While today, opera—for any number of reasons—is not heard as frequently as the symphony orchestra, before the twentieth century it dominated the musical scene. Only gradually did permanent instrumental ensembles evolve that focused upon symphonies and the like. Composers made their reputations, or not, as composers of opera, and that’s what the nobility (who paid the bills) largely wanted to hear. And they wanted to hear the latest ones—not last year’s. Mozart’s greatest works were his operas, Haydn certainly composed them, and so when Beethoven arrived in Vienna as a young composer shortly after Mozart’s death, it was only natural that he aspired to write one. Money, reputation, and professional respect lay in that direction. Alas! It was a tortured affair for him; he labored over it with more effort than any of his other works. He spoke frankly of his frustration, and claimed a “martyr’s crown” for the pain it caused him. That there are three versions of the opera, alone, speaks volumes about the process of its genesis.
He started the process in 1804, with the wildly popular French “rescue operas” of Cherubini and Méhul as models. The genre was a proto-romantic inspiration from the trials and terror of the times of the French Revolution, with heroines and heroes saved from death and disaster in the nick of time. “Heroic” imagery and noble sacrifice fascinated Beethoven—he had just finished the Eroica symphony about that time. And, of course, Beethoven’s idolization of noble women with whom he could never connect on a meaningful personal level is part of the mix, as well. The story of the opera is slender, almost painfully so, and only Beethoven’s inimitable music saves the day. Lesser music could not have sustained the flimsy libretto, no matter how much it was trimmed, revised and rewritten by helpful friends. Leonore dresses up as a man in order to sneak inside the prison and liberate her husband, the noble Florestan, who is unjustly held by the evil Don Pizarro. The latter comes to murder Florestan, just ahead of the arrival of Don Fernando, the king’s minister, who will free Florestan and initiate a sunny era of liberty and justice for all. Rocco, the jailer, his daughter, Marzelline, and Jaquino, jailer’s assistant, provide minor dramatic diversions, aided by the prisoners (representing oppressed folks everywhere).
That brings us to the overture—make that overtures—for there are four of them! Only one of which has been used as the working overture for most of the opera’s history. The story goes like this: after Beethoven finished the first version of Fidelio in 1805, he wrote the overture now known as Leonore No. 2. (He originally entitled the opera, Leonore, after the heroine. The title is still used for the first two versions.) The opera was revised extensively for performance in the next year, and the new overture for that version is known as Leonore No. 3. It was a rousing success—too much so for a mere overture. Its scope, intensity, and powerful symphonic nature was just too much for a mere curtain opener. More on that later. So, for later performances in Prague in 1808, he wrote a briefer, toned down version for those performances, resulting in what is now known as Leonore No. 1. I know, it’s confusing.
Finally, when he revised the opera again for performances in 1814—with the new title of Fidelio–he started all over with clean sheet and produced a more modest overture, suitable as a curtain raiser for the opera, and that is what is now the Overture to Fidelio. Whew! Leonore No. 3 was such a significant success that it has remained in the repertoire as one of the composer’s most performed works. In addition to concert performances of it, the tradition has grown up to use it in the second act of the opera, during a significant scene change right after the great triumph of the rescue. But, back to the “Overture to Fidelio.”
Like so many of his compositions, the (last) overture to his opera was a struggle to reach his satisfaction. In a letter to a friend he wrote: “ Of all my children, this is the one that cost me the worst birth-pangs and brought me the most sorrow; and for that reason it is the one most dear to me.” But the result was stellar. Unlike the other overtures to the opera, Fidelio Overture does not quote major themes from the opera itself, a time-honored tradition. And it is in its own key—E major—not the key of triumph–C major–of the opera and the other overtures.
After opening with a bold martial motive in whole orchestra, the horns and then woodwinds answer with soft chords, and the whole thing is repeated with alterations. Beethoven mirrors the drama in the opera with his signature “creeping” harmonies over undulation strings, leading to the inevitable allegro. The solo horn is heard straightaway with the main theme, answered—as at the beginning—by the solo clarinet, and we’re off. The simple second subject (three notes) in the usual dominant key comes quickly, and like the first subject, is given to the horns—altogether fitting for a “rescue” opera. After working over these ideas, and its easy to hear them, a dramatic silent pause heralds the recapitulation, opening with an altered version of the very beginning. But that’s all! Another pause, and a presto coda takes off in a frenzy. The sly Beethoven fools the ear for a few bars by starting in the somewhat distant key of C major before quickly turning home in E major. And in the brief “dash to the barn” he regales us with one of his famous triumphal endings. The rescue, driven by the conjugal love and bravery of the heroine, is complete, and virtue triumphs—hammered home by the timpani.
–Wm. E. Runyan
© 2025 William E. Runyan