by Stephen Fry
1798: the year of Wordsworth and Coleridge; the year the French stormed Rome and declared the 'Roman Republic'; the year that Britain had to declare a new 10 per cent income tax to pay for war; the year that Casanova died, aged seventy-three and nine inches.
1798: the year a sixty-seven-year-old Haydn set to work on another of his 'Indian summer' pieces, The Creation. 1798: the eleventh birthday of a virtuoso, Nicolo Paganini.
Paganini had been taught mandolin and violin by his father and, at the age of eleven, he was ready to make his first public appearance. His finest hour, though, is yet to come, so for now, let me show you this ad I discovered while leafing through the files in the Bruce Forsyth Library of Classical Music in Vienna: ??? you tired of the oldvtaysQ ofired of the same old s^mpfionics^ The same old sad little solos and polite little 'prestos'? You are? Well, why not become an EARLY ROMANTIC! For just Ј39.99, plus 10 florins penny postage and packing, you TOO can be both EARLY and ROMANTIC. Membership of the EARLY ROMANTICS entitles you to write three hugely indulgent virtuoso concertos a year, be grumpy in public, bad with money, as well as the right to wear your hair in a ridiculous quiff, possibly above some broken round spectacles. And remember, if you're not satisfied with being an EARLY ROMANTIC, you… can't have your money back, but you can tear all your music up and throw a luwie fit… Remember, all music subject to status. Early Romantic!? niifuliilnil tiy i… Irani. Hubato, Libretto and Staccato. Lovely, isn't it? It's one of the very earliest adverts for the Early Romantics, part of a collection of parchment ads on loan to the Forsyth after having originally been found stuffed behind the sofa in the dean's office at the University of Bonn.
It's 1800. The year generally thought to have been the start of the Early Romantic period, despite the fact that the classical period is generally reckoned to have gone on to 1820. Well, old dog… new tricks and all that. You see, romantic music… it's just a label, that's all. Some people wrote music that sounded distincdy classical, while some people wrote music that sounded pretty much romantic - and both in the same year.
There was one person who sort of straddled the two periods, though. He wrote in the dying days of the classical and more or less singlehandedly kick-started the romantic. This had happened before -CPE Bach was the end of the baroque and start of the classical. But while CPE is now no more than 'musicologically significant' - that's muso speak for 'pants', by the way - the man who was both the end of the classical and the foundation stone of the romantics would end up being a bit more of a household name. And that's because his 'household name', as it were, was… Beethoven. Well, thank goodness. He's here at last.
1800: the year of Beethoven's first symphony. Napoleon is now First Consul, Italy is conquered and the age of Beethoven has arrived. His very first attempt at the symphony came at the age of thirty. By composers' standards, that's a heck of a long time to wait - Mozart released his when he was only eight, remember. In fact, Mozart only had another five years left in him when he was thirty. Beethoven was an altogether different animal, though - you can say that again - but then he would be. He's being born into a very different world. Alessandro Volta has just, more or less, made the first battery, out of zinc and copper plates. The Royal College of Surgeons has been founded - and you know what that means? Not only is the world getting so much more scientific, but also, well… the golf courses are now going to be full every afternoon.
Enough of this. I'm just 'logging in' with Beethoven for now. We'll be back to check on him soon. For now it's time to check on the comeback kid, the man who wrote more symphonies than, well, than he needed to really - the one and only, you thought he was dead, Franz Josef 'Don't Call Me Boring' Haydn.
Haydn has been coming to the end of his time as Kapellmeister at Esterhazy. Just a couple of years ago, he'd knocked off the Austrian National Anthem for the Emperor's birthday. He'd called it 'Gott erhalt Franz den Kaiser'. Of course, it took on a slightly different tone when its words were later changed to 'Deutschland, Deutschland, tiber alles'. Haydn was fully expected to retire. He wasn't particularly well, and, at nearly seventy, was thought by many to have probably produced his best work, by now.
Haydn, on the other hand, was having none of it. Just as the sun was setting on the Esterhazy dream, our Franz came up with one of his most youthful-sounding works, which would go on to become one of his most popular choral pieces, The Seasons. A year later, he would retire, on full pension, revered as one of the grand masters of classical music.
BEETHOVEN READY
1803. Let me update you quickly. 1803 - Napoleon's doing well. Well, he would be, wouldn't he. Let's leave it at that. The sculptor, Canova, has chipped away at a small but perfectly formed statue of the… small but perfectly formed Grand Fromage himself. Incidentally, France and Britain are at war again… Id nous allons, encore, as they say in Leeds. Moving on, racing starts at Goodwood for the first time and Turner, having been well received with his Millbank Moon Light, comes up with Calais Pier. Somehow, if he went and got out his easels and painted the same places today, the titles Millbank Spin Doctors on Mobiles and Calais Asylum Seekers Riot would seem a little unromantic. Call me reactionary.
But back to the angry young man Ludwig van Beethoven. He was born in Bonn in December of 1770. lie had a miserable boyhood, beaten into an unreasonable regime of practice by a violent and alcoholic father. The music side of it paid oil, ihongli, and he was spotted by Marie-Antoinette's brother, the Elector of Cologne, Maximillian Franz, and made deputy court organist. When his dad lost his job through his drinking, the young Beethoven was forced to go out to earn money by playing viola in a lowly theatre. How degrading. Not the lowly theatre, the viola playing!^ In 1792, he headed off to Vienna to study with Haydn and ended up never going back to Bonn. He launched himself as a concert pianist three years later, playing his own piano concerto (the first, almost certainly) and his reputation as both pianist and composer begins to spread. As you can imagine, though, fate was never going to allow Beethoven a storybook 'happy ever after' ending. Only a year later, he began to get the first signs of a deafness that would eventually become total.
In 1803, Beethoven was thirty-three, and gradually realising that he was succumbing to deafness. In a letter of 1802, discovered many years after his death, he made it clear that he knew what was happening to him. It's maybe in a sort of race against time that he came up with a massive burst of creativity.
Over the next six years, he would write his Kreutzer, Waldstein and Appassionata Sonatas, as well as the ever popular 'Moonlighf - not his title, I might add, but one his publishers stuck on. He also produced the oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives and the Third Piano Concerto. But in 1803, he also came up with something that has been described as 'the greatest single step made by a composer in the history of the symphony and of music in general'. Big talk, little breeches, as Baloo would say.
But fair, though, because the Third, Symphony is just not like anything that had preceded it. If you hear a Haydn symphony in concert, it's… orderly, it's… in place. If you hear a Mozart symphony even, it's still order. Genius, often, without doubt, but still order. Then you get something like Beethoven's Eroica - the 'heroic' symphony. It's… well, it's just not on the same playing field. Beethoven was really raising the symphony game with this one. It's EPIC, it's AMAZING. fi For some reason, viola players in the classical world are akin to drummers in the jazz world, i.e. the butt of jokes. Personally, of course, I don't subscribe to such jokes. Such jokes as: What's the difference between a viola and a trampoline? Answer:??? take your shoes off to jump up and down on a trampoline. Or: What do you call a guy who hangs round with musicians? Answer: A drummer. Terrible jokes. It's the Star Trek of symphonies - it boldly goes where no man had gone before. The 'hero' of the tide was the man of the moment, too, Napoleon, who was a bit of an idol for Ludwig. Sad to say, it wasn't to last. When, just one year later, Napoleon crowned himself Emperor in Paris, Beethoven ran to his bottom drawer, took the Eroica manuscript from undernea
th his hairbrush, and scratched out the name 'Bonaparte', dedicating it, instead, to 'the memory of a. great man'. Strong stuff!
Also composing some great stuff around this time was Beethoven's friend - and, I think, a possible contender in the Mildly Amusing Middle Name stakes - Johann Nepomuk Hummel. In his day, Hummel was considered certainly the equal of Beethoven as a piano player, and some even said as a composer too. Now, though, he's remembered for a mere handful of works and, in particular, his Trumpet Concerto. It's a bit of a partner to Haydn's in the trumpet repertoire, with an equally impressive third movement, comparable in difficulty to its predecessor - often considered a blood relation of Haydn. And with good reason, because Hummel's, too, was written for Weidlinger, the guy who invented the new trumpet. The one from Haydn's band. You see, when Haydn got a bit too frail, not able to handle the full job at Eisenstadt, the very cute powers-that-be gave him his pension of 2,300 florins plus all his medical bills, and allowed him to stay on as 'general music bigwig - allowed to potter around, read the papers, no questions asked'. And who took over from him as Kapellmeister? Correct. JN Hummel. Well, isn't it a small world?
In the 'Where are they now?' stakes, it seems to be merely a matter of fate that, despite being extremely popular and indeed influential during his lifetime, die moment he died, his music simply fell out of fashion. Of course, I have a personal theory, which I am willing to share. You see, Gluck… largely out of fashion, isn't he? Hmm? And Dittersdorf? Also, more or less totally forgotten. And now Hummel. Revered by Mendelssohn, Schumann and Liszt in his day, but now the dodo of classical music. And why? Well, my theory… mildly amusing middle names. Karl Ditters von Dittersdorf Christoph Willibald von Gluck Johann Nepomuk Hummel Need I say more? QED, as the French call the famous cruise ship.
If Haydn were to stroll into the Esterhazy Palace to read the papers in 1806 - and he was still there - then there'd have been plenty to catch tip on. The Battle of Trafalgar has been and gone, last year, with Nelson doing the most famous snog in history - or not. Napoleon is now, wait for it: i) First Consul ii) Emperor iii) King of Milan iv) President of the Italian Republic v) Milk Monitor©, and vi) Captain of die Netball team© More or less everything, in fact. Pitt the Younger is now going by the somewhat less jolly nickname of Pitt the Dead. What else? Well, Prussia has declared war on France - yeah yeah yeah, talk to the Handel, the Facade ain't listening. Moving on, Turner has turned up another goodie, The Shipwreck. Think of the impact that a picture like that must have had in that day and age. It wouldn't be just a great picture, it would be a huge shiver down the spine - remember, the sea is a big, relevant image for people. Nelson's victory and death were still big news, press gangs are still all the rage, plus the fact that die sea was less tamed then than it is now, and you've got a bit of shocking image in Turner's Shipwreck.
And musically? What about mat? Does the music of the time match images like Turner's Shipwreck}
Well, if you're talking Beethoven, then the answer's a big, steaming lump of 'yes'. He's already produced his first draft of his one and only opera, Fidelio, with its themes of brotherhood, comradeship and freedom. And 'one and only' - that's important. You see, he doesn't waste paper, our Beethoven, oh no. Haydn wrote 104 symphonies, Mozart forty-one, but Beethoven? Only nine. But they were, no disrespect to the other two, truly greater works - a magnificent nine - and, in that respect, the numbers speak volumes. Much less frivolous than Haydn's, more demanding, more revolutionary than Mozart's, and, generally, on another level completely. And, then, in 1806, he comes up with his one and. only violin concerto. It's less 'in your face' than some of his other stuff, with a delirious second movement that is truly ages away from Haydn and Mozart. It's said that, at its first performance, the original fiddler, a man called Clement, was left to sight-read the whole thing, having had no rehearsal, but somehow managed to pull it off. And thank goodness he did: had he completely buggered it up and, in so doing, consigned the work to an eternity of obscurity, then I, for one, would never have forgiven our friend Clement. I don't think I could bear to be without the Beethoven Violin Concerto. But, anyway, he didn't. He got through it, everyone applauded, probably politely, he left the concert hall, shut the door and, before you knew it - VOOOMH - it was 1808.
VAN THE MAN
I
m going to take this opportunity to spend some time going into a little more detail on the next nine years. Just as I did at the last truly intriguing time in music history - the final four years of Mozart - so, now, I'm going to spend a while in the company of Van the Man.
So. 1808. Two years since the Violin Concerto, and Beethoven is on a roll. In the last two years, he's come up with Fidelio, the 'Razumovsky' string quartets, and Symphony No 4. Around him, the world is, as ever, changing. Napoleon, having taken Barcelona and Madrid, abolishes the Spanish Inquisition. Bet they weren't expecting that! Then, for good measure, he abolishes the Italian one, too/ In other disciplines, Kaspar David Friedrich exhibits his painting The Cross of the Mountains, Walter Scott publishes Marmion, and Goethe comes up with a bit of a blockbuster. I think it's fair to say this one will run and run, in oh so many versions: Faust, part 1.
Beethoven himself is still as unlucky in life as he is in love. His 'immortal beloved' is from this period too. 'She' is a mystery woman, never to be categorically identified. Some say it was Giuletta Guicciardi, an Italian countess, who is said to have returned his affections before her father forbade the marriage. It was to her that he dedicated the 'Moonlight' Sonata. Some say it was her cousin, Therese t What Italian one? Why didn't I know about this? Was it a brand extension, franchise operation, what? Malfatti, the inspiration for the Appassionato.. Some even say it was Booboo, the soft toy for whom he wrote the 'Flurble Symphony for Kazoos'©, although these people like to have someone to sit with them and have been largely discredited. And, finally, some say it's a general letter to 'all women'. Personally, I think this is daft. I mean, if it's an open letter to all women, why not have small A5 flyers printed and left in places where women would see them, like make-up counters or handbag shops? See? It only takes a few moments of common sense to discredit a perfectly foolish theory.
Having said all that, picture Gary Oldman as Beethoven, if you can, from the film Immortal Beloved. Strange-looking, bad-tempered, plagued by increasing deafness… and yet capable of stopping a concert audience dead in their tracks. Think how amazing and how violent, almost, the Symphony No 5 must have been when Beethoven let it loose on an unsuspecting public. Up until now, the most amazing thing in the world of symphonies has been Mozart or Haydn. They're both fab, don't get me wrong, but still, nothing in their entire symphonic oeuvre could possibly have prepared anyone for
DE DE DE DERRR
DF DF DF JlFTtTtTt You see. Even written out like that, it looks somehow amazing, doesn't it? If you hear a great version of it now, it's still amazing. It's one of those pieces that can make you think that you've never heard it before. And not just the opening movement. Think of the last movement, in all its glory. It's MASSIVE. Huge and glorious, it takes no prisoners, it's immense. History, too, dealt it a helping hand when it became heavily associated with the Allied call-sign for Victory in the Second World War. The reason? The opening motif, which I think you'll agree is splendidly portrayed above, was similar to the Morse Code signal for V - three dots and a dash, or dot dot dot DASH, or, as it were, de de de derrr, see? One year on, and 1809 is proving to be a very interesting year. France and Austria are still engaged in a huge game of army wrestling. When a man called Arthur Wellesley gets involved on Britain's behalf, and defeats the French at Oporto and Talavera, he's given the title 'The Duke of Wellington' for his troubles. Oh, and his brother's made Foreign Secretary. Very cosy. Napoleon, though, has had his sights set on the Papal States and pretty soon he has them. Annexed before you can say, 'Not tonight, Josephine!' Which reminds me - the whole stress and hassle of keeping up anything like a decent Napoleonic war has taken its toll on the Emperor, stroke Consul,
stroke President, stroke my inner thigh. Indeed, 1809 also sees his divorce from Josephine, so it's a more a case of… and not any other night, Josephine, either'.
In England, Constable provided the ultimate in escapism with his picture of the delightful Malvern Hill. In fact, on a more everyday level, the 2000 Guineas is established at Newmarket Races, and finishing touches are put to Bristol Harbour. On a less everyday level, ST von Sommering invents the water voltameter telegraph. Now, what the hell is that?
Whatever it is, it clearly matters not two pins to one Ludwig van Beethoven. In terms of his deafness, he is now seriously suffering. He's not totally deaf yet, but, well, if you were to try roughly to convert what he was hearing then to what you're seeing now, well then it was probably something…??- Mm. Not very nice at all, really. And, of course, it's making him more and more irritable and fond of his own company. Being Beethoven, it's a very idiosyncratic state ofself absorption. For example, he likes to play the Austrian National Lottery in the hope of winning a fortune. In fact, he was so desperate to come up with shed loads of cash that he used to study the numbers, and gen himself up on the form. Also, by all accounts, he was a little careless about manuscripts, frequently 'borrowing' them for odd jobs. It's said some of his most famous works bear the circular imprint of the times when he used them to cover his soup bowl to keep it hot, or, worse still, to cover up his chamber pot/ p His chamber music, one would suppose.
