[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."