The movement is not so great as the preceding, and is perhaps too long (which is a decided art-fault—not merely a mistake in judgment); but, as a whole, it reminds us of Shakespeare's "entire and perfect chrysolite;" we greet it (and other movements of Beethoven's) with feelings of profound affection; as though we had realised those words "Yet a little while and ye have me with ye"; as though we had been living, for at least a breathing space, in the atmosphere and society of higher life, out of the sphere of time and in the sphere of the eternal. We have had such pleasure that we feel more good; we issue grateful and earnest, happier, better men. There have been sighs of regret that Beethoven did not write more music like his Symphony in F; but not only this movement, but these two first symphonies, the sonatas in E flat, "Adelaide"—nay, almost all his first period compositions. And here our glances at this symphony must cease. The trio, with its delicious strain, pleases us more than the scherzo (a strain that might be made much more of). The scherzo itself is less sympathetic than that of No. 1: seems, in fact, rather heavily frolicsome. The finale is a masterpiece, though decidedly inferior to the first movements. Do composers often write their finale when they are jaded? they should make this their golden rule, toutes les choses ont leur matinée.
[Symphony No. III., Op. 55.]
"Lo Motor primo a lui si volge licto,
Soora tant'arte di natura, e spira
Spirito nuovo, di virtù repleto"—
When we stand before this Symphony, like Death, it "gives us pause"; it looms so great, so vast. It was no wonder that it was not comprehended at first; and this should be not a subject of regret, but gratification, to the genius. Genius implies non-comprehension at first, and all sorts of "cold obstruction"; and here it may at once be said that, on the whole, genius, like virtue, is its own reward, and perfect compensation for all drawbacks. This should be borne in mind when uncalled-for lamentations are, not unnaturally, yet rather thoughtlessly made. Certainly, Beethoven would not have been satisfied had this phenomenal work, this prodigy, this spiritual Labour of Hercules (type of all the great Helpers and Saviours of mankind), been immediately grasped. To comprehend, in some small measure, the prodigy called the Universe around us, men and things have had to evolve for countless ages; it is the same, on a miniature scale, with individual works; and every poet rids himself of his message in the great spirit of the great Kepler:—"I may well wait a century for a reader, as God has waited six thousand years for an observer." To no man not rich in such a spirit will any great message be whispered and entrusted.
Beethoven was, in his sphere, and with his vehicle of utterance, a prophet—a coming event that threw its shadow before. He revealed to men, if they could but have seen it, the Nineteenth Century—its inner life, plus the nature and passions of the present (his own day) and the past. No wonder, then, that the men of his own day—the great mass, the local majority—could not understand what really is a truer mirror of us—our doubts, and fears, and struggles, and hopes. And the Sinfonia Eroica, I take it, must be so interpreted—in a spiritual sense (at least as well as in the physical, or literal)—as much as the Symphony in C minor, at least as much as the Pastoral Symphony which Beethoven himself said was really emotional rather than descriptive. And it little matters whether or not Beethoven himself consciously uttered these manifold messages of his in this or that sense; he has as perfect a right as Shakespeare to be deemed full of all that can be packed into him; nay, it is all the better if he was not conscious: to repeat—unconsciousness was the soul of his consciousness, as it ever is, and must be, of all higher speech and performance.
No mere battle, or ordinary warfare—certainly Napoleonic—can adequately explain, is solely depicted in, this grand work; though they become far more satisfactory, so applied, when we consider them as coarse manifestations of the higher qualities; in fact, as backgrounds for and revelations of heroism. By dwelling on this, we get nearer to the soul of the symphony; spiritual warfare, rather, is what it proclaims. [A] Of Beethoven's notes, it may be quite as much said as of Luther's words—his notes are like other men's battles. Better than any poem this symphony (especially the first movement—facile princeps) seems to hold the mirror up to Man in his Warfare, specially and generally, physically and spiritually, with and in his own inscrutable self, and with and in the unspeakable elements of time. It is not without special beauty, in the last but one, or Faust sense (we were struck and pleased to come across Bendel's words, corroborating our own notion, that Beethoven was in some sort a Faust); and, before this symphony, we feel Beethoven was that good man, struggling with adversity, the spectacle of which is a benefit to the very gods; and, under this feeling, the symphony does us double good. The fact on the face of it is, its Titanic power in maturity. The first two symphonies, also rich in power, are stamped by a spirit of youth. This gives them a delicious charm which makes them extra dear; and which Beethoven himself (let alone others) was fundamentally mistaken (we feel) in underrating, nay, disparaging, as he was afterwards wont to do (really, when his mighty powers were waning, and he was perhaps in secret aware of that; it is the common melancholy trick of men). That peculiar spirit of freshness here at length we seem to miss, or are no longer struck by. Here we may draw the line. Here we see the ripe man, or very nearly so; at least in the prime and plenitude of his powers; not quite so happy as before, but stronger; and as yet with no serious threatening shadow of gloom—though there may be clouds "as big as a man's hand," and even occasionally, perhaps, hints, like the mole "cinque-spotted i' the bottom of a cowslip," of tragedy and aberration among the most melancholy in the history of men.
Beethoven was an emphatically conscious, but profoundly unconceited man. We are sure, therefore, that he entitled his symphony "Heroic" (if he did do so) with no unpardonable vanity; nevertheless, we regret that (as also in his "Grand" sonatas) he did not leave it to others—for itself to call itself that. Truly, he did not exceed much in betitling and programming—his sense of the infinitude of music was too profound, of that as being the charm; but even in the few cases where he did, perhaps the breach would have been better than the observance. One great disadvantage of betitling music is, that it does not allow us to approach it afterwards without preoccupation and convention; whereas, we should approach it utterly free, except from our own nature, and previous existence. Moreover, if the work correspond ever so to the title or description, it is discounted beforehand. To say afterwards, "that is heroic!"—"this is pastoral!" is an added charm. But to details.