In remembering Rex Murphy last week, I quoted his description of his “favourite place,” Gooseberry Cove on the Cape Shore road. To capture its rugged Newfoundland beauty, Rex advised invoking your “favourite Beethoven adagio.” If an adagio was needful for Gooseberry Cove, for what would the Ninth Symphony be suitable? The entire Atlantic Ocean? At least that.
Rex died two days after the bicentennial of the debut of the Ninth, and I hope that in his last hours he had the comfort of Beethoven’s preternatural — if not supernatural — achievement. Rex loved classical music. Not everyone does.
But the soul that does not love the Ninth is not capable of love. In the entirety of human history, the Ninth is surely a contender for the greatest single achievement. Beethoven composed it (1822-1824) as he was going almost completely deaf.
It is one of those rarities that can only be believed because it is true; otherwise it would remain impossible to conceive. To compose a symphony while deaf? To compose one of the greatest musical works in history? To compose a choral symphony — itself something of a novelty — that would give voice to the profound aspiration for universal brotherhood and harmony among men? Such was Beethoven’s vocation. The Ninth’s fourth movement, the Ode to Joy, has resounded around the world like no other since the angels sang at Bethlehem of God’s glory and of peace to all men.
The power of the Ninth through the first three movements is notewo.