Beethoven’s Path to Last Rites

Like many Enlightenment figures, Ludwig van Beethoven was both religious and secular. He was more Catholic than W.A. Mozart, although I’m not sure that means he was less secular.

Secular is probably not the right word anyhow; republican is better.

Beethoven was born in 1770, so he was about 19 when the French Revolution broke out. He may well have agreed with William Wordsworth that, “Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, / But to be young was very heaven!” Then came the terror, and Wordsworth writes, “And finally, I lost all feeling of conviction, and, in fine, / Yielded up moral questions in despair.” (The Prelude, 1798-1799)

On June 9, 1804, Beethoven premiered his Symphony No. 3 in E-flat major, Op. 55, known as the Eroica (“Heroic”) – very much reflecting his enthusiasm for the republicanism of Napoleon Bonaparte, to whom he dedicated the work.

But the bloom quickly fell from that rose also when, six months later, Napoleon crowned himself emperor, at which point Beethoven took the manuscript of the 3rd and, fuming, furiously scratched off the dedication.

Both Mozart and Beethoven found themselves near the end of their lives composing Masses that they would not live to see performed. Mozart’s Requiem (1791) was left unfinished (although “completed” by his pupil Franz Xaver Süssmayr), and the work – deeply beautiful – remains among the most frequently performed of the composer’s works. Rarely at funerals, however.

Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis (completed in 1823) is among the least performed of his compositions. There’s a sad irony in this, given that the composer considered it his greatest work. Along with his Choral Symphony (No. 9 in D minor, Op. 125), the Missa Solemnis occupied the last, great creative period of Beethoven’s life, from about 1820 until 1825.

Beethoven’s judgments about music were notably superb. But great though the Missa is, most musicologists consider the Choral to be Beethoven’s best, followed by the Eroica, several other symphonies, and a handful each of glorious piano sonatas and string quartets. Only then do we get to his Masses, the other being the 1807 Mass in C major, written for the episcopal installation of his friend, student, and patron, Archduke Rudolph of Austria, Prince Royal of Hungary and Bohemia, Cardinal-Archbishop of Olomouc, for whom he also composed the Piano Trio, Op. 97, known now as the Archduke. Beethoven, being busy and distracted, presented the Mass in C to the Archbishop two years after the ceremony.

Of the Missa Solemnis, Beethoven wrote to his friend Andreas Streicher (September 16, 1824): “During the work on this grand Mass, my main purpose was to evoke in both the singers and the auditors [listeners] religious sentiments and to instill them permanently.”

I wrote above that neither Mozart nor Beethoven lived to see their final Mass compositions performed, but that’s not entirely true in Beethoven’s case.

On May 7, 1824. Beethoven, 53, entered the auditorium of Vienna’s Kärntnertor Theater, took his place on the podium, turned momentarily to acknowledge the audience, then faced the orchestra, raised his hands, and began to lead the musicians through the 11-minute overture, Die Weihe des Hauses (“The Consecration of the House”), which he had composed two years earlier for the grand reopening of another Vienna venue, the Theater in der Josefstadt. The audience at Kärntnertor enjoyed the overture.

Beethoven then conducted just three settings from Missa Solemnis: Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei. And the audience warmly received the music.

Then the great composer led the premiere of Symphony No. 9.

Nearing the end of the nearly 90-minute masterpiece, Beethoven was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and he was unaware that, all through the evening, the frenzied waving of his arms and animated facial gestures affected not at all the members of the orchestra or of the chorus. They had all been instructed to watch only the Kapellmeister, Michael Umlauf, who had been in their sight (but not in Beethoven’s), keeping time for them: a necessary precaution, since Beethoven was likely to fall behind in the score – and did.

Beethoven, head drooping now, exhausted, was completely oblivious not only to Umlauf’s efforts but also to the raucous cheering in the theater behind him. He may still have been conducting, until contralto soloist Karoline Unger moved to the podium. Gently placing her hands on Beethoven’s arm, she turned him to face the audience.

Did everyone there that night know that Beethoven was totally deaf? Perhaps. But they say that when Unger made her act of loving kindness, it was electric. The cheering paused, then fairly exploded, one witness describing it as volcanic. The crowd, already thrilled by the music, was now carried away by an almost rapturous realization that Beethoven had not heard a note of his own music that night, nor the audience cheering.

But now Beethoven saw them all, orchestra, chorus, and audience, their mouths open, and their eyes glistening with tears, as they clapped, cheered, stomped their feet, and waved their hats and handkerchiefs – or tapped their stringed instruments with their bows.

They had been witnesses to a genius who could not hear them, nor hear the glorious music even as he had composed it. So now they let him see how moved they were. He, too, was moved. It must have been a moment they would never see the like of again and would never forget.

The “Choral” part of Beethoven’s Ninth was derived from Friedrich Schiller’s poem, An die Freude (“Ode to Joy”), and is the basis of the symphony’s last movement. Schiller was no Catholic. Beethoven was.

Beethoven considered George Frideric Handel, a Lutheran, the greatest of all composers, and “The Messiah” the greatest of Handel’s compositions, and this, I think, was what he was aiming for.

I’m reluctant to call the Ninth Catholic, but it’s certainly not a paean to the Culte de la Raison. After years of fear that total deafness would rob him of his gift, the joy of the Ninth remains Beethoven’s prayer of thanksgiving to God, whom he knew he would soon meet.

Beethoven died on March 26, 1827. He’d received Viaticum three days before.

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