The motivation to concentrate on composing the Fourth Symphony probably came from a commission from Count Franz von Oppersdorff, whose castle Beethoven and Lichnowsky visited in 1806, to hear a performance of the Second Symphony. Apparently, the Count once broke up an argument between Beethoven and Lichnowsky over the composer’s refusal to play for visiting French soldiers. Beethoven may have previously contemplated dedicating the ‘Eroica’ Symphony to Napoleon, but the toll of war had left its mark – and he had never been one to kowtow to his supposed superiors. He wrote to Lichnowsky afterwards: ‘Prince, you are who you are by accident of birth; I am who I am through my own efforts. There have been, and will be, thousands of princes; there is only one Beethoven’.

There may have been only one Beethoven, but his symphonies demonstrate – as well as his unbending will and determination – his multifaceted character and creative inventiveness. The Fourth Symphony requires a slightly smaller orchestra than the Third Symphony – there are only two horns, not three, and only one flute – and is markedly shorter in duration. In the already mentioned introduction to the first movement, Beethoven explores an uncharted harmonic itinerary, moving at what composer Carl Maria von Weber considered a glacial pace (‘Every quarter of an hour we hear three or four notes’, he complained). After that disorientating start, the Fourth Symphony settles into a fairly conventional layout of three movements in the same key (B flat major), with a slow second movement in the related key of E flat.

The first, private performances of the Fourth Symphony took place in the Lobkowitz Palace in Vienna in March 1807. The first public performances happened in the autumn, at Vienna’s Burgtheater. Publication of the Fourth Symphony in Vienna, however, was delayed until April 1809, by which time it had been – somewhat unfairly – overshadowed by the Fifth and Sixth Symphonies.

‘The realm of the infinite’

Oppersdorff commissioned Beethoven’s next symphony as well, which was fully drafted by early 1808 and then went through protracted revisions. However, the dedication of the Fifth Symphony was given to two of Beethoven’s longstanding patrons, Prince Lobkowitz and Count Razumovsky. As illustrated by the example of the Fourth Symphony, Lobkowitz had often given Beethoven access to rooms where he might rehearse and give private performances of his music. He may have done the same for the Fifth; he certainly bought the rights to sixth months’ exclusive use of the Symphony before its first public performance, despite Oppersdorff having commissioned the work.

The premiere of the Fifth Symphony took place on a cold December night in 1808 in the Theater an der Wien. It was an especially long concert programme consisting entirely of works by Beethoven. The first half began with the premiere of the Sixth Symphony, followed by the aria ‘Ah! Perfido’, the Gloria from the Mass in C, and the Fourth Piano Concerto (played by Beethoven). The Fifth Symphony started the second half of the concert, after which came the Sanctus and Benedictus of the Mass in C, a solo piano improvisation by Beethoven, and the Choral Fantasy. Under-rehearsed and tiring for both players and audience members, the concert was more a feat of endurance than an impressive musical experience; however, on its publication, the Fifth Symphony was swiftly recognised as a major achievement by critics.

Whether the opening musical motif embodies Fate knocking at Beethoven’s door or the birdcall of the yellowhammer is perhaps of less concern than the sense that this is music which, as ETA Hoffmann’s 1810 review put it, enters ‘the realm of the infinite’; it ‘sets in motion the machinery of awe, of fear, of terror, of pain’. There are few more iconic openings to a Symphony, and few pieces from the early nineteenth century that pursue a motivic idea as untiringly as the first movement of Beethoven’s Fifth.

Richard Wagner conducted Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony in Dresden in 1848. Revolutions were erupting across Europe. Wagner illustrated the power of this music to lift the spirits and to rally a determination not to be crushed by fate. He recalled: ‘King and court were depressed, and the entire audience felt a dark sense of foreboding at the imminent danger and upheavals. […] It was then that the violinist Karol Lipiński whispered to me: “Just wait – it will all pass at the first bow-stroke of the C-minor Symphony!” And he was right: the symphony began what cheering, what enthusiasm!’

This blog is an extract from Laura Tunbridge’s article in the programme for our concert It Shall Certainly Not Bend and Crush Me Completely at the Southbank Centre on 8 February.