Beethoven summary

Even if you rarely listen to classical music, you probably know the name Beethoven. Maybe you can even hum a few bars from his Ninth Symphony. But there’s a lot more to Ludwig van Beethoven than the “Ode to Joy.” Few musical artists have transformed their medium and stretched its boundaries as much as Beethoven did. But what many people don’t realize is that his ambitions and achievements weren’t all that appreciated during his time. 

This is Beethoven’s story, as told through nine key works that shed light on his day-to-day concerns and reveal the artist to be far different than the insular genius of popular imagination.

In these blinks, you’ll learn

• the difference between “von” and “van” Beethoven;
• why audiences were not won over by Beethoven’s symphonies; and
• how the evolution of the piano influenced his compositions.

In this blink and the ones that follow, we’ll look at nine significant compositions that reflect key moments in Beethoven’s life. The first one is an early success: Septet, op. 20, completed in 1800, and performed that same year in Vienna’s most prestigious theater. 

Staging your own concert in Vienna was no easy task. And getting your own Akademie concert at the Imperial and Royal Court Theater was even harder. It had taken Beethoven eight years to win over the right people – most importantly, the police and the director of theaters, who both had to approve requests for academy concerts. But it was worth the effort. 

The concert took place on April 2, 1800. It included works from Mozart and Haydn, as a way of paying respect to his forebears, as well as an improvisational performance, his First Piano Concerto, op. 15, and the debut of both his First Symphony and Septet, op. 20. It also established Beethoven as a major talent.

It may be surprising to hear, but Beethoven’s compositions weren’t always an instant hit with the public at large. He wasn’t exactly an overnight sensation with the music critics either.

Today, Beethoven’s most popular works are his symphonies and concertos, but this was not the case during his life. Altogether, Beethoven’s first academy was a success. Leipzig’s Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung called it “truly the most interesting academy in a long time.” But it wasn’t the First Symphony or the concerto that made the strongest impression on the academy audience; it was the septet. The performance was interrupted multiple times by outbursts of applause, and the piece immediately became a regular feature of the chamber-music concert series put on by the Austrian violinist Ignaz Schuppanzigh.

One of the keys to the septet’s popularity was that it wasn’t too loud or complex, unlike some of the pieces for which Beethoven is best known today. This meant it could be played by home musicians, which is precisely what music publishers were after. And for Beethoven, who was not independently wealthy, getting music published was an important and ongoing concern. 

Another reason the septet was admired by both the public and other musicians was that it reflected the artistic spirit of the times. In particular, it was similar to a German musical trend known as empfindsamer Stil, or “sensitive style.” From the start, the septet features gentle dissonances that softly evoke a sense of longing. This musical trend went hand in hand with the immensely popular writing of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, whose work was focused on sensitivity and feelings in its own romantic way. 

This is why the septet, of all the music showcased at the academy, was embraced and became Beethoven’s first undisputed success.

If you have a mental image of Beethoven, there’s a good chance he isn’t smiling in it. One of the popular images of the man is from a bust made by Franz Klein, taken from a life mask. But making a life mask isn’t exactly fun. Beethoven had to sit patiently while his head was covered in plaster, breathing through tubes in his nostrils. It took two attempts before the process was successfully completed, which might explain why Klein’s famous bust wears a scowl.

But judging from his letters and the accounts of those who knew him, Beethoven wasn’t always frowning. Nor was he the isolated, brooding genius that many might imagine him to be. He was a social man and a figure of Vienna’s bustling coffeehouse scene. He was also capable of making jokes and teasing others, and he knew the value of friendship and maintaining connections. 

Our second composition is the Violin Sonata no. 9, op. 47, commonly referred to as the “Kreutzer,” and it shows just how collaborative Beethoven could be.

Beethoven often wrote music with particular performers in mind. For instance, Ignaz Schuppanzigh served as an inspiration for eight sonatas – both because he was a skilled violinist and because he was a friend and influential concert programmer. Beethoven even had a nickname for Schuppanzigh: “Falstaff,” a teasing moniker inspired by Schuppanzigh’s impressive waistline. The two men likely met at one of the informal concerts held at the residence of Prince Lichnowsky, an early patron of Beethoven’s, along with other noblemen like Prince Nikolaus Esterházy and Baron van Swieten.

But his ninth sonata ended up being a showcase for another violinist, a virtuoso of Astro-German and West Indian descent named George Polgreen Bridgewater. Beethoven probably met Bridgewater through Schuppanzigh, and he’d certainly already started working on the sonata before this meeting. Still, it was only after Beethoven met Bridgewater and heard him play that Violin Sonata no. 9, op. 47, came into its own. Had the masterful Bridgewater not been around to play it, it’s unlikely that Beethoven would have made it so complex and technically difficult.

Premiered in 1803, the sonata can be seen as a culmination of the friendships and connections Beethoven had made since arriving in Vienna. It also shows how those connections had influenced his work; even the sonata’s alternative title, the “Kreutzer,” reflects this.

Beethoven and other composers kept their patrons happy, in part, by dedicating compositions to them. Violin Sonata no. 9, op. 47, was dedicated to Rodolphe Kreutzer, yet another violinist that Beethoven admired – hence its nickname. Surprised that it wasn’t dedicated to Bridgewater? Well, it would seem that Beethoven had a falling out with Bridgewater somewhere between the sonata’s debut performance and its publication. 

This wasn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence in Beethoven’s life. Only the most dedicated friends withstood the composer’s prickly nature. Ironically enough, Rodolphe Kreutzer wasn’t at all fond of the piece. He rejected the dedication and never played Beethoven’s sonata. Nevertheless, the nickname stuck.

By 1804, Beethoven was on his way to becoming infamous for composing challenging, convention-defying, complex music. One critic summed up the Kreutzer sonata as “whimsical, presumptuous, and ostentatious.” But this musical ambition and boldness weren’t always appreciated.

Remember, at the time, the way people heard new music was at concerts like the academy, where different compositions were presented together as part of a program. A long, brash, and complicated piece of music probably won’t sit well with a restless audience if that’s not what they’re used to. Certainly, Beethoven was well aware of this, but he wasn’t about to stop challenging the listener.

The beginning of Beethoven’s Third Symphony, commonly known as the “Eroica,” is a lesson in symphonic rule-breaking. It starts with two attention-grabbing bursts of the same chord. Then cellos quietly emerge, sketching out the chord of E flat major, only to suddenly be derailed into C sharp when the violins enter off-beat. Plus, the first movement is triple time rather than the usual duple time. 

All of this is in the first moments of a symphony that goes on to defy convention after musical convention. It was revolutionary stuff – inspired, no doubt, by the revolutionary times. Evidence of this connection isn’t only compositional; indeed, Beethoven considered dedicating his Third Symphony to Napoleon Bonaparte, the most famous figure to emerge from the French Revolution.

Beethoven’s attitude toward Napoleon is a much-debated subject. And as with many debates about these two titans of history, there will probably never be a clear resolution. 

On the one hand, we know that Beethoven was eager to win favor in France; his dedicating a sonata to French violinist Rodolphe Kreutzer is a case in point. This is understandable, as every major composer in Europe strived to be recognized and lauded in Paris. So one could argue that the dedication was mere obsequiousness – a ploy to win praise. 

But this isn’t the whole of the story. Indeed, there’s evidence that when Beethoven began his Third Symphony, around 1803, he had the bold and flamboyant Napoleon in mind. For a brief time, Beethoven was even friendly with General Bernadotte, the French ambassador. In short, it’s likely that Beethoven was initially hopeful that Napoleon’s revolution would mean good things for the common man.

All that changed in late 1804, when Beethoven learned that Napoleon had decided to crown himself emperor. On the title page of Beethoven’s copy of the Third Symphony, the words “intitolata Bonaparte” were erased so aggressively that a hole was left in the paper.

According to Ferdinand Ries, a former student of Beethoven’s who went on to become a composer in his own right, Beethoven felt betrayed. By declaring himself emperor, Napoleon revealed himself to be yet another tyrant who would “trample on all the rights of man and only indulge his ambition.”

When the symphony made its public debut on April 7, 1805, the response was reportedly mixed. One critic identified three responses: those who deemed it a masterpiece, those who thought its labored unusualness diminished its beauty, and those who felt it was overly long and complicated. It wasn’t the first time that Beethoven’s attempts to challenge the listener would divide audiences – nor would it be the last.

It may come as a surprise, but in 1808, Vienna’s orchestral players weren’t the skilled musicians we think of today. In those days, there was no such thing as a professional musician who makes a living playing for an orchestra. Instead, you had people with various day jobs who came together every once in a while to play music. Usually, there was only one rehearsal before the big show. During performances, mistakes weren’t uncommon.

As you might imagine, the more ambitious Beethoven got, the more demanding the music was for the performer. Sometimes he could write knowing that a virtuoso would be performing, but not always. For his third academy showcase, Beethoven premiered both his Fourth and Fifth Symphonies, along with five other selected works. Even people who were looking forward to this immersion in Beethoven left feeling that there can indeed be too much of a good thing.

Keep in mind, this was a cold December day in Vienna. That said, the length of his program wasn’t so unusual for the time. It was his focus on symphonies and his own music that was peculiar. Symphonies didn’t sell. People expected to hear chamber music, dance pieces, or romantic piano performances – not orchestral music. 

Beethoven knew all this, but he was defiant. He wanted to challenge the audience, whether they liked it or not. He even ended the performance with a work called Choral Fantasy that had a little of everything – vocal soloing, orchestra, and solo piano.

But that night, given the length of the program, the cold temperatures, the lack of rehearsal time, and the limitations of the performers, it all fell apart during Choral Fantasy. The singer was described as shivering more than singing. Beethoven verbally chastised the clarinet players for their mistakes. And there was a full stop after at least one cacophonous crash.

Some of the more forgiving reviewers could still detect the quality of what was being presented. As a reporter for the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung explained, “As is well known, one can rarely form a definite opinion about a Beethoven composition upon first hearing.” Not only was the role of the music critic a new development, so too was the idea of intellectually dissecting a composer's work and writing about different interpretations. But, at this point, Beethoven’s ambitious compositions practically demanded it.

Today, we can clearly see that the experimental nature of Choral Fantasy was a stepping stone to the heights Beethoven would later achieve in his Ninth Symphony. In particular, there are moments in Choral Fantasy that recognizably foreshadow the Ninth’s climactic “Ode to Joy.” Just as the Ninth Symphony melds together orchestra and vocals, the Choral Fantasy was experimental in its melding of concerto with oratorio. Beethoven himself would eventually refer to the Ninth as a grander version of the style he played with in Choral Fantasy.

Beethoven’s typical day went something like this: He woke up early, made coffee, and worked till around midday when he’d have lunch and go for a long walk. He’d take his notebook with him on the walk, which would last the afternoon. Before dinner he’d visit a coffeehouse or tavern and read the newspaper. He’d be in bed by ten o’clock.

The composer was also an avid reader. Like many of his time, he loved Goethe and even met the author at least once. For his part, Goethe was amazed by Beethoven’s talent but less taken with his personality, which he found to be “intractable.” Goethe gave him some benefit of the doubt, suggesting that the composer’s failing hearing could be blamed; if Beethoven were already a laconic person by nature, Goethe figured that this had made him even more so.

Goethe was not alone in this assessment. Beethoven’s loss of hearing is often brought up to explain what many believe to be Beethoven’s reclusive and sullen demeanor. But even if Beethoven could no longer play the piano particularly well, which was the case by around 1814, it doesn’t mean hearing loss had turned the man completely inward.

While Beethoven isn’t well known for his songs, he did compose and arrange many during his lifetime. One of these was “An die Geliebte.” Likely accompanied by a letter, this song was published in 1812 and reflects the love he had in his heart. Far from being a brooding, tortured man, Beethoven was still a romantic who longed for his beloved.

Beethoven usually composed songs known as Lieder or Gesänge. Lieder were often similar to folk-song arrangements, but Gesänge were grand enough to fit into the classical-music tradition. “An die Geliebte,” which translates as “To the Beloved,” is a prime example. 

Like the typical songs of the time, it was a few verses of poetry put to music. The words in the song have much in common with Goethe’s writings, especially “The Sorrows of Young Werther” – which is to say they’re filled with romantic longing and overflowing with emotions and yearning. One line goes “. . . I might drink the tears from your cheek, before the earth drinks them in.”

There’s evidence to suggest that Beethoven may have had an affinity for poems of unrequited love. One of the more famous letters Beethoven wrote was the love letter known as “Immortal Beloved,” which is what he calls the person to whom it was written. Ever since his first biography was published in 1840, there has been ceaseless speculation about who the “Immortal Beloved” was.

The author believes that this letter was likely written in 1812, not long after he composed “An die Geliebte.” But as to the identity of the recipient – well, that debate will likely go on for some time to come.

There was a lot to celebrate in the autumn of 1814. Napoleon had been defeated and sent into exile, and the promise of peace was sweeping across Europe. Festivities were being held, with visiting dignitaries converging in Vienna for a series of balls and events.

Amid the fanfare, Beethoven was clearly being positioned as the city's most esteemed composer. That year, his music was performed more than in any other year of his life. But the song that was most popular then is perhaps his least admired song these days.

In 1814, Beethoven debuted a work of pure patriotic fervor, a composition that many have dismissed as downright jingoistic. It’s titled “Wellingtons Sieg, oder Die Schlacht bei Vittoria.” Translated, that’s “Wellington’s Victory, or the Battle at Vittoria.”

Prior to this composition, Beethoven was in constant negotiations with publishers, trying to get his symphonies and other less conventionally popular works published. No such wheeling and dealing was necessary this time around. “Wellingtons Sieg” was published in eight various formats, including solo piano, string quartet, and orchestral parts. Some critics panned this new work, but its general popularity gave Beethoven some creative freedom to premier new symphonies and release a long-gestating opera known as Fidelio.

Fidelio tells the story of a woman who disguises herself as a prison guard in an effort to rescue her imprisoned husband. The libretto originates with a French writer, Jean-Nicolas Bouilly, and is supposedly based on a true story. Its origins, and its subject matter, made the opera somewhat controversial with Austria’s censors, but after being revised and reworked a few times it finally debuted on May 23, 1814. And it was a hit with audiences, though Beethoven was so exhausted by the long period of rewrites and changes that it remained his only opera.

Pieces from Fidelio, especially the “Mir ist so wunderbar” quartet, have taken on a life of their own. And the opera helped usher in a new trend of realist operas that focused on more down-to-earth subject matter. But the high watermark of 1814 would soon retreat. Many consider Fidelio a turning point in Beethoven’s career. It not only marked the beginning of his so-called late period; after its publication, despite the accolades and the newfound peace in Europe, Beethoven’s personal life began deteriorating.

His health was getting worse, his benefactors were drying up, and his family life was becoming more of an ordeal. After the death of his younger brother Kaspar, Beethoven gained custody of his nephew Karl. But perhaps as a reflection of his own harsh upbringing, his relationship with Karl proved to be combative and strained.

Another biographer, David Wyn Jones, sees more irony in the fact that just after his biggest success and the end of the Napoleonic Wars, Beethoven would enter a period of “tortured rather than liberated creativity.”

In 1818, Beethoven’s fame spread further. London’s Royal Philharmonic Society invited him to visit, and though he didn’t take them up on the offer, he did receive a significant present – a new piano, from the esteemed London outfit Broadwood.

The fact that the technology and craftsmanship around instruments was quickly changing during Beethoven’s time is something that had a profound effect on his work. In his early years, for instance, pianos gained more keys than they ever had before – works like Septet, op. 20, literally wouldn’t have been possible to write just a few years earlier. The “Kreutzer” Sonata was also influenced by the recent evolution of the violin bow, which allowed musicians like George Polgreen Bridgewater to play in a completely new style.

The Broadwood’s arrival brought new possibilities to the piano sonatas Beethoven was working on. Due to the use of heavier wire and keys that featured a deeper dip, the instrument was louder and could reach lower notes than any of the Viennese keyboards he’d been using up to that point. It’s what made Piano Sonata no. 29, op. 106, commonly known as the “Hammerklavier,” possible. 

Funnily enough, it would be some time before the average central European keyboard would be able to play the Hammerklavier sonata. Beethoven used all the notes at his disposal for his new piano sonatas, and the Broadwood had keys, both low and high, that couldn’t be found on other pianos. 

There is a popular misconception that the name “Hammerklavier” comes from the style of the sonata. It’s true that at times it is loud and fast – and playing the piece could require the performer to effectively hammer away at the keys. But the name actually comes from the German description of the pianoforte that Beethoven originally used to compose both the op. 101 and op. 106 piano sonatas.

When it came time to publish the sonata, Beethoven was back in a negotiation mode that shows he was once again in dire financial straits, likely made worse by Karl’s school fees. For this work, Beethoven was unusually accommodating; he allowed publishers to omit certain sections of the sonata while including others. Some publishers even mixed the order in which the movements were presented. Others featured a dedication to Antoine Brentano, a friend who’d given Beethoven some much needed advice during his custody case for Karl.

The one movement of the Hammerklavier that is perhaps most notable is the final fugue. For some time, Beethoven had been stretching and changing the conventions of musical composition. Now he was turning his attention to the fugue, which traditionally followed a predictable pattern: a melody is introduced and then echoed in a different pitch, which kicks off a countermelody, which begins the process over again.

Unsurprisingly, Beethoven pushed the boundaries of the fugue. He introduced a three-voice fugue, which bounces around in a variety of unexpected forms and extreme dynamics. In the end, it became another complex composition that can only be played by the most talented performers.

If the Hammerklavier was a chance for Beethoven to play with the fugue form, his 1823 composition Missa solemnis, op. 123, would further test the fugue’s formal possibilities.

Missa solemnis translates to “solemn Mass,” and the composition was intended to accompany a Mass service in honor of Archduke Rudolph, who was installed as the Bishop of Olmütz in 1820. The fact that the work arrived three years late was not a sign of disrespect or laziness; on the contrary, the Archduke was one of Beethoven’s most loyal patrons. It was the composer’s ambition – and his vision for a beautiful, grand piece of music – that delayed the premiere.

In any event, Missa solemnis grew a little too grand. By the time it was completed, it had become so long and so complex that it no longer suited the occasion for which it had been composed. Yet it is still a Mass in that it frames the two parts of the service: the Proper and the Ordinary. These have multiple subparts, including the Kyrie, when God’s mercy is extolled, and the Gloria, which is when God’s omnipotence and splendor are praised.

Beethoven methodically hits all of these parts of Mass. But he also goes above and beyond the usual scope of this service.

Missa solemnis raises questions about Beethoven’s own spirituality, but it doesn’t offer any easy answers. He was raised Catholic and took part in church services growing up. As an adult, though, he was not an avid churchgoer. His faith would seem to fall somewhere between the humanism of the Enlightenment and the mysticism of the Romantics. He was also one of the more well-known members of the Illuminati branch of the Freemasons, a fraternity fascinated by Egyptian history and symbology. 

It would seem that Missa solemnis’s religious subject was less interesting to Beethoven than its formal possibilities, for he used it to continue his experiments with the fugue. Convention dictates that a Mass will feature fugues, but Missa solemnis overflows with them. The fugues in this Mass are everywhere, and they’re massively elaborate and long. 

Also, Beethoven unexpectedly assigns instrumental flourishes to different elements of the Mass, such as casting the trills of a flute to represent the wings of the Holy Spirit dove. There is unprecedented drama in Missa solemnis, until the final fugue brings it all back down to earth for a peaceful finale. Unlike some of Beethoven’s other ambitious experiments, the immediate response to this work was purely appreciative. People were bowled over by its beauty. 

It may have taken the composer an unprecedented amount of time to finish this special Mass for his dear friend the Archduke, but the final work makes evident just how much hard work he put into it. What’s more, he was putting the finishing touches on his Ninth Symphony at the very same time. This work, which many now consider his masterpiece, premiered on May 7, 1824, alongside performances of the Kyrie, Credo, and Agnus Dei from Missa solemnis. It is all the more impressive when you consider that, at this point, Beethoven’s health was getting worse with each passing year.

By 1826, Beethoven was, by most accounts, a disheveled and unhealthy man. There are accounts of people crossing paths with the composer on his daily walk, with Beethoven appearing unkempt, harried, and capable of endless rambling if you got him talking. By the end of the year, he would be bedridden – his liver failing, his feet swollen, pneumonia and jaundice wreaking havoc on his body.

Some people described him as being lost to the world in 1826. But, in fact, for much of the year he was still fully engaged with his music and with the family and friends that remained close to him.

In the case of Karl, his nephew, things did take a turn for the worse that year. Fed up with his uncle’s overbearing nature, Karl attempted suicide, shooting himself in the head atop a nearby mountain. The event left Beethoven profoundly shaken. Karl survived, and Beethoven finally allowed him to become a soldier, as had long been his wish.

Leading up to this near-tragic event, Beethoven had been hard at work completing a commission for a series of string quartets for his most faithful and enduring patron, Prince Nicolas Galitzin. Though the prince offered to pay for three quartets at most, Beethoven composed five between 1822 and 1826. The most revealing of these is the String Quartet, op. 130.

To the very end, Beethoven was still stretching the boundaries of convention, if not rewriting the rulebook altogether. Quartets were supposed to have four movements; three of Beethoven’s quartets for the prince include more than this – five in one, six in another, and seven in the last. In the two sonatas that held to the conventional four-movement structure, those movements are so grand and experimental that they might as well be multipart movements.

Beethoven’s String Quartet, op. 130, has six movements. Each one, right from the start, seems to be playing with the idea of an ending; the opening bars aren’t so much kicking things off as they are drawing them to a close. It all leads up to a massive fugue that was, in its premier performance, deemed beyond comprehension. 

Beethoven was unconcerned with the initial response. According to Gerhard von Breuning, who told the composer that op. 130 “didn’t go over very well,” Beethoven responded, “It will please them some day.”

It took decades, but, in the end, Beethoven’s prediction proved correct. Eventually, appreciation of his late quartets would grow beyond a few like-minded connoisseurs. Today, he is rightfully recognized as a musical visionary who was simply ahead of his time.

On March 26, 1827, at the age of 56, Beethoven died after spending two days in a coma. Before he passed away, he reportedly said to his gathered friends, “Plaudite, amici, comedia finita est,” which means, “Applaud, friends, the comedy is over.”