Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphonies 3 an 4

Ludwig van Beethoven, Symphonies 3 an 4

December 14, 2015.  Beethoven!  This week we celebrate Ludwig van Beethoven’s 245th birthday.  Beethoven was baptized on December 17th of 1770, so it’s often assumed that he was born the previous day, on December 16th.  We usually celebrate his birthday by focusing on different periods of his life during which he wrote some of his piano sonatas: last year, for example, we finished with the Piano sonata no. 4, which was published in 1797.  This time we’ll change tracks a bit and present a longer article on his two symphonies, no 3, the famous Eroica, and no. 4.  We’ll continue the traversal of Beethoven’s piano sonatas later on.   You can hear Ludwig van BeethovenEroica in the performance by the Berlin Philharmonic under the direction of Herbert von Karajan in the 1984 recording here, and Symphony no. 4, in the live recording made by Carlos Kleiber with the Bavarian State Orchestra in 1982, here. 

 

Symphony No. 3.  With the closing measures of the Symphony No. 2 in D major, Beethoven embarked down the “new road” he announced in a letter to Krumpholz in 1802: “I am not satisfied with my works up to the present time. From today I mean to take a new road. While this turning point—this new artistic direction—can be seen in the Violin Sonatas, op. 30 or the Piano Sonatas, op. 31, it is most striking apparent in the comparison of the Second Symphony to its successor, the Eroica. Premonitions of Beethoven’s mature style surfaced at times in the first two symphonies—most noticeably in the Minuet of the First and the Finale of the Second. However, the Third Symphony is pure Beethoven as he is so beloved today.

 

Beethoven began working on the Symphony No. 3 in E-flat shortly after the Second and was occupied with it until early 1804, with much of the actual composition beginning during the summer of 1803. By the spring of 1804, a fair copy of the score had been made, which was openly displayed on Beethoven’s desk. On the outside page written at the very top was the name “Buonaparte,” and at the bottom, “Luigi van Beethoven.” The first suggestion of a symphony in honor of Napoleon Buonaparte had likely been made to Beethoven as early as 1798. At this time, Napoleon was known as a great statesman and a champion of freedom, and had not yet transformed, in his fall from glory, into the tyrant that waged war across Europe. The French Revolution had certainly influenced Beethoven, quite possibly through Bonn’s proximity to France. Indeed, his very character embodied its ideals. Once in Vienna, he was a contradiction to all the expectations of musicians of that day. Besides refusing to enter the service of any of the nobility, he asserted his independence with manners that were off-putting even to his friends and a lack of etiquette or respect towards his professed superiors. He took what was his by right and refused to see them as favors. This freedom of spirit is certainly evident in the earlier symphonies but the Third is its undeniable embodiment. Napoleon had become the quintessence of the French Revolution’s ideals, and it is quite nature that Beethoven should admire him.

 

However, Beethoven had no knowledge of the changes taking place in Napoleon. On May 2, 1804, the Senate passed a motion asking Napoleon to take the title of Emperor. Later that month, on the 18th, he assumed the title. When the news finally reached Vienna, Ferdinand Ries delivered it to Beethoven. “After all, then, he is nothing but an ordinary mortal! He will trample all the rights of men under foot, to indulge his ambition, and become a greater tyrant than any one,” was the reply that erupted from the composer. In his fury, Beethoven grabbed the score of his new symphony, tore the title page, and threw it on the ground. For seventeen years, Beethoven never mentioned the connection between the work and Napoleon until, on hearing news of Emperor’s death, he replied, “I have already composed the proper music for that catastrophe”—an obvious reference to the Funeral March which forms the symphony’s second movement. On the copy of Beethoven’s score preserved today, one can visibly see the hatred with which Beethoven scratched out Napoleon’s name from the title page. (Continue reading here).

 

When parts for the symphony were published in October, 1806, it was given the name by which it is universally known today: Eroica. It is one of the few compositions Beethoven allowed to be published with a descriptive title. Yet, that title is perhaps more fitting than Beethoven’s original. While he may have sought to express his admiration for the heroic qualities he observed in Napoleon, music far transcends such constrictive specifics. The music is indeed heroic, but that is all. One may find in it the portrait of Beethoven himself or of any triumphant hero.

 

Dispensing with the prolonged introductions found in the first two symphonies, Beethoven prefaces the main theme of the opening with two staccato tonic chord sounded by the entire orchestra. In a steady triple meter, the theme itself is given by the cellos and finished off by the first violins. One of the composers’ most memorable tunes, it has that defining characteristic that makes it so Beethovenian: an almost obsessive adherence to the tones of the tonic chord. Its spell has even enthralled later composers from Schubert to Brahms. Yet, this heroic theme is but only the start of an exposition bursting with melodic ideas. As Beethoven progresses towards the second theme, a passage arises in which he sternly emphasizes duple meter against the prevailing 3/4 time—another trait of Beethoven’s music—and which becomes an important element of the movement. In the key of the dominant, the second theme begins with a simple melodic figure cast about the woodwinds and first violins, and ultimately erupting in a lively descent on a dactylic rhythm. Lastly, a beautiful chordal idea, with great yearning, emerges from the strings and is echoed by the winds.

 

From the start of the development section, it is immediately evident the great advancement Beethoven has made since the previous symphonies. The material of the exposition is worked out in a masterly fashion. Beethoven freely combines his thematic ideas with consummate skill, further embellishing them with new phrases, such as the beautiful run that now precedes the second theme, that result in moments of astonishing freshness. Utilizing the off-beat accents of before, the development works itself into terrific climax with increasing strident discords progressing into ear-shattering minor seconds that certainly would have startled any early 19th-century audience. From this point, Beethoven sidesteps into the key of E minor to present an entirely new theme, unheard thus far in the movement, given to the oboes with an equally poignant countermelody in the cellos. This new melody is then combined with fragments of the principal theme before being repeated in the key of E-flat minor.

 

As the development comes to a close, the recurring fragments of the first theme slowly fade away against sustained chords in the winds. The music is reduced to hushed tremolandi in the violins, and a passage ensues that was perhaps the single greatest shock to critics of this daringly bold composition. While the strings give a skeletal outline of a dominant seventh harmony with their tremolandi, the horn, not in the tones of that chord but in those of the tonic, enters with the first four notes of the theme. There was no explanation for this passage and it violated every harmonic rule of the time. Even Ferdinand Ries, as the story goes, was fooled into thinking the horn player had entered too soon—a mistake that nearly got him boxed on the ears by Beethoven himself. Yet, the effect of the passage, in announcing the movement’s recapitulation, is unassailable.

 

The recapitulation, while fulfilling its duty of reprising the thematic material of the movement, is remarkably altered, revealing the immense imagination of the composer. It is followed by an extensive coda, far surpassing anything in the previous symphonies, and is reached by a magical descent from the key of E-flat major, through D-flat, to C. Alongside the principal theme, the episodic melody of the development returns, and is further combined with a sprightly new motif in the first violins. More ideas from earlier in the movement reappear as the coda progresses towards the movement's grand conclusion.

 

The second movement, marked Adagio assai and in the key of C minor, is titled Marcia funebre (Funeral March). It begins sotto voce with a lugubrious melody in the first violins and accompanied by the rest of string section. It is then repeated immediately in the oboe atop sustained chords from the other winds and the strings taking up a drum-like rhythm. A melodious second strain follows next in the key of E-flat, but this brief consoling moment is fleeting as it quickly turns back to C minor and leads into a repetition of the opening melody. These two ideas form the material of the March’s opening section and is developed with the most solemn effect. For the middle portion, marked “Maggiore” and what may be called the Trio, the key changes to C major. Supported by uplifting arpeggios in the violins and exquisite imitations in the low strings, the oboe and flute take turns in presenting a beautiful melody that breaks upon the doleful scene like rays of sunlight through gray clouds. It builds towards a fortissimo climax featuring the full brass section with timpani in a fitting tribute to the triumphant life of any hero. As the March resumes, its principal theme is varied and unexpectedly cutoff by a new idea in F minor that works itself into a dramatic fugue which soon envelops the entire orchestra. A defiant passage led by the trumpets and horns is the composer’s answer to the fugue and is perhaps a cry against Fate itself. In the coda, a final moment of consolation is offered as the music turns to A-flat major and the violins present a new lyrical melody. This, too, however, fades away as a fragmented principal theme, like a funeral procession slowly passing out of sight, closes the movement.

 

While the third movements of the two earlier symphonies possess in part the spirit and vitality of Beethoven’s later Scherzi, that of the Eroica is its first incarnation and the progenitor of all that would follow. Returning to E-flat major and marked Allegro vivace, the rustling of the strings and the playful tune of the oboe is the most welcomed relief after the doleful proceedings of the Funeral March. Six measures of pianissimo murmurings of the strings introduce the Scherzo’s theme given primarily by the oboe. The outer sections of the movement are wholly concerned with this theme, allowing only one new melodic idea—a descending arpeggio that sternly accents the second beat of the measure. The Trio is dominated by the horns with another heroic theme that subtly looks back to the principal theme of the first movement. Shunning the usual da capo repeat, Beethoven reprises the Scherzo with significant alterations. Overall, it is shortened; yet, most strikingly, a wonderful effect is achieved when the stressed offbeat arpeggio heard previously returns fortissimo in even half notes in cut time.

 

With the tremendous artistic display of the three movements thus far, the Allegro molto that concludes the symphony, at first, may seem a somewhat ill-suited finale. Indeed, this is one of the criticisms that was brought against it by critics of the time. Yet, it could not be more fitting. A set of variations, its theme comes from the Finale of Beethoven’s music for the Creatures of Prometheus, a ballet written a few years earlier in 1801. If ever a hero existed in all the legends of ancient civilizations, it is the titan Prometheus, who stole fire from the gods to give to humans, and its presence in the Eroica is more than suitable. The melody must have had a special significance for the composer, for besides using it as the basis for the finale of the Eroica, he again used the theme as the theme of a set of variations for piano.

 

Led by the strings, the orchestra provides a brief introduction to the movement. Following a pause on a dominant seventh comes one of the most novel commencements in the entire literature of variation form. Instead of presenting his theme, Beethoven instead chooses to begin with its bass! The strings, playing pizzicato, pluck out the notes of the bass and are soon joined by the winds in imitation. In the first variation, cellos and first violins introduce an important motivic figure, yet it is still not the theme. Another variation passes, with running triplets against bass (which is now heard in the treble). Finally, with the third variation, oboes and clarinets present the anticipated theme, with the bass now taking its proper role and the added embellishment of an exquisite accompaniment of sixteenth notes allotted to the first violins. Immediately following the theme’s first appearance is a fugato, which Beethoven already made use of in the first two movements, but is now carried out to considerable length. Closing on the dominant seventh of C minor, an enharmonic change carries the music into B minor with the reappearance of the theme. Through D major, the key of G minor is attained and a new melody, distinctly martial in character, is given against the original bass. The theme returns again, now in C major, and by means of its parallel minor, the key of E-flat major is regained where the theme is presented with sportive off-beats. Following another pause of the dominant seventh, a Poco Andante presents the theme in its most dignified manner. Beginning with a rich harmonic accompaniment in the clarinets and bassoons beneath the theme in the oboe, it soon engulfs the entire orchestra, timpani included, and builds to a glorious fortissimo climax worthy of the most incorruptible hero. A Presto coda then concludes the symphony.

 

With Napoleon's name removed the score, Prince Lobkowitz became the dedicatee of the Eroica, and its first performance was a private occasion at the Prince's estate in Bohemia. An anecdote of the Prince's enthusiasm for Beethoven's music involves a visit from Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia. Wishing to honor his prestigious guest, Lobkowitz arranged a performance of the Eroica. The Prussian prince was enthralled by the symphony and immediately demanded a repeat performance. His interest grew even more as he listened a second time, and he begged for the symphony to be played again. Lobkowitz happily assented, but graciously allowed his musicians to eat dinner first. The first public performance did not occur until April 7, 1805 at the Theater an der Wien in Vienna. Critical opinion of the Eroica was icy at best. While critics acknowledged Beethoven's force and skill, their general opinion of the symphony was of a disjointed work weighted down by too many ideas. The most common charge brought against it was its length, which far exceeded Beethoven's first two symphonies and anything by Haydn and Mozart. On the extreme end, Dionys Weber, one of the composer's harshest critics, called the Eroica a "dangerously immoral composition." However, as early as January 1807, the Eroica was successfully given at one of the Gewandhaus concerts in Leipzig. Indeed, a week later a repeat performance was given and another later that year in November.

 

Symphony No. 4.  With the Eroica Symphony behind him, Beethoven in the following years set to tackling several major works, among them the Fourth Piano Concerto, his only opera Fidelio, the Violin Concerto, and what would eventually become the Symphony in C minor. During 1804-05, the first two movement of the Symphony in C minor were virtually complete. It was Beethoven’s intention for the C minor Symphony to be the successor of the Eroica, but a meeting in 1806 and the promise of a handsome sum of money prompted him to temporarily set that work aside. Count Franz van Oppersdorf while visiting Prince Lichnowsky, one of Beethoven’s patrons, heard the composer’s Symphony in D performed by the Prince’s private orchestra, and proceeded to commission from Beethoven a new symphony for himself. Beethoven accepted the offer and initially intended to complete the C minor Symphony. However, the C minor and its companion the Pastoral Symphony was ultimately dedicated to Lichnowsky himself and Count Razumovsky, and Oppersdorf became the recipient instead of the Symphony in B-flat major.

 

It may never be known the reason Beethoven suspended work on the C minor Symphony to write instead the Symphony in B-flat, but it may have perhaps been a realization on his part that the C minor would have been to serious and dramatic a work to follow the Eroica. Indeed, this artistic sense seems to play out in the remainder of Beethoven’s symphonic output as the Fifth is separated from the grand Seventh by the quaint and charming Pastoral, while the colossal Ninth is preceded by the humorous Eighth. Regardless, it is hard to imagine a more different work from its neighbors than the Fourth. Where they are serious, the Fourth is pure jollity. It is a glimpse into one of the rare moments of happiness in Beethoven’s life, for it was written during the time he was engaged to Countess Theresa, sister of his friend Franz von Brunswick.

 

The first performance of the Fourth Symphony took place at the house of Prince Lobkowitz in one of two concerts that include the other three symphonies, the Coriolan Overture, a piano concerto, and selections from Fidelio. As congenial and high-spirited as the symphony is, it, too, did not escape challenge from critics. To no surprise, Beethoven's talent was acknowledged, but was followed by the same usual longing for the ways and manners of the past. Carl Maria von Weber was perhaps the harshest critic of the work. He penned a fanciful critique of the work, published in one of the music journals of the time, in which he imagines the instruments of the orchestra complaining after the rehearsal of the symphony. The basses protest to being treated like fiddles and the cellos call it a "musical monstrosity." In the middle of this grumbling, the orchestra-attendant enters and threatens the instruments with the Eroica! While Weber's criticism is beyond the pale, the general complaints drawn against the Fourth Symphony, as well as the Eroica, can for the most part be ascribed to the imperfect means by which critics had to review new works at the timescores were not published until years later, piano reductions were virtually non-existent, and performance were few.

 

Returning to the use of a formal introduction, the Symphony in B-flat opens with a prolonged Adagio. Yet, unlike the introductions of the First and Second Symphonies, that of the Fourth is a vital aspect of the composition. Beginning actually in B-flat minor, a pizzicato note from the strings lets loose a long, sustained tonic in the winds, a vast improvement over the similar effect that opened the First Symphony. Against the pedal point, the strings reenter, now bowed, with an interlocking chain of descending thirds before the first violin continues with staccato tones that foreshadow the rhythm of the eventual first theme. Yet, despite the minor key, the music is not dreary or downcast, but mysterious, as if the listener is slowly entering the private world of the composer. The passage repeats again this time leading into B major. Through development of this material, Beethoven brings us to the dominant of B-flat major via D minor, and with fortissimo flourishes from the violins, we are launched into the Allegro vivace. The first theme is two-fold: a cheerful descent of staccato notes from the first violin answered by a lyrical passage given to the winds. On its repetition the enter orchestra is used to give the theme, and one can imagine the composer’s chest nearly bursting with happiness. A connecting passage built on a trill-like figure that recalls the earlier Second Symphony followed by eager syncopations lead into the second theme, or rather, thematic area, as Beethoven presents several different melodic ideas in the ensuing measures. In the development section, the capricious humor that made only occasional appearances in the Second is here on full display. Venturing into the key of D major, Beethoven presents a new theme against the staccato notes of the first theme. After appearing several times and in several keys, this new melody then suddenly vanishes from the music entirely and is never heard from again. Fragments of the first theme continue, returning eventually to B-flat minor, and thereby arriving at a curious passage in F-sharp major. In a whimsical manner only Beethoven could achieve, the closing lyrical phrase of the first theme takes over, and beginning in the first violins descends all the way down into the cellos and basses. Deftly, the composer restores the tonic key and begins the recapitulation. The Coda that closes the movement is far shorter than what was met with in the Eroica, yet any extended discourse is here entirely unnecessary to end such a cheerful and high-spirited movement.

 

The following Adagio is the real gem of the Symphony, and it ranks among Beethoven's most beautiful creations. In E-flat, it shares the same key as the intensely passionate Cavatina from the String Quartet No. 13, also in B-flat major. Yet, despite its beauty and passion, it is also a masterfully crafted sonata form, showing that Beethoven, innovator though he was, always tempered emotion with artistic judgment. It begins simply with a drum-like figure in the second violins, a rhythmic motif that will become quite prominent as the movement unfolds. In the second measure, the first theme enters which Beethoven has especially marked "cantabile," a term he used rarely and only for his most lyrical subjects. The melody is also an example of the wonderful music Beethoven could create from such simple means as it is predominantly a stepwise descent and subsequent ascent through the scale of the tonic key. In due course, the second arrives. Given by a clarinet, it, too, is marked "cantabile," and is supported by a marvelous accompaniment in strings. The development begins very similarly to the beginning of the movement. The tonic key of E-flat major is reestablished and the second violins take up once again the prominent drum motif, while the first violins enter with a characteristic embellishment of the theme. However, the following statement, employing the entire orchestra, pulls the music into the parallel minor key. From there, the remainder of the development is rather brief, yet is sufficient to make the flute's reprise of the first theme, and thus the start of the recapitulation, welcome. A brief coda, only nine measures in length, concludes the movement.

 

With the third movement, Beethoven returns to the old term of “Minuetto.” Yet, despite the reversal here, there is certainly no return to the manners of 18th century and no abandonment of the esprit he achieved in the Scherzo of the Eroica. The elderly Haydn, when once questioned about a rule concerning strict composition, broke off the conversation with the exclamation, “What nonsense! How much more to the purpose it would be if someone would show us how to make a new minuet.” One can wonder if this movement is close to what Haydn longed for. In the tonic key of B-flat, it retains the Allegro vivace tempo marking of the Eroica Scherzo. Without any introduction or warning, Beethoven presents a principal theme that immediately sets out, with the full force of the orchestra, to contradict the assumed triple meter. With equal impetuosity, it suddenly adheres to the meter in the humorous ascending and descending lines between woodwinds and strings, setting off a rhythmic conflict that persists throughout each of the scherzo sections. The Trio, on the other hand, is somewhat more subdued. Maintaining the key of B-flat major, it adopts a slower tempo (Un poco meno Allegro), and its main theme Beethoven marks dolce. Roughly midway through, the composer’s favored tremolandi return in the strings and ultimately become the means by which the Scherzo is regained. Interestingly, Beethoven repeats the Trio a second time, followed by another reprise of the Scherzo. While a second Trio was not unheard of, even in Mozart’s time, Beethoven seems to stand alone in the practice of repeating a single Trio, instead of providing a new one—a practice he would repeat in several works including the Seventh Symphony.

 

In the Finale of the Second Symphony, Beethoven gave a startlingly (to the ears of his time) boisterous and lively conclusion, but even it pales to the piquancy of the last movement of the Fourth. Moderating the curiosities of rhythm that defined the first and third movements, Beethoven adopts a vigorous theme of running sixteenth notes that has all the characteristics of a perpetuum mobile. Spirited and full of irrepressible gaiety, it abounds with humor, though not the rough kind of the Eighth Symphony. Here is a composer in the highest of spirits, untouched by any troubles the world can muster. In its final measures, Beethoven achieves a truly inspired moment by presenting the movement’s theme unaccompanied and in augmentation, pausing three times before dashing to its end. It is like a reluctant farewell—a farewell made even more poignant knowing such music of pure worldly happiness would never again appear in Beethoven’s music.