Part 4

(as the manifestations named men have been called). The movement is rich both in the great strokes and tender touches of genius--of genius which is power; and what we call the phraseology of the man as a whole, and in its parts, is again beautifully Beethovenian. Here is a lovely bit:--

[Music]

The movement is not so _great_ as the preceding, and is perhaps too long (which is a decided art-fault--not merely a mistake in judgment); but, as a whole, it reminds us of Shakespeare's "entire and perfect chrysolite;" we greet it (and other movements of Beethoven's) with feelings of profound affection; as though we had realised those words "Yet a little while and ye have me with ye"; as though we had been living, for at least a breathing space, in the atmosphere and society of higher life, out of the sphere of time and in the sphere of the eternal. We have had such pleasure that we feel more good; we issue grateful and earnest, happier, better men. There have been sighs of regret that Beethoven did not write more music like his Symphony in F; but not only this movement, but these two first symphonies, the sonatas in E flat, "Adelaide"--nay, almost all his first period compositions. And here our glances at this symphony must cease. The trio, with its delicious strain, pleases us more than the scherzo (a strain that might be made much more of). The scherzo itself is less sympathetic than that of No. 1: seems, in fact, rather heavily frolicsome. The finale is a masterpiece, though decidedly inferior to the first movements. Do composers often write their finale when they are jaded? they should make this their golden rule, _toutes les choses ont leur matinée_.

SYMPHONY NO. III., OP. 55.

"Lo Motor primo a lui si volge licto, Soora tant'arte di natura, e spira Spirito nuovo, di virtù repleto"--

When we stand before this Symphony, like Death, it "gives us pause"; it looms so great, so vast. It was no wonder that it was not comprehended at first; and this should be not a subject of regret, but gratification, to the genius. Genius implies non-comprehension at first, and all sorts of "cold obstruction"; and here it may at once be said that, on the whole, genius, like virtue, is its own reward, and perfect compensation for all drawbacks. This should be borne in mind when uncalled-for lamentations are, not unnaturally, yet rather thoughtlessly made. Certainly, Beethoven would not have been satisfied had this phenomenal work, this prodigy, this spiritual Labour of Hercules (type of all the great Helpers and Saviours of mankind), been immediately grasped. To comprehend, in some small measure, the prodigy called the Universe around us, men and things have had to evolve for countless ages; it is the same, on a miniature scale, with individual works; and every poet rids himself of his message in the great spirit of the great Kepler:--"I may well wait a century for a reader, as God has waited six thousand years for an observer." To no man not rich in such a spirit will any great message be whispered and entrusted.

Beethoven was, in his sphere, and with his vehicle of utterance, a prophet--a coming event that threw its shadow before. He revealed to men, if they could but have seen it, the Nineteenth Century--_its_ inner life, _plus_ the nature and passions of the present (his own day) and the past. No wonder, then, that the men of his own day--the great mass, the local majority--could not understand what really is a truer mirror of us--our doubts, and fears, and struggles, and hopes. And the _Sinfonia Eroica_, I take it, must be so interpreted--in a spiritual sense (at least as well as in the physical, or literal)--as much as the Symphony in C minor, at least as much as the Pastoral Symphony which Beethoven himself said was really emotional rather than descriptive. And it little matters whether or not Beethoven himself consciously uttered these manifold messages of his in this or that sense; he has as perfect a right as Shakespeare to be deemed full of all that can be packed into him; nay, it is all the better if he was _not_ conscious: to repeat--unconsciousness was the soul of his consciousness, as it ever is, and must be, of all higher speech and performance.

No mere battle, or ordinary warfare--certainly Napoleonic--can adequately explain, is solely depicted in, this grand work; though they become far more satisfactory, so applied, when we consider them as coarse manifestations of the higher qualities; in fact, as backgrounds for and revelations of heroism. By dwelling on this, we get nearer to the soul of the symphony; spiritual warfare, rather, is what it proclaims.[A] Of Beethoven's notes, it may be quite as much said as of Luther's words--his notes are like other men's battles. Better than any poem this symphony (especially the first movement--_facile princeps_) seems to hold the mirror up to Man in his Warfare, specially and generally, physically and spiritually, with and in his own inscrutable self, and with and in the unspeakable elements of time. It is not without special beauty, in the last but one, or Faust sense (we were struck and pleased to come across Bendel's words, corroborating our own notion, that Beethoven was in some sort a Faust); and, before this symphony, we feel Beethoven was that good man, struggling with adversity, the spectacle of which is a benefit to the very gods; and, under this feeling, the symphony does us double good. The fact on the face of it is, its Titanic power in _maturity_. The first two symphonies, also rich in power, are stamped by a spirit of youth. This gives them a delicious charm which makes them extra dear; and which Beethoven himself (let alone others) was fundamentally mistaken (we feel) in underrating, nay, disparaging, as he was afterwards wont to do (really, when his mighty powers were waning, and he was perhaps in secret aware of that; it is the common melancholy trick of men). That peculiar spirit of freshness here at length we seem to miss, or are no longer struck by. Here we may draw the line. Here we see the ripe man, or very nearly so; at least in the prime and plenitude of his powers; not quite so _happy_ as before, but stronger; and as yet with no serious threatening shadow of gloom--though there may be clouds "as big as a man's hand," and even occasionally, perhaps, hints, like the mole "cinque-spotted i' the bottom of a cowslip," of tragedy and aberration among the most melancholy in the history of men. Beethoven was an emphatically conscious, but profoundly unconceited man. We are sure, therefore, that he entitled his symphony "Heroic" (if he did do so) with no unpardonable vanity; nevertheless, we regret that (as also in his "Grand" sonatas) he did not leave it to others--for itself to call itself that. Truly, he did not exceed much in betitling and programming--his sense of the infinitude of music was too profound, of that as being _the_ charm; but even in the few cases where he did, perhaps the breach would have been better than the observance. One great disadvantage of betitling music is, that it does not allow us to approach it afterwards without preoccupation and convention; whereas, we should approach it utterly free, except from our own nature, and previous existence. Moreover, if the work correspond ever so to the title or description, it is discounted beforehand. To say _afterwards_, "that is heroic!"--"this is pastoral!" is an added charm. But to details.

[A] Strauss (_not_ the dance composer), in rather a cavilling spirit, says this symphony describes the life of a hero. So it does, but not in the external sense he uses it in, but in the internal; life, means inner life. Or, again, the work celebrates heroism rather than a hero.

It will at once be noticed that Beethoven begins this symphony quite differently from its predecessors; _allegro con brio_, two emphatic chords, and then _in medias res_; the bass, however, leading off, as in No. II., with, moreover, the same well-balanced poise (delicate, yet firm as that of planet in its orbit), springy step, and self-contained power. A characteristic originality is the C sharp, where the bass breaks off, hardly begun, and the

"Upper air bursts into life,"

with glorious breadth and soaring--soaring to the _primum mobile_ through obstructive cloud (discords of the dim. 7th on pedal tonic) with only increased _éclat_! Thereupon, the basses worthily show forth the heroic confidence of the nobly unstudied theme--great and gay with the certainty of final victory; as it were, the warriors of Israel advancing to conquer the Promised Land. Then, from none knows where--from the very heart of heaven--fall shafts of light indeed, as it were through the bosom of fragrance; which exquisite strain, perhaps, contradicts what we said about the absence of youth in this work. In any case, it is one of those many melodies which so movingly proclaim Beethoven a profoundly good man, and how he wrote them so _from above_, or rather they poured through him from infinite heights (depths overhead) of ineffability. In this, in the _power_ of his sweetness, he has never been surpassed, hardly equalled.

There are melodies by later men very beautiful too, which seem, however, to come (we are almost tempted to write) like certain later poetry, from a profoundly _bad_ source; they have demoniac, not divine beauty. The strain in question:--

[Music]

Certainly a

"Dolce melodia in aria luminosa,"

seems the spirit of Love itself pure and simple--as it were, a glance from the "young-eyed cherubim" into the Warrior's--into Beethoven's own heart. But, in this "painfully earnest world," such blessedness cannot long last, and the sunshafts are soon again obscured in the smoke of battle--the mystic whisperings drowned in the din of artillery. _Apropos_, it struck us that, if we like the warlike figure, this grand battlepiece (by Rubens? or Tintonello?--_Rembrandt_, we would rather say) gains, if we consider it as a _sea_-battle, in a storm, with wizard lights and seams of fire all along the horizon. Nay, in the second part--those wonderful strokes of genius where the chord of the sub dominant (?) is piled on to and clashes against that of the relative minor A--we fancy it vividly depicting "Nelson falls!" (the true hero, whose pole-star is duty; not pleasure, nor ambition); and the unspeakable passage a little further on (in E minor--Beethoven alone capable of it--never dreamt of in the philosophy of his predecessors), suggested his death--(or rather, more stupendously, that of _the_ Christian Hero, when He "gave up the ghost," crying, "_Finitus est!_").

More than one modern work has attempted to depict the world-old great subject: Virtue and Vice contending for (or within) a human soul--the struggle of Good and Evil. Methinks, as long ago as this Heroic Symphony the same struggle is represented, or shadowed forth (for its great text, like music in general, and more so with Beethoven, has many meanings). The third (?) subject in this theme-rich movement, where Beethoven from his full heart pours forth one motiv after another, is especially suggestive of conflict--what shocks, clashes, contentions!--but the "good angel fires the bad one out," and bears the precious prize aloft in a whirl of triumph--resounding, as it were, through the halls of heaven--

"Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel, Starr'd from Jehovah's gorgeous armouries, Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean Rings to the roar of an angel onset."

But then--

"Me rather all that bowery loveliness, The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring, And bloom profuse and cedar arches Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,"

"Where some refulgent sunset of India Streams o'er a rich ambrosial ocean isle, And, crimson-hued, the stately palm-woods Whisper, in odorous heights, of even."

Then we have a strain which seems to anticipate Schumann himself, the greatest symphonist after Beethoven--a singular repose, of almost unearthly loveliness, after the high commotion.

A little later, and _ecco!_ a new idea:--

[Music]

exquisite in its lightness and strength (like a giant at play, or a river disporting in its banks); and thereupon, after bold progressions, six remarkable iterations--also like "So Fate knocketh at the portals!" or like blow after blow of virtuous resolutions; where all is characteristic, this is strikingly so. Then follows another of his ineffable thoughts (supremely); and then, after another whirl of the _sacred_ fury, which seems to be the soul of this unexampled movement, we are brought back to the original subject, which re-enters in its own colossal continence; and these truly "_stupendi pagine_" (and not those about Goethe's Frederika of Sessenheim, in his "Autobiography,") are repeated. The second part, or elaboration (as it is called) is likewise, and _par excellence_, stupendous, especially the part before adverted to, in A and E minor. Here, truly, the music quite transcends ordinary language and thought; to bring ideas worthy to it, we must recur to Him who cried "_Lama, Lama, Eli Sabbacthani!_" This is the anguish of a Redeemer-soul. But to such, also, is the victory; and to such the Father sendeth legions of angels. See, also, especially the passage further on, in G flat (should it not be _andante_?)--which, as it were, almost overcomes us with enchantment. Here, methinks, the Invisible Auxiliaries already bear the poor shell, and whisper at the same time a word of comfort to the Mother--whom no Power strikes into stone, like Niobe.

"He that hath ears to hear, let him hear!"--ears that are but the outwork of the soul. Let him go, even as it were, prepared and attuned, in some sort like a Communicant--and receive music's banquet mysteriously provided for him. The message of a Beethoven is not trifling, but earnest; speaks inarticulately (more divinely so) of the greatest, solemnest, things; whispers and thunders from the Altar. If "the value of no word is known till the greatest master of it has arrived," so also the value of no utterance is known till the greatest receiver--understander--of it has arrived. Plato said, Poets speak greater things than they know. Of none was this ever truer than of Beethoven. He alone, in his day, most knew the value and import of his music; others come after (and will come) who know more. This is his greatest praise. There is no more congenial occupation to a sympathetic imagination than throwing together some of the images, thoughts, or ideas which his mighty music suggests. Goethe was displeased when importuned for the key idea (_more Germanico_) of his "Wilhelm Meister;" thought that itself should be sufficient of itself. It is the same with Beethoven and this symphony. No _rigid_ principle must be sought, or insisted on. The first movement especially does indeed stand very four-square and homogeneous; but the fiery soul of it (sun-fire, passion and beauty,) is very various in its manifestation; and unless we understand and apply the term "heroic" in its amplest sense, we are fettered and injured rather than benefitted and helped. The greatest Hero we yet wot of was personified self-sacrifice, love--who did not flame abroad over that world a devastation, but made his life answer the queries of philosophy, and the doubts of the sceptic; the greatest Hero was one who "went about doing good."

Tennyson's eloquent alcaics on Milton--

"O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies, O skill'd to sing of Time or Eternity"--

the rest of which have been already quoted, seems not inapplicable to Beethoven and this his symphony. Many others would do as well, or better. Of general application--when we _think_ of its melodious rush of ideas (one of the distinguishing features between it and the first two symphonies), great republican spirit (in the highest sense), Sun-god beauty, and Jove-like power; of its intellect, superior to that of Bach's (it seems to us), as Carlyle well says Shakespeare's was to that of the author of "_Novum Organum_," and of its grace and sweetness, profounder than, not only of Haydn's and Mozart's, but any other composer's, then the beautiful words of Dante, at the head of this chapter, may apply.

The Prime Mover turns joyfully unto him, and, surpassing nature, breathes into him a new spirit, replete with virtue and power. THE FUNERAL MARCH.

Beethoven was a gloomily profound soul;--herein differentiated from Shakespeare, who was pellucidly, cheerfully profound; and unlike Schopenhauer (whom he otherwise rather suggests), who was profoundly gloomy--one of the most so who ever lived; therefore he composed a "_Marcia Funèbre_" specially _con amore_, and therefore it is specially characteristic of him. In the present instance, this, as it were, unfathomably profound inspiration, gains, as in every other case, if we interpret it liberally rather than literally, and consider it to depict and deplore rather the death of a great Principle (such as Faith, Virtue, Truth,) than a great man; or the great man, the hero, _plus_ the heroic, buried with him, _ultimus Romanorum_. If we would realize the depths of this utterance--as it were almost speechless--choked with tears--we shall think of it in connection with such words as the following:--

"Tired with all these, for restful death I cry-- As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled, And art made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And simple truth miscall'd simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill; Tired with all these, from these I would be gone, Save that, to die, I leave my love alone."

Speaking of Schopenhauer, the difference between him and Beethoven seems to be this:--the latter shows us Optimism _victorious_ over Pessimism; his works, indeed, seem specially and wonderfully to mirror the struggle, as indeed, the whole of this century at least is profoundly tinctured, nay seems almost characteristically stamped by Pessimism; but Beethoven does not, and will not give way to, and end in the rayless paralysis of Pessimism; he fights through, and soars triumphant; in Mr. Picton's words, _re_ Materialism, "comes out at the other side." In this, methinks, the deadly struggle betwixt Optimism and Pessimism around us and within us; but the victory of the former, and the triumph of Immortality over Doubt and Denial, we have the key to Beethoven's music (of course unconsciously, and, as we say, so much the better; it would have been worse expressed had it been conscious). At a moment when Pessimism was uppermost, he might have sat down to write this Dead March: that it was to celebrate Napoleon Buonaparte was never the case, though it might have been to celebrate the Napoleon of Beethoven's imagination, a _Hero_, to bewail whose departure from among us no tones can be too pregnant and profound, especially if we think we have "fallen on evil times," and that we shall "never look upon his like again." And here a word about Beethoven's (the true hero) immortal act, when he heard that Napoleon had made himself crowned--(the other hero we spoke of refused a crown, and hid himself); was not _that_ a repudiation of Tyranny and Quackery? was not _that_ a royal piece of Iconoclasm? to me it is one of the highest private scenes of History. Summon it up one moment:--Beethoven's eye flashing fire; the lion locks almost shaking flames, as he tears the superscription in half (and Napoleon's fame with it), and dashes the "carefully written out" symphony on the floor, "put his foot down on _that_." _So_, I should like to see Beethoven painted; or still better, sculptured. Dr. Nohl has taken occassion to draw an elaborate parallel or comparison between Beethoven and another great contemporary of his, Goethe--(we would draw it also to the advantage of the former;) Carlyle has done so, between Napoleon and Goethe; we would do so between Napoleon and Beethoven, and call the latter in our great Sage's words, a "still white light shining far into the centuries," while the other was meteoric flame and volcanic glare--not wholly, solely, for he too was an instrument--an able, and necessary one, but in comparison. Let anyone ask himself how he feels at the mention of the two names. Is he not expanded, cheered, comforted, and made better--unconsciously made surer of goodness, truth, immortality, and all high things, at the name of Beethoven; and is he not repelled, if dazzled, by that of Napoleon? The good was not buried with Beethoven's bones. Think of the amount he has done after his death (like Handel and his "Messiah"); think of his industrious great life and character--so originally grand; and contrast it with the portentous mass of lies and murders, the conflagrations and widow's tears, the hideous battle-fields of the heartless, semi-conscious, semi-quack, diabolically selfish Napoleon, and the good _he_ has done after him. No! the good Wolfe had rather have been Gray than the victor of Quebec, and we would rather have been Beethoven than Napoleon--whose very genius, moreover, is over-rated; for we decidedly think with Madame de Stäel, that had he met with an able and honest adversary early, he would have been checked or defeated; nay, he _was_, when he met Sydney Smith at Acre; and, curiously enough, after, when he met _another_ Briton, who was never defeated--Wellington. Napoleon will always be marvelled at and written about, but it will never be said of him--"in his works you will find enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach them courtesy, benignity, generosity, humanity; for, of examples teaching these virtues, his pages are full;"--as it was said of the author of "Hamlet," and as it is here repeated of the mighty composer of this "Dead March," with its wails from the deepest and strains from the highest thing known--the heart of man.

THE SCHERZO.

With a glance at the Scherzo, we will bring our remarks to a close, the more especially as the Finale seems less interesting, relevant, and original (Beethoven seems more to have copied himself,) than the rest.