”They played Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer Sonata’. Do you know its first movement, the presto? You know it?” he burst out. “Ah! It’s a fearful thing, that sonata. Especially that movement. And music in general’s a fearful thing. What is it? I don’t know. What is music? What does it do to us? And why does it do to us what it does? People say that music has an uplifting effect on the soul: what rot! It isn’t true. It’s true that it has an effect, it has a terrible effect on me, at any rate, but it has nothing to do with any uplifting of the soul. Its effect on the soul is neither uplifting nor degrading – it merely irritates me. How can I put it? Music makes me forget myself, my true condition, it carries me off into another state of being, one that isn’t my own: under the influence of music I have the illusion of feeling things I don’t really feel, of understanding things I don’t understand, being able to do things I’m not able to do. I explain this by the circumstance that the effect produced by music is similar to that produced by yawning or laughter. I may not be sleepy, but I yawn if I see someone else yawning; I may have no reason for laughing, but I laugh if I see someone else laughing.
Music carries me instantly and directly into the state of consciousness that was experienced by its composer. My soul merges with his, and together with him I’m transported from one state of consciousness into another; yet why this should be, I’ve no idea. I mean, take the man who wrote the ‘Kreutzer Sonata’, Beethoven: he knew why he was in that state of mind. It was that state of mind which led him to perform certain actions, and so it acquired a special significance for him, but none whatever for me. And that’s why that kind of music’s just an irritant – because it doesn’t lead anywhere. A military band plays a march, say: the soldiers march in step, and the music’s done its work. An orchestra plays a dance tune, I dance, and the music’s done its work. A Mass is sung, I take communion, and once again the music’s done its work. But that other kind of music’s just an irritation, an excitement, and the action of the excitement’s supposed to lead to simply isn’t there! That’s why it’s such a fearful thing, why it sometimes has such a horrible effect. In China, music’s an affair of state. And that’s the way it ought to be. Can it really be allowable for anyone who feels like it to hypnotize another person, or many other persons, and then do what he likes with them? Particularly if the hypnotist is just the first unscrupulous individual who happens to come along?
Yet this fearful medium is available to anyone who cares to make use of it. Take that ‘Kreutzer Sonata’, for example, take its first movement, the presto: can one really allow it to be played in a drawing-room full of women in low-cut dresses? To be played, and then followed a little light applause, and the eating of ice-cream, and talk about the latest society gossip? Such pieces should only be played on certain special, solemn, significant occasions when certain solemn actions have to be performed, actions that correspond to the nature of the music. It should be played, and as it’s played those actions which it’s inspired with its significance should be performed. Otherwise the generation of all that feeling and energy, which are quite inappropriate to either the place or the occasion, and which aren’t allowed any outlet, can’t have anything but a harmful effect. On me, at any rate, that piece had the most shattering effect; I had the illusion that I was discovering entirely new emotions, new possibilities I’d known nothing of before then. ‘Yes that’s it, it’s got absolutely nothing to do with the way I’ve been used to living and seeing the world, that’s how it ought to be,’ I seemed to hear a voice saying inside me. What this new reality I’d discovered was, I really didn’t know, but my awareness of this new state of consciousness filled me with joy.”
The Kreutzer Sonata by Leo Tolstoy
(Beethoven dedicated his Violin Sonata No. 9 to the violinist Rudolphe Kreutzer but Kreutzer never performed it deeming it “outrageously unintelligible”.)
Front page of an original edition of the Kreutzer Sonata
“Then I realized what it was. The music coming up from the floor was our old friend Ludwig van and the dreaded 9th Symphony.”
In poetry there are two giants, rough Homer and fine Shakespere. In music likewise we have two giants, Beethoven, the thinker, and the superthinker Berlioz.
Modest Mussorgsky, in a letter to Vladimir Stassov, October 18, 1872; Oskar von Riesemann (trans. Paul England) Moussorgsky (1929) p. 107.
Beethoven Mass in C major, Op. 86 – VI. Sanctus (Adagio)
See if this doesn’t get your heart beating faster…
Many of Beethoven’s most popular pieces were first performed at a concert on this day under less than ideal circumstances.
Beethoven was tired of having his music performed at charity concerts where he saw no money. So he begged the Theatre an der Wien to let him have a benefit concert for himself. What resulted was the storied “Marathon Concert”.
- The event lasted over four hours; the heater was broken.
- It saw the premiers of: Symphony No. 5, Symphony No. 6, Choral Fantasy, Piano Concerto No. 4, part of the Mass in C and an extended jam with Beethoven at the piano.
- The orchestra was unrehearsed. Their last concert with Beethoven ended with a fight, so they refused to rehearse with him this time.
- During the Choral Fantasy, Beethoven stopped the orchestra and had them restart.
- This was Beethoven’s last ever public piano performance before his hearing went.
Despite all this, it was his first (and only) financially successful concert that year. Could you imagine sitting in the cold theatre for four hours and hearing this?
to be diverse with my music listening but really all I want to listen to are Beethoven’s symphonies.
O welche Lust (O what a joy) from Beethoven’s only opera Fidelio. In this scene the prisoners are granted a brief moment of freedom and act accordingly.
Leonore: Karita Mattila
First Prisoner: Eric Cutler
Second Prisoner: Alfred Walker
The Metropolitan Opera Orchestra and Chorus
Metropolitan Opera, 2000
“[During a seminar about Ingmar Bergman’s films], an audience member purportedly shouted out: ‘What do you believe in, Ingmar?’ The director responded: ‘I believe in other worlds, other realities. But my prophets are Bach and Beethoven; they definitely show another world….[Bach] gives us the profound consolation and quiet that previous generations gained through ritual. Bach supplies a lucid reflection of otherworldliness, a sense of eternity no church can offer today.’
…Of the ten [Bergman] films that feature the music of Bach, half of them employ a Bach sarabande. The sarabande mirrors the director’s tendency to construct a film out of a series of duets, searching dialogues between characters that greatly need to communicate with each other but only manage to engage in a hopelessly desperate dance; they conform as best they can to the societal constraints that surround them but they at all times threaten to emit a cry that cannot be contained, that somehow escapes those confines.
The characters reach out to each other from across an abyss. What better way to represent that than through Bach’s music reaching out to us across the abyss of so much time and so much lost faith?