Franz Peter Schubert
(1797–1828)

Piano Trio in E-flat Major, D. 929

Composed November 1827 | Vienna, Austria

In the fall of 1827, Franz Schubert composed two of the greatest works in the piano trio repertoire: the lyrical Trio in B-flat Major, D. 898, and the more expansive Trio in E-flat Major, D. 929. Contemporary audiences often favor the charm and relative concision of the B-flat Trio, while critics have sometimes found the E-flat Trio unwieldy in length. But in the 19th century, it was quite the opposite. Robert Schumann praised the E-flat Trio as “spirited, masculine, and dramatic,” preferring it to its companion. The truth is that both are radiant masterpieces—intimate and expansive, lyrical and searching—by a composer only thirty years old and at the height of his powers.

And that power was hard-won. At the time of writing, Schubert was battling illness, financial uncertainty, and a sense of artistic isolation. He had recently suffered the death of Beethoven—his musical hero—and knew that his own health was declining. Yet 1827–28 proved to be the most astonishingly productive period of his life, yielding not only the two piano trios but also the F minor Fantasy for piano four-hands, Winterreise, Schwanengesang, the last three piano sonatas, the sublime String Quintet in C Major, and so much more.

Schubert himself regarded the trio highly enough that he chose it as the centerpiece of the only public concert devoted entirely to his music during his lifetime. Held at Vienna’s Musikverein on December 26, 1827, the concert was organized by a circle of friends and was received with genuine enthusiasm—an all-too-rare moment of recognition for Schubert. The trio was also the only one of his works to be published beyond Austria while he was still alive.

The first movement begins boldly, with all three instruments stating the opening motive in unison—a commanding gesture that launches a sonata form filled with drama, warmth, and contrapuntal richness. Schubert’s lyricism is always close at hand, but here it’s tempered by drive and direction. Still, the music never rushes. As critic James Keller notes, Schubert rarely gives the impression of being in a hurry. Schumann famously described Schubert’s music as being of “heavenly length”—not to suggest bloat, but rather a kind of suspended time in which ideas blossom slowly and fully.

The second movement is widely considered one of Schubert’s most sublime creations: a somber, impassioned “song without words.” In fact, the music is rooted in a literal song. Schubert’s friend Leopold Sonnleithner claimed the melody was inspired by the Swedish folksong Se solen sjunker (“The Sun Has Set”), which Schubert heard at a recital earlier that year. Though the claim was long dismissed, musicologist Manfred Willfort rediscovered the song in 1978, confirming its striking resemblance. Schubert didn’t quote the song directly, but its octave leaps and its tread-like accompaniment became the foundation for a movement of quiet gravity and expressive depth—one that seems to meditate on loss, remembrance, and the fading of light.

The scherzo that follows is tightly constructed, rhythmically agile, and full of contrapuntal wit. Its trio section offers welcome repose, but the canonic interplay in the outer sections keeps the momentum crisp. The final movement is vast—nearly 750 measures—and unusually free in form. But the scale is purposeful: a broad, rhapsodic landscape where themes are introduced, developed, revisited, and transformed. Chief among them is the Swedish-inspired theme from the second movement, which is transformed near the end of the movement in a luminous major key. This final statement lends the work a sense of catharsis—an emotional release that feels both intimate and transcendent.

Though rooted in classical structures, Schubert’s approach is unmistakably his own. He stretches traditional forms not for effect, but because his lyricism demands it. His music unfolds like a journey without a fixed destination—one that invites you to follow its path without expectation, discovering beauties both grand and intimate along the way. This trio offers clarity, depth, and emotional truth spanning memory, loss, joy, and renewal.

Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770–1827)

String Quintet in C Major, Op. 29 for two violins, two violas, & cello

Composed 1801 | Vienna, Austria 

The works of Ludwig van Beethoven are perhaps the best-known and most often performed music in the classical tradition. His thirty-two piano sonatas, eighteen string quartets, and nine symphonies are cornerstones of the Western canon—so foundational, in fact, that they became the genres by which future composers would be measured. With rare exceptions—Schubert, most notably—it’s not until Liszt that we encounter a piano sonata on the level of Beethoven’s; not until Brahms that the symphony reaches comparable stature; and, dare we say it, not even Bartók or Shostakovich surpass him in the string quartet.

But Beethoven’s artistic legacy extends well beyond these pillars. He also made extraordinary contributions to the sonata for violin and piano, the sonata for cello and piano—a genre he essentially invented—the piano trio, and even opera. Yet his enormous success in traditional and commercially viable forms can sometimes overshadow his forays into more unusual or “experimental” genres. Beethoven wrote dozens of works in these “experimental” genres that are less frequently performed but no less revealing of his inventiveness and spirit. Among these is his only original, full-length string quintet: the String Quintet in C Major, Op. 29, composed in 1801.

Written on the cusp of his so-called “middle period,” this work mostly looks back toward Haydn and Mozart rather than forward to the bold new path Beethoven would soon blaze. The instrumentation—two violins, two violas, and cello—mirrors that of Mozart’s own quintets and allows for an especially rich middle texture. The work is sometimes nicknamed “The Storm” for its finale: murmuring tremolos suggest distant thunder, while rapid violin figures evoke flashes of lightning. But this is no tempest on the scale of Beethoven’s later symphonic storms. It is a storm in classical proportions, more reminiscent of Haydn’s The Seasons—dramatic, certainly, but tightly structured and ultimately decorous.

Some scholars have speculated that this more conservative approach reflects Beethoven’s personal situation at the time. Around 1801, he was beginning to accept that his hearing loss was not temporary, but permanent—a terrifying realization for a composer. Perhaps this quintet represents a brief retreat to familiar terrain before he forged ahead with the bold, emotionally charged works that would define his middle period.

In the opening movement of the quintet, Beethoven crafts a spacious musical landscape where flowing themes and delicate textures evoke both intimacy and grandeur. The second movement, Adagio molto espressivo, is poised and inward, unfolding a long, singing line over restrained accompaniment—a striking contrast to the extroverted outer movements. The third movement, an unstoppable Scherzo, features rhythmic play and interplay among the parts that showcase Beethoven’s delight in musical wit and conversational dialogue. The finale, “The Storm,” sizzles with energy. 

The quintet was dedicated to Count Moritz von Fries, a generous patron who also received the dedications of Beethoven’s Violin Sonatas Op. 23 and 24. A long and tangled copyright dispute followed when Fries, believing (correctly) that he had the right to do so, sold the work to the publisher Artaria—unaware that Beethoven had already arranged to publish it with Breitkopf. The result was a tangle of conflicting claims, two competing editions, and Beethoven’s public accusation that Artaria’s edition was riddled with errors. The matter was eventually resolved, thanks again to Fries, who negotiated a compromise: Beethoven would write a second quintet to be published solely by Artaria. That second quintet, however, never materialized.

Thus, the Op. 29 Quintet remains unique in Beethoven’s output. His earlier Op. 4 quintet is a reworking of his Octet for winds, and Op. 104 is an arrangement of a piano trio, revised by a student and lightly edited by Beethoven. A brief fugue (Op. 137) and an unfinished late fragment (WoO 62, believed to be Beethoven’s last work) round out his sparse contributions to the string quintet genre. One wonders: had he completed that final quintet, would he have redefined the genre as he had the quartet? We’ll never know. But in the year following Beethoven’s death, Franz Schubert—himself in the final year of his life—would do exactly that with his own String Quintet in C Major, a pinnacle of the chamber music repertoire.

This quintet invites us to rediscover a quieter corner of Beethoven’s genius. It may not blaze with the defiance of his symphonies or the intensity of his later quartets, but it offers something just as essential: music you can count on to be elegant, expressive, and deeply moving.

William Grant Still
(1895–1978)

Blues from Lennox Avenue
for violin and piano

Composed 1955 | Los Angeles, California 

Often referred to as the “Dean of African American Composers,” William Grant Still had an extraordinary ability to blend the language of concert music with the rich idioms of jazz, blues, and spirituals. A composer who found lyricism in everyday life, Still treated even his lightest miniatures with a sense of dignity and expressive care. Blues from Lennox Avenue is one such piece—originally part of a suite for chamber ensemble evoking scenes from Harlem, and here arranged for violin and piano.

The title references one of Harlem’s most iconic boulevards—now Malcolm X Boulevard—which was a cultural epicenter of the Harlem Renaissance. Still’s music captures the feel of a slow evening walk: the violin sighs and slides, gently bending the blues phrases, while the piano provides a spare, steady accompaniment that pulses like city air after dark. The restraint in the writing is part of its power. Rather than dramatize, Still offers something closer to memory—subtle, wistful, unhurried.

William Grant Still
(1895–1978)

Quit Dat Fool’nish
for violin and piano

Composed 1935 | Los Angeles, California

This brief but brilliant character piece shows William Grant Still in high spirits. Originally written for solo piano, Quit Dat Fool’nish is all rhythmic sass and melodic sparkle, often played today in this violin and piano version. It’s music with a wink: the piano struts and swings with stride-inflected patterns, while the violin zips and teases with cheerful irreverence.

Still had a gift for miniatures that feel fully realized. These musical sketches aren't casual toss-offs—they’re precise in their timing, elegant in their craft, and generous in their energy. In this piece, the artistry is in knowing exactly how far to lean into the joke, how long to hold the smile. It’s a different kind of intelligence: musical thoughtfulness in the form of wit. There’s no sermon here—just an invitation to share a laugh and admire the composer’s deft touch.

Jennifer Hidgon
(b. 1962)

Nocturne 
for cello and piano

Composed 2006 | United States 

Jennifer Higdon came late to formal music study—she didn’t begin playing an instrument until age 15—but she rose swiftly to become one of America’s most celebrated living composers. Her music is known for its accessibility, warmth, and direct emotional appeal. Yet even her most approachable works are marked by an internal discipline, a keen ear for balance and detail, and a careful consideration of expressive weight.

Composed in 2006, Nocturne for cello and piano is a small, deeply introspective work. There’s nothing flashy or programmatic here. Instead, the music unfolds in long, singing lines—melodies that drift gently, like thoughts before sleep. The piano offers luminous, understated support, allowing the cello to speak in a voice both intimate and steady. Higdon avoids excess; everything feels placed with care. This restraint is not a limit, but a strength. It’s the kind of music that highlights the artistry of thoughtful gestures: a shape, a color, a pause. Nothing demands attention, and yet everything holds it.

Rebecca Clarke
(1886–1979)

SONATA 
for viola and piano

Composed 1919 | Lenox, Massachusetts

Rebecca Clarke received a single-line entry in the 1980 Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians as “the viola-playing wife of composer and pianist James Friskin.” Today, Clarke’s standing has decisely changed. She is now recognized as one of the most original voices in early twentieth-century British music, while Friskin is largely forgotten. Born in England to a German mother and American father, Clarke spent much of her adult life in the United States. Her early biography is marked by challenges: a turbulent childhood, estrangement from her family, and the need to support herself through professional viola performance. She became one of the first women to play in a fully professional orchestra, and she performed chamber music regularly with many of the leading musicians of her time, including Myra Hess, Pablo Casals, Artur Rubinstein, Jascha Heifetz, Artur Schnabel, and Joseph Szigeti.

In 1919, while living in the U.S., Clarke submitted her Viola Sonata anonymously to a composition competition sponsored by Elizabeth Sprague Coolidge. Out of 72 entries, the sonata tied for first with Ernest Bloch’s Suite for Viola and Piano, itself a masterpiece of the repertoire. Coolidge ultimately broke the tie in Bloch’s favor, but the panel—deeply impressed by the sonata’s sweep and craftsmanship—demanded to have the composer of the sonata revealed. All were astonished to learn the composer was a woman.

Clarke’s musical voice in this work is sophisticated, emotionally rich, and structurally assured: the first movement combines lyrical intensity with tonal ambiguity and bold harmonic shifts; the second is a puckish scherzo, angular and fleet; and the finale moves from inward contemplation to radiant, full-voiced affirmation. Her language blends elements of Debussy’s harmonic color, Franck’s motivic cohesion, and the expressive fervor of Bloch, yet her voice remains distinct—marked by modal inflections, clean lines, and an unmistakable English restraint.

That the piece was judged anonymously is telling: only behind a veil could it be fully recognized on its own terms. In the end, the music stood—and still stands—on its own thoughtful strength.

Ludwig van Beethoven
(1770–1827)

String Quintet in C Major, Op. 29 for two violins, two violas, & cello

Composed 1801 | Vienna, Austria 

The works of Ludwig van Beethoven are perhaps the best-known and most often performed music in the classical tradition. His thirty-two piano sonatas, eighteen string quartets, and nine symphonies are cornerstones of the Western canon—so foundational, in fact, that they became the genres by which future composers would be measured. With rare exceptions—Schubert, most notably—it’s not until Liszt that we encounter a piano sonata on the level of Beethoven’s; not until Brahms that the symphony reaches comparable stature; and, dare we say it, not even Bartók or Shostakovich surpass him in the string quartet.

But Beethoven’s artistic legacy extends well beyond these pillars. He also made extraordinary contributions to the sonata for violin and piano, the sonata for cello and piano—a genre he essentially invented—the piano trio, and even opera. Yet his enormous success in traditional and commercially viable forms can sometimes overshadow his forays into more unusual or “experimental” genres. Beethoven wrote dozens of works in these “experimental” genres that are less frequently performed but no less revealing of his inventiveness and spirit. Among these is his only original, full-length string quintet: the String Quintet in C Major, Op. 29, composed in 1801.

Written on the cusp of his so-called “middle period,” this work mostly looks back toward Haydn and Mozart rather than forward to the bold new path Beethoven would soon blaze. The instrumentation—two violins, two violas, and cello—mirrors that of Mozart’s own quintets and allows for an especially rich middle texture. The work is sometimes nicknamed “The Storm” for its finale: murmuring tremolos suggest distant thunder, while rapid violin figures evoke flashes of lightning. But this is no tempest on the scale of Beethoven’s later symphonic storms. It is a storm in classical proportions, more reminiscent of Haydn’s The Seasons—dramatic, certainly, but tightly structured and ultimately decorous.

Some scholars have speculated that this more conservative approach reflects Beethoven’s personal situation at the time. Around 1801, he was beginning to accept that his hearing loss was not temporary, but permanent—a terrifying realization for a composer. Perhaps this quintet represents a brief retreat to familiar terrain before he forged ahead with the bold, emotionally charged works that would define his middle period.

In the opening movement of the quintet, Beethoven crafts a spacious musical landscape where flowing themes and delicate textures evoke both intimacy and grandeur. The second movement, Adagio molto espressivo, is poised and inward, unfolding a long, singing line over restrained accompaniment—a striking contrast to the extroverted outer movements. The third movement, an unstoppable Scherzo, features rhythmic play and interplay among the parts that showcase Beethoven’s delight in musical wit and conversational dialogue. The finale, “The Storm,” sizzles with energy. 

The quintet was dedicated to Count Moritz von Fries, a generous patron who also received the dedications of Beethoven’s Violin Sonatas Op. 23 and 24. A long and tangled copyright dispute followed when Fries, believing (correctly) that he had the right to do so, sold the work to the publisher Artaria—unaware that Beethoven had already arranged to publish it with Breitkopf. The result was a tangle of conflicting claims, two competing editions, and Beethoven’s public accusation that Artaria’s edition was riddled with errors. The matter was eventually resolved, thanks again to Fries, who negotiated a compromise: Beethoven would write a second quintet to be published solely by Artaria. That second quintet, however, never materialized.

Thus, the Op. 29 Quintet remains unique in Beethoven’s output. His earlier Op. 4 quintet is a reworking of his Octet for winds, and Op. 104 is an arrangement of a piano trio, revised by a student and lightly edited by Beethoven. A brief fugue (Op. 137) and an unfinished late fragment (WoO 62, believed to be Beethoven’s last work) round out his sparse contributions to the string quintet genre. One wonders: had he completed that final quintet, would he have redefined the genre as he had the quartet? We’ll never know. But in the year following Beethoven’s death, Franz Schubert—himself in the final year of his life—would do exactly that with his own String Quintet in C Major, a pinnacle of the chamber music repertoire.

This quintet invites us to rediscover a quieter corner of Beethoven’s genius. It may not blaze with the defiance of his symphonies or the intensity of his later quartets, but it offers something just as essential: music you can count on to be elegant, expressive, and deeply moving.

William Grant Still
(1895–1978)

SUMMERLAND 
for violin and piano

Composed 1935 | United States 

Summerland, arranged for violin and piano from Still’s original solo piano version, is a piece of quiet radiance. It comes from Three Visions (1935), a set depicting the soul’s journey after death. In Summerland, the soul reaches a state of peace—not a conventional heaven, but a glowing, tranquil place beyond pain and striving.

The violin’s long, singing lines and the piano’s luminous harmonies work together to evoke timelessness. Nothing rushes. Still allows the music to breathe, and in doing so, invites the listener into a shared moment of calm reflection. This is music that offers beauty without insistence—a benediction in sound, and a reminder that grace is worth lingering over.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
(1756–1791)

Piano Concerto No. 13 in C Major, K. 415 for piano and string quartet

Composed 1782 | Vienna, Austria 

Mozart composed his Piano Concerto in C Major, K. 415 in the final months of 1782, shortly after relocating to Vienna and launching a new life as a freelance artist. It is the third in a group of three concertos—alongside K. 413 and K. 414—that he offered by subscription for the upcoming concert season. These works were designed to appeal both to connoisseurs and casual music lovers, and Mozart took great pride in their accessibility and craftsmanship. “These concertos,” he wrote to his father, “are a happy medium between too difficult and too easy… very brilliant, pleasing to the ear and natural, without being vapid.” It’s a remarkably accurate description of a work that balances polish, virtuosity, and emotional depth with the deceptive ease of true mastery.

Mozart also noted that these concertos could be performed with either a full orchestra or “a quattro”—that is, with a string quartet accompanying the piano. This was more than a stylistic curiosity; it was a savvy marketing move. By publishing and promoting the works in this flexible format, Mozart made them more appealing to amateur musicians and smaller private salons where hiring an orchestra was impractical. The “a quattro” version expanded his potential customer base and performance venues, ensuring that the concertos could be enjoyed in both public concerts and domestic settings. It’s chamber music with concert flair—and concert music with chamber intimacy.

Today’s performance uses this more intimate version, revealing the chamber-music soul at the heart of the piece. With just four string players and piano, the concerto becomes a conversation among equals: nimble, transparent, and full of character.

The first movement, Allegro, opens with bold, confident gestures, but its main theme is quietly intriguing—built on imitative, contrapuntal lines that wind around one another in a way that’s somewhat unusual for Mozart. From the start, we sense a balance between grandeur and intricacy, extroversion and intellect. The piano writing is brilliant and athletic, filled with cascading scales and deft filigree, but it’s not mere display: the dialogue between soloist and quartet is dynamic, balanced, and full of elegant surprises.

The second movement, Andante, offers contrast through restraint. This music sings—graceful, poised, and inward-looking. Its aria-like melody unfolds with quiet clarity, and in the quartet version especially, the movement takes on the intimacy of a private confession or a lullaby spoken just above a whisper. It’s a musical expression of serenity that doesn’t seek to dazzle so much as to reassure.

The finale, Rondo: Allegro, is buoyant and irrepressible—until it’s not. Mozart’s main rondo theme is cheerful and skipping, full of charm and rhythmic vitality. But the episodes between its returns include two passages of surprising introspection, where the music slows, deepens, and searches more inwardly before springing back into motion. These episodes lend the movement unexpected weight and emotional shading, as if joy and reflection were two sides of the same coin. The result is a finale that’s not only witty and brilliant, but genuinely moving.

Joaquín Turina
(1882–1949)

Scène andalouse, Op. 75 
for Viola, piano, & string quartet

Composed 1911 | Paris, France 

In the late-19th and early-20th century, Spanish music began to emerge as a major voice in European concert life as the music of Isaac Albeniz and Enrique Granados appeared on concerts and won hearts and minds. That trend continued with Joaquín Turina and his friend and compatriot Manuel de Falla, among the younger composers who brought Spanish music into dialogue with the modern trends of fin-de-siècle Paris. 

Turina moved to Paris in 1905 to study piano with Moritz Moszkowski and composition with Vincent d’Indy at the Schola Cantorum, a bastion of rigorous, Franckian musical thought. His early works, like the Piano Quintet Op. 1, followed that French model closely. But a transformative moment came in 1907, when both Albéniz and Falla attended a performance of that quintet and encouraged Turina to look closer to home—not to Paris—for inspiration. Turina recalled that night as a turning point: “We were three Spaniards gathered together in that corner of Paris, and it was our duty to fight bravely for the national music of our country.”

The result was a shift in musical voice that blossomed in works like Scène andalouse (Escena andaluza), composed in 1911 and premiered that December in Paris by violist Lise Blinoff, the all-female Leroux-Reboul Quartet, and Turina himself at the piano. The work is scored for viola, piano, and string quartet, a rich and rarely used combination that allows for lush texture and intimate drama. The ensemble closely echoes that of Ernest Chausson’s Concert for violin, piano, and string quartet—a work Turina likely encountered during his Paris years, and whose unusual instrumentation may have inspired his own choice. While unmistakably Spanish in character, Scène andalouse still bears the imprint of Turina’s Paris training—particularly in its cyclical form and refined use of instrumental color.

The piece is cast in two movements, each a kind of musical tableau evoking a different moment in an Andalusian evening. The first, Crépuscule du soir (Evening Twilight), opens with a lyrical and rhythmically ambiguous piano solo—music that hints at flamenco through its sinuous lines and ornamented gestures. The viola enters like a cantaor, the flamenco singer, introducing a theme filled with Andalusian flavor, including the augmented second, a hallmark of local folk music with deep Moorish roots. The string quartet gradually joins in, expanding the musical texture with pizzicato and strummed effects that recall the Spanish guitar. A short cello bridge leads into the Serenata, where the viola offers arpeggiated, guitar-like figures and lyrical melodies. At its heart is a habanera—a lilting, dance-like section of Cuban origin that had become absorbed into the Spanish musical imagination. The serenade eventually returns, bringing this first “scene” to a quiet, romantic close.

The second movement, À la fenêtre (At the Window), serves as both response and reflection. The piano and string quartet open with a new theme, derived from the material that opened the first movement, establishing a continuity between scenes. The viola replies with a modally inflected, waltz-like melody, full of expressive warmth. The central section revisits and transforms earlier material—including a nostalgic recollection of the habanera—framing this movement as a kind of emotional recapitulation. In a brilliant touch of cyclical form, Turina brings back the main themes from both movements, now subtly altered and passed between instruments. The viola’s earlier melody returns, this time played by the piano, and the work concludes with a coda that unites its thematic threads in a final gesture of reflection.

Franz Peter Schubert
(1797–1828)

Piano Trio in E-flat Major, D. 929

Composed November 1827 | Vienna, Austria

In the fall of 1827, Franz Schubert composed two of the greatest works in the piano trio repertoire: the lyrical Trio in B-flat Major, D. 898, and the more expansive Trio in E-flat Major, D. 929. Contemporary audiences often favor the charm and relative concision of the B-flat Trio, while critics have sometimes found the E-flat Trio unwieldy in length. But in the 19th century, it was quite the opposite. Robert Schumann praised the E-flat Trio as “spirited, masculine, and dramatic,” preferring it to its companion. The truth is that both are radiant masterpieces—intimate and expansive, lyrical and searching—by a composer only thirty years old and at the height of his powers.

And that power was hard-won. At the time of writing, Schubert was battling illness, financial uncertainty, and a sense of artistic isolation. He had recently suffered the death of Beethoven—his musical hero—and knew that his own health was declining. Yet 1827–28 proved to be the most astonishingly productive period of his life, yielding not only the two piano trios but also the F minor Fantasy for piano four-hands, Winterreise, Schwanengesang, the last three piano sonatas, the sublime String Quintet in C Major, and so much more.

Schubert himself regarded the trio highly enough that he chose it as the centerpiece of the only public concert devoted entirely to his music during his lifetime. Held at Vienna’s Musikverein on December 26, 1827, the concert was organized by a circle of friends and was received with genuine enthusiasm—an all-too-rare moment of recognition for Schubert. The trio was also the only one of his works to be published beyond Austria while he was still alive.

The first movement begins boldly, with all three instruments stating the opening motive in unison—a commanding gesture that launches a sonata form filled with drama, warmth, and contrapuntal richness. Schubert’s lyricism is always close at hand, but here it’s tempered by drive and direction. Still, the music never rushes. As critic James Keller notes, Schubert rarely gives the impression of being in a hurry. Schumann famously described Schubert’s music as being of “heavenly length”—not to suggest bloat, but rather a kind of suspended time in which ideas blossom slowly and fully.

The second movement is widely considered one of Schubert’s most sublime creations: a somber, impassioned “song without words.” In fact, the music is rooted in a literal song. Schubert’s friend Leopold Sonnleithner claimed the melody was inspired by the Swedish folksong Se solen sjunker (“The Sun Has Set”), which Schubert heard at a recital earlier that year. Though the claim was long dismissed, musicologist Manfred Willfort rediscovered the song in 1978, confirming its striking resemblance. Schubert didn’t quote the song directly, but its octave leaps and its tread-like accompaniment became the foundation for a movement of quiet gravity and expressive depth—one that seems to meditate on loss, remembrance, and the fading of light.

The scherzo that follows is tightly constructed, rhythmically agile, and full of contrapuntal wit. Its trio section offers welcome repose, but the canonic interplay in the outer sections keeps the momentum crisp. The final movement is vast—nearly 750 measures—and unusually free in form. But the scale is purposeful: a broad, rhapsodic landscape where themes are introduced, developed, revisited, and transformed. Chief among them is the Swedish-inspired theme from the second movement, which is transformed near the end of the movement in a luminous major key. This final statement lends the work a sense of catharsis—an emotional release that feels both intimate and transcendent.

Though rooted in classical structures, Schubert’s approach is unmistakably his own. He stretches traditional forms not for effect, but because his lyricism demands it. His music unfolds like a journey without a fixed destination—one that invites you to follow its path without expectation, discovering beauties both grand and intimate along the way. This trio offers clarity, depth, and emotional truth spanning memory, loss, joy, and renewal.