An Article of the 9th Symphony by Henry Feldman

Symphony No. 9 Op. 125 (Choral)
by Henry Feldman

When the Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and freedom swept across Europe, there was no question what music should be played. While 500,000 Berliners poured across the newly opened border on Christmas Eve, Leonard Bernstein rounded up an international orchestra and chorus to proclaim the new era via satellite with back-to-back East and West Berlin performances of--what else?-- the Beethoven Ninth Symphony.

This is precisely what Beethoven had in mind. The bigness, the idealism, the thrill of massed forces proclaiming the glory of the human spirit to a war-weary international audience--these were not grafted on by mythmakers but were very much Beethoven's own reaction to the times he lived in. As a Bonn university student of 19, emerging from a disadvantaged background, young Beethoven was stirred by the democratic proclamations of the French Revolution. As early as 1792 he had a notion to write music for the Ode to Joy by Friedrich Schiller, an eminent Revolutionary sympathizer.

Moving to imperial Vienna, the musical capital, the maturing Beethoven lived for years under the threat (or was it a promise?) of invasion by Napoleon's armies. His enthusiasm for heroic subjects found full-scale expression in the Eroica Symphony (No. 3), originally dedicated to Napoleon.

The wars in Europe filled most of Beethoven's adult life and affected him directly. Aristocratic patrons of the arts, feeling threatened, were finicky about theatrical and operatic subjects. The premiere of Fidelio, Beethoven's opera about political oppression, was first delayed by the imperial censor and then ruined by the French "liberators" themselves, who invaded Vienna in 1805 just in time to drive out the opera-going audience. When the French returned in 1809 to bombard Vienna with howitzers, Beethoven had to hide in the cellar and cover his already afflicted ears. Economic conditions were never very good again, for artists least of all.

Peace, twenty years coming, seemed a boon at first. Beethoven made a popular sensation with his Battle Symphony (Wellington's Victory). With Napoleon's defeat in 1814 he jotted down an idea for celebratory music: "Freude Schoner Gotterfunken Tochter--work out the overture!" But he was too busy to follow through; ten thousand princes, diplomats, generals, bankers, interpreters, cooks, and valets were descending on the Austrian capital for that prototypical party-town convention, the Congress of Vienna. All day the assembled luminaries forged the new order of Europe; all night they partied, and Beethoven was the musical star of the season. Fidelio, with its theme of liberation, suited the occasion perfectly and was played dozens of times for the international visitors.

The euphoria was short-lived, the aftermath cruel. Europe's postwar political order turned out to be profoundly reactionary. Austria came under the stifling rule of Metternich. For the rest of Beethoven's lifetime and beyond, Vienna crawled with secret police, informers, spies, and repressive bureaucrats hostile to art and freedom. Beethoven became bitter. Now approaching 50, he was utterly deaf, frequently ill, and decidedly suspect in the eyes of the authorities. Isolated personally and musically, he became unproductive and curmudgeonly. He made a little money with Piano Bagatelles and Scottish song settings. He was seen in cafes railing against the aristocracy and the Church, while his friends, scribbling urgently on a note pad, tried to keep him quiet and out of trouble.

In this embattled state Beethoven found it in himself to start two large new projects: a Mass in D Major (Missa Solemnis) and a Symphony in D Minor. For the pugnacious, anti-clerical Beethoven it was out of character to give attention to the Latin Mass, and in fact he turned it into a dramatic oratorio that his contemporaries must have considered distinctly unchurchly. The balance of his true religion spilled over into the Symphony, finding voice in Schiller's words about the unity of nature, God, humankind, and the cosmos, taking form in music of startling textures and unprecedented forcefulness.

The premiere took place May 7, 1824. Beethoven, totally deaf, stood on the podium and beat time. The regular conductor, one Kapellmeister Umlauf, stood nearby and actually ran things, having instructed the orchestra and choir to watch him and ignore Beethoven. The alto soloist, Karolin Unger, later supplied one of the most famous sentimental anecdotes in musical lore. After the triumphal finale, according to her story, Beethoven, back to the audience, remained unaware of the tumultuous applause, and she had to take his arm and gently turn him to witness his greatest--and last--public reception.

The first movement opens with low murmurs and portentous figures in the strings, open fifths and fourths with no distinct harmonic foundation. Something immense is in store. Even the driest musical writers, before proceeding to discuss sonata form and key-relations, let their metaphors loose and speak of the Dawn of Creation, of Darkness and Light, in describing this passage. The D minor tonality of the exposition finally emerges. The principal theme shows itself to be a jagged, plummeting phrase, severe and final. String and brass sonorities predominate and maintain the titanic, other-worldly feeling. The second theme group, in the classic way, features warmer woodwind sound and gentler phrases, mostly in B-flat although there are some heart-stopping tonal shifts (B-flat to C-flat!). Ominous interjections and slashing scales continually interrupt the lyricism. The exposition ends on a strident bugle tattoo.

With a quick harmonic slide back to the Dawn of Time, we begin the development. From the murky texture of humming chords and trumpet echos ("flashing red lights"-- D. F. Tovey), fragments from the exposition rise and combine. Part of Beethoven's genius is that his themes, like certain primitive organisms, can be cut into small pieces that take on a life of their own. Four notes from this one, three notes from that one, writhing and merging--no wonder this movement seems so primeval. The climax is fugal, followed by a relaxing of tension and a gathering of strength for the recapitulation.

This time around, the Dawn of Time is a complete D major chord, oddly inverted, fortissimo and shimmering, more terrifying even than the harmonically uncertain original. ("Heavens on fire," wrote the normally restrained Tovey; "almost a relief when it turns back to minor.") The recapitulation is straightforward, but in every way enriched, harmonically and texturally. The coda is framed by variants of the principal theme: first sad and flowing, like Brahms; then unsettlingly cheerful in the solo horn; finally, relentlessly, declaimed in unison, a devastating Big Bang in D minor.

Fierce octaves announce that the Scherzo is going to be in D minor too. Perhaps it is a sign of the aura of importance surrounding the Ninth Symphony that even its Scherzo (in Italian, a 'joke') was suitably momentous to serve as theme music for years on the NBC Evening News. This devil-dance goes at a furious clip, reeling and pounding, but curiously intricate because of the canonical use of the tune. All hands hammer away-- including, conspicuously, the kettledrums--in a dotted triple rhythm. Richard Wagner, enthralled by the Ninth to the point of overwroughtness, went a step further and had a stageful of grimy dwarves beat this rhythm on anvils in Das Rheingold.

The central Trio, after all the stress we have been through already, is a blessed throwback to Haydn's village dances, or to Beethoven's own Pastoral symphony. There is a simple peasant tune that chases its own tail (in D major--finally!), with sunny decorations. The Scherzo is repeated. In a hint of things to come, Beethoven momentarily suggests he might repeat the Trio too--then dismisses the idea with an abrupt musical 'Forget it!'

Repose and solace are offered in the third movement. Two tender, reaching melodies are laid out and varied by the woodwinds, the first in B-flat and the second in D. The texture is airy. The horns provide poignant counterpoint; the drums are soft and distant. The strings are pizzicato, or fluid and ornamental when bowed. Solemn fanfares urge the movement along toward its end, but the resolution is quiet and lingering. This movement defines "long line"; no one ever seems to take a breath.

Could a soothing Adagio end this symphony, so stentorian at the start? Not on your life! Beethoven begins the Finale in turmoil, with an operatic-style uproar that the Germans call a Schreckensfanfare ('horror fanfare'). Thus announced, the cellos (with basses in unison) step forward to sing recitativo. Offered tiny samples from each earlier movement in turn, they interrupt and apparently reject the recent music. Clearly the cellos are trying to say something, but they lack the words.

Now a breath of new melody--you all recognize it, but somehow it would seem familiar and welcome even if you didn't--is whispered and seemingly accepted. The cellos close their recitativo and take a first try at this little D major tune, without harmonization. More instruments drift in on the next verse, and a blaring tutti seems to settle matters: this will be our theme.

Flute and oboe sound a doubtful note, and suddenly we are plunged into the Schreckensfanfare again. This time a baritone steps forward, and he says it in words: Not these sounds! Something more joyful! And off he goes with Schiller's stirring poetry, the Ode to Joy. The chorus joins in with enthusiasm, and the solo quartet performs some strenuous variations, still in the key of D. Swelling, the chorus is on the road to a conventional modulation into A, when without warning it veers into the ditch on F major ("vor Gott!"), leaving us flattened and gasping for breath. What could possibly come next?

Plunk. Plunk. Over the hill comes a scraggly Turkish military band (in B-flat), led by a swaggering tenor. You can almost feel the side drum banging against his knee on the off-beats, as he sings about Brotherhood in 6/8 time. The chorus falls in behind him, followed by horns and violins, and they trek energetically through a half-dozen keys to arrive at a noisy, full-throated reprise of the Ode in D major.

With a hush we turn from the Brotherhood of Man to the Fatherhood of God. Trombones and male voices intone like a Gregorian celebrant; the chorus answers in celestial Handelian polyphony. This is the most 'purely' choral passage in the movement. Building on antique, modal harmony, it culminates with ethereal voices climbing toward the starry canopy.

Momentum is regained with a rocking double fugue. Near the end the sopranos sustain a high A 'pedal' for ten long bars. When the fugue winds down there is an awestruck moment, a quest for tonal base by the male voices (11/12 of a tone row!), and a pause on a silky chord topped by the (surviving) sopranos.

Now the rivulets gather. Beethoven, in total mastery, lays on one surprise after another in his surge to the finish. Speeding up, slowing down, swerving harmonically, alternating soloists, chorus, and instruments, he emphasizes and re-emphasizes "Alle Menschen" and drives the massed forces to an exultant close.

Looking back, we have been through an operatic scene that resembles--and transcends--the finale of Fidelio, where the soloists, orchestra, and chorus of freed prisoners proclaim their ideals to the world. In Berlin in 1989, Leonard Bernstein substituted "Freiheit" (freedom) for "Freude" (joy). Nobody made the least objection. Some people say that before being censored, Schiller wrote "Freiheit" in the first place.