I recently watched an excellent BBC documentary series relating the life story of Ludwig van Beethoven (‘Being Beethoven’ marked the 250th anniversary of the composer’s birth).

I was particularly struck by the tale of Beethoven and the metronome.

In 1814 Dietrich Winkel, a German organ-builder based in Amsterdam, invented a mechanical chronometer. It enabled musicians to stick to a regular tempo when they practised, and promised composers the ability to set a standard tempo for their work.

Winkel’s device came to the attention of Johann Mälzel, a maker of musical automatons whose creations included a Mechanical Turk that played chess. Mälzel had also been experimenting with musical chronometers, but on learning of Winkel’s invention he recognised that he had been outdone. When he tried to buy the device, Winkel refused. So he simply made a copy, added a scale and patented it himself. In 1816 he began manufacturing the gadget as ‘Malzel's Metronome.’

Beethoven had for a while now been concerned about the tempi that his music was played at, particularly because, as his reputation grew, he often wasn’t present to conduct his own work. The first question he asked about a performance was ‘How were the tempi?’

Beethoven was familiar with Mälzel. He had bought several ear trumpets from the inventor and they had collaborated on a couple of musical projects. Indeed there had been a dispute between them over the rights to a particular composition. 

In 1817 Mälzel introduced Beethoven to his metronome, perhaps as a peace offering. The composer was delighted. 

'I have thought for a long time of giving up these nonsensical terms allegro, andante, adagio, presto. And Malzel‘s metronome gives us the best opportunity to do so.’

Beethoven was by then an elderly and eccentric curmudgeon. For some years he had suffered increasing problems with his hearing. His deafness impaired his ability to work and made him feel ever more isolated. He had been unlucky in love, having consistently fallen for women above his class. He had conducted a bitter campaign to gain custody of his deceased brother’s son. He was frustrated that his music, though widely performed, had not earned him the wealth and social status that his genius deserved. And musical tastes were evolving.

For Beethoven the metronome presented the prospect of control. In the documentary conductor and organist Martin Haselbock observes:

‘We might see this also as the attempt of an ageing composer to keep control of things. Control of his music with the device of the metronome, control of his financial situation, because Beethoven couldn’t get any fees any more as a performer, control of his personal life.’

Beethoven enthusiastically embraced the new invention and published metronomic indications for the eight symphonies he had composed to date. He demanded dutiful adherence to his instructions.

‘The metronome marks will follow soon. Do not fail to wait for them. In our century things of this kind are certainly needed… Performers must now obey the ideas of the unfettered genius.’

In the years since Beethoven’s death his tempo markings have become the subject of controversy. They indicate much quicker speeds than those of contemporary custom and taste, and have routinely been ignored. 

Some have argued that tempo indications should guide and inspire rather than dictate; that expressive markings should be taken less seriously than the notes themselves. Some have observed that today’s larger symphony halls and louder instruments demand slower tempi for precise articulation and nuance. Some have proposed that Beethoven’s metronome was just broken.

Anyone working in a creative field will recognise Beethoven’s desire to assert ongoing control over his creative output: the need to minimise interpretation by others; the craving to bypass intermediaries and achieve a direct connection with the audience; the yearning for a voice that speaks beyond your physical presence, beyond your lifespan – a voice that articulates your thoughts and feelings with absolute truth and abiding clarity.

But most creative initiatives can only come to fruition as team endeavours. Most ideas only achieve their potential through collaboration and translation. And perhaps the best guarantee of an enduring reputation is to relinquish control of one’s output to future generations. At some point we must learn to let go.

In his final completed composition Beethoven set the following phrase to music:

‘We all make mistakes, but everyone makes them quite differently.’

At the end of 1826, Beethoven fell ill and took to his bed. As news of his terminal condition spread, friends and admirers visited to say their farewells. The composer asked for a bottle of Rhine wine from a case that had been given to him. At last it arrived. He glanced up.

‘Pity. Too late.’

These were Beethovens’s last words. Legend has it that on 26 March 1827 there was a storm raging outside and suddenly a clap of thunder. The 56-year-old composer sat bolt upright from his coma, shook his fist at the sky and fell back dead. Finally he relinquished control.

'In the spring days of my life
Happiness deserted me!
Truth I dared to utter boldly
And the chains are my reward.
Willingly I bear my tortures,
End my life in ignominy.
To my heart this is sweet solace:
I have always done my duty!’

'Florestan’s Aria', Act Two, ‘Fidelio'

No. 395