The Pre-History of the Ninth Symphony

Beethoven's large-scale composite concerts of 1813–1814 at the grand hall of the University of Vienna and the Grosser Redoutensaal (Large Imperial Ballroom) had included the premieres of his Symphonies Nos. 7 and 82 but also several occasional compositions that proved to be models for later works. Wellington's Victory added contrabassoons to the antiphonal approaching military bands and juxtaposed sections of the larger orchestra in different keys.

The cantata Der glorreiche Augenblick, some months later, gave him experience in setting an awkward text that he would use in the Missa solemnis. It would also include an extensive solo for concertmaster Ignaz Schuppanzigh that would foreshadow the violin solo in the Benedictus of that Mass. A swift and energetic chorus on the word “Vienna” would find echo in “Die Nebel zerreissen” (The Fog Parts) in Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt (Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage), Op. 112, the next year. And Der glorreiche Augenblick's final chorus with Turkish instruments would prove the model for the final chorus in the Ninth Symphony.

On May 23, 1814, the final version of Fidelio premiered at the Kärntnertor Theater under Michael Umlauf (1781–1842). Not ready until a few days later was its new Overture, with a horn solo for low hornist Friedrich Hradetzky (ca. 1766/1769–1846), who had played Beethoven's Horn Sonata, Op. 17, in 1809.

After Fidelio, Vienna's orchestral personnel—the musicians for whom Beethoven had written repeatedly in Symphonies No. 2 through 8—began to change markedly. The violoncellist Nikolaus Kraft (1778–1853) left for Stuttgart in mid-1814; then violinist Ignaz Schuppanzigh departed for Germany and Russia in ca. February, 1816. Timpanist Ignaz Manker died on December 4, 1817. Moreover, concertmaster Anton Wranitzky and violoncello virtuoso Anton Kraft (both formerly in the Lobkowitz employ, and for whom Beethoven had composed the Triple Concerto in 1804) died on August 6 and August 28, 1820, respectively. The Kärntnertor Theater's principal oboist, Joseph Czerwenka, was forcibly retired in June, 1822. The Theater an der Wien's Zauberflötist, Anton Dreyssig, had essentially retired in ca. 1813; but in any case, he died on June 20, 1820. Its principal oboist, Anton Stadler, had retired in ca. 1817,6 and its second, Stephan Fichtner, died on December 10, 1820.

The symphony that began as a concerto

Beethoven’s Seventh and Eighth Symphonies are often seen as a pair, and they were composed consecutively. Although the Seventh has always been more popular and more highly regarded by most observers, this may not have been Beethoven’s view: according to Czerny, when they were first performed together and the Eighth was less well received, Beethoven said angrily, ‘Just because it is much better.’ Despite its greater brevity, its sketches occupy about as much of the Petter Sketchbook as those for the Seventh, which might imply that he actually expended more energy per bar in the Eighth than in the Seventh, even if he did not genuinely believe it was ‘much better’. The last known sketches for the Seventh, on folio 35r, are followed on the verso of the same leaf by the earliest known sketches for the Eighth, and almost all known sketches for the Eighth appear in the rest of the sketchbook or on leaves that have since been removed from it. Studies by Sieghard Brandenburg and Alan Tyson indicate that four such leaves are known. The proximity of the two symphonies, with the main sketches for both confined to a single sketchbook, was unprecedented, and might suggest that Beethoven was planning a pair of symphonies from quite an early stage.

The obvious purpose for such a pair of symphonies would be as part of plans for a future benefit concert (Akademie). Each of his three previous benefit concerts, in 1800, 1803 and 1808, had followed the same broad pattern. There were always two symphonies: the First Symphony and one by Mozart in 1800; the First and Second in 1803; and the Sixth and Fifth in 1808. There was also a piano concerto – No. 1 in 1800, No. 3 in 1803 and No. 4 in 1808 – and at least one vocal work: excerpts from Haydn’s Creation in 1800; the oratorio Christus am Oelberge in 1803; and several vocal movements including two from the Mass in C in 1808. Having completed the Seventh Symphony in April 1812, therefore, Beethoven would need to compose a new symphony and a piano concerto for a forthcoming concert.

‘Nicknames usually contain an ounce of truth alongside much that is distorted and downright untrue’, writes David Hall. ‘Puritan’ is one such name. It appeared somewhere around 1564 as ‘a new term of abuse’. To understand the roots of Puritanism and how those deemed Puritan came to hold – and then lose – power, we will briefly place Puritanism within a longer history of reform.

Early reformers, like Martin Luther, Huldrych Zwingli, Philip Melanchthon, Martin Bucer and John Calvin did not want to split Christendom. Dividing Christ's body was sinful. They wanted to reform it, to bring it into line with the pure gospel. These reformers were not pioneers blazing through uncharted territory, for the Catholic Church had a long history of internal critique and diversity of thought and practice. The church also had a long history of declaring certain beliefs unorthodox and forcefully policing boundaries. It was unclear, at first, which category these reformers would fit into, and efforts at theological reconciliation lasted for decades.

Reformers sought to remove aspects of Catholic faith and practice that had accumulated over the centuries. This renovation often changed the physical appearance of the religious landscape, from the attire of clergymen to the appearance of churches. It might be helpful to picture the mystical body of Christ – the spiritual church militant – as a physical structure. Reformers as diverse as Martin Luther and the Zwickau Prophets agreed that the building needed renovation, but they disagreed over how quickly the reform should proceed, how thoroughly the house of God needed to be cleansed and, most importantly, who had the authority to decide. At what point would Christianity transition from impure to pure, and what steps were necessary to achieve this goal?

After reforming ideas reached the British Isles in the early 1520s, debates over authority and the extent of reformation occupied generations of scholars, theologians, magistrates and laypersons. British reformers observed foreign coreligionists. This continental gaze was a source of inspiration and conflict. Just as Scripture provided a diversity of voices on church and state, so the continent provided diverging models for purifying these institutions. Through letters, manuscripts and publications, as well as through travel, continental reformers endeavoured to direct reforming energies in the British Isles. If this region were to be purified, which continental model would it follow – or would the Isles blaze out in their own directions?

On about Thursday, April 8, 1824, during a two- or three-day period when the undecided Beethoven contemplated giving his concert at the Theater an der Wien on April 22, he wrote the following informal note to the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde:

“The undersigned herewith most respectfully invites all amateur musicians to support him with their talents at his Akademie, which is to take place on April 22 in the Theater an der Wien. Those who kindly wish to take part are graciously requested to sign this invitation in their own handwriting.

Ludwig van Beethoven”

Sixteen individuals signed Beethoven's request:

• [1] Georg Hellmesberger (1800–1873), already violinist, Karntnertor Theater; Gesellschaft concerts since 1818; professor at the Gesellschaft's Conservatorium, 1821–1848 (Z, 119; Mf )

• [2] Joseph Böhm (1795–1876), violin; Gesellschaft concerts since 1819; professor at the Gesellschaft's Conservatorium; member of Hofkapelle (Z, 118; Mf )

• [3] Karl Holz (1799–1858), violinist in Schuppanzigh's Quartet, wrote “wird erscheinen” (will appear) after his signature. Res: Molkerbastei No. 84 (Bo; Z, 136)

• [4] Maximilian Philipp (Br)

• [5] Anton Röhrich (ca. 1785–September 13, 1832), all strings and horn but specialized on the contrabass; had his own salon; Gesellschaft concerts, violoncellist, Theater an der Wien by 1822; wealthy merchant; member of Scharfschutzen-Corps. Res: Wieden, Neuwiedener Hauptstrasse No. 309, his own house (Bo; Z, 147 and 191; S-V, 162–164; Mf; WZ)

• [6] Karl Fradl, violin, Gesellschaft Board. Res: Mariahilf, Kleine Kirchengasse No. 24 (Bo; Z, 114 and 118)

• [7] Joseph Kaufmann (February 24, 1788–March 25, 1860),3 second violin and viola, Sonnleithner salon; Gesellschaft concerts from 1828/1830; official in Supreme Court. Res: Schottenbastei No. 1167 (Bo; Z, 118, 136, and 193; S-V, 173; Mf; WZ)

• [8] Friedrich Kunst, supporting member, Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. Res: Stock-im-Eisenplatz No. 876 (Z, 171)

• [9] Leopold Kletzinsky (Br)

• [10] Franz Hacker (Br)

• [11] N. Hacker

• [12] Johann Nepomuk Fischer (b. Vienna, 1774), violin/concertmaster. Res: City, Herrengasse No. 252 (Bo; Z, 118 and 135; Heft 93, Blatt 6r)

• [13] Friedrich Gross, violoncello; chamber music; Gesellschaft concerts from 1824. Res: City, Steindlgasse No. 430 (Bo; Z, 17 and 144; S-V, 173 and 176; Mf)

• [14] Johann Riegler, violin and piano. Res: City, Renngasse, No. 157 (Z, 40)

Efforts to reform church and state unravelled on both sides of the Atlantic. However, the sunset of godly hegemony looked different in Old and New England. These divergent, though related, histories of loss differently impacted the religious history of England and what would become the United States of America. In the 1650s, four interrelated factors precipitated the unravelling of godly power in the British Isles: religious division, political disappointment, military disappointment and political division. As previous chapters illustrated, successes proved unsustainable, partly because providential interpretations were unstable. As time wore on, defeat and victory contributed to the fracturing of the godly. The cleavage was most pronounced between Scottish Presbyterians and English Independents. However, an increasing number of splinter groups formed, and some were violently suppressed. The godly untuned the string of civil and political authority, and, hark, what discord followed: Anabaptists, Antinomians, Levellers, Diggers, Quakers, Fifth Monarchists and more. Each splinter group called into question the godliness of the godly party. They were a parable about uncontrollable reformation. The people of England could only handle so much theological innovation, and religious instability made the order provided by established churches seem attractive.

There was also a profound political disappointment. Many felt the government squandered the fruits of peace. On 12 September 1654, an exasperated Cromwell rebuked parliament: ‘We hoped for light, and behold darkness, obscure darkness! We hoped for rest after ten years’ Civil wars, we are plunged into deep confusion again’. In a 22 January 1655 speech before parliament, he again voiced theopolitical disappointment: ‘When I first met you in this room, it was … the hopefullest day that ever mine eye saw … I met you a second time here; and I confess at that meeting I had much abated my hopes’. Deprived of hope in man, but not in God, he dissolved parliament. He was particularly frustrated by those who would not submit to the providentially fluid nature of government: ‘the Lord hath poured this nation from vessel to vessel, till he poured it into your lap’. These motions were nothing but the ‘revolutions of Christ himself, upon whose shoulders the government is laid’. Cromwell was disappointed by politics, but he had not yet been defeated in battle.

The last three decades of the sixteenth century, including the final years of Cirillo's tenure as commendatore, encompassed a period of considerable change for Rome, and specifically for the Hospital of Santo Spirito. Between Cirillo's death in 1575, and 1600, the leadership of the Hospital passed to six new commendatori in relatively quick succession. The buildings bear witness to the fact that several of them were keen to make their mark physically. Further, the consolidation of the ideals of the Council of Trent was starting to take effect.

Much important information about this period in the history of Santo Spirito is found in the retrospective report written by Virgilio Spada in 1660 entitled Stato della Casa dell’Archiospedale di Santo Spirito di Roma. Spada's tenure as commendatore of the Hospital in 1660–1662 was brief, but provides a neat bookend to that of Cirillo a century earlier. Thanks to his character and education, his observations are of considerable value. Like Cirillo's Relatione della fabrica e casa di S. Spirito di Roma written nearly a century earlier, and the more generic report on all the institutions of Rome written in 1624 for Urban VIII, Spada's Stato della Casa was probably required by the papal authorities as a report in response to an Apostolic Visitation to present a justification of expenditure. This four-inch-thick manuscript book held in the Archivio di Stato in Rome considers the ways in which all aspects of the institution were run, including their costs. The account on the one hand looks backward, giving an overview of the institution's history, and on the other, describes how the institution was operating at the time at which it was written. It thus offers scope for comparison with earlier periods; a point of reference for activities in the decades that followed it; and an overview of the running of both the church and the hospital in the mid-seventeenth century. Though neither Spada nor Stefano Vai, the other commendatore of major importance in the mid-seventeenth century, mention the Tridentine reforms specifically, it is evident from what they do say that it was a fundamental consideration in their respective periods of governorship.

A characteristic symphony

Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony differs from all his others in having explicit poetic reference in every movement, in a genre known as the ‘characteristic symphony’, and with the overall title Pastoral-Sinfonie, given in French or Italian in some of the sources as ‘Sinfonie pastorale’ or ‘Sinfonia pastorale’. The term ‘characteristic’ in this sense denotes a work or movement in which a single explicitly named character or emotion prevails throughout, and it was defined as such in various writings of the period. It differs from a ‘programme symphony’ in that it has no narrative, although both genres rely on poetic content for an understanding of their meaning.

Beethoven’s only previous characteristic work was his Sonate pathétique, and his only previous use of the concept in a symphony was the ‘Marcia funebre’ in the Eroica. One might argue that the Eroica as a whole was a characteristic work, but Beethoven did not describe it as such, and it must be remembered that the work did not initially bear this title, which was added only when it was being published. Haydn and Mozart, too, had not composed explicitly characteristic symphonies apart from a few with rather general titles such as Le matin and La chasse (Haydn’s symphonies Nos. 6 and 73), and the pastoral elements in the present symphony owe little to the symphonies of either composer, though Haydn’s oratorio The Seasons was surely influential. Characteristic symphonies by other Viennese composers were written in the 1790s, however, including two by Anton Wranitzky (Aphrodite and a birthday symphony) and three by his brother Paul (Joy of the Hungarian Nation, Symphony for the Peace and a wedding symphony). Beethoven knew both brothers, and probably encountered at least some of their characteristic symphonies.

In choosing the pastoral idiom for his Sixth Symphony, Beethoven was following a long tradition of pastoral music.

Introduction

To English Independents at the end of 1650, Scottish brothers in Christ became agents of Satan. Covenanters became Canaanites as bowels of compassion overflowed as bowls of wrath. Two vignettes from the armed march into Scotland illustrate this transition.

In early July 1650, Edward Whalley, Commissary-General in parliament's forces, marched north against the Scots. The soldiers, headed by Oliver Cromwell, were armed for a war they hoped to avert. Although Whalley was an Independent, he was close to many Presbyterians. On the 17th, while stopping at Morpeth, he wrote to a dear friend, brother in Christ and Covenanter chaplain, Robert Douglas. Whalley recounted a decade of close-knit fellowship in the warmest terms and spoke of the ‘Bowells of Brotherly & Christian Love’. ‘God forbid’, he pleaded, ‘that diversitie of opinion should cause alienation of affection, where God loves, wee should love, where hee hath stamp't his image, wee should place our affection.’ Religious differences were as nothing compared to the weight of Christian fellowship. In all Whalley did, he aimed at ‘their good & our owne Safety’. It was the kirk that pulled ‘the right hand of fellowshippe’ when they joined themselves to a ‘Kinge against whome, & whose familie God hath manifested his high displeasure’. Instead of viewing the godly in England as brothers, the kirk called them ‘Sectaries’. Was this not ‘to doe the Devills worke’?

Whalley's letter has been neglected by scholars, although it contains similar themes to well-known printed letters. One was a ‘Declaration of the Army of England’ to the ‘Saints, and Partakers of the Faith of God's Elect, in Scotland’. The language was firm, but gentle and inclusive – using phrases like ‘with ourselves’, ‘tenderness’, ‘bretheren’, ‘bowels of love’ and ‘bowels full of love, yea, full of pity’. Such words, even though uttered in the midst of impending war, exemplify Puritan fellow feeling and brotherly disposition. In light of intolerant Presbyterian political and spiritual aspirations, parliament's cause was ‘a just and necessary defence of ourselves’. The godly marched north with ‘the full assurance we have that our cause is just and righteous in the sight of God’. He feared that ‘we should not follow’ where God was ‘going before’.

To Herr Ludwig van Beethoven.

Out of the wide circle of reverent admirers that surrounds your genius in this, your second native city [Vienna], a small number of disciples and lovers of art approach you today to express long-felt wishes, and humbly to proffer a long-suppressed request.

But, since the number of spokesmen is only a small portion of the many who joyfully acknowledge your worth and your significance for both the present time and the future, then the wishes and the requests are by no means restricted to the number of those who speak for others of like mind and who, in the name of all to whom art and the realization of their ideals are more than the means and objects of leisure, assert that their wish is also the wish of an innumerable multitude, their request is echoed aloud or in silence by everyone whose breast is animated by a sense of the divine in music.

Above all, the wishes of those of our countrymen who venerate art are those that we desire to express here; for although Beethoven's name and his creations belong to all of today's humanity and every country that opens a sensitive heart to art, it is Austria that is first entitled to claim him as her own. Among her inhabitants, appreciation for the great and immortal works that Mozart and Haydn created for all time within the bosom of their homeland has not died. With joyous pride, these inhabitants are conscious that the holy triumvirate, in which these names and yours glow as the symbol of the highest within the spiritual realm of tones, sprang from the soil of the fatherland.

It must be all the more painful for them [Austrians] to feel that a foreign power [Italian music] has invaded this royal citadel of its noblest ideas [Vienna], that above the graves of the departed [Mozart and Haydn] and around the dwelling places of the only member of that band who remains to us [Beethoven], phantoms who can boast no kinship with the princely spirits of those houses are leading the dance; that shallowness [Rossinian opera] is abusing the name and identity of art, and, in an unworthy dalliance with sacred things, is beclouding and dissipating appreciation for the pure and eternally beautiful.

This book has told the story of godly violence and military providentialism in the Puritan Atlantic world by looking at case studies that span the rise and fall of godly hegemony. The godly first gained power in colonial New England. In the mid-1630s, they temporarily warmed up to killing American Indians and believed God was with them every step of the way. At the time of the Pequot War, Puritan hegemony in England was largely unthinkable. In a little over a decade, the godly in England defeated and executed their king. They went on to subjugate Ireland and Scotland before turning their forces on enemies outside the British Isles. However, they lost power after the regime crumbled. By the time of King Philip's War, hegemony in the British Isles was a memory. Even though the godly won the war against Philip, the pyrrhic victory contributed to the fragmentation of providence and the loss of political autonomy. Many godly people welcomed the Glorious Revolution of 1688, but by that time Puritan theology had fragmented and the nation hardly had the stomach for the political puritanism of an earlier generation.

The story of Puritan hegemony differs from that of Puritan theology – the latter enjoying a much larger and longer influence. Michael J. McClymond and Gerald R. McDermott summarise Jonathan Edwards’ view of history:

Even in the loss of hegemony and the waning of religious affections, there were grounds for hope. ‘For biblically inspired thinkers such as Edwards’, according to McClymond and McDermott, ‘the paradigm case of darkness changed into light lay in the story of Good Friday and Easter’.

These five case studies were framed around dawn, day and dusk. Military providentialism was influenced by the perception that the godly were entering the light (Mystic, Naseby), passing into unparalleled brightness (Drogheda, Dunbar) or grasping at former glory (Great Swamp Fight).

Symphony biography

Almost throughout his life, the symphony held a special fascination for Beethoven. His earliest known attempt to write one (Hess 298 or Unv 1)dates from about 1788. Then at the end of his life the completion of his unfinished Tenth Symphony was to have been one of his next major projects. Between these two uncompleted works, he composed a large number of fragments and concept sketches that were intended for possible symphonies, in addition to the nine completed symphonies themselves. The symphony was for him the noblest and grandest of instrumental genres, so that at one stage he was considering devoting himself almost entirely to ‘operas, symphonies, church music’. Conversely, his musical style was particularly well suited to symphonic composition, since many of his most striking and personal features – intensive motivic development, teleological drive and continual flux – are characteristic of symphonic style in its purest form.

Since Beethoven is such a central figure in Western musical culture, therefore, it is hardly surprising that there have been many studies of his symphonies. Some of these studies are of individual works or movements; others can be found in broader accounts of all his music, or of Classical music as a whole. In addition, there are several monographs devoted specifically to the nine symphonies, by authors ranging from George Grove in 1895 to a much more recent scholarly study by Lewis Lockwood. These tend to focus on the musical content of the finished works, rather than their historical background. In contrast, biographical studies of Beethoven tend to relate the circumstances surrounding the first performances of the symphonies, but not their content nor how they came into being. His manuscripts have rarely been given much attention in biographical studies, even though the process of writing his sketches and autograph scores formed a major part of his everyday life and a huge number of sketches still survive. Lockwood’s account of the symphonies covers more of this ground than others, with much detail about both the symphonies themselves and their biographical context. But even his account is far from comprehensive, particularly with some of the later symphonies. As he points out: ‘The full sketch material for the Eighth Symphony remains to be transcribed, published, and evaluated’; and ‘Much remains to be done to elucidate the sketches that survive for the Ninth.’ Similar statements could be made about most of the other symphonies.

C minor

Beethoven had a particular fascination for the key of C minor, which he used far more often than any other minor key. It was the key of his first published composition (the Dressler Variations, WoO 63, of 1782), the key of his final piano sonata (Op. 111 of 1822), and a key that reappears right up to his very last page of sketches in 1827 (Bsb, Autograph 10/2, f. 6r). It was also the key of his earliest known sketch for a symphony (Hess 298; see Chapter 1), written around 1788. Although this sketch was abandoned, the key must have remained at the back of his mind for a possible symphony, finally re-emerging in spring 1804, when he made his earliest sketches for the Fifth Symphony. At this date his Eroica Symphony, with its colossal funeral march in C minor as second movement, was still unperformed, although Ries had heard a version on the piano (see Chapter 3). When Beethoven embarked on his new C minor symphony he seems to have planned another symphony that would similarly shock the musical world and push the boundaries of symphonic writing to new limits, for the famous opening motif, utterly unconventional for the start of a symphony, was present from the outset (see below). Schindler’s claim that the motif represents Fate knocking at the door, however, is surely fictional, like so many of his similar anecdotes. Czerny’s claim that Beethoven derived the motif from the call of the yellowhammer, which consists of a series of repeated notes (not necessarily three) followed by a longer one of different pitch, is only slightly more plausible.

Many of Beethoven’s works in C minor conclude in C major, including the Dressler Variations and the Sonata Op. 111 mentioned above, as well as his Third Piano Concerto and some quite minor works such as his folksong setting ‘The Miller of Dee’, where the change has poetic implications, as it does also in his Choral Fantasia. Even where a C minor work does not end in C major, the latter key usually appears at some point, as in the second movement of the Eroica Symphony.

Little is known of the specific activities of the physicians at the Hospital of Santo Spirito. The administration of the Hospital was left in the hands of the Hospital Order of Santo Spirito and overseen by a man appointed by the pope for his administrative and religious capacities, not his medical knowledge. There are records of inspections of the dispensary, lists of the contents and costs of various ingredients for medicines and more general discussions of diet and cleanliness, but nothing has come to light that pertains to specific cases, treatments, or patient experiences. This chapter outlines some of the concepts about health and the body that would have been shared by physicians, priests and musicians alike, and that are foundational to the investigations and analyses that follow.

During the period under consideration, there were four physicians employed in the hospital at any one time. These men were university-educated and there-fore had a background in logic and natural philosophy as well as the medical theories of Hippocrates, Galen and Ibn Sina, known in the West as Avicenna. They worked alongside a team of barber-surgeons, lithotomists and apothecar-ies – occupations that were less strictly licensed. The nursing was done by friars of the Order and lay members of the Confraternity. While many eminent phy-sicians were employed at the hospital, it must be remembered that treatment of the soul of the patient was a fundamental part of the regime of cure of the sick. Doctors worked alongside priests and chaplains and were expected to be good Christians. Whatever the scientific view of illness, and in the seventeenth century scientific views were shifting rapidly with each new discovery, prayer for the sick remained of fundamental importance, along with confession and the sacraments. This close relationship between religion and medicine became increasingly complex with growing anatomical knowledge and the shifting paradigms of the so-called ‘scientific revolution’. Some of these complexities are illustrated by the processes for the beatification and canonisation of saints during which physicians were called upon to make judgements about apparent miracle cures.

While we have little or no evidence of the physicians’ specific work in the hospital, many of the men employed there also held other positions: teach-ing at the university; as personal physicians to members of the aristocracy and high-ranking prelates; and in private medical practice.

The traditional story of the first performance of Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 on May 7, 1824, is well known, especially the tale of the pitifully deaf composer who could not hear the applause that rewarded his music at the end. Earlier histories, beginning with Anton Schindler (1795–1864) and repeated (and elaborated upon) by Alexander Wheelock Thayer (1817–1897), as well as many subsequent mythmaking accounts, have related that Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony on commission from the Philharmonic Society of London for a first performance there; that Beethoven composed the horn solo in the third movement for a hornist named Lewy, who possessed a valved horn; that he composed the contrabass recitatives in the finale with the virtuoso Domenico Dragonetti (1763–1846) in mind; that Beethoven possibly wanted to move the first performance from Rossini-loving Vienna to Berlin; that he received a mysterious petition imploring him to retain the first performance for Vienna; that Beethoven's friends had a long debate over the hall in which the concert should take place; that there was an unpleasant and unprecedented plan to replace concertmaster Franz Clement (1780–1842) with Beethoven's favorite, Ignaz Schuppanzigh (1776–1830); that there were a large number of amateurs in the orchestra; that there was an inadequate performance after only two rehearsals; that the Imperial box of the theater was insultingly empty; that Beethoven looked like a disheveled genius at the premiere; that cheers from the audience were unfairly suppressed by the police; and that Beethoven earned unexpectedly small profits from the May 7 concert and its May 23 varied repeat.

Three recent book-length studies on the Ninth Symphony by Nicholas Cook (1993), David B. Levy (2003), and Harvey Sachs (2010) have essentially repeated the various received accounts of the premiere, the preparations for it, and the reviews that followed. A long chapter in Thomas Forrest Kelly's First Nights (2001), although intended for a popular audience, brings a number of interesting new details into play. Robin Wallace's 2017 collection, translation, and edition of nineteen reviews of the first performances and editions from 1824 to 1828 does likewise.