[Illustration: LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN.]




  _BIOGRAPHIES OF MUSICIANS._


  LIFE OF BEETHOVEN

  BY
  LOUIS NOHL

  TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
  BY
  JOHN J. LALOR.

  “_Our age has need of vigorous minds._”

  CHICAGO:
  JANSEN, McCLURG & COMPANY.
  1881.




  COPYRIGHT.
  JANSEN, McCLURG & COMPANY.
  A. D. 1880.

  STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED
  BY
  THE CHICAGO LEGAL NEWS COMPANY.




INTRODUCTION.


Music is the most popular of the arts. It fills man’s breast with
a melancholy joy. Even the brute creation is not insensible to its
power. Yet, at its best, music is a haughty, exclusive being, and not
without reason are training, practice, talent, and the development
of that talent, required for the understanding of her secrets. “One
wishes to be heard with the intellect, by one’s equals; emotion becomes
only women, but music should strike fire from the mind of a man.” In
some such strain as this, Beethoven himself once spoke, and we know
how slowly the works of the great symphonist found a hearing and
recognition from the general public.

Yet, who is there to-day who does not know the name of Beethoven?
Who is there that, hearing one of his compositions, does not feel
the presence of a sublime, all-ruling power--of a power that springs
from the deepest sources of all life? His very name inspires us with
a feeling of veneration, and we can readily believe the accounts that
have come down to us; how even strangers drew back with a species of
awe, before this man of imposing appearance, spite of his smallness
of stature, with his rounded shoulders, erect head, wavy hair and
piercing glance. Who has not heard of the two charcoal-burners who
suddenly stopped their heavily laden vehicle when they met, in a narrow
pass, this “crabbed musician,” so well known to all Vienna, and who was
wont to stand and think, and then, humming, to go his way, moving about
bee-like through nature from sunrise, with his memorandum book in his
hand.

We are moved with the same feeling of respect that moved those common
men, when we hear only Beethoven’s name, but how much more powerfully
are we stirred when we hear his music! We feel in that music the
presence of the spirit that animates and sustains the world, and which
is continually calling new life into existence. Even the person who
is not a musician himself may feel, in these mighty productions, the
certainty of the presence of the Creator of all things. Their tones
sound to him like the voice of man’s heart of hearts, the joys and
sorrows of which Beethoven has laid bare to us. We feel convinced, when
we hear them, that the person who in them speaks to us has, in very
deed, something to tell us, something of our own life; because he lived
and felt more deeply than we what we all live and feel, and loved and
suffered what we all love and suffer, more deeply than any other child
of dust. In Beethoven, we meet with a personage really great, both
in mind and heart, one who was able to become a sublime model to us,
because life and art were serious things with him, and one who made it
his duty “to live not for himself, but for other men.” The high degree
of self-denying power found in this phenomenon of art, it is that has
such an elevating effect on us. The duties of life and the tasks of the
artist he discharged with equal fidelity. His life was the foundation
on which the superstructure of his works rose. His greatness as a man
was the source of his greatness as an artist. The mere story of his
life, given here in outline, reveals to us the internal springs of his
artistic creations, and we must perforce admit, that the history of
Beethoven’s life is a part of the history of the higher intellectual
life of our time and of humanity.




CONTENTS.


  CHAPTER I.

  BEETHOVEN’S YOUTH AND EARLIEST EFFORTS.

  Birth and Baptism--His Family--Young Beethoven’s Character--His
    Brothers Karl and Johann--Early Talent for Music--Appears in
    Public at the Age of Seven--Errors as to His Age--Travels in
    Holland--Studies the Organ in Vienna--His Fame Foretold--His
    Personal Appearance--Meets Mozart--Mozart’s Opinion of
    Him--Maximilian, Elector of Cologne, and Mozart--Beethoven’s
    Intellectual Training--Madame von Breuning--First
    Love--Beethoven and Hayden--Compositions written in Vienna      9-39


  CHAPTER II.

  THE EROICA AND FIDELIO.

  Music in Vienna--Society in Vienna--Beethoven’s
    Dedications--Lichnowsky--The Eroica and Fidelio--Beethoven’s
    First Great Exploits--Plans for Future Work--Decides to
    Remove to the North--New Compositions--His
    Improvisations--Disappointments in North
    Germany--Prince Louis Ferdinand--Makes His Home in
    Austria--Neglects His Health--His Deafness--Origin of the
    Eroica--Napoleon I--Bernadotte--The Symphony in C Minor--His
    Deafness Again--Thoughts of Marriage--The Guicciardi
    Family--Meaning of His Music--His “Will”--Disappointment--Meaning
    of the Eroica and Fidelio--The Leonore Overture--Other
    Compositions                                                   40-81


  CHAPTER III.

  THE SYMPHONY C MINOR.--THE PASTORALE, AND THE SEVENTH,
  SYMPHONIES.

  The Pastorale--Meaning of the Apassionata--Beethoven’s Letter
    to His “Immortal Loved One”--His Own Opinion of the
    Apassionata--Thinks of Writing Operas--Court Composer--Overture
    to Coriolanus--The Mass in C, op. 86--His Sacred Music--The
    Fidelio In Prague--Music for Goethe’s Faust--“Power, the Moral
    Code”--Character of His Works about this Period--Intercourse
    with the Malfattis--The Cello Sonata, op. 69--Improvement in
    His pecuniary Circumstances--Joseph Bonaparte--Vienna fears to
    lose Him--Contemplated Journey to England--The Seventh
    Symphony--His _Heirathspartie_--His Letter to Bettina--His
    Estimate of Genius                                            82-121


  CHAPTER IV.

  THE MISSA SOLEMNIS AND THE NINTH SYMPHONY.

  Resignation--Pecuniary Distress--Napoleon’s Decline--The
    Battle-Symphony--Its Success--Wellington’s Victory--Strange
    Conduct--Intellectual Exaltation--His Picture by Letronne--The
    Fidelio Before the Assembled Monarchs--Beethoven the Object
    of Universal Attention--Presents from Kings--The
    Liederkreis--Madame von Ertmann--Romulus and the Oratorio--His
    “Own Style”--Symphony for London--Opinion of the English
    People--His Missa Solemnis--His Own Opinion of it--Its
    Completion--Characteristics--The Ninth Symphony              122-162


  CHAPTER V.

  THE LAST QUARTETS

  Berlioz on the Lot of Artists--Beethoven Misunderstood--The
    Great Concert of May, 1821--Preparation for It--Small
    Returns--Beethoven Appreciated--The Quartets--An “Oratorio
    for Boston”--Overture on B-A-C-H--Influence of His Personal
    Experience on His Works--His Brother Johann--Presentiment of
    Death--The Restoration of Metternich and Gentz--His
    “Son”--Troubles with the Young Man Debility--Calls for Dr.
    Malfatti--Poverty--The “Magnanimous” English--Calls a
    Clergyman--His Death                                         163-201




LIFE OF BEETHOVEN.




CHAPTER I.

1770-1794

BEETHOVEN’S YOUTH AND EARLIEST EFFORTS.

  Birth and Baptism--His Family--Young Beethoven’s Character--His
    Brothers Karl and Johann--Early Talent for Music--Appears in
    Public at the Age of Seven--Error as to His Age--Travels in
    Holland--Studies the Organ in Vienna--His Fame Foretold--His
    Personal Appearance--Meets Mozart--Mozart’s Opinion of
    Him--Maximilian, Elector of Cologne, and Mozart--Beethoven’s
    Intellectual Training--Madame von Breuning--First Love--Beethoven
    and Haydn--Compositions written in Vienna.


Ludwig van Beethoven was baptized in Bonn on the 17th of December,
1770. We know only this the date of his baptism, with any certainty,
and hence the 17th of December is assumed to be his birthday likewise.

His father, Johann van Beethoven, was a singer in the chapel of the
Elector, in Bonn. The family, however, had come originally from the
Netherlands. Beethoven’s grandfather came to Bonn in 1732 after
willfully leaving the parental roof in consequence of a quarrel. He
had attracted attention as a bass singer in the church and the theater,
and was made director of the court band in 1763. By his industry, he
had founded a family, was earning a respectable livelihood, and had
won for himself the personal regard of the community. He did, besides,
a small business in wines, but this, which was only accessory to his
calling as a musician, contributed to undermine both his own happiness
and his son’s. His wife, Josepha Poll, fell a victim to the vice of
intemperance, and, in consequence, it at last became necessary to
confine her in a convent in Cologne. Unfortunately, the only surviving
son inherited the vice of his mother.

“Johann van Beethoven was given to the tasting of wine from a very
early age,” says the account of his playmates. It was not long before
this weakness got the upper hand to such an extent that his family
and home suffered greatly. It finally led to his discharge from his
position. Stephan van Breuning, our own Beethoven’s friend in youth,
saw him, on one occasion, liberate the drunken father out of the hands
of the police in the public streets.

We here get a glimpse at a period in Beethoven’s youth, which put the
strength of his mind as well as the goodness of his heart to the test.
For in consequence of the very respectable position occupied by his
grandfather, of his own early appointment as court organist, and of the
rapid development of his talent, Beethoven soon enjoyed the society of
the higher classes, and was employed in the capacity of musician in
the families of the nobility and at court. Yet, we are told, whenever
it happened that he and his two younger brothers were obliged to take
their intoxicated father home, they always performed that disagreeable
task with the utmost tenderness. He was never known to utter a hard or
unkind word about the man who had made his youth so sunless, and he
never failed to resent it when a third person spoke uncharitably of his
father’s frailty. The reserve and a certain haughtiness, however, which
marked his disposition as a youth and a man, are traceable to these
early harsh experiences.

And who knows the complications which caused misfortune to get the
upper hand here! True, we are told that “Johann van Beethoven was of a
volatile and flighty disposition;” but even his playmates, when he was
a boy, had nothing bad to say of his character. Anger and stubbornness
seem, indeed, to have been the inheritance of his Netherland nature;
and these our hero also displayed to no small extent. But while the
grandfather had earned a very good position for himself, and always so
deported himself that young Beethoven might take him as an example, and
loved to speak of him as a “man of honor,” his father was never more
than a singer in the chapel, on a small salary. But, notwithstanding
his comparatively humble social position, he had made a mistake in
marrying below his station.

Johann van Beethoven took Magdalena Kewerich, of Ehrenbreitstein, to
wife, in 1763. She is described as a “pretty and slender woman.” She
had served as a chambermaid, for a time, in some of the families of the
great, had married young, and was left a widow at the age of nineteen.
Johann’s marriage to this woman was not acceptable to the court
_capellmeister_, and so it happened that he was obliged to leave the
home in which he had thus far lived with his lonely father, and move
into a wing of the house, number 515, in Bonn street, where his son
Ludwig, the subject of this sketch, was born.

The young wife brought no property to her husband. Several children
were born to the newly married couple in quick succession. Of these,
Karl, born in 1774 and Johann in 1766, play some part in Beethoven’s
life. The growth of the family was so rapid that it was not long
before they felt the burthen of pecuniary distress. The grandfather,
who was well to do, helped them, at first. His stately figure in his
red coat, with his massive head and “big eyes,” remained fixed in the
boy Ludwig’s memory, although he was only three years of age when his
grandfather died. The child was, indeed, tenderly attached to him.
As the father’s poverty increased, he made some efforts to improve
his condition. But they were of no avail; for his deportment was only
“passable” and his voice “was leaving him.” He now had recourse to
teaching, and obtained employment in the theater, for he played the
violin also. Sickness, however, soon eat up what was left of his little
fortune. Their furniture and table ware followed their silver-service
and linen--“which one might have drawn through a ring,”--to the
pawn-shop; and now the father’s poverty contributed only to make him,
more and more, the victim of his weakness for the cup.

But there was even now one star of hope in the dreary firmament of
his existence--his son Ludwig’s talent for music. This talent showed
itself in very early childhood, and could not, by any possibility,
escape the observation of the father, who, after all, was himself a
“good musician.” And, although the father was not destined to live
to see his son in the zenith of his success, it was his son’s talent
alone that saved the family from ruin and their name from oblivion,
for with the birth of Beethoven’s younger brother, Johann, and of a
sister who died shortly after, the circumstances of the family became
still more straightened. Mozart had been in Bonn a short time before,
and it occurred to the father to train his son to be a second little
Mozart, and, by traveling with him, earn the means of subsistence of
which the family stood so sorely in need. And so the boy was rigidly
kept to his lessons on the piano and violin. His daily exercises on
these instruments must have been a severer task on him than would seem
to be necessary in a regular course of musical training. He used to be
taken from his playing with other children to practice, and friends of
his youth tell us how they saw him standing on a stool before the piano
and cry while he practiced his lessons. Even the rod was called into
requisition in his education, and the expostulations of friends could
not dissuade the father from such relentless severity. But the end was
attained. Regular and persevering exercise, laid the foundation of a
skill in the art of music, which led him before the public when only
seven years of age. On the 26th of March (by a strange coincidence the
day of the month on which Beethoven died), the father announced, in a
paper published in Cologne, that “his son, aged six years, would have
the honor to wait on the public with several concertos for the piano,
when, he flattered himself, he would be able to afford a distinguished
audience a rich treat; and this all the more since he had been favored
with a hearing by the whole court, who listened to him with the
greatest pleasure.” The child, to enhance the surprise, was made one
year younger in this announcement than he was in reality; and this
led Beethoven himself into an error as to his age, which he did not
discover until he was nearly forty.

We need say but little concerning his other teachers when a youth.
His great school was want, which urged him to follow and practice his
art, so that he might master it, and, with its assistance, make his
way through the world. When Beethoven grew to be eight years of age,
he had as a teacher, in addition to his father, the vocalist Tobias
Pfeiffer, for a whole year. Pfeiffer lived in the Beethoven family. He
was a skillful pianist. Beethoven considered him one of the teachers
to whom he was most indebted, and was subsequently instrumental in
procuring assistance for him from Vienna. But we may form some idea of
the nature of his instruction, and of the mode of living in the family,
from the fact, attested by Beethoven’s neighbors, that it frequently
happened that Pfeiffer, after coming home with the father late in the
night from the tavern, took young Ludwig out of bed and kept him at
the piano practicing till morning. Yet the success attendant on this
instruction was such, even now, that when the boy, Beethoven and his
teacher, who performed on the flute, played variations together, the
people in the streets stopped and listened to their delightful music.
In 1781, when Ludwig was ten years old, he traveled to Holland with his
mother, played in the houses of the great, and astonished every one by
his skill. The profits from this journey, however, cannot have been
very large. When the boy was questioned about them, he replied: “The
Dutch are a niggardly set; I shall never visit Holland again.”

In the meantime, he turned his attention also to the study of the
organ. Under the guidance of a certain Brother Willibald, of a
neighboring Franciscan monastery, he soon became so proficient on that
instrument, that he was able to act as assistant organist at divine
service. But his principal teachers here were the old electoral court
organist, van den Eeden, and afterwards, his successor, Christian
Gottlob Neefe. In what regards composition the latter was the first
to exercise any real influence on Beethoven, and Beethoven, in after
years, thanked him for the good advice he had given him--advice
which had contributed so much to his success in the “divine art.” He
concludes a letter to Neefe as follows: “If I should turn out some
day to be a great man, you will have contributed to making me such.”
Neefe came originally from Saxony. As an organist, he had all the
characteristics of the North German artists; but, on the other hand,
he had, as a composer, a leaning towards the sonata-style introduced
by Ph. E. Bach. He was a man of broad general education, and the form
of his artistic productions was almost faultless. Such was young
Beethoven’s proficiency at the age of eleven, in 1782, that Neefe was
able to appoint him his “substitute,” and thus to pave the way for
his appointment as court organist. We owe to him the first published
account of Beethoven, and from that account we learn that the great
foundation of his instruction was Bach’s “well-tempered clavichord,”
that _ne plus ultra_ of counterpoint and technic. He first made a
reputation in Vienna by his masterly playing of Bach’s fugues. But the
instruction he had received in composition, bore fruit also, and some
variations to a march and three sonatas, by him, appeared at this time
in print.

In the account of Beethoven referred to above, and which was written
in 1783, Neefe said that that young “genius” was deserving of support
that he might be able to travel, and that he would certainly be another
Mozart. But the development of his genius soon took a wider scope. He
even, on one occasion, when Neefe was prevented doing so, presided at
a rehearsal in the Bonn theater, in which the best pieces of the age
were produced. This was at the age of twelve. And so it happened that
his artistic views and technic skill grew steadily greater. We are
told that when he became court organist, at the age of thirteen, he
made the very accurate vocalist Heller lose the key entirely during
the performance of divine service, by his own bold modulations. True,
the Elector forbade such “strokes of genius” in the future, but he, no
less than his _capellmeister_ Luchesi, was greatly astonished at the
extraordinary capacity of the young man.

Incidents of this kind may have suggested the propriety of giving him
the instruction appropriate for a really great master of art; and,
indeed, we find the court organist of Bonn with Mozart in Vienna, in
the spring of 1787.

Beethoven’s appearance was not what would be called imposing. He
was small of stature, muscular and awkward, with a short snub nose.
When he was introduced to Mozart, the latter was rather cool in his
praise of his musical performances, considering them pieces learned by
heart simply for purposes of parade. Beethoven, thereupon requested
Mozart to give him a subject, that he might try his powers of musical
improvisation. Charmed with the ability displayed in the execution of
the task thus imposed on his young visitor, Mozart exclaimed: “Mark
that young man! the world will hear of him some day.” Beethoven,
however, received very little instruction from Mozart, who was so
deeply engaged, just at this time, with the composition of his _Don
Giovanni_, and so sorely tried by adverse circumstances, that he played
very little for him, and could give him only a few lessons. Besides,
Beethoven’s mother was now taken seriously ill, and after a few weeks
he had to return home, where other blows of a hard fate awaited him.
His kind, good mother, was snatched from him by death, and his father’s
unfortunate weakness for strong drink obtained such a mastery over
him that he was deprived of his position shortly after. The duty of
supporting his two younger brothers was thus imposed on Ludwig, the
eldest.

Young Beethoven was thus taught many a severe lesson early in life, in
the hard school of adversity. But his trials were not without advantage
to him. They gave to his character that iron texture which upheld him
under the heaviest burthens, nor was his recall to Bonn a misfortune.
He there found the very advantages which he had gone to seek in the
musical metropolis, Vienna; for Maximilian Francis, Elector of Cologne,
the friend and patron of Mozart, was one of the noble princes of the
preceding century, who made their courts the sanctuary of culture and
of art.

Maximilian was the youngest son of Maria Theresa. He had received the
careful training, for which that imperial house was noted, and he found
in Joseph II an example in every way worthy of imitation. He was as
faithful to his calling as an ecclesiastic as to his duties as a ruler,
and as adverse to what he looked upon as superstition in the garb of
Christianity, as to the extravagance of his predecessors, who had left
the country in a state of corruption and destitution. He everywhere
endeavored to bring order out of chaos and to spread prosperity among
his people. A pure, fresh atmosphere filled the little court as long as
he presided in it. He was still young, not much over thirty, and a man
of the truest principles. Speaking of him as “that most humane and best
of princes,” a contemporary writer says: “People had grown accustomed
to think of Cologne as a land of darkness, but when they came to the
Elector’s court, they quickly changed their mind.” The members of the
orchestra of the court especially, among whom our young court organist
is to be reckoned, were, we are told, very intelligent, right thinking
men, of elegant manners and unexceptionable conduct.

The Elector had opened the University in 1776, and established a
public reading-room, which he visited with no more ostentation than
any one else. “All these institutions, as I looked upon it, had sworn
allegiance to an unknown genius of humanity, and, for the first time in
my life, my mind had a glimmer of the meaning and majesty of science,”
writes the painter, Gerhard Kuegelgen, and how could Beethoven have
thought differently? He had, it is true, devoted himself so exclusively
to music that he had made very little progress in anything else. In
the use of figures he always found great difficulty, and his spelling
was worse than could be easily tolerated even in his own day, when
orthography was a rather rare accomplishment. He had studied a little
French and Latin. But the breezes of a higher intellectual culture
which, at this time, swept through Bonn and influenced him likewise
through his intimate intercourse with the most highly cultivated people
of the city, soon lifted him to heights unattained by other artists and
musicians of his century--heights from which he continually discerned
new fields of action. As a consequence of this intercourse with the
learned, he acquired intellectual tastes in various directions, and so
seriously occupied himself with things intellectual that they became a
necessity to his nature. He tells us himself that, without laying the
least claim to real learning, it had been his endeavor from childhood
to acquaint himself with what was best and wisest in every age. But
these intellectual leanings did not prevent him from being, as the
painter Kuegelgen said of himself, lovingly devoted to his art. And his
own beloved art of music was, at this very time, cultivated in Bonn
with a greater earnestness and devotion than any other.

The writer referred to above, speaking of the Elector, says: “Not only
did he play himself, but he was an enthusiastic lover of music. It
seemed as if he could never tire of hearing it. Whenever he went to
a concert, he was the most attentive person in the whole audience.”
And no wonder; for the musical instruction given to the children of
Maria Theresa was excellent. Indeed, the art of music in Vienna was
at that time at its height. That city was the scene of the labors of
Gluck, Haydn and Mozart. And so there was only good music to be heard
in the “cabinet” at Bonn. Our Beethoven, now a distinguished pianist,
contributed his share to this; and we need not be surprised to find him
employed by a prince who knew Mozart and loved him.

But it was not musicians alone who were benefited by prince’s
patronage. No sooner did the condition of the country leave him
the necessary leisure, and the state of its finances afford him the
necessary means, than he turned his best attention to the theater and
the orchestra. As far back as 1784, Maximilian Francis had organized
an orchestra, and our young court organist took a place in it as
a player of the tenor violin. The violinist, Ries, and Simrock, a
performer on the French horn, were also members of it. Ries and Simrock
had henceforth much to do with Mozart. The following year, a troupe
visited Bonn, and gave Italian operas, French vaudevilles, as well
as Gluck’s _Alceste and Orpheus_. They were followed by Grossmann,
a person of rare intellect, and one who holds a distinguished place
in the history of German dramatic art. His repertory included the
plays of Shakespeare, Lessing, Schiller and Goethe, with all of whom
Beethoven thus became acquainted early in life. In 1788, Maximilian
Francis established a national theater, and, dating from this, dramatic
poetry and music began to flourish in Bonn, so that it took its place,
in this respect, side by side with Mannheim, Vienna and Weimar, and
became a school well calculated to foster the great abilities of
Beethoven. In the orchestra we find such men as Andreas, Bernhard
Romberg and Anton Reicher, afterwards so celebrated as a writer on
the theory of music. The latter was, at this time, Beethoven’s most
intimate friend and companion in art. Actors, too, come upon the
stage, many of whom subsequently filled all Germany with their fame.
Dramatic works of every description appeared. There was Martin’s _Tree
of Diana_, Mozart’s _Elopement from the Seraglio_, Salieri’s _Grotto
of Trophonius_, Dittersdorf’s _Doctor and Apothecary_, and _Little Red
Riding Hood_, Gluck’s _Pilgrim of Mecca_, besides Paisiello’s _King
Theodore_, and greatest of all, _Don Giovanni_. The music “pleased
connoisseurs;” and _Figaro’s Marriage_ greatly charmed both singers and
the members of the orchestra, who vied with one another to do justice
to that beautiful opera. “The strength of our theater,” says a writer
of the time, characteristically and simply, “lay in our opera.”

This continual contemplation of “characters in tone” played a decided
part in the development of an artist who was destined to infuse into
instrumental music so much of poetical and even of dramatic life.
We are informed that Beethoven’s power of delineating character in
the language of music was so great, even at this time, that when
improvising, which he was very fond of doing, he was frequently
asked “to describe the character of some well-known person.” One
distinguishing peculiarity of the Bonn orchestra had a marked
influence in the development of the great symphonist of the future,
Beethoven. We refer to what has been called “the accurate observation
of musical light and shade, or of the _forte_ and _piano_.” This
musical peculiarity was introduced into the Bonn orchestra by a former
_capellmeister_, Mattioli, “a man full of fire and refined feeling,”
who had learned orchestral accentuation and declamation from Gluck,
and whose musical enthusiasm caused him to be considered the superior
of Cannabich of Mannheim, who played such a part in Mozart’s life, and
who had originated this mode of musical delivery in Germany. He was
succeeded by Joseph Reicha, under whose energetic leadership the Bonn
orchestra reached its highest point of perfection. In the autumn of
1791, we find that entire orchestra in Mergentheim, the seat of the
German order of which Maximilian Francis was Grand Master; and we have
an account of it from Mergentheim which gives us a very clear idea of
Beethoven’s life as a student.

Our informant tells us, in the first place, that he was very much
impressed by an octet of wind instruments. All eight players were, he
says, masters who had reached a high degree of truth and perfection,
especially in the sustaining of tones. Does not this remind one of
Beethoven’s exquisite septet op. 20? How Ries infused life and spirit
into all by his sure and vigorous bowing in the orchestra! What once
could be heard only in Mannheim, we are told, was now heard here--the
close observance of the _piano_ and the _forte_ and the _rinforzando_,
the swell and gradual growth of tone, followed by the dropping of the
same from the utmost intensity to the merest breath. Bernhard Romberg’s
playing is lauded for “perfection of expression and its fine shades of
feeling which appeal to the heart;” his cousin Andreas’s for “taste in
delivery,” and the true art of his “musical painting.” Can we wonder
that Beethoven’s emulation of, and struggling for the mastery with
such men contributed constantly to develop his genius? He is praised
for the peculiar expression of his playing, and above all for the
speaking, significant, expressive character of his fancy. Our informant
says, in closing his account: “I found him wanting in nothing which
goes to make the great artist. All the superior performers of this
orchestra are his admirers. They are all ears when he plays, but the
man himself is exceedingly modest and without pretension of any kind.”

We have now seen what was Beethoven’s technical training both by
practice and example, on the organ and the piano, in the theater and
the orchestra, and how all these were to him a school of musical
composition; for the Bonn orchestra was as conversant with Mozart
and Haydn as we of to-day are with Beethoven. How thoroughly he
comprehended and appreciated Mozart especially, is attested by what
he once said to John Cramer, the only piano player to whom Beethoven
himself applied terms of high praise. The two were walking, in 1799, in
the park in Vienna, listening to Mozart’s concert in C minor. “Cramer!
Cramer!” Beethoven exclaimed, when he heard the simple and beautiful
theme near the close: “We shall never be able to accomplish anything
like that.” “What a modest man!” was the reply. This leads us to say
something of the few beautiful, purely human gifts which were the fruit
Beethoven enjoyed through life, of his youth in Bonn.

In Bonn, lived Madame von Breuning, with her four children, who were
only a little younger than our court organist. Beethoven and one of
the sons, Stephan, received instruction in music from Ries, and were
thus thrown together. But it was not long before our young artist
himself was called upon to teach the piano in the family of Madame von
Breuning. How lonely Beethoven felt after his good mother had succumbed
to her many sufferings and sorrows, we learn from the first letter
of his that has come down to us. We there read: “She was so good and
amiable a mother to me! She was my best friend. O, who was happier
than I while I could yet pronounce the sweet name of mother! There
was once some one to hear me when I said ‘mother!’ But to whom can I
address that name now? Only to the silent pictures of her which my
fancy paints.” But Madame von Breuning became a second mother to him;
and what her home was, we are informed by Doctor Wegeler, afterwards
husband of Madame von Breuning’s daughter Eleonore, for a time one of
Beethoven’s pupils. He writes: “Her home was pervaded by an atmosphere
of unconstrained refinement, spite of an occasional outburst of the
petulance of youth. The boy, Christoph, took very early to the writing
of little poems. Stephan did the same thing at a much later date, and
successfully. The useful and agreeable were found combined in the
little social entertainments of family friends. It was not long before
Beethoven was treated as one of the children. He spent the greater part
of the day in Madame Bruening’s home, and not unfrequently, the night.
He felt at home in the family, and everything about him contributed to
cheer him and to develop his mind.” When it is known, on the authority
of the same Doctor Wegeler, that it was at Madame von Breuning’s home
that Beethoven first became acquainted with German literature, that
there he received his first lessons in social etiquette, it is easy to
estimate the value to him of the friendship of the Breuning family--a
friendship which was never interrupted for a moment during his long
life.

It was while in the enjoyment of this intercourse with the Breuning
family that he felt the first, charming intimations of the tender
passion. Wegeler makes mention of two young ladies, one of whom, a
pretty, cheerful and lively blonde, Jeannette d’Honrath, of Cologne,
was a frequent visitor at the Breuning’s. She took delight in teasing
our young musician, and playfully addressed him, singing:

  “Mich heute noch von dir zu trennen,
  Und dieses nicht verhindern koennen,
  Ist zu empfendlich für mein Herz!”[A]

His favored rival in Jeannette’s affections was a captain in the
Austrian army, by the name of Greth. His name occurs, in 1823, in the
written conversations of our deaf master. He was just as much taken
with the sweet and beautiful Miss W. (Westherhold), but to no purpose.
He called his love for her a “young Werther’s love,” and, many years
after, he told B. Romberg a great many anecdotes about it. What he
thought of his acquaintance with the Breuning family and these two
young persons may be inferred from the words in which he dedicated the
variations _Se vuol ballare_, to his friend Lorchen (Eleonore Breuning)
in 1793: “May this work,” he says, “serve to recall the time when I
spent so many and such happy hours in your home.”

Besides the home of the Breunings, in which Beethoven was always
so welcome, we may mention another--that of Count Waldstein, to
whom the sonata op. 23 is dedicated. The count was very friendly to
Beethoven. He was aware of his genius, and, on that account, afforded
him pecuniary assistance. Yet, to spare the artist’s feelings, this
assistance was made to have the appearance of coming from the Elector.
It may be that it was this same amiable and art-loving young Austrian
who endeavored to keep Beethoven’s eye fixed on the one place in
the world in which he could receive the final touch to his musical
education,--Vienna. The very multitude of Beethoven’s ideas, and
the height to which his intellect had soared, showed him that he was
far from having reached perfection in the artistic representation of
those ideas. His readiness of execution and his wonderful power of
improvisation, even now, assured him victory wherever he went. But the
small number of compositions which he wrote at this time, in Bonn, is
sufficient proof that he did not feel sure of himself as a composer.
And yet he had now reached an age at which Mozart was celebrated as a
composer of operas.

In March, 1790, Haydn, on his journey to London, passed through Bonn,
and was presented to the orchestra by Maximilian Francis, in person.
He returned in the summer of 1792, and as Mozart had died in the
meantime, nothing was more natural than that Beethoven should apply to
the greatest living musician for instruction. The Elector assisted him;
and we may divine how the young musician’s heart must have swelled, now
that he had entered the real wrestling-place in his art, from what,
as we stated before, he said to his teacher Neefe: “If I ever become
a great man,” etc. But what was there that is not expected from such
a person? Waldstein expressed the “realization of his long contested
wishes” by writing in Beethoven’s album: “By uninterrupted industry,
thou wilt acquire the mind of Mozart from the hands of Haydn.” When
the wars of the Revolution swept over the boundaries of France, the
excitement produced was great and universal. Beethoven was affected
only by its ideal side. He was spared the sight of the grotesque
ridiculousness of the _sans culottes_ and the blood of the guillotine.
After a short journey, in November, 1792, Vienna afforded him a safe
retreat which he never afterwards left. It was not long before the
French were masters of the Rhine. Maximilian Francis was obliged to
flee, and thus every prospect of Beethoven’s returning home was lost.

It now became imperative that he should take care of himself. His
two brothers were provided for--Karl was a musician and Johann an
apothecary. They soon followed him to Vienna, where it was not long
before they renewed the scenes of his home life in Bonn. But his own
constant endeavor was to be the creative artist that, as he became
more firmly convinced every day, he was born to be. His studies
under Haydn, then under Schenk, with whom the readers of the Life of
Mozart are familiar from his connection with the opera of the _Magic
Flute_, afterwards under the dry-as-dust Albrechtsberger, the teacher
of counterpoint, and even under Mozart’s deadly enemy, Salieri--were
earnestly and zealously pursued, as is evident from what he has left
after him. But even now his mind was too richly developed and his
fancy too lofty to learn anything except by independent action. Ten of
Beethoven’s works date from the time he lived in Bonn; but, during his
first sojourn in Vienna, compositions flowed in profusion from his pen,
and we cannot but suppose that the germs of many of these last were
sown during the period of his virtuosoship in Bonn. We conclude this
chapter with a list of the works here referred to.

Besides his first attempts at musical composition already mentioned,
a concerto for the piano written in 1784, and three quartets for the
piano written in 1785, which were afterwards made use of in the
sonatas op. 2, we must add, as certainly dating from this period of
Beethoven’s life in Bonn, a ballet by Count Waldstein (1791), a trio
for the piano in E flat, the eight songs of op. 52, which appeared
in 1805, two arias, one of which occurs in this op. as Goethe’s
_Mailied_, a part of the Bagatellen op. 33 which appeared in 1803, the
two preludes op. 39, a minuet published in 1803, the variations _Vieni
Amore_ (1790), a funeral cantata on the death of Joseph II. (1790),
and one on that of Leopold II. (1792), the last of which was submitted
to Haydn and which he thought a great deal of--both of these latter
compositions are lost--an allegro and minuet for two flutes, a rondino
for reed instruments and the string trio op. 3 which appeared in 1796.

In addition to these, there are, in all probability, many other
compositions which were completed during Beethoven’s first sojourn
in Vienna, and published at a still later date; the octet op.
103, after which the quintet op. 4 was patterned before 1797, the
serenade op. 8, which contained the germ of his nocturne op. 42; the
Variations op. 66, on _Ein Maedchen oder Weibchen_, from the _Magic
Flute_ (published in 1798); the variations on _God Save the King_,
the Romance for the violin, both of which appeared in 1805, when
Beethoven’s brother secretly published much of his music; the variation
on _Se vuol ballare_ from Mozart’s _Figaro_; the _Es War Einmal_
from Dittersdroff’s _Little Red Riding Hood_, the “See He Comes,”
the Messias, and a theme by Count Waldstein (appeared 1793, 1797),
the _Easy Sonata_ in C major, dedicated to Eleonore von Breuning;
the prelude in F minor (appeared in 1805), and the sextet for wind
instruments, op. 71, which appeared in 1810.

In his twenty-third year, Mozart could point to three hundred works
which he had composed, among them the poetical sonatas of his youth.
How little of sunshine and leisure must there have been in a life
which, spite of its extraordinary intellectual wealth and activity,
reaped so little fruit! And even if we fix the date when the three
trios op. 1, were composed in this period, when Beethoven was for the
first time taught the meaning of the world and history, by the stormy
movements of the last decade of the last century; and admit that the
two concertos for the piano (op. 19 and op. 15) owe their origin to the
wonderful fantasias with which he charmed the hearts and minds of the
people of Bonn at that time, yet how little did he achieve! This fact
is the most convincing proof of the truth of Beethoven’s own assertion,
that fortune did not favor him in Bonn. Leaving his musical training
out of consideration, Beethoven’s youth was not a very happy one.
Seldom was it brightened for any length of time by the smiles of joy.




CHAPTER II.

1795-1806.

THE EROICA AND FIDELIO.

  Music in Vienna--Society in Vienna--Beethoven’s
    Dedications--Lichnowsky--The Eroica and Fidelio--Beethoven’s First
    Great Exploits--Plans for Future Work--Decides to Remove to the
    North--New Compositions--His Improvisations--Disappointment in North
    Germany--Prince Louis Ferdinand--Makes His Home in Austria--Neglects
    His Health--His Deafness--Origin of the Eroica--Napoleon
    I--Bernadotte--The Symphony in C Minor--His Deafness Again--Thoughts
    of Marriage--The Guicciardi Family--Meaning of His Music--His
    “Will”--Disappointment--Meaning of the Eroica and Fidelio--The
    Lenore Overture--Other Compositions.


The golden age of music in Vienna had not passed away when Beethoven
came to that city. Not the court, but the wealthy nobility, and a great
many circles of the cultured found in music the very soul of their
intellectual life and of a nobler existence. A consequence of this was
that more attention was paid to chamber music than any other; and we
accordingly find that the greater number of Beethoven’s compositions,
written at this period, are of that style of music. Their very
dedications tell us much of the social circles of Vienna, and of the
persons who graced them.

First of all, we have the three trios op. 1, dedicated to Prince Karl
von Lichnowsky. The man who had been the pupil and friend of Mozart
might be glad, indeed, to see a substitute found so soon for that
departed genius. A quartet consisting of the able artists Schuppanzigh,
Sina, Weiss and Kraft, played at his house every Friday. Dr. Wegeler
informs us that Beethoven, in 1794, lived with the Prince, who, at a
later date, paid him a salary of twelve hundred marks. The variations
on _Seht er Kommt_, (See he comes) 1797, were dedicated to his consort,
the Princess Christiane, _nee_ Thun. She prized Beethoven very highly,
and, as he once said of her himself, would have liked to encase him in
glass, that he might be screened from the defiling breath and touch of
the unworthy. The first three sonatas op. 2 are dedicated to J. Haydn,
and they introduce us to his special patron, the Prince Esterhazy, with
whom Beethoven was not very intimate, although the commission to write
the mass op. 86 was given by Nicholas Esterhazy. The quartet op. 4, as
well as the sonatas for violin, op. 23 and 24 (1800), and the string
quintet op. 29 (1801), are dedicated to Count Fries. There is much in
Beethoven’s life to show that he was on terms of close friendship with
this rich “merchant.” The sonata op. 7 (1797), is dedicated to Countess
Keglevics. The first concerto, which was finished in 1794, is dedicated
to the same person, then known as Princess Odescalchi. The trios op. 9,
as well as the brilliant sonata op. 22, belong, by right of dedication,
to the Russian Count Browne, whom Beethoven himself called _le premier
Mecene de sa muse_, and the sonatas op. 10 (1798), to his consort. To
the Countess von Thun, he dedicated the trio op. 11, composed the same
year, and the sonatas op. 12, to Salieri, one of his teachers in Vienna.

How highly Beethoven esteemed Lichnowsky is evidenced by the dedication
to him of op. 14, the _Pathetique_ (1799). In it we find the earliest
expression of Beethoven’s view of music as a voice speaking to man’s
innermost nature, calling to him to live a higher life. To Lichnowsky,
likewise, was dedicated the sonata op. 26 with the beautiful funeral
march (1802). The two lovely sonatas op. 14 of the year 1799, as
well as the sonata for the horn, op. 17 (1800), are dedicated to the
Countess Braun, whose husband gave Beethoven, some years after, the
commission for the _Fidelio_; and the quintet op. 16 which was finished
in 1797 to Prince Schwarzenberg. When we connect the name of Prince
Lobkowitz with the first quartets op. 18, composed in 1797-1800; that
of Baron von Swieten the lover of the well-tempered clavichord with the
first symphony op. 21 (1800), that of the learned von Sonnenfels with
the so-called pastoral sonata op. 28 (1801), we can see the force of
the remark made by J. F. Reichart, that the Austrian nobility of this
period loved and appreciated music better probably than any other in
the history of the world. That they did not continue to do so is due
entirely to the fact of the general disturbance of their pecuniary
circumstances consequent on the wars which came to an end only in 1815,
and which diminished their favorable influence on the cultivation of
the art of music. But our artist had all the advantages of this noble
patronage. He spared no pains nor sacrifice to profit by it. But his
mind could not rest in the mere enjoyment of music. It sought other
and higher spheres. His art was destined to absorb into itself the
whole world of culture, to take an active part in the march of history
and co-operate in giving expression to the ideas of life. The first
real exploits of our artist were the _Eroica_ and the _Fidelio_ with
the Leonore overture; but the path which led to them was one on which
those immediately surrounding him could not very well follow him, and
one which subsequently isolated him personally more and more from his
fellow men.

It was an ill-defined longing for this starry path of a higher
intellectual existence which brought him to the north of Germany, to
Berlin, after he had finished the principal parts of the course in
music under Haydn, Schenk and Albrechtsberger. Not that he did not
meet with recognition and remuneration in his new home. But, after
all, the recognition and remuneration he met with there were such as a
virtuoso might expect. For the present, neither the public nor music
publishers would have much to do with his compositions. Writing to
Schiller’s wife, the young Bonn professor, Fischenich, says of him:
“So far as my acquaintance with him goes, he is made for the great
and the sublime. Haydn has said that he would give him great operas,
and soon be compelled himself to stop composing.” He informs her, at
the same time, that Beethoven was going to set her husband’s Hymn
to Joy--_Freude schoener Goetterfunken_--to music. We thus see that
he, even now, harbored those great ideas which engaged him at the
close of his labors, in the composition of the Ninth Symphony. There
were as yet but few traces to be found in Vienna of the intellectual
awakening to which Germany is indebted for its earliest classical
literature, and the period of its great thinkers in the west and the
north. On the other hand, Beethoven’s own mind was too full of the
“storm and stress” to be able to appreciate the beautiful harmony and
the warmth which had made such phenomena as Haydn and Mozart possible
in South-German Austria. But in the North, the memory of “old Fritz”
still lived; there the stern rule of mind and conscience, generated
by Protestantism, still prevailed, while the firm frame-work of his
own art, the counterpoint of the great Bach, the “first father of
harmony,” as he calls him himself, was there preserved, apparently, in
its full strength. In addition to all this, the court there was fond
of music, and King Frederick William II had endeavored to keep Mozart,
the greatest master of his time, in Berlin; while Beethoven, since the
Elector’s flight from Bonn, had no further prospects in his home on the
Rhine. He, therefore, decided to remove to the North.

We find him on his journey thither at the beginning of 1796. “My
music secures me friends and regard--what more do I want?” he writes
from Prague to his brother Johann, who, in the meantime, had entered
into the employment of an apothecary in Vienna. He here composed the
aria _Ah Perfido_ (op. 65). On his way to Berlin he passed through
Dresden and Leipzig, but of his stay in these two cities, we have no
information. The king received him very graciously; he played a few
times at court and composed the sonatas for cello, op. 5, because
the king himself played the violincello. The very first impression
received by Beethoven seems to have been decisive. K. Czerny, to whom
he taught the piano, tells us something from his own recollection and
observation about him, which is very characteristic of the man, and
shows how sorely disappointed he felt in his most ardent expectations
in Berlin. He says: “His improvisation was very brilliant, astonishing
in the highest degree.... No matter in what society he was thrown, he
made such an impression on all his hearers that it frequently happened
that not a dry eye was to be seen, while many broke into sobs. There
was something wonderful in his expression, besides the beauty and
originality of his ideas, and the highly intellectual way he had of
presenting them. When he had finished an improvisation of this kind he
could break out into a fit of loud laughter and ridicule his hearers
on the emotions he had excited. At times he even felt injured by those
signs of sympathy. ‘Who,’ he asked, ‘can live among such spoiled
children?’ and for that reason alone he once declined an invitation
extended to him by the king of Prussia, after an improvisation of this
kind.”

Beethoven was doomed to a disappointment of a very peculiar kind
here. Instead of the manliness of character which he, coming from the
softer South, expected to find in the North, he was confronted with
a voluptuous luxury to which his art was only a handmaid, and with
an apparent surfeit of music, the natural outgrowth of the French
influence due to Voltaire’s residence in Berlin. Such was not the
spirit of the new era which animated himself, and for the operation
of which he was seeking a proper theater of action. The king himself
did all in his power to make Gluck and Mozart settle in Berlin, and
Handel’s oratorios were played even at the court concerts. But how
could a man like Beethoven have worked side by side with the ruling
leaders in music--with a Himmel and a Rhigini? The only person in
Berlin who seemed to Beethoven a man, in the full sense of the word,
was Prince Louis Ferdinand. With genuine frankness, he remarked of the
prince’s playing that “it was not kingly or princely, but only that
of a good piano player.” But it is probable that from the prince he
borrowed the chivalric and, at the same time, poetico-enthusiastic
character found in his third concerto (op. 37), which was finished in
1800 and dedicated to the prince, “the most human of human beings.”

He played twice in the Singing Academy before its conductor, Fasch,
and his successor, Zelter, Goethe’s well-known friend, when he again
brought the tears to the eyes of his hearers. But he clearly saw from
the example of these two principal representatives of the more serious
taste for music in Berlin, that it was not Bach’s spirit which he was
in search of that ruled there, but only a caricature of it; and this
last was by no means a counterpoise to the Italian style of music,
which still held absolute sway. He returned to Vienna disappointed
in every respect, but with all the greater confidence in himself. He
never again left Austria for good. It became the scene of his grandest
achievements, and it was not long before their history began.

In a small memorandum book used by Beethoven on his journey from Bonn
to Vienna, we find the following passage: “Take courage. Spite of all
physical weakness, my mind shall rule. I have reached my twenty-fifth
year, and must now be all that I can be. Nothing must be left undone.”
The father always represented Beethoven to be younger than he really
was. Even in 1810, the son would not admit that he was forty years
of age. The words quoted above must, therefore, have been written in
the winter of 1796 or 1797; and this fact invests them with a greater
significance than they would otherwise possess; for our artist now saw
that, without the shadow of a doubt, Austria and Vienna were to be his
abiding places; and he, therefore, strained every nerve, regardless
of what the consequences might be, “to be a great man sometime;” that
is, to accomplish something really good in music. This regardlessness
of consequences manifested itself especially in the little care he
seemed to take of his physical well-being. A friend, who had every
opportunity to observe him, Baron von Zmeskall, informs us that “in
the summer of 1796, he came home almost overpowered by the heat, tore
open the doors and windows of the house, took off his coat and vest and
seated himself at an open window to cool himself. The consequence of
his imprudence was a dangerous illness, which ultimately settled on the
organs of hearing. From this time his deafness kept on increasing.”
It is possible that the first symptoms of his deafness did not appear
as early as 1796; but certain it is, that it dates back into the last
decade of the last century, that it was brought about by heedlessness
of his health, and that it became a severe tax on his moral courage.
His genius was so absorbed in his music, that he too frequently forgot
to take care of the physical man. In November, 1796, Stephan von
Breuning remarked of him, that “his travels had contributed to mature
his character; that he was a better judge of men, and had learned
to appreciate the value, but, at the same time, the rarity of good
friends.” The hard trials of life had added to the earnestness of his
disposition, and he was awakening to a full sense of what his own duty
in this world was. This leads us to the first great and memorable work
of his genius--to the _Eroica_, followed soon after by the symphony in
C minor.

When, in the year 1806, one of his friends informed Beethoven of
Napoleon’s victory at Jena, he exclaimed: “It’s a pity that I do not
understand the art of war as well as I do the art of music. If I did
I certainly would conquer him.” These words express a rivalry almost
personal in its nature, and could have been spoken only by a fool or
by a man of power not unlike that of Napoleon himself. And, indeed,
leaving out of consideration men of genius like Goethe and Schiller,
whose fame had been long established on a firm foundation, there were
among his contemporaries men of sovereign ambition, only one person,
Napoleon Bonaparte, able to make any great impression on a man who had
chosen for his motto: “Power is the moral code of men who distinguish
themselves above others; and it is mine, too.” A series of the most
brilliant victories was achieved up to 1798 by the General of the
glorious French Republic, who was of the same age as Beethoven. General
Bernadotte, whose descendants occupy the throne of Sweden in our
day, had participated in those victories. Bernadotte was the French
Ambassador to Vienna in the beginning of 1798. He was young; by his
origin he belonged to the middle class; he was the representative of
the Republic, and could, therefore, indulge, unconstrained, in personal
intercourse with whomsoever he pleased.

The celebrated violinist, Rudolph Kreutzer, to whom Beethoven’s
_Kreutzer Sonata_ (op. 47) is dedicated, was one of his retinue. It
was very natural that once Bernadotte and Kreutzer became acquainted
with Beethoven, their intercourse with him and their friendship for
him, should have been more than usually intimate. Bernadotte, who was
sincerely devoted to Napoleon, and who must have felt himself drawn
still more closely to Beethoven, because of his enthusiasm for the
general, suggested to him the idea of celebrating the exploits of his
hero by a symphony. Beethoven so informed his amanuensis, Schindler, in
1823, and his account is corroborated by other facts, that such was the
first impulse to the composition of the _Eroica_.

But the advocate of power was destined soon to swell to the proportions
of the hero of intellectual courage. “For thus does fate knock at
the gates.” Beethoven used these words in 1823, in speaking “with
uncontrollable enthusiasm” of that wonderful _motive_ at the opening
of the symphony in C minor. The last movement of the work, the
fanfare-like _finale_, so expressive of the joy of victory, shows that
he here described a victory indeed, the surmounting of the obstacles
and darkness of life, even if those obstacles and that darkness
consisted only of “the infirmities of the body.” The sketches of this
movement, however, occur in the draft of the quartet op. 18, and hence
must have been noted down before the year 1800! But the fact that the
melody of the _adagio_ was also found in that sketch shows that he
was even then as certain of mastering sorrow, as he was conscious of
the presence of the “demon in his ears,” and of the sad prospect of a
“wretched” and lonely future--a prospect which stirred him to the very
depths of his soul.

But it was years before these _motives_ took shape in his mind. To
do justice to the great ideas to which they give expression, to the
heroic victory of power and will over whatever opposes them, he had to
concentrate and strengthen all his powers of mind and heart, and to
develop his talents by long exercise. The portraiture of the struggles
and of the artistic creations of the next succeeding years constitutes
the transition to those first great heroic deeds--a transition which
must be understood by all who would understand Beethoven’s music.

The Napoleonic way in which Beethoven, at the close of the last
century, outgeneraled all the most celebrated virtuosos of the time
in Vienna and in Europe, is attested by his triumph over the renowned
pianist Woelffl, in 1799, and his defeat of Steibelt, in 1800. But he
did still more towards achieving success by his works. His numerous
variations won over to him many a fair player of the piano, while his
_Adelaide_, which appeared in 1797, gained for him the hearts of all
persons of fine feeling; so that Wegeler may have told the simple
truth, when he wrote: “Beethoven was never, at least so long as I lived
in Vienna (1794-96), without a love affair; and he occasionally made
a conquest which it would have been very hard, if not impossible, for
many a handsome Adonis to have made.” The “ugly,” pock-marked man, with
the piercing eyes, was possessed of a power and beauty more attractive
than any mere physical charms. And then, there was the charm of his
sonatas: op. 7, with the funeral song in _adagio_, which he is said to
have written in a tempest of “passionate feeling”; of op. 10, with
its genuine masculine profile; of the revolutionary sonata in C minor,
with the mysterious struggle in the _allegretto_ in No. II., and the
brilliant exultation of victory in the _allegro_ in No. III., the
tragic song of the _largo_, the gentle grace of the minuet--here used
exceptionally in the place of the _scherzo_, as we find it already in
op. 1; and, last of all, the droll question of little Snub Nose, in the
_finale_. And yet these were followed by the _Pathetique_, with its
exquisite and enrapturing _adagio_, and the two beautiful love songs,
op. 14; by the six quartets, op. 18, in which he offered to a society
of friends of his art, true songs of the soul and pictures of life
overflowing; by the _adagio_ of No. I, another Romeo-and-Juliet grave
scene; by the _adagio_ of No. VI., descriptive of the melancholy which,
even now, began to gather its dark clouds about Beethoven himself,
whose breast was so well attuned to joy. The descriptive septet (op.
20, 1800,) and the first symphony (op. 21), sketched after the style of
Haydn, but painted with Mozart’s pencil, are the last scenes in what
we may call Beethoven’s older life, which closed with the eighteenth
century. The beginning of the nineteenth opened a new world to our
artist.

The new world thus opened to Beethoven, and the manner in which he
himself conceived it, may be best described in Schiller’s magnificent
verses:

  “Wie schön, O Mensch, mit deinem Palmenzweige
  Stehst du an des Jahrhunderts Neige,
  In edler stolzer Männlichkeit!
  Mit aufgeschlossnem Sinn, mit Geistesfülle,
  Voll milden Ernsts, in thatenreicher Stille,
  Der reifste Sohn der Zeit.
  Frei durch Vernunft, stark durch Gesetze,
  Durch Sanftmuth gross und reich durch Schätze,
  Die lange Zeit dein Busen dir verschwieg.”

And now began for Beethoven a period of severe trials, brought upon him
by himself. Absorbed in work, he neglected to take sufficient care of
his physical health. His trouble with his hearing was increasing, but
he paid no attention to it. His carelessness in this regard reduced him
to a condition in which he would have found no alleviation and no joy,
were it not for the inexhaustible resources he possessed within himself.

But to understand him fully, we must read what he wrote himself,
in June, 1801, to the “best of human kind,” his friend Amenda, in
Kurland, who had left Vienna two years before. He says:

  “Your own dear Beethoven is very unhappy. He is in conflict with
  nature and with God. Many and many a time have I cursed Him because
  He has made His creatures the victims of the smallest accidents in
  nature, and this to such an extent that what promises to be best and
  most beautiful in life, is destroyed. You must know that what was
  most precious to me, my hearing, has been, in great part, lost. How
  sad my life is! All that was dear to me, all that I loved is gone!
  How happy would I now be, if I could only hear as I used to hear!
  If I could, I would fly to thee; but as it is, I must stay away. My
  best years will fly, and I shall not have fulfilled the promise of my
  youth, nor accomplish in my art what I fondly hoped I would. I must
  now take refuge in the sadness of resignation.”

We have here the words to the long-drawn funereal tones of a song as we
find it at the beginning of the celebrated C sharp minor (_Mondschein_)
sonata op. 27 No. II, which belongs to this period. The direct
incentive to its composition was Seume’s poem, _die Beterin_ in which
he gives us a description of a daughter praying for her noble father,
who has been condemned to death. But in this painful struggle with
self, we also hear the storm of passion, in words as well as in tones.
Beethoven’s life at this time was one of sorrow. He writes: “I can say
that I am living a miserable life. I have more than once execrated my
existence. But if possible I shall bid defiance to fate, although there
will be, I know, moments in my life when I shall be God’s most unhappy
creature.” The thunders of power may be heard in the _finale_ of that
sonata. When it was published, the following year, its dedication
ran: _Alla damigella contessa Giulietta Guicciardi_. The celebrated
Giulietta! Her friendship was, indeed, a cheering ray of sunshine in
Beethoven’s “wretched life” at this time. As he writes himself in the
fall of the year 1801:

  “My life is somewhat pleasanter now. I move about among men more than
  I used to. I am indebted for this change for the better to a lovely,
  charming girl who loves me and is loved by me. For two years now I
  have had once more some moments of happiness, and for the first time
  in my life I feel that marriage might make one happy. Unfortunately,
  she does not belong to my social circle. But if I cannot get married
  at the present time, I shall have to mix more among men.”

The family of the imperial counsellor, Count Guicciardi, originally
from Modena, was one of the families of the higher class with whom
Beethoven had formed an intimate acquaintance through his art.
Guicciardi’s wife belonged to the Hungarian family of the Brunswicks,
who were likewise very friendly to Beethoven. We shall yet have
something to say of the Countess Theresa Brunswick, for whom and whose
sister, the charming Countess Deym, the variations for four hands on
_Ich denke dein_, were written in 1800. Countess Giulietta was in
her sixteenth year, and as good as betrothed to Count Gallenberg,
a musician and composer of ballet music. He was, however, in such
pecuniary straits that Beethoven had, on one occasion, to come to his
assistance through a friend. The young girl did not give any serious
thought to a union with the Count, although he belonged to her own
social circle. The attractions of a genuine love had more charms for
her. This same true, genuine love possessed Beethoven’s soul. He writes
to his friend Wegeler:

  “I feel that my youth is only now beginning. Was I not always a
  sickly man? But, for a time, my physical strength has been increasing
  more than ever before, and the same is true of my mental power. With
  every succeeding day I approach nearer to the goal which I feel, but
  cannot describe. Thus only can I live. No rest! I know of no repose
  but sleep, and it sorely pains me that I have now to allot more time
  to sleep than was once necessary. Let me be only half freed from my
  trouble and then, a perfectly mature man, I shall come to you and
  renew our old friendship. You must see me as happy as it is given me
  to be here below. You must not see me unhappy; that is more than I
  could bear. I shall struggle manfully with fate, and be sure, it will
  not overcome me entirely. O, how beautiful it would be to live life
  over a thousand times! But I am not made for a quiet life.”

To this, Beethoven’s elasticity of soul, which lifted him to the height
of joy and of intellectual delight, we are indebted for those works of
his which are models of poetic creation. What became of the traditional
form of the sonata after Beethoven began to tell in song the meaning of
joy and pain and of their wonderful admixture, as he did in the sonata
op. 31, No. II, the first movement of which looks as if thrown off
with a single stroke of the pen? There are the thoughtful questionings
of fate in the opening chord; the jubilant, tempestuous enjoyment
of pleasure; the expression of woe, more terrible in anticipation
than realization, when misery wrings a cry of pain from him, and he
breaks out in recitative--a form of art never before coupled with an
instrument, but which is here more eloquent than words. Sorrow, joy
and genius have now transformed the mere musician into the artist and
the poet. Beethoven, as the master of the intellectual world of tones,
began his career with this sonata in D minor. From this time forward,
his every piece is a psychological picture of life. The form of the
sonata had now fully developed the intellectual germ which in it lay.
It is no longer mere form, but a finite vessel holding an infinite
intellectual treasure as its contents. Even the separate parts of it,
although retained as usual, are henceforth only phases and stages of
the development of that intellectual treasure. They are acts of a drama
played in the recesses of a human soul--in the soul of a man who is
forced to taste, while still he laughs in his melancholy, the tragic
contents of the cup of human life during every moment of his existence.
For thus it was now with Beethoven. The deepest sorrow endows him with
untrammeled serenity of mind. Darkness becomes to him the parent of a
higher light. A humor that weeps through its smiles is henceforth his.

On this sonata followed a symphony with the real Beethoven flavor, the
second symphony (op. 36). It had its origin in the “sublime feeling”
which “animated” him in the beautiful summer days of 1802; as had
also the brilliant _Kreutzer Sonata_ (op. 47). This summer of 1802 is
a memorable one in Beethoven’s life. It brought with it the severest
trials of his courage as a man. These trials transformed him into a
hero, and were the incentives to the composition of the _Eroica_. To
this period belongs the so-called “Heiligenstadt Will,” which discloses
to us the inmost depths of Beethoven’s soul.

His physician had ordered him in October, 1802, to the village of
Heiligenstadt, near Vienna, in a condition of the utmost hopelessness.
Beethoven thought that death was not far off, and, anxious to justify
himself before posterity, he wrote from that place: “O, you men, who
think or say that I am malignant, obstinate or misanthropic, what an
injustice you do me! You know not the secret cause of what you think
you see. From childhood up, my heart and mind have been bent upon the
accomplishment of great deeds; I was ever moved thereto by the feeling
of benevolence. To accomplish such deeds I was always disposed. But
consider that for six--yes, six whole years, I have been in a most
unfortunate condition--a condition which has been made worse by the
stupidity of my physicians; that my hopes, from year to year, of being
cured have been disappointed, and that at last there lies before me
the prospect of permanent ill. Born with an active and even fiery
temperament, a lover of the distractions of society, I had to live in
a state of isolation from all men. How humbled I felt when a person
standing near me could hear a flute that was playing in the distance,
while I could hear nothing! Experiences like this brought me to the
very verge of despair, and I came very near ending my own life. Art
alone held me back. It seemed to me impossible that I should leave
the world until I had accomplished all for which I felt myself so
well fitted. O God, thou seest my heart. Thou seest that it harbors
beneficence and love for human kind. O you men, when you read this,
remember that you have wronged me, and let the unfortunate rejoice to
find one of their number who, spite of the obstacles put in his way by
nature, did all in his power to be admitted into the ranks of artists
and men worthy of the name.”

And now, too, we find in his music the first traces of such appeals
to the Godhead. The text of the six songs of Gellert, op. 48, which
appeared in 1803, are of a religious nature. But, in the domain of
religion, our artist had not yet risen to his full height. He is still
preponderantly the musician of life, force and of the brilliant play
of the intellect; and his compositions are still pre-eminently works
of art and of the fancy. The _Eroica_ (op. 55), which was finished
in 1803, possessed these characteristics in the highest sense of the
word. And now we may understand what he felt himself, as he said in his
“Will,” fitted to accomplish, as well as the mysterious conversation
he had in 1823, with his amanuensis, Schindler, in which he speaks of
this period of his life, and of Giulietta, who had now long been the
Countess Gallenberg, and who had, a short time before, returned from
Naples, where her husband had acted as director of the theater for
years. The conversation in question begins thus: It was held in the
French language--

Beethoven--“She was mine before she was her husband’s or Italy’s, and
she paid me a visit, bathed in tears; but I despised her.”

Schindler--“By Hercules!”

Beethoven--“If I had parted in that way with my strength, as well as my
life, what would have remained to me for nobler and better things?”

Beethoven had said of himself that he had something to do in the
world besides marrying. His ideal was not to live in such cramped
circumstances. He knew of “nobler and better things.” Yet it seems
that he offered his hand to the “lovely, charming girl” in this year
1803, when he began to have a prospect of permanently bettering his
condition, and that Giulietta was not disinclined to marry him.
But family considerations prevented the decisive step; and she was
married in the fall of the same year to Count Gallenberg. “Despising”
her--whether rightly or wrongly we have no means of determining, but we
do know that she was not happy--Beethoven turned to the performance of
the great tasks for which he felt himself fitted.

Our artist’s life, like that of a thousand others, thus proves the
truth of the old saying: the course of true love never did run
smooth. In his earlier biographies this episode has been treated as
a great and even tragic event, because that remarkable letter to his
“immortal love,” of which we shall yet have occasion to speak, was
erroneously supposed to be addressed to Countess Guicciardi and to
refer to this circumstance in his life. But although no more than an
episode, Beethoven could here have mastered his feelings only by the
full consciousness he now possessed of the duty he owed to his genius.
As Liszt says, _le genie oblige_, and Beethoven felt that it was a
duty genius owed to mankind to sacrifice mere ambition and even the
heartfelt happiness that is born of love. The day before Guilietta’s
wedding, he wrote to Macco, the painter: “You paint, and I shall
compose music. In this way, we shall be immortal; yes, perhaps live
forever.” And that our artist had some right to lay claim to such
immortality is proved not only by his sonatas, which are little poems
in themselves, by his songs and quartets, but by mighty and memorable
works which reflect the world-soul. He was working on that grand
creation, the _Eroica_. This sacrifice of his feelings may have been,
and most likely was, forced upon him by the accident of the uncertainty
of his position in life, but that it was not made without a struggle
is manifest from his expression of contempt for Giulietta--_mais je
la méprisais_ but still more from the ideal of the value of faithful
love which now became rooted in his soul, and which we see reflected
in the _Fidelio_, that immediately followed the _Eroica_, and which
presents us with the most beautiful of all female characters. In its
composition, we find united that warmth of heart and that intellectual
in sight so peculiarly Beethoven’s own, and which he so beautifully
embodied in his art. On the golden background of his enthusiasm for
“nobler and better things,” the sweet face of Leonore stands out in
bold relief as the perfect type of human beauty.

Beethoven borrowed the tones of the _Eroica_ from the elevating nature
of humanitarian ideas transferred to the region of public life.
The hero enters, touching with giant hands the foundations of human
existence, which he wants to ameliorate by renewing them. And, indeed,
the First Consul of the French Republic might very well suggest to
him, at the beginning of this century, how heroes act, the jubilation
with which nations greet them, how great existing institutions oppose
their progress, and, finally, overthrow them in their might. The first
movement of the _Eroica_ describes the most varied events in the life
of such a hero with a fullness of episode almost destructive of its
form. In its climax, the real work of the hero is seen; the old order
of things is heard crumbling and falling to pieces in its powerful and
terrific syncopations and dissonant chords, to make place for a new
existence, one more worthy of human beings. But, at the close of the
movement, the victorious hero exultingly yokes the new order of things
to his chariot. This is history, the world’s history in tones; and,
for its sake, we may for the moment shroud the dearest longings of the
heart in the dark robes of resignation.

Beethoven’s fancy as an artist fully comprehended the genius of
liberty, at this time newly born into the world, and a new factor in
the history of mankind. He understood, too, the tragic fate of all
heroes--that they are destined, like all other mortals, to fall, and,
though God-commissioned, to die, that their works may live and prosper.
Bonaparte’s history also suggested the rhythm of the sublime and solemn
step of the funeral march; for, since the days of Cæsar and Alexander,
no man had stepped as did he through the spaces of the existing order
of things. But Beethoven’s poetic fancy soared even now far beyond the
reality that surrounded him. As early as 1802, he wrote to the music
dealers in Leipzig, now so well known as the publishers of the _Edition
Peters_: “Away with you all, gentlemen! To propose to me to write
such a sonata! That might have done in the time when the Revolution
was at fever heat, but now that everything has returned to the old
beaten path, that Bonaparte has concluded a concordat with the Pope,
to write such a sonata--away with you!” It is not Napoleon, therefore,
who is here interred. It is not Napoleon for whom mankind weeps in the
tones of this funeral march. It is the ever-living, ever-awakening
hero of humanity, the genius of our race, that is solemnly borne to
the grave to the rhythm of this wonderful march--a march which has in
it something of the tragic pathos of a Shakespeare or an Æschylus.
Beethoven in this march became a tragic writer of purely instrumental
music, and gave evidence of that quality of soul which made him
indifferent to “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

The two last movements of the work do not convey so powerful an idea
of heroic action. Was it that his powers of imagination flagged, or
that the change in Napoleon’s career made him disgusted with the hero?
We know that when, in the spring of 1804, the copy of the symphony was
finished--the title, proudly and characteristically enough bearing
only two names, “Buonaparte” at the top and “Luigi van Beethoven” at
the bottom--and Beethoven heard of Napoleon’s elevation, he said: “Can
it be that he is no more than an ordinary man? Now he, like others,
will trample all human rights under foot, serve only his ambition and
become a tyrant.” He tore the title page in two, threw the work on the
floor and did not again look at it for a long time. When it appeared
in 1806, it was under the name of the _Sinfonia Eroica_, “composed
to celebrate the memory of a great man.” It was dedicated to Prince
Lobkowitz, who purchased it and caused it to be performed before Prince
Louis Ferdinand, in the fall of 1804. The Prince was so delighted with
it that he had it played three times the same evening in immediate
succession, which was a very great satisfaction to Beethoven.

There is a oneness of spirit in this instrumental fresco painting of
a hero who strives and suffers for the sake of what is most precious
to man, and in Beethoven’s only opera, the _Fidelio_, which made the
latter the natural successor of the _Eroica_. Florestan dared “boldly
to tell the truth,” and this, his entering the lists for right and
freedom, incites his faithful wife, Leonore, to a truly heroic deed.
Disguised in male attire, she enters the prison, and, just in the nick
of time, casts herself between her beloved husband and his murderer.
Her cry--which has in it much of the heroism of death--“kill first
his wife,” is a bit of history showing the enthusiasm of the ideally
great, as it is also the most intense dramatic representation, in
tones, of the full energy of a woman’s love.

In a letter to Amenda, in 1801, he wrote: “I have composed music of
every description, except operas and church music.” But even, a short
time before this, he had something to do with the theater. He had
written the ballet _Prometheus_, which represents in a sense, the
history of the creation of man in choreographic pictures. The success
of this work determined Schikaneder, well known to the readers of
the life of Mozart, and who, at this time, had the direction of the
newly-built theater in Vienna, to engage Beethoven at a large annual
stipend. When this man, Schikaneder, in the same spring of 1803, saw
that the oratorio _Christus am Oelberge_ (Christ on the Mount of Olives)
met with good success, although more theatrical than spiritual in its
character, he commissioned him to write an opera also. The subject was,
probably, _Alexander_--a very suitable one, considering Beethoven’s
own heroic style, and his feeling at the time. But nothing came of it.
There can be no doubt, however, that a piece which he had sketched
and intended to make a part of it, the duet, _O Namenlose Freude_ (O
Nameless Joy), was afterwards embodied in the _Fidelio_. Beethoven had
received a commission to write the latter from Baron von Braun, who had
taken charge of the theater in Vienna, in the year 1804.

At this time, both the Abbe Vogler and Cherubini were writing for the
Viennese. The compositions of the latter met with great success, and
made a powerful impression on Beethoven. In these men he met with foes
worthy of his steel, and inducements great enough to lead him to do
his very best. His severe heart trials and consequent disappointment
had taught him how lonely he was in the world. Breuning wrote of him
in 1804: “You have no idea, my dear Wegeler, how indescribable, and, I
might say, horrible an impression his partial loss of hearing has made
on him.... What must be the feelings of one with such a violent temper,
to meet with such a misfortune! And then his reserve, and his distrust
frequently of his best friend!” A subject like that of the _Fidelio_
must, of itself, have taken strong hold of a man like Beethoven,
because of the powerful scene in which Leonore holds her mortal enemy,
Pizarro, spell-bound, with the pistol in her hand. What must have most
affected him here, however, was the ideal background of suffering for
truth and freedom--for Pizarro was a tyrant--and the fact that a woman
had the power that comes of genuine fidelity to avert every danger from
her beloved husband, even at the risk of her own life. And Beethoven
endowed the work with his exalted and almost transfigured background of
feeling, by means of his music, which here depicts the constitution of
his own nature, and his whole intellectual build. He accurately hits
the decisive climax of the conflict, and gives to the principal actors
so much of real personal character, that we cannot fail to recognize
them, and to understand their action from their inner feelings. This,
in connection with a very powerful declamation, is the continuation
of the dramatic characteristics which we greet in the _Fidelio_. The
development of the operatic form as such is not further carried on
in this work. In his pure instrumental music, even more than in the
_Fidelio_, Beethoven has given form to the language of the soul and to
the great hidden springs of action of the world and human nature.

A period may come when stricter demands may be made on dramatic art,
and when, as a consequence, this work may not have as much charm as
it has for us, because of its fragmentary character. But be this as
it may, in some of its details it will always appeal irresistibly to
the finest feeling. We find in it passages like those in Beethoven’s
improvisation which never failed to draw from his hearers tears of
real happiness. The greater part of this language was, like Mozart’s
Cantilene, rich in soul. Yet melodies like _Komm, Hoffnung, lass
den letzten Stern_, _In des Lebens Fruehlingstagen_ and _O namen,
namenlose Freude_, are of such a character that “humanity will never
forget them.” Like the Holy Grail, they furnish food and light at
the same time, and, like certain forces, produce a greater yield in
proportion as greater demands are made upon them. We frequently find
in it expressions that are simply inimitable, and when this work is
contemplated we see that it bears evidence of a profundity of soul and
of a development of mind which separate--_toto coelo_--Beethoven from
his predecessors, Mozart not excepted. Whole pieces in it are full of
the deepest and warmest dramatic life, made up of the web and woof of
the human soul itself. Such, for instance, are _Wir muessen gleich zu
Werke schreiten_, the chorus of prisoners, the picture of Florestan’s
dungeon, the digging of the grave, and above all the thrilling _Toet’
erst sein Weib!_ (kill first his wife). But the center of all is,
as may be seen from the innumerable and most refined traits of the
music, Leonore, the pattern of heroic fidelity. Her character stirred
Beethoven to the very depths of his soul, for her power of hope and
her devotion to freedom were his own. The work itself was to be called
_Leonore_, as, indeed, the first piano-score was called in 1810.

This work has a meaning in the life of our artist himself, greater,
almost, than its importance as a work of art.

The work required, for its completion, only the spring and summer of
the year 1805. The sketches of it show how carefully the file was used
on its every part. Only the fire of enthusiastic devotion was able to
smelt the ore of the separate arias, duets and terzettoes which make
up the matter of the whole; but this it could not do here fully enough
to produce that natural flow which dramatic taste even now demanded.
Moreover, the storm of war broke upon Vienna and deprived Beethoven’s
hearers of even the calm of devotion. The result was that only the
prima donna Milder-Hauptmann satisfied the public in the character
of Leonore. Besides, Beethoven, as a composer of purely instrumental
music, had not paid sufficient attention to the demands of the human
voice. On the 13th of October, 1805, Napoleon entered Vienna, and after
the 20th the _Fidelio_ was repeated three times; not, however, before
the art lovers of Vienna, but before an audience composed of French
officers. It was received with little applause, and after the first
performance the house remained empty. Beethoven withdrew the work. But
even the critics missed in it at this time “that certain splendor of
originality characteristic of Beethoven’s works.” Our artist’s friends
now gathered about him to induce him to make some abbreviations in the
opera. This was at the house of Lichnowsky. Beethoven was never before
seen so much excited, and were it not for the prayers and entreaties
of the gentle and tender Princess Christiane, he would certainly have
agreed to nothing. He consented at last to drop a few numbers, but
it took six full hours to induce him to do even this. It is easy to
explain this fact: the work was the pet child of his brain. Breuning
now re-arranged the libretto. He made the acting more vivacious and
Beethoven shortened the several pieces still more. The work proved more
acceptable to the public, but Beethoven thought himself surrounded by
a network of intrigue, and, as he had agreed only for a share in the
profits, he once more withdrew the work. We hear no more of it until
1814. We shall see what effect its production had when we reach that
date in Beethoven’s life.

But this re-arrangement led to a new overture and to a new poetical
expression of the subject, to the great _Leonoren-Overture_, known
as No. 3, but which is properly No. 2. Beethoven, in this overture,
lets us hear, as if in the voices of thousands, the depth of pain in
Florestan’s dungeon; the glance of hope that flashes across his mind
when he thinks of his Leonore; the struggle of love with native fear
in the heart of the woman; her daring risk of her own life for her
beloved husband, and in the signal of trumpets, the coming of her
rescuer; the calm joy of the unutterably happy husband, as well as the
boisterous, stormy joy of the prisoners, all of whom get their liberty
with this one slave; and, last of all, the loudest song of praise of
freedom and happiness. The symphonic poem, _Leonore_, as a whole, far
surpasses the dramatic work itself. Together with the _Eroica_, it is
the second monumental work of Beethoven’s genius in this early period
of his musical creations, and proves him a matured master in his art.

The proud path thus entered on, he never left.

Besides the works already mentioned, we may, for the sake of
completeness, mention the following likewise: The _Opferlied_ (1st
arrangement), _Seufzer eines Ungeliebten_, variations _quant’è più
bello_, about 1795; variations to _Nel cor più_ and minuet _a la
Vigano_ which appeared in 1796; sonata op. 49, I, about 1796; sonata
for four hands op. 6, the rondo op. 51, I, and variations to a Russian
dance, in 1797; variations to a Swiss song and _Mich brennt_, 1798;
_Gretels Warnung_, _La partenza_, composed in 1798; variations to
the _La stessa_, _Kind, willst du_ and _Taendeln und Scherzen_, which
appeared in 1799; sonata op. 49, I, composed in 1799; variations in G
major, composed in 1800, serenade op. 25; rondo, op. 51, I; variations,
_Bei Maennern_ which appeared in 1802; terzetto op. 116, sonatas for
violin, op. 30, variations op. 34 and 35, composed in 1802; _Glueck der
Freundschaft_, op. 88 and _Zaertliche Liebe_ which appeared in 1803;
trio variations op. 44 and romance for the violin, op. 40, composed in
1803; three marches op. 45, variations to “Rule Brittannia,” and the
_Wachtelschlag_, 1804; sonata op. 53, together with the _andante_ in F
major, originally belonging to it, the _triple concerto_ op. 56, and
the sonata op. 57, begun in 1804, _An die Hoffnung_, op. 32 and trio
op. 38, which appeared in 1805; fourth concerto op. 58, composed in
1805; trio op. 36, sonata op. 34, which appeared in 1806; _Empfindungen
bei Lydiens Untreue_ belonging probably to 1806.




CHAPTER III.

1806-1812.

THE SYMPHONY C MINOR--THE PASTORALE AND THE SEVENTH SYMPHONIES.

  The Pastorale--Its Composition--Meaning of the Apassionata--Its
    History--Beethoven’s Letter to His “Immortal Loved One”--His Own
    Opinion of the Apassionata--New Acquaintances--Thinks of Writing
    Operas--Court-theater Composer--Overture to Coriolanus--The Mass
    in C., op. 86--His Sacred Music--The Fidelio in Prague--Music
    for Goethe’s Faust--“Power, the Moral Code”--Power Expressed
    in Beethoven’s Music--Character of His Works about this
    Period--Intercourse with the Malfattis--The Cello Sonata, op.
    69--Other Compositions and their Meaning--Improvement in His
    Pecuniary Circumstances--Joseph Bonaparte--Vienna Fears to Lose
    Him--Contemplated Journey to England--The Seventh Symphony--Wagner
    on the Seventh Symphony--His _Heirathspartie_--His Letter to
    Bettina--His Estimate of Genius.


Beethoven’s Heiligenstadt Will, written in the year 1802, closed with
this painful appeal: “O thou, Providence, let one day more of joy dawn
on me. How long have I been a stranger to the heartfelt echo of true
happiness! When, when, O God, can I feel it once more in the temple of
nature and of man. Never? No! O, that were too hard!” Our artist’s
thoughts were thus directed into channels which carried him far from
the scenes immediately surrounding him into regions of a higher
existence--of an existence which he soon described so exquisitely in
the language of music. The _Pastorale_ which celebrates this “Temple
of nature” was originally designated as No. 5, and was, therefore,
intended to be completed before the symphony in C minor. But it would
seem that Beethoven had to go through many an internal conflict, the
result of his great depression of spirits, before he could acquire the
calmness of mind necessary to form a proper conception of the “Peace of
God in Nature,” and to give it proper form and expression in art.

Breuning wrote, on the 2nd of June, 1806, that the intrigues about the
_Fidelio_ were all the more disagreeable to Beethoven because the fact
that it had not been performed reduced him to some pecuniary straits,
and that it would take all the longer time for him to recover, as the
treatment he had received deprived him of a great deal of his love for
his work. Yet the first of the quartets, op. 59, bears the memorandum:
“Begun on the 26th of May, 1806;” and the fourth symphony (op. 60), as
well as the violin concerto (op. 61), also belong to this year. In the
meantime op. 56, which had been begun some time previous, the triple
concerto, op. 57, called the _Apassionata_, and op. 58, the fourth
concerto, were all either continued or finished. What wealth there is
here--in the number of compositions, in their magnitude and in their
contents! The three quartets are dedicated to Count Rasumowsky, who had
given Beethoven the commission to write them, and who had furnished the
Russian melodies on which they are based. How well the _adagio_ of the
second of them points us to that higher region in which Beethoven now
felt himself more and more at home. He himself told Czerny that that
_adagio_ suggested itself to him one night, when he was contemplating
the starry heavens, and thinking of the harmony of the spheres. In the
serene calmness of these vanishing tones, we see the revolution of the
stars mirrored in all its grandeur. Here all pain seems lightened, all
passion stilled. Yet how both had raged even in the _Apassionata_,
the draft of which is to be found immediately following that of the
_Fidelio_. The _Apassionata_ is written in his heart-blood. Its tones
are cries of excitement the most painful. It was finished in the
summer, and dedicated to Count Franz Brunswick. An oil painting of the
count’s sister, Countess Theresa, was found among Beethoven’s effects,
after his death. It bore the superscription: “To the rare genius,
the great artist, the good man. From T. B.” It is supposed that the
letter to his “immortal love,” already referred to, was addressed
to her--and it is truly a letter which gives us a pen-picture of
Beethoven’s condition of mind at that time, and which affords an idea
of the “gigantic sweep of his ideas.” It was found after his death,
together with other important papers, in an old chest, and is dated on
July 6, from a watering place in Hungary. It is rightly supposed to
have been written in the year 1806, in which Beethoven paid a visit to
the Brunswicks. But, be this as it may, it gives evidence of intense
feeling, and shows that Beethoven now dwelt on that sublime height on
which all earthly desires are silent. It seems also to lead us over to
the understanding and appreciation of Beethoven’s subsequent creations,
which henceforth gain an ideal character not of this earth. We can here
touch only on the principal points in these letters.

  “My angel, my all, my other self.” Thus does he begin it on the 6th
  of July, in the morning. He proceeds: “Only a few words to-day, and
  those in lead-pencil, and that your own pencil, dear. Nothing can
  be settled about my dwelling until to-morrow. What a wretched loss
  of time for such trifles! Why this deep affliction where necessity
  speaks? How can our love continue to exist except through sacrifice,
  except by limitation of our desires? Can you change the fact that you
  are not entirely mine nor I entirely yours? Look out on the beauties
  of nature, and resign yourself to what must be. Love asks everything,
  and rightly so. It does in my case. It does in your case. But you
  forget too easily that I have to live for you as well as for myself.
  Were we entirely one, you would feel the pain there is in this as
  little as I.... We shall, I trust, soon meet.... I cannot tell you
  to-day what reflections I have made upon my life, during the past
  forty-eight hours. Were our hearts always close to one another, I
  am sure I should make no such reflections. My heart is too full to
  tell you much. There are moments when I find that language is nothing
  at all. Cheer up; be my faithful, my only pet, my all, as I am all
  yours. The gods must direct the rest in our lives. Thy faithful

                                                                LUDWIG.”

But, on the same dainty little piece of note paper, he continues, for
the mail had already left:

  “You suffer, dearest creature. Wherever I am, you are with me. I must
  try to so arrange it that our life may be one. But what, what a life
  to be thus without you! I am pursued by the kindness of men which I
  do not intend to earn, and yet, which I really do earn. That a man
  should humble himself before his fellow man, pains me; and when I
  consider myself as a part of the universe, what am I, and who is He
  they call the Most High? And yet here, again, we find the divine in
  that which is human.... No matter how great your love for me, my love
  for you is greater still. Never hide yourself from me. Good night!
  Being an invalid, I must go to sleep. Alas, that I should be so near
  and yet so far from you. Is not our love a real firmament of heaven?
  And is it not as firm as the foundation of the heavens?”

He takes up the same piece of paper once more:

  “Good morning, this 7th of July! Even before I rise my thoughts fly
  to you, dear--to you, immortal love, now joyfully, now sadly, waiting
  to see whether the fates will hear our prayer. If I shall live at
  all, it must be with you. I am resolved to wander about far away
  from you, until the time comes when I may fly into your arms, and
  say that I belong to you; until I may send my soul absolved by you,
  dear, into the land of spirits. Yes, unfortunately it must be so.
  You will be all the more composed, since you know how faithful I am
  to you. Another can never possess my heart--never! Why, O God, must
  a man be so widely separated from the object of his love? And yet
  the life I now live in Vienna is so wretched! Your love makes me, at
  once, the happiest and the most unfortunate of men. At my present
  age, there should be some uniformity in my life; but is such a thing
  possible in my present circumstances? Be patient. Only by the patient
  contemplation of our existence can we gain our object and live
  united. Be patient! love me! How I longed and wept for you to-day and
  yesterday; you, my life, my all! Farewell; love me ever, never forget
  the most faithful heart of thy beloved Ludwig. I am ever thine and
  thou forever mine.”

How completely like Beethoven! It was during this very summer that he
completed the _Apassionata_, which he always considered the greatest
of his sonatas, at the home of the Brunswicks. Can it be said that
its language is in anything greater than the language of this letter?
He seems at this time to be nearly always possessed by a feeling of
melancholy. But for this very reason he took refuge more than ever in
music. It was, indeed, a real sanctuary to him, and he refused to open
that sanctuary to the eyes of strangers, and, least of all, to the eyes
of enemies. This he very plainly proved to Prince Lichnowsky during
the fall. Beethoven had left Hungary and was spending some time in
Silesia with the prince. The latter desired him to play for some French
officers who were quartered in his castle. A violent scene immediately
ensued. After it was over, Beethoven left the castle. He refused to go
back with the prince who had followed him, but repaired, post haste,
back to Vienna, in which city the prince’s bust was broken to pieces
as an expiatory sacrifice. It was not long, however, before the old
friendship of the two was re-established.

In the quartet sketches of this year, we find the words: “Just as you
can cast yourself here into the whirl of society, it is possible to
write operas spite of all social impediments. Let the fact that you
do not hear be a mystery no longer, even in your music.” This “whirl
of society” introduces us to some new acquaintances. Count Rasumowsky
held very brilliant soirées, at which the amiable and charming wife
of his librarian, Marie Bigot, performed some of Beethoven’s works in
an exquisite manner. The playing of the elegant and handsome Countess
Marie Erdoedy, whom Beethoven himself called his “father confessor,”
was not inferior to that of Madame Bigot. Other patrons of the musical
art were Madame Dorothea von Ertmann, a charming Frankfort lady, and
the Malfattis, one of whom was Beethoven’s physician. The home of
Streicher, who had married Nanette Stein, daughter of the Augsburg
piano-maker, described in Mozart’s letter of 1777 in so droll a manner,
was the rendezvous of lovers of music. Nor must we forget to mention
Prince Lobkowitz and the Emperor’s youngest brother, the Archduke
Rudolph, Beethoven’s distinguished pupil, who, as our artist himself
admitted, understood music thoroughly.

The chief value, however, of the works quoted above, is that they
inform us how Beethoven, spite of his experience with the _Fidelio_,
was thinking very seriously of the writing of “operas.” If successful
here, his fortune was made, and there was nothing then to hinder the
crowning of his love by marriage. There now seemed to be a very good
prospect of that success, for, in the year 1807, the two court-theaters
passed into the hands of a company of noblemen, with Lobkowitz at
their head. Lobkowitz immediately called upon Beethoven to act as
composer for the Court-theater. Our artist accepted the position, and
bound himself to write at least one great opera and operetta each
year, and to supply whatever other music might be needed. A feeling of
inexhaustible power must have inspired him at this time, when he was
actuated by the tenderest love, with the utmost confidence in self. A
forcible proof of this is the overture which he then wrote to Collins’s
_Coriolanus_. But the gentlemen did not accede to his wishes; they did
not want to trust him as composer of instrumental music in this point;
and thus Beethoven, although not particularly pleased by the action of
his princely friends, was, fortunately for himself and for us, retained
in the field of labor most in harmony with his disposition.

“If it be true that genuine strength and a fullness of deep feeling
characterize the Germans, we must say that Beethoven was, above all,
a German artist. In this, his most recent work, we cannot but admire
the expressiveness and depth of his music, which so grandly painted
the wild, perturbed mind of _Coriolanus_, and the sudden and terrible
change in his fate, while it elicited the sublimest emotion.” These
lines are from an account of a concert given in the _Augarten_ by
Lichnowsky in the spring of 1807. But we have very reliable information
that Beethoven was now engaged on the symphony in C minor and on the
_Pastorale_. Thanks to Clementi, who was doing a large and thriving
music business in London, and to his old friend Simrock, in Bonn, which
was French at the time, he felt at his ease so far as money matters
were concerned. He writes to Brunswick on the 11th of May, 1807: “I
can now hope to be able, in a few years, to maintain the dignity of
a real artist.” And when, in the same letter, we read the farther
passage, “Kiss your sister Theresa. Tell her that I fear that I shall
become great without a monument, to which she has contributed,” we can
understand how love, fame and lofty intuition conspired to fit him for
new and mighty exploits in art.

The next work published by Beethoven was the Mass in C, op. 86,
which Esterhazy gave him a commission to write. But here Beethoven,
even more than in opera, missed the spirit of his subject. The Mass
bears witness to his intellect, and has all the charms of sound; but
it is not a religious composition. When Beethoven himself wrote to
Esterhazy, as he did at this time: “Shall I tell you that it is not
without many misgivings that I shall send you the Mass, for I know
you are accustomed to have the inimitable works of the great Haydn
performed for you,” he proves that he did not understand the real
spirit of church music; for Haydn had, just as little as Beethoven,
a true conception of what church music is. Haydn was now seventy-six
years old, and Beethoven attended a performance of his _Creation_ the
following year, and, with a number of the distinguished nobility,
received the celebrated guest at the door. The fame of the man whom
he was thus called upon to honor, was a type of what his own was
destined one day to be. And what his own fame would be, the production
of the great works he had recently finished, must have enabled him
to foresee. When the Mass was performed, in September, 1807, in
Eisenstadt, our composer had a personal falling out--the result of a
misunderstanding--with Mozart’s pupil, Hummel; and one which was not
made up for for some years. The prince had criticised Beethoven’s Mass
by asking the strange question: “But, my dear Beethoven, what have you
been doing now?” Hummel could not help laughing at this strange mode of
criticism. Beethoven supposed he was laughing at his work; and after
this would have nothing more to do with the prince.

It was otherwise with the magnanimous, noble lover of art, Prince
Lobkowitz, one of the principal grandees of Bohemia, and one of the
principal patrons of the theater. To him Beethoven was indebted for
the suggestion that the _Fidelio_ should be performed in Prague. For
the occasion, Beethoven wrote, in this year, 1807, the overture, op.
138, which is, therefore, to be accounted not the second, but the third
_Leonore_ overture. The performance of the _Fidelio_, however, did
not take place until 1814, the same year in which it was performed in
Vienna. In the following summer (1808), it was publicly announced that
“the gifted Beethoven had conceived the idea to put Goethe’s Faust to
music, as soon as he could find any one to prepare it for the stage.”
The first part of Faust had appeared in 1807, as a “tragedy;” and,
as we shall see, the poem made a deep impression on our artist. Long
after, and even on his death-bed, it occupied his thoughts. But he had,
even now, written some Faust music--the symphony in C minor. To it we
now turn, for it is one of the greatest of Beethoven’s creations.

We have seen how Beethoven himself once said: “Power is the moral code
of men who distinguish themselves above others.” And so we hear how
one person described him as “power personified;” how another said of
him that “a Jupiter occasionally looked out through his eyes:” and
a third, that “his magnificent forehead was the seat of majestic,
creative power.” Spurred on by the opposition of “fate,” that is,
by what nature had denied him, we see this power appear in all its
concentration and sublimity. The power which has created, and which
preserves all things, has been called “will,” and music, one of its
immediate phenomena, while the other arts are only reflections of that
will, and reflect only the things of the world. In the first movement
of the symphony in C minor, we feel the presence of this power or
personal will, to an extent greater than in any other work of art. It
there appears in fullest action, in all its nobility. The symphony
might not inappropriately have been called the Jupiter-symphony;
for it is a veritable head of Jove, such as only a Phidias could
have imagined. Melody has been described as the history of the will
illuminated by reason, and the sonata-form of the symphony is just such
kind of melody. And it is this fifth symphony of Beethoven’s, which,
more than any other, tells us the most secret history of that personal
will, of all its strivings and motions. No type in any art, could have
suggested a Siegfried to Richard Wagner. Here Beethoven’s genius acts
as force, as will, and as the conscious intelligence of the prototype
of the Great Spirit. Yet when the work was performed in Paris, Hector
Berlioz heard his teacher, Lessieur, say of it--and this, although he
was deeply moved by it--“but such music should not be heard.” “Don’t
be afraid,” was the reply, “there will be little of that kind of
music written.” How correct was the insight of the gifted Frenchman!
Siegfried’s _Rheinfahrt_, in the _Goetterdaemmerung_, is music of “that
kind.”

But it is only the night of sorrow that gives birth to the
concentration of power. It is only by great effort that this energy
can be maintained. And as Coriolanus finely presses all the darts
aimed at him by his mother into her own heart, in defying sacrifice,
so we find, in the background of this holiest and most manly will, the
consciousness of the variety and transitory character of all things.
In his heart of hearts, Beethoven feels that fate has knocked at his
door, only because in his following the dictates of force and action,
he has sinned against nature, and that all will is only transitoriness
and self-deception. The _adagio_ expresses subjection to a higher will.
The consciousness of this highest act of the will, to sacrifice one’s
self and yet to preserve one’s freedom, gave birth to the song of
jubilation in the _finale_ which tells not of the joy and sorrow of one
heart only; it lifts the freedom which has been praised and sought for
into the higher region of moral will. Thus the symphony in C minor has
a significance greater than any mere “work of art.” Like the production
of religious art, it is a representation of those secret forces which
hold the world together.

The consciousness of this deeper, intimate dependence of all things on
one another, is henceforth seen like a glimmer of light in the darkness
which gathered around him, and it continues to beautify and transfigure
his creations.

The _Pastorale_ immediately followed the symphony in C minor. It
gives expression to the peace of nature and to the fulfillment of
the saying: “Look out on the beauties of nature and calm your soul
by the contemplation of what must be.” While the fourth symphony
compared with the fifth, is a symphony and nothing more--even if
it be Beethoven’s--we plainly discover in this sixth, the poetic
spirit, the pure feeling of God. The idea and character it illustrates
constitutes in Beethoven’s life the transition from the external beauty
of nature to the comprehension of the eternal. Over it is written:
“Recollections of country life,” but also, “More an expression of
feeling than a painting.” “The Beethovens loved the Rhine,” the young
playmates of the boy Ludwig were wont to say, and he wrote himself to
Wegeler: “Before me is the beautiful region in which I first saw the
light as plainly and as beautiful as the moment I left you.” On a
leaf, written in his own hand, we find the words: “O the charm of the
woods--who can express it?” But now that he was compelled to live a
solitary life, nature became to him a mother, sister and sweetheart.
He looked upon the wonders of nature as into living eyes; she calmed
him who was naturally of such a stormy temperament, and to whom life
had been unkind in so many ways. In the _Scene am Bach_ (Scene by the
Brook), the waters murmur peace to his soul; and the birds by the
brooklet, in Heiligenstadt, where these two symphonies were finished,
whisper joy. His _Lustiges Zusammensein der Landleute_, infuses new
courage into the heart, and when his _Gewitter und Sturm_, tells of the
might of the Eternal, the shepherds express their joyful and grateful
feelings in the words: _Herr wir danken dir_. The _finale_, like the
_Chorphantasie_ (op. 80), planned in 1800 but not finished until 1808,
was intended to contain a chorus expressing in words the joyful and
thankful feeling of the people. Beethoven’s own personal experience
is always expressed in his music. A more intimate acquaintance with
nature gave it to him to find yet deeper expression for the feelings
which it excites in our hearts, as its everlasting change enabled him
to conceive the eternal and imperishable.

We now turn to a whole series of new and brilliant creations of our
hero. It would seem as if his intercourse with the eternal in nature
had given him new life.

During these years, Beethoven’s intimacy with the Malfattis and their
two charming daughters, was a great source of pleasure to him. His
feelings towards them may be inferred from the following passages in
his notes to his friend Gleichenstein. He writes: “I feel so well when
I am with them that they seem able to heal the wounds which bad men
have inflicted on my heart.”... “I expect to find there in the _Wilden
Mann_ in the park, no wild men, but beautiful graces.” And again: “My
greetings, to all who are dear to you and to me. How gladly would I
add--and to whom we are dear???? These points of interrogation are
becoming, at least in me.” Gleichenstein married the second daughter,
Anna Malfatti, in 1811. To the young dark-eyed Theresa, who made her
debut in society about this time, and whom he writes of as “volatile,
taking everything in life lightly” but “with so much feeling for all
that is beautiful and good, and a great talent for music,” he sends
a sonata, and recommends Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister and Schlegel’s
translation of Shakespeare. We thus see that his intercourse with the
family had that intellectual foundation which Beethoven could not
dispense with, on anything. It would even seem as if, in his enthusiasm
to put his strength to the test of new deeds, even his “eternal loved
one” should fade from his view.

The cello sonata (op. 69) dedicated to his friend Gleichenstein
immediately followed the _Pastorale_. The two magnificent trios
dedicated to Countess Erdoedy, with whom he resided at this time,
follow as op. 70. The first movement of the trio in D major is a
brilliantly free play of mind and force, while the _adagio_ suggests
Faust lost in the deep contemplation of nature and its mysteries. The
whole, on account of the mysterious awe expressed by this movement has
been called by musicians the _Fledermaustrio_, i. e., the bat-trio.
The _Leonore_ is numbered op. 72. It was published in 1810. Op. 73,
the most beautiful of all concertos, was dedicated to the Archduke
Rudolph. We have further, op. 74, the harp-quartet, dedicated to Prince
Lobkowitz, and the fantasia for the piano, op. 77, to his friend
Brunswick; lastly, the sonata in F sharp major, op. 78, very highly
valued by Beethoven himself, dedicated to his sister Theresa. Verily
“new acts” enough, and what glorious deeds!

This brings us to the year 1809, which witnessed a change for the
better in Beethoven’s pecuniary circumstances. He now received a
permanent salary. On the 1st of November, 1808, he wrote to the
Silesian Count, Oppersdorf,--whom he had visited in the fall of 1806,
in company with Lichnowsky, and who gave him a commission to write
a symphony, which the count, however, never received--as follows:
“My circumstances are improving without the assistance of people who
entertain their friends with blows. I have also been called to act as
_capellmeister_ to the King of Westphalia, and perhaps I may obey the
call.” The following December, Beethoven gave a great concert, the
programme of which embraced the two new symphonies, parts of his Mass,
the concerto in G minor, and the _Chorphantasie_. He himself improvised
at the piano. The attention of people far and near was called anew
to this great and grave master in music, whom the sensualist Jerome
Bonaparte endeavored to attract to his Capua in Cassel, and they became
anxious lest he might leave Vienna. Beethoven’s friends bestirred
themselves to keep him in Vienna, as did Beethoven himself to stay.
This is very evident from the letters to Gleichenstein and Erdoedy.
Three friends of his, to whom it was largely due that he wrote one of
his greatest works, were instrumental in keeping him in Vienna. They
were the Archduke Rudolph, Prince Lobkowitz and Prince Kinsky, to whose
wife the six songs, op. 75, are dedicated. The sum guaranteed amounted
to eight thousand marks. “You see, my dear good Gleichenstein,” he
writes, on the 18th of March, 1809, _a propos_ of the “decree” which he
had received on the 26th of February, from the hands of the archduke,
and which imposed on him no duty but to remain in Vienna and Austria,
“how honorable to me my stay here has become.” He could not, however,
have meant seriously what he added immediately after: “The title of
imperial _capellmeister_ will come to me also;” for what use had a
man like the Emperor Franz for such an “innovator” at his court? The
dedications of his works mentioned above were simply testimonials of
gratitude for the friendship thus shown him.

He now planned an extensive journey, which was to embrace England,
and even Spain. He writes to Gleichenstein: “Now you can help me get
a wife. If you find a pretty one--one who may perhaps lend a sigh to
my harmonies, do the courting for me. But she must be beautiful; I
cannot love anything that is not beautiful; if I could I should fall
in love with myself.” The coming war interrupted all his plans. But,
at the same time, it suggested to the imagination of our artist, that
wonderful picture of the battle of forces, the seventh (A major)
symphony (op. 92), which Richard Wagner has called the “apotheosis
of the dance.” Germany now first saw the picture of a genuinely
national war. Napoleon appeared as Germany’s hereditary foe, and
the whole people, from the highest noble to the meanest peasant rose
up, as one man, to fight the battle of freedom. The march is, after
all, only the dance of war, and Beethoven gathered into one picture
of instrumentation, the glad tramp of warlike hosts, the rhythm of
trampling steeds, the waving of standards and the sound of trumpets,
with a luminousness such as the world had never witnessed before. The
poet needs only see the eddy created by a mill-wheel to paint the
vapor and foam of Charybdis. In the case of Beethoven, this joy in the
game of war was, as the character of Bonaparte, on another occasion,
a stimulant to his imagination, which now painted a picture of the
free play of force and of human existence from the material of recent
historical events. And even in after years the timeliness of this work
and the spirit which called it into existence were evident. And, as
we shall soon see, it constituted the principal part in the musical
celebration, when, in 1813, the real war of emancipation occurred and
led to a most decided victory. Personally, Beethoven felt himself
not inferior to the mighty conqueror in natural power, and, like
Schiller, he clearly foresaw the awakening of the national genius which
overthrew Napoleon. To this second-sight of the prophet, possessed by
every genuine poet--to this sure presentiment of ultimate triumph--our
artist owed it, that, even in the days of Germany’s greatest ignominy
and subjection he sang of the disenthrallment of the mind and of the
jubilation of victory. Napoleon defeated the Austrians again. But as
Beethoven first felt the weight and the power of resistance of Germany
after the battles of Aspern and Wagram, he now depicted (after Napoleon
had taken the Emperor’s daughter to wife and seemed predestined to
become the despot of all Europe), in the _scherzo_ and _finale_ of
the seventh symphony, better than ever before, the jubilation of the
victorious nation, with all its popular feasts and games. Yet, in the
melancholy second part, with its monotonous beats on the _dominante_,
we think we hear the gloomy rhythm of a funeral march. This exceedingly
characteristic theme is found at the very beginning of a sketch-book of
the year 1809.

Affairs were for a time in a very bad condition in Vienna and all
Austria. The burthen of taxation was severely felt. Everything was at
a standstill. When his beloved pupil, the Archduke Rudolph retreated
from Vienna he wrote the _Lebewohl_ of the sonata op. 81^a; but its
_finale_ (_die Ankunft_) was not written until the 30th of January,
1810. The summer was a dreary one to Beethoven, and there was no demand
for the exercise of his genius. Following Ph. E. Bach, Kirnberger,
Fux and Albrechtsberger he prepared the _Materiellen zum Generalbass_
(materials for thorough-bass) for his noble pupil. This work was
subsequently but wrongly published under the name of _Beethoven’s
Studien_. On the 8th of September, a charity concert was given at
which--to the disgrace of the period, be it said, for Napoleon had only
just left Schoenbrunn--the _Eroica_ was performed, Beethoven himself
holding the baton. The rest of the summer he hoped to spend in some
quiet corner in the country. He sojourned sometime with the Brunswicks
in Hungary, and composed those works of his genius, op. 77 and 78. His
genius, indeed, seems to have awakened to a new life during this fall
of 1809. For the sketch-book of the seventh symphony (op. 92) contains
sketches of the 8th (op. 93) also; and Beethoven contemplated giving
another concert at Christmas, at which, of course, only new works
could be performed. These sketches are followed by drafts for a new
concerto. On these drafts we find the words: _Polonaise fuer Clavier
allein_, also _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_--“finish the overture”
and “detached periods like princes are beggars, not the whole.” He
here takes up once more those ideas of his youth, but with a grander
conception of their meaning. They constitute the intellectual germ of
the _finale_ of the ninth symphony. But the melody which he actually
noted down was elaborated in 1814 into the overture op. 115 (_Zur
Namensfeier_).

During this period of Germany’s national awakening, the theaters had
again turned their attention to Schiller’s dramas. The effect of this
was to revive Beethoven’s youthful ideas. He now desired to give _Tell_
a musical dress. He had already received a commission of this kind
for the _Egmont_, and, on the occasion of his receiving it, he gave
expression to a remarkable opinion. Said he to Czerny: “Schiller’s
poems are exceedingly difficult to set to music. The composer must
be able to rise high above the poet. But who can rise higher than
Schiller? Goethe is much easier.” And, indeed, his _Egmont_ overture
breathes a higher spirit and takes a loftier flight than Goethe’s
beautiful tragedy. The composition of this music led to his more
intimate acquaintance with the poet. To this same year, 1810, belong
the incomparable songs _Kennst du das Land_, and _Herz mein Herz_, in
op. 75.

This year, 1810, brings us to a somewhat mysterious point in
Beethoven’s life, to his _Heirathspartie_ (marriage speculation).

In the spring, he writes to his friend Zmeskall: “Do you recollect the
condition I am in--the condition of Hercules before Queen Omphale?
Farewell, and never again speak of me as the great man, for I never
felt either the weakness or the strength of human nature as I do now.”
But writing to Wegeler on the second of May, he says: “For a couple of
years I have ceased to lead a quiet and peaceful life. I was carried by
force into the world’s life. Yet I would be happy, perhaps one of the
very happiest of men, were it not that the demon has taken up his abode
in my ears. Had I not read somewhere that man should not voluntarily
take leave of life while he is still able to do one good deed, I should
long have departed hence, and by my own act. Life is very beautiful,
but, in my case, it is poisoned forever.” He asked for the certificate
of his baptism, and this in a manner so urgent that it creates
surprise. It was three months before the answer to the enigma was
found, and Breuning wrote that he believed that Beethoven’s engagement
was broken off. But it continues a mystery, even to this day, who his
choice was. It has been surmised that it was his “immortal loved one,”
or Theresa Brunswick. But we know nothing certain on this point. True,
he had now acquired both fame and a position which raised him above all
fear of want. But she was thirty-two years old, and he hard of hearing.
In addition to this, there was, on his side, a relationship of the
nature of which we shall yet have something to say. Her passion, if
such there was on her part, must have been prudently concealed; and it
is certainly remarkable that, from this time forward, her name is not
mentioned by Beethoven. However, her niece, Countess Marie Brunswick,
who is still living, expressly writes: “I never heard of any intimate
relation nor of any love between them, while Beethoven’s profound love
for my father’s cousin, Countess Guicciardi, was a matter of frequent
mention.” But Giulietta had at this time long been Countess Gallenberg.
The solution of this mystery, accordingly, belongs to the future.

On the other hand, we have a few notes to Gleichenstein, who married
the younger Malfatti, the following year. In one of them we read: “You
live on still, calm waters--in a safe harbor. You do not feel or should
not feel the distress of the friend who is caught in the storm. What
will people think of me in the planet Venus Urania? How can one judge
of me who has never seen me? My pride is so humbled, that even without
being ordered to do so, I would travel thither with thee.” And, in the
other: “The news I received from you cast me down again out of the
regions of happiness. What is the use of saying that you would send
me word when there was to be music again? Am I nothing more than a
musician to you and to others? Nowhere but in my own bosom can I find a
resting-place. Externally, to myself there is none. No, friendship and
feelings like it have only pain for me. Be it so, then. Poor Beethoven,
there is no external happiness for you. You must create your own
happiness. Only in the ideal world do you find friends.” The sketch of
that and Klaerchen’s song _Freudvoll und leidvoll_ were found in the
possession of Theresa Malfatti. When Gleichenstein was engaged, the
feelings of the man who had been so bitterly deceived overflowed. But
how could the young girl of eighteen dare to do what the grave Countess
would not venture? Theresa Brunswick died unmarried. Theresa Malfatti
married, in 1817, one Herr von Drossdick. Nevertheless, Beethoven’s
intercourse with the family continued.

We next hear of his acquaintance with Bettina Brentano which led to his
meeting Goethe in person.

Her brother Francis had married a Miss Birkenstock, of Vienna.
Beethoven had been long and well acquainted with the Birkenstock
family. Bettina Brentano herself was betrothed to Achim von Arnim, and
her deep love of music had inspired her with a genuine affection for
Beethoven. One beautiful day in May, she, in the utmost simplicity
of heart, went, in company with her married sister, Mrs. Savigny, to
Beethoven and met with the very best reception. He sang for her _Kennst
du das Land_, with a sharp and unpleasant voice. Her eyes sparkled.
“Aha!” said Beethoven, “most men are touched by something good. But
such men have not the artist’s nature. Artists are fiery and do not
weep.” He escorted her home to Brentano’s, and after this they met
every day.

Bettina at this time sent Goethe an account of the impression made on
her by Beethoven’s appearance and conversation. Her charming letters
are to be found in the Cotta _Beethovenbuch_. They show how exalted
an idea Beethoven had of his own high calling. She writes: “He feels
himself to be the founder of a new sensuous basis of the intellectual
life of man. He begets the undreamt-of and the uncreated. What can such
a man have to do with the world? Sunrise finds him at his blessed
day’s work, and at sunset he is as busy as at early morning. He forgets
even his daily food. O! Goethe, no Emperor or King is as conscious of
his power and of the fact that all power proceeds from him, as is this
man Beethoven.” And Goethe, who “loved to contemplate and fix in memory
the picture of real genius,” who well knew “that his intellect was
even greater than his genius, and who frequently throws from himself a
luminousness like that of lightning, so that we can scarcely tell, as
we sit in the darkness, from what side the day may break,” invited him
to Carlsbad, whither he was wont to go every year.

The two remarkable letters to Bettina of the 11th of August, 1810,
and the 10th of February, 1811, the autographs of which have since
been found, show us how deeply the heart of our artist was stirred
by love at this time. They are to be found in “Beethoven Letters.” A
work of his composed about this time, the _Quartetto serioso_, op.
95, of October, 1810, throws some light on this love, and yet it
rises far above the pain and the sorrow of the situation in which
he found himself. Heavy thunders announce Vulcan at work; but in the
_finale_, how Beethoven’s giant mind frees itself from itself! The
noble, powerful soaring Trio op. 97 dates from the spring of 1811,
and, especially in the _adagio_, gives evidence of wonderful heartfelt
bliss. But the fact that in this period no other compositions were
written would go to show the influence of bitter experience. It may
be, however, that the commission he received for the plays “The Ruins
of Athens” and “King Stephen,” took up the best portion of his time;
and, besides, the two symphonies had to be finished. The song _An die
Geliebte_ also belongs to this year 1811, as well as the principal
draft of op. 96, the charmingly coquettish sonata for the violin
which was finished in 1812, on the occasion of the visit of the then
celebrated violin player Rode to Vienna.

Beethoven’s work on these two plays took up the summer of 1811, but
they were not put upon the stage until the spring of 1812. At the same
time, an opera was wanted for Vienna. It was the “Ruins of Babylon.”
He also received an invitation to Naples, where Count Gallenberg
was director of the theater. We next find him traveling to Teplitz,
a bathing place, where he formed a more intimate acquaintance with
Varnhagen, Tiedge and Elise von der Recke. Amalie Sebald, a nut-brown
maid of Berlin, twenty-five years of age, was stopping with Elise.
Amalie had a charming voice, and was as remarkable for her intellectual
endowments as for her beauty of physique. Beethoven, spite of his many
disappointments, was greatly taken with her. Her picture is before
us. Her eye betokens intellect and nobility of soul, and her mouth
extreme loveliness. Beethoven subsequently wrote to Tiedge: “Press
the Countess’s hand for me very tenderly, but very respectfully. Give
Amalie a right loving kiss, when no one is looking.” He did not see
Goethe on this occasion. He was at Teplitz again the following year,
when his meeting--of which so much has been said and written--“with
the most precious jewel of the German nation,” as he called Goethe,
when writing to Bettina, occurred. We can here give only the principal
incidents of that event.

The Austrian imperial couple, their daughter, the Empress of France,
the King of Saxony, the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and a great many Princes
were there. The company already in the place was joined by Goethe, the
jurist Savigny and his brother-in-law, A. von Arnim, together with his
charming wife, Bettina. Beethoven himself writes on the 12th of August,
1812, to his Archduke in Vienna:

  “I was in Goethe’s company a great deal.” And the poet, writing
  to Zelter, passes the following judgment on Beethoven: “I became
  acquainted with Beethoven in Teplitz. His wonderful talent astounded
  me. But, unfortunately, he is an utterly untamed character. He is
  not, indeed, wrong in finding the world detestable. Still, his
  finding it detestable does not make it any more enjoyable either to
  himself or to others. But he is very excusable and much to be pitied.
  His hearing is leaving him. He is by nature laconic, and this defect
  is making him doubly so.”

The remarkable incident related in the third letter to Bettina, a
letter which has been widely read and the authenticity of which
has been much contested--for the original does not seem to be
extant--Bettina herself describes in a letter to Pueckler-Muskau.
Goethe, she says, who had received many marks of attention from the
Princes present, was desirous of testifying his special devotion to
the Empress, and in “solemn, unassuming expressions” signified to
Beethoven that he should do the same. But Beethoven replied: “What! You
must not do so. You must let them clearly understand what they possess
in you; for if you do not, they will never find it out. I have taken
quite a different course.” And then he told how his Archduke once sent
him word to wait, and how, instead of doing so, he went away. Princes
might indeed, he said, decorate one with the insignia of an order, or
make a man a court counsellor, but they could never make a Goethe or a
Beethoven. To such men they owed respect. The whole court now came in.
Beethoven said to Goethe: “Keep my arm; they must make way for us.”
But Goethe left him and stood aside with his hat in his hand, while
Beethoven, with folded arms, went through the midst of them and only
touched his hat. The court party separated to make place for him, and
they had all a friendly greeting for our artist. He stood and waited
at the other end for Goethe, who bowed profoundly as the court party
passed him. Now Beethoven said: “I have waited for you, because I
honor and respect you, as you deserve, but you have done them too much
honor.” Then, it is said, Beethoven ran to them, and told them all that
had happened.

That his behavior, on this occasion, was not by any means dictated
by any over-estimation of himself, but by a deep human feeling of
equality--an equality which the artist finds it harder than any one
else to assert and acquire--the whole course of Beethoven’s life, as
well as his intercourse with people at this bathing place at Teplitz,
proves. He there found Miss Sebald again. A series of very tender
notes written to her tells us of his heartfelt and good understanding
with this refined and clever North German lady, who made greater
allowances for his natural disposition than were wont to be made. He
writes in 1816: “I found one whom, I am sure, I shall never possess.”
His admission that, for five years--that is from 1811,--he had known
a lady to be united to whom he would have esteemed it the greatest
happiness he could have on earth, was made in this same year. But, he
added, that was a happiness not to be thought of; union with her was
an impossibility, a chimera! And yet he closed with the words: “It is
still as it was the first day I saw her. I cannot dismiss the thought
of her from my mind.” He did not know that Amalie Sebald had been the
wife of a councillor of justice named Krause. Again did he give vent to
his feeling in the songs _An die ferne Geliebte_--“to the distant loved
one”--which bear the date; “in the month of April, 1816.”

This was the last time that Beethoven seriously concerned himself
about marriage. Fate would indeed have it that he should soon become a
“father,” but without a wife. Yet no matter what the personal wishes
of our artist through the rest of his life may have been, or what the
wants he felt, his eye was ever fixed on a lofty goal; and it was
in the ideal world that he found his real friends. He finished the
seventh symphony, and after it the eighth, in this fall of 1812. The
coquettish _allegretto scherzando_ of the latter was suggested by
the Maelzl metronome invented a short time before, and the strange
minuet with its proud step is a hit at the high court society whom
Beethoven so solemnly warned that the times of the old regime, when
the principle _l’état c’est moi_ obtained in society, were passed.
These works are clearly expressive of the free and progressive spirit
of a new and better age. It was the seventh symphony especially that,
in the broadest sense, opened to Beethoven himself the hearts of that
age. This symphony helped celebrate the newly-won peace established
by the Congress of Vienna. Beethoven now entered a new stage of
development, and rose to his full height as an artist and a man. Other
works composed by Beethoven during this period are the following: 82
variations (1806-7); _In questa tomba_ (1807); _sonatine_ (op. 79);
variations op. 76 and _Lied aus der Ferne_ (composed 1809); _die laute
Klage_ (probably 1809); Sextett op. 8^b. _Andenken_, _Sehnsucht_ by
Goethe; _der Liebende_, _der Juengling in der Fremde_ (appeared in
1810); three songs by Goethe, op. 83, (composed in 1810); Scotch songs
(commenced in 1810); four ariettes, op. 82, (appeared 1811); trio in
one movement and three _equale_ for four trombones, (composed in 1812)
the latter of which was re-arranged as a dirge for Beethoven’s burial.




CHAPTER IV.

1813-1823.

THE MISSA SOLEMNIS AND THE NINTH SYMPHONY.

  Resignation--Pecuniary Distress--Napoleon’s Decline--The
    Battle-Symphony--Its Success--Beethoven’s Own Estimate of
    It--Wellington’s Victory--Strange Conduct--Intellectual
    Exaltation--His Picture by Letronne--The Fidelio Before the
    Assembled Monarchs--Beethoven the Object of Universal
    Attention--Presents from Kings--Works Written in 1814 and
    1815--The Liederkreis--Madame von Ertmann--His Nephew--Romulus
    and the Oratorio--His “Own Style”--Symphony for London--Commission
    from London--Opinion of the English People--His Songs--His Missa
    Solemnis--His Own Opinion of It--Its
    Completion--Characteristics--The Ninth Symphony.


“Resignation, the most absolute and heartfelt resignation to thy fate!
Thou shouldst not live for thyself, but only for others. Henceforth
there is no happiness for thee, but in thy art. O God, grant me
strength to conquer myself. Nothing should now tie me to life.” With
this cry of the heart, taken _verbatim_ from his diary of 1812,
Beethoven consecrated himself to the noble task which after this he
never lost sight of--of writing “for the honor of the Almighty, the
Eternal, the Infinite.”

The national bankruptcy of Austria did not leave Beethoven unaffected.
It compelled him, besides, to come to the assistance of his sick
brother, Karl. The first thing, therefore, that he felt called upon
to undertake, in order to provide himself with the mere means of
subsistence, was the public representation of his new compositions.
It was not long before an occasion of an extraordinary kind offered,
an occasion which lifted Beethoven’s creations to the dignity of one
of the motive powers of the national life of the period. The star of
Napoleon’s destiny was declining; and the gigantic struggle begun
to bring about the overthrow of the tyrant of Europe, enlisted the
sympathy and active participation of our artist.

“To abandon a great undertaking and to remain as I am! O, what a
difference between the un-industrious life I pictured to myself so
often! O, horrible circumstances which do not suppress my desire to
be thrifty, but which keep one from being so. O, God! O, God! look
down on thy unhappy Beethoven. Let this last no longer as it is.” Thus
did he write in May, 1813, in his diary. Madame Streicher, interested
herself in him in his pecuniary embarrassment, which was so great
that at one time, he did not have so much as a pair of boots to leave
the house in. He writes: “I do not deserve to be in the condition I
am--the most unfortunate of my life.” The payments due him from Kinsky
did not come, because of his sad death, and Prince Lobkowitz’s love of
music and the theater had greatly embarrassed him financially. Even
the giving of a concert which he contemplated had to be abandoned in
consequence of the bad times.

The idea of a journey to London now took possession of him all the
more strongly because of the straits to which he was reduced. This
journey was, doubtless, the “great undertaking” referred to above. It
is deserving of special mention here, because to it we are indebted for
the ninth symphony.

Maelzl, the inventor of the metronome, had built a panharmonicum, and
was anxious to make the journey to London in company with Beethoven.
He had had the burning of Moscow set for his instrument; and he
now wanted a musical representation of the next great event of the
time--Wellington’s victory at Vittoria. He suggested the idea to
Beethoven. Beethoven’s hatred of Napoleon and love of England induced
him to adopt it, and this was the origin of the _Schlachtsymphonie_
(battle-symphony) op. 91. For, in accordance with Maelzl’s proposition,
he elaborated what was at first a trumpeter’s piece into an
instrumental composition. It was performed before a large audience “for
the benefit of the warriors made invalids in the battle of Hanau.”
And--, irony of fate!--a work which Beethoven himself declared to be a
“piece of stupidity,” took the Viennese by storm, and at a bound, made
him very popular in Vienna.

It was performed on the 12th of December, 1813. The applause was
unbounded. All the best artists of the city were with him. Salieri,
Hummel, Moscheles, Schuppanzigh, Mayseder, and even strangers like
Meyerbeer, assisted him. The Seventh Symphony was the ideal foundation
of the entire production, for that symphony was the expression of the
awakening of the heroic spirit of the nation. Anton Schindler, of whom
we have already spoken more than once, and of whom we shall have more
to say in the sequel, as Beethoven’s companion, writes: “All hitherto
dissenting voices, with the exception of a few professors of music,
finally agreed that he was worthy of the laurel crown.” He rightly
calls the production of this piece one of the most important events in
Beethoven’s life; for now the portals of the temple of fame were opened
wide to receive him; and if he had had nothing “nobler or better” than
this to do in life, he certainly would never again feel the want of the
good things of this world.

His next concern was to turn the occasion of the moment to advantage,
to give some concerts with _Wellington’s Victory_, and thus obtain
leisure to work. Pieces from the “Ruins of Athens” also were played
at these concerts. The success of one aria in particular from that
composition suggested to one of the singers of the court-opera the
idea of reviving the _Fidelio_. It then received the form in which
we have it to-day. And what a hold the character of Leonore still
had on our artist’s soul, we learn from the account of the dramatic
poet, Treitschke, who again tried to abridge the text. He had given
expression to the last flash of life in the scene in Florestein’s
dungeon, in the words:

  “Und spür’ ich nicht linde, sanft säuselnde Luft?
    Und ist nicht mein Grab mir erhellet?
  Und seh’, wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft
    Sich tröstend zur Seite mir stellet,
  Ein Engel, Leonoren, der Gattin so gleich,
  Der führt mich zur Freiheit ins himmlische Reich.”

“What I now tell you,” he continues, “will never fade from my memory.
Beethoven came to me in the evening. He read, ran up and down the
room, murmured, growled, as he usually did instead of singing, and
tore open the pianoforte. My wife had frequently begged him in vain to
play. To-day he placed the text before him and began playing wonderful
melodies, which unfortunately no charm could preserve. The hour passed.
Beethoven, however, continued his improvisation. Supper was served but
he would allow no one to disturb him. It grew quite late. He then put
his arms about me and hurried home. A few days after the piece was
finished.”

At this time he wrote to Brunswick: “My kingdom is in the air. My
soul trills as the winds warble;” to Treitschke: “In short I assure
you, the opera will win the crown of martyrdom for me.” Thus Leonore’s
sorrows and victory found expression a second time; for now the
so-called _Fidelio_ overture (E major) was composed. At its performance
on the 23d of May, 1814, Beethoven was after the very first act,
enthusiastically called for and enthusiastically greeted. The applause
increased with every succeeding performance.

Beethoven was now one of the best known characters in Vienna. He
had, even before this, given several concerts of his own, and at
several others music composed by him had been performed. His picture
by Letronne appeared at this time. “It is as natural as life,” said
Dr. Weissenbach. He had, on the 26th of September, received with his
music of the _Fidelio_, the assemblage of monarchs who had come to
attend the Congress of Vienna; and what was more natural than that
he should now greet them with something new in the nature of festal
music? He did this with the cantata, _der Glorreiche Augenblick_
(“the glorious moment”) op. 136. The production of it took place
in the ever memorable Academy, on the 29th of November, 1814, when
Beethoven, before a “parterre of kings,” and what was more, before
the educated of Europe, by the mere assistance of his art, helped
celebrate the solemn moment which did away with oppression and tyranny
and marked the beginning of a new and happier period. His audience
was numbered by thousands, and “the respectful absence of all loud
signs of applause gave the whole the character of worship. Every one
seemed to feel that never again would there be such a moment in his
life.” This extract is from Schindler’s account, yet, at certain places
“the ecstasy of all present found expression in the loudest applause,
applause which drowned the powerful accompaniment of the composer.” The
_Schlachtsymphonie_ (battle-symphony) as well as the seventh symphony,
contributed to the achievement of this victory. After it was over, he
wrote to the archduke: “I am still exhausted by fatigue, vexation,
pleasure and joy.” But to get an idea of the overpowering impression
made on him by those days, we must refer to his diary of the following
spring, when all that he had then experienced took a definite form in
his feelings and consciousness. He then writes:

  “May all my life be sacrificed to the sublime. May it be a sanctuary
  of art.... Let me live, even if I have to have recourse to
  ‘assistance,’ and such means can be found. Let the ear apparatus be
  perfected if possible, and then travel! This you owe to man and the
  Almighty. Only thus can you develop what is locked up within you.
  The court of a prince, a little orchestra to write music for, and to
  produce it, for the honor of the Almighty, the Eternal, the Infinite.
  Thus may my last years pass away, and to future humanity....”

He breaks off here as if he did not need to express an opinion on what
he aimed at achieving and left after him as an inheritance. But the
reputation which he had acquired is correctly described as “one of
the greatest ever won by a musician.” And now, more than ever before,
he was the object of universal attention, especially at the brilliant
entertainments given by the Russian ambassador, count Rasumowsky, to
the monarchs present, on one of which occasions he was presented to
them. The Empress of Russia wished to pay him a special “compliment.”
She did so at the palace of Archduke Rudolph, who thus helped
celebrate the triumph of his honored teacher. At a court concert on
the 25th of January, 1815, he accompanied the _Adelaide_ for Florestan
Wild himself; and Schindler closes his account of it with the words:
“The great master recalled those days with much feeling, and with a
certain pride once said that he had made the great pay their court to
him, and that with them he had always preserved his dignity.” He thus
verified what, as we saw alone, he had said to Goethe: “You must let
them clearly understand what they possess in you.”

The “assistance” he longed for came in the form of presents from
monarchs, especially of the “magnanimous” one of the Empress of Russia,
for whom he, at that time, wrote the polonaise, op. 89. These presents
enabled him to make a permanent investment of twenty thousand marks,
which his friends were very much surprised to find he owned, after
his death. But, although by “decree” he drew yearly the sum of 2,700
marks, his principal source of income continued to be derived from his
intellectual labor; for his dearly beloved brother Karl died and left
him, as an inheritance, so to speak, his eight-year-old son, named
after his father--the mother not being a fit person to take care of the
child, and, besides, not enjoying the best of reputations. Beethoven’s
struggles for his “son,” _the unfortunate nephew_, with the mother,
whom he was wont to call the “queen of the night,” filled the next
succeeding years of his life with legal controversies and negotiations
to such an extent that they seem to have hindered him in his work.
Extreme trouble of mind, brought about by the social and political
degeneration of Vienna immediately after the Congress, soon entirely
obscured the lustre of the days we have just described; and it was
only for short moments of time, as on the occasion of the celebrated
concert of the year 1824, that we see his old pride and fame revive.
The works performed at that concert were the _Missa Solemnis_ and the
Ninth Symphony. The former was a token of gratitude and devotion to the
Archduke Rudolph, but at the same time a reflection of the soul of the
artist himself as we have heard him describe it above. The symphony
was written “for London;” whither in these saddening times his eyes
were directed, and which, although he never undertook the contemplated
journey thither, became the incentive to the composition of many
important works.

Among the works which date from 1814 and 1815, we may mention the
sonata, op. 90, a “struggle between the head and the heart,” addressed
in the summer of 1814 to Count Moritz Lichnowsky on the occasion of his
marriage to a Vienna singer; the song _Merkenstein_ (op. 100), composed
in the winter of 1814; Tiedge’s _Hoffnung_ (op. 94), composed after
the last court concert for the singer Wild; the chorus _Meeresstille
und Glueckliche Fahrt_ (op. 112), which was written in 1815, and in
1822, “most respectfully dedicated to the immortal Goethe;” lastly, the
magnificent cello sonatas, op. 102, dedicated to Countess Erdoedy, who
became reconciled with him once more during this winter, after there
had been a variance between them for a time. He calls the first of
these sonatas the “free sonata,” and, indeed, freedom now became the
characteristic of his higher artistic pictures. The _adagio_ of the
second discloses to us, in the choral-like construction of its theme,
the prevailing religious direction taken by his thoughts, which is also
apparent in very many expressions and quotations to be found in his
diary.

We have already mentioned the _Liederkreis_, op. 98. Beethoven worked
at it and at the sonata op. 101 at the same time. The latter, an
expression of the deepest poetry of the soul, was ready the following
year, and was dedicated to Madame von Ertmann, his “dear Dorothea
Caecilia,” who, because she thoroughly understood the meaning of
Beethoven’s music, became a real propagandist of his compositions for
the piano. In 1831, Mendelssohn could say that he had “learned much”
from her deeply expressive execution. The noble lady had lost her only
son during the absence of her husband in the wars of emancipation;
and Beethoven had rescued her from a condition of mind bordering on
melancholy, by coming to her and playing for her until she burst into
tears. “The spell was broken.” “We finite creatures with an infinite
mind are born only for suffering and for joy; and we might almost say
that the best of human kind obtain joy only through their sorrow.”
Thus spoke Beethoven to Countess Erdoedy, and this little incident
confirms its truth. His own sufferings gave our artist the tones of his
musical creations, and these creations were to him “the dearest gift of
heaven,” and, as it were, a consolation from on high.

But to continue our biography.

When, after a violent contest with the mother, he was made sole
guardian of his nephew, and could then call him his own, he seems, as a
lady whose diary is embodied in the little book _Eine stille Liebe zu
Beethoven_, informs us, to gain new life. He devoted himself heart and
soul to the boy, and he wrote, or was unable to write, according as the
care of his nephew brought him joy or sorrow. We can readily understand
how it came to pass that he now penned the words found by the lady
just mentioned, in a memorandum book of his: “My heart overflows at
the aspect of the beauties of nature--and this without her.” His
“distant loved one” was still to him the most valued possession of his
life--more to him, even, than himself.

He had now in view several great projects--among them an opera,
_Romulus_, by Treitschke, and an oratorio for the recently founded
“Society of the Friends of Music,” in Vienna. The latter failed,
through the niggardliness of the directors, and the former was not
finished, although our artist never gave up the intention of completing
it. In the autumn of 1816, an English general, Kyd, asked Beethoven to
write a symphony, for two hundred ducats. But as the general wanted it
written in the style of his earlier works, Beethoven himself refused to
accept the commission. Yet this narrow English enthusiast had excited
Beethoven’s imagination with glowing accounts of the harvest of profit
he might reap in England, and as Beethoven had recently sold many
of his works there, and as, besides, the new “Philharmonic Society”
had handsomely remunerated him for these overtures, his intention
of crossing the Channel began to assume a more definite form. His
_Schlachtsymphonie_ (battle-symphony), especially, had already met
with a very flattering reception in England. And a project was on foot
in that country, even now, to give him a “benefit” by the production
of his own works; and such a “benefit” was actually given for him
there when he was on his death-bed. He wrote in 1816 that it would
flatter him to be able to write some new works, such as symphonies and
an oratorio, for the Society which embraced a greater number of able
musicians than almost any other in Europe.

His diary covering this period to 1818, published in the work _Die
Beethovenfeier und die deutsche Kunst_, because of the many items of
interest it has in it, contains these characteristic lines: “Drop
operas and everything else. Write only in your own style.” But even
the sketches of the Seventh Symphony had the remark accompanying them:
“2. Symphony in D minor,” and those of the eighth: “Symphony in D
minor--3. Symphony.” Belonging to the years succeeding 1812, we find
drafts of the _scherzo_ of the Ninth Symphony. The headings above given
undoubtedly had reference to this last, but the sketches of the first
movement, decisive of the character of such a work, are not to be found
until the year 1816, but then they are found with the physiognomy so
masculine and so full of character which distinguishes this “symphony
for London.” He once said of Englishmen that they were, for the most
part, “clever fellows;” and he--of whom Zelter wrote to Goethe, that
“he must have had a man for his mother”--felt that, in England, he,
as a man, had to do with men, and, as an artist, to enter the list
with Handel, whose own powerful influence was due to his decided
manfulness of character. And then, had not England produced a tragic
poet like Shakespeare, whom Beethoven loved above all others? Deep,
tragic earnestness, and a masculine struggle with fate, are here the
fundamental tone and design of the whole. “And then a cowl when thou
closest thy unhappy life”--such is the conclusion of the lines quoted
above, in which he says that he must write “only in his own style.”

And now, in July, 1817, came from London the “direct commission” he had
so long endeavored to obtain. The Society desired to send him a proof
of their esteem and gratitude for the many happy moments his works had
given them to enjoy, and invited him to come to London to write two
great symphonies, promising him an honorarium of three hundred pounds
sterling. Beethoven immediately accepted the commission, and assured
them that he would do his very best to execute it--honorable as it was
to him, and coming as it did from so select a society of artists--in
the worthiest manner possible. He promised to go to work immediately.
“He believed that he could nowhere receive the distinction which his
gigantic genius--in advance of his age by several centuries--deserved,
as he could in Great Britain. The respect shown him by the English
people, he valued more than that of all Europe besides. The feeling he
had of his own powers may, indeed, have contributed to make him prefer
the English nation to all others, especially as they showered so many
marks of distinction on him.” Thus writes one of his most intimate
friends in Vienna, Baron Von Zmeskall, already mentioned; and certain
it is that he did his very best on this work. It, as well as the
symphony in C minor, is of the true Beethoven type--more so, perhaps,
than any other of his works--the full picture of his own personal
existence and of the tragedy of human life in general. This work was
followed by the Tenth Symphony, the “poetical idea,” at least, of
which we know. The first movement was intended to represent a “feast of
Bacchus,” the _adagio_ a _cantique ecclesiastique_, a church hymn, and
the _finale_ the reconciliation of the antique world, which he esteemed
so highly with the spirit of Christianity, into the full depth of which
he came to have a deeper insight every day that passed. We see that he
had lofty plans, and that no poet ever soared to sublimer heights than
he. We must bear these great plans and labors of Beethoven in mind if
we would rightly understand his subsequent life--if we would comprehend
how, in the desolate and distracted existence he was compelled
henceforth to lead, he did not become a victim of torpidity, but that,
on the contrary, the elasticity of his genius grew greater and greater,
and that his creations gained both in depth and perfection.

Thus do we see with our own eyes at least one of his works born of his
own life.

The songs _Ruf von Berge_ and _So oder so_, were composed in the winter
of 1816-17; and in the following spring, after the sudden death of one
of his friends, the chorus _Rasch tritt der Tod_, from Schiller’s
Tell. “O God, help me! Thou seest me forsaken by all mankind. O hard
fate, O cruel destiny! No, no, no, my unhappy condition will never
end. Thou hast no means of salvation but to leave here. Only by so
doing canst thou rise to the height of thy art. Here thou art immersed
in vulgarity. Only one symphony, and then away, away, away!” Thus
does he write in his diary. He next, in 1817, finished the quintet
fugue, op. 137, and, in 1818, the great sonata for the Hammer-clavier,
op. 106. The _adagio_ of the latter is the musical expression of
earnest prayer to God. Its first movement shows how he had soared
once more to the heights of his art. “The sonata was written under
vexatious circumstances,” he says to his friend Ries; and to a younger
fellow-artist, the composer Schnyder von Wartensee: “Go on. There is
no calmer, more unalloyed or purer joy than that which arises from
ascending higher and higher into the heaven of art.” Such, too, was
his mood in those days when he promised his friend Zmeskall the trio
for the piano in C minor, his op. 1, worked over into the quintet op.
104; for he wrote: “I rehearse getting nearer the grave, without
music, every day.” In keeping with this is the song, _Lisch aus, mein
Licht_, “Put out my light,” which also belongs to this period. The
supplication: “O hear me always, Thou unspeakable One, hear me, thy
unhappy creature, the most unfortunate of all mortals,” found in his
diary, belongs to this same time. It is now easy to see that he was in
a very suitable frame of mind when he resolved, in 1818, to write a
solemn mass for the occasion of the inauguration of his distinguished
pupil as Archbishop of Olmutz. It was the “little court,” the “little
orchestra” for which he wished to write the music “for the honor of
the Almighty, the Eternal, the Infinite;” for the Archduke thought of
making him his _capellmeister_ there. After four years’ labor, the
_Missa Solemnis_, op. 123, was finished. Beethoven called it “_l’œuvre
le plus accompli_, my most finished work.” And, like the _Fidelio_, it
is deserving of this characterization, but more on account of the pains
taken with it and the labor expended on it than of its matter.

“Sacrifice again all the trivialties of social life to thy art. O, God
above all! For Providence eternal omnisciently orders the happiness
or unhappiness of mortal men.” With these words from the Odyssey, he
resolved to consecrate himself to this great work. And it was a resolve
in very deed. For, as in opera, he knew that he was here bound by
traditionary forms--forms which, indeed, in some details afforded rich
food to his own thoughts, but which, on the whole, hindered the natural
flow of his fancy. We now approach a period in Beethoven’s life in
which he was strangely secluded from the world. The painter, Kloeber,
the author of the best known portrait of Beethoven, and which is to
be found in _Beethoven’s Brevier_--it was painted during the summer
of 1818--once saw him throw himself under a fir tree and look for a
longtime “up into the heavens.” In some of the pages of his written
conversations--for it was now necessary for him to have recourse to
putting his conversations on paper more frequently on account of his
increasing deafness--he wrote in the winter of 1819-20: “Socrates and
Jesus were patterns to me;” and after that: “The moral law within us
and the starry heavens above us.--Kant!!!” Just as on the 4th of March,
1820, he wrote:

  “Ernte bald an Gottes Thron
  Meiner Leiden schoenen Lohn.”

This was the time of the struggles with the mother of his “son” and of
the heartfelt sorrow he had to endure on account of the moral ruin of
the poor boy himself, who, always going from the one to the other, did
not really know to whom he belonged, and who, therefore, deceived both.
“From the heart--may it in turn appeal to hearts!” He wrote these words
on the score of the mass; and Schindler, who was now his companion,
says that “the moment he began this work his whole nature seemed to
change.” He would sit in the eating-house sunk in deep thought, forget
to order his meals, and then want to pay for them. “Some say he is
a fool,” wrote Zelter to Goethe in 1819. And Schindler tells us “he
actually seemed possessed in those days, especially when he wrote the
fugue and the _Benedictus_.” That fugue, _Et vitam senturi_ (life
everlasting!) is the climax of the work, since the depiction of the
imperishableness and inexhaustibleness of Being was what Beethoven’s
powerful mind was most used to. The wonderful _Benedictus_, (Blessed
is he who cometh in the name of the Lord) whose tones seem to float
down from heaven to earth, the bestowal of help from on high, was
subsequently the model used by Wagner for his descent of the Holy
Grail, the symbol of divine grace, in the prelude to the _Lohengrin_.
“When I recall his state of mental excitement, I must confess that I
never before, and never after this period of his complete forgetfulness
of earth, observed anything like it in him.” So says Schindler. They
had gone to visit him in Baden, near by, whither he repaired in the
interest of his health, and where he loved so well to “wander through
the quiet forest of firs” and think out his works. It was four o’clock
in the afternoon. The door was closed, and they could hear him
“singing, howling, stamping” at the fugue. After they had listened to
this “almost horrible” scene, the door opened, and Beethoven stood
before them, with trouble depicted on his countenance. He looked as
if he had just gone through a struggle of life and death. “Pretty
doings here; everybody is gone, and I have not eaten a morsel since
yesterday noon,” he said. He had worked the previous evening until
after midnight; and so the food had grown cold and the servants left in
disgust.

His work assumed greater and greater dimensions as he himself gradually
rose to the full height of the subject. He no longer thought of
completing it for the installation ceremonies. It became a grand fresco
painting--a symphony in choruses on the words of the mass. He now
began to work more calmly, and to compose at intervals other works,
in order to quiet his over-excited mind and to earn a living for his
“dear” nephew. And thus, while he was composing his mass, he produced
not only the _Variirten Themen_, op. 105 and 107, which Thompson, of
Edinburg--who had sent Beethoven the Scotch songs like op. 108 to be
arranged--had ordered, but also the three _Last Sonatas_, op. 109,
dedicated to Bettina’s niece, Maximiliane Brentano, to whose excellent
father he was indebted for ready assistance during these years of his
pecuniary embarrassment; also op. 110, which was finished at Christmas,
1821, as op. 111 was on the 13th of January, 1822. It is said that
he entertained a higher opinion himself of these sonatas than of his
previous ones. They are greatly superior, however, only in some of
their movements; and they are written in the grand, free style of that
period, especially the _arietta_ in the last opus, the variations of
which are real pictures of his own soul. In the intervals between
them, however, we find some trifles such as the _Bagatellen_, op. 119,
which his pecuniary condition made it imperative he should compose,
since, “as a brave knight by his sword, he had to live by his pen.”
And even the “_33 Veraenderungen_” (variations), op. 120, on the works
of Diabelli, of the year 1822-23, are more the intellectual play of
the inexhaustible fancy of an artist than the work of the genuine
gigantic creative power which Beethoven undoubtedly possessed. He had
overtaxed his strength working on the mass, and thus exhausted it for
a moment. The two chorus-songs, op. 121^b and op. 122, the _Opferlied_
and _Bundeslied_, which date from the year 1822-23, bear the stamp of
occasional compositions, which they, in fact, are.

But in the meantime the lion had roused himself again. He now only
needed to give the finishing touch to the Mass, and in the spring of
1823 the entire work was completed. The summer of 1822 found him fully
engaged on the composition of that monument to his genius, the Ninth
Symphony. Freedom from the torment of exhausting labor, and the entire
surrender of himself to “his own style,” gave his fancy back its old
elasticity and all its productive power. Scarcely any year of his life
was more prolific of works than this year 1822.

“Our Beethoven seems again to take a greater interest in music, which,
since the trouble with his hearing began to increase, he avoided almost
as a woman-hater avoids the sex. To the great pleasure of all, he
improvised a few tunes in a most masterly manner.” Thus do we read in
the Leipzig _Musikzeitung_, in the spring of 1822, and the Englishman,
John Russell, gives us a charming description of such an evening in
the Cotta _Beethovenbuch_. Weisse’s droll poem, _Der Kuss_ (the kiss)
op. 128, is found among the serious sketches of this year. And now he
received a whole series of commissions. An English captain, named
Reigersfeld, wanted a quartet, and Breitkopf and Haertel an operatic
poem worthy of his art, before he “hung up his harp forever.” Others
asked for other kinds of music. “In short,” he writes to his brother
Johann, “people are fighting to get works from me, happy, unhappy
man that I am. If my health is good, I shall yet be able to feather
my nest.” Friederich Rochlitz brought him, too, a commission from
Breitkopf and Haertel to write “music for Faust.” Rochlitz gives us a
very interesting account of Beethoven’s appearance and whole mode of
life at this time. Not Beethoven’s neglected, almost savage exterior,
he says, not his bushy black hair, which hung bristling about his head,
would have stirred him; what stirred him was the whole appearance of
the deaf man who, notwithstanding his infirmity, brought joy to the
hearts of millions--pure, intellectual joy. But when he received the
commission, he raised his hand high up and exclaimed: “That might be
worth while. But I have been intending for some time to write three
other great works--two great symphonies, very different from each
other, and an oratorio. I shudder at the thought of beginning works of
such magnitude. But once engaged on them, I shall find no difficulty.”
He spoke of the Ninth Symphony, to which he had now begun to give the
finishing touches, in all earnestness.

This was interrupted for a short time by the overture, _Zur Weihe des
Hauses_ (op. 124), for the opening of the renovated Josephstadt theater
with the “Ruins of Athens,” of 1812. It is the portal to the temple
in which art is praised as something consecrated to the service of
mankind--as a thing which may lift us for blissful moments into the
region of the purifying and elevating influences of higher powers.
Even in this work, which dates from September, 1822, we may hear the
solemn sound and rhythm of the Ninth Symphony. And, indeed, after a
memorandum on the “Hungarian Story,” we find in the sketches of it the
words, “Finale, _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_,” together with the
wonderfully simple melody itself, which sounds to humanity’s better
self like the music of its own redemption. Beethoven’s own nature was
deeply moved at this time. Weber’s _Freischuetz_, with Wilhelmine
Schroeder, afterwards so celebrated, had excited the greatest
enthusiasm. Rossini’s reception in Vienna was “like an opeotheosis;”
and Beethoven was determined to let the light of his genius shine
forth, which he could do only by writing a work “in his own style.”
The world was “his for another evening,” and he was anxious to turn
that evening to account. And, indeed, had he not a world of sorrows
to paint--sorrows which actual life had brought to him? He had also a
world of joys--joys vouchsafed to him by his surrendering of himself to
a higher life.

An incident which occurred during this fall of 1822 tells us
something of this gloomy night of his personal existence. Young
Schroeder-Devrient, encouraged by her success with _Pamina_ and
_Agathe_, had chosen the _Fidelio_ for her benefit, and Beethoven
himself was to wield the baton. Schindler tells us how, even during
the first scene of the opera, everything was in confusion, but that
no one cared to utter the saddening words: “It’s impossible for you,
unfortunate man.” Schindler finally, in response to Beethoven’s
own questioning, wrote something to that effect down. In a trice,
Beethoven leaped into the parterre, saying only: “Quick, out of here!”
He ran without stopping to his dwelling, threw himself on the sofa,
covered his face with his two hands, and remained in that position
until called to table. But, even at table, he did not utter a word. He
sat at it, the picture of the deepest melancholy. Schindler’s account
of the incident closes thus: “In all my experience with Beethoven,
this November day is without a parallel. It mattered not what
disappointments or crosses misfortune brought him, he was ill-humored
only for moments, sometimes depressed. He would, however, soon be
himself again, lift his head proudly, walk about with a firm step, and
rule in the workshop of his genius. But he never fully recovered from
the effect of this blow.”

The performance itself brought out, for the first time, in all its
completeness, musico-dramatic art, in the representation of the scene,
“Kill first his wife.” Richard Wagner, who has so highly developed this
musico-dramatic art, admits that he acquired the real idea of plastic
shaping for the stage from Schroeder-Devrient. To it, also, Beethoven,
owed it that he was invited, during the same winter (1822-23), to
compose a new opera. It was Grillparzer’s _Melusine_, but the intention
to compose it was never carried into effect.

We have now reached the zenith of the life of Beethoven as an artist.
Besides the Ninth Symphony, he finished only the five last quartets
which beam in their numerous movements like “the choir of stars about
the sun.” The welcome incentive to the composition of these last came
to him just at this time from the Russian, Prince Gallitizin, who gave
him a commission to write them, telling him at the same time to ask
what remuneration he wished for his work. But the Symphony filled up
the next following year, 1823. Nothing else, except the “fragmentary
ideas” of the _Bagatellen_, op. 126, engaged him during that time.

“To give artistic form only to what we wish and feel, that most
essential want of the nobler of mankind,” it is, as he wrote himself to
the Archduke at this time, that distinguishes this mighty symphony, and
constitutes, so to speak, the sum and substance of his own life and
intuition. This symphony was soon connected in popular imagination with
Goethe’s Faust, as representing the tragic course of human existence.

And when we hear in mind how closely related just here the musician was
to the poet, this interpretation of the work, given first by Richard
Wagner on the occasion of its presentation in 1846 in Dresden, seems
entirely warranted. What was there of which life had not deprived him?
The words it had always addressed to him were these words from Faust:
_Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren_ (renounce thou must, thou must
renounce). He now wished to paint a full picture of this vain struggle
with relentless fate in tones, and what he had just gone through in
his own experience enabled him to do it in living colors. All the
recollections of his youth crowded upon him. There were the “pretty
lively blonde” whom he had met in Bonn; Countess Giulietta, who had a
short time before returned to Bonn with her husband; and his “distant
loved one” in Berlin! A promenade through the lovely Heiligenstadt
valley, in the spring of 1823, brought to his mind anew pictures of
the reconciling power of nature, as well as of the _Pastorale_ and
the C minor symphony. He was now able to form an idea of their common
meaning, and to put an interpretation on them very different from his
first idea and first interpretation of them. He began to have a much
deeper insight into the ultimate questions and enigmas of existence.

But, all of a sudden, his humor left him. He refused to receive any
visitors. “Samothracians, come not here; bring no one to me,” he wrote
to Schindler, from the scene of his quiet life in the country. What
had never happened before, even when he was in the highest stages of
intellectual exaltation, now came to pass: he repeatedly returned from
his wanderings through the woods and fields without his hat. “There is
nothing higher than to approach nearer to the Deity than other men, and
from such proximity to spread the rays of the Deity among the human
race.” In these words, directed to the Archduke Rudolph, he summed
up his views of his art and what he wished to accomplish in it. It
was everything to him--a language, consolation, admonition, light and
prophecy.

This we learn most clearly from the Ninth Symphony, which he finished
at this time, in Baden.

From the dark abyss of nothing arises the Will, infinite Will: and with
it the struggles and the sorrow of life. But it is no longer personal
sorrow--for what is personal sorrow compared with the sorrow of the
world as known to a great mind, experienced by a great heart?--it
is the struggle for a higher existence which we “mortals have to
engage in against the infinite spirit.” “Many a time did I curse my
Creator because he has made his creatures the victims of the merest
accidents.” Cries of anguish and anger like this--the cries of great
souls whose broad vision is narrowed by the world, and whose powerful
will is hampered--find utterance here. “I shall take fate by the
jaws,” he says again, and how immense is the struggle as well as the
consciousness of a higher, inalienable possession, which lives as a
promise in the breasts of all! Such blows, murmurs, prayers, longings,
such despair; and then, again, such strength and courage after trial,
had never before been expressed in music. In the Ninth Symphony, we
hear the voices of the powers which through all ages have been the
makers of history; of the powers which preserve and renovate the life
of humanity; and so the Will, the Intellect, man, after a terrible
effort and concentration of self, stands firmly before us, bold and
clear-eyed--for Will is the world itself.

But when we see the man Beethoven, we find him divided against himself.
We have often heard him say that he found the world detestable; and
we shall again hear him express his opinion on that subject plainly
enough, in this his work.

In the second movement, which he himself calls only _allegro vivace_,
and which, indeed, is no _scherzo_, not even a Beethoven-like one, but
rather a painting, we have a dramatic picture of the earthly world
in the whirl of its pleasures, from the most ingenuous joy of mere
existence--such as he himself frequently experienced in such fullness
that he leaped over chairs and tables--to the raging, uncontrollable
Bacchanalian intoxication of enjoyment. But we have in it also a fresco
painting of the “dear calmness of life,” of joy in the existing, of
exultation and jubilation as well as of the demoniacal in sensuous
life and pleasure. But what nutriment and satisfaction this splendid
symphony affords to a noble mind! It carries such a man from the arms
of pleasure to “the stars,” from art to nature, from appearance to
reality.

This ideal kingdom of the quiet, sublime order of the world, which
calms our minds and senses, and expresses our infinite longings,
is heard in the _adagio_ of the work. And when, in an incomparably
poetical union to the quiet course of the stars and to the eternally
ordered course of things, the longing, perturbed human heart is
contrasted by a second melody, with a wealth of inner beauty never
before imagined, we at last see the soul, so to speak, disappear
entirely before itself, dissolved in the sublimity of the All. The
steps of time, expressed by the rhythm of the final chords, sound like
the death knell of the human heart. Its wants and wishes are silenced
in the presence of such sublimity, and sink to naught.

But the world is man, is the heart, and wants to live, to live! And
so here the final echo is still the longing, sounding tones of human
feeling.

Beethoven himself tells us the rest of the development of this powerful
tragedy, and thus confirms the explanation of it we have given, as
well as the persistence of ultimate truth in his own heart; for in
it we find--after the almost raging cry of all earthly existence in
the orchestral storm of the beginning of the _finale_, which was even
then called a “feast of scorn at all that is styled human joy”--in the
sketches, as text to the powerful recitatives of the contra-bassos:
“No, this confusion reminds us of our despairing condition. This is a
magnificent day. Let us celebrate it with song.” And then follows the
theme of the first movement: “O no, it is not this; it is something
else that I am craving.” “The will and consciousness of man are at
variance the one with the other, and the cause of man’s despairing
situation.” Next comes the _motive_ for the _scherzo_: “Nor is it
this thing either; it is but merriness and small talk”--the trifles
of sensuous pleasure. Next comes the theme of the _adagio_: “Nor
is it this thing either,” and thereupon the words: “I myself shall
sing--music must console us, music must cheer us;” and then the
melody, _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_, is heard, expressive of the
newly-won peace of the soul, descriptive of human character in the
full beauty of its simplicity and innocence restored. Beethoven knew
from what depths of human nature music was born, and what its ultimate
meaning to mankind is.

We are made to experience this more fully still by the continuation
of the _finale_ which represents the solution of the conflict of this
tragedy of life. For the “joy” that is here sung plainly springs from
its only pure and lasting source, from the feeling of all-embracing
love--that feeling which, as religion, fills the heart. The _Ihr
stuerzt nieder, Millionen_ is the foundation, the germ (to express
it in the language of music of double counterpoint) of the _Seid
umschlungen, Millionen_, and then the whole sings of joy as the
transfiguration of the earthly world by eternal love. The will can
accomplish nothing greater than to sacrifice itself for the good of the
whole. To our great artist, the greatest and most wonderful phenomenon
in the world was not the conqueror but the overcomer of the world; and
he knew that this spirit of love cannot die.

This is celebrated by the _finale_ as the last consequence of the
“struggle with fate,” of man’s life-struggle. Is it claiming too much
to say that out of the spirit of this music a “new civilization” and
an existence more worthy of human beings might be developed, since it
leads us back to the foundation and source of civilization and human
existence--to religion? Beethoven was one of those great minds who have
added to the intellectual possessions of our race in regions which
extend far beyond the merely beautiful in art. When we bear this in
mind, we can understand why he wanted to write a tenth symphony as
the counterpart and final representation of these highest conceptions
of the nature and goal of our race. This tenth symphony he intended
should transfigure the merely humanly beautiful of the antique world
in the light of the refined humanity of modern ideas--the earthly in
the light of the heavenly. And we may understand, too, what we are told
of himself, that as soon as cheerfulness beamed in his countenance,
it shed about him all the charms of childlike innocence. “When he
smiled,” we are told, “people believed not only in him, but in
humanity.” Occasionally there would blossom on his lips a smile which
those who saw could find no other word to describe but “heavenly.” So
full was his heart of hearts of the highest treasure of humanity.

We shall see how the last quartets, which follow now, represent
this, his sublime transfigured condition of soul, in the most varied
pictures, and disclose it to the very bottom.

Of works composed during this period, we may mention: March to
“Tarpeja” and the _Bardengeist_ composed in 1813; _Gute Nachricht_,
_Elegischer Gesang_, _Kriegers Abschied_, composed in 1814; Duos
for the clarionette and bassoon, which appeared in 1815; _Es ist
vollbracht_, _Sehnsucht_, Scotch songs, composed in 1815; _Der Mann
von Wort_, op. 99. _Militaermarsch_, composed in 1816; quintet op. 104
(after op. 1, III), composed in 1817; _Clavierstueck_ in B, composed
in 1818; _Gratulations-menuet_, composed in 1822. It will be noticed
that the number of his works grows steadily smaller according as their
volume or their depth of meaning grows greater. This last will be
evident especially from his subsequent quartets which, so to speak,
stand entirely alone.




CHAPTER V.

1824-27.

THE LAST QUARTETS.

  Berlioz on the Lot of Artists--Beethoven Misunderstood--The Great
    Concert of May, 1824--Preparation for It--Small Returns--Beethoven
    Appreciated--First Performance of the Missa Solemnis and of the
    Ninth Symphony--The Quartets--An “Oratorio for Boston”--Overture
    on B-A-C-H--Influence of His Personal Experience on His Works--His
    Brother Johann--Postponement of His Journey to London--Presentiment
    of Death--The Restoration of Metternich and Gentz--His
    “Son”--Troubles with the Young Man--Debility--Calls for Dr.
    Malfatti--Poverty--The “Magnanimous” English--Calls a Clergyman--His
    Death.


“Noble souls fall usually only because they do not know the mournful
but incontestable truth that, considering our present customs and
political institutions, the artist has more to suffer in proportion as
he is a genuine artist. The more original and gigantic his works are,
the more severely is he punished for the effects they produce. The
swifter and sublimer his thoughts, the more does he vanish from the
dim vision of the multitude.” Thus did Beethoven’s direct successor
in art, Hector Berlioz, complain at the end of his days; and to whom
can what he says here be applied with more propriety than to our
artist, especially at this period of his life, when his thoughts
took their sublimest flight? His action now seemed indeed to assure
him unconditional victory, even in his immediate environment--we are
approaching the celebrated concert of May, 1824--but how soon shall
we see him again misunderstood by the crowd and, as a consequence,
lonelier than ever before.

He had again enjoyed to the full the “higher life which art and
science imply, and which they give it to us to hope for;” and he,
in consequence, became exceedingly neglectful of himself; so that
his brother found it necessary to say to him: “You must buy yourself
a new hat to-morrow. The people make merry at your expense because
you have so bad a hat.” But now that the “colossal creation” was
finished, even to the last iota, he began to be in better humor, to
stroll about the streets gazing at the show-windows, and to salute
many an old friend, as, for instance, his former teacher, Schenk,
more warmly. His name was now more frequently on the lips of friends,
and when it was known that a great symphony, as well as the Mass, was
finished, people recalled the boundless rapture of the years 1813-14;
and a letter signed by men of the higher classes of society--men whom
Beethoven himself loved and honored--invited him, in February, 1824, to
abstain no longer from the performance of something great. And, indeed,
the Italian _roulade_ and all kinds of purely external _bravoura_
had obtained supremacy in Vienna. The “second childhood of taste”
threatened to follow the “golden age of art.” It was hoped that home
art would receive new life from Beethoven, who, in his own sphere, had
no equal, and that, thanks to his influence, the true and the beautiful
would rule supreme again.

Schindler found him with the manuscript in his hand. “It is very
pretty! I am glad!” Beethoven said, in a very peculiar tone. And
another hope was bound up with this. He hoped to obtain compensation
for his long labor, and, in this way, leisure to produce something new
worthy of his genius. The preparation for the concert was attended
by very much that was disagreeable. His own want of resolution and
suspicious manner contributed their share to this. With the most
splenetic humor, he writes: “After six weeks’ vexation, I am boiled,
stewed, roasted.” And when several of his more intimate friends, like
Count Lichnowsky, Schuppanzigh and Schindler, resorted to a little
subterfuge to make him come to some resolve, he said: “I despise
deceit. Visit me no more. And let him visit me no more. I’m not
giving a party.” But, on the other hand, the first violinists of the
city--Schuppanzigh, Mayseder and Boehm, who is still living--together
with _capellmeister_ Umlauf, were at the head of the orchestra,
while a large number of amateurs were ready to lend their assistance
at a moment’s notice. Their motto was: “Anything and everything
for Beethoven!” And thus the preparations for the performance of
Beethoven’s great creations were begun.

“Just as if there were words beneath them?” asked Schindler, speaking
of the powerful recitatives of the basses in the Ninth Symphony.
Henriette Sontag and Caroline Unger, both subsequently so celebrated,
found it exceedingly difficult to execute the solos in the Mass and
the _finale_; but to all prayers that they might be changed, Beethoven
had only one answer: “No!” To which Henriette finally replied: “Well,
in God’s name, let us torment ourselves a little longer, take a little
more trouble, and attempt it.” The performance was to occur on the 7th
of May. That “rare, noble man,” Brunswick had, as he said, brought
“four ears” with him, that he might not lose a single note. Frau
von Ertmann was again in Vienna. The boxes were all soon taken, and
many seats were sold at a premium. Beethoven personally invited the
court. His trusted servant, who was specially helpful to him on this
occasion, said to him: “We shall take your green coat with us, too;
the theater is dark; no one can see us. O my great master, not a black
dress coat have you in your possession.” The house was crowded to
over-fullness. Only the court box was almost empty, on account of the
Emperor’s absence. Beethoven’s attendant again tells us: “His reception
was more than imperial; at the fourth round of applause, the people
became vociferous.” And Boehm tells us how the tears rushed into his
own and Mayseder’s eyes at the very beginning. And what a success the
performance was!

In one of the accounts of it that have come down to us, we read: “Never
in my life did I hear such tempestuous and at the same time such
hearty applause. At one place--where the kettle-drums so boldly take
up the rhythmic _motive_ alone--the second movement of the symphony
was totally interrupted by the applause; the tears stood in the eyes
of the performers; Beethoven, however, contrived to wield the baton
until Umlauf called his attention to the action of the audience by a
motion of his hand. He looked at them and bowed in a very composed
way.” At the close the applause was greater still. Yet, strange to
say, the man who was the cause of it all again turned his back to the
enthusiastic audience. At this juncture, the happy thought occurred to
Unger to wheel Beethoven about towards the audience, and to ask him to
notice their applause with their waving of hats and handkerchiefs. He
testified his gratitude simply by bowing, and this was the signal for
the breaking forth of a jubilation such as had scarcely ever before
been heard in a theater, and which it seemed would never end. The next
day, we read, in his conversation leaves, what some one said to him:
“Everybody is shattered and crushed by the magnitude of your works.”

And now, what of the pecuniary success of the performance? It was
measured by about one hundred and twenty marks. The expenses attending
it had been too great. Besides, regular subscribers, entitled to their
seats in boxes, did not pay a farthing for this concert. The court did
not send in a penny, which, however, they were wont not to fail to do
on the occasion of the commonest benefits. When Beethoven reached his
home, Schindler handed him the account of the receipts. “When he saw
it, he broke down entirely. We took him and laid him on the sofa. We
remained at his side until late in the night. He asked neither for food
nor for anything else. Not an audible word did he utter. At last, when
we observed that Morpheus had gently closed his eyes, we retired. His
servant found him next morning in his concert toilette (his green dress
coat) in the same place, asleep.” This account is by Schindler, who,
together with the young official, Joseph Huettenbrenner, one of Franz
Schubert’s intimate friends, had taken him home on this occasion.

This was the first performance of the _Missa Solemnis_ (op. 123) and of
the Ninth Symphony (op. 125). It took place on the 7th of May, 1824.
The fact that when the performance was repeated on the 24th of May,
spite of the additional attraction of the “adored” tenor, David, who
sang Rossini’s _Di tanti palpiti_, (after so much pain), the house
was half empty, shows that, after all, it was more curiosity to see
the celebrated deaf man than real taste for art which had filled it
the first time. Like Mozart, Beethoven did not live long enough to
pluck even the pecuniary fruits of his genius. Not till 1845 did the
magnanimous liberality of one who was really permeated by his spirit
bring it to pass that a monument was erected to him in his native city,
Bonn, as that same liberality has brought it to pass that one has been
erected to him, in our own day, in his second home, Vienna. We have
reference to the royal gift and to the equally rich playing of Franz
Liszt.

It now became more imperative for him to give his attention to those
compositions which promised him some immediate return, to the quartets,
to write which he had received a commission from persons as noted for
their generosity to him as for their love of art. These and the op. 127
occupy the first place in this brilliant constellation of art. “I am
not writing what I should prefer to write. I am writing for the money
I need. When that end is satisfied, I hope to write what is of most
importance to myself and to art--Faust.” He thus expressed himself
when engaged in the composition of the Ninth Symphony, and there was
some talk of his writing an “Oratorio for Boston.” And so, likewise,
the German Melusine and an opera for Naples, the Requiem, the tenth
symphony, and an overture on B-A-C-H remained projects and no more. But
they were also a great prospect for the future while he was engaged in
the labors of the day; and they exercised no inconsiderable influence
on the composition of the quartets themselves. The more he became
interested in these works--and what works were better calculated to
interest a composer of such poetic power--the more did these ideas
become interwoven into the works themselves. They generated the
peculiarly grand style and the monumental character which distinguish
these last quartets. The soul-pictures from Faust especially are here
eloquently re-echoed in the most sublime monologues. And, indeed, the
Prince, who had given him the commission to write them, seemed to be
the very man to induce Beethoven to achieve what was highest and best
in art, even in such a narrow sphere. For he had so arranged it that,
even before its production in Vienna, that “sublime masterpiece,” the
Mass, was publicly performed. He informs us that the effect on the
public was indescribable; that he had never before heard anything, not
even of Mozart’s music, which had so stirred his soul; that Beethoven’s
genius was centuries in advance of his age, and that probably there
was not among his hearers a single one enlightened enough to take in
the full beauty of his music. On the other hand, there reigned in
Vienna that weak revelry of the period of the restoration, with its
idol Rossini, a revelry which had driven all noble and serious music
into the background. Besides, the Prince had ordered that the costs for
musical composition should be curtailed “to any desired sum.”

Beethoven now went to work in earnest, and this composition was
destined to be his last.

He had already made a great many drafts of the works above mentioned,
one for op. 127 in the summer of 1822, one for the succeeding quartet
in A minor (op. 131), in the year 1823, when he was completing the
Ninth Symphony. Both op. 127 and the quartet in A minor remind us, in
more ways than one, of the style of the Ninth Symphony--the latter by
its passion so full of pain, the former, with its _adagio_, where the
longing glances to the stars have generated a wonderful, melancholy
peace of soul. The immediately following third quartet (op. 130) stands
out before us like a newly created world, but one which is “not of this
world.” And, indeed, the events in Beethoven’s life became calculated
more and more to liberate him, heart and soul, from this world, and
the whole composition of the quartets appears like a preparation for
the moment when the mind, released from existence here, feels united
with a higher being. But it is not a painfully happy longing for death
that here finds expression. It is the heartfelt, certain and joyful
feeling of something really eternal and holy that speaks to us in the
language of a new dispensation. And even the pictures of the world
here to be found, be they serious or gay, have this transfigured
light--this outlook into eternity. There is little in the world of art,
in which the nature of the religious appears so fully in its substance
and essence without showing itself at any time otherwise than purely
human, and therefore imperishable--never clothed in an accidental and
perishable garb. This explains how a people not noted for any musical
genius, but who are able to understand the spirit and meaning of music,
the English, whom Beethoven himself esteemed so highly, considered
his music “so religious.” And, indeed, his music is religious in its
ultimate meaning and spirit. This character of his music finds its
purest and most striking expression in the last quartets; and these
quartets enable us to understand the saying of Richard Wagner,
Beethoven’s truest pupil and successor, that our civilization might
receive a new soul from the spirit of this music, and a renovation of
religion which might permeate it through and through.

We now pass to an account of the details of the origin of these works.

The bitterness which Beethoven was destined henceforth to taste
proceeded for the most part from his own relatives. “God is my witness,
my only dream is to get away entirely from you, from my miserable
brother, and from this despicable family which has been tied to me,”
he writes, in 1825, to his growing nephew. We cannot refrain from
touching on these sad things, because now, especially, they exercised
the greatest influence on his mind and on his pecuniary circumstances,
and because they finally led to a catastrophe which played a part in
bringing about his premature death.

His weak and “somewhat money-loving” brother, Johann, had, indeed, in
consequence of Beethoven’s own violent moral interference, married a
silly wife. He found it impossible to control her course, or even
to get a divorce from her, because he had made over to her a part of
his property, and was “inflexible” on this very point. And so the
brother was not able, spite of many invitations, to induce Beethoven
to visit him even once on his estate of Wasserhof, near Gneixendorf,
on the Danube. Ludwig wrote him, in the summer of 1823: “O accursed
shame! Have you not a spark of manhood in you? Shall I debase myself by
entering such company?” Yet, his sister-in-law was “tamed” by degrees.
But the mother of the boy continued, now that he was beginning to
mature, to draw him into her own baneful circle, and, as Beethoven
wrote in the summer of 1824, into the poisonous breath of the dragon;
and levity, falsehood and unbecoming behavior towards his uncle, who
was at the same time a father to him, followed. Carried away by the
impulses of his moral feelings, the latter was severe even to harshness
with the boy, and yet could not dispense with the young man’s company
because of his increasing age and isolation. The natural craving for
love, moral severity and the consciousness of paternal duty, wove the
texture of which our artist’s shroud was made.

The correspondence of this year, 1824, turns principally upon the
pecuniary realization from his new, great works; for he wanted to be in
London in the fall without fail. We have also a letter of his about his
will, to his lawyer, Dr. Bach, dated in the summer. He writes: “Only in
divine art is the power which gives me the strength to sacrifice to the
heavenly muses the best part of my life.” We hear also the celestial
sounds of the _adagio_, op. 127, ringing in our ears. He was himself
filled with this true “manna;” for he exclaims in these same summer
days, “Apollo and the muses will not yet allow me to be delivered over
to the hands of death, for I yet owe them what the Spirit inspires me
with and commands me to finish. I feel as if I had written scarcely a
note.” And we even now find the sketches of those pieces expressive
of a happiness more than earthly, or else, in gay irony, of contempt
for the existing world, or of the mighty building up of a new world;
the _alla danza tedesca_ and the _poco scherzando_ of op. 130, as well
as the great fugue, op. 133, which was intended to be the original
_finale_ of op. 130, and which, by its superscription, “overture”
and the gigantic strides in its theme, reminds us of the plan of the
_Bachouverture_. Even the unspeakably deep melancholy and, at the same
time, blissful, hopeful _cavatina_ of the same third quartet op. 130,
blossoms forth now from the feeling of his heart, which has taken into
itself the full meaning of the eternal, and is filled with a higher
joy. We here find, as in the last tones of Mozart’s soul, the germs of
a new and deep-felt language of the heart, a real personal language,
acquired to humanity for the expression of its deepest secrets, and
which, in our own day, has led to the most touching soul-pictures in
art--to the transfiguration of Isolde, and to Bruennhild’s dying song
of redeeming love.

A mighty seriousness overpowers him. The desolate horrors that
surround him endow him with the power to understand more clearly the
higher tasks of the mind in which his art had a living part. We see
plainly that his nature tends more and more towards the one thing
necessary--“All love is sympathy,” sympathy with the sorrows of the
world, says the philosopher. And so while his vision takes an immense
sweep over the field of existence, we see that an inexhaustible source
of patient goodness and of the kindest and most heartfelt love, springs
up within him. “From childhood up it was my greatest happiness to be
able to work for others,” he once said; and again when the overture,
op. 24, was reproduced: “I was very much praised on this account, etc.
But what is that all to the great Master of Tones above--above--above!
rightly the Most High, when here below it is used only for purposes
of ridicule. Most high dwarfs!!!” We here listen to the sublime irony
of his tones in op. 130, but also to the lustrous mildness of the
_adagio_ of op. 127, in which in the little movement in E major, the
human soul itself, filled with the spirit of the Eternal, so to speak,
opens its eyes and looks upward. “I am what is, I am all that is, that
was and that will be. No mortal man has lifted my veil. He comes from
Himself alone, and to this Only One all things owe their existence.”
Beethoven wrote out this Egyptian saying in this summer of 1824, framed
it and placed it on his writing table before him. He well knew what
the really creative and preserving deity in human life is. That deity
lived in his own most heartfelt thought and feeling. It was to him a
continual source of bliss. It inspired his pen. To it he was indebted
for the poetic creations which sprung unbidden from his brain.

The quartet in A minor, op. 132, belongs to the spring and summer of
1825. His journey to London had been postponed. Schindler gives as the
reason of this, the “bad behavior of his dearly beloved nephew, which
had become somewhat notorious.” How could his “son” be abandoned,
thus unguarded, to “the poisonous breath of the dragon?” But as the
invitation was renewed, the Tenth Symphony was again taken in hand, and
from the sketches of it now made, we know all that is certain about
it. It was intended to do no less than to add the “beautiful to the
good,” to wed the spirit of Christianity to the beauty of the antique,
or rather to transfigure the mere worldly beauty of the antique in the
light of the superterrestrial. We find, indeed, a picture of this kind,
a direct, intentional, higher picture of the world in the _adagio,
in modo lidico_, in the second quartet. It is called the “Song of
Thanksgiving of a Convalescent to the Deity,” and is a choral between
the repetitions of which, ever richer and more heartfelt, the joyful
pulsations of new life are expressed. Beethoven had been seriously
sick during this spring. His affection for his nephew had assumed, in
consequence of one continual irritation of his feelings, the nature
of a passion which tormented the boy to death, but which, like every
passion, brought no happiness to Beethoven himself. The first movement
of this quartet in A minor is a psychological picture--a poem of the
passions--the consuming character of which can be explained only by
this very condition of the artist’s own soul. And how Beethoven’s
creations always came from his own great soul, that soul so fully
capable of every shade of feeling and excitement! The account left us
by the young poet, Rellstab, written in the spring of 1825, gives us
a perfect description of the state Beethoven was in at this time. He
describes him “a man with a kindly look, but a look also of suffering.”
Beethoven’s own letters confirm the correctness of this description.
“In what part of me am I not wounded and torn?” he cries out to his
nephew, whose frivolity had already begun to bear evil fruit. On
another occasion he said: “O, trouble me no more. The man with the
scythe will not respite me much longer.”

Notwithstanding this, however, or perhaps because of this extreme
excitement of his whole nature, the summer of 1825 was very rich
in productions. “Almost in spite of himself,” he had to write the
quartet in C sharp minor (op. 131); after that in B flat major (op.
130). The last quartet also, that in F major, had its origin in that
“inexhaustible fancy”--a fancy which always tended to the production
of such works. Hence it is that the number of movements increases. The
second has five; the third (B flat major), six; and the fourth (C sharp
minor), seven--as if the old form of the suite, or the _divertimento_
of the septet was to be repeated. But a moment’s comparison immediately
shows the presence of the old organic articulation of the form of
the sonata. These movements are in fact only transitions to, and
connecting links between, two colossal movements. They increase the
usual number of movements, although frequently nothing more than short
sentences, and at times only a few measures. But the introductory
movement and the _finale_ in the quartet in A minor loom up like the
pillars of Hercules, and determine the impassioned character and the
dramatic style of the whole. Beethoven himself called it a piece of
art worthy of him. The same may be said of op. 130, when the great
fugue, op. 133, is considered a part of it, which in our day it should
always be conceded to be. And how immensely great is this spirit when,
in the quartet in C sharp minor, it awakes from the most profound
contemplation of self to the contemplation of the world and its
pain.--“Through sorrow, joy!”

We must refer the reader to the third volume of _Beethoven’s Leben_,
published in Leipzig in 1877, for a detailed account of the desolation
of our artist, produced by the narrow circle with which the restoration
of Metternich and Gentz surrounded him, at a time when his own mind and
feeling were expanding to greater dimensions than ever before. To the
same source we must send him for a description of the full earnestness
and greatness of this last period in the life of our artist. In that
work was for the first time presented to the public, from original
sources, and especially from the records of Beethoven’s written
conversations, extant in the Berlin library, the comfortless--but
at the same time, and spite of continual torment, intellectually
exalted--picture of his character. “Words are interdicted. It is a
fortunate thing that tones are yet free,” wrote Ch. Kuffner, the
poet of the oratorio, _Saul and David_, to him at this time--a work
in which he wished to give expression both to his own relation as a
human being to his “David,” and to the wonder-working nature of his
art. The execution of this plan was prevented only by death. The
general demoralization which had invaded Vienna with the Congress
made its effects felt directly in his own circle, through the agency
of his nephew, and thus paved the way for disaster to himself. “Our
age has need of vigorous minds to scourge these paltry, malicious,
miserable wretches,” he cries out at this very time to his nephew,
who had permitted himself to make merry, in a manner well calculated
to irritate, at the expense of a genuine _faijak_--as Beethoven was
wont now to call the good Viennese--the music-dealer Haslinger; and
the matter had become public. But he adds to the above: “Much as my
heart resists causing pain to a single human being.” And, indeed, his
heart knew nothing of such anger or vengeance. It was always a real
sympathizer with the sorrows born of human weakness--a sorrow which
with him swelled to the dimensions of the world-sorrow itself. To
this feeling his op. 130 in B flat major is indebted for its series
of pictures, in which we see the world created, as it were, anew
with a bold hand, with the ironic, smiling, melancholy, humorous,
cheerful coloring of the several pieces--pieces which, indeed, are
no mere sonata movements, but full pictures of life and of the soul.
The _cavatina_ overtops it as a piece of his own heart, which, as he
admitted himself to K. Holz, always drew from him “fresh tears.”

“Imitate my virtues, not my faults,” he implores his “son.” Speaking of
the rabble of domestics, he says: “I have had to suffer the whole week
like a saint;” and, on another occasion, still more painfully: “May
God be with, thee and me. It will be all over soon with thy faithful
father.” His days, so strangely divided between the loftiest visions of
the spirit and the meanest troubles of life, henceforth render him more
and more indifferent to the latter. We find persons invade his circle
whom otherwise he would never have permanently endured about him, and
who frequently led him into minor sorts of dissipation even in public
places. This reacted on the nephew, whose respect for the character of
his “great uncle” could not long stand a course of action apparently
like his own. But even now we see a picture in tones of which one of
the _faijaks_, the government officer and dilettante, Holz, who copied
it, writes to Beethoven himself: “When one can survey it thus calmly,
new worlds come into being.” We have reference to the quartet in C
sharp minor, op. 131. “With a look beaming with light, dripping with
sorrow and joy,” young Dr. Rollett saw him at this time in beautiful
Baden, and, indeed, this work, which he himself called the “greatest”
of his quartets, discloses to us, in a manner different from the
Ninth Symphony, the meaning of his own life, which he here himself, as
Richard Wagner has said, displayed to us, a wild melody of pleasure
and pain. But we now recognize more clearly that something “like a
vulture is devouring his heart.” We, indeed, are drawing near to the
catastrophe which led to his premature end.

As early as in the fall of 1825 he had witnessed “stormy scenes.”
An uncontrollable love of gaming and a habit of loitering about
the streets had led the young man into worse and worse courses,
to falsehood and embezzlement. And when these were discovered, he
secretly ran away from home. It was not long, however, before the
loving weakness of his uncle called him back. The only effect of this
was henceforth to condemn Beethoven himself to a slavish, too slavish
life, one which would have been a torment even to an ordinary mortal,
but which must have been doubly so to a passionate, great man who was
deaf. The nephew found fault with his uncle, with his “reproaches”
and “rows.” He accused him even of having led him into had company.
He dreaded other reproaches still and was afraid of even personal
violence. At last, one day in the summer of 1826, the uncle received
the frightful news that his son had left his dwelling with a pair of
pistols, and intended to take his own life. A long and terrible morning
was spent searching for the unfortunate youth, who was finally led
home, with a wound in his head, from Baden. “It’s done now. Torment me
no longer with reproofs and complaints,” he writes; and his disposition
and feeling may be inferred from the words found in his conversation
leaves: “I have grown worse, because my uncle wanted to make me
better;” and from these others: “He said it was not hatred, but a very
different feeling, that moved him against you.”

The uncle, alas! understood these expressions better than those
about him. These had only words of reproach for the reprobate deed.
“Evidences of the deepest pain were plainly to be seen in his bent
attitude. The man, firm and upright in all the movements of his body,
was gone. A person of about seventy was before us--yielding, without a
will, the sport of every breath of air.” So wrote Schindler. Beethoven
called for the Bible “in the real language into which Luther had
translated it.” A few days later, we find in his conversations the
following memorandum: “On the death of Beethoven.” Did he mean his own
death, or the death of the beloved boy with whom he had, so to speak,
lost his own life? Be this as it may, he now sang the deepest song of
his soul, and it was destined to be his dying song. We refer to the
_adagio_ in the last quartet, op. 135. His harp soon after this grew
silent, and forever. Henceforth we have only projects or fragments of
works. But he touched it once more, like King Gunther in the Edda,
“seated among serpents,” the most venomous of which--the pangs of his
own conscience--menaced him with death. Among the pictures in which he
paints the meaning of a theme similar to that of this _adagio_ (pieces
thus independent of one another cannot rightly be called variations),
there is one whose minor key and rhythm show it to be a funeral
ceremony of touching sublimity. But whatever guilt he may have incurred
he atoned for in his heart of hearts by love. Such is this picture.
His soul is free. This the theme itself tells us, eloquently and
distinctly. Here the soul, in melancholy stillness, revolves about its
own primeval source, and towards the close plumes its wing for a happy,
lofty flight, to regions it has longed to enter. The other pictures
show us this full, certain and joyful possession of one’s self, and the
last even seems to resolve the soul into its faculties when it floats
about the Eternal Being in the most blissful happiness--a vision and
condition which, of all the means of expression of the intellect, only
music is able to describe, and which proves to us that, in the case of
our artist, both fear and death had long been overcome.

And thus it comes that a movement with which there is none to be
compared, one which to our feelings is the richest and most perfect
of all movements, and, at the same time, of the most brilliant
transparency, made its way into a work which otherwise shows no trace
of the magnitude of this his last effort. For the _finale_ is only a
sham-play of those magic powers which our master so well knew how to
conjure up, both in sublime horror and in saving joy.

But his physical condition was soon destined to be in keeping with
the condition of his soul above described. When, indeed, Karl was
convalescing as well as could be desired, and he had decided to follow
the military calling, Beethoven’s friends noticed that, externally at
least, he again looked fresh and cheerful. “He knew,” says Schindler,
“how to rise superior to his fate, and his whole character bore an
‘antique dignity.’” But even now he told the old friend of his youth,
Wegeler, that he intended “to produce only a few more great works,
and then, like an old child, to close his earthly career somewhere
among good men.” And, indeed, his whole inner nature seemed shattered.
“What dost thou want? Why dost thou hang thy head? Is not the truest
resignation sufficient for thee, even if thou art in want?” This one
conversation with Karl tells us everything.

Besides, serious symptoms of disease appeared. A single blow, and his
powerful, manly form was shattered like that of the meanest of mortals.
And, indeed, that blow was struck with almost unexpected violence.

After his recovery, Karl was released by the police on the express
condition that he would remain in Vienna only one day more. His scar,
however, prevented his entering the service. Where, then, could he go,
now that the fall was just beginning? His brother, Johann, invited him
to his Wasserhof estate near Gneixendorf. He could no longer answer
as he had once: _non possibile per me_--impossible for me. But his
sojourn in a country house not constructed so as to guard against
the cold and dampness, a want of attention to his growing infirmity,
misunderstandings with his brother’s wife, a violent quarrel with
the brother himself, who, after it, refused him the use of his close
carriage, and, lastly, his departure in the cold of winter in the
“devil’s own worst conveyance.” All these causes conspired to send
our patient back to Vienna, the subject of a violent fit of sickness.
In addition to all this, his nephew delayed to call a physician, and
none visited his sick bed until the third day after his return. The
doctor who came was not Beethoven’s customary physician, and totally
misunderstood the nature of the disease. Other shocks succeeded, and
the consequence was a violent attack of dropsy, the symptoms of which
had first shown themselves in Gneixendorf.

His long, painfully long end was now beginning. His constitution,
powerful as that of a giant, “blocked the gates against death” for
nearly three months. As labor of any kind was out of the question, the
arrival of Handel’s works from London, which came to him as a present,
supplied him with the distraction he wished for, in his own sphere. It
was not long before attacks of suffocation at night distressed him and
it became necessary to perform the operation paracentesis. When he saw
the stream of water gush forth, he remarked, with that sublimity of
humor so peculiarly his own, that the surgeon reminded him of Moses,
who struck the rock with his rod; but, in the same humorous vein, he
added: “Better water from the stomach than from the pen.” With this he
consoled himself. But he grew worse, and a medical consultation seemed
necessary to his friends. His own heart forebode him no good, and he
again made his will on the 3rd of January, 1827. He made his beloved
nephew “sole heir to all he possessed.” The nephew had gone to join
his regiment the day before, and this had a good and quieting effect
on Beethoven. He knew that the young man would be best provided for
there, and testified his gratitude to General von Stutterheim, who had
received him, by dedicating to that officer his quartet in C sharp
minor--his “greatest” quartet. He urged that Dr. Malfatti should be
called. But he had had a falling out years before with him, and the
celebrated physician did not now want to excite the displeasure of his
colleagues. Schindler tells us: “Beethoven wept bitterly when I told
him the doctor’s decision.”

But Malfatti came at last, and, after they had exchanged a few words,
the old friends lay weeping in each other’s arms. The doctor prescribed
iced punch to “quicken the organs of digestion, enervated by too much
medicine.” The first physician who was called to attend him tells
us: “The effect of the prescription was soon perceptible. He grew
cheerful, was full of witty sallies at times, and even dreamt that
he might be able to finish his oratorio _Saul and David_.” From his
written conversations, we see that a great many of his friends had
gathered about his bed. He thought of finishing the Bach overture for
one of Schindler’s concerts, and even began to busy himself with the
Tenth Symphony once more. He had again to experience the feeling of
pecuniary embarrassment while in this condition--an embarrassment now
more painful than ever--brought about more especially by the necessity
of procuring a military outfit for Karl. Gallitizin had, indeed,
expressly promised a short time before to send him money, but he proved
a “princely boaster;” and there was no prospect of an income from any
other source. All his completed works had been sold, and the little
fortune he had laid aside at the time of the Congress of Vienna was
irrevocably pledged to Karl by his will.

His thoughts now turned to the “magnanimous” English, who had already
promised him a “benefit.” His disease lasted a long time. The third
operation had been performed. His long-continued solitude had alienated
men from him in Vienna; and, especially after his experiences with the
_Akademie_ in 1824, he had no confidence in the devotion and enthusiasm
for art of his second home. This induced Schindler to write to England:
“But what afflicts him very much is, that no one here concerns himself
in the least about him; and, indeed, this total absence of interest in
him is very surprising.” After this, we find only his most intimate
friends at his bedside. Among these was Gleichenstein, who happened to
be in Vienna on a short visit. He writes: “Thou must bless my boy as
Voltaire blessed Franklin’s son.” Hummel, who was traveling and giving
concerts, also saw him, and at the sight of his suffering--he had just
undergone the fourth operation--burst into tears. Beethoven had, at the
moment of Hummel’s visit, received a little picture as a present, and
he showed it to him, saying: “See, my dear Hummel, the house in which
Haydn was born--the miserable peasant hut, in which so great a man was
born!”

He asks his Rhenish publisher, Schott, who had purchased his Mass and
his Ninth Symphony, and who was destined one day to become the owner
of the _Niebelungen_, for some old wine to strengthen him. Malfatti
recommended an aromatic bath; and such a bath, it seemed to him, would
surely save him. But it had the very opposite effect, and he was soon
taken with violent pains. He wrote to London: “I only ask God that
I may be preserved from want as long as I must here endure a living
death.” The response was one thousand guldens from the Philharmonic
Society of that city “on account of the concert in preparation.” “It
was heart-rending to see how he folded his hands and almost dissolved
in tears of joy and gratitude” when he received them. This was his
last joy, and the excitement it caused accelerated his end. His wound
broke open again and did not close any more. He felt this at first a
wonderful relief, and while he felt so he dictated some letters for
London, which are among the most beautiful he has written. He promised
to finish the Tenth Symphony for the Society, and had other “gigantic”
plans, especially as regards his Faust music. “That will be something
worth hearing,” he frequently exclaimed. The overflow of his fancy was
“indescribable, and his imagination showed an elasticity which his
friends had noticed but seldom when he was in health.” At the same
time, the most beautiful pictures of dramatic poetry floated before
his mind, and in conversation he always represented his own works
as filled with such “poetic ideas.” But his sufferings soon became
“indescribably great. His dissolution was approaching” with giant
steps, and even his friends could only wish for his end. Schindler
wrote to London on the 24th March: “He feels that his end is near, for
yesterday he said to Breuning and me: ‘Clap your hands, friends; the
play is over.’” And further: “He advances towards death with really
Socratic wisdom and unexampled equanimity.” He could well be calm of
heart and soul. He had done his duty as an artist and as a man. This
same day he wrote a codicil to his will in favor of his nephew; and now
his friends had only one deep concern--to reconcile him with heaven.
The physician approved, and Beethoven calmly but resolutely answered:
“I will.”

The clergyman came and Beethoven devoutly performed his last religious
duties. Madame Johann van Beethoven heard him say, after he had
received the sacrament: “Reverend sir, I thank you. You have brought me
consolation.”

He then reminded Schindler of the letter to London, “May God bless
them,” he said. The wine he had asked for came. “Too bad! too bad! it’s
too late!” These were his very last words. He fell immediately after
into such an agony that he was not able to utter a single syllable
more. On the 24th and 25th of March, the people came in crowds to see
him again. Even the _faijaks_, Hoslinger and Holz, as well as the poet
Castelli, were among them. “All three of us knelt before his bed,” said
Holz, subsequently, to Frau Linzbaur, who, in relating the incident,
added that when Holz told it “his voice forsook him, and he covered his
face and wept. ‘He blessed us,’ he said, with an effort; ‘we kissed his
hand, but never saw him again.’” This was the last act of his life.

“On the 26th, the little pyramidal clock, which he had received as a
present from Princess Christiane Lichnowsky, stopped, as it still does
when a storm is approaching. Schindler and Breuning had gone to the
churchyard, to select a grave for him. A storm of loud thunder and
hail came raging on about five o’clock. No one but Frau van Beethoven
and the young composer, Anselm Huettenbrenner, who had hurried hither
from Graz to look upon his revered master once more, were present in
the room of the dying man. A stroke of lightning illuminated it with a
lurid flash. The moribund opened his eyes, raised his right hand, and
looked up with a fixed gaze for several seconds: the soul of the hero
would not out. But when his uplifted hand fell back on the bed, his
eyes half closed. Not another breath! Not another heart-beat! It was I
that closed the half-open eyes of the sleeper.” So says Huettenbrenner,
an eye-witness of our artist’s last moment. This was the 28th of March,
1827.

“No mourning wife, no son, no daughter, wept at his grave, but a
world wept at it.” These are the words of the orator of the day on
the occasion of the unveiling of the first monument to Beethoven in
1845, in Bonn. But his funeral on that beautiful day in spring was
a very brilliant one. A sea of twenty thousand human beings surged
over the street where now the votive church stands; for in the
_Schwarzspanierhaus_ behind it, Beethoven had lived during the last
years of his life. The leading _capellmeisters_ of the city carried
the pall, and writers and musicians the torches.

“The news of his death had violently shaken the people out of their
indifference,” says Dr. G. von Breuning. And, indeed, it was, as a
poor old huxtress exclaimed when she saw the funeral procession, “the
general of musicians” whom men were carrying to the grave! The poet,
Grillparzer, delivered the funeral oration. He took for his text the
words: “He was an artist, and he was what he was only through his art.”
Our very being and our sublimest feelings are touched when we hear the
name of

  LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN.




FOOTNOTE:

  [A] To part from thee, my dear, this day,
      And know that I can’t with thee stay,
      Is more than my sad heart can bear.




  TALES FROM FOREIGN TONGUES,

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  Tales of Ancient Greece.

  BY THE REV. SIR G. W. COX, BART., M.A.,
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  SHORT HISTORY OF FRANCE,
  FOR YOUNG PEOPLE.

  BY MISS E. S. KIRKLAND.

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“_Dr. Gibson is a champion of more than ordinary skill._”--Gazette,
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  THE FOUNDATIONS
  OF
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  BY REV. J. MONRO GIBSON, D. D.,
  Author of “AGES BEFORE MOSES.”

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“_An exceedingly interesting narrative of an extraordinary life._”--The
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  LIFE OF BENEDICT ARNOLD:
  HIS PATRIOTISM AND HIS TREASON.

  BY HON. I. N. ARNOLD,
  AUTHOR OF “LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.”

  _Crown, 8vo., with Portrait_,      _Price, $2.50._


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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Superscripted text is preceded by a carat character: 81^a.

  Emboldened text is surrounded by equals signs: =bold=.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.