direct
traces of the influence of Beethoven in his pianoforte music.

The Weber sonatas have been described by Dr. P. Spitta as "fantasias
in sonata-form," and this admirably expresses the character of these
works. Weber followed the custom of his day in writing sonatas, but it
seems as though he would have accomplished still greater things had he
given full rein to his imagination, and allowed subject-matter to
determine form. Like his great contemporary, of whom we have next to
speak, Weber, in spite of Vogler's teaching, was not a strong
contrapuntist; he relied chiefly upon melody, harmonic effects, and
strong contrasts. His romantic themes, his picturesque colouring,
enchant the ear, and the poetry and passion of his pianoforte music,
both intensified by grand technique, stir one's soul to its very
depths; yet the works are of the fantasia, rather than of the sonata
order. We have the letter rather than the true spirit of a sonata.
Place side by side Weber's Sonata in A flat (the greatest of the four)
and Beethoven's D minor or "Appassionata," and the difference will be
at once felt. In the latter there is a latent power which is wanting
in the former. It seems as if one could never sound the depths of
Beethoven's music: fresh study reveals new beauties, new details; the
relation of the parts to the whole (not only of the sections of a
movement, but of the movements _inter se_), and, therefore, the unity
of the whole becomes more evident. We must not be understood to mean
that Weber worked without plan, or even careful thought; but merely,
that the organic structure of his sonatas is far less closely knit
than in those of the Bonn master; there is contrast rather than
concatenation of ideas, outward show rather than inner substance. The
slow movements (with exception of those of the 1st and 2nd Sonatas,
which have somewhat of a dramatic character) and Finales are
satisfactory, _per se_, as music: the former have charm, refinement;
the latter, elegance, piquancy, brilliancy. Now, in these sonatas,
the opening movements seem like the commencement of some tragedy: in
No. 2 there is nobility mixed with pathos; in No. 3, fierce passion;
and in No. 4, still passion, albeit of a tenderer, more melancholy
kind. But in the Finales it is as though we had passed from the
tragedy of the stage to the melodrama, or frivolity of the
drawing-room; they offer, it is true, strong contrast, yet not of the
right sort, not that to wh