I. Adagio molto; allegro con brio
II. Larghetto
III. Scherzo
IV. Allegro molto
The symphony is an answer to those who insist that the inner emotions of
a composer must find a vent in the music composed at the time. Never was
Beethoven more wretched physically and mentally than when he wrote this
symphony, music that breathes forth serenity, beauty, gayety, and
courage.
* * *
In 1801 Beethoven’s deafness, which had begun with a roaring in his
ears, grew on him. He suffered also from frightful colic. He consulted
physician after physician; tried oil of almonds, cold baths and hot
baths, pills and herbs and blisters; he was curious about galvanic
remedies, and in his distress he wrote: “I shall as far as possible defy
my fate, although there must be moments when I shall be the most
miserable of God’s creatures.... I will grapple with fate; it shall
never pull me down.”
Dr. Schmidt sent him in 1802 to the little village of Heiligenstadt,
where, as the story goes, the Emperor Protus planted the first vines of
Noricum. There was a spring of mineral water—a spring of marvelous
virtues—which had been blessed by St. Severinus, who died in the village
and gave the name by which it is known today. Beethoven’s house was on a
hill outside the village, isolated, with a view of the Danube valley.
Here he lived for several months like a hermit. He saw only his
physician and Ferdinand Ries, his pupil, who visited him occasionally.
Nature and loneliness did not console Beethoven. He had been in dismal
mood since the performance of the First symphony (April, 1800). The
powers of darkness, “_finstere Mächte_,” to quote Wasielewski’s phrase,
had begun to torment him. He had already felt the first attacks of
deafness. It is possible that the first symptoms were in 1796, when, as
a story goes, returning overheated from a walk, he plunged his head into
cold water. “It would not be safe to say that the smallpox, which in his
childhood left marks on his face, was a remote cause of his deafness.”
In 1800-01 Beethoven wrote about his deafness and intestinal troubles to
Dr. Wegeler, and to the clergyman, Carl Amenda, in Kurland. It was at
the beginning of October, 1802, that Beethoven, at Heiligenstadt, almost
ready to put an end to his life, wrote a letter to his brothers, the
document known as “Beethoven’s will,” which drips yew-like melancholy.
Furthermore, Beethoven was still passionately in love with Giulietta
Guicciardi, of whom he wrote to Wegeler, November 16, 1801: “You can
hardly believe what a sad and lonely life I have passed for two years.
My poor hearing haunted me as a specter, and I shunned men. It was
necessary for me to appear misanthropic, and I am not this at all. This
change is the work of a charming child who loves me and is loved by me.
After two years I have again had some moments of pleasure, and for the
first time I feel that marriage could make me happy. Unfortunately, she
is not of my rank in life, and now I certainly cannot marry.” Beethoven,
however, asked for her hand. One of her parents looked favorably on the
match. The other, probably the father, the Count Guicciardi, refused to
give his daughter to a man without rank, without fortune, and without a
position of any kind. Giulietta became the Countess Gallenberg.
Beethoven told Schindler that after her marriage she sought him out in
Vienna, and she wept, but that he despised her.
Yet during the sad period of the winter of 1802-03, Beethoven composed
the Second symphony, a joyous, “a heroic lie,” to borrow the descriptive
phrase of Camille Bellaigue.
The first performance of the Second symphony was at the Theater an der
Wien, April 5, 1803. The symphony was performed at Leipsic, April 29,
1804, and Spazier characterized it as “a gross monster, a pierced dragon
which will not die, and even in losing its blood (in the _finale_), wild
with rage, still deals vain but furious blows with his tail, stiffened
by the last agony.” Spazier, who died early in 1805, was described by
his contemporaries as a learned and well-grounded musician and a man of
sound judgment.
A Leipsic critic found that the symphony would gain if certain passages
were abbreviated and certain modulations were sacrificed. Another
declared that it was too long; that there was an exaggerated use of the
wind instruments; that the _finale_ was bizarre, harsh, savage. Yet he
added that there was such fire, such richness of new ideas, such an
absolutely original disposition of these ideas, that the work would
live; “and it will always be heard with renewed pleasure when a thousand
things that are today in fashion will have been long buried.”
The sketch of Berlioz may here serve as an analysis: “In this symphony
everything is noble, energetic, proud. The introduction (_largo_) is a
masterpiece. The most beautiful effects follow one another without
confusion and always in an unexpected manner. The song is of a touching
solemnity, and it at once commands respect and puts the hearer in an
emotional mood. The rhythm is already bolder, the instrumentation is
richer, more sonorous, more varied. An _allegro con brio_ of enchanting
dash is joined to this admirable _adagio_. The _gruppetto_ which is
found in the first measure of the theme, given at first to the violas
and violoncellos in unison, is taken up again in an isolated form, to
establish either progressions in a _crescendo_ or imitative passages
between wind instruments and the strings. All these forms have a new and
animated physiognomy. A melody enters, the first section of which is
played by clarinets, horns, and bassoons. It is completed _en tutti_ by
the rest of the orchestra, and the manly energy is enhanced by the happy
choice of accompanying chords.
“The _andante_ [_larghetto_] is not treated after the manner of that of
the First symphony: it is not composed of a theme worked out in canonic
imitations, but it is a pure and frank song, which at first is sung
simply by the strings, and then embroidered with a rare elegance by
means of light and fluent figures whose character is never far removed
from the sentiment of tenderness which forms the distinctive character
of the principal idea. It is a ravishing picture of innocent pleasure
which is scarcely shadowed by a few melancholy accents.
“The _scherzo_ is as frankly gay in its fantastic capriciousness as the
_andante_ has been wholly and serenely happy; for this symphony is
smiling throughout; the warlike bursts of the first _allegro_ are wholly
free from violence; there is only the youthful ardor of a noble heart in
which the most beautiful illusions of life are preserved untainted. The
composer still believes in immortal glory, in love, in devotion. What
abandon in his gayety! What wit! What sallies! Hearing these various
instruments disputing over fragments of a theme which no one of them
plays in its complete form, hearing each fragment thus colored with a
thousand nuances as it passes from one to the other, it is as though you
were watching the fairy sports of Oberon’s graceful spirits.
“The _finale_ is of like nature. It is a second _scherzo_ in two time,
and its playfulness has perhaps something still more delicate, more
piquant.”