In the Fifties, when Toscanini’s recording was issued, the Italian conductor declared to the press: « Questo primo movimento, non l’ho ancora capito”. Some praised the great man’s “modesty”. Others voiced clearly their disappointment. Perhaps Furtwängler was right when he once declared “I have just heard Toscanini’s Ninth. In the opening, the clarity of the performance was such that you could see the score unfolding before your eyes. Everything was perfectly in its place, but Beethoven’s original idea was totally lost”.

What idea was Furtwängler referring to? Probably, what Beethoven himself had written in his early sketches for the Ninth (1812), inspired by the Book of Genesis: “In the beginning the spirit floated, born by the waters”. Another entry by Beethoven speaks of the “thought, density and atmosphere, all pre-existing to form”. In 1815, again he wrote: “For my Symphony in D minor, the beginning could be hushed, with only 4 instruments: two violins, one viola and one bass, before taking its final shape”. That was Beethoven’s original idea which gave birth to this unique pianissimo entrance on E-A, then on A-E, born from nothingness, not giving the slightest hint to the listener as to where he is bound for, with a sudden swerve to D (on the 3rd Horn at the top of the crescendo), and the full blast of the first fortissimo on the tutti, settling down definitely into the key of D minor. In this passage, (the whole basis of the movement), you could always sense an impression of lightning in any of Furtwängler’s performances, an impression which is usually lacking in most other conductors’ renderings. By his own avowal, Karajan sought advice from Furtwängler on this very passage, but in our opinion, he never quite equalled the master’s performance.
Critics in Germany had praised the “audacity” of this opening; in England they were unnerved by it and blamed Beethoven for deliberately misleading the listener, while Pierre Boulez once declared to his pupils that this process was naïve (“procédé simpliste”). One Scottish critic even wondered why Beethoven didn’t start right away with the fortissimo!

Here is a striking parallel which justifies Furtwängler’s choice of tempo: the forward pace of the first movement’s fortissimo prefiguring that of the fourth movement as the music moves on to the end of “Und der Cherub steht vor Gott”, an end into itself.

Another example is that of the main theme’s : "Schwungrichtung" (the direction taken by the power), and its metamorphosis later into a passage of extreme tenderness.

This exquisite passage can be very anguished in the war performance, very lyrical in the Bayreuth 1951 recording, and tending inexorably towards fatality in the Lucerne 1954.

A little while later, again the same passage in a different modulation : the anguish of 1942 becomes more interior, more tense ; the lyrical quality of 1951 bears evident signs of hope, and the 1954 resignation turns into tragic abandon.

The above examples can be extended to the whole work, and give a fairly good idea of Furtwängler’s frame of mind in all three occasions. But whatever the mood or spirit, a mysterious atmosphere such as the pp at the beginning of the development, becomes more enhanced than in any matter-of-fact performance. This development begins as if it were a repeat of the exposition. To some critics’ annoyance, the D minor never arrives. New key after new key keep vanishing like the aurora borealis. Instead the music remains pianissimo and moves through D major and G minor, until the crescendo at bar 186 leads to a cadence borrowed from the end of the exposition. Under Furtwängler, the whole passage sounds as mysterious and as powerful as at the beginning of the work.

Again, some characteristics observed here-above can be found in the fugato which benefits greatly from Furtwängler’s maestoso and yet energetic vision. I never believe my ears whenever a conductor treats this passage so fast that it turns voluntarily or not into a mock-piece.

The unique trait about this development is the fact that it does not culminate into a climax. The music develops along beautifully, with the tender treatment of the main them soaring lovingly high up on the violins. Furtwängler always plays this passage rather mezzoforte than piano.

But this quest for joy is interrupted by a short crescendo arriving almost out of the blue, followed by a precipitate descent into the Recapitulation. The effect is not that of a classic Beethoven home-coming, there having been no climax before. We are just drawn into the longest and most violent fortissimo in the repertory (bars 301-332). While this passage corresponds to the very beginning of the movement, its effect could not be more different.
The first half of this fortissimo in D major, theoretically joyous, is so oppressive that the switch to D minor comes rather as a relief. Where the beginning represents silence made sound, here it is like one single sforzando spread over the same period, and eventually subsiding out of a sheer exhaustion.

Admirers of Furtwängler will always tell you that, in Beethoven,, he usually sounds a bit better than any other conductor. But here is a typical instance (among others) where he suddenly sounds twice as good. The solution to this mystery (as analysts found out after quite some research) is due to the fact that he does not try to improve on what Beethoven has written. It is not a case of Furtwängler making sudden miraculous progress: it is more a case of other conductors tampering with the nuances in the score. In this passage, musicians such as Wagner, Weingartner, Schenker, Nikisch, Toscanini (take your choice) recommended the use of shadings, or fading-out of some desks (ex: the trumpets), or applying decrescendo-crescendo on the timpani every four bars, or other special effects. Furtwängler, to our knowledge, remains the only conductor who plays it “sempre fortissimo”, never afraid that the timpani may drown out other voices, even going to the length of having the timpani go up to triple forte on the entrance of the theme (bar 316), thus applying the same logic as Beethoven’s annotated crescendo in bar 16 at the beginning of the work. Bradshaw, the great timpanist of the Philharmonic Orchestra, once told me that playing this passage under Furtwängler was the most exacting, yet most gratifying moment in his career. (Similar examples can be found in any other recordings, one of the most famous being that of the climax in the development of the 1st movement of Beethoven’s 7th).
Special tribute must be paid, here in the Ninth, to August Lohse, the Berlin timpanist.

The Coda is an entire piece in its own right. A striking new tune (bar 513) based on the first two notes of the work E-A, starts building up over a grinding ostinato. The whole sounds like a funeral march as the ostinato spreads from the bass upwards to the first violins. This looks like a new development of the principal theme until the “Schwungskraft” (power) and the “Schwungsrichtung” (the direction taken by the power) reach the final conclusion. This oppressive coda solves no problem and finishes with a gigantic question mark. I recommend a separate listening of Berlin 1942, where the coda sounds as if the end of the world is near. Of course, the maestoso annotation has the priority here with Furtwängler in the Bayreuth performance.