Beethoven: Symphony No.3 in E flat, Op.55 Eroica (1804)

Allegro con brio
Marcia funebre:- Adagio assai
Scherzo:- Allegro vivace
Finale:- Allegro molto – Poco Andante – Presto

Of course, the Eroica is one of the major landmarks in the history of Western music – and Beethoven himself was surely aware of its significance when he wrote about its unusual length, as well as later declaring it to be his favourite (of eight symphonies completed at the time). Like so many iconic creations,  it has attracted its fair share of Romance and Fable: the very title, the association with Napoléon, the presence of a Funeral March, all have inevitably set minds and imaginations to work, conjuring up any number of programmes and meanings. Who can say for certain that this Classical period symphony is no more than the ordered sounds we hear, or the symbols we see on the page?! If the Eroica (and No.5 as well) has enabled succeeding “heroic” or “conflict” symphonies to be born, then it cannot be solely because Beethoven’s example taught his followers how to think and create on this scale: surely its pictorial and spiritual vibrations are equally mirrored in the string of masterpieces it inspired? Yet to suggest that this mighty edifice sprang suddenly from nowhere is to undervalue (or even ignore) the blazing originality of No.2 – probably the least known of Beethoven’s symphonies, but at that time still the biggest ever written. The portends are there, and elsewhere too (for example, the first movement of the F major quartet, Op.18/1 – particularly in its huge original version). Perhaps it is with the Eroica that he finally broke free from the conventions and artifices of the eighteenth century – there is little trace here of that era’s elegance and grace, as left over in No.2’s Larghetto.

Nowadays we are well used to vast symphonies, and we can readily talk about how the Eroica helped bring them about – without necessarily experiencing the impact it must have made in 1804/5. Yet to approach it on eighteenth century terms, as if with eighteenth century ears, really does serve to underline that impact. Those of us who have worked regularly with eighteenth century instruments can at least apply what we learn to whatever forces are available, particularly in matters of phrasing, articulation, timbre – and tempo: Beethoven’s metronome marks have always aroused controversy, the usual justifications being that they were added later (indeed they were, as a result of his friend Johann Nepomuk Mälzel’s prototype of 1815); that Beethoven’s own machine was inaccurate; that the markings were dictated to his nephew; that he couldn’t hear properly anyway! Whatever actual truth there may be in these statements, can we honestly hold our hands up and deny a natural reluctance to throw out the security of the familiar, or to face the uncompromising assault on our techniques?! To take but one example: by following the composer’s instructions we find that the second movement is not actually a dirge in four beats per bar, but a genuine slow march in two – in itself a piece which, through its extraordinary dramatic and expressive language, looks far ahead into the later nineteenth century.

Therefore it would be hard to believe that any performance of this work should ever be mounted that did not attempt to project in some way its innovatory stance. And so it was that in the 1950s a movement grew up, associated with the great Otto Klemperer, whereby the adoption of broader tempi was employed to lend more weight to the extended scale of this symphony, and thus to emphasise its daringly slowed down harmonic pace. Few would deny that this approach could genuinely underline the stature of the work, and so it should take its rightful place in the line of performing traditions. But for four or five decades now we have been witnessing a new era in the performance of Beethoven, and at its heart is the growing awareness of a tempo giusto: Beethoven’s markings give a real insight into the conventions and expectations of his time; and even if a small compromise has occasionally to be made on account of the heavier built instruments of today, at least an earlier generation of conductors – among them Leibowitz, Scherchen, and Erich Kleiber – have demonstrated that they are no less valid in the context of the modern orchestra. To their credit, many contemporary players have proved willing to meet the challenge head on, and it is to be hoped that listeners will always be swept back to the heady fervour of central Europe at the dawn of a new century: post 1789, but still mid-Revolution!

© Alan George
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