The Symphony Illustrated by Beethoven's Fifth in C Minor

A COMMON saying of the Philistine is that music makes no appeal to the intellect : it neither deals with definite ideas, nor arrives at exact results ; it is clearly nothing but an amusement of the senses.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, there are no accepted definitions in art philosophy. At any rate, there is an easier defense for the musician than a disputation. Appealing to the agreement of all listeners as to their impressions of a representative work, he may then suggest the significance and capacity of the form in which the work is cast, and thus of the art itself. He cannot hope as yet to give a philosophic demonstration. But after all, he can afford to neglect others than the listeners. If they agree, their ranks will speedily grow. Then, by choosing a work of broad scope, he has the advantage of the internal evidence, as the lawyers put it, from the four corners of the document, —the harmony of purpose between remote regions of the composition.

There is, no doubt, in music a seeming preponderance of purely physical or sensuous effect. This might naturally be expected more especially in earlier stages of the art. An historic view will, here as elsewhere, make the present clearer. It shows that there is, in general, a progress from the vague towards the definite. But great irregularities in this movement appear whenever sudden changes of experience cause successions of “ schools ” of the art.

It must be remembered that the entire growth of the art of music — what was really the slow manufacture of its elements and forms — was wrought within the Church. This development began when to the unison chant was added the servile accompaniment of a second voice, keeping always its unaltered respectful distance. It ended when all the changes of fugal counterpoint had been rung with mathematical ingenuity. But until the modern centuries there had not been a thought of music without words, of unsung music. The only use of an instrument was to guide the voices. How pure organ music first arose can easily be imagined. When the absurdly artificial forms were abandoned by mutinous singers, the organ took the place of the unwilling voice, and invited further composition for its special performance.

But all this had nothing in common with secular instrumental music and its origin. For the elements, we must go back to the strange attempts at opera by Italian amateurs. The very convenient date of the first opera, 1600, is an excellent landmark in gauging the growth of unsung secular music, — the year when Peri’s Eurydice was produced in Florence. It is in the formless preludes and interludes of the players that the germ of the symphony lies. The first conception of the flowing cantabile melody, which is the very fibre and tissue of every movement, came in these early operas. (There is absolutely no connection between this melody and the fugal theme of the Church school.) With these, the dance, of obscure origin, completes the foundation on which sonatas and symphonies were reared.

If we enter the forge in which these materials were being welded into the great forms of the symphony, — the sonata, rondo, and minuet; in other words, if we study the precursors of the masters, we find, indeed, little promise of intellectual significance, or, for that matter, of pleasurable amusement. But in art, periods of exclusively formal growth always lack imaginative power. It is like latent heat, when ice changes to water. Great men, it would seem, are content with the form they find, hiding the lines with their fullness of thought. Shallower minds, sensitive to popular demand, tinker at new devices of outward novelty. Thus, Sebastian Bach did not find the sonata sufficiently perfected. Haydn was the first master to approve. Therefore, in a review of the history of musical thought rather than of musical structure, it may fairly be said that the sonata and the whole school of secular instrumental music did not begin before Haydn.

The analogy between Bach and the secular masters is striking. In his earlier generation, he found nothing but the strict forms of the Church school. He gave them their essential artistic purpose ; he crowned their development by endowing them with the highest expression of religious feeling. When a master thus reaches the greatest height, a lower level must be started in another direction, leading to a second master.

If we take a survey of this new stream of worldly composition, — melodies with artificial accompaniment, digressions of rippling scales or tripping arpeggios and suddenly intruding crashes of full chords, — and contrast it with what is found in the Church school with its precise, dignified, and elaborate structure of voices, independent in melody, yet interdependent in harmony, the question comes, What new spirit moves here ? How can there be, almost at the same time, two opposite phases of the same art, both honored by the greatest masters ?

Clearly, here is the latest though not the weakest wave of the Renaissance pulse. The same rebellion against the all - absorbing intellectual domination of the Church, the same resistless wave of earthly feeling and its expression, apparent in painting and in the literatures of England, France, and Italy, is here manifest in the youngest of the arts. Why the movement is so late in music need not be discussed beyond again saying that the art was jealously and exclusively fostered by the Church. All its forms, its whole framework, had been devised solely for worship. An entirely new garb must be created before it could venture from the cloister into the gay world without great awkwardness and stiffness. Much depth of feeling or intellectual emphasis must not be expected of the first century of this new phase. The early works show their reactionary origin by utter frivolity and shallowness. Until an actual fitting form was obtained, there was a constant striving after a satisfaction of this very need, a self-conscious kind of emphasis of mere sound ; the composer sought to fill in as many black notes as possible.

The beginning of Haydn’s career marks the final attainment of this form, and at the same time a sudden spring of true poetic feeling. The result was what is commonly called the sonata, which is really what we are considering ; for a symphony is nothing else than a sonata written for the orchestra. In the light of the absolute newness of unsung music is seen the fitness of the name “ sonata,” that which is merely sounded, in contrast with that which is sung, the “ cantata.” Nowhere, I venture to say, in any phase of art, is the shock greater than of this burst from the sombre, confined, careful, intellectual process of the cloister to the free, irresponsible fancy dancing first over the meadows and in the forests, then into the life of men, the turmoil and the triumph of war, the romance and ecstasy of human affection.

It is clear, then, why the expected order — first of the less defined, secondly of the more clearly significant phase of the art — should be reversed. Within the cloister, music had reached a high and complex power of expression of those feelings which were there sanctioned. Without, all was new and vague; there were no words or forms of expression for the new life. It must begin with the ABC of a new language. To condemn the first fruits of this stage for lack of definiteness of meaning would be to misunderstand the very purpose of all art. While definite language is not impossible to art, this is not its chief function ; no more is mere beauty of outline. If a sentiment be expressed and transmitted, the medium of transmission will be entitled to its place as an art form. The language of prose has not the power thus to express and transmit all sentiment, though it may entitle its field in a rough sort of way. What prose cannot, the other arts must do, each in its peculiar region, not perhaps without encroaching mutually. Each art, beginning with primordial feelings, will translate more and more delicate shades in a constantly refining process, the form always reacting on the sentiment and suggesting an advance.

This must account for the vagueness of the earlier great works for instruments. But even in Haydn the pastoral element, the poetry of nature, discovered anew, is unmistakable, as is the peculiar playfulness of his humor. In fact, the appearance of humor of any kind in music in the eighteenth century is as absolutely new as anything can he under the sun. Imagine how utterly inconceivable it would have been to the long line, stretching through many centuries, of the Worthy fosterers of music in the Church.

The sonata was said by a German critic to be intended by the early writers to show, in the first movement what they could do, in the second what they could feel, in the last how glad they were to have finished. The simplicity of this interpretation — and no doubt it is accurate — emphasizes the vagueness of the real sentiment. In the hands of great men, the form very soon attained a much more dignified plan.

A symphony (which etymologically means a sounding together, using, as it did, all the resources of instrumental sound, and in Beethoven’s Ninth even pressing voices into service) had, from the time of Mozart, the ambitious purpose of expressing a sort of modulation through three or four moods of one dominating feeling. I use the word

舠feeling ” for lack of a better. In its highest phase, this purpose sometimes is a kind of poetic view of life, colored by what is at the time the individuality of the composer. An unentitled symphony, which is the true type, does pretend to this purpose. A poet’s individuality may so far change that, in a subsequent year, a substantial difference of sentiment may produce a symphony of quite another effect. It is almost inconceivable that a man should compose more than one great symphony in a year ; and the record of all the great symphonies from the time the form had fully developed confirms this view. Beethoven wrote nine, Spohr nine, Schumann four, and the other masters, in almost all cases, less than the Muses’ number. Mozart’s forty-nine and Haydn’s one hundred and eighteen were written in the period of development; the number of those which are by common consent thought to embody a content worthy of performance are in each case less than Beethoven’s.

But this purpose may be called the highest; in many works the range of feeling is narrowed in some way ; and there is always a title which shows the limitation. Thus Beethoven wrote a Pastoral Symphony “ on the memories of life in the country,” and a Heroic Symphony expressly “ to celebrate the memory of a great man.” In modern works, such titles as Spring, Forest, Winter, Rhenish, are prominent; but in all, this universality of conception is apparent.

It is doubtful whether the importing of titles into the symphony, the introduction of what is called programme music, in itself has at all added to its dignity or power. The best example that can possibly be cited is the Pastoral, which Beethoven has annotated thus: first movement, Pleasant Feelings Awakened on Arriving in the Country; second, Scene at the Brook; third, Jovial Meeting of Country People ; interrupted by, fourth, Thunder and Storm ; in turn interrupted by the final movement, entitled Sentiments of Benevolence and Gratitude to God after the Storm. Of course, it is impossible not to accept the composer’s interpretation. But it must be remembered that in his sketches an appended note was found directing the hearer to find the situations for himself ; and further, that in the final programme he added to the title the words 舠 Rather an Expression of Feeling than a Picture.” If we should be obliged to dispense with any one of Beethoven’s symphonies, I venture to say that in the Pastoral least would be lost. It is, moreover, impossible to agree with Sir George Grove that the annotations add any real advantage to the simple title.

In choosing from the rich field a single work as a type for illustration, from the limits of the untitled class. I have thought the fifth of Beethoven’s symphonies, in C minor, the most broadly representative. This work was produced in 1808, having been for years in course of composition. No title appears on the programme except Symphony No. 5, in C minor, op. 67. 1. Allegro con Brio. 2. Andante con Moto. 3. Allegro (Scherzo). 4. Allegro. Presto.

There is one prejudice to the unassisted interpretation of the notes. It is Beethoven’s reported casual declaration of his meaning; but for the present that may be disregarded. The symphony is characterized by a sublime dignity, vigor, and breadth. At the first hearing, it is impossible not to feel that there is a very real purpose behind the notes. The entire absence of frivolous dallying with themes, the striking contrast of the succeeding melodies (especially towards the end of the third and fourth movements, which, against all tradition, succeed each other without a stop), above all, the iteration from beginning to end of a certain short passage, but four notes, with the whole orchestra at times hidden in the basses and drums, — now in its grim, terrible bareness, again in a fearless dancing measure, again in a timid mysterious discord, until it ends in the clearest note of triumph, — can it be said that all this means nothing, until or unless it be translated, word for note, into the language of commonplace?

As in all truly great works of the human brain, there must be a certain degree of intelligent perception. Further, a certain maturity is absolutely necessary to understand Beethoven. He is not for the young, above all not for the shallow. For these he is often no more than ugly and ominous noise, which makes them uneasy. They should shun him. His listeners must be capable of feeling the grimness, the terror, the fight of life. Then they can feel with him the triumphant joy of the undaunted.

Before analyzing in detail, it will be well to mention the character of the four movements which are the usual divisions of a symphony. The chief distinction is the tempo. The first movement is, generally, moderately fast; the second, slow ; the third, tripping; the fourth, rushing. The first is always the fully developed sonata form. A description of this, the most highly wrought of all musical forms, could not escape technicalities. Its essence is its binary character, a certain balance between two melodies and between the keys in which they lie. The principal and second melodies first appear in the tonic and in a subordinate key, respectively. Their final appearance is in the same order of melodies, but in the reversed order of keys. Thus while the principal melody has the advantage of the first appearance in the tonic key, the second has the last word in the same tonal territory. The development of this form was Haydn’s great achievement, though Beethoven much enlarged its capacity. It is called the sonata form, and is almost invariably found in the first movement of the sonata or symphony. Rapid though well poised in its pace, it is ambitious in elaboration, and emphasizes the leading thought of the work. With this the second movement is always in contrast, in rhythm, melodic character, and key. Its technical form is that of the song, with two melodies alternating, ending with the opening melody. Perhaps nowhere is the depth of Beethoven’s genius better shown than in his andantes. There is always that profound, broad sympathy, so distinct from the statuesque pathos of Haydn or the stately grace of Mozart. It was Beethoven’s highest trait, that which bound men to him most strongly.

It was in the third movement that Beethoven made the greatest change in outline. Originally, with Haydn and Mozart, it was an idealized dance, — the minuet with its second part, the trio, each in strictly repeated sections. With the two earlier masters it was a cheerful relief from the grandiose effect of the opening allegro, and from the pathos of the andante. Beethoven made it a humorous phase, fitting with the whole plan. But the humor was typically sardonic. He changed its name, too, from minuet to scherzo. The last movement could be either sonata form or rondo: where the various melodies alternated in a continuous round, with a periodical intervention of the principal melody. In the Fifth Symphony this movement is in sonata form.

One of the most vital questions is that of the attitude of the listener ; and it is closely connected with the purpose of this essay. For it is a common idea that the proper way to listen to a concert is to banish all mental activity, and to submit yourself to the effect of the sounds just as you would to a narcotic. It would be equally rational for an audience to resign itself entirely to the personal charm of its orator, the timbre of his voice, the grace of his gestures, the outline of his countenance, without the least attention to the substance of his thought. This attitude is the chief source of modern musical misconceptions, and of the exaggerated furore over certain schools. It is an assumption a Priori that there can be no underlying purpose. It is like the brigand in Fra Diavolo, who, his eyes lazily fixed on the sky, says he does not see the captain anywhere.

The first object is to grasp the themes, fixing the principal melody in the mind as literally the text or motto of the whole, then awaiting the appearance of the second melody. The contrast of these in the first part, which is always repeated, their harmonic and thematic variation in what is called the working out (Durchführung), and the restatement of the melodies in the reprise make up the structure of the first movement. Here it is important to notice a peculiarly significant advance of Beethoven. With his predecessors, the impression is of graceful flowing melodies, separated by passages of stiff conventional figures, somewhat like a sparsely strung necklace of gems. Beethoven not only made his connecting passages almost invariably of thematic material; he gave quite a new meaning to the working out. Pertinent here is the remark of a recent writer on the fact of the diatonic character of Beethoven’s themes, the simplicity of their original conception. The second theme of the andante is an example.

Both these facts accentuate the change in the process of composition. The era of childlike simplicity of emotion had passed. A more intellectual and more virile age had arrived, in which the leading melody in itself was not so important as its use literally and strictly as a theme, — an age of musical thinking as against musical dreaming, of cerebration as against inspiration, of a logical sequence of thought rather than a blunt alternative ; a tendency which has resulted in a school in which the theme is no more an essential part of a work than is the title of a story.

Here the opening phrase is that strange motto of four notes of which I have spoken above, played by the full orchestra, from which the principal melody presently rises: first softly; then ending with crashing chords, preparing for the second melody — strangely and mysteriously in the same warning, now more decided and rational — by the horns, followed by a beseeching answer from the violins. But the four notes are approaching in the background of the basses, ending the first part with a determined statement of the motto. On the movement goes with the same motive,

— now the whole melody, now feverish and fitful suggestions, until the reprise is reached, preceded by the whole orchestra ringing in the warning again. The repetition of the first part is varied by a passage which has been likened to the hammer and anvil. There is no mercy as yet.

The second movement — the andante — is chiefly a variation on one melody of great beauty; it has a peculiar restfulness. The structure is simple. There is a distinct spirit of prayer about the entire movement, with but one or two distant reminders of the haunting motive. These occur at the close of each appearance of the second melody, which, simpler in conception than the first, — of the diatonic character mentioned above, — droops timidly before the advancing motto. First it rushes into a bold cadence, but, quickly relapsing, modulates, still followed by the motto, trustingly and hopefully into the first melody again. The movement ends in a reassured, confident spirit.

The third movement is probably the most interesting and beloved of Beethoven’s scherzos. Berlioz says of it: “ The scherzo is an extraordinary composition. The very opening, though containing nothing terrible in itself, produces the same inexplicable emotion that is caused by the gaze of a magnetizer. A sombre, mysterious light pervades it. The play of the instruments has something sinister about it, and seems to spring from the same state of mind which conceived the scene in the Brocksberg in Faust. A few bars only are forte ; piano and pianissimo predominate throughout.”

But this is only the introduction. Now appears a familiar spectre in a new guise. The same rhythm of the first ten bars of the symphony forms the melody of, no longer a bare warning, but a resistless, dancing, sweeping emotion. It is most difficult to penetrate the entrancing mystery. Sometimes it is clearly a bold, almost impious trifling of man with destiny, —reckless, wrecking ; at other times the humor vanishes before the terrible earnestness of the fortissimo chords ; again Berlioz’s sinister theme ; followed in turn by the mocking voice; finally, a passage of timid, ominous beating of the same motive by the drums, the strings holding an uncertain chord, until, against the tradition requiring a full stop, the mystery resolves into a mighty swell in the leading chord of the key of C major, into which the fourth movement breaks in a triumphant march. Berlioz calls it a pæan of victory. Curiously, it does not break at first into a pronounced melody, as if the joy were too great to find, for a while, a clear utterance. So there are really two principal melodies ; likewise there are two secondary ones : one, feminine, graceful; the second, more serious, but with no uncertainty or drooping. In fact, the note of confidence is maintained through the first repeated part and a portion of the working out, until, without warning, just before the reprise, there is, contrary to all rules, once more the mysterious melody of the scherzo, as in its close, — a sort of reminiscence of the early terror, in order to make sure of the reality of the victory. Again it bursts out into the melodies of the finale with great freedom, — especially in the continuously sounded ring of the second subordinate melody, now in the tonic key, at presto speed, concluding which, in heavy chords in C major, the symphony ends.

I have said that Beethoven gave casually an interpretation of the motto. As it was casual, it can legitimately be disregarded. His words were, “ So klopft das Schicksal an die Pforte ” (Thus fate knocks at the door). Starting with this, it is quite possible to build up a complete picture of the strife of spirit with fate. Actually, this is not useful. As soon as the mind occupies itself with the details of an imaginative picture, the musical attention flags. The reality of the sentiment cannot be mistaken. It cannot be translated. The object is not a picture for entertainment; it is the communication of a sentiment such as that under which great deeds are done and genuine greatness is achieved, which does not depend for its force on its definability.

In closing, it is necessary to repeat the warning against the fallacy of finding a “ meaning ” in music. It seems to be the battledoor and shuttlecock of amateur critics to hold either the theory of mere sensuous sound effect or that of objective description. The true essence of music is its unconscious, subjective betrayal of a dominating emotion, in contrast with the conscious, objective depiction in poetry and in the plastic arts. In this unconsciousness lies its overwhelming power.

To return once more to Beethoven: there is no pretense of a conscious a priori purpose in the master to translate a message into his work. But, in the purely musical appreciation, it is impossible not to feel the force and quality of his spirit, rebelling, even as he stretched the fetters of his form, against the tyranny of his age, and struggling with the best of his time in other lands for the assertion of man’s individual nobility.

Philip H. Goepp.