Beethoven: Symphony No.9 in D minor, Op.125 “Choral” (1823/4)
Sinfonie
mit Schlusschor über Schillers Ode “An die Freude”,
für grosses Orchester, 4 Solo und 4 Chorstimmen,
componirt und
Seiner Majestät dem König von Preussen
Friedrich Wilhelm III
in tiefster Ehrfurchtr zugeeignet
von
Ludwig van Beethoven
125tes Werk
Allegro ma non troppo e un poco maestoso
Molto vivace – Presto
Adagio molto e cantabile – Andante moderato
Presto – Allegro assai – Allegro assai vivace – Andante maestoso
– Adagio ma non troppo ma divoto – Allegro energico e sempre ben marcato
– Allegro ma non tanto – poco adagio – Presto – Maestoso – Prestissimo
The name-day of Emperor Franz I, 3rd October 1822, had been chosen for the opening of the Josephstadt Theatre in Vienna, and the first production was to be an adaptation by Carl Meisl of Kotzebue’s Ruinen von Athen, re-named (aptly) “The Consecration of the House”. Beethoven’s original incidental music was retained, but the composer decided that for this big occasion a stronger, grander overture was required (Op.124) – to be repeated 19 months later, by way of a prelude to the first performance of Symphony No.9. So this tremendous apotheosis of Beethoven’s music for the theatre constitutes at one and the same time a worthy introduction to that final explosion of creativity which gave us the Missa Solemnis, the Ninth Symphony, and the last five quartets.
And what a legacy that proved to be! It would not have seemed inappropriate had Beethoven drawn his career to an apocalyptic close in 1824 with these two huge works, the Mass and the Choral Symphony. Yet such a questing mind could hardly have sought rest at such a time of achievement. He evidently did not see the ninth symphony as his last, since another was planned (and started) – as also were other large scale works, including an oratorio. But among sketches for the Ninth was some material which later assumed significance: notably the main subject of the rejected instrumental finale, which eventually found its way to the corresponding point in the A minor quartet (Op.132). Its predecessor (the E flat, Op.127) had by then marked the beginning of his total withdrawal into the private and intimate world of the String Quartet: from now until the end of his life he was to write for no other medium (with the exception of a few vocal canons and two or three short piano pieces). So it was that he turned his back on every “public” musical form: it is as if the creating of these works drew him into an inner region of utterly personal communion with quartet texture, but a place from which, two years later, he emerged with Op.135 as a Being somehow relieved and exorcised – rather akin to Samson, “Calm of mind, all passion spent”. Yet the masterpieces of these final years – piano sonatas, Mass, Ninth Symphony, string quartets – are very much speaking a common language, one which emerged around 1820 after a lengthy “sabbatical”. Having crossed the great dividing threshold into the private world of his last sonatas and quartets, the process of creating these pieces at all, in the most abject and adverse of circumstances, might by its very nature be seen as heroic. Thus, for the most part, these are truly affirmative rather than valedictory works – and no more so than in this symphonic titan of all titans, proclaiming for everyone to hear its composer’s (and author’s) indomitable belief in the Brotherhood of Man, and setting the ultimate benchmark for every attempt at symphonic composition thereafter. As the late Christopher Rowland (former leader of the Fitzwilliam Quartet) wrote:
The traumas and frustrations of Beethoven’s last years are sad truths reflected in his letters and in the many contemporary eyewitness accounts. The battered piano and conversation books (witness to his deafness), the financial worries, dissatisfaction with inept servants, continual illness, and the painful responsibility for his errant nephew and ward Carl all burdened the man intolerably. Yet a vibrancy, energy, and continual humour shine through Beethoven’s prose, and in his last compositions he orders masterfully what he was so pitifully unable to control in daily life.
“He who wishes to touch the heart must seek his inspiration from on high. Without this there will be naught but sounds and notes, a soulless body…”
Beethoven to Max Strumff (1824)
“You will ask where my ideas come from. I cannot say for certain. They come uncalled, sometimes independently, sometimes in association with other things. It seems to me that I could wrest them from Nature herself with my own hands, as I go walking in the woods…”
Beethoven to Louis Schlösser
“I am using the rest of the summer for recreation here in the country, as it was impossible for me to leave Vienna this summer. Meanwhile, I have entirely metronomised the symphony, and add tempi here…………….
You can have them specially printed. Do not forget what I pointed out to you about the second movement (no repeats in the Da Capo). I will send you the Mass metronomised next time”
Beethoven to B Schott & Sons
“Beethoven gave me the time [ie tempo], by playing the subjects on the pianoforte, of many movements of his symphonies, including the Choral Symphony, which according to his account took three-quarters of an hour only in performance. The party present, namely Holz, the amateur violin [2nd violinist in many of Beethoven’s quartet premières]; Carl Beethoven, the nephew; besides young Ries, agreed that the performance at Vienna only took that time; this I deem to be totally impossible. It seems at Vienna the Recit was played only with four ‘celli and two contrabassi. He told me of a mass, not yet published, which he had composed. We had a long conversation on musical subjects conducted on my part in writing. He is very desirous to come to England [the symphony had been commissioned by the Philharmonic Society of London].”
Sir George Smart (conductor of the first English performance)
“The actual first performance of the Symphony was on May 7, 1824, at the Kärntnerthor Theatre, Vienna, at a concert given by Beethoven, in compliance with a request addressed to him by all the principal musicians, both professional and amateur of that city. Notwithstanding this enthusiasm, however, only two rehearsals were possible! There would have been a third, but that some ballet music had to be practised by the band! In a letter to Schindler, quoted by Lenz, he calls the day Fracktag because he had the bore of putting on a smarter coat than usual. On this occasion it was a green coat, and he probably also wore a three-cornered cocked hat. The preparations had somewhat upset him, and his dress had to be discussed with Schindler in one of the conversation books. His deafness by this time had become total, but that did not keep him out of the orchestra. He stood by the side of Umlauf, the conductor, to indicate the times of various movements. The house was tolerably full, though not crowded and his reception was all that his warmest friends could desire. To use Schindler’s expression, it was “more than imperial.” Three successive bursts of applause were the rule for the Imperial Family, and he had five! After the fifth the Comissary of Police interfered and called for silence! A great deal of emotion was naturally enough visible in the orchestra; and we hear of such eminent players as Mayseder and Böhn even weeping.”
Madame Sabatier-Ungher (contralto soloist in first performance, as related to Sir George Smart)
“Frau Grebner told me and several other devout listeners that she had taken part as a soprano in the first performance. Beethoven sat among the performers from the first rehearsal onwards, to be able to hear as much as his condition would permit. He had a stand in front of him, on which his manuscript lay. The young girl, who now sat before me as a venerable old lady, stood just a few steps away from that stand and thus had Beethoven constantly in view. Her description of him is the same that has been handed down to us: a thick-set, very robust, somewhat corpulent man, with a ruddy, pock-marked face and dark, piercing eyes. His grey hair often fell in thick strands over his forehead. His voice, she said, was a sonorous bass; he spoke little, however, for the most part reading pensively in his score. One had the tragic impression that he was incapable of following the music. Although he appeared to be reading along, he would continue to turn pages when the movement in question had already come to an end. At the performance a man went up to him at the end of each movement, tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to the audience. The motions of the clapping hands and waving handkerchiefs caused him to bow, which always gave rise to great jubilation. Altogether, the effect made by the work at its first performance was quite prodigious. At times there was a burst of applause during a movement. One such moment, Frau Grebner recalled, was the unexpected entrance of the timpani in the Scherzo. This had the effect of a bolt of lightning and produced a spontaneous show of enthusiasm. Anyone who knows the Viennese public will not be surprised.”
Felix von Weingartner (1912)
© Alan George
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