Beethoven's Symphonies Critically Discussed Part 7

(This, too, should hardly be sung by women?)

Mix with ours his 'holy glee';[A]

Yea, who calls but one soul his In all this round of sea and land: He who never knew that blessing Steal in tears from this bright band."

[A] Wordsworth's sonnet on the Swiss.

Would it have been thought possible for Beethoven (Inspired Instinct), to set these last lines to the same--we are almost provoked to say, rattling jingle. To a lower deep, alas! our Beethoven-Hamlet could scarcely fall--

"Oh, what a sovereign mind is there o'erthrown!"

It was an incredible aboriginal mistake to set these lines to the same time, let alone same tune. Nor, indeed, can his choice of the words be considered happy. What made him in his grand old age (old for him) so harp upon Schiller's crude performance, we know not; nay, we ask whether a Beethoven should not have treated the glorious subject, Joy, when he was already young;--despise as he might (an egregious error) his earlier works. Had he at least undertaken it when he wrote the Symphony in D and the "Eroica"; or, in the "high and palmy state" of his powers, when he wrote the _facile princeps_ C minor! Schiller's first words would alone repel us; he talks--"babbles" would be the strictly truer word, barbarously babbles--of joy, as that spark of the G.o.ds, and, in the same breath, daughter out of Elysium. How could he so talk of that grand abstract fact--Joy! Joy, the sunshine of the soul--whose glow, thence outwards, fills the Universe; life, absolute being; wherein alone we rightly, fully live. We have no patience with such barbarous metaphorising, such schoolboy personification, such hectic rapture! No wonder Beethoven failed, falling on such words as these.

(In pa.s.sing--he has a few bars of interlude which Mendelssohn's famous "'Tis thus decreed," strangely resembles.)

[Music]

If the C were sharp, the pa.s.sages would be identical.

In continuation--Beethoven seems in general equally careless (or perverse) and unhappy in his treatment of the words--a curious misfortune in an expressly vocal celebration. We have the same smooth pa.s.sages, and the same rattling pace, for various inflections of thought and feeling. He does not fail, however, to give us one of those "flashes" of his true genius, old power, which Spohr alluded to, at the words _ver Gott_:--

[Music]

He proceeds thenceforth to intermix symphony with words in the way we spoke of as that which would seem natural to a choral symphony; and of the pa.s.sage where the great broad theme (far happier) is _blended_ below, with the original motiv. Dr. Nohl strikingly remarks, that "Lo!

here was a proof that music is also a thinker!" No doubt in our glorious Beethoven, who was all heart, and soul, and brain, (_plus_ robust body, till his sad latter days), if not exactly _mens sana in corpore sano_.

Nevertheless, on the whole, we feel we must agree with Spohr (surely no unworthy judge, unless blinded by envy); and still rank this symphony as a colossal experiment rather than a genial success. As far as our feelings are a guide (and we have expressly acknowledged at the outset, how each one of us is the creature of prejudice and mood), we find the work veritably stamped and distinguished by laboured elaboration--nay, almost painful labour. Beethoven (we feel) perpetuated a fundamental, primary, pregnant mistake, in _setting himself_ to "work out" one melodic idea, and that such a poor one--disappointing almost to exasperation. Above all, varied words cannot be so set. Even in purely instrumental music the possibility soon has its natural limits, whatever the genius of the composer, and despite the undeniably great effects that may be accomplished. Did not Beethoven himself, on overhearing his--how many variations was it, on a theme?--exclaim: "Oh, Beethoven, what an a.s.s thou art!" There spoke the great man! Nature will never be sacrificed to a crotchet.

The design of this celebrated work was grand, characteristic, worthy of its great designer; but the execution we cannot feel corresponded.

It seems to us the A-B-C of reasoning, that a time _must_ come in the career of every man when his powers decay. We speak, and rightly, of the records of his brain as messages from the Infinite; but, nevertheless, when those cells get enfeebled, that telegraph of nervous tissue corrupted, the messages are no longer mighty as of yore: Divine messages do not and will not come, except through the mystically-operating (for they also are divine) healthy physical mediums. Psychology and physiology are inextricably blended, if not one. Beethoven's faculties, then, it seems to us, had already begun to decay--he was older than other men at his years. He had been long deaf; was almost broken down with worry and care; and, probably, alas!

trembled on the verge of incipient insanity (were it not already incipient). He was no longer rich in the fresh originality of his prime--in the original freshness of his youth; he had, perhaps, essentially written himself out (herein below Shakespeare). He began to repeat himself, to theorise, to _make_ music. Did he not himself say, "I plan, but when I sit down to perform, I find I have nothing to write." There again spoke the truly great man, honest to the last. He could, of course, never get away from his individuality--get out of himself; no man can. But even ideas now seemed to fail him, and their absence is no compensation for a new style of the old individual, let alone when that is dubious.

To sum up. The Choral Symphony seems, at the best, a grand but doubtful experiment. Its greatest, its only inspired movement, is the adagio; and that, heavenly as it is, interferes with the progress of the work--with the scheme of it--as depicting doubt, denial, and despair ("there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth"), to be followed by oil upon the waters--by an uncontrollable outburst, sacred fury almost, of joy, at the perception by man that he is imperishable, part of the All; not only recipient of joy here, but justified demander and mortgagee of it hereafter; and joy of joy even at the high perception that even if we personally are not immortal, we are bubbles of the eternal sea, and that is immortal.

SUMMING UP.

Finally, it is such thoughts as these, consciously or unconsciously expressed, which stamp and distinguish Beethoven's music as a whole, to which we now turn. In his jubilation is the "fulness of joy"; in his sadness the core of sorrow. He has "made the pa.s.sage from heaven to h.e.l.l"; he has sounded the gamut of sound. In his four great symphonies, the one in D (the rushing forth and soaring up of youth, Elterlein considers it); the Eroica, the C minor, and the A major; in these four symphonies, to which the soul's eye in predilection turns, which stand out from all the rest; and in many of his other works--whose soul is as great, but substance less--we see Beethoven, probably the most glorious emotional representative of man in history--not only in music, but art, almost literature. He is thus the greatest phenomenon perhaps of modern times after Shakespeare.

Shakespeare over-tops him; but who else? Not Dante--too fierce, and crude, and narrow (see how blatant he is about Mahomet, and his annotator, Professor Bianchi, ten times worse--he has the most stupendously stupid note we ever read!) not Milton, less rich and influential; not his own contemporary and countryman, Goethe, whose Faust and Egmont are in Beethoven's music rather than in his own words, and who had not Beethoven's genial humanity, world-wide breadth, heaven's-heart depth, and t.i.tanic power. Only his Fatherland's philosophical giants, methinks, can rank with him; and their influence and effect are naturally limited. He thought in music--the most delicious volumes of philosophy! thought and feeling are presented to us in one--aye, and painting too. _Apropos_, so also do we rank him above the artists. The works of Apelles and Phidias are gone; the very Parthenon is going. But his works will last; and they mesmerise and master us with a power which theirs never could do--theirs, and Angelo's, and Raphael's; or Rubens, and Rembrandt, and Turner. For music is the highest of the arts, as being most the message of the Highest: and here is the music of the highest of her messengers. Yes! for only Handel (whom he so characteristically revered) can match with him, and that only in power. In originality, in richness, in depth (including intensity--glow), in humanity, eminently in influence think of Beethoven's sonatas spread over the world, besides his quartets and symphonies, pyramidal models; whereas Handel would hardly be known but for his "Messiah," (and that chiefly in England); in a word, in universality, and a certain mystical soul of meaning--sacred mystery of insight and sorrow--within him; in these he surpa.s.ses Handel--and all. Not that he has exhausted music. No.

Music was considered exhausted before him; and even his music, symphonies and sonatas alike, are of unequal quality and merit individually as well as comparatively. And not that all great music does not, more or less, like his work--reveal (or shadow forth) what his does; and instrumentation has made advances since him; but he is the _ne plus ultra_ as yet, though not, indeed, without companions.

For this is a law as much morally or intellectually as physically. The highest peaks in the Himalayas, Andes, and Alps, are together; and here the appearances around me preach the same truth. One summit is the special manifestation of a general upheaval (we have already given particular instances), and these take place at periods. The musical upheaval (the tertiary deposit) has taken place late. Primevally was the architectural (least original, and slowest of all the arts--?), then the sculptural, pictorial, and poetic; groups and series, peaks and summits of masters, in all. With revived art and literature came the quasi seraph, Shakespeare; then science and music, contemporary with the greatest movement in philosophy, and this significantly--for nothing happens without import and relation. Beethoven, it is true, set ma.s.ses; but he was essentially a Theist, if not Pantheist (unconscious pantheism, we take it, is the soul of his music). One worthy gentleman delivered himself of the following lucubration _re_ Beethoven's "Mount of Olives":--"It is a fine work, _but_ proves its author to have been a Deist, and--" Oh, that "but"! I cry you mercy, my fine particle; there is great virtue too in a "but." We could not help smiling, and thinking of "Poor G.o.d, with n.o.body to help him!" A highly curious and most instructive fact about Beethoven is, that (as we before remarked, I think), it is very difficult, if not impossible, to find his a.n.a.logue. In this individuality he is sublime. Hardly any comparison satisfies us; neither Aiskulos, Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton, or Shakespeare, is exactly his like. He has Dante's intensity, Milton's sublimity (more organ-like than Dante's), and Shakespeare's universality to a great extent--that is, his humanity and quasi superhuman lyrical beauty and dramatic power, but not his wonderful comic genius (as far as we can judge from music, though Beethoven's shows undoubted humour--which is part, indeed, of humanity); his _characteristic_, seraphic serenity, and infinity, wealth of creation, and inexhaustibility to the last. Beethoven is a unique (as Carlyle called d.i.c.kens) blending of these three (and allied to Shakespeare most), _plus_ his own great indispensable self (for there is ever a new factor in every new man). Neither can we quite match him with any of the artists. He has the severity of Phidias--or Praxiteles--who was famous for bronze, the grandeur of Bruneleschi and Angelo, the grace and feeling of Raffael and Canova, the mystic splendour of Turner, and the unique originality, the powerful chiaroscuro of Rembrandt. Indeed, his relationship to the latter is curiously interesting. These words, applied to Rembrandt, might be applied to Beethoven:--"His advance from youth to age is marked, if not by inexperience or feebleness, at all events by successive and distinctive manners." "The product of his art is startling; it is singular for individuality of character, supreme in light, shade, and colour." Beethoven, however, was not an "artist who took what may be termed his daily const.i.tutional walk through the lower types of nature;" rather he was a Jove's eagle, a Gannymede on his pinions, winging his unseen way through empyreans.

Among the artists of his own vocation he is likewise unique. It is true, that as Guinicelli closely preceded Dante (and may even be called his master--_Il Saggio_ Dante names him); as Ta.s.so, and Ariosto, and Shakespeare, and Milton, were a grand cl.u.s.ter in the Elizabethan period, Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire later, Schiller, Goethe, and Wieland, after; so Beethoven splendours in what we have called the Orion's Belt of music, Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven; but, to slightly vary, he is the red star in Orion, the Mont Blanc of the Alps; neither is Handel, the great sun in the "constellation Hercules"

(to which our system is said to move), his superior--or quite his equal.

Our persuasion of Beethoven's religious impressions ("he could be seldom got to speak about religion") was derived rather from internal evidence: but here is an explicit pa.s.sage on the matter. We read in his _Tagebuch_, 1816, underlined, and written out in his own hand:--"_Aus der Indischen Literatur_: G.o.d is immaterial, therefore unthinkable: (_geht uber jeden Begriff_: since he is invisible, he can have no form). But, from what we can gather in his works, we may conclude that He is almighty, all-knowing, and omnipresent." The following (still more significant) he wrote out in a _Quartblatt_, in large letters, had framed, and kept before him on his writing-table.

It was taken from the temple of the Egyptian G.o.ddess, Neith, at Sais:

1. I Am what Is.

2. I am all that is, was, will be. No mortal hath ever lifted my veil.

3. He is alone, self existent (_Er ist allein von ihm selbst_); and to this Unique all things owe their being.

In the last sentence, we may observe, there is (as usual) a contradiction with the first--a confusion between theism and pantheism; for, if the great I Am is all, all things cannot be said to owe their being to him, but _are_ him--fragmentary manifestations of him.

A list of the books found in Beethoven's _Handbibliothek_, are also, in some sort, a key to the man (and his music). _Ecco!_ Shakespeare; Goethe's Poems, "Wilhelm Meister," and "Faust"; Schiller; Tiedge's "Urania" (Beethoven's beautiful "An die Hoffnung," Op. 32, is a setting of a song in that); Seumes' and Matthison's Poems, and others; "Briefe an Natalie uber Gesang," von Nina d'Aubigny-Engelbrunner (much esteemed, and recommended by Beethoven); Klopstock; Zach; Werner; Herder (Goethe's "Master"); Plato; Aristotle; Xenophon; Plutarch; Euripides; Horace; Pliny; Quintilian (these, I presume, translated--Dr. Nohl does not say); Thomson (whose nature-painting made him specially prized); and Ossian (Napoleon's favourite).

We read that against the words, often cited too, of Carlyle, "Two things strike me dumb; the moral law within us, and the starry heavens over us"; he wrote--"_mit kraftigen Schriftzug_"--KANT. In his celebrated will, we read--"I will seize Fate by the throat, quite bow me down it never shall." In his Journal, 1816, we read, "The grand mark of a great man; stedfastness in unhappy circ.u.mstances." One of his remarks was this:--"There is nothing higher than this--to get nearer to the G.o.dhead than other men; and thence diffuse its beams over mankind." Another noteworthy observation was this:--"Celebrated artists are always prejudiced (or pre-occupied); therefore, their first works are the best, although they germinated in obscurity."--(Nohl's "Life of Beethoven," vol. 3, p. 238). One of his most pregnant remarks was the following:--"All real invention is moral progress" (_Alle echte Erfindung ist moralisher Fortschritt_).

Beethoven's music is so pregnant, that it is difficult to sum up what it contains. As before stated, it is a microcosm, both of man and the world: it especially unrolls before us man (how he thinks, and feels, and fights) as much as the powerful disquisitions of a Kant or Hegel.

It is representative, because so intensely subjective; representative from himself outward--he being not a narrowly but comprehensively subjective soul; we find in it (very profoundly) his own unsatisfied heart--type of how much in the world! We find in it his unhappy life--type of still more. We find in it his intense character, full of sublime pa.s.sion, and only more dear to us for its faults. We find in it his infirmities--especially a dark prophesy of _mens_ IN_sana in corpore insano_; but we were spared that sad spectacle, by the "cruel-to-be-kind" messenger of Providence. We find in it the pure pa.s.sionate love of Nature most concentrated in the Teutonic nature--coruscating with mystic sparks shooting from the heart on all sides outward. We find in it at once the most intense lyrical and dramatic power hitherto known. We find in it, alike, gracious fancy and grand imagination. We find in it humanity and humour. Moreover, we find in it the grandest _objective_ power of painting--heroic battles, as well as with hope--on "our prison walls; far-reaching landscapes and aurora"; together with a subjective power and pre-eminence that is almost awful in its majesty. We find in it the subtle and the sublime--if it be not for sublime to be subtle. Last, and lowest, we find in it unsettled faith--distracting a soul of good, wearying and worrying his great good heart, but not overcoming it:

"It could not bring him wholly under more Than loud south-westerns, rolling ridge on ridge The buoy that rides at sea, and dips and springs For ever;"

and herein is our Beethoven--he, too, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief. _Ach!_ Man is that, most--most intensely representative.

This is the real reason why he so speaks to us, and shakes us; why he so influenced his contemporaries and followers. An age is represented by its greatest--that is, by the richest in goodness and insight, and these mutually represent each other; but you will not find them in temple or tabernacle--except, indeed, that not made by hands. You will find them where you find their heart--(where a man's treasure is, there is his heart also). Ask them what they think, and feel. You will find that they consider all our common _isms_ and _alities_ but as episodes--aye, and brief ones--if not, more or less, unconscious insanities. That, inevitably, as the world in its giant history proceeded from Nothingism (for how many ages?) to Fetishism--to Confuciusism--to Buddhism--to Jewism--to Paganism (or Greek and Romanism)--to Christianity; so common Christianity (the temporal, dogmatic, superst.i.tious, local, parochial), must also proceed to something higher; which shall be at once outcome and all-compriser of the rest. Man has got to realise his ident.i.ty with the Imperishable (caring little, if he must "soon be making head to go" from this--has soon "notice to quit" this lodging--in the cold ground); the absolute indestructibility of any one manifestation of force--or rather fact of force--for the manifestations change, and pa.s.s away. He has got to learn to love goodness for its own sake alone, and know that Conscience is G.o.d--_realising_ with the most lyric and scientific conviction that _every_ violation of right or law, moral even more inevitably than physical--let every one search his own life and conscience for the proof--is punished here without or within--frequently, and most sublimely, subtly, within. Finally, he has got to make this his faith that--while clinging to the truly blessed hope of everlasting life, which is the natural corollary of our consciousness, as our dearest sheet-anchor; as the sense that most makes us feel infinite; and as the soul of beauty, or beautifying soul of all--so, nevertheless, the practical immortality of right action (or of goodness) perpetuating itself in what we do and say, here and now--is our chief concern, the sole thing essential; which we may supplement and consummate by falling back on the tremendous realization before expressed. If _we_ are not immortal, we are bubbles of the eternal sea of being, and _that_ is----

Once again, then, let us repeat, such high belief, more or less, is the _soul_ of Beethoven's music (aye, even in his ma.s.ses), for the eternal speaks behind the temporary, the mask; hence its specific gravity (greatest of all), its infinite significance. He is the morning star of this reformation, the breast-inflaming dawn of a new heaven in a grander clime--new firmament over New Jerusalem.

Powdered-wigged Haydn and Mozart--powdered-wigged genius even, including full-bottomed-wigged Handel--could not proclaim such a creed;--almost, as it were, with thunder of cannon. But Beethoven ushered in the nineteenth century; he was the Napoleon of its better half--higher life; and in due time and order followers and apostles will succeed--have already arisen. The symphony, especially the un-bet.i.tled be-programmed symphony, is the purest manifestation of music, whose eloquence is better than words--(s.p.a.ce, too, is silent); and the talk of sundry German professors, &c., about music "no longer playing a single part," coolly a.s.suming, almost, the symphony to be an exploded error, we are almost tempted to describe as crotchety maundering or wordy wind, if not blatant jargon. This superfluous pity for music standing alone, also reminds us of "Poor G.o.d! with n.o.body to help him!" No! the symphony will still be penned by the tone-poet--intensely feeling and thinking, lyrico-dramatic man. It will be broad as the world, and have a soul of the highest. It will be the grandest absolute expression of the best which we see and are. But it will also be counterparted and supplemented by the "Word-made-Flesh" in tone (the Word is never so beautifully made Flesh as in tone), as Thought is made Flesh in the Word. Religion is the Heart of Art, whence all pulses and flows; and composers will--at last--get sick of setting twaddle and dogma, however venerable; and will celebrate pure truth, old or new. In setting the Higher Utterance of the past, they will reject the husk and keep the kernel--that of eternal universal application; or they will transfigure by ideal interpretation. In setting the new, they will set lyrical expression of the profound poet--the earnest words of the intense thinker, and not the jingle of the song-writer, the farrago of the libretto-concocter. In a word, the higher oratorio (as well as the higher drama), will play its part; be the exponent--as the symphony will be the expression--of the new man. This will be the mightiest manifestation of music--universal truth, profound feeling, transcendency, and humanity; Shakespeare and Emerson (not Milton) in one; incarnate in tone, published and borne aloft by Music and the Human Voice; culminating in such apotheosis at last!--after so many ages of stuttering, _singing_ will at length have reached to Highest Thought!

THE END.