"I draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
Men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever."
(exquisite image of immortality bearing along mortality)--is richer in
significance. There, indeed, we do get some of those deep glimpses,
far glances (and tender ones into flower-cups)--those unspeakable
hints (note especially, as usual, the passage in the extra-poetic key
of G flat; where, however, also as usual, Beethoven lingers too
little; indeed, even he seems rather to _deviate_ into such keys, and
to be afraid of dwelling in them). We see Beethoven, the colossally
_un_happy soul, here at least happy, nay, blessed; lapped in flowers;
caressed by the stream; soothed and tended by all the "angels and
ministers of grace" of nature; while the everlasting heaven pronounces
its benediction over him.
For our own part, we are specially affected, because we call to mind a
brook where we also were wont to be happy. But, it was not in quiet
scenery, but in a Swiss mountain-valley; the brook came from heaven,
and coursed through pine-woods and pastures into a stupendously
beautiful lake, the shadows of whose mighty guardian Alps are
reflected also in the Moonlight Sonata; while, afar off, as it were in
colossal admonition, towered those eternal reminders, the peaks of the
Bernese Oberland.
The Scherzo has always seemed to us an inspiration--as much as the
storm; so original and powerful, so tuneful in its picturesque,
spontaneous gaiety. It is Beethoven at his genialist. The sublimity of
the storm may speak for itself: I will only remark, in reply to the
German Hume, who rather cavils and carps, and is no
Beethoven-worshipper (but Mozart), and says "the cause for such a very
loud storm is too trifling"--that the storm _also_ perchance broke
over crowned heads and the fate of empires (Napoleon died in a storm,
and so, just as curiously characteristic, did Beethoven). Storms do,
too, come up in the brightest summer day (without or within us); and,
in short, though the criticism is truly philosophical, that it should
be left doubtful whether the storm was a physical or moral one--of
nature or human nature--Beethoven, as ever, is entitled to a genial
interpretation, a liberal application. In the meanwhile, _as_ a
storm--storm of music, as well as musical storm--it is as grand as
original; shaking us with the fullness of those sublime emotions of
the natural storm (and surely our German Hume would not disparage
these!), and its introduction is a happy felicity.
_Beethoven's_ "Lobgesang," which concludes the work, is very noble in
its unstudied beauty, expressing "pious and grateful feelings" by
unsophisticated men after storm. The treatment of the greatly-simple
theme is a masterpiece and model. Here is Wagner anticipated, but not
spoilt! To sum up: the first movement, very exceptionally, is the
weakest of all; and the whole work, though a treasure of its own,
coming from Beethoven, revealing him as singularly loveable, is in no
way so surpassing as to preclude the attempt by a follower also to
compose a Pastoral Symphony. We conclude with Herr Elterlein's summary
of the work--very charming, although he finds in the allegro
considerably more than we do.
"A refreshing morning breeze greets us; we have left behind the crowds
and walls of the town. We are in the mood of Faust, on the sunny
Easter spring morning. At first we are in silent rapture, the climax
is not yet reached, Nature's myriad living voices do not at once
re-echo in our inmost spirit. The farther we wander, the more natural
beauties open up and greet us, the more multifarious becomes the
scene. In proportion as the variety becomes richer, and the impression
of this divine beauty--(_Gottesnatur_--German ought to be _known by
every musician_, and read in the original, because their pregnant,
often pantheistic, shades of expression, become lost in English; or,
if 'transcribed,' are 'not English')--deeper, the more our rapture
swells to utmost joy. Now, we perfectly revel (_schwelgen ganz_) in
the full feast; entirely abandon ourselves to the impressions of
absolute Nature; completely at one with ourselves, in this kingdom, we
feel ourselves at one with her.
"We have now reached the acmé of enthusiasm; our soul trembles in
silent ecstasy; involuntarily the desire awakes in us, after
expatiating in the universal beauty of Nature, to contemplate and
enjoy her still life and operations in intimate communion.
"Therefore, the scene changes in the second movement. We are
transplanted to a peaceful woodland vale, through which a brook
babbles. _'Scene am Bach_,' the tone-picture is also called by the
master; it is elaborated out in the most thoughtful manner, and
displays before us, in the richest, fullest colours, the murmur of the
brook, the rustling of the swayed tree-tops, and the song of the
birds. At last the brook is still, the trees rustle no more; we have
already once said farewell to the soft babbling that long kept us
spell-bound--quail, cuckoo, and nightingale are alone still
heard.--(Beautifully imagined!) as it were, also saying 'farewell' to
the sympathetic wanderer up the vale; who, only another human form of
them, had stayed so long with them, loving them like their brother,
enchanted by their song--enchanted in Nature's bosom. This way of
putting it (of receiving it) is only another proof of the
non-materialism, non-superficialism, nay, of the beauty of this
passage (withal, quite brief--_only introduced at the end_); and a
proof of the value and necessity of sympathetic audition of a
Beethoven's works. (Only a poet--never Dryasdust--can rightly
criticise a poet).
"In the third movement the scene is again changed. We find ourselves
in meadows. The characteristic multiformity of this piece would have
told us its meaning, without the master's words. So, too, the
storm--those tones full of fearful, dark sublimity. At last, the
tempest and its fury cease, only in the distance the thunder still
growls; the blue sky again opens up, the evening sun casts its mild
light o'er the landscape--(genial thought)--enlivened by shepherds
whose shalm now sounds.
"The fourth movement, therefore, is dedicated to 'Shepherd's
Song,'--'pious and grateful feelings after the storm.' The grateful
strains begin softly, then swell ever more and more to topmost joy,
pouring forth at their climax an intense, solemn, and yet again such a
plain, simple thank-offering to Nature's Creator."