Can You See What I Hear?

NOTES FOR A DOCUMENTARY IN PROGRESS

This 1843 program note is a time capsule—shared with me by Barbara Haws, former archivist of the New York Philharmonic, while I was researching a film on George Bristow. Printed during the orchestra’s early years, it includes an unsigned message to the audience. That anonymity, paired with its bold claims, is what makes it linger.

New York Philharmonic

The Note Itself

“It is well known…”—the phrase lands with quiet confidence. The writer assumes the room shares the lore: Beethoven, before composing, always walked in the countryside or read a poem, usually Goethe’s. Historical accuracy? Partial at best. Cultural shorthand? Undeniable. This wasn’t a citation; it was an invitation to a shared imaginative space.

Then comes the interpretation: one of Beethoven’s symphonies as the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice. The introduction paints settled grief. The second movement traces the descent to Hades, hope flickering. The slow movement—the “gem”—captures the cautious approach to Cerberus, the beast’s sudden fury, Eurydice’s distant cries, the hush when Orpheus sings, and the fatal glance that ends it all. The finale embodies distraction—a mind unmoored.

The author offers this reading modestly: “far from probable,” yet aligned with the music’s sentiment. It’s not dogma—it’s enhancement. A lens to heighten feeling as if asking Can You See What I Hear?

Transcription of the 1843 Program Note

“It is well known that it was the invariable custom of Beethoven, previous to composing a work, to go into the country, or to read a poem (usually one of Goethe.) Unhappily, but few of the subjects of his compositions are now known, but these few attest with sufficient force the genius which could embody such scenes as those described in the Pastoral and Eroica Symphonies, by using for materials musical sounds, as the poet and the painter use words and colors.

Although it is far from probable that the following idea is the correct one, still it will be found sufficiently in accordance with the sentiment of the music as to enhance, in some degree, the pleasure of the auditors.

The symphony appears to tell the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. The introduction may describe the settled despair consequent upon his bereavement, which melts into the second movement, in which he journeys to Hades, and where Hope may be supposed to predominate.

The slow movement (the gem of the composition) may represent his cautious step as he approaches the sleeping Cerberus, who guards the gates of the realm of Pluto. The monster wakes, and, lashed into fury, seems to make cat-like leaps to and fro, while Orpheus continues his timid march, and ever and anon the wailings of Eurydice are heard; all, however, becomes hushed when he sings, and Eurydice and he again approach the barrier which divides Hades from the outer world with the same fearful march. Alas for male curiosity! he turns his head, and as he beholds the fleeting shade the movement ends.

The Minuet and Trio may describe his homeward journey—hurried and broken, and the Finale his state of mind when he knows he is for ever parted from Eurydice, and will be found in many parts to be the very embodiment of mental distraction.”

A Different Way of Listening

Still from a film in progress

In 1843, this wasn’t eccentric—it was expected. Audiences arrived ready to see as much as hear. Music wasn’t abstract architecture; it was narrative, emotional terrain mapped in sound.

The note assumes familiarity with myth, poetry, and the expressive power of instrumental color. That fluency—bridging arts without apology—was the air Bristow’s generation breathed.

The author, likely in their thirties, would have been in their twenties when Beethoven died. Not a contemporary, but close. Four generations now separate us from that moment. Proximity matters. It lends the text a gravity we can’t dismiss.

What Shifted

We still feel music deeply. A joyful theme lifts us; a minor chord unsettles. But we rarely seek a story within the structure. The twentieth century trained us to admire form, harmony, architecture.

We gained precision; we may have lost projection.

Neuroscience offers a clue: our brains adapt. We’re fluent in verbal and visual narrative, less so in reading symphonies as dramas. The 1843 listener saw Orpheus in the orchestra; we see thematic development. Same notes, different decoding.

Can You See What I Hear?

Did Bristow’s audience hear something essential we’ve forgotten? Or were they weaving meanings the composer never intended?

This single page doesn’t settle the debate. But it opens a door—into a concert hall where a symphony could still speak like poetry, where Beethoven’s genius wasn’t just sounded, but seen and felt as myth in motion.

For the film, this note is more than context. It’s a window into what early American listeners believed music could do: not just move us, but tell us who we are.