Octavia sighed, she mentally rechecked everything. Her cello had new strings, the bow had plenty of rosen, the completed score was right there before her. It had been a month since Ludwig van Beethoven had returned to… wherever he came from, and the Philharmonic practiced the giant’s last symphony. Not to say that the interpretation was exactly simple since the composer left. There were disagreements on the exact tempos and phrases in some parts between the conductor and the musicians. To add to the stress… it was agreed upon that Beethoven’s final piece will be performed to both a live audience and on the radio.
The cellist was the first to arrive for last minute practice before the rest of the orchestra arrived. She could hear the theater being filled up from the other side of the ruby curtain as she went over some of the more difficult bars in her solos. However, she did feel ready.
“Three minutes until showtime, everypony,” Sea Sharp said to the orchestra. “We should start tuning now while we still can. Where’s Horseshoepin?”
“Here, ma’am,” the stallion’s voice said from across the stage. Although he wouldn’t be playing until the fourth movement, the grand piano was tucked nicely near the center stage between the second violins and the violas.
Soon enough, the Philharmonic tuned up their instruments, matching their harmonic humming to one another for what was to come. Then, there was silence as all they can hear is the idle chatter from behind the curtain. When the curtain was pulled aside, they were greeted to a roar of applause as their conductor strode to the center where a microphone stood waiting. It was then that Octavia noticed the glowing red light bulb in the balcony, which could only mean one thing: they were live.
“Good evening, Fillies and Gentlecolts,” Sea Sharp began. “Tonight we are here to honor a friend of the Canterlot Philharmonic, and a great composer, Ludwig van Beethoven. While it is unfortunate that Mr. Beethoven can’t be with us tonight as we premiere his last symphony, we can be grateful that we have a copy of this truly remarkable music in which you all are about to partake.
“Comparing this to his other nine symphonies that we’ve played, this one stands out. This is because the score that we were given is actually a story. Or to be more precise, it is a tale of an alternative history of classical music, through the imagination of Beethoven. He left behind a record of what music was in his world in the first two movements, how music is now in the third, and interestingly enough, what music could be in the fourth.
“So here on Equestria National Radio 100.7, we present to you here at the Royal Lunar Theater and at home, the premiere of Ludwig van Beethoven’s Symphony No. 10, a History of Music in A minor.”
Octavia took in a deep breath as the unicorn conductor hopped onto the stand, she lifted her bow to the strings and waited. Once the theater became quiet, Sea Sharp nodded to her to begin. The cellist looked at the score, and noticed that the marking was most unusual – it had no time signature. No beat to indicate how fast she was meant to play other than the instruction: “Adagietto, pianissimo. Gently, almost like a prayer.”
Looking at the notes on the page, Octavia began to play on the lower strings slowly. From her instrument, the sound of the melody was ancient, as if it came from before recorded time. It was a simple, humble, quiet little tune that her hooves guided so effortlessly. Before long, the double basses, cellos, and violas replied to her in monotone as it repeated the song. Octavia further developed the song for a short while before the bassoons, oboes, and violins repeated the theme.
Horns and trombones then took the spotlight with a tone that could be mistaken to have come from a lost civilization. When combined together, the orchestra spoke in a language that seemed simple, but exotic. Even more so since Sea Sharp still hadn’t lifted her baton, much to the confusion of the audience.
But when she did begin to finally count time, clarinets, flutes, and violins now turned the one voice of a melody into a duet. Harmonies came when high and low notes met, adding more rhythms into the voices of this ancient chant. From it, two voices became three as the violas and oboes joined together. Three became four when the horns, trumpets and double basses helped enrich the sound. For several minutes, it almost sounded like a choir singing in a forgotten language.
Yet, even with all of the humble tranquility, the opening of this movement was searching for something, carefully feeling for something. But what could it be? The brass provided the answer as it added a new, ever-increasing golden sound the symphony reached for its first crescendo. The strings seemed to have climbed over, the tone unexpectedly changed from this simple chant to the opening of a baroque concerto. Violins and violas were giving counterpoint of light to the darker notes of the cellos like brushing light and shade onto a painting. The melody was the same as the opening, but this time it came alive with trills and clever, dancing notes.
Then all went still as two violins wrestled with one another like colts – each one trying to outdo the other while the violas and cellos kept the beat. As one violin does acrobatic tricks with bombast, the other would counter it with borderline aggressive yet skillful attacks. The two of them would go back and forth in attitude, almost as if they were in an intricate dance for dominance.
However, it seemed like it was the end when suddenly the entire string section held long, whole notes, the two violins slowed down to change the tone of the piece. This time, it was as if the whole fight was in slow motion as the cellos brought the theme back, nearly ghostlike as the two violins now sang in heartbreaking harmony. As one note is held up high, the other would scale up and downwards before they joined together only to break up again. There was a hint of sadness when those two violins played together with the signature baroque trill.
But this stillness didn’t last long as the first violin resurrected the opening theme with fire. The bow took on double-steps to make the wooden instrument glow brightly like a phoenix ready for battle. The second violin’s bow rapidly bounced as if it were firing notes at the other. Somehow, the overarching theme was still there in those speeding violins that dueled with one another. It was thrilling to listen to as well as to imagine.
Still, the movement didn’t end there. Just when it looked like when the violins had come to a draw, the brass and winds reappeared to do something even more unexpected than the surprise mini-concerto. From the trombones and horns, they repeated the theme in its Baroque style, but as the winds came in to repeat the song, it became clear that it was starting a fugue. It wasn’t too long until the violins added another layer as the instruments continued on with their counterpoint. As the theme was passed along to the cellos and violas, the counterpoints worked off one another like an elaborate machine – each adding and contrasting layers that pulled and swapped on one another while somehow highlighting the overarching theme. Every so often, sections of the orchestra would be given rest as the sound spun around the stage with its fast pace scales and trills. For Octavia, it almost sounded like something that Buch would write as her bow sped along the strings.
At the final crescendo, where chords of strings and brass were played, the first movement came to an end. Octavia took a moment to wipe her brow as the audience applauded before she flipped the page to the next movement. In a sense, the Cellist was relieved of this second movement in which not only was it easier to play, but it was a warm-up for what was to come.
For Octavia, this second movement was familiar, almost Moztrotian in tone. The largo began with only strings, smooth, elegant and precise. If anything, with the soft horns, it was like the opening of a forgotten dance before a solo oboe lead the way forward. Her cello kept time to this slow movement, brass and winds were building a contrast to the waltzing strings, as if they were whispering sweet nothings to each other like lovers. In a way, for Octavia that is, it was like listening to a fantasy of a dance with the oboe being the star of this movement.
Although even she had to admit, while it was indeed pleasant to listen to, it wasn’t exactly like the Beethoven that she had been playing. If it weren’t for the name on the top of her copy music sheet, she would have easily mistaken this to be the work of some other composer. ‘He does a good job at imitating Moztrot,’ she thought, ‘and thank Celestia that it’s the shortest movement in the bunch.’
Indeed, a few minutes later, the dancing movement came to an end with polite applause from the audience. Octavia took one last look around at her fellow musicians, and judging by the looks in their eyes, they were thinking of the exact same thing: ‘Here we go, everypony.’
Sea Sharp cued for the strings to play the opening bars of the third movement. This time the music sounded much like Beethoven’s other symphonies as the horns carried it onto the winds to develop a peaceful atmosphere. Oboes and clarinets created a scene of peaceful countryside with its wood-like sound. For several minutes, the winds and strings carried on an idealistic day of a lazy afternoon.
Octavia looked out to the audience as they played, a few of them had a look of confusion on their faces as they had just played something tranquil and calm in the last movement and are now repeating it in tone in this one. In fact, most of them had a look of boredom, expecting something different to come around.
Luckily, nopony had to wait for long when at a still moment in the piece, the orchestra unexpectedly burst into a storm. Violins tried to gallop away while the cellos, brass, and percussion thundered through the tranquil landscape. It would seem that the violins were on the run for their very lives. To this, the audience was pleased as it bared the signature of Beethoven, the drama that they came to listen had finally emerged.
From the Philharmonic, this monstrous storm created mass conflict between the meek violins, clarinets, and oboes with the raging cellos, percussion, and brass. The way how the beat seemed to gallop into the audience, even when only the humble voices were heard, drove the intense pursuit further. At this point, nopony could guess where this music was taking them, nor have any idea how it would end.
For many tense minutes, this intimidating storm of a piece blew those who were listening into a hurricane where counterpoint and harmony fought for survival. Everything was up in the air and spinning like a twister while Sea Sharp tried as best she could to keep time. Trumpets and piccolos were swept up in this vortex like innocent bystanders. What was happening in this unpredictable music?
Just when things were turning for the worst, the long-held notes from the horns brought everything to a standstill before repeating the opening like a sigh of relief. As it did, there was a sense that order was finally restored, and the strings took a much more active role in giving this liberation a richer color. The strings rejoiced in this new found peace as the weary winds slowly set themselves to rest.
At the end of the movement, there was a burst of applause from the audience. While the orchestra prepared for the final movement, Horseshoepin, who was sitting in the wings of the stage, came out to take his place at the piano. By the time the audience died down, Octavia, along with the first and second violinist and the first violaists raised their bows, looking over to the conductor to play the last piece of Beethoven’s music.
The first thing that everypony heard was a chord of low notes on the piano, and high, smoky strings on the violins and viola. It began as a soft morning when the sun had yet to rise above the horizon. Octavia raised her bow to the higher strings of her cello and began with a melody that welcomed the sunrise. It was warm, yet the song itself had exotic trills as if the string instrument was an ancient flute from a distant culture. A piccolo softly came like a child that was just awoken by their mother to continue on the melody.
Then one by one, sections of the orchestra were added on as horns, then oboes and violas further developed the simple melody. On the piano, Horseshoepin played long, echoes of chords that paused the atmosphere of the piece. It was like a village of instruments was waking up to the sound of the morning song between cello and piccolo.
When Octavia finished her opening, the rest of the cellos and double basses beat out the rhythm of a single note drumbeat. The rest of the violins came forward to play a new theme, one that was wise and confident as the horns, trombones, and violas added an earthy tone to it. Flutes and the treble notes of the piano gave a lively, dance-like mood.
As this was going on, the piccolo would spontaneously laugh, like a playful foal. Octavia’s cello would take on the part of a watchful mother who would speak to the young one. In between the feminine violins and clarinets and the masculine horns and oboes, the solo piccolo and the cello would help transition from one part of this exotic movement to the next.
But then, all went still as a rumble sounded from the lower keys of the piano and the percussion. There was a sense of alarm from the horns, violas and double basses. Violins trembled as it rounds to a crescendo in which the cellos now gave a surprise battle cry. From there, chaos ruled, plucking strings came down like arrows, flutes screamed and bassoons groaned. This was a musical ambush in which everything, even the tempos, frequently changed.
Octavia’s cello took on a new song, one of desperation. In the nearly unpredictable rhythm, both she and the piccolo were playing together in order to try and escape the attack – notes galloped from the horrific battle as the violins were on the charge. Trumpets and bassoons clashed like warriors fighting to the death, Horseshoepin, meanwhile, took on the charge of beating the war drums with the lower keys and trying to keep harmony at the higher notes.
Then, one by one, each instrument in the Philharmonic became quiet. Each layer was stripped away. First the flutes and clarinets, then the violins, the trumpets, oboes, violas, horns, bassoons, double basses, percussion, cellos, all faded away until only the piano remained. As Horseshoepin played on, the opening theme from the very beginning of the symphony reappeared, only this time it was tinted with melancholy.
The piccolo returned in a new variation of what the piano was playing. It now sounded like a lost child, calling out for someone, anyone to find them. Octavia pulled her bow across the strings to play the morning theme to comfort the fears of the piccolo. When the single wind instrument too quieted down, only she and the piano remained, to which, the cellist played a new melody; one which sounded like a lullaby.
To Octavia, it was as if the whole world had stood still as she played. The heart-wrenching song grew increasingly quieter, her hooves played those exotic trills that sounded like the instrument itself was tired. ‘No more,’ it seemed to say with those sorrowful, low notes, ‘No more.’ The piano too faded away with its last set of chords that left the cello all alone. A few bars later, Octavia played as softly as possible to where it was nearly a whisper. The lullaby echoed in the theater as she played four, very slow notes to which she paused for the sound to resonate before she repeated it until at the very last whole note. She then lifted her bow ever so slightly off the strings, to give the whole theater a moment of silence.
When she dropped her bow to her side, it was over. The audience took the cue to applaud, standing up in their seats, stomping their hooves. Shouts of “Bravo!” rang throughout the theater. Even the orchestra too clapped their hooves as Sea Sharp insisted on Octavia to stand up. So she did, with her instrument to help support her, she stood on her hind legs, and bowed.
_*_
On a late April day, a poet was looking down in a grave. Shaking his head, he looked up at the gray stone that bore the name of his friend with the hundreds of flowers that encircled it. But no matter how many times he looked at it, he still couldn’t believe what he was reading:
Ludwig van Beethoven
17 December, 1770 – 26 March, 1827
“I still cannot believe that you’re gone, old friend,” the poet said as he shook his head in melancholy. “You still had so much to give.”
His ears picked up the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking up, he saw a young man in a military uniform. He stopped a few feet from the grave. “Herr Schiller?”
The poet nodded, “I am.” He tilted his head towards the newcomer, “Who are you?”
“Karl, I am…” the soldier paused, “was Ludwig’s nephew.”
“Oh? So you were his adopted son? I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Schiller held out his hand to which the uniformed man shook it. “Though, out of curiosity, how do you know me?”
“Lucky guess.” Karl shrugged. “Uncle Ludwig wouldn’t stop mentioning you before they played his Ninth Symphony, and again a year later. So I just assumed that you were one of his friends, are you?”
“Indeed I was,” he nodded, looking back at the grave. “And he has spoken quite a bit about you as well. Please pardon me when I ask this but, is it true that you’ve nearly killed yourself sometime back?”
The uniformed man put his hand to his head. “Unfortunately, but I just couldn’t go through with it, not to mention how painful recovering from a bullet was.”
“I can only imagine,” Schiller placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I’m terribly sorry I brought it up, but it’s very rare to meet someone who is closely related to him. Truth be told, all I’ve heard about you came from him. Though, I can see from the uniform that it’s true that you’re in the military?”
Karl nodded, “Calvary actually. You know, Uncle Ludwig wasn’t glad I was making this choice of a career. It wasn’t until a couple months ago that I was able to fully join. Strictly speaking, I’m still in training, and the only reason I’m here is that of the news that he’s dead.”
Ludwig’s nephew stepped forward towards the foot of the grave, looking down at the black coffin that lay there. “Tell me, Herr Schiller; is it wrong that I don’t feel sad as I should be?”
The poet tilted his head, “I don’t quite know what you mean.”
“On the one hand,” Karl clarified, “Uncle Ludwig wasn’t the best father to have. Not just because he couldn’t hear anything, but he was too… unpredictable. He would be screaming at you one moment then be gentle before you knew it. He had too high an expectation of me, first of being the perfect son and being a pianist like him. But I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be, and I still can’t play the piano. I could hardly remember a time when he wasn’t criticizing me for something or another. And mother…
“But on the other hand…” he looked over to Schiller, “Uncle Ludwig had calmed down these past few years. I mean look, at least he gave his blessing for me to go into the army. He became a little bit kinder too, although not much, he really was trying to pay attention to me more. It’s not that he never loved me; perhaps it was just a bit too much. I know what he did was what he thought was for the best of me, but at this moment, I can’t help but feel free. Is that wrong?”
“No, I understand,” the poet said reassuringly, “Herr Beethoven has always been a difficult man to put up with. And you were right, he did care about your well being, so how are you now?”
“Well,” Karl stuffed his hands into the pockets of his uniform. “I think I will get by, now that I have a job in the army. Though, as of right now, I’m facing a bit of a problem.”
“That being?”
“A lawyer has come up to me this afternoon after the funeral and I found out that Uncle Ludwig has left me everything. His music, broken piano and all, I confess that I’m not exactly sure what to do with it all. I mean, he has a whole room full of scratch paper, some of which he told me in his last letter that he was planning on turning it into a new symphony, some string quartets, and… what was that last one again…? Oh! And he mentioned about doing something rather odd.”
This got Schiller’s attention, “Oh? What did he say?”
“He was thinking of writing another opera, but the subject sounded like a fairytale gone mad. I mean, he talked about a setting called… called…” Karl snapped his fingers in thought until it came to him. “Equestria! That was it! And his outline of the opera is really bizarre. It had talking ponies, princesses that were a part unicorn and part pegasus… it talked about sisters where one controlled the sun and the other the moon, and six friends being set on a quest to defeat a villain… I don’t know, to me, it sounded like he had really gone mad. And he was serious about it too, I mean look,” he dug into his pockets to pull out a letter, “this was the last thing he sent me, look on the back, there’s a sketch of the overture.”
“May I see that?” Karl handed over the letter in which he saw the notes on the back. It was indeed in Ludwig’s handwriting, the sheet music written for the piano. Schiller looked on at the overture which only took up about half of the page.
“Seems rather short don’t you think?”
Indeed, as the poet read the score, it had a grand opening before it follows into a pleasant, pastoral melody. As a sketch, it was light and it had an intriguing rhythm, with moments that had the sublimity of Mozart. The notes from the lower bar climbed upward as bright chords sounded from above, something like the fanfare of a trumpet.
“Perhaps you should hold onto that,” he said, giving it back to Karl. “If we’re lucky, perhaps something like that would be worth something.”
“Have you seen the funeral?” Karl deadpanned. “When my uncle had several thousand lining up the streets to see him as a war hero, I don’t think Vienna will be forgetting him any time soon.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Schiller said as he looked at the grave again. “Still, it is rather depressing that we never got to hear anything more out of him. He did say a few years back that he was thinking about working on two great symphonies, his ninth and tenth of course. The choral one was fantastic, but it’s a shame that we’ll never hear what his tenth may sound like if he actually finished it.”
“Remember, my Uncle did leave behind a room full of sketches,” Karl pointed out. “Maybe if we’re lucky, we might find some clues as to what it would sound like. But I’m afraid that I might have overstayed my welcome. If you wouldn’t mind, sir, I would like to have some final words with my Uncle before I leave.”
“Oh, certainly,” Schiller stepped aside.
Karl van Beethoven looked down at the coffin in the ground. For a long time, he tried to think of what to say as the sky was dimming. “Uncle… if you can hear me… We both know that things haven’t turned out the way we thought they would. I know you’re disappointed that I didn’t become a musician like yourself. And let’s admit, you were not the perfect father, as I was not the perfect son. Still, I am grateful that you let me go into the army; I still have a ways to go with my training.
“Now, with all that being said, I do have a confession to make. Uncle, I am envious of you. Even as I stand here talking to your grave, I can already hear that you might be wondering what I meant by that. Well, it’s just that after listening to your last symphony, you were able to create something so heavenly without having the ears to hear it. You showed us a new form of music that no one, not even I had thought was even possible. How could I compete with that? Especially knowing that when I too go to my grave, you will be remembered for doing the impossible, while I don’t possess the talent or the creativity to do anything like that.
“Still, we do have our lives to live. Many out there would say that it’s a tragedy that you are gone. And even though I will never admit it, I wasn’t prepared for you to go either. I’m sure that I can get by, though, considering the last time we met, I wish that I could have said goodbye better.
“Uncle, I know that you had a hard life, wherever you are, I hope that you could find some peace. Goodbye Uncle Ludwig.”
Schiller patted him on the back, “That was very noble of you. Would you care to stay for dinner? I know a tavern that has roast beef on Fridays.”
Karl shook his head, “I need to head back for training, I came to Vienna to say goodbye to my Uncle.”
“Very well,” Schiller started to walk away. “Until we meet again, have a good life, Herr Beethoven.”
“Good evening, Herr Schiller,” Karl said to him before taking one last glance at the grave, giving a military salute before he too walked away.