Rubinstein: Pathétique; Moonlight Sonata; Appassionata; Les Adieux
Arthur Rubinstein, piano. RCA Victor Red Seal. Recorded 1962–63. Reissue, CD.
This reissue from RCA (now BMG, now whoever owns what this week) captures performances from 1962–63 that have aged with considerably more grace than many a more “authoritative” traversal. The four named sonatas are here: the Pathétique, the Moonlight, the Appassionata, and Les Adieux. Standard repertoire, yes—but Rubinstein was never interested in being standard.
The first chord of the Pathétique dispels any notion that this will be avuncular fireside Beethoven. There’s weight here, proper C minor darkness, and a rhythmic snap that suggests Rubinstein knew perfectly well what he was about. His left hand throughout these performances deserves its own paragraph—the clarity in the bass lines, the refusal to drown contrapuntal movement in a wash of sustaining pedal. Listen to the "finale" of the Moonlight and you’ll actually hear what Beethoven wrote in those tempestuous lower registers, not the usual sonic blur that passes for demonic passion.
Of course the slow movements sing. Did anyone doubt they would? But Rubinstein does something genuinely interesting with the often-dispensable Allegretto of the Moonlight—that little flower pressed between two slabs of granite. He finds a genuine emotional trajectory there, makes it speak rather than simply marking time between the famous movements. The "Adagio" of the Pathétique unfolds with that particular brand of Rubinstein cantabile, where every melodic line seems to breathe naturally, without the fussy over-articulation that can make Beethoven sound pedagogical.
The Appassionata from 1963 shows slightly harder-edged sound than the 1962 sessions, but nothing that should trouble anyone who survived the LP era. What matters is Rubinstein’s refusal to rush—the "finale" builds with such inevitability that when the "presto" arrives, it feels genuinely earned, not merely fast for the sake of excitement. Too many pianists treat this movement as an Olympic sprint; Rubinstein understands it’s a narrative arc.
Now, the elephant in the practice room: Rubinstein learned his Beethoven before Schnabel reset everyone’s internal metronome in the 1930s. He remained, fundamentally, a romantic storyteller rather than an architectural analyst. You can hear it in the first movement of Les Adieux, where perhaps—just perhaps—he lingers a bit comfortably over the farewell motif. The phrasing is insightful, certainly, but there’s a leisureliness that might make structure-minded Beethovenians twitch.
But here’s the thing: Beethoven contains multitudes. The score-fetishists and period-practice police have their place (and their recordings), but music that speaks only to the intellect eventually stops speaking at all. Rubinstein’s Beethoven addresses itself to the whole human being—head, heart, and that indefinable something that responds to a perfectly shaped phrase.
The recorded sound on this reissue is something of a revelation. That close, clattery RCA acoustic that used to plague Rubinstein’s recordings has been tamed somehow—the piano sounds warm, resonant, closer to the instrument I remember from his 1973 Wigmore Hall recital (which remains, alas, one of those experiences that justifies a lifetime of concert-going). Every note registers, as Christopher Howell noted in his original review, and the fullness of tone means that even the swiftest passages retain clarity and weight.
The coupling makes sense programmatically, though one might wish for the inclusion of op. 31, no. 3, which Rubinstein played magnificently. Still, seventy-five minutes of this piano playing is hardly cause for complaint, particularly at budget price.
This isn’t “definitive” Beethoven—whatever that phrase means anymore. It’s personal Beethoven, intelligent Beethoven, deeply musical Beethoven from a pianist who understood that communication trumps convention every time. Next to the granitic Schnabel, the mercurial Gulda, the transcendent Brendel, Rubinstein’s performances offer something different: humanity without sentimentality, romanticism without distortion, and a left hand that could teach most modern pianists a thing or two about textural clarity.
For newcomers, this remains a superb introduction. For collectors who bypassed these performances in favor of more “authentic” Beethoven specialists, it’s time to reconsider. There are moments here—that operatic dialogue in the Pathétique’s second subject, the way the Appassionata‘s "finale" gathers its inexorable force—that remind us why Rubinstein was one of the twentieth century’s great communicators. Not despite his romantic temperament, but because of it.
Highly recommended, with the caveat that these are performances to live with rather than admire from a distance. They’ll surprise you.
