. Max Schwarz (1856-1923). Offenbach am Main: J. André, circa 1896.
104. Wilhelm Stenhammer (1871-1927). Berlin: circa 1897 (?)
105. Ernst von Dohnányi (1877-1960). First and third movements. Vienna: Doblinger, 1905.
106. Johannes Brahms (1833-1897). First and third movements. Berlin: Deutsche Brahms Gesellschaft, 1907.
107. Leopold Godowsky (1870-1938). Berlin: Schlesinger, 1909.
108. Camillo Horn (1860-1941). Leipzig: C.F. Kahnt, 1909.
109. Nikolai Medtner (1880-1951). First and third movements. Berlin: Edition Russe de musique, 1911.
110. Clara (Wieck) Schumann (1819-1896). First and third movements. Leipzig: Peters, 1918.
111. Georg Alfred Schumann (1866-1952). Leipzig: F.E.C. Leuckart, 1919.
112. Wilhelm Backhaus (1884-1925). Third movement. Magdeburg: Heinrichshofen's Verlag, 1920.
113. Hans von Bülow (1830-1894). First and third movements. Leipzig: F.E.C. Leuckart, 1927.
114. Robert Casadesus (1899-1972). First and third movements. Paris: R. Deiss, 1932.
115. Ignaz Friedman (1882-1948). First and third movements. New York: G. Schirmer, 1936.
116. Donald Francis Tovey (1875-1940). First and third movements. London: Oxford University Press, 1937.
117. Julian Carrillo (1875-1965). First and third movements. Paris: Editions Jobert, 1947.
118. Leo Weiner (1885-1960). Milan: S. Zerboni, 1951.

1Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Dictionnaire de musique, 2 vols. (reprint of the 1768 edition, Amsterdam, 1772), p. 68.

2Johann Joachim Quantz, Versuch einer Anweisung die Flöte traversière zu spielen (Kassel: 1953, facsimile of the third edition, Berlin, 1789), Chapter 15, p. 2.

3For example, Opus 15, second movement, measures 103-104; Opus 15, third movement, measure 457; Opus 37, third movement, measures 26, 152, 407; Opus 58, second movement, measures 55-61; Opus 58, third movement, measures 159, 405.

4Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, Essay on the True Art of Playing Keyboard Instruments (1753-1762), translated and edited by William J. Mitchell (New York: 1949), p. 431.

5Carl Czerny, L'Art d'improviser: mis à la portée des pianistes par Carl Czerny (Paris: circa 1840), p. 20.


7Johann Nepomuk Hummel, Ausführlich theoretisch-practische Anweisung zum Pianoforte-spiel (Vienna, 1828), III, 40.


9Daniel Gottlob Türk, Klavierschule (Leipzig, 1789); translation from Paul and Eva Badura-Skoda, Interpreting Mozart on the Keyboard, trans. by Leo Black (London: 1962), p. 241.

10Idem, p. 234.

11Quantz, cited in Bach, Essay, p. 6.

12Felix Mendelssohn, Letters, edited by G. Seldon-Goth (London: 1946), p. 53.

13Bach, Essay, p. 381.

14Karl Ditters van Dittersdorf, The Autobiography of Karl von Dittersdorf, translated from the German by A.D. Coleridge (London: 1896), p. 44.

15Bach, Essay, p. 165.

16Czerny, L'Art d'improviser, p. 20.

17Alexander Wheelock Thayer, Ludwig van Beethovens Leben, translated by H. Deiters, rev. Hugo Riemann (Leipzig: 1917-1923), II, 8-11.

18Franz Liszt, "Lettre à un poète voyageur," Revue et Gazette musicale de Paris, February 12, 1837, p. 259.

19Andrew Minor, Piano Concerts in New York City, 1849-1865 (unpublished master's thesis, University of Michigan, 1947).

20Emily Anderson (editor and translator), The Letters of Beethoven, 3 vols. (London: 1961), II, 622.

21See listing of cadenzas for Opus 58.

11225 Last modified on October 25, 2018