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The Fourth Symphony was written for Count Franz von Oppersdorf. A relative of Beethoven's patron Prince Lichowsky, the Count met the composer at the prince's summer home near Troppau where Beethoven was enjoying a prolonged vacation. The occasion was a private performance of Beethoven's Second Symphony, which Count von Oppersdorf enjoyed so much that he immediately commissioned a new symphony, offering the composer a grand sum for the work's dedication. At the time, Beethoven was at work on what would eventually become the Fifth Symphony, a work he had started in earlier, darker days. Now, calmer and more contented, he set that traumatic score aside and began a cheerier symphony for the Count, one more in the mood of the Second Symphony that the Count had found to be so pleasing. Work proceeded quickly. The new symphony premiered in March of 1807 on a private concert at the palace of Prince Lobkowitz, another Beethoven patron. The Fourth Piano Concerto and the Coriolan Overture were also heard on that occasion. Only after the concert was Count von Oppersdorf presented with the symphony, a slight of protocol that he did not appreciate, particularly as he had heard rumors that the work was not well received. He would never again do business with Beethoven.
The Fourth Symphony is filled with musical jokes, mostly jokes aimed at other musical insiders, though there are also jokes for the rest of us. Beethoven's whimsical mood reveals itself even in the symphony's opening moments. He attaches a slow introduction to the head of an otherwise fast movement. This, in itself, is not unusual. Haydn, for example, did it with great frequency, but the theory always was that the slow introduction would introduce that which follows, hinting clearly at the key to come, rather in the way that an opera overture will quote snippets of the arias and choruses to be heard later in the work. Beethoven, however, has no plan of being so transparent. His key changes meander here and there, and when he finally does arrive at exactly the place that had been hinted at by the opening chord, a harmonically tuned colleague would have reacted with disbelief.
The symphony's other three movements also have their idiosyncrasies. In the lyrical second movement, the strings are awarded an exquisite flowing melody that is constantly interrupted by a recurring "heartbeat" rhythm that sometimes forgets its place in the background and comes surging out into center stage. After each interruption, the strings resume their flow, seemingly oblivious to the offense. It is as if the strings are Ingrid Bergman and the heartbeat is Peter Lorre, each character operating in its own world.
The third movement is ostensibly a minuet. At least, that is what Beethoven calls it, but he exaggerates. Here is no graceful courtly dance in powdered wigs. It is too lively, too syncopated, and far too reminiscent of a boisterous folk dance. A minuet, after all, should have the aura of champagne, but Beethoven has chosen to create one that is far more evocative of beer.
By comparison, the fourth movement is fairly straight-forward. It is a brisk and bustling rondo that might have originated at Haydn's desk. Yet the frenzy and fervor that characterizes much of the movement is abruptly derailed in the final page. Sudden tempo changes force the conductor to stay on his toes, and a final brief bassoon solo sounds, more than anything else, like a parting chuckle.