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.
The Scherzo, with its _obbligato_ constituent element, the "Trio," is
on the same great scale, and in the same epic spirit (we see no
particular need, with Wagner, to seek a connection,) as the first
movement. Here we _see_ the gods and heroes, the immortals, at sport
in their own high hall--green-hill'd theatre, and "deep-domed
empyrean." Here Optimism is not only victor, but full of play and
humour. Such Olympian sport, such great picturesque music, was
inconceivable to Beethoven's predecessors; and we get some idea of
his merit when we reflect that the ground, when he began to write
quartets and symphonies, seemed already occupied, the sphere
exhausted; and when we reflect, how, of all Haydn's 119 symphonies
(!) not one, in some seasons, is performed; whereas, Beethoven's are
the feature of almost every performance, and are found now to be
"favourite with all classes," as the Sydenham programme asserts--a
statement which, otherwise, rather provokes an elevation of the
eyebrows. The trio, especially, is of exceeding original beauty;
there are few more grateful pages in Beethoven; none where his
peculiarly characteristic _healthy_ sweetness
(freshness-and-power--_depths_ of purity, beyond plummet's sound,) is
so strikingly, so enchantingly displayed. At the base of a great
mountain in Switzerland, with his foot in two lakes, and with sides
that might almost have been an envy in Eden, there runs--from one
magical sheet of water to the other--a heavenly valley. There we once
saw a local military _Fest_, with flying banners and echoing music;
and, as we walked along, under the eternal brow of that immense
emerald bastion, with the spring sun before us, we thought of this
Trio, and said--"Here is where it ought to sound, by a noble army on
its return, laurel-laden, from righteous victory;" and Shakespeare's
lines again _festeggiavano_ in the memory:--
"Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York;
And all the clouds that lower'd upon our house
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths;
Our bruisèd arms hung up for monuments;
Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings;
Our dreadful marches to delightful measures.
Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front;
And now, instead of mounting barbèd steeds,
To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber,
To the lascivious pleasing of a lute."
How exquisitely we can fancy the horns making those mountain-walls
and woodlands ring! and the hautboys in response, gladdening the
pastures; while the flutes (later) curl the wave; and the bassoons,
along with the other two epico-pastoral instruments, after the maiden
welcome of the violins--welcome by maidens:--
"Oneste e leggiadre in ogni atto."--
"Set all the bells a-ringing--over lake and lea,
Merrily, merrily, along with them in tune."
It is all enchanting; no greater epico-lyric poem in Beethoven--who,
even in the midst of this triumph and beauty, cannot (thank
inspiration!) but speak from the profundities of him. I allude to
that wonderful passage where he brings in (hitherto reserved) the
clarinets (that voice of heroic women, as Berlioz finds it), over the
intensely expressive progression of the strings, in response to the
breathings of the horns. In music perhaps there is no profounder
interchange of heart and soul, of sorrow and affection, touching
reminiscence from the lowest well-spring. This, perhaps, is a glance
at the "happy autumn days that are no more;" or an heroic wail over
the dead and desolated; a glance back at the horrors of war--a
thought for the widows and orphans' tears falling even now around;
and yet, under all, a stern determination to brook no tyranny, love
of duty, and a high submission, cost what it might, to the Supreme
Will.