Personally, I do not consider these variants particularly significant within a process of stylistic evolution whose premises were already clear and had developed over time in a generally regular and logical manner. The evident acceleration in what is perhaps the most marked and characteristic aspect of the late period—namely, the extremization of the process of minimal thematic variation and thus of the hermeneutic principle present in the thematic writing of the last sonatas and quartets—can be linked solely and exclusively to a powerful expressive urgency, which resulted in a radicalization of the language, increasingly stripped down and essential. This approach is exactly the opposite of what Schubert would soon require, for in his final works he tended to enlarge not only structural dimensions but also narrative aspects. What truly connects the late Beethoven to the late Schubert is, on the one hand, an extreme harmonic tension and, on the other, an absolute coherence with the poetic premises of their respective youthful productions which—though arriving at completely opposite outcomes—continued along the path each had already traced after their first important works: reduction in Beethoven, amplification—both thematic and structural—in Schubert.

Among the thirty‑two sonatas, Op. 109 is perhaps the one that presents the greatest problems of authenticity, due to the many variants found in the various editions, both with respect to the manuscript and to the first printed edition.

Anyone who has had occasion, even sporadically, to read Beethoven’s manuscripts knows that they are certainly not models of clarity, especially when compared with those of Mozart or Chopin (not to mention those of many twentieth‑century composers).

However, if we compare the manuscript of Sonata Op. 109 with those of the two subsequent sonatas, Op. 110 and Op. 111, this lack of clarity becomes even more pronounced and, in some respects, anomalous—particularly when we consider the character of the work. Indeed, there were numerous problems with the copyist, and from the first printing draft Beethoven himself had to send corrections in several letters. There exists, in fact, the first published edition and another copy of the same with Beethoven’s handwritten corrections.[5] This is why, after the first edition for Schlesinger, another revised and corrected edition appeared almost immediately.

Yet even today there remain several discrepancies, especially in some of the variations of the Finale, which will be addressed specifically in my essay on the genesis and history of Sonata Op. 109.

The first review of the Piano Sonata in E major, Op. 109, appeared on 4 February 1824, signed by A. B. Marx; here is an excerpt:

This sonata in E major will not become familiar until one has listened to it often, prompted by some inner impulse. It begins in the manner of a prelude, as if one were testing a harp to see whether it is in tune. An Adagio, with a noble, sorrowful, yet consoling melody, interrupts the opening, rendering it strange (almost convulsive) with its enharmonic shifts, and then returns the ball to the first prelude, as if the idea had satisfied its creator. He continues the figure in an interesting way, then resumes the Adagio theme, which, however, returns consolingly to the form of the Prelude, and with this the whole closes sentimentally. The reviewer must admit that he has not found a guiding idea (an inspiring principle) in the entire first movement; perhaps the illustrious “singer” wished to amuse himself at the keyboard (there is very pleasant pianistic writing in this movement), but in a manner not entirely suited to him. In truth, the entire movement is somewhat restrained and, despite some charming moments, a little unsatisfying.

The first critical reaction to the publication of Sonata Op. 109 is paradigmatic not only of the profound change that was being perceived—and the consequent incomprehension that led it to be labeled an “unsatisfying work”—but also of how the musical audience itself was changing around 1820, as well as the critical discourse. The “distraction” noted by the AMZ critic[6] is nothing other than the new path Beethoven had taken, completely separate from the earlier one that had brought him enormous success but no longer seemed to interest him. He no longer sought mass success; rather, he wanted publishers to be aware of the value of the works he offered them. And so Marx, a critic from Schlesinger’s circle, while acknowledging Beethoven’s artistic stature—almost on trust—implicitly highlights commercial concerns when he speaks of a Beethoven more turned inward than outward, where “outward” means the public, the listener, that bourgeois audience which, in those very years, was distancing itself from any artistic expression requiring even the slightest reflection, shifting instead toward something lighter, carefree, and serene. At the same time, however, this was the era in which identities and distinctions—not only national ones—were becoming more pronounced, and thus new social categories emerged that found in Beethoven’s lofty and dramatic style an opportunity to achieve cultural distinction from a superficial nobility.