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 For Better or Worse:
The Virtuosic Flute
Virtuosity has evolved both in popularity and by definition over the
past two centuries. A look at the phenomenon through the lens of the
19th century, when it was simultaneously celebrated and reviled, can
help us better understand its development and significance.
by Timothy Hagen

Why is so much flute music very difficult? excluding the lower middle class but enticing members of
the “middle bourgeoisie”4 to purchase a level of artistic
Why do flutists lack solo repertoire by major Romantic appreciation previously available only to aristocrats and
composers? nobility in private salons and at court.
The burgeoning market for virtuosity accidentally con-
These questions are intimately linked within the context of tributed to a backlash. Critics harbored “suspicion that
virtuosity in the 19th century. It is therefore worth explor- middle-class audiences only went to concerts…to see and
ing this phenomenon, which affected attitudes about the be seen…and it was far stronger for audiences at virtuoso
flute and flutists so dramatically that players still deal with concerts than at symphony concerts.”5 This dismissive atti-
the aftermath. tude was extended beyond audiences to performances and
performers, revealed in phrases like “excessive ornament”
The Controversial Rise of Virtuosity and “superficial virtuosity.”6 Lines were drawn between
The European middle class of the early 19th century was
hungry for novelty in all fields, including music, where nov-
elty was represented in part by instrumental virtuosity.
Provincial instrumentalists flocked, for example, to Vienna,
“the musical metropolis,”1 assembling careers piecemeal. To
make ends meet they often played in orchestras, taught, and
composed. They also staged benefit concerts for themselves,
which typically featured a wide array of performers, as well as
one concerto and at least one virtuoso showpiece.2
Not confined to Vienna, virtuosity increasingly flour-
ished throughout Europe from 1800 to 1830, followed by
FRANZ LISZT BY FRANZ HANFSTAENGL

what musicologist Carl Dahlhaus called “the heyday of vir-

tuosity [that] began with Paganini’s tours of the European
capitals in the early 1830s and ended in September 1847
when Franz Liszt abandoned his career as a pianist.”3 Like
his Viennese counterparts, Liszt in particular founded his
career on new socioeconomic ground. His touring per-
formances demanded higher-than-typical ticket prices, Franz Liszt in 1858.

Interior of the Vienna State Opera.

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Carl Dahlhaus Robert Schumann Eduard Hanslick

Liszt, virtuosity’s quintessential representative, and such crit- ity. By the 1830s, Liszt felt trapped by the superficial style bril-
ics as Robert Schumann and, later, Eduard Hanslick, who lant, the foundation of his pianistic technique.11 After hearing

CARL DAHLHAUS COURTESY ANNEMARIE DAHLHAUS; ROBERT SCHUMANN BY JOHANN ANTON VÖLLNER; HAMBURG, EDUARD HANSLICK ARTIST UNKNOWN; NICCOLÒ PAGANINI (1819), BY JEAN AUGUSTE DOMINIQUE INGRES
advocated “serious or ‘symphonic’ music [over] insignificant, Paganini, he began to understand how he might use perfor-
‘dilettantish’ instrumental music.”7 mative virtuosity as a tool in articulating musical form, trans-
forming it into compositional virtuosity and giving it “a sub-
Liszt: Reinventor of Virtuosity stance lacking in the fashionable [style brilliant]….”12
This conflict reveals virtuosity’s growth from a quality into a Following this realization, critics began to note the orchestral
genre that was often seen as superficial, lacking meaning beyond quality of Liszt’s piano playing and compositions, specifically
the notes. Liszt combatted this view of his works through his his “tendency—both in his compositions and his playing—to
advocacy of other composers and a penchant for donating pro- multiply timbres, stratify registers, differentiate dynamics, and
recompose textures….”13 These qualities coincide with every-
ceeds to charity. He also worked to be meaningful to as wide a
thing Berlioz found lacking in the piano before Liszt, offering
public as possible, casting himself as “interpreter of ‘classical’
grounds for his veneration of Liszt. In turn, Berlioz’s influence
works, German patriot, Hungarian patriot, man of letters, the
is clear in Liszt’s decision to feature “orchestrality” in his piano
composer-pianist, the artist aristocrat, as prophet, as humanitar-
works, even those that move beyond symphonic transcrip-
ian, or as revolutionary…. He wanted…to make the virtuoso
tions. Liszt’s Grande fantaisie di bravura sur la clochette de
pianist mean something more than the ongoing debasement of
Paganini, for example, “is a composed-out example of his
super-virtuosos seemed to allow.”8 His desire to be as much a
orchestral approach to the piano,”14 as described above.
social and cultural icon as a musical one placed him alongside
another great 19th-century figure: Hector Berlioz.
According to musicologist Cécile Reynaud, Berlioz viewed
himself as skilled in “playing the orchestra.” He achieved fame
through works such as the Symphonie Fantastique and
Requiem, which contained unprecedented orchestral effects
(e.g., incorporating chromatic brass, introducing novel instru-
ments like the tuba and English horn into symphonic instru-
mentation, using offstage instruments in dialogue with those
onstage, using four timpanists simultaneously to evoke thun-
der, and requiring strings to play col legno). Despite his com-
positional virtuosity, Berlioz expressed impatience toward vir-
tuoso performers and pieces and, in particular, disdain for
piano arrangements of symphonic work.
Despite their differences regarding instrumental virtuosity,
Berlioz and Liszt became friends and collaborators. Berlioz
admired not only Liszt’s novel piano effects but also the
younger composer’s artistry. Likewise, Liszt expressed his
admiration for Berlioz through a lifelong study of the elder
composer’s music, resulting in piano arrangements of many
Berlioz works. Berlioz usually responded to such arrange-
ments with revulsion9 but viewed Liszt’s versions as “work[s]
of art”10 and communicated with Liszt about them.
It is plausible that Berlioz, along with Liszt’s 1831 encounter
with Paganini, inspired Liszt to pursue compositional virtuos- Niccolo Paganini

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 Hector Berlioz Charles Nicholson
Though it was revolutionary, Liszt’s symphonic rethinking
of the piano was a tool used to give virtuosity meaning, com-
ing around the time Dahlhaus notes “the transformation in
the structure of the [public] concert,”15 which, as a result of
anti-virtuosity pressure, promoted symphonic works over
concertos and other virtuoso pieces. Liszt never succumbed to
such attitudes, continually pushing himself to experiment. His
Après une lecture du Dante is a tri-thematic work for solo
piano written on such a scale as to invoke both “a single sonata
movement and a multimovement sonata cycle.”16 Likewise, his
Piano Concerto in E flat is described by Dahlhaus as being in
league with Brahms’ Piano Concerto in B flat in its absorption
of “symphonic style.”17 It is therefore fitting to say that Liszt the
pioneer won out over the critics of virtuosity by blending vir-
tuoso and symphonic styles to create something richer than
either had been before. Virtuoso flutists, however, were not so
fortunate, largely due to the limitations of their instrument.
For Worse: The Victimized Flute
The effect of the rise of virtuosity on the 19th-century flute is
connected to the instrument’s state at the beginning of the
century. A treasured instrument in the 1700s, the flute’s diffi-
culties in intonation, facility, and tone production caused its
status to diminish, and major composers consequently
stopped writing serious solo and chamber repertoire for the
instrument over the first three decades of the 1800s. They
clearly felt their efforts were better spent writing for the piano
or violin, neither of which had problems of such magnitude.
HECTOR BERLIOZ BY FRANCK, PARIS, C. 1855; CHARLES NICHOLSON BY T. BART
Brilliant virtuoso flutists, most notably Britain’s Charles
Nicholson and Germany’s Theobald Böhm, therefore dedicat-
ed themselves to improving the flute. It stands to reason that
in their minds redesigning the flute might have helped recap-
ture some of its former glory.
Intonation had been a bane for flutists and composers since
the early 18th century. To increase flexibility, flutists, including
Johann Joachim Quantz, had invented a number of devices,
but none were up to the challenge. The result was a funda-
mentally flawed instrument. Eminent flutist Johann George
Tromlitz wrote that keys with more than three sharps or flats
were “difficult and unsuitable.”18 As composers became con-
temptuous of these flaws, which weakened the flute as an
ensemble instrument, the need to improve intonation became
increasingly pressing, and inventors continued their attempts
Theobald Böhm
to solve the problem. The most lasting innovation was Frederick
Nolan’s ring key, still found today on “open-hole” flutes.
The flute’s weaknesses in facility were equally troubling. At
the beginning of the 18th century, the one-keyed flute was
standard, meaning that most pitches were obtained by placing
fingers directly onto holes. Such flutes were diatonic.
Chromatic notes sounded via “cross-fingerings,” whereby
nonconsecutive fingers were placed down, resulting in awk-
ward execution and poor projection and intonation. The
flute’s status “of possessing the worst cross-fingerings”19 of any
wind instrument caused it to become “the first orchestral
woodwind to accept additional chromatic keywork.”20 A more
facile flute would have benefitted players and, through its
enhanced compositional possibilities, likely drawn more com-
posers to the instrument. Throughout the second half of the
18th century and the first half of the 19th, makers therefore
experimented with adding different numbers of keys, accord-
ing to various fingering systems, to improve facility, a phe-
nomenon detailed in flute historian Nancy Toff ’s The
Development of the Modern Flute.
Unlike intonation and facility, areas many makers were try-
ing to revolutionize, the fullness of tone available to modern
flutists can be traced back to a single figure, Charles
Nicholson, the reigning flute virtuoso in London from the
1810s to the 1830s, as detailed by flute historian Ardal Powell
in his book The Flute. The most conspicuous element of his
playing, according to German inventor and flutist Theobald
Böhm, “was his tone, which…was so powerful that no conti-
nental player could match it,” achieved through particular
embouchure positioning and breathing, as well as unusually
large tone holes. The most plausible answer for why
Nicholson’s conception lasted, as opposed to his colleagues’
sounds that historians have called “sweet” and “mellifluous,”
owes to “the demands of power and brilliance made by…the
modern orchestra,”21 developing at the time.
Still, a more powerful tone had its critics, such as Richard
Wagner, who purportedly referred to the more powerfully
played flute as a “cannon.”22 In his essay On Conducting, Wagner
complained, “A softly sustained piano is hardly obtainable from
[woodwinds] anymore, particularly from the flutists, who have
transformed their formerly so soft instruments into mighty
shawms.”23 (Wagner himself never had to make important flute
passages heard over his massive orchestras.)
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 from nearly inaudible to incredibly loud—available from pianos
and violins, to say nothing of effects like piano chords and violin
double, triple, and quadruple stops. Thus, no flutist could
achieve, “as concerto historian Abraham Veinus put it, the [19th-
century concerto’s]…broad, obvious gestures meant to be seen
and heard from the cheapest seats,”25 another fact that caused
flute literature to suffer. At the same time, paradoxically, the
flute’s “role in the orchestra became ever more important.”26

For Better: The Utilized Flute

Beethoven’s Third was written for flutist Anton Dressing at the Theatre an der Wien.
The man who finally assembled all of the elements neces-
sary for the flute to navigate the demands of intonation, facil-
ity, and tone production was the aforementioned Böhm. Born
in 1794, he was around 20 when, as Toff states, he received his
first performing appointment. He had established himself as a
professional goldsmith by then, playing and producing flutes
for himself and his friends to play in his spare time. By 1828 he
had become a full-fledged flute manufacturer. Afterward came
three crucial stages in the finalization of his flute design, real-
ized in his instruments of 1831, 1832, and 1847.
Even a cursory examination of 19th-century orchestral music
reveals that composers who fancied themselves “serious” pos-
sessed an ever more virtuosic understanding of the flute,
thanks to experience with some of its finest players. To these
composers, as to Berlioz, virtuosity would have contributed to
the meaning of a work, allowing them to write increasingly dif-
ficult passages while escaping the charges of superficiality that
affected performing virtuosos and the works they played.
The solo in the finale of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Third
Symphony, composed in 1804, is a fine starting point. Lasting
for eight measures (mm. 192–200), it is a continuous whirlwind
of arpeggios and scales in D major, a “virtuoso-sounding pas-
sage [that is] technically quite simple, as it involves only two
cross-fingerings”27 on a pre-Böhm flute. Preceding the solo is a
section in which the flute floats on top of the violins, reaching

THEATER AN DER WIEN BY JAKOB ALT (1789–1872); FELIX MENDELSSOHN BY BARTHOLDY JAMES WARREN CHILDE,1839; LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN BY JOSEPH FARL STIELER,1820
The result, as Toff explains, was a flute with tone holes spaced what would have been an adventurous A3, a flute pitch
not for fingering ease but for acoustically correct intonation. Beethoven had only first used in his Second Symphony, as flutist
These holes were larger and worked with a larger bore, allowing Amy Hamilton notes. In the Eighth and Ninth Symphonies,
players to achieve fuller sounds. Facility was improved by intri- Beethoven extended the flute’s range further, to B3 flat.
cate keywork, allowing fingers to close both nearby and remote According to Beethoven specialist Theodore Albrecht, the
tone holes. This design survives today with only minor tweaks to Third Symphony (as well as the third Leonore Overture) was
the mechanism, bore size, and tone hole placement. written to be played by excellent principal flutist Anton
Despite its superiority to other flutes of the time, Böhm’s
flute was not popular before the second half of the 19th cen-
tury, especially in his native Germany, as Toff explains, due to
the number of instrument makers fighting for primacy and
older players unwilling to learn a new fingering system. This
forced Böhm to tour Europe, performing his own works as
part of a campaign on behalf of his design. Given his prioriti-
zation of technique and lack of Liszt’s superhuman artistic
profile and abilities, one can easily imagine Böhm being
reviled as a superficial virtuoso by critics. Such a view leads to
observations, like this one by Toff, regarding potential acci-
dental effects of the efforts of Böhm and his colleagues:

The great composers of the century, possibly discour-

aged by the performers’ enthusiasm for merely
impressive pieces, were not inclined to waste their
creative efforts on the flute. Louis Fleury, reflecting
despairingly on the lack of Romantic solo literature,
charged that the virtuosi thereby “did more harm to
their instrument, in spite of their undoubted mastery
of it, than the clumsiest amateur could have done.”24

Ironically, in trying to save the flute, Böhm’s approach likely dis-

couraged composers from writing serious solo and chamber lit-
erature for it. Moreover, for all the advantages of his design, it
was impossible for any design to replicate the scope of sound— Felix Mendelssohn

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WINTER 2015 THE FLUTIST QUARTERLY 33
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Louis Drouet
Dreyssig and his colleagues in the orchestra of the Theater an
der Wien. The premiere of the Eighth Symphony in 1814
included exemplary flutists Georg Bayr and Aloys Khayll, who
had played at the Theater an der Wien alongside Dreyssig.
Among these players, Beethoven received a first-rate educa-
tion in the pre-Böhm flute’s capabilities.
Felix Mendelssohn’s orchestral music represented a significant
step up in technical difficulty, reflecting the contemporaneous
jump in virtuosic flute playing. The finale to his Fourth
Symphony, commissioned by the London Philharmonic Society
in 1833, is a furious saltarello, the theme of which is exposed
(mm. 6–34) as a flute duet featuring long streams of rapidly
articulated notes that extend to A3. It is the earliest example of
such strenuous flute articulation in any symphony from the
modern orchestral canon, though it is not isolated in
Mendelssohn’s output. His 1842 Scherzo from the Incidental
Music to A Midsummer Night’s Dream closes with a 40-bar flute
solo using near-constant 16th-note articulation with only two
quick opportunities for the player to breathe.
Like Beethoven, Mendelssohn knew some of the finest
flutists of his day, though they also pre-dated the rise of the
Böhm flute. He persuaded renowned Dutch flutist Louis
Drouet to leave retirement in 1828, well before he wrote either
of the works mentioned above.28 Drouet’s Variations on God
Save the King “gave [him] ample opportunity to show off his
sensational double staccato”30 and were almost certainly
known to Mendelssohn, as they were performed on the same
1829 concert as the English premiere of Mendelssohn’s A
Midsummer Night’s Dream Overture, conducted by the com-
poser.31 Moreover, Charles Nicholson was active with the
London Philharmonic Society at the time of the premiere of
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An illustration of Karl August Grenser, an early Böhm supporter.
Mendelssohn’s Fourth Symphony and may well have played
the work’s premiere. As for the Midsummer Night’s Dream
Scherzo, Mendelssohn again had proof of the playability of his
flute writing, according to flutist Leonardo de Lorenzo:
When [Mendelssohn] rehearsed his famous
Scherzo…for the first time, the first flutist failed in
the difficult passage, and declared impatiently that it
could not be played. The composer immediately said
to the second flutist, “Then, please, Mr. Haacke, will
you play it?” And Haacke did so successfully.32
As Hamilton posits, Robert Schumann’s awkwardly difficult
flute parts point to a lesser understanding of the flute. His First
Symphony, for example, was written in 1841 and features
LOUIS DROUET BY NELSON MULNIER; KARL AUGUSTIN GRENSER BY CHRISTIAN REIMERS
“many technical passages…[that] were quite awkward…[for
the] eight-keyed flute” common at the beginning of the 19th
century but that would have been easier on the Böhm flute.
Karl August Grenser was the principal flutist in Leipzig at the
time of the work’s premiere under Mendelssohn,33 so it is plau-
sible that he was the first flutist in that performance. Powell
notes that Grenser was a known Böhm supporter as early as
1824, though Leipzig flutists tended to be anti-Böhm in the
following decades, as the city was “a deeply conservative force
in German flute-playing….”34 It is therefore unknown whether
Grenser played a Böhm flute and consequently how awkward
Schumann’s writing would have been for him.
In any case, passagework is not the only difficulty for the
flute in Schumann’s First Symphony; intermittent B3 flats
can be found, sometimes scored softly in passages where the
flute is exposed,35 and there are examples of two flutes play-
ing “in unison in the extreme upper register at soft dynam-
ic levels, even though intonation difficulties were probable
under these circumstances.”36
Schumann’s Neue Zeitschrift für Musik helps little in ascer-
taining his knowledge about the flute, as its many years of
reviews contain scarce references to works featuring the flute
as primary instrument, none authored by him. The few extant
articles relate to works by anti-Böhm flutists and flutists and
composers with ties to conservative, implicitly anti-Böhm
locales. Any knowledge Schumann might have gleaned from
the flute via Neue Zeitschrift reviews would therefore have
been related to works that were most likely for pre-Böhm
flutes, instruments for which his symphonic writing would
have been especially difficult.
In any case, it is plausible that even if Schumann knew little
about the flute, he knew the music of Beethoven and
Mendelssohn intimately and may have hypothesized that his
music represented the next logical step in meaningful virtuos-
ity. If it was acceptable for Beethoven to stretch the flute’s
range in his Third Symphony—a musical monument to a
great hero—and Mendelssohn to make unprecedented techni-
cal demands to depict a fiery Italian dance (Fourth
Symphony) and a flurry of fairies (A Midsummer Night’s
Dream), then surely he was safe to push the flute further in his
tribute to springtime.
A New Century’s Possibilities
Predisposed to disregard virtuosity, many 19th-century com-
posers were likely discouraged from writing solo and chamber
flute literature, both by the instrument’s unresolvable short-
comings and the attitudes and approaches of virtuoso inven-
tor-players. They nevertheless recognized the vastly improved
capabilities of the instrument in the hands of these very play-
ers and in turn pushed the boundaries of what the instrument
could securely do, thereby coopting the work of the inventor-
players in the name of expression and influencing future gen-
erations of composers. By the end of the century, however, vir-
tuosic sensationalism had become prominent again. Younger
composers (most notably Richard Strauss, as detailed by his-
torian James Hepokoski) emerged with writing more chal-
lenging than anything discussed above, espousing complexity
simply because they could.
Though Strauss’ attitude marks the antithesis of mid-centu-
ry, anti-virtuoso sentiment, his passages that still trouble us, as
well as the increasingly difficult music composed after him,
would never have been if not for the initial rise of virtuosity
and all the possibilities it introduced. For better or worse, the
province of today’s flutists is to master these possibilities. ❃
Timothy Hagen is a professional flutist, educator, composer,
and scholar. Active throughout the United States as a guest
teacher and artist, he is principal flutist of the Missouri
Symphony and resides in Dallas, where he is adjunct instructor
of flute at Brookhaven College and maintains a large private
flute studio. He holds degrees from the University of Texas at
Austin, University of Southern California, and North Carolina
School of the Arts and completed additional studies at the
Colburn School.
Notes
1. Clements, “Situating Schubert,” 17.
2. Ibid., 23−28.
3. Dahlhaus, Nineteenth-Century Music, 137.
4. Gooley, The Virtuoso Liszt, 7.
5. Gooley, “The Battle Against Instrumental Virtuosity,” 88.
6. Ibid., 77.
7. Ibid.
8. Gooley, The Virtuoso Liszt, 14
9. Reynaud, “Berlioz, Liszt, and the Question of Virtuosity,” 117.
10. Ibid., 114.
11. Dahlhaus, 135.
12. Ibid.
13. Gooley, The Virtuoso Liszt, 36.
14. Ibid., 37.
15. Dahlhaus, 140.
16. Ibid., 135.
17. Ibid., 140.
18. Toff, The Development of the Modern Flute, 23.
19. Ibid., 24.
20. Ibid.
21. Ibid., 42.
22. Powell, 191.
23. Ibid.
24. Toff, The Development of the Modern Flute, 79.
25. Toff, The Flute Book, 245.
26. Ibid., 235.
27. Hamilton, “The Relationship of Flute Construction,” 139.
28. Albrecht,Anton Dreyssig, 188.
29. Clements, 145.
30. Wye, Foreword to Variations on British Airs.
31. Ibid.
32. de Lorenzo, My Complete Story of the Flute,” 355−356.
33. Wion, “Orchestral Principal Flutists.”
34. Powell, 198.
35. Hamilton, 292.
36. Ibid., 294.
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Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without
permission.