J. S. BACH Jonathan Berkahn - Victoria University - Victoria ...

This kind of listening is described in intimate detail by an anonymous article
from 1827 in the Berliner musikalische Zeitung:
In regard to the most recent works of this great composer, one has to become accustomed to being
cautious with one’s opinion after listening to them for the first three to six times. . . .The reason is. . .
that thereafter one usually becomes not a little embarrassed when the work begins to become
accessible to a mind that initially was so ready to pass judgement against it...
For all that, one is strangely disposed to exactly such works by Beethoven. Just as soon as
one knows that a new Beethoven work has drawn near to the simple threshold of one’s home, one
pushes aside all of one’s favourite inclinations, indeed even all professional business, just to hear
whether the wind, which is to propel the willing ship of the soul and its sails, our feelings, is going to
blow northeast or southwest. And behold! after playing it through once, one stands up exasperated
and has heard nothing even though one has seen everything, and has felt nothing even though there
was no elasticity of feeling lacking. I prefer to go for a walk, up on the high lake shore. There I will
know what I am seeing and feeling when I am feeling and that I am hearing something when I am
hearing. Indeed what good are the echoing sounds to me up on the high mountains: (here there
follows a short passage from a quartet), how did it go after that? It wouldn’t have come to mind if
the highest branches of the beech trees weren’t always swaying so gregariously and friendly in the
evening breeze. And I have nothing further from my two-hour effort in order to enjoy something
suitable. Is it worth the effort; is that the thanks that Beethoven gives his performers for their effort?
Why does this man write just this way and not otherwise? How many ugly passages have I had to
work out, against my entire sense of hearing, against all beauty? The man makes a useless effort; he
is finished and knows nothing more. He is deaf and can’t hear anything anymore. I wonder whether
he can play the violin. I can hardly believe that. How oppressive all of that is, so sublime; how
awkward it sounds. He ought to learn to play the violin, etc.
One returns home. Nevertheless, the passage is indeed beautiful, that has to be true, and
from that one knows that he wrote it, something like that someone else could—how was the ending,
quite strangely vivacious.—So gigantically grand. And a strange finale—the theme: it seems to be
ably worked out. How obbligato the parts develop, as if they had no concern for themselves, but
they do have that. And the striking contrast: the thing does seem to be worth the effort. One has to
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