Symphony No. 3 in E-flat (Eroica), Op. 55

Having spent many months recently with Ludwig van Beethoven’s (1770-1827) music and life story, I can safely say there is no easy way to sum up his contribution to music history. Beethoven the man was troubled, yes, and difficult to handle, but also deeply sensitive and painfully aware of his social ineptitude. He epitomizes the sublimation of personal suffering into artistic creation. In a gesture that has taken on mythic importance, Beethoven bid defiance to fate, choosing art over suicide as his hearing began to erode:

“Such incidents [involving his increasing deafness] drove me almost to despair; a little more of that and I would have ended my life. It was only my art that held me back. Oh, it seemed to me impossible to leave the world until I had brought forth all that I felt was within me . . . With joy I hasten towards death. If it comes before I have had the chance to develop all my artistic capacities, it will still be coming too soon despite my harsh fate . . . Come when thou wilt, I shall meet thee bravely.”

In the immediate aftermath of this resolution, the seeds of his Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major took root and flourished. As work proceeded through the autumn of 1803, Beethoven considered dedicating this symphony to Napoleon, regarded as a champion of the everyman, a hero who would sweep away lingering remnants of aristocratic control. Beethoven soon—for financial reasons—gave the dedication to Prince Lobkowitz; instead he would title the symphony Bonaparte. Then, in May 1804, the entire plan collapsed when Napoleon rather tellingly crowned himself emperor. Angry at the news, Beethoven tore the title page apart and bequeathed instead a grand Sinfonia Eroica...composta per festeggiare il sovvenire di un grand Uomo (“heroic symphony, composed to celebrate the memory of a great man”).
Let there be no mistake: the Eroica is big. When Beethoven completed the symphony, the szie of its structure was unprecedented. With that in mind, you may not be surprised to learn that the Eroica received mixed reviews at its premiere. Since then it has been dissected, worked through, lauded and puzzled over by critics, scholars, conductors, and performers. This symphony elicits the kind of hyperbolic language more commonly applied to an Albert Bierstadt landscape or War and Peace. Perhaps that last allusion is not far from the mark, for there is a panorama of emotional experience depicted in Beethoven’s Eroica that makes its length both necessary but also less significant in itself than what the composer manages to convey. Tonight’s performance offers an exceedingly rare chance to hear the Eroica as transcribed for the intimate piano quartet scoring made by the composer’s student, secretary and biographer Ferdinand Ries—the very same man who reported Napoleon’s coronation to Beethoven.
Setting aside the connection to Napoleon, the Symphony No. 3 gives voice to a fundamental, mythic image of the hero (small h). The first movement opens with sheer force, a kind of harmonic hammer blow twice sounded that sets the whole structure in motion. The main theme is simple and triadic—for a moment, just long enough to set the key before an unsettling dissonant C-sharp pierces the quiet. Each section builds with unparalleled urgency. The traditional sonata-form parts (exposition, development, and recapitulation) have been exploded to such size that one cannot, apart from a dissertation, discuss the whole in any detail. But in light of its importance for subsequent composers, one may dwell briefly on the first movement coda. It is here that Beethoven made his mark, turning what had been a brief section of conventional closing ideas (coda means “tail”) into a second development section. New themes appear, old ones are reworked, and only the original hammer blows are powerful enough to bring the journey to a momentary pause.
What follows is an abrupt move into the minor mode for a funeral march. Precedents may be found in the earlier piano sonatas (e.g., Opus 26), but once again Beethoven seems compelled to outdo anything he—or anyone else—has done in the genre. This is the theme sampled by Schubert’s Auf dem Strom heard on Monday. More importantly, perhaps, it has become an iconic instance of “mourning” and has been played at funeral services for Felix Mendelssohn, Franklin Roosevelt, and the athletes killed at the 1972 Munich Olympics. The pathos of the dark C-minor mood is made more imposing by the dotted march rhythm and dissonant woodwind outbursts. The B section, a triumphal fanfare in major, provides welcome—but temporary—relief from the funereal tone.
The third-movement Scherzo begins in hushed tones before bursting forth into light, foreshadowing the same strategy used in the Scherzo of the famed Symphony No. 5. Of course, the scale here is so much larger across the board. This scherzo is not treated as an extended introduction to the finale (as in No. 5) but rather as fully formed ABA movement. It has been interpreted as a statement of vitality: sheer power, man at the height of his powers. This energy tumbles over directly into the finale’s opening flourish. The following theme is simple and unremarkable. What is remarkable is how Beethoven varies that theme, both technically and dramatically, over the course of the next twelve minutes. He mines the theme’s simple outlines to find numerous contrapuntal gems hidden within. Beethoven himself used the main theme of the finale on several other occasions, including a set of variations for piano solo (1802) and in the final portion of his ballet music for Prometheus. That latter connection offers further “programmatic” insight, for the theme in the ballet symbolized Promethean creation. From death comes renewed life and transfiguration into myth. Wait—are we talking about Prometheus . . . or Beethoven?

(c) Jason Stell