Symphony No. 3 in E flat, ‘Eroica’, Op. 55
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Allegro con brio; Marcia Funebre: Adagio assai; Scherzo: Allegro vivace; Finale: Allegro molto
If Ludwig van Beethoven had died soon after completing his ‘Eroica’, pundits would declare that he knew all along that this was to be his last symphony. It is such an original work, anyone might be excused for thinking nothing more could be uttered in the symphonic vein. While working on the sketches, Beethoven despaired over his encroaching deafness and was full of fury over the quacks who pressed false remedies upon him. He spelled out his woes in a remarkable document addressed to his brothers. The Heiligenstadt Testament, as it came to be known, mentions the option of suicide, adding that only his art prevented such drastic action. His art was this ‘heroic’ symphony, at the time partly residing in his head, partly in sketches, preserved in Vienna to this day.
The title and dedication of the ‘Eroica’ are part of folklore. In writing this symphony, Beethoven had been thinking of Bonaparte for whom he had the highest esteem until Napoleon declared himself Emperor. Beethoven’s secretary, Ferdinand Reis wrote:
I was the first to tell him the news that Bonaparte had declared himself Emperor, whereupon he broke into a rage and exclaimed, ‘So he is no more than a common mortal! Now, too, he will tread under foot all the rights of Man, indulge only his ambition; now he will think himself superior to all men, become a tyrant!’ Beethoven went to the table, seized the top of the title-page, tore it in half and threw it on the floor. The page had to be recopied, and it was only at this moment that the symphony received its new title ‘Sinfonia Eroica.’
We must point out a possible confusion between the dedication and the title of this work. It seems that Beethoven had originally dedicated the work to Napoleon without offering a title. That dedication was scratched out but is still just discernible. The new title took the place of the dedication. (The torn page no longer exists.) Confusing? Yes, but the next bit isn’t. Just prior to Beethoven’s finalising the symphony, one of his wealthiest admirers, Prince Lobkowitz, indicated that if Beethoven dedicated the new symphony to him, a significant financial reward would follow. Perhaps Napoleon’s self-coronation gave Beethoven a timely excuse for an adjustment. He created the title ‘Eroica’ and soon after inserted a new dedication, possibly instructing Reis to provide a rationale for these events. The first performance took place privately in the aristocrat’s palace.
Although its great length is said to have baffled those at the public première, listeners may have sensed that they were passing through a portal into a new musical world, described by the American critic, Phillip Huscher:
The Eroica is perhaps the first great symphony to have captured the romantic imagination. It’s not as openly suggestive as the later Pastoral, with its bird calls and thunderstorm, nor as specific as the Ninth, with its unmistakable message of hope and freedom. But to the Viennese audience at the first performance, on April 7, 1805, Beethoven’s vast and powerful first movement and the funeral march that follows must have sounded like nothing else in all music.
The four movements are remarkable in different ways, the first because it seems to grow from apparently insignificant musical fragments such as the two hammer-blow chords that kick it into life. A favoured approach of today’s analysts is to ‘deconstruct’ a work of art: to take it to pieces to see what makes it tick. The ‘Eroica’ begins with the deconstruction. Beethoven has done it before anyone else has had a chance. Only at the core of this huge musical essay do the purpose and sheer brilliance emerge as the fragments coalesce into music of incomparable beauty and inescapable logic. This is symphonic argument at its zenith. It is small wonder that so few composers who followed could master or even attempt to grapple with symphonic form so successfully.
After the marathon first movement comes the marathon second, a funeral march. When he was informed of the death of Napoleon in May 1821, Beethoven said, ‘I wrote the music for this sad event seventeen years ago’. Other composers have incorporated funeral marches into their works, for example Gustav Mahler in his First Symphony. We are used to this kind of reference now but, at its first hearing, Beethoven’s march would have caused astonishment. It follows an unexpected path that includes a sombre fugue. When the main theme returns for the last time, it hesitates and almost disintegrates, as though sobbing in grief.
Historians have suggested that the scherzo fulfils the promise of Josef Haydn’s minuets which, through a journey of 104 symphonies, metamorphosed from a courtly dance to something faster and grittier. In the ‘Eroica’, little trace of that polite genesis remains. Again, this presented much that was new to the ears of 1805: the breakneck speed coupled to the quietest of dynamics; the use of three horns to provide striking new colour in the ‘trio’ section; the peculiarity of high-spirited music following the saddest of funeral marches.
The last movement is possibly the most unusual of all. It is longer than the rondos that rounded off earlier symphonies, and its form is novel. Some have described it as a set of variations with a fugue and coda couched within the framework of a rondo. That may not be useful. Beethoven had used its main theme before, principally in his ballet The Creatures of Prometheus. It provides a sturdy foundation for the rest of the movement because of and in spite of its simplicity. Above all, the last movement is the first instance of a ‘Big Bang’ finale. No longer will the artist bid farewell with an air-kiss and a smile: ‘Mwaah’. Instead, we are given a defiant signal that an argument has been won: a clenched fist rather than a handshake. Many symphonic finales have attempted to do the same ever since.
Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)
Allegro con brio; Marcia Funebre: Adagio assai; Scherzo: Allegro vivace; Finale: Allegro molto
If Ludwig van Beethoven had died soon after completing his ‘Eroica’, pundits would declare that he knew all along that this was to be his last symphony. It is such an original work, anyone might be excused for thinking nothing more could be uttered in the symphonic vein. While working on the sketches, Beethoven despaired over his encroaching deafness and was full of fury over the quacks who pressed false remedies upon him. He spelled out his woes in a remarkable document addressed to his brothers. The Heiligenstadt Testament, as it came to be known, mentions the option of suicide, adding that only his art prevented such drastic action. His art was this ‘heroic’ symphony, at the time partly residing in his head, partly in sketches, preserved in Vienna to this day.
The title and dedication of the ‘Eroica’ are part of folklore. In writing this symphony, Beethoven had been thinking of Bonaparte for whom he had the highest esteem until Napoleon declared himself Emperor. Beethoven’s secretary, Ferdinand Reis wrote:
I was the first to tell him the news that Bonaparte had declared himself Emperor, whereupon he broke into a rage and exclaimed, ‘So he is no more than a common mortal! Now, too, he will tread under foot all the rights of Man, indulge only his ambition; now he will think himself superior to all men, become a tyrant!’ Beethoven went to the table, seized the top of the title-page, tore it in half and threw it on the floor. The page had to be recopied, and it was only at this moment that the symphony received its new title ‘Sinfonia Eroica.’
We must point out a possible confusion between the dedication and the title of this work. It seems that Beethoven had originally dedicated the work to Napoleon without offering a title. That dedication was scratched out but is still just discernible. The new title took the place of the dedication. (The torn page no longer exists.) Confusing? Yes, but the next bit isn’t. Just prior to Beethoven’s finalising the symphony, one of his wealthiest admirers, Prince Lobkowitz, indicated that if Beethoven dedicated the new symphony to him, a significant financial reward would follow. Perhaps Napoleon’s self-coronation gave Beethoven a timely excuse for an adjustment. He created the title ‘Eroica’ and soon after inserted a new dedication, possibly instructing Reis to provide a rationale for these events. The first performance took place privately in the aristocrat’s palace.
Although its great length is said to have baffled those at the public première, listeners may have sensed that they were passing through a portal into a new musical world, described by the American critic, Phillip Huscher:
The Eroica is perhaps the first great symphony to have captured the romantic imagination. It’s not as openly suggestive as the later Pastoral, with its bird calls and thunderstorm, nor as specific as the Ninth, with its unmistakable message of hope and freedom. But to the Viennese audience at the first performance, on April 7, 1805, Beethoven’s vast and powerful first movement and the funeral march that follows must have sounded like nothing else in all music.
The four movements are remarkable in different ways, the first because it seems to grow from apparently insignificant musical fragments such as the two hammer-blow chords that kick it into life. A favoured approach of today’s analysts is to ‘deconstruct’ a work of art: to take it to pieces to see what makes it tick. The ‘Eroica’ begins with the deconstruction. Beethoven has done it before anyone else has had a chance. Only at the core of this huge musical essay do the purpose and sheer brilliance emerge as the fragments coalesce into music of incomparable beauty and inescapable logic. This is symphonic argument at its zenith. It is small wonder that so few composers who followed could master or even attempt to grapple with symphonic form so successfully.
After the marathon first movement comes the marathon second, a funeral march. When he was informed of the death of Napoleon in May 1821, Beethoven said, ‘I wrote the music for this sad event seventeen years ago’. Other composers have incorporated funeral marches into their works, for example Gustav Mahler in his First Symphony. We are used to this kind of reference now but, at its first hearing, Beethoven’s march would have caused astonishment. It follows an unexpected path that includes a sombre fugue. When the main theme returns for the last time, it hesitates and almost disintegrates, as though sobbing in grief.
Historians have suggested that the scherzo fulfils the promise of Josef Haydn’s minuets which, through a journey of 104 symphonies, metamorphosed from a courtly dance to something faster and grittier. In the ‘Eroica’, little trace of that polite genesis remains. Again, this presented much that was new to the ears of 1805: the breakneck speed coupled to the quietest of dynamics; the use of three horns to provide striking new colour in the ‘trio’ section; the peculiarity of high-spirited music following the saddest of funeral marches.
The last movement is possibly the most unusual of all. It is longer than the rondos that rounded off earlier symphonies, and its form is novel. Some have described it as a set of variations with a fugue and coda couched within the framework of a rondo. That may not be useful. Beethoven had used its main theme before, principally in his ballet The Creatures of Prometheus. It provides a sturdy foundation for the rest of the movement because of and in spite of its simplicity. Above all, the last movement is the first instance of a ‘Big Bang’ finale. No longer will the artist bid farewell with an air-kiss and a smile: ‘Mwaah’. Instead, we are given a defiant signal that an argument has been won: a clenched fist rather than a handshake. Many symphonic finales have attempted to do the same ever since.