From Morning to Mountain

I am most happy to be here today with you, Mr. Bartley.

And we are glad that you're here, Maestro Greig Could you tell us about your early life.

Ya, I was born in Bergen, Norway, on the 15th of June 1843. My father was a merchant and my mother was musical; she gave me my first piano lessons. From a young age, I loved the sound of Norwegian folk tunes, their rhythms, their melodies, their stories.

I studied at the Leipzig Conservatory in Germany, where I learned the techniques of composition, but my heart always remained in Norway. I wanted to create music that spoke of my homeland, its landscapes, its seas, its mountains, and its people.

I became known for my piano music and for my orchestral works, but perhaps my greatest love was writing music that told stories of Norway, its legends, and its spirit.

Transcript

George - bold

 Maestro Greig - bold, italics

Welcome to Celebrate Creativity and this is episode 495. From Morning to Mountain. My name is George Bartley, and today I'd like to talk to the ghost or if you will the spirit of Norwegian composer Edward Greg.  And in this episode I would like to begin with Morning - the selection you just heard - and end with in the Hall of the Mountain King - two of the most well known sections of the Peer Gent suite by Edward Grieg

ghost  enter sound

I am most happy to be here today with you, Mr. Bartley.

And we are glad that you're here, Maestro Greig Could you tell us about your early life.

Ya, I was born in Bergen, Norway, on the 15th of June 1843. My father was a merchant and my mother was musical; she gave me my first piano lessons. From a young age, I loved the sound of Norwegian folk tunes, their rhythms, their melodies, their stories.

I studied at the Leipzig Conservatory in Germany, where I learned the techniques of composition, but my heart always remained in Norway. I wanted to create music that spoke of my homeland, its landscapes, its seas, its mountains, and its people.

I became known for my piano music and for my orchestral works, but perhaps my greatest love was writing music that told stories of Norway, its legends, and its spirit.

I was very small, barely a boy, when I would sit beside her and try to imitate the notes and melodies, sometimes clumsily, sometimes almost correctly. But always I felt a joy, a longing, a sense that music could speak what words could not.

Then, as I grew, I discovered the songs of Norway, the folk melodies, simple but filled with feeling, with stories, with the voices of the mountains, the rivers, and the people.

It was then I knew music was my calling, my language, my way to tell the world who I was and where I came from.

Maestro Greg, when were your first lessons on the piano - I presume that was the first instrument that you learned to play.

Ya, My first lessons were on the piano from my mother and then from teachers in Bergen. I learned the technical skills, the scales, the exercises, but at first I found them rather stiff and dry. I wanted to play with feeling, with heart, not just with the fingers.

My first compositions were small piano pieces, short songs, little works that tried to capture the sounds, the feelings, the spirit of my homeland. Even then, I wanted each note, each chord, each pause, to tell a story, to paint a picture, to move the listener as the folk songs had moved me.

Fascinating, Maestro Grieg, when was the first time that you felt your music had truly become alive?

Ah, yes, Mr. Bartley, this memory is vivid even now. I remember sitting at the piano one quiet evening in Bergen; perhaps I was only a teenager. I had composed a small piece inspired by a Norwegian folk song, simple, modest, but full of feeling. I played it slowly and carefully, and then something happened, something magical. As the last note lingered in the air, I felt a warmth, a glow, as if the mountains, the rivers, the wind of Norway were listening, approving, embracing my music.

Even then, I knew I wanted to capture the simplicity and the depth of our folk music and to transform it into something both intimate and enduring.
And after I had composed my early Lyric Pieces, I played them for friends, for teachers, for anyone who would listen. Some were impressed, others were polite, but all gave me encouragement.

Eventually, I began to publish my pieces, small collections, simple, modest, but heartfelt. And then something remarkable happened: performers from Norway and even Germany began to take notice. They played my pieces in salons and concert halls, and slowly my music began to travel beyond Bergen and beyond Norway.

People wrote to me letters praising the melodies, the charm, the feeling that seemed uniquely Norwegian. They said my music spoke of a place and a people they had never known, and yet could feel in their hearts.

I remember one young pianist playing my pieces in Leipzig with tears in her eyes, and I realized, George, that the music I had created had found a voice of its own. It was no longer just my music; it belonged to those who listened, who felt, who understood.

Maestro Greg, could you tell us about the first big concert where your music truly made its mark?

Ah, yes, George, I remember it as if the hall itself still hums with that first performance. It was in 1869 in Copenhagen. I had traveled there hoping to make a name beyond Norway. I presented some of my early works, including my piano pieces and a small orchestral work, to an audience of musicians, critics, and music lovers.

I was nervous, of course, my heart raced, but as the first notes filled the hall, something extraordinary happened. The audience leaned in, listened, some closed their eyes, others murmured softly, moved by the melodies, by the harmonies, by the simple yet profound voice of Norway in my music.

After the performance, the applause came slowly at first, then it grew until the hall seemed to vibrate with approval, with joy, with recognition. I was overwhelmed but also filled with certainty that this was my path, that my music could cross borders and speak to people even in places far from my fjords, my mountains, my home.  That night, I realized my music was not just for me; it was for the world and it would carry the soul of Norway wherever it was played.

Letters began to arrive from musicians, teachers, and admirers. Some were deeply touching, others rather funny. I remember one young lady wrote to me that she could not sleep after hearing my piano piece, “because the notes danced in her head like mischievous elves in the midnight woods.” I laughed at that, thinking yes, perhaps that is exactly what I intended.

Another, rather stern gentleman wrote that my music was “too emotional, too soft, too Norwegian,” and he did not approve. I quietly set the letter aside but treasured it, for it showed that my music could provoke reaction, stir feeling, and that in itself was a victory. Then there were letters from young pianists asking for my guidance, my advice on how to play my pieces, and some even confessing that they had fallen in love with Norway through my music, not knowing the country except in their imagination, inspired by the melodies I had written.

Ah, George, these letters and reactions made me understand fully that music has a life of its own, that it can charm, delight, irritate, inspire, and even amuse.

Maestro, I would imagine that the publishers and patrons were beginning to take notice of your work.

Ja, ja, after my early successes, the publishers and patrons began to seriously take notice, and I received my first major commissions. One that I remember well was for an orchestral work meant to celebrate the Norwegian spirit—our landscapes, our folklore, and our people. I poured my heart into it, carefully weaving the melodies of my homeland into the forms expected by European audiences.

These commissions soon required that I travel across Europe to conduct, to attend rehearsals, and to hear my music performed by talented musicians in cities far from Norway. I visited Copenhagen, Leipzig, Vienna, and even distant places like St. Petersburg. Each city, each hall, each audience had its own character, its own expectations, and I learned quickly how to adapt without losing the essence of my music.

And in myall these journeys, I carried Norway in my heart—the fjords, the mountains, the folk songs—and every melody I wrote was in some way a message from my homeland to the world. Mr. Bartley, I can relate a story about one particular concert in Leipzig where the performance almost went terribly wrong but turned into a triumph, and it is rather an amusing story. Would you like me to tell it?

Yes, please, I would love to hear that story very much.

It was in Leipzig. I had traveled with a small orchestra to perform one of my orchestral pieces, a work inspired by Norwegian folk dances. The musicians were skilled but unfamiliar with the rhythms, the accents, the irregular meters that I so loved from our folk music.

As we began, the first notes all seemed well, but soon the percussionist missed a beat, the violins hesitated, and I could see the flutes floundering slightly in confusion. I panicked briefly, thinking the piece would collapse before it even reached the middle.

But then something wonderful happened. I signaled subtly, guided them with my hand, with my eyes, and slowly the music began to breathe, to flow correctly. The audience noticed the tension and then the release, and they laughed in delight at the playful, surprising rhythms, which they thought were intentional.

By the final measures, the orchestra had found its confidence, and the applause was tremendous. I could not help but laugh quietly at the memory of the near disaster turned into triumph.

Ah, Mr. Bartley, that night I learned that music is alive; it can stumble, it can falter, it can surprise, but with patience, with guidance, with heart, it can always find its way to the listener’s soul.

Mr. Bartley, permit me to tell you about the Piano Concerto, which brought both fame and challenges in equal measure.

Certainly, maestro.

Ah, yes, George, the Piano Concerto in A minor is perhaps one of the works closest to my heart, and its story is full of both joy and struggle.

I composed it in 1868 when I was still a young man, full of ambition and desire to create something grand that would establish my voice on the European stage. I wanted the concerto to be Norwegian in spirit, yet to meet the expectations of the great concert halls and discerning audiences of Europe.

The reception was mixed at first. Some critics were bewildered by the dramatic opening, by the boldness of the orchestration, by the way the piano and orchestra conversed almost as equals. Others were enchanted, praising the beauty, the passion, and the originality. Yet the concerto slowly found its way into the hearts of musicians and audiences across Europe. It was performed in Leipzig, in Berlin, in Vienna, and each performance revealed something new, something alive in the music. Mr. Bartley, the Piano Concerto taught me much about courage, persistence, trusting my own voice, and about the power of music to speak beyond borders, beyond words, to move every listener in ways I could never fully predict.

Maestro, could you tell us about some of the most memorable reactions from audiences and critics to your Piano Concerto?

I would be delighted, Mr. Bartley - the reactions to my Piano Concerto were a mixture of astonishment, admiration, and amusement. At the premiere, some listeners were quite shocked. The opening, with its dramatic chords and bold sweeping melody, seemed too daring, too powerful for those used to gentler, more conventional works. One critic wrote that it was “an assault on the ears, yet strangely irresistible.” I could not help but smile at that description, for it captured exactly the effect I had intended.

Others were enchanted and deeply moved. Some young musicians wrote letters saying they had never felt such energy, such passion, in a piano concerto. One student confessed she practiced my concerto for hours, imagining herself dancing in the Norwegian forests, hearing the rivers, feeling the wind, as if the music were alive all around her.

And then there were amusing reactions. I remember a gentleman attending the premiere who whispered loudly to his companion, “the piano and orchestra are fighting like two rival trolls!” I could barely contain my laughter, for he had described perfectly the playful tension and dramatic dialogue I had written between the piano and orchestra.

Piano Concerto

Mr. Bartley, if you like, I can tell you about the personal side of these years: the travels, the friendships, and the love that shaped my life even as my music was being celebrated across the continent.

Yes, please tell us about that.

Ah, yes, the personal side of these years was as rich and complex as the music itself. Traveling across Europe, I met many musicians, composers, and patrons, some of whom became close friends and mentors, guiding me, encouraging me, sometimes gently criticizing me, always shaping me. I recall meeting Brahms in Vienna, a brief encounter, but one that filled me with admiration. His seriousness, his depth, his mastery of form inspired me to strive even harder in my own compositions.

Friendships were vital, especially with fellow Norwegians living abroad, who reminded me of home, of Bergen, of the fjords, of the folk songs that had first inspired me. They kept me grounded and reminded me why I composed, what I composed, and for whom. And then there was love. Yes, I met Nina, my beloved, my partner, who understood my temperament, my passions, my obsessions, and my music. She was patient, supportive, and full of warmth—a true companion through the triumphs and disappointments of life as a composer. Her presence gave me courage and joy, and I often dedicated pieces to her or imagined her listening with gentle approval as I played.

Yet life was not always easy. Illness, fatigue, the endless travel, the expectations of audiences, critics, publishers—all weighed upon me. And still, through it all, the music remained my solace, my voice, my way of speaking to the world and to those I loved.

Maestro, could you tell us about your later years?

Ah, yes, Mr. Bartley, my later years—my “Lyric Years,” as some might call them—were deeply reflective, filled with quiet creativity and a peacefulness that had eluded me in my earlier travels. By the time I returned permanently to Norway, to my home near Bergen, I was older, more settled, more certain of my musical voice. I built a small house, on a hill overlooking the fjord, and there I found a sanctuary for composing, reflection, and life.

In these years, I focused on my piano music, my songs, my smaller orchestral works, all imbued with the spirit of Norway, but also with a gentleness and maturity that came from decades of experience, travel, triumph, and disappointment. These were not the bold, fiery works of my youth, but intimate, tender, sometimes melancholic, often lyrical, like a conversation between the past and the present, between me and my homeland, and sometimes between me and the spirit of my own life.

I wrote many letters during these years, George, to friends, musicians, students, and admirers. Some letters discussed technique, advice on performance, the interpretation of my works. Others were more personal, reflections on life, beauty, nature, love, and even mortality.

Many letters were infused with humor, sometimes gentle teasing, as I advised students about musical mistakes or about the human folly of taking oneself too seriously. I liked to remind them that music, even in its highest form, must remain alive, playful, and human.

Yet there were letters tinged with melancholy as I felt the approach of the end of life and contemplated what legacy one leaves behind. I wished that my music would continue to tell the story of Norway, its people, and its spirit long after I was gone.

   Life, I came to understand, is a delicate balance of joy and sorrow, of struggle and triumph, of the ordinary and the extraordinary. Music became my lens, my language, to make sense of it all. Through music, I could express what words could never fully capture—the vastness of the fjords, the whisper of the wind, the stories of my people, the depths of human feeling.

I wanted my music to reflect honesty, to speak of the heart, to carry the spirit of Norway, but also the universal, the timeless, the human. Each note, each chord, each melody was a bridge between the inner life and the world outside, between the fleeting moment and something enduring.

The spirit I wished to leave behind was one of connection, of beauty, of feeling, that music can transcend borders and generations, that it can comfort, inspire, delight, and even amuse. I hoped that listeners would feel in my compositions a conversation, a companionship, a reminder that the world, though vast, is alive with wonder, with stories, with the voices of people and places, long after I am gone.

But before I leave, permit me to tell you a few personal stories about how listeners, over the years, have told me that my music truly touched their lives in ways that surprised even me.

Certainly!

Ah, yes, George, these stories are very dear to me and they remind me why I devoted my life to music. I remember a young woman who wrote to me years after hearing one of my Lyric Pieces on the piano. She said that the melody had helped her through a long illness, that when she played it or simply listened she felt hope and strength, as if the mountains and rivers of Norway were speaking directly to her. Such words filled me with quiet gratitude for the unseen connection that music can create.

Another letter came from a man who had emigrated far from Norway to America. He wrote that my music reminded him of home, of childhood, of a sense of belonging that he had thought lost. He said that each time he played my Piano Concerto, he could feel the fjords, the forests, the wind on the mountains, and he was transported back to his roots.

4 Piano Concerto

And furthermore, if I could share a few final thoughts about what I would say to composers and listeners today about life, music, and the heart of Norway through my melodies if I were alive.

Yes, please.

First, cherish life—every moment, every joy, every sorrow—for they are the colors from which music and art are painted. Listen deeply to the world around you, to the wind, the water, the voices of people, and let them speak to your heart before you try to put them into notes.

Second, for composers or anyone creating, be true to your own voice, your own spirit. Do not imitate merely to please the world, but learn from the masters: study technique, study form, but let your music carry your own soul, your own stories, your own Norway, or wherever your heart belongs.

Third, for listeners, music is a gift, a conversation between hearts, between time, between generations. Listen with patience, with attention, with openness, to be moved, to be surprised, to be taken somewhere new, even if just for a moment.

And finally, remember this: music, like life, is fleeting yet enduring, fragile yet powerful, playful yet profound. If you can hear the spirit in the notes and carry it in your own heart, then I have achieved what I hoped for my life, for my music, and for all who would listen long after I am gone.

I have lived a life filled with music, with travel, with love, with struggle, and with joy. From the small piano lessons with my mother to the concert halls of Europe, from the folk songs of Norway to my grand orchestral works, I have sought always to capture the spirit of my homeland and the human heart.

To those who listen, I say: open your hearts, let the music speak to you, let it carry you to distant fjords, to mountains, to memories, to emotions you did not know you held. And to those who create, be fearless, be honest, be true, for your own voice and spirit is the greatest gift you can share with the world.

Thank you, Maestro Greig

Sources include

Grimley, Daniel (2007) Grieg: Music, Landscape and Norwegian Cultural Identity 
Jarrett, Sandra (2003) Edvard Grieg and his songs 
ChatGPT4

Join celebrate creativity for episode 496 for a look at a fascinating composer - Gustav Mahler.

Thank you for listening to celebrate creativity - and here is a section from In the Halls of the Mountain King by Edward Grieg.

Musical credits

Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, Op. 46 - I. Morning.mp3 by Edvard Grieg, Performed by Czech National Symphony Orchestra, Source:
https://www.classicals.de, Publisher: Musopen Kickstarter Recording Project, License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).

Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 16 - II. Adagio.mp3 by Edvard Grieg, Performed by Czech National Symphony Orchestra, https://dl.musopen.org/recordings/03536da5-97e1-470b-b77b-62de34bf987c.mp3 filename=Piano%20Concerto%20in%20A%20minor%2C%20Op.%2016%20-%20II.%20Adagio.mp3 License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).

Peer Gynt Suite No. 1, Op. 46 - IV. In the Hall Of The Mountain King.mp3 by Edvard Grieg, Performed by Czech National Symphony Orchestra, Source: https://www.classicals.de, Publisher: Musopen Kickstarter Recording Project, License: Public Domain (composition) / Creative Commons (recording).