[L’Op. 26] may appear at times artificial, but this accusation cannot be made against the truly great, solemn, and magnificent central section which the composer has designated “Funeral March on the Death of a Hero,” in order to indicate to the performer the true spirit of the piece. The Sonata, almost a fantasy, in C‑sharp minor [Op. 27, No. 2] is from beginning to end a pure whole, originating from the deepest emotions of the soul, carved from a solid block of marble. No one sensitive to music can fail to be seized by the opening Adagio, lifted upward and finally, deeply moved, elevated to the sublime in the Presto agitato. The two movements [first and third] are entirely appropriate to the terrifying key of C‑sharp minor. The composer indicates everywhere how they are to be performed in order to bring out the finest qualities of the instrument. From these indications one can see how perfectly Beethoven knows the instrument, and perhaps how, except for Philipp Emanuel Bach, no other composer has understood it. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1802

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Review of the First Symphony in C major, Op. 21

The Symphony in C major was performed with precision and ease. A splendid work of art. All the instruments are employed in an excellent manner; there is an unusual wealth of splendid ideas, developed in a fascinating and magnificent way, and everything is pervaded by order and light. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, February 1805

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The second subscription of our concerts at the Augarten was brilliantly inaugurated. The concert began with Beethoven’s Symphony No. 2 in D major, a work full of new, original ideas of great power, with instrumentation rich in effect, but which would benefit from the reduction of certain passages and the renunciation of many quite unusual modulations. The Symphony was followed by a Concerto in C minor [No. 3, Op. 37] by Beethoven, of which I enclose the tempi of the first and last movements. This Concerto is certainly one of Beethoven’s most beautiful compositions. It was performed as soloist by Mr. Ries, Beethoven’s only pupil and his passionate supporter; he had learned the work under the Master’s guidance and performed it very smoothly and expressively, with uncommon skill and assurance, overcoming the greatest difficulties with ease. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1804

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Review of the Second Symphony

The critic, even after lamenting the length and other aspects of the work, concluded: “Nevertheless, all this is crushed by the powerful, proud spirit that lives in this colossal work, by the richness of new ideas and their originality, as well as by the depth of artistic doctrine, so that one may prophesy that this work will remain and will be heard with renewed pleasure long after thousands of little pieces that are now in fashion will have been buried.” Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1805

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Review of the Third Symphony in E‑flat major, Op. 55

A new symphony by Beethoven, to be distinguished from the Second, is written in an entirely different style. This long composition, of extremely difficult execution, is in reality a wild fantasy of enormous dimensions. Nothing is lacking in the way of beautiful and astonishing passages in which one recognizes the energetic, talented composer; but he often loses himself in anarchy. The Symphony begins with a vigorously carved Allegro in E‑flat; a funeral march in C minor follows, developed in fugal style. Then come a Scherzo, Allegro, and a Finale in E‑flat. The reviewer is a sincere admirer of Beethoven, but must confess that there are too many dazzling and bizarre things, which prevent one from grasping the whole, so that the sense of unity is entirely lost. [This is followed by an extravagant praise of a new symphony by Anton Franz Joseph Eberl (1765–1807), Viennese, pianist and prolific composer, who enjoyed great popularity and success but is today entirely forgotten. To our Master, comments Schindler, it was therefore implied that he would have done better to write like Eberl. It was a semi‑public concert.] Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, February 1805

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Even considering the artistic taste of the time, it is extremely difficult to believe in the impartiality of a critic who, in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, writes as follows about such an original work as the first movement of the Sonata in F minor [Op. 57]: “Everyone knows Beethoven’s manner of composing an important Sonata; in all of them, in his various ways of presenting bizarre material, Beethoven follows the same method. In the first movement of this sonata he has once again unleashed many wild spirits, similar to those already familiar from their appearance in other Sonatas. But truly, this time it is worth struggling to overcome not only the extreme difficulties of the piece but also the repugnance one often feels in the face of forced stubbornness and eccentricity! We have spoken so often of these caprices of the master’s imagination that we have nothing new to add here.”

The second movement, Andante con moto, and the third, Allegro ma non troppo, however, found favor with the rigorous critic; he expressed pleasure in hearing them. In the third movement, the critic “finds nothing of that irregularity and artificiality which are characteristic of many of Beethoven’s other strong and vigorous finales.” Schindler

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Just as certain minor works of Beethoven may be blamed for being too mechanical, strange, and more difficult to perform than necessary, or because they have practically nothing to say — or nothing that could not be said just as well, or better, if expressed more simply, more naturally, more plainly — just so, certainly, I say, he ignores all these reproaches when he writes a piece like this, filled with difficulties insurmountable even for the most attentive listener and the expert musician. This does not mean that the work is not superlative in every respect, nor that Beethoven’s genius does not manifest its characteristics also in this composition, for his peculiar trait consists in writing music which, as far as mechanical and technical aspects are concerned, is impossible to execute adequately, either for the instruments or for the hands. Nevertheless, as soon as this composition becomes known, it is certain that it will give rise to a multitude of transcriptions and arrangements. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1807

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A correspondent of the Berlinische Musikalische Zeitung, in 1805, described Beethoven’s Eroica as “shrill and confused,” and reported that in Vienna “some idolize the defects and the merits of this composer with the same enthusiasm, to the point of bordering on the ridiculous.”

[Carl Czerny wrote that, at least initially, “all the followers of the old school, which looked to Mozart and Haydn, opposed Beethoven fiercely.” But in reality, even among admirers of the old school, Beethoven soon found fervent supporters — one need only mention Lichnowsky, Thun, Lobkowitz, Aponyi, von Swieten, several of whom held prominent roles in Viennese musical life. There is no doubt that many critics of the time had difficulty grasping the meaning and value of Beethoven’s innovations, astonished as they were by the bold modulations, the harmonic audacity, the wealth of ideas, and the many difficulties of execution. In the reviews of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung there is a veritable anthology of reproaches. Here are some examples: “A piece like this (the Symphony in E‑flat major, Op. 55, Eroica) is filled with difficulties insurmountable even for the most attentive listener and the expert musician,” and “even if the reviewer is a sincere admirer of Beethoven, he must confess that there are too many dazzling and bizarre things.” At times the critics, in his early variations, deplored the “rough and unpleasant modulations,” the “passages so anti‑musical, in which rough runs of semitones provoke violent dissonances,” so that “they give no cause for joy” [WoO 73]. “It is arid music (and this referred to the Op. 12 Sonatas!) and uninteresting, a strained attempt at strange modulations, an aversion to normal tonal relationships, an accumulation of difficulty upon difficulty such that all pleasure is lost…”]

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Review of the Second Symphony, Op. 36

In this symphony everything is noble, energetic, and proud. The introduction is a masterpiece. To this admirable Adagio is joined an Allegro con brio of irresistible verve. The Andante consists of a pure and innocent song, first presented simply by the quartet, then embroidered with rare elegance, without ever departing from the feeling of tenderness that forms the distinctive trait of the principal idea. It is a splendid picture of innocent happiness, lightly veiled by a few rare moments of melancholy. The Scherzo is frankly cheerful. The Finale is of the same nature — it is a second Scherzo in two movements, in which the play has something even finer and more piquant. Berlioz

The two symphonies [Nos. 1 and 2] and some pages of the oratorio were judged beautiful, but the whole [of the oratorio] was considered too broad, too artificial in construction, and lacking adequate expressiveness in the vocal parts. The text by F. X. Huber appeared to have been written in haste, like the music. The performance, however, brought Beethoven 1,800 florins, and he, together with the celebrated Abbot Vogler, received a commission from that theatre to write an opera. Thayer

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Early critical judgments on Fidelio (after the first three Viennese performances, 20–22 November 1805)

Let us recall that on 13 November Napoleon had occupied the city and the nobility had fled Vienna. Most of the audience consisted of French officers, and among important musicians only Cherubini was present.

Der Freimüthige, Berlin: The music of Fidelio stands far below what admirers and connoisseurs might have expected. The melody, tormented, lacks the happy, magical, irresistible emotional charm that seizes us in the operas of Mozart and Cherubini. There are beautiful passages in the music, but we are very far from a perfect and successful opera.

La Gazzetta del gran mondo: The music of Fidelio lacks effect and is instead full of tedious repetitions.

Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, Leipzig: The score does not distinguish itself by invention or style. The overture (Leonore No. 2) cannot bear comparison with that of Prometheus. The whole does not stand out for inventiveness. The vocal parts reveal no new fundamental idea. The choruses always lack effect: one of them, which ought to express the joy of the prisoners coming out to breathe the free air, is a complete failure.

After the revisions to Fidelio, the revival of 29 March 1806 met with no better success. The correspondent of Der Freimüthige wrote of Leonore No. 3:

“Not only musicians free from prejudice, but even the most devoted admirers of the composer, were of the opinion that never had music so disjointed, confused, shouted, and deadly to the ear been written as this overture. The most lacerating modulations follow one another in abominable harmony; poor ideas, without a shadow of nobility, among which a cornet solo meant to announce the arrival of the governor, complete the unpleasant and noisy impression of the whole.” Marinuzzi

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Review of Fidelio

Beethoven has often sacrificed beauty for something new and strange; one therefore expected a certain novelty and originality of ideas in this first theatrical work of his — and it is precisely this that is lacking here. Judging impartially, nothing stands out either for invention or execution. The overture [Leonore No. 2] cannot be compared with that of Prometheus. There are generally no new ideas in the vocal parts, which are too long; the text is repeated endlessly, and in the end all characterization is lacking. For the continuous accompaniment of the violins in the high register expresses rather a wild jubilation than the feeling of profound sadness appropriate to the events represented. Much better is the quartet of the first act and an effective aria for soprano in F major [an error; the aria is in E major], in which three obbligato horns and a bassoon form a beautiful, though somewhat overloaded, accompaniment. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, January 1806

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Review of the Rasumovsky Quartets

Three new, long, and difficult string quartets by Beethoven, dedicated to the Russian Ambassador Count Rasumovsky, attract the attention of all connoisseurs. The conception is profound and the construction excellent, but they are not easily understood — with the possible exception of the third in C major, which cannot fail to please intelligent lovers of music for its originality, melodic invention, and harmonic strength. [In a later article it was said that the quartets, difficult but beautiful, had become popular and that music lovers awaited the printed edition.] Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, February 1807

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In certain great symphonies of Beethoven there exists a structure, a spirit similar to the grand design and character of a heroic poem. C. F. Michaelis, Berlinische Musikalische Zeitung, 1805

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With the publication of the two symphonies, the Fifth and the Sixth [in 1809], the critics of Leipzig made an about‑face in favor of almost every composition of Beethoven. Not that the symphonies had been badly received by that tribunal of the arts at their appearance, but the piano music — the true messenger of the deepest secrets of Beethoven’s genius — had until then been misunderstood and underestimated. Until this moment, however, criticism had not penetrated the poetic depths of the symphonies. Now things began to improve. The reviews of the Fifth and Sixth in the twelfth volume [1809] of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung contained the first indication that the old, traditional scholastic rules were losing ground in Leipzig.

On the Pastoral it was written: “The work presents, in symphonic form, a picture of country life. A picture? Can one suppose that music paints? The representation of external objects in music is considered meaningless. This observation does not concern the work we are examining, for the music is not the representation of particular things of the countryside, but rather of the sensations and emotions aroused in us by the countryside.”

And here is an extract from an article by Hoffmann, more than twenty columns long, on the Fifth Symphony in C minor:

“Beethoven’s music inspires in listeners awe, fear, horror, pain, and that extraordinary longing which is the soul of Romanticism. Beethoven has deeply rooted in his spirit the Romanticism of music and expresses it in his works with the greatest skill and acuteness. This critic has never felt this Romanticism so intensely as when listening to this symphony, which, right up to the final climax, develops Beethoven’s sense of the Romantic, expressing it more urgently than in any other of his works, until the listener is irresistibly compelled into the solemn realm of the eternal spirit.” Schindler

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Review of the Fifth Symphony by E. T. A. Hoffmann, published in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung

The reviewer stands before one of the Master’s most important works and will attempt to express in words the feelings awakened in his soul by this composition. Instrumental music, which—disdaining the aid of every other artistic form—expresses, as an autonomous art, its specific nature in an authentic manner, is the most romantic of the arts; one would be tempted to say, the only truly romantic one. Haydn and Mozart were the first to bring musical art to its full splendour; but he who has contemplated it full of love and penetrated into its most intimate nature is Beethoven.

The instrumental compositions of all three possess the same breath, which consists in the profound understanding of the spirit of art. Yet the character of the compositions of these musicians is markedly different. The expression of a childlike and jovial spirit is found in Haydn’s works; his symphonies lead us into a variegated world of happy people. Mozart guides us into the depths of the realm of the spirit; without torment, his music is a premonition of the infinite.

Beethoven’s instrumental music opens to us the realm of the grand and the gigantic. A flash of fiery rays rends the deep night of this realm, and we are enveloped by gigantic shadows that press ever closer upon us and annihilate within us everything except the pain of infinite longing. Beethoven is an authentically romantic composer; precisely for this reason he is a true composer of music, and this may also be the reason why he succeeds less in vocal music, which expresses feelings already represented by words, and why his instrumental music rarely pleases the public.

… In the depths of his soul Beethoven bears the romanticism of music, which he expresses in his works with genius… The reviewer has never felt this more intensely than in the symphony before him, in which, better than in any other of his works, Beethoven’s romanticism grows to the point of paroxysm and irresistibly draws the listener into the marvellous world of the spirit: the infinite.

In this symphony Beethoven has maintained the customary sequence of movements: they seem magically linked to one another in a fantastic succession; and all together they produce the effect of a genial rhapsody. The soul of every sensitive listener will certainly be touched inwardly, deeply, by a single sensation that persists and endures until the final chord, and which is nothing other than that of an infinite and unappeased longing; and at the end of the symphony, for some time still, he will be unable to leave the marvellous world of the spirit where, in the form of sounds, sorrow and joy have welcomed him.

… The various themes that compose it are extraordinarily akin to one another, and this produces that unity which keeps the listener in the same disposition of mind. In a few words, in this work the romanticism of music is expressed at the highest level. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, July 1810

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Review of the Piano Concerto in E‑flat major, Op. 73, “Emperor”

The reason why this composition has not received the applause it deserves must be sought partly in the character of the work and partly in the listeners. Beethoven, in his proud confidence in himself, never writes for the crowd; he always demands understanding and feeling. Thalia (journal of I. F. Castelli, 1781–1862), 1812

The first performance of the Second Symphony in D major took place on 5 April 1803 at the Theater an der Wien, in a colossal concert in which, besides the First Symphony and the Third Piano Concerto in C minor Op. 37, the Oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives [Op. 85] was also performed for the first time. The critical judgments were not favourable. The reviewer of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung found in the new symphony “many faults, many longueurs, many passages too elaborately worked out,” and “an excessively insistent use of the wind instruments. The Finale,” continued the critic, “is too bizarre, wild, and noisy — but this is compensated by the power of genius revealed in this production, colossal in the richness of its new ideas and the depth of its learning.”

Far less flattering was the review that described the symphony as “a pierced dragon that struggles untamed and refuses to die, and at the same time bleeds while furiously lashing its tail.” In Berlin it was written only of the “difficulties executed for three‑quarters of an hour.” The judgment of the public was also unfavourable, probably because of the many novelties it contained. Only later did J. F. Rochlitz write in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung that this symphony was the work of a great spirit, destined to survive when the multitude of fashionable pieces would be buried and entirely forgotten. Thayer

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The first public performance of the Third Symphony in E‑flat major Op. 55, the Eroica, took place (after several semi‑private performances) on Sunday evening, 7 April 1805, at the Theater an der Wien, when it opened the second half of a benefit concert given by Clement. Czerny recalled, as he told Jahn, that during the performance someone in the gallery shouted: “I’ll give another kreutzer if the thing will only end!”

The correspondent of the Freimüthige divided the audience into three parties and wrote:

“Some, friends of Beethoven, assert that this symphony is his masterpiece, that this is the true style of high‑class music, and that if it does not please now it is because the public is not sufficiently educated to grasp its beauty; when several thousand years have passed, it will not fail to make an impression.

Another faction denies that the work has any artistic value, and sees in it a struggle for originality. With strange modulations and violent transitions, combining the most heterogeneous elements — when, for example, a pastoral appears in the basses or in three horns — a certain undesirable originality may indeed be achieved.

The third party, in truth very small, stands midway between the other two, admitting that the symphony contains many beautiful things, but that its extraordinary length wearies even the competent; and they wish that H. v. B. would give us again works like the first symphonies in C and in D…

Neither the public nor Beethoven was satisfied that evening. The public found the symphony too heavy, too long, and Beethoven too discourteous, since he did not even nod his head in acknowledgment of the applause that came from part of the audience. Beethoven found that the applause had not been strong enough.” Thayer

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Review of the concert of 7 May 1824

(in which were performed the Consecration of the House Overture, the Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei from the Missa solemnis, and, for the first time, the Ninth Symphony)

Where can I find the words to tell my readers of these masterpieces whose greatness transcended a performance that left much to be desired, especially in the vocal sections, since three rehearsals are insufficient for a work presenting such extraordinary difficulties.

Despite everything, the impact was indescribably wonderful and convincing; it was greeted with shouts of enthusiasm directed toward the Master from overflowing hearts, for his inexhaustible genius had opened to us a new world and revealed a magical secret of divine music, never before heard, never suspected.

The Finale [of the Ninth] opens like the crash of thunder. As in a potpourri, all the principal themes already heard are repeated in rapid succession, as if reflected in a mirror; then they are once more paraded in brilliant array. The double bass murmurs a recitative that seems to ask, “What will happen now?”, after which they answer themselves with a delicate major‑key motif, and then all the other instruments progressively join them with extraordinarily beautiful combinations.

At last, after an invitation from the bass soloist, the entire chorus intones with majestic splendour the hymn in praise of joy. The critic now sits at his desk, having regained his composure, yet he cannot forget the emotion of that moment. Art and truth here celebrate their most glorious triumph; yet it is impossible for the rest of the poem — composed partly for chorus, partly for solo voices, with various tempi and changes of key — to achieve a comparable effect, no matter with what perfection the individual sections are treated.

The most ardent admirers of the composer are deeply convinced that this extraordinarily singular finale would be even more effective if condensed into a more concentrated form. The composer himself would be of this opinion, if cruel fate had not deprived him of the faculty of hearing his own creations. Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung, 1824

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Review of the Quartet in B‑flat major Op. 130

The Quartet in B‑flat major [Op. 130], with six movements, is rightly called the monster of quartets. Its first performance, in March 1826, took place at the final concert in that year’s chamber‑music series. All lovers of the quartet were present to hear the première of this brand‑new creation about which strange things were being said.

Let us hear what the critic of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung had to say about the success of this concert:

“The first, third, and fifth movements are serious, dark, mysterious, at times bizarre, abrupt, and capricious. The second and fourth are full of cheerfulness, mischief, and roguishness. Here the composer — who, especially in his latest works, has found it difficult to reach balance or a goal — has expressed himself briefly and concisely. Amid tumultuous applause the audience demanded an encore of both.

But the meaning of the fugue‑finale was incomprehensible to them, a sort of Chinese puzzle. When the instruments must struggle against enormous difficulties, when each of them embellishes the theme in a different way, when they outdo one another in irregular progressions and innumerable dissonances, when musicians lacking confidence do not play with absolute precision — then the confusion of Babel is truly complete; then we have a concert that could please only the Moroccans [sic].

Perhaps all this would never have been written if the Master could hear his works. Yet we must not condemn the work prematurely; perhaps a time will come when what now, at first contact, appears so turbid and confused will appear clear and perfectly balanced.” Schindler

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The Wiener Zeitung of 24 February [1814] contained the announcement of an “Academy, next Saturday the 27th, in the great Redoutensaal,” with “a new symphony not yet heard and an entirely new and still unheard trio” as novelties. A report in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung gives the full programme and some pertinent comments:

The new symphony in A major [Seventh, Op. 92] was again received with the same enthusiasm.

A new trio in B‑flat major (Tremate, empi tremate), well sung by Mme. Milder‑Hauptmann, Mr. Siboni, and Mr. Weinmüller, conceived entirely at the beginning in the Italian style, ends with a passionate Allegro in Beethoven’s typical manner. It was applauded.

A brand‑new symphony, not yet heard, in F major [Eighth, Op. 93]. The greatest interest of the listeners was focused on this, the newest product of B.’s muse, and expectations were high, but it was not sufficiently appreciated after a single hearing, and the applause it received was not accompanied by the enthusiasm that distinguishes a work giving great pleasure; in short — as the Italians say — it “did not cause a sensation.” The critic believes the reason does not lie in any lesser quality (for in this, as in all B.’s works of the same kind, breathes that particular spirit from which his originality always derives), but in the mistake of having it follow the symphony in A major. Performed again on its own, he does not doubt its success.

At the end, Wellington’s Victory at the Battle of Vittoria, whose first part, the Battle, was repeated. Thayer

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The Bohemian composer Tomášek, who heard him in Prague in 1798, observes that the new Master does not impose himself through his knowledge of harmony, counterpoint, or eurythmy. His merits lie elsewhere. Other characteristics distinguish him from Mozart or Haydn: namely, the originality with which his temperament manifests itself — sensitive yet independent, brusque and almost wild. Herriot

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Czerny recalled that on the occasion of the first performance the Eighth Symphony was not liked, and that Beethoven, furious about this, said: “Because it is much better than the others.” Thayer

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Wenzel Johann Tomášek (1774–1850) considered Beethoven an artist greatly endowed with talent but who had strayed from the right path. Pecmann

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In the early years of the 1800s there was a tendency to see Beethoven’s music as a challenge to the established dualism of Haydn and Mozart — to see in Mozart a bulwark of tradition and in Beethoven the guarantor of renewal. Gruber

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In the writings of early nineteenth‑century critics — Rochlitz, Christian Friedrich Michaelis, Hoffmann, D. Hohnbaum — it is affirmed that the only true music is expressive music, that which addresses our soul, not our senses, and that music must give the purest form to the highest degrees of emotion. According to A. Wendt, for example, Beethoven increased these expressive possibilities through his innovations, giving his works a colossal character lacking in his predecessors.

For Hoffmann, Beethoven is above all the musician of the enormous, the colossal, the boundless, and thanks to his romanticism he transports the listener irresistibly into the marvellous realm of the spirit — the infinite. In his writings Hoffmann penetrated Beethoven’s genius admirably. A distinctive feature of many of Beethoven’s works is the upward thrust, the ascent from shadow to light, from anguish to serene joy: as in the Pathétique Sonata, the Moonlight and Appassionata Sonatas, and the Ninth Symphony. Even the entire second part of Fidelio is an ascent from the darkness of the cells to the light of freedom. Boyer

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Beethoven’s music moves the lever of shudder, fear, terror, pain, and awakens precisely that infinite longing which is the essence of Romanticism. Hoffmann

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When Count von Dietrichstein told me in 1825 that Beethoven wished me to write a libretto for him, I doubted whether Beethoven was still capable of composing an opera. Beethoven had become completely deaf, and his latest compositions, despite their great value, had taken on a harsh character that seemed to me at odds with the treatment of vocal parts. Grillparzer

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Beethoven has “something bizarre,” arising “from the effort to be original, and from the notoriously sad conditions of the composer’s life.” Grillparzer

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Regarding the Seventh Symphony, a curmudgeon like Friedrich Wieck (father of Clara Schumann) perceived in the work the hand of a drunkard, and the Parisian Revue Musicale, after a performance in 1829, judged the finale “one of those inconceivable creations that could only have come from a sublime and sick mind.” Pestelli

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A great concert, for which Beethoven had prepared during the winter, took place on 2 April [1800]. It was his first public appearance for his own benefit in Vienna, and as far as is known, only there, except in Prague. Everything known about it is contained in the announcements (in the Wiener Zeitung of 26 March and in the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung) and in the programme, of which Frau van Beethoven, the widow of his nephew Karl, possessed a copy. Here it is:

Today, Wednesday 2 April 1800, Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven will have the honour of giving a concert for his benefit in the Royal Imperial Court Theatre near the Burg. The following pieces will be performed:

• A grand symphony by the recently deceased Mozart
• An aria from The Creation by Kapellmeister Haydn, sung by Mme. Saal
• A grand piano concerto played and composed by Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven
• A Septet dedicated with the utmost humility and obedience to Her Majesty the Empress, composed by Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven, for four string instruments and three winds, performed by Messrs. Schuppanzigh, Schreiber, Schindlecker, Baer, Nickel, Matauschek, and Dietzel
• A duet from Haydn’s Creation, sung by Mr. and Mme. Saal
• Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven will improvise at the piano
• A new grand symphony with full orchestra, composed by Mr. Ludwig van Beethoven

Tickets for boxes and seats may be purchased from Mr. van Beethoven at his lodgings in the Tiefen Graben, no. 241, third floor, and from the box‑owners. Admission prices as usual. Beginning at half‑past six.

The correspondent of the Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung described the concert as follows:

“This was truly the most interesting concert in a long time. He [Beethoven] played a new concerto of his own composition, written with taste and feeling. Afterwards he improvised in masterly fashion, and at the end a symphony of his was performed in which there is much art, novelty, and richness of ideas. The only defect is the excessive use of wind instruments.”

It is unclear which concerto Beethoven played on this occasion [either Op. 19 or Op. 15]. The symphony was the one in C major, which soon became well known throughout Germany. Thayer

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Separated from other men, he built for himself his own world, in a marvellous way, out of sounds not heard but only conceived. This means completing, as a true human being, the circle—ordained by higher forces—of one’s earthly pilgrimage. For one who was capable of leaving, at every station of this journey, monuments so worthy of his presence, now that he is dead, no lamentation! We shall all certainly feel his loss, truly irreparable; but what he created remains with us, and will continue to act, directly or indirectly, for infinite times, and will bring thought back to him, in glory, in every history of music, since he has given it the fundamental content of the contemporary age.”

Beyond the lyrical flights and certain exaggerations regarding his sobriety of life and his absolute, titanic concentration on his art—seen as a kind of almost otherworldly mission (traits destined to become part of the Beethovenian myth, not only of the nineteenth century but still permeating the most popular image of the musician)—Rochlitz shows remarkable clarity in grasping the fundamental and pioneering role Beethoven had in symphonic‑instrumental music. Rochlitz’s Nekrolog recalls the enthusiastic critique written in 1813 by E. T. A. Hoffmann, and, conversely, in certain lightly hinted criticisms, some of the reservations later expressed by the Viennese Franz Grillparzer. Focher

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After Haydn, no composer caused such a wide schism in the European public as Beethoven. The question at issue can naturally be decided only by posterity. Even eminent professors and among the greatest admirers of Beethoven have expressed doubts as to whether some of his latest works can withstand the test of time. Beethoven could never bear hearing his early works praised, and yet it can be stated with certainty that many of these are among his most beautiful and enduring.

Beethoven was a great mocker of the rules of composition. Sometimes, when in good humour, speaking with his fellow musicians about his scant respect for these rules, he would rub his hands with pleasure and say: “Ah! Ah! I should like to see what you gentlemen with your treatises on harmony will say to this.”

Of Beethoven’s music one may say briefly and generally that, as to melody—which is its soul, as Mozart said—he is inferior both to Mozart and to Haydn; but in the solid and imposing greatness of harmony he has never been surpassed, and probably not even equalled, by anyone except Handel.

If the scepticism to which we alluded regarding some of Beethoven’s late works should prove well‑founded, it may be fortunate for his reputation that he did not live longer. It has recently been asserted that the posthumous quartets, about which there is such great divergence of opinion, are not genuine—that they were put together by some enterprising publisher from fragments of manuscripts found among Beethoven’s papers. “The Penny Magazine”, 11 January 1840

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As a musician Beethoven must be placed on a level with Handel, Haydn, and Mozart. Only he can be compared with them in the greatness of his works and in their influence on the state of the art. Although he wrote relatively little in the sphere to which Handel devoted all the energies of his mind, yet his spirit, more than that of any other composer, resembles Handel’s.

In his music there is the same gigantic grandeur of conception, the same breadth and simplicity of design, and the same absence of minute and insignificant details. In Beethoven’s harmonies the masses of sound are as broad, weighty, and imposing as those of Handel, while possessing a particular deep and melancholy character. As they intensify in our ears and grow ever darker, they are like storm clouds at which we gaze until we are shaken by the lightning and terrified by the thunder bursting from within.

These effects he produced especially in his marvellous symphonies. Even when he does not wield the energies of a great orchestra, in his concerted instrumental pieces, his quartets, trios, and piano sonatas, there are the same broad and grand harmonies and the same wild, unexpected, and astonishing effects. Among these, both in his orchestral works and in his chamber music, are melodies indescribably passionate and ravishing.

A remarkable characteristic of these divine melodies is their extreme simplicity. A few notes, as simple as those of a folk song, suffice to awaken the most exquisite emotions. Beethoven’s music has the characteristics of the man. When slow and tranquil, it does not have Haydn’s placid composure or Mozart’s tenderness; it is serious and full of deep and melancholy thoughts. When rapid, it is not lively and sprightly, but agitated and changeable—rich in sweet and bitter nuances, in storms and brightness, in explosions of passion that sink into quiet accents of sadness or are calmed in flashes of hope or joy.

There are movements to which he has given the name scherzoso, or playful. But this is different from the cheerfulness Haydn loved to bring to life in the finales of his symphonies and quartets. If in such a movement Beethoven begins with a tone of gaiety, his mood involuntarily changes—the smile vanishes—and he falls into a world of melancholy ideas.

The rapid Scherzos with which he replaced the old Minuet are wild, impetuous, and fantastic; they often have the air of that violent and irregular liveliness to which sombre natures are inclined. Yet they contain many of Beethoven’s most beautiful and original conceptions and are extraordinarily revealing of the character of his mind.

The works of Beethoven’s last years are not known and appreciated as the earlier ones. His early works are clear in design, easily comprehensible, and simple in meaning, so that, when correctly performed, they immediately strike anyone sensitive to the power of music. In his later works the meaning is obscure and sometimes incomprehensible. He has cast aside all ancient models, and not only transformed the movements into new and unprecedented forms, but introduced the same degree of novelty into all their details. His melodic phrases are new; his harmonies are new; his disposition of the parts is new; and his sudden changes of tempo, metre, and harmony are often inexplicable according to the codified canons of the art.

The full power of Beethoven’s genius is displayed in the symphonies. The Fifth Symphony in C minor Op. 67 stands alone without rival; and the Pastoral Symphony is probably the finest piece of descriptive music in existence. Hogarth

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“Programme music,” that is, music with a predetermined theme composed with the intention of representing some external reality, had become a polemical subject in the musical capitals. Beethoven sided with interiority against effect‑seeking imitation. In the Pastoral Symphony, apart from two overtly imitative moments—the birds’ dialogue (nightingale, quail, cuckoo) and the whistling wind in the “storm”—the whole work does not describe or contemplate nature, for the simple reason that it is inside it, an integral and sympathetic part of it. Pestelli

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From Beethoven’s music emanate a gigantic breath of humanity and an intimate warmth of fraternal solidarity. It is the foundation of a secular religiosity. Confalonieri

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At the bottom of all Beethoven’s music, in the feverish anxiety of its rhythms and its melodies, we hear a voice that longs to be heard. Confalonieri

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Here, then, is Beethoven: he is our champion, the man we have sent forward, the strongest and purest among us. His height towers above us, immense, but there is no summit where our gaze cannot reach, where we cannot follow him. Confalonieri

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Beethoven’s music, with each of its notes, is illuminated by a clear beneficent intent. Beyond what it builds as an adventure of fantasy, the music of this solitary man derives its novelty from the flame of love that dictated it. Confalonieri

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“The great heart of Beethoven,” wrote Wittgenstein. And indeed, in Beethoven’s heart there is something impressive: the feeling of struggle, the struggle to believe in something. Siciliano

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Beethoven does not seek the narrative path, does not await excitements from outside; he himself is the first and only subject of the drama he reveals to us through his ephemeral essence—spirit and body exposed to every offence of the world, naked to his own eyes and ours, without the screen of justifications or indulgences. It is for this publicity, at once generous and austere, for his having documented himself faithfully through the creative act, that Beethoven appears to us as the most tragic figure of all musical epochs, and that, among all the great masters, he will be the only one whose myth history will never overcome. Confalonieri

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Not only is Fidelio the masterpiece it is precisely as theatre, and not a “secular oratorio,” but its position within Beethoven’s creativity is central and indispensable: in the sense that that dialectic of oppositions, that faith in the positivity of life, that moral substance which Beethoven condenses in Sonatas and Symphonies in a form equally complete and encoded, in Fidelio, “set on stage,” becomes theatre—perceived even physically by the spectator’s eye in the hall. Pestelli

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Beethoven is a revolutionary by instinct, by conscious decision, by historical destiny. But the revolution is entirely inward. Founder of an instrumental vocality wholly different from that which had taken shape through the work of the Italian violinists and the Haydn–Mozart tradition, almost unconsciously intent on striking at melodramatic melodiousness, Beethoven never feared appearing harsh or enigmatic, never feared imposing his thought upon us even at the expense of our pleasure.

And yet, never as in the compositions of his final years did he abandon himself to the memory of distant sweetnesses. Nothing is so moving as seeing him liberated from his fate, as feeling ourselves the new flavour he knew how to rediscover in certain old melodies. Teneramente is an Italian indication that Beethoven very often writes in episodes of his last works; it is not only advice for the performer, but the proof of being able to be gentle on the part of an artist who placed goodness above genius. Teneramente unfolds the cantilena of the first theme of the Quartet in E‑flat major Op. 127 (1824); Teneramente the anxieties of the Allegro of the Quartet in A minor Op. 132 (1825) fade away: these are songs now hushed, now broadened, that seem like paternal gifts offered — through tears and blood — to a future youth of the world. Confalonieri

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Beethoven, in whose works it was possible to see the greatest progress of music after Mozart, especially in his sonatas and symphonies. Marx

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New is the depth of thought in Beethoven’s compositions, the new richness of sonic combinations in his symphonies, the bold modulation that creates new relationships, the grand unity, the passion never before heard. Marx

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After the revival of Fidelio in Vienna in 1870, Eduard Hanslick wrote: “I know no other opera capable of captivating and shaking the spectator’s soul like this Fidelio. It was the first masterpiece to appear on German opera stages after Die Zauberflöte. Compared with other German operas and with popular masterpieces such as Der Freischütz, Fidelio occupies a far more exclusive, aristocratic position.” D. Weber

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Beethoven was by no means an inexhaustible source of music as Vivaldi, Bach, Haydn, and Mozart were. Slow and unsatisfied in establishing the physiognomy of his themes (his sketches and notebooks clearly show this), he meditated at length on the particular events of each piece, always refusing — as a German critic wrote — to “let the forms compose for him,” and often remaking the same composition over and over again (the three versions of the Leonore Overture suffice as an example). Confalonieri

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The appearance of Beethoven was an essential event in the history of music. In contact with this extraordinary, unique, absolutely unrepeatable man, the entire mechanism of musical knowledge was overturned. A child of his time and adherent of a new artistic religion, the isolation in which he lived, the almost irate independence of his character, the extreme concentration, the impulse to feel ideas as others feel actions, soon lifted him above every political or social circumstance.

Between the day of his birth (16 December 1770) and that of his death (26 March 1827), Europe saw the dying splendours of the ancien régime, the French Revolution, the Napoleonic cycle, the Holy Alliance, and the first stirrings of the new civilisation in motion. The Enlightenment had yielded to the overwhelming systems of Kant. Beethoven seems to us superior to all these restless transformations; he created a perpetual history.

After the advent of Beethoven — who demanded to feel himself alive as a man before acting as an artist — the great musical work could no longer be realised except as the consequence of a great human figure. In conclusion, Beethoven reformed music by having infused into it his entire human being with an originality and spiritual elevation until then unknown. Music would no longer descend from the empyrean of art; it would have to be earned. Confalonieri

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Regarding Beethoven’s last works, A. D. Oulibicheff [who, for his book on Beethoven, was branded by Hans von Bülow with the epithet “the Calmuck”], wrote: “Since he had heard nothing for many years, had lost the memory of music as played, and since shadows had partly invaded his intelligence, he produced works that seemed to him sublime in conception and harmony, but that remained dead letters for those who listened with their ears.” Oulibischeff

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Beethoven is the modern musician who, more than any other, works through a progressive transformation of thought and language in defining his art. Indeed, he identifies himself with the very idea of metamorphosis in music: a metamorphosis that does not erase the legacy of tradition but enriches it. Wilhelm Furtwängler, in his Gespräche über Musik (Conversations on Music), formulated a lapidary expression: “Bach das Sein, Mozart das Geschehen, Beethoven das Werden”—that is, “[In music] Bach is being, Mozart is happening, Beethoven is becoming.”

Beethoven subjects the becoming of his musical language to his own will. Everything in him bears the volitional seal of effort, of struggle against the material that “answers deafly.” At the origin of Beethoven’s voluntarism lies a condition: the young Beethoven does not display that astonishing and precocious genius we recognize in Mozart, Schubert, or Mendelssohn. What happens in him is similar to what occurs in the very young Schumann and, even more strikingly, in Bruckner. Maturation and authentic originality arrive relatively late.

Precisely because Beethoven—unlike Mozart and Mendelssohn—was not born already mature, the process of transformation to which he subjects musical material throughout his industrious life, bending it to his will of form, genre, language, style, and conception, is extraordinary. Between the death of Bach and the years of Wagnerian hegemony, no Western musician, like Beethoven, reshaped and renewed his music from his beginnings to the late style of his final works. Of no other musician, as of Beethoven, could one say—on hearing the late compositions for the first time and comparing them with the early ones—“But this is another composer!” Principe

The song cycle An die ferne Geliebte (To the Distant Beloved) is perhaps Beethoven’s only truly “romantic” composition. Buscaroli

As Riezler wrote, throughout history there have been examples of pure instrumental music, usually tied to well‑defined extra‑musical representations, as in Asian cultures and classical antiquity. What we mean by “absolute music” is something different, existing only in the West from the seventeenth century onward: music that, freed from words and even from the memory of dance, lives by itself without needing external supports.

As harmonic consciousness transformed—breaking away from the old ecclesiastical modes and forming a new harmonic awareness—this new music became capable of “building” from within, without external scaffolding, reaching the great works of J. S. Bach and G. F. Handel.

Today every work of Beethoven is perceived as music not essentially different from any other—perhaps more powerful and universal, but in no way different in nature: “absolute” music, like that of Bach, Haydn, Mozart, and the other masters of instrumental art. Musicians, amateurs who play it, and listeners who approach it—each according to their abilities—perceive the mystery that lies within Beethoven’s work.

Yet, as Riezler reminds us, some claim that Beethoven’s music is not “absolute” in the sense of a Bach fugue or a Mozart symphony, but something different by its very nature. After Marx, in 1859, coined the term “ideal music” in his book on Beethoven—seeking to emphasize the distance separating this music from all other artistic and cultural manifestations—many writers have taken different positions.

Paul Bekker wrote that “Beethoven is first of all a thinker and a poet, and only second a musician.” Arnold Schering argued that Beethoven had in mind poems by Shakespeare, Goethe, and Schiller when composing: for example, the Third Symphony would be the “Homeric Symphony,” the Fourth “Schiller’s Symphony,” and so on, claiming that the concept of “absolute music” is an error that prevents understanding instrumental music.

Thus, despite the impossibility of translating a musical work from the language of notes into that of words, many have repeatedly attempted to explain in words the content of a melody, a theme, or an entire instrumental work. But, asks Riezler, is there anyone with sound musical sense who needs to think of something other than what he hears in order to understand Beethoven’s music? Is his work not music like that of Haydn and Mozart—perhaps with greater expressive depth, yet still music whose meaning lies within itself?

As Riezler recalls, any attempt to discover “extra‑musical ideas” in Beethoven’s works leads us only away from their true musical meaning. Unfortunately, Beethoven said and wrote very little on this matter. It seems that in the last months of his life he spoke with Schindler about the idea of giving titles to his works—an idea Schindler himself doubted the Master would ever have adopted. Beethoven’s only certain answer to this problem was the one he once gave to someone asking about the meaning of one of his works: “One can answer only at the piano.” Though he did once say that anyone could hear in the Largo of the Sonata Op. 10 No. 3 the “state of mind of a melancholic.”

The deeper we delve into Beethoven’s music, the more evident becomes its belonging to the classical world, and the clearer its estrangement from the romantic one. Riezler

A salient trait of Beethoven is the exaltation of contrast, of conflict as a condition of improvement. Schiller’s words—“what art does not possess, it must conquer”—could have been his own. For Beethoven, moving forward is a duty. Mozart’s happiness is that of a golden age, lying behind the artist; Beethoven’s happiness lies ahead, a region to be discovered, and thus his art has an optimism of tone perceptible even in the deep circles of a slow and mournful movement or a sorrowful aria. Pestelli

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Compared with Haydn and Mozart, Beethoven’s catalogue shows a drastic reduction in the number of works in each genre, and the time of creation lengthens. Beethoven no longer writes on commission, has no deadlines to respect—and if he has them, he does not respect them. To the declared joy of composition is joined the torment of critique, documented in a vast quantity of preparatory work, sketches, revisions, and corrections that contradict the romantic fetish of immediacy. Pestelli

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After the Restoration, Beethoven’s ideas about music opened to profound changes; the approach to romantic themes—unsuccessful in the theatrical field—reemerges: not only in works such as the Piano Sonata Op. 101 and the song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, but also in theoretical awareness.

It is at this moment that he rejects Italian tempo indications. In a letter of 1817 to the conductor von Mosel, he writes: “Allegro, andante, adagio, presto may serve at most to indicate the tempo; but it is different with the words that indicate the character of the composition: these we cannot renounce, because they refer to the spirit of the composition.”

Examples include the German indications in Op. 90 (Mit Lebhaftigkeit und durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck — With liveliness and entirely with feeling and expression), and in Op. 101 (Langsam und sehnsuchtvoll — Slowly and full of longing); and metaphors such as “losing strength,” “sorrowful,” “little by little coming back to life” (Op. 110), “oppressed” (Op. 130).

For this reason, Beethoven’s music has been, from his time to ours, the object of innumerable interpretations, of continual attempts to find something “behind the notes.” This vast literature testifies to an anxiety to leap over the ditch of pure music—an anxiety Beethoven provoked more than any musician of the past. No: behind Beethoven’s music there is nothing but the notes. His path moves in a direction little interested in the Romantic school. Pestelli

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When we are saddened by the miseries of the world, Beethoven comes to our side. When we feel the weariness of the eternal battle, vainly fought against the mediocrity of vices and virtues, it is an indescribable blessing to plunge again into that ocean of faith and will. From him radiates a consciousness that feels within itself the presence of God. Rolland

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Regarding the romantic and fanciful meanings attributed by critics and scholars of greater or lesser value to Beethoven’s music, here is a small anthology. The Sonata Op. 27 No. 2 bears the title “die Mondscheinsonate”, “Moonlight Sonata,” which was not given by Beethoven but by Ludwig Rellstab, who compared the effect of the first movement to moonlight spreading over Lake Lucerne! It had also been called the “Lauben Sonata” (“Arbour Sonata”), since it was said that Beethoven, in love with Giulietta Guicciardi, had composed it under the pergola of a garden.

Other more or less extravagant interpretations have been applied to various movements of Beethoven’s sonatas, though today no one fails to recognize their uselessness and lack of meaning. For example, Marx heard in the Adagio of the Sonata Op. 2 No. 2 “the thought of an adolescent wandering along nocturnal paths under a starry sky.” (!!!)

Regarding the Largo con gran espressione of the Sonata Op. 7, De Lenz wrote: “One must recognize in it the advent of a new order of things in chamber music. It seems like a tear fallen from Magdalene’s eyes into the valley of tears inhabited by men.” (!!!)

The continuous melody of the Adagio of Op. 22 made Griepenkerl think of swans “who, image of all our desires, search beneath them, with their long strained necks, for celestial signs, deceived by the sweet illusion of the waters that reflect them.” (!!!)

These fanciful interpretations were certainly encouraged by certain remarks reported by Beethoven’s friends and biographers. For example, Schindler related that Beethoven, asked about the meaning of the Largo of the Sonata Op. 10 No. 3, had said: “Everyone will feel that it expresses the state of a soul prey to melancholy,” so that De Lenz wrote: “Reading this Largo is like lifting a sepulchral stone.” Scuderi

Regarding the Quartet Op. 18 No. 2 in G major, a critic claimed to see cheerful gentlemen in wigs, with gracefully braided queues, in the midst of festive and fanciful celebrations! It was indeed called the “Quartet of Bows and Curtseys.” Herriot

Regarding the inspirational motives of various pieces, Herriot, in his La vie de Beethoven, rightly observes that “it is impossible for us to define which feeling inspired this or that piece; musical confession preserves its secret, and in this lies its superiority over literary confession, which demands names and words.”

The only Sonata that received a special title from Beethoven himself is Op. 81a. On the original manuscript is written in German: “Das Lebewohl” (“The Farewell”), Vienna, 4 May 1809, for the departure of His Imperial Highness the revered Archduke Rudolph. And on the last movement is written: “Die Ankunft” (“The Return”) of His Imperial Highness the revered Archduke Rudolph, 30 January 1810. Beethoven protested to Breitkopf & Härtel (letter of 9 October 1811) after the sonata had been published in July 1811 with the French title still used today: “Les Adieux, l’Absence et le Retour.” Scuderi

The Allegretto that, in the Sonata Op. 27 No. 2, follows the Adagio sostenuto without interruption, was described by Liszt as “a flower between two abysses.” De Lenz wrote that “Beethoven’s Allegrettos are often episodes full of gentle sadness and secret irony.” Scuderi

In Beethoven lives again the tragic conflict, ever‑resurgent in human consciousness, between the religious conception of life—which considers every event subordinate to the laws of heaven—and the ethical idea that restores full responsibility to the free action of man. Freedom and necessity, which Beethoven expresses in synthesis with his motto “Es muss sein” (“It must be”), affirm, in harmony with Kant’s thought humanized by Schiller, the free and spontaneous acceptance of a necessary duty, an imperative that guides and sustains life and art. Magnani

Cult of tradition and search for the new, insatiable precision and restless expressiveness, direct adherence to reality and yearning for the infinite seem to converge to form German art, which in its highest works—such as those of Dürer, Goethe, and Beethoven—surpasses national boundaries and the limits of stylistic modes acquired from other cultures, rising to universal validity. Magnani

In the variations of Beethoven’s last sonata (Op. 111), every sonic exuberance, every expressive redundancy, every abandonment to feeling has a calm, serene, yet deeply moving tone, in a style composed with clarity and simplicity. This was what Beethoven had long aimed to achieve when he noted in a notebook of 1804: “Finale immer simpler” (“Finale ever simpler”): the motto that would guide him along the path toward the rarefaction of musical material, which he would reach in the Finale of Op. 111, in the emotional reserve of the Cavatina of the Quartet Op. 130, and in the devout, intimate religiosity of the Heiliger Dankgesang of the Quartet Op. 132. Magnani

Beethoven is an artist who, before being such, is a man among men, superior to others by the tremendous gift of suffering and by that of genius—that is, by the ability to transform pain into song and joy for his fellow human beings. Roncaglia

Fidelio would penetrate only slowly into the public, accustomed to the traditional taste of opera, because inevitably all true masterpieces, all works that challenge human laziness, are subject to this law. Herriot

Chantavoine wrote that “Beethoven knows how to bend to his taste and emotions the previously somewhat rigid instrument of the sonata. He preserves—and indeed strengthens—its unity: but not the unity of forms, tempos, and tonalities; it is a unity of accents, not external but entirely inward.”

And Wagner, who considered Beethoven above all a composer of sonatas, said that “the sonata form is the veil through which he gazes into the realm of sound.” We are far from pure virtuosity, from musical arabesques. His works have value for their inspiration, or, to use another image of Wagner, “They are illuminated from within. Melody is no longer enclosed in a frame; every part of the accompaniment, every rhythmic note, even the rests—everything is melody.”

The listener no longer stops at simple formal appreciation but allows himself to be moved and fascinated. Viennese critics noted what was unusual in his early sonatas, marvelled at the abundance of ideas that inspired them, but also perceived their strange, somewhat wild character. The originality and novelty of this group of sonatas [referring to the early sonatas up to Op. 14] lie in their depth, intimacy, and sincerity of accent. Herriot

Criticism has divided into two fronts, according to two chronological periods: pre‑Wagnerian and post‑Wagnerian. The former praised Beethoven as the culmination of the classical viewpoint regarding pure instrumental music; the latter hailed him as a precursor of Romanticism and an apostle of subjective expression. Both currents found satisfaction for their ideals in the Nine Symphonies. Colles

In Beethoven’s case, I believe there is a precise parallel between the “difficult” character of the man and the, in many respects, difficult character of the late works. They contain many pages—such as the fugato finale of the Cello Sonata Op. 102 No. 2, or the Fugue crowning Op. 106, not to mention the Grosse Fuge Op. 133—very far from being “beautiful” in the most obvious and conventional sense of the term; so much so that to discover their beauty and meaning, the listener must possess exactly the same patience, insight, and humility required to perceive, beyond the apparent discontinuity and roughness of Beethoven’s character, his diamond‑like qualities. M. Cooper

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In support of distinguishing, within Beethoven’s creative life, a “third period” that embraces roughly the last decade of his existence, stands the fact that none of the compositions most beloved by non‑specialist listeners was written during that time. There are no concertos, and the only large‑scale works employing the orchestra are the Ninth Symphony, the Missa Solemnis, and the overture Die Weihe des Hauses Op. 124.

The piano sonatas Opp. 101, 106, 109, 110, and 111, the Diabelli Variations Op. 120, and the string quartets Opp. 127, 130, 131, 132, and 135 all reveal the characteristic traits of a style in which nothing is granted to the listener, nothing is attempted to attract attention or keep interest alive. The composer converses intimately with himself, wholly absorbed in the pure essence of his thought and in the musical process. With the Ninth Symphony and the Missa Solemnis, Beethoven in effect bade farewell to the large public, withdrawing into the introspective and austere form of the string quartet.

Yet his intentions were quite different: he had planned a Tenth Symphony, of which some sketches remain; another Mass, a Requiem, an Oratorio; not to mention the project he alluded to in a conversation of 1823: “I do not write only what I would prefer to write, but also in consideration of the money I need. It is not, however, the case that I write only for money. Once this period is past, I hope finally to write what is highest for me and for art — Faust.” M. Cooper

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The works of the last decade reflect the gradual new orientation of a complete and mature personality — not explainable merely as the forced retreat of a deaf man into a world of his own. Such an explanation is unacceptable for the virtuosic movements such as the Finale of Op. 106 or the opening Allegro of Op. 111, nor for the work of intimate, speaking, deeply communicative character that is the Quartet Op. 135.

These compositions “communicate” the evidence of a very fervent inner life, one that transcends not only physical and mental trials, but also the moments of inner discouragement and the sense of solitude that find expression in the Adagio of Op. 106 or in the Cavatina of Op. 130.

Is there anyone who, after hearing these pages, feels melancholy, sad, afflicted by dejection or vague nostalgia — as after listening to many works by Schubert, Schumann, or Chopin? Are we not struck, above all, by the extreme clarity, the vital energy, and by the certainty — strictly speaking inexpressible — that behind that real tragedy there lies a joy even more real, lasting, and infinitely more important?

They appear as testimony to the real existence of a world that stands behind everyday phenomena. M. Cooper

Moritz Bauer has highlighted, in the late quartets and late piano sonatas, on the one hand an inclination toward abstraction, manifested in the use of techniques such as canon and fugue; and on the other hand an aspiration toward vocal expression, manifested in instrumental recitative and in the tendency to give, within sonata movements, a cantabile and song‑like character to themes, with a tendency toward slowing and lyricism.

In the later sonatas, indeed, tempos and characters such as Allegro non troppo (Op. 78); Mit Lebhaftigkeit und durchaus mit Empfindung und Ausdruck (“With liveliness and always with feeling and expression,” Op. 90); Etwas lebhaft und mit der innigsten Empfindung (“Somewhat lively — also translated as Allegretto ma non troppo — and with the deepest feeling,” Op. 101); Vivace ma non troppo (Op. 109) predominate.

In the penultimate sonata, Op. 110, cantabilità permeates the entire theme to such an extent that Beethoven completes the tempo and character indication Moderato cantabile — as if it were not eloquent enough — with the addition “molto espressivo”; and, in his great concern for an adequate performance, further specifies “con amabilità.” The cantabile quality is so accentuated that the concept of “theme” dissolves into that of “melody.” Dahlhaus

In the Harp Quartet in E‑flat major Op. 74, in the Archduke Trio Op. 97, and in the Piano Sonatas Op. 78 and 90, Beethoven had adopted a “new tone” which, because it was later taken up by Schubert, became the “romantic tone,” without this implying that Beethoven himself can be classified among the Romantics. Boyer

Beethovenian models are evident in the last three piano sonatas and even in certain Lieder (such as Mignon and Die Wachtelschlag) by Schubert. The measured pace of the slow movement of the Seventh Symphony echoes in Schubert’s C‑major Symphony, in Mendelssohn’s Italian, and in Berlioz’s Harold in Italy.

The opening bars of the Ninth Symphony resound endlessly in a whole series of compositions by Berlioz, Bruckner, Mahler, and Richard Strauss. The Moonlight Sonata makes an appearance in the Druids’ chorus of Bellini’s Norma. Schumann found much to ponder in An die ferne Geliebte. Dvořák is unthinkable without the Pastoral Symphony. Kerman and Tyson

In all the youthful works and in the works of the late maturity, the Adagios are the crowning point. In the Adagios there is all of Beethoven, stripped of every ephemeral and mortal element. These movements contain an element that purifies everything: a surpassing of earthly dross, an inexhaustible renewal in the sublimity of song. Specht

Certainly Mozart is “more beautiful,” but Beethoven is stronger. Mozart, the greatest of joy‑givers, speaks to the happy; Beethoven to those in need of happiness. Of his own music he said, with proud words, that no one, after truly knowing it, could ever again feel entirely unhappy. And rightly so. For it is an announcement to all the pilgrims here below, who struggle and suffer; it is a balm for all sorrows, a possibility of tearing oneself away from all the smallness and miseries of the earth. Specht

Professor Dent, in his Terpander, or Music and Future, asks whether Beethoven’s music “is still convincing to modern ears.” If by this he means the Beethoven of the middle period — the composer of the Emperor Concerto, the Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas, the Rasumovsky Quartets, and the Fifth or Sixth Symphony — he is certainly right. It is music which, despite all its great qualities, is undoubtedly dated. It belongs to a period, speaks the same language, and expresses dogmatically in music the same order of ideas and emotions that Rousseau, Shelley, and other writers of the time expressed in words — the brotherhood and equality of men, the perfectibility of human nature, and all the other worn‑out slogans of that age which now have no meaning for us, or, when they do, repel us by their inadequacy and evident falsity.

But if Professor Dent intends to include the music of the last period, we must strongly dissent. For the truth is probably that, contrary to his suppositions, Beethoven’s late works are the only music that is still convincing to modern ears. All the Sturm und Drang of nineteenth‑century music, all the restlessness and conflicts of our own time, seem to vanish into nothingness and silence before the otherworldly beauty and serenity of certain pieces such as the movement of the A‑minor Quartet Op. 132, the “Hymn of Thanksgiving to the Deity from a Convalescent.”

There is, in our view, a symbolic meaning in the title of this movement. We are all convalescents; the world is only now emerging from a paroxysm of madness, hostility, war, and disillusionment, and it is this music, more than any other, that corresponds to our inner experiences, expresses our most intimate thoughts, and satisfies our deepest and most heartfelt desires. Gray