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The History in This Program
L
udwig van Beethoven died in 1827. It comes as no surprise that all nine of his symphonies
were performed as far west as London during his lifetime, but in the United States it was
a far different story. Even though there were several eastern seaboard cities with orchestras
of some accomplishment and size, none of the Beethoven symphonies, except the First, was
performed in its entirety in America until 1841. The fledgling New York Philharmonic made
its debut in 1842 with the Fifth Symphony, which had only been heard once before, a year earlier, led by the Orchestra’s founder and first conductor, Ureli Corelli Hill. The Seventh Symphony helped launch the Orchestra’s second season, and the Eighth was premiered on the
first concert of the third season, in 1844.
Interestingly, there is no agreement on why it took Beethoven’s works so long to come to America and, once they did, why eight symphonies were first heard within as many years, from 1841
to 1849. One might surmise that a group of German minstrels, well versed in Beethoven’s works,
had brought the great master’s creations to the New World, but the only works first heard outside
of New York City — the First, Second, and Sixth symphonies — received their complete premieres in Boston and Nazareth, Pennsylvania, performed by resident orchestras, not by a touring group from Europe. One possible answer could be that the newly emerging musician
communities of America simply didn’t have the right complement of instruments; at one point
in the 1820s, there was only one bassoon player in all of New York City.
By most contemporary accounts, the 1843 performance of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony
by the Philharmonic was a great success, even if there were doubts about the program notes,
which claimed that the work was a telling of the story of Orpheus and Euridice. The diarist
George Templeton Strong, who would become the Philharmonic’s President in 1870, proclaimed the symphony the “finest heard yet” and provided observations of his fellow concertgoers at the Apollo Rooms: “I selected the little side gallery, where I could look down in a
calm and philosophical manner on the splendors
below, especially upon George C. Anthon making
very strong love apparently to one of the ———s! and
upon Schermerhorn making himself generally ornamental, and Fanning C. Tucker trying to devise outlets for his legs and barking his knees on the bench in
front of him, and Lucius Wilmerding dozing off regularly at the soft passages and waking up with a jump
at the loud ones, and so forth.” Since Strong’s first
hearing of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7, the work
has been performed by the Philharmonic more than
500 times.
— The Archives
To learn more visit the New York Philharmonic
Leon Levy Digital Archives at archives.nyphil.org.
The Apollo Rooms, on lower Broadway, served as
the Philharmonic’s first concert venue
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Notes on the Program
By James M. Keller, Program Annotator, The Leni and Peter May Chair
Symphony No. 8 in F major, Op. 93
Symphony No. 7 in A major, Op. 92
Ludwig van Beethoven
n several occasions Ludwig van
Beethoven sketched a pair of symphonies concurrently or presented pairs of
them together on a program, tacitly inviting
listeners to hear one in the context of the
other. That his Second Symphony (1801–02)
was premiered on a concert that also included his First (1800) encouraged audiences
and critics to consider their similarities and
differences. The Fifth and Sixth Symphonies
were premiered together in 1808, and the
Seventh and Eighth provided a further instance of overlap in the composer’s workshop. Before he finished his Seventh
Symphony, Beethoven was already sketching
his Eighth, which he completed in the fall of
1812. Where the Seventh is large-scaled and
luxurious, the Eighth is compact. Each of its
movements is significantly shorter than the
corresponding movement of the Seventh, and
in performance the Eighth is, in toto, perhaps
three-fifths as long as its predecessor.
In its externals the Symphony No. 8 may
seem to retreat to an earlier time, and one
may be tempted to wonder if Beethoven is
picking up where he left off in his Second or
perhaps his Fourth symphonies. But
Beethoven never really looked back in his
major works, and it would be closer to the
truth to imagine him writing something that,
in its way, is as vastly conceived as the Seventh but then edited down to its essentials,
packaging it as tightly as possible, and ending up with something that looks at first
glance like a particularly good-spirited Classical symphony. It is reasonable to number it
O
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among the composer’s Apollonian works,
thanks to its sense of control and the tightness of its logic. That does not mean that it’s
in any way stodgy. In fact, the Eighth Symphony is one of the great monuments of musical humor — not throwaway silliness, but
IN SHORT
Born: Probably on December 16, 1770 (he
was baptized on the 17th), in Bonn, then an
independent electorate of Germany
Died: March 26, 1827, in Vienna, Austria
Works composed and premiered: Symphony No. 8, composed 1811–12, mostly in the
summer of the latter year; premiered February
27, 1814, in Vienna’s Redoutensaal, with
the composer conducting. Symphony No. 7,
composed 1811 through April 13, 1812; dedicated to Count Moritz von Fries; premiered
December 8, 1813, at the University of Vienna,
with the composer conducting
New York Philharmonic premieres and
most recent performances: Symphony No. 8,
premiered November 16, 1844, George Loder,
conductor, which also marked the U.S. Premiere; most recently performed December 14,
2013, Rafael Frühbeck de Burgos, conductor.
Symphony No. 7, premiered November 18,
1843, Ureli Corelli Hill, conductor, which also
marked the U.S. Premiere; most recently
played May 6, 2016, at Davies Symphony Hall
in San Francisco, Alan Gilbert, conductor
Estimated durations: Symphony No. 8,
ca. 27 minutes; Symphony No. 7, ca. 39
minutes
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rather large-boned, bluff, down-to-the-roots
humor, the sort found in the Falstaff of
Shakespeare’s Henry IV plays or in Cervantes’s Don Quixote.
It is now less fashionable than in years
gone by to speak of Beethoven’s symphonies
as inhabiting conflicting camps, with the
even-numbered ones being reflective and
conservative, and the odd-numbered ones
being extroverted and radical. It’s probably
for the best. None of Beethoven’s nine symphonies are conservative — at least they
weren’t when he composed them — and each
embodies both introspection and bravado to
some degree. Nonetheless, some listeners
find themselves temperamentally attuned
to certain aspects of his expression more
than others. A music lover entirely in step
with the intrepid heroism of the Eroica or the
resolute struggle of the Fifth or Ninth may relate rather less to the more intimate celebrations of the Second, Fourth, Sixth, and
Eighth Symphonies.
Beethoven’s Eighth Symphony was premiered on a program that also included both
his Sixth and Seventh. Sir George Grove,
founder of the music dictionaries that still
carry his name, related:
It was not well received, much more
applause being given to the Seventh Symphony …. The non-success of his pet work
greatly discomposed Beethoven, but he
bore it philosophically; and … he remarked,
“That’s because it’s so much better than
the other.”
Listen for … the Musical Laughter
Con brio is precisely the right marking for the opening movement of Beethoven’s Symphony
No. 8, which begins with a peal of musical laughter in 3/4 meter. The indefatigable music appreciationist Sigmund Spaeth, who in 1936 published lyrics to serve as mnemonic devices for the classic symphonies, found an opportunity to leap to the composer’s defense with his rhyme for this
opening theme: “Beethoven still is great, in the symphony he numbered eight.” No sooner has
Beethoven sounded it out than he drops it, turning to a second theme, a lyrical tune in A major. This,
too, proves to be short-lived, and the exposition reaches its end — back in F major — not long
after it has begun. The development section is similarly concentrated and briefly stormy; and
when Beethoven reaches the moment when the recapitulation arrives, he redistributes his opening music
among the orchestral parts, burying the principal theme
in the bassoons, cellos, and double basses while the rest
of the ensemble shrieks fortississimo above. That would
count as a musical joke, and a clever one, but not everyone was amused. One later eminence who protested
was Gustav Mahler; preparing to lead it as a conductor, he rewrote this passage (via one of his infamous Retuchen — “retouchings”) to make sure everybody would
hear the structural moment clearly. Beethoven’s intention, one might argue, was that they wouldn’t.
Beethoven’s Symphony No. 8 exhibits a large-boned,
down-to-the roots humor akin to the character Falstaff,
from Shakespeare’s Henry IV plays, as depicted here by
Eduard von Grützner
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Audiences were indeed slow to embrace the
work. In June 1827 three years after the more
perplexing Ninth Symphony had been unleashed, the critic of Harmonicon in London
was still scratching his head about the Eighth,
voicing an opinion that would reign for years
among English critics. “Beethoven’s Eighth
Symphony,” he wrote, “depends wholly on
its last movement for what applause it obtains; the rest is eccentric without being
amusing, and laborious without effect.”
Even the perspicacious Hector Berlioz, an
inveterate admirer of Beethoven’s symphonies, occasionally found himself at a loss
in this one. Of the Tempo di Menuetto portion
he opined, “To speak truly, this movement is
but ordinary; and the antiquity of the form
seems somehow to have stifled the composer’s
thought.” Although he thoroughly enjoyed the
finale, he found himself baffled when trying to
analyze some structural harmonic business in
which the theme pops up not just in its original
F major but also in C-sharp, the enharmonic
D-flat, and, of all things, F-sharp minor. “All
this is very curious,” Berlioz concluded.
The Age of Beethoven coincided in large part
with the Age of Napoleon. Beethoven was enthusiastic about Napoleon at first, supposing
that the Frenchman would abolish the aristocratic tyranny that reigned over Europe in
favor of a more humanitarian social order.
But in the spring of 1804, just as Beethoven
completed his Third Symphony, intended as
a symphonic tribute to Napoleon, news arrived that Napoleon had crowned himself
Emperor, that the standard-bearer of republicanism had seized power as a dictator of absolutism. Beethoven’s fervor collapsed, and
he famously scratched Napoleon’s name
from the manuscript of what would from
then on be re-dubbed the Sinfonia eroica.
Napoleon seemed unstoppable until 1812,
when the tide began to turn. His armies were
At the Time
In 1812, as Beethoven is completing work on his Symphonies Nos. 7 and 8, the following are taking place:
•
•
•
•
In the United States, an estimated 8-point magnitude earthquake
strikes New Madrid, Missouri, the last of several tremors, including one that causes the Mississippi River to reverse course; a
Boston Gazette cartoon coins the term “gerrymander” to describe the redrawing of electoral districts to help incumbents retain seats in Massachusetts.
In England, textile workers of the Luddite movement destroy machinery to protest the abuse of standard labor practices and hiring of unskilled workers.
In Russia, Napoleon’s forces invade, entering Moscow in September to find the city set ablaze by locals.
In Germany, the first volume of Grimms’ Fairy Tales is published.
— The Editors
Top: a district said to resemble a salamander, conflated with the name
of Massachusetts Gov. Elbridge Gerry, leads to the term “gerrymander.”
Bottom: Luddites reportedly take their name from a textile worker
who led protests, Ned Ludd.
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repulsed from Moscow that autumn, and in
June 1813 Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, engineered a decisive victory in the Battle
of Vitoria, which effectively spelled French
defeat in the Iberian Peninsula.
Beethoven monitored all of this with great
interest. On December 8, 1813, two of his works
were unveiled in a concert at the University of
Vienna that was organized for the benefit of
troops wounded five weeks earlier in the Battle of Hanau: his descriptive symphonic fantasy Wellington’s Victory, or The Battle of
Vitoria, and his Symphony No. 7. In between,
the audience was treated to marches (by other
composers) in which the orchestra accompanied a mechanical trumpet-playing machine,
the creation of Johann Mälzel, better remembered as the inventor of the metronome. Both
of Beethoven’s pieces were warmly received —
as indeed was the mechanical trumpeter — so
much so that the program was repeated four
days later as a second benefit. The second
movement of the symphony had to be encored on both occasions.
The Seventh became one of Beethoven’s
most popular symphonies, and it evoked admiring comment from a Who’s Who of people
who should know — beginning with
Beethoven himself, who, in an 1815 letter to
the impresario Johann Peter Salomon, cited
his “Grand Symphony in A” as “one of my best
works.” Richard Wagner proclaimed it “the
Apotheosis of the Dance; the Dance in its
highest condition; the happiest realization of
the movements of the body in an ideal form.”
Vincent d’Indy objected that “in the rhythm
At the Premiere
Following the premiere of the Seventh Symphony, Beethoven penned a letter to be printed in the
Wiener Zeitung, though he seems not to have sent it. He began:
I esteem it to be my duty to thank all the honored participants in the concert given on December 8 and 12, for the benefit of the sick and wounded Austrian and Bavarian soldiers who
fought in the battle at Hanau, for their demonstrated zeal on behalf of such a noble end. It was
an unusual congregation of admirable artists wherein every individual was inspired by the
single thought of contributing something by his art for the benefit of the fatherland, and who
without consideration of their rank cooperated in subordinate places in the excellent execution
of the whole.
It was indeed “an unusual congregation of admirable artists.” Ignaz Schuppanzigh, Beethoven’s
portly, long-suffering friend whose string quartet introduced all of the composer’s mature quartets, sat concertmaster, and the guitarist Mauro Giuliani played cello. The composers Giacomo
Meyerbeer, Johann Nepomuk
Hummel, and Ignaz Moscheles
all helped out as percussionists
in Wellington’s Victory with Antonio Salieri (who served as secondary conductor) cuing them
and the artillerists who discharged firearms to lend authenticity to the battle scene.
Battle of Hanau, by Émile
Jean-Horace Vernet, 1826
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of the first movement there is certainly nothing dance-like; it seems rather as if inspired by
the song of a bird” — and if we are able to put
aside Wagner’s famous characterization, we
may find that d’Indy was onto something.
Wagner was also struck by the Seventh Symphony’s extremes of expression:
But compare the roughness of the opening
and the concluding movements of this
work with the grace, loftiness, and even
deep devotional feeling of its middle sections, and we are presented with similar
puzzling contrasts to those so often found
in Beethoven’s life, where, in his journals
and letters, we find religious and personal
appeals to God worthy of one of the Hebrew Psalmists, side by side with nicknames and jokes which befit a harlequin.
Hector Berlioz, noting that the Symphony’s Allegretto was its most famous
movement, proclaimed: “This does not arise
from the fact that the other three parts are
any less worthy of admiration; far from it.”
Instrumentation: Symphony No. 8 calls for
two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, timpani, and
strings. Symphony No. 7 employs two flutes,
two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two
horns, two trumpets, timpani, and strings.
Dancing to Beethoven
Wagner’s famous comment that Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony represented “the Apotheosis of
the Dance; the Dance in its highest condition; the happiest realization of the movements of the
body in an ideal form” was taken to heart in the early 20th century by Isadora Duncan. The modern-dance pioneer performed to movements of the work, live with orchestra, on a number of occasions, including with the New York Symphony (which merged with the New York Philharmonic
in 1928 to create today’s Orchestra).
A New York Times review of the 1908 performance questioned “the necessity or the possibility
of a physical ‘interpretation’ of the symphony upon the stage,” as Duncan danced to the Allegretto and Presto movements, as well as to works by Chopin, Schubert, and Dvořák, conducted
by Walter Damrosch. However, in the New York World, Richard De Koven wrote:
I cannot better praise Miss Duncan’s art than by saying what she did was no infraction on the
dignity and beauty of Beethoven’s immortal work. The symphony was there, its wondrous art
complete and undimmed, with the eye as an added factor to our emotional enjoyment, with the
inner spirit and meaning of the work, as it were visualized. But the music would always have to
be played as it was
yesterday, to hold the
picture to the eye, for
Miss Duncan danced
the music, not danced
to it; a world of difference lies there.
— The Editors
A triptych captures
Isadora Duncan’s movement and typical flowing
Grecian costume
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