The Life of Ludwig Van Beethoven Volume II

A popular conception of Beethoven’s character, namely, that a predisposition to gloom and melancholy formed its basis, appears to the present writer to be a grave mistake. The question is not what he became in later years—tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis—but what was the normal constitution of his mind in this regard. Exaggerated reports of his sadness and infelicity during the last third of his life became current even before its close, and prepared the public to give undue importance to the melancholy letters and papers of earlier years, which from time to time were exhumed and published. The reader upon examination will be surprised to find how few in number they are, at what wide intervals they were written, and how easy it is to account for their tone.

Beethoven’s childhood was excessively laborious, though not so cheerless as has been represented; and, however flattering to occupy at the age of twelve years the place of a man in theatre and chapel, his boyhood could not have been a happy one. His brightest days up to the middle of his seventeenth year were undoubtedly those spent in Vienna in 1787—the date of the earliest of those papers from his own pen, on which the popular conception of his character is founded. But the letter to Dr. Schaden, written to explain and excuse the non-payment of a debt, takes its tone, not from any predisposition to gloom and melancholy, but from the manifold troubles which just then beset him—the bitter disappointment of his sudden recall from Vienna; the death of his mother; the hopeless poverty of his family; hence, the pangs of wounded pride and self-respect; the depression of spirits caused by asthmatic maladies, and his utter hopelessness of any timely change for the better, such as, in fact, one short year was to bring.

It is clear that Beethoven’s character could not develop itself normally, until he had become to a considerable degree independent of his father; and, consequently, that certain peculiarities related of him in his boyhood were probably less the results of his natural tendencies than the consequence of these being checked and obstructed by adverse circumstances. Soon after the letter to Dr. Schaden came the turning-point in the boy’s fortunes. Beethoven was now substantially emancipated from his father; his talents opened to him a higher and finer-toned circle of society; a love for the best literature was cherished, if not created; and no long time elapsed before his father’s increasing moral infirmities made him virtually the head of the family. The nobler qualities of his head and heart now received a culture impossible before. At last his character could and did develop itself normally. In all the following fourteen years—during which the boy organist of Bonn rises step by step to the position of first of pianists and most promising of the young composers in Vienna—one seeks in vain for any trace of the assumed constitutional tendency to melancholy. Now come the pathetic letters to Wegeler and the “Testament” of 1802—dark, gloomy, despondent. But these were all written under the first pressure of a malady which, he justly foreboded, would in time unfit him for general society and debar him from every field of the musician’s activity and ambition save that of composition. It is perhaps worthy of remark, that among the well-known phenomena of mental action are the intellectual prostration and the consequent depression of spirits which follow the completion of any great work in literature or art that has been for some time engrossing the attention, absorbing the thoughts and straining the faculties; and that the “Testament” of 1802 belongs in the precise period of reaction after completing that first of his great works, the Second Symphony. The “Testament” is indeed a cry of agony; but, in the paroxysms of intense physical suffering, cries of agony are not proofs of a naturally weak or defective constitution of the body; that sort of patient suffers less—but dies. Had Beethoven’s temperament really been of the gloomy and melancholy cast supposed, suicide, insanity or—through seeking temporary alleviation of mental suffering in sensual indulgences—moral shipwreck would soon have ended his career. “Strength is the morality of men who distinguish themselves above others, and it is also mine,” he wrote to his “Dearest Baron Muck Carter”:—“Beethoven was, in fact, the personification of strength,” said the aged poet Castelli to the present writer. The thought of suicide is alluded to in both the “Testament” and the letter to Wegeler; but with him the “To be or not to be?” was only a momentary, a passing, question; not because “conscience does make cowards of us all,” but by reason of innate manliness to bear “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” with courage and fortitude, until time and patience should bring resignation. How bravely he sustained his heavy burden to the end of 1806, has been amply recorded in this work. The famous love-letter affords its own sufficient explanation of whatever degree of melancholy it exhibits in the bitterness of parting and separation—the wretched life in Vienna, the uncertainty of his pecuniary resources, the impossibility of marriage without some decided change for the better in his condition and prospects. When, a few months later, the question of the possession of the theatres was decided against Braun, Beethoven had reason to hope that this change was assured; since the position of Lobkowitz, both socially and in connection with the theatres, gave to his hint, that the composer should apply for a permanent engagement, almost the force of a promise that he should receive it. In view of Beethoven’s abhorrence of all restrictions on his personal freedom, it is by no means certain that the final non-acceptance of his proposals caused him any very severe and lasting disappointment.

Whether so or not, and notwithstanding the prolonged uncertainty of his future prospects and the occasional characteristic complaints in his letters, still these three years—1807-8-9—were unquestionably the happiest in the last half of his life. That it was a period of extraordinary activity and productiveness, of a corresponding augmentation and extension of his fame, of animated and joyous social intercourse, and was brightly tinted with so much of the romance of love as a man of middle-age is apt to indulge in—all this the reader knows.

The coming of Reichardt to Vienna and the recording of his observations on the musical life of the Austrian capital in his book entitled “Confidential Letters, etc.,” were fortunate incidents for the lovers of Beethoven. Reichardt’s was one of the great names in music. He stood in the front rank both as composer and writer on the art. His personal character was unspotted; his intellectual powers great and highly cultivated in other fields than music; nor had his dismissal from his position of Royal Chapelmaster by Frederick William II been founded upon reasons which injured his reputation abroad. He therefore found all, even the highest, musical salons of Vienna open to him, and he received attention which under the circumstances was doubly grateful. A colossal self-esteem, a vanity almost boundless alone could have sent such pages as his “Letters” to the press without a more thorough expurgation. But this is nothing to the present generation, which owes him a large debt of gratitude for the most lively and complete picture existing of the musical life at Vienna at that period, and especially for his notices of Beethoven, the date of which (winter of 1808-09) adds doubly to their value. They should be read in connection with this biography.[76]

And here a word upon the compositions of these years. The notion, that the beauties of the opera “Leonore” were in great measure the offspring of an old, unfortunate affection for Fräulein von Breuning and of a still more unlucky recent passion for Julia Guicciardi, was treated in its place as unworthy of serious refutation; but nowhere in this work has anything been said affirming or implying that the moral and mental condition of the man Beethoven would not produce its natural and legitimate effect upon Beethoven the composer. Now, examine the lists of compositions which terminate the preceding chapters, and say whether any but a strong, healthy, sound, elastic mind could have produced them? To specify only the very greatest; there are in the last months of 1806, after the visit to the Brunswicks, the placid and serene Fourth Symphony—the most perfect in form of them all—and the noble Violin Concerto; in 1807, the Mass in C and the C minor Symphony; in 1808, the “Pastoral” Symphony and the Choral Fantasia; and in 1809, the conception and partial execution of the Seventh, perhaps also the Eighth, Symphony and the glorious “Egmont” music.

Are such the works of a melancholy, gloomy temperament or of a forlorn, sentimental lover, sighing like a furnace and making “a woeful ballad to his mistress’ eyebrow?”

Beethoven, during the fifteen years since Wegeler’s vain effort to induce him to attend lectures on Kant, had become to some considerable degree a self-taught man; he had read and studied much, and had acquired a knowledge of the ordinary literary topics of the time, which justified that fine passage in the letter to Breitkopf and Härtel, touching his ability to acquire knowledge from even the most learned treatises. Strikingly in point is the interest which he exhibits during these and following years in the Oriental researches of Hammer and his associates. His notes and excerpts prove a very extensive knowledge of their translations, both published and in manuscript; and, moreover, that this strange literature was perhaps even more attractive to him in its religious, than in its lyric and dramatic aspects. In these excerpts—indeed, generally in extracts from books and in his underscoring of favorite passages in them—Beethoven exhibits a keen perception and taste for the lofty and sublime, far beyond the grasp of any common or uncultivated mind. “The moral law in us and the starry heavens above us. Kant!!!” is one of the brief notes from his hand, which now and then enliven the tedious and thankless task of deciphering the Conversation Books. The following, given here from his own manuscript, is perhaps the finest of his transcriptions from Hindu literature:

Beethoven’s enjoyment of Persian literature as revealed to him in the translations and essays of Herder and von Hammer will now readily be conceived by the reader; as also the delight with which he read that collection of exquisite imitations of Persian poetry with its long series of (then) fresh notices of the manners, customs, books and authors of Persia, which some years later Goethe published with the title “West-Östlicher Divan.” Even that long essay, apparently so out of place in the work—“Israel in der Wüste”—in which the character of Moses is handled so unmercifully, was upon a topic already of curious interest to Beethoven. This appears from one of his copied papers—one which, as Schindler avers, “he considered to be the sum of the loftiest and purest religion.” The history of this paper is this: The Hebrew chronicler describes the great lawgiver of his nation as being “learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians.” This leads Schiller, in his fine essay on “Die Sendung Moses,” into a discussion of the nature and character of this wisdom. The following sentences are from his account:

The sentences here printed in capital letters “Beethoven copied with his own hand and kept (them), framed and under glass, always before him on his writing-table.”

Beethoven was now at an age when men of thoughtful and independent minds have settled opinions on such important subjects as have received their attention, among which, to all men, religion stands preëminent. Few change their faith after forty; there is no reason to suppose that Beethoven did; no place, therefore, more fit than this will be found to remark upon a topic to which the preceding pages directly lead—his religious views. Schindler writes in the appendix to his biography of Beethoven:

As an argument against Schindler and to prove Beethoven’s orthodoxy in respect to the Roman Catholic tenets, the fervid sentiment and sublime devotion expressed in the music of the “Missa Solemnis” have been urged; but the words of the Mass were simply a text on which he could lavish all the resources of his art in the expression of his religious feelings. It should not be forgotten that the only Mass which can be ranked with Beethoven’s in D, was the composition of the sturdy Lutheran, J. S. Bach, and that the great epic poem of trinitarian Christianity was by the Arian, John Milton. Perhaps Schindler would have his readers understand more than is clearly expressed. If he means, that Beethoven rejected the trinitarian dogma; that the Deity of his faith is a personal God, a universal Father, to whom his human children may hopefully appeal for mercy in time of temptation, for aid in time of need, for consolation in time of sorrow—if this be Schindler’s “deism,” it may be affirmed unhesitatingly, that everything known to the present writer, which bears at all on the subject, confirms his view. Beethoven had the habit in moments of temptation and distress, of writing down short prayers for divine support and assistance, many of which are preserved; but neither in them, nor in any of his memoranda or conversations, is there the remotest indication that he believed in the necessity of any mediator between the soul of man and the Divine Father, under whatsoever name known—priest, prophet, saint, virgin or Messiah; but an even stronger religious sentiment, a more ardent spirit of devotion, a firmer reliance on the goodness and mercy of God are revealed in them, than Schindler seems to have apprehended.

The topics last under notice have carried us far onward, even to the last years of Beethoven. We now return to the end of 1809—to the master in the full vigor and maturity of his powers. The last months of this year had been marked by an untiring and efficient industry; his sketchbooks abounded in the noblest themes, hints and protracted studies for orchestral, chamber and vocal compositions; and several important works—among them the Seventh Symphony—were well advanced. The princes, whose generosity had just placed him, for the present at least, beyond the reach of pecuniary anxieties, may well have expected the immediate fulfillment of “the desire that he surpass the great expectations which are justified by his past achievements.” They were bitterly disappointed. Kinsky did not live to hear any new orchestral work from that recently so prolific pen; Lobkowitz, whose dissatisfaction is upon record, heard but three; while the Archduke saw the years pass away comparatively fruitless, hardly more being accomplished in ten, than formerly in two—the marvellous year 1814 excepted. The close of 1809 terminated a decade (1800-1809) during which—if quality be considered, as well as number, variety, extent and originality—Beethoven’s works offer a more splendid exhibition of intellectual power than those of any other composer produced within a like term of years; and New Year, 1810, began another (1810-19), which, compared with the preceding, exhibits an astonishing decrease in the composer’s productiveness. The contrast is rendered more striking by the fact that many of the principal works completed in the second decade belong in plan and partly in execution to the first.

Schindler’s division of Beethoven’s life into three distinctly marked periods appears forced—rather fanciful than real; but whoever makes himself even moderately conversant with the subject, soon perceives that a change in the man did take place too great and sudden to be attributed to the ordinary effect of advancing years; but when? The abrupt pause in his triumphant career as composer just mentioned, would seem to determine the time; and, if so, the natural inference is, that both were effects of the same cause. There was a point in the life of Handel when his indefatigable pen dropped from his hand and many weary months passed before he could resume it. The failure of his operas, his disastrous theatrical speculation, consequent bankruptcy, and the culmination of his distresses in a partial paralysis of his physical powers, were the causes. The cessation of Beethoven’s labors, though less absolute than in Handel’s case, is even more remarkable, as it continued longer and was not produced by any such natural and obvious causes. The fact is certain, and will probably find a sufficient explanation when we come to the details of the master’s private history during this period; if not, it is another question the solution of which must await the accident of time or the keener penetration and wider knowledge of some other investigator.

Beethoven’s studies were now, for the third time, diverted from important works in hand to an order from the directors of the theatres—the “Egmont” music. The persevering diligence of the last months, of which he speaks in his letters, was evidently for the purpose of clearing his desk of a mass of manuscript compositions sold to Breitkopf and Härtel, before attacking Goethe’s tragedy—as decks are cleared for action before a naval battle. If so, he could hardly have seriously engaged upon the “Egmont” before the new year; but nothing is known, which fixes the exact date of either the beginning or completion of the work. Its overture bears the composer’s own date “1810”; its first performance was on the evening of Thursday, May 24. The Clärchen was played by Antonie Adamberger—a young actress alike distinguished for her beauty, her genius and her virtues—whose marriage in 1817 to the distinguished archæologist von Arneth was a distinct loss to the Vienna stage. The two songs which Clärchen has to sing, necessarily brought Fräulein Adamberger for the moment into personal relations with Beethoven, of which she wrote to the present author the following simple and pleasing account under date January 5, 1867:

Long afterwards, in a Conversation Book, an unknown hand writes: “I remember still the torment you had with the kettledrums at the rehearsal of ‘Egmont’.” Nothing more is known of the history of this work. Beethoven’s name appears on both this year’s concerts for the Theatrical Poor Fund—March 25, with the first movements of the Fourth Symphony; April 17, with the “Coriolan” Overture; but it does not appear that he conducted on either occasion; it is, however, probable that he did conduct the rehearsals and performance of a symphony in Schuppanzigh’s first Augarten concert in May.

Add to the above the subsequent notices of a few songs and the Quartet, Op. 95, and the meagre history of Beethoven as composer for 1810 is exhausted; what remains is of purely private and personal nature. Kinsky’s active service in the campaign of 1809 and his subsequent duties in Bohemia had prevented him hitherto from discharging his obligations under the annuity contract; but the Archduke, perhaps Lobkowitz also, was promptly meeting his; and these payments, together with the honorable remuneration granted by Breitkopf and Härtel for manuscripts, supplied Beethoven with ample means for comfort, even for luxury. He had at this time no grounds for complaint upon that score.

It was in 1810 that Beethoven received from Clementi and Co. the long-deferred honorarium for the British copyrights bought in April, 1807. Exactly when this money was received by Beethoven cannot be determined from the existing evidence, but it seems to have been before February 4, 1810, on which date Beethoven wrote to Breitkopf and Härtel offering them the compositions from Op. 73 to 83 (exclusive of 75), and remarking that he was about to send the same works to London. He would scarcely have had such a purpose in mind unless he had had a settlement with his London publishers. Additional evidence, though of little weight, is provided by the circumstance that at the same time he was contemplating a change of lodgings, as a letter to Professor Loeb, written on February 8, shows; it was to his old home in the house of Baron Pasqualati, which he had occupied two years before and which he now took again at an annual rental of 500 florins.

A number of letters to Gleichenstein and Zmeskall to which attention must now be called seem to show us Beethoven in the character of a man so deeply smitten with the charms of a newly-acquired lady friend that he turns his attention seriously to his wardrobe and personal appearance and thinks unusually long and frequently of the social pleasures enjoyed at the home of his charmer. A desire to save space alone prevents the publication of the letters in full, but the reader may find them in the published Collections of the composer’s letters.[77] In the first of these he sends Gleichenstein 300 florins which the Count was to expend for him in the purchase of linen and nankeen for shirts and “at least half a dozen neckties.” On the same day, he informs his correspondent that acting on his advice he had paid Lind 300 florins. Henickstein had paid him twenty-seven and a half florins for a pound sterling and invited him and Gleichenstein to dine the next day with Clementi. Very significantly the letter ends with: “Greet everything that is dear to you and me. How gladly would I like to add to whom we are dear????” Lind was a tailor and Henickstein the son of a banker. The next day he writes that on the previous evening the Archduke had requested his presence on the day set for the dinner and he had been obliged to send Henickstein a declination. The day after that he concludes a note telling about the meeting at the Archduke’s with “Farewell. This evening I will come to the dear Malfattis.” Here is the next letter in full:

On the day after that he sends Gleichenstein an S. (a sonata, doubtless) which he had “promised Therese” and adds: “Give my compliments to all of them. It seems as if the wounds with which wicked men have pierced my soul might be healed by them”; he sends 50 florins more for cravats and makes a boast of it that Gigons, Malfatti’s little dog, had supped with him and accompanied him home. This is the first of the only two allusions which Beethoven makes in all the papers, printed or written, relating to him, of a domestic pet animal. Another letter reads: “I beg of you to let me know when the M. remain at home of an evening. You surely had a pleasant sleep—I slept little, but I prefer such an awaking to all sleep.” Again he writes to say that he wished “Madame M.” would give him permission to pick out a pianoforte for her which she wished to buy “at Schanz’s.” Though it was his rule never to accept commissions on such sales, he wanted to save money for the lady on this purchase.

Now we reach the notes to Zmeskall, the first of which is endorsed by the recipient as having been received on April 18, 1810. From Beethoven’s lodgings in the Walfischgasse it was but a few steps around the corner in the Kärnthnerthorstrasse to an entrance of the Bürgerspital where Zmeskall lived, of whose readiness to oblige him he could and did avail himself to an extent which at length excited misgivings in his own mind that he was really going too far and abusing his friend’s kindness. This time Beethoven’s want was of a very peculiar nature, namely a looking-glass; that it was not for shaving purposes but for a more general control of his toilet is indicated by the second note:

The date of the first note (April 18) is important as showing that at the time Beethoven was not in the country but still in Vienna and that, consequently, the 8th mentioned in the letter to Therese Malfatti which follows, was not the 8th of April, but of May. From this letter we deduce that Beethoven’s intercourse with the Malfatti family in Vienna had become more animated and intimate, that Beethoven improvised at the pianoforte and that at the punchbowl his spirits rose rather high (“forget the nonsense”). The conclusion points pretty plainly towards a desire to be united with the family in closer bonds. The Malfattis had probably gone to their country home towards the end of April or beginning of May. The following letter to Gleichenstein was probably written on the day after the merry evening of which the letter to Therese speaks:

The letter to Therese reads:

Under such circumstances Beethoven wrote the famous letter of May 2, 1810 to Wegeler in Coblenz, asking him to procure a copy of his baptismal certificate for him. In this letter he says:

To the “Notizen” (1838) Wegeler published a few pages of appendix on the occasion of the Beethoven festival at Bonn (1845), giving therein a most valuable paragraph explanatory of this important letter:

We know now that the marriage project fell through early in May, soon after he had written the letter to Wegeler. Two short letters to Gleichenstein instruct us slightly touching the conclusion of this psychological drama which, no doubt, tore the heart of Beethoven. It would seem as if at first Beethoven wanted to visit the Malfattis at their country home, but at the last preferred to send a formal proposal of marriage by the hands of Gleichenstein. We have no testimony concerning the refusal beyond the utterance of the niece and the cessation of all correspondence on the subject. Here are the letters:

Beethoven’s relations with another fair friend now demand attention. In the Vienna suburban road Erdbeergasse stands the lofty house then numbered 98, its rear windows overlooking Rasoumowsky’s gardens, the Donau canal and the Prater, whence on May 15, 1810, Elizabeth Brentano (Bettina) wrote to Goethe:

Joseph Melchior von Birkenstock (born in 1738), the honored, trusted and valued servant of Maria Theresia and Kaiser Joseph, the friend and brother-in-law of the celebrated Sonnenfels—the esteemed correspondent of so many of the noblest men of his time, including the American philosopher Franklin and the Scotch historian Robertson, the reformer of the Austrian school system, the promoter of all liberal ideas so long as in those days progress was allowed—was pensioned in 1803, and thenceforth lived for science, art and literature until his death, October 30, 1809. His house, filled almost to repletion with the artistic, archæological, scientific collections of which Bettina speaks, was one of those truly noble seats of learning, high culture and refinement, where Beethoven, to his manifest intellectual gain, was a welcome guest.

Sophie Brentano, older than Bettina, very beautiful notwithstanding the loss of an eye, and, like all the members of that remarkable family, very highly talented and accomplished, had made a long visit to Vienna as Count Heberstein’s bride—their marriage being prevented by her untimely death. “She brought about the marriage of her brother Franz with Antonie von Birkenstock,” says Jahn. “The young wife, who did not feel at home in Frankfort”—and also because of the precarious health of her father, we may add—“persuaded Brentano to remove to Vienna, where for several years she occupied a home in the Birkenstock house which Bettina describes so beautifully. In this house, where music was cultivated, Beethoven came and went in friendly fashion. His ‘little friend,’ for whose encouragement in pianoforte playing he wrote the little trio in a single movement in 1812, was her daughter Maximiliane Brentano, later Madame Plittersdorf, to whom ten years later he dedicated the Sonata in E major (Op. 109). After Birkenstock’s death he tried to give a practical turn to his friendship by seeking to persuade Archduke Rudolph to buy a part of his collection. More effective, evidently was the help which Brentano extended to him, who, when he came into financial straits and needed a loan, always found an open purse. Madame Antonie Brentano was frequently ill for weeks at a time during her sojourn in Vienna, so that she had to remain in her room inaccessible to all visitors. At such times Beethoven used to come regularly, seat himself at a pianoforte in her anteroom without a word and improvise; after he had finished ‘telling her everything and bringing comfort,’ in his language, he would go as he had come without taking notice of another person.”

The credibility of Madame von Arnim’s contribution to Beethoven literature has been questioned in all degrees of severity, from simple doubts as to particular passages to broad denunciation of the whole as gross distortions of fact, or even as figments of the imagination. Dogmatism is rarely in proportion to knowledge, unless, perhaps, in inverse ratio. The bitterest attacks upon the veracity of Mme. von Arnim have been made by those whose ignorance of the subject is most conspicuous; but among the doubters are people of candor, good judgment and wide knowledge of Beethoven’s history; and a decent respect for the opinions of such renders it just and proper to explain why so much of these contributions has been admitted into the text as being substantially true.

At the very outset we are met by a statement in Schindler’s book (Ed. 1840) which if correct destroys at once the credibility of Mme. von Arnim’s account of her first interview with Beethoven. It is this: “Beethoven became acquainted with the Brentano family in Frankfort through her [Bettina].” A later writer, Ludwig Nohl, supports the assertion on the authority of “Frau Brentano, now 87 years old”—Birkenstock’s daughter. But Schindler, after his long residence in and near Frankfort, writes (1860): “There still lives one of the oldest friends of our master during life, with whom he became acquainted already on his arrival in Vienna (1792) in the house of her father.” This was the above-mentioned lady “now 87 years old.” The other writer also withdraws his statement in a later publication where he speaks of this aged lady’s daughter, “Maxe, who as a child in 1808 [?] in Vienna, often sat at Birkenstock’s on his (Beethoven’s) knees.”

Any possible doubt on the subject is dispelled by a communication made to this author in 1872, by the then head of the Brentano family living in Frankfort, who wrote:

Beethoven, through his familiar intercourse with the Brentanos, must, of course, have known of the expected visit of Bettina and of her relations to Goethe. Her account of their first meeting, therefore, is in all respects credible; nor has it been, so far as is known, questioned. It is twice given by her own pen in the “Briefwechsel” with Goethe under date 1810, and in the Pückler-Muskau correspondence as belonging to 1832. At this last-named date she had not yet received from Chancellor von Müller her letter to Goethe, and wrote from memory, confining her narrative to the minor incidents of the meeting. The two accounts differ, but they do not contradict, they only supplement each other.

The present writer had the honor of an interview or two with Mme. von Arnim in 1849-50, and heard the story from her lips; in 1854-5, it was his good fortune to meet her often in two charming family circles—her own and that of the brothers Grimm. Thus at an interval of five years he had the opportunity of comparing her statements, of questioning her freely and of convincing himself, up to this point, of her simple honesty and truth.

But the rock of offense does not lie here; it is in the long discourse of Beethoven which will presently be given in these pages. Schindler objects to this, both in its matter and form, on the ground that he had never heard “the master” talk in this manner. But the Beethoven whom Schindler knew in his last years was not the Beethoven of 1810, and Anton Schindler certainly was not an Elizabeth Brentano. There happens to be proof that just in the former period the composer could talk freely and eloquently. Jahn says: “Beethoven’s personality and nature, moreover, were calculated to make a significant but winning impression upon women,” and cites Mme. Hummel (Elizabeth Röckel) in proof. “As a matron advanced in years,” says he, “and still winning because of her charming graciousness, she spoke with ingratiating warmth of the good fortune of having been observed by Beethoven and to have been on friendly relations with him. ‘Whoever saw him in good humor, intellectually animated, when he gave utterance to his thoughts in such a mood,’ said she with glowing eyes, ‘can never forget the impression which he made.’”

There are two hypotheses as to the genesis of this letter to Goethe. The one: that Mme. von Arnim in preparing the “Briefwechsel” for publication wrote out her own crude and nebulous thoughts and gave them to the public in the form of a fictitious report of a conversation of Beethoven. The other: that she found Beethoven fresh from the composition of the “Egmont” music, full of enthusiasm for Goethe and vehemently desirous that his, the great composer’s, views upon music should be known and comprehended by the great poet; that he, happening to get upon this topic at their first interview, imparted those views to her with that express purpose; and that she, so far as she was able to follow and understand the speaker, and so far as her memory could recall his words a few hours after, correctly records and reports them.

The first hypothesis rests now on precisely the same foundation as when Schindler wrote, namely, on the presumption that Beethoven could not have spoken thus; but a discourse uttered under such circumstances and with such a purpose, poured into the willing ear of a beautiful, highly cultivated and remarkably fascinating young woman, one who possessed the higher artistic and intellectual qualities of character in an extraordinary degree—such a discourse might well abound in thoughts and expressions which the prosaic Schindler in the most prosaic period of his master’s life never drew from him.

Two significant minor points may be noted: there was a Latin word in use by the Breuning family in the old Bonn days with a meaning not given in the dictionaries. This we learn from Wegeler’s “Notizen,” and only there. Yet Mme. v. Arnim puts this word, raptus, in precisely this local sense into Beethoven’s mouth several years before the publication of the “Notizen”! Again: when the discoveries of Galvani and Volta were still a novel topic of general interest, when, through them, physiologists, as Dubois-Raymond expressed it, “believed that at length they should realize their visions of a vital power”; and when the semi-scientific world was full of the theories of Mesmer and his disciples—at that time, the first years of the nineteenth century, custom gave the word elektrisch (electrical) a significance long since lost, which well conveyed the thought Beethoven is made to express. But in 1834-5, to introduce this word in that sense, retrospectively, into a fictitious conversation purporting to be of the year 1810, shows, no less than the raptus, an exquisite tact so rare, that it might well be termed a most felicitous stroke of genius, one of which any writer of romance might be vain.

Julius Merz, in his “Athenæum für Wissenschaft, Kunst und Leben” (Nuremberg, January, 1839), printed for the opening article “Drei Briefe von Beethoven an Bettina.” The third of these letters was copied the next July into Schilling’s ephemeral musical periodical the “Jahrbücher” (Carlsruhe), with remarks by the editor expressing doubts of its authenticity. But Schindler, whose book was just then going to press, copied a large portion of it as genuine; and in his second edition (1845) reprinted all three entire, without adding a word of doubt or misgiving. They had appeared in English in 1841, from a copy given to Mr. Henry F. Chorley by Mme. von Arnim; and since then have been reprinted in various languages probably more frequently, and become more universally known, than any other chapter in Beethoven literature. Here and there a reader shared in Schilling’s doubts; but twenty years elapsed before these doubts were put into such form, and by an author of such position, that a reasonable self-respect could allow Mme. von Arnim to take notice of them; and then it was too late—she lay upon her death-bed. Her silence under the attacks made upon her veracity is therefore no evidence against her.

A. B. Marx, the author here referred to, produces but one argument which demands notice here, and this is the occurrence of certain “repetitions”: “liebe, liebste,” “liebe, gute,” “bald, bald” which he declared to be “very womanish and very un-Beethovenian.” Now, on the contrary, in the text of this volume there is abundant proof that just these expressions are very Beethovenian and characteristic of his letters to favorite women at the precise period in question.

It is true, as he says, that when Marx wrote, nothing of the kind had ever been published; a fortiori, nothing twenty years before; but this fact, on which he laid such stress, instead of supporting really demolishes his argument. It was in the autumn of 1838 that Mr. Merz received the letters. At that time specimens of Beethoven’s correspondence had been published by Seyfried in the pseudo-“Studien,” by Schumann in the “Neue Zeitschrift,” by Gottfried Weber in the “Cäcilia,” by Wegeler in the “Notizen”; and a few others were scattered in books and periodicals. Imitators, counterfeiters, fabricators of false documents, must have samples, patterns, models; but all the Beethoven letters then in print were so far from being the patterns or models of the Bettina letters that the contrast between them was the main argument against the authenticity of the latter. If, then, Mme. von Arnim introduced so many expressions which we know (but she could not) are not “very womanish and very un-Beethovenian” into a fictitious correspondence, she did so not only without a pattern or model, but against all patterns and models. Credat Judæeus Apella, non ego.

There are points of doubt and difficulty in the third letter which the warmest advocates of its authenticity have not been able fully to overcome; but as Marx had not sufficient knowledge of his subject to perceive them, and the question of the acceptance or rejection of this letter will rest upon grounds to be given in the text, these points need not be noticed here. Another one must be, namely: suppose that letter should be proved counterfeit, does it follow that the others are so? Not at all; but that they are the authentic letters whose manner and style are imitated.

In 1848, Mme. von Arnim published two volumes of characteristic correspondence with Herr Nathusius under the title: “Ilius Pamphilius und die Ambrosia.” In one of his letters Pamphilius requests autographs of Goethe’s mother and Beethoven, for a collection which he is making. This gives her occasion in various letters to express her admiration and reverence for the composer in terms which come warm from the heart. At length (Vol. II, p. 205) she writes: “Herewith I am sending you the letters of Goethe and Beethoven for your autograph collection.” She prints all three in the pages following; but a comparison of the several passages relating to them leads to the inference, that only one autograph was sent. Is all this a mystification? Was there no Pamphilius? No autograph collection? No contribution of a letter in Beethoven’s hand to it? Herr Nathusius knows.

Mme. von Arnim, then, gave the letters to the public three times; in the “Athenæum,” January, 1839; in English translation, through Chorley, 1841; in the “Pamphilius und Ambrosia,” in 1848. It is patent to the feeblest common sense, that, if not genuine, either the same copy, or copies carefully collated so as to avoid all suspicious variations, would have been sent to the printer; and that the two German publications would differ only by such small errors as compositors make and proof-readers overlook—such as are found in Schindler’s reprint from the “Athenæum,” and in Marx’s from Schindler. But the variations of the “Pamphilius” copy from that in the “Athenæum” are such as cannot be printer’s errors, but precisely such as two persons, inexperienced in the task, would make in deciphering Beethoven’s very illegible writing; one (Mr. Merz) correcting the punctuation and faults in the use of capital letters (as Wegeler has evidently done), and the other (Mme. von Arnim) retaining these striking characteristics of the composer’s letters. The change of the familiar “Bettine,” which Beethoven learned in her brother’s family, to the more formal “Freundin,” can hardly be made a point of objection. Marx’s argument had been so completely upset, that, in renewing (1863) his attack upon the then deceased Mme. von Arnim, he was compelled to base it upon other considerations. It was then that the present writer compared the letters printed in the “Athenæum” with the copies in the “Pamphilius,” which convinced him, on the grounds above noted, of their authenticity, at least in part, and led to a correspondence, of which an abstract here follows: On July 9, 1863, the present author requested Mr. Wheeler, American Consul at Nuremberg, to see Mr. Merz, learn from him the circumstances under which he obtained the letters, and whether he printed from Beethoven’s autograph. Mr. Wheeler replied on August 9th: “He [Mr. Merz] states, that he enjoyed the personal acquaintance of that lady (Mme. von Arnim), and was at the time in Berlin on a visit; and being at her residence on a certain occasion, she gave him these letters, remarking: ‘There is something for the Athenæum.’ After publishing the letters, Mr. Merz feels confident, he returned the letters to Mme. v. Arnim.” The author now, on August 25th, requested Mr. Wheeler if possible to obtain from Mr. Merz his written statement that he had printed the letters from the original autographs. Mr. Wheeler, on September 24th, replied.... “Yesterday he [Merz] was good enough to write me the note you requested; I trust it may be found of the tenor wished.” The note which was enclosed in this letter is this: “I can certify that at the time in question I had in my possession the letters referred to in the January number of the ‘Athenæum,’ but gave them back again. Nuremberg, September 23, 1863. Julius Merz, book publisher.” It may be said that this note does not explicitly cover the whole ground. True, it is the testimony of a conscientious man who, after the lapse of twenty-five years, remembers deciphering certain letters of Beethoven which he printed, but does not venture to declare that all that he printed lay before him in the handwriting of the master. There is another witness who is reported to have been less distrustful of his memory. Herr Ludwig Nohl, in a note to these letters (“Briefe Beethoven’s,” p. 71), says: “Their authenticity (barring, perhaps, a few words in the middle of the third letter) was never doubtful in my mind and will not be now after Beethoven’s letters have been made public. Though superfluous, it may yet be said for the benefit of such as are not wholly willing to accept internal evidence, that Prof. Moriz Carriere, in a conversation on the subject of Beethoven’s letters in December, 1864, expressly stated that the three letters to Bettina were genuine; he saw them himself in her house in Berlin in 1839, read them through with the greatest interest and care, and because of their significant contents had urged their immediate publication. When they were printed a short time afterward, no changes in the reprint struck his attention; on the contrary, he could still remember that the much controverted terms, particularly the anecdote about Goethe in the third letter, were precisely so in the original.”

And now to the matter, the discussion of which has detained us so long. One day in May, Beethoven, sitting at the pianoforte with a song just composed before him, was surprised by a pair of hands being placed upon his shoulders. He looked up “gloomily” but his face brightened as he saw a beautiful young woman who, putting her mouth to his ear said: “My name is Brentano.” She needed no further introduction. He smiled, gave her his hand without rising and said: “I have just made a beautiful song for you; do you want to hear it?” Thereupon he sang—raspingly, incisively, not gently or sweetly (the voice was hard), but transcending training and agreeableness by reason of the cry of passion which reacted on the hearer—“Kennst du das Land?” He asked: “Well, how do you like it?” She nodded. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” he said enthusiastically, “marvellously beautiful; I’ll sing it again.” He sang it again, looked at her with a triumphant expression, and seeing her cheeks and eyes glow, rejoiced over her happy approval. “Aha!” said he, “most people are touched by a good thing; but they are not artist-natures. Artists are fiery; they do not weep.” He then sang another song of Goethe’s, “Trocknet nicht Thränen der ewigen Liebe.”

There was a large dinner party that day at Franz Brentano’s in the Birkenstock house and Bettina—for it was she—told Beethoven he must change his old coat for a better, and accompany her thither. “Oh,” said he jokingly, “I have several good coats,” and took her to the wardrobe to see them. Changing his coat he went down with her to the street, but stopped there and said he must return for a moment. He came down again laughing with the old coat on. She remonstrated; he went up again, dressed himself properly and went with her.[78] But, notwithstanding his rather clumsy drollery, she soon discovered a greatness in the man for which she was wholly unprepared. His genius burst upon her with a splendor of which she had formed no previous conception, and the sudden revelation astonished, dazzled, enraptured her. It is just this, which gives the tone to her letter upon Beethoven addressed to Goethe. In fact, the Beethoven of our conceptions was not then known; the first attempt to describe or convey in words, what the finer appreciative spirits had begun to feel in his music, was E. T. A. Hoffmann’s article on the C minor Symphony, in the “Allg. Mus. Zeit.” of July 21st—five weeks later.

The essential parts of Bettina’s long communication are these:

In the letter to Pückler-Muskau in which Mme. von Arnim dwells more upon the incidents of this meeting, she writes thus:

In the Goethe letter she continues:

To this letter Goethe answered:

By the middle of June she was in Bohemia.

There are a few letters from this period to which attention may be paid. On July 9, 1810, Beethoven wrote to Zmeskall telling him of his distracted state of mind: he ought to go away from Vienna for the sake of his health, but Archduke Rudolph wanted him to remain near him; so he was one day in Schönbrunn, the next in Vienna. “Every day there come new inquiries from strangers, new acquaintances, new conditions even as regards art—sometimes I feel as if I should go mad because of my undeserved fame; fortune is seeking me and on that account I almost apprehend a new misfortune.” On July 17th, he sent to Thomson the Scotch songs which he had arranged, accompanied by a letter (in French) in which he discusses business matters, gives some instructions touching the repetitions in the songs, repeats his offer to compose three quintets and three sonatas and to send him such arrangements for quartet and quintet as have been made of his symphonies. Soon thereafter he wrote to Bettina Brentano:[79]

The cessation in Beethoven’s productiveness in this period is partly explained by the vast amount of labor entailed by the preparation of manuscripts for publication, the correction of proofs, etc. Of this there is evidence in a number of letters to Breitkopf and Härtel. On July 2 he wrote demanding an honorarium of 250 florins for works that he had specified, and sending the first installment, two sonatas for pianoforte, five variations for pianoforte and six ariettas (probably Op. 75). The second installment, he said, should be a Concerto in E-flat, the Choral Fantasia and three Ariettas. The third, the Characteristic Sonata “Farewell, Absence and Return,” five Italian ariettas and the score of “Egmont.” On August 21, 1810, he wrote to the firm at great length. He sends a draft of a plan for a complete edition of his works, in which Breitkopf and Härtel were to figure as the principal publishers. He asks what they are willing to pay for “a concerto, quartet, etc., and then you will be able to see that 250 ducats is a small honorarium.”... “I do not aim at being a musical usurer, as you think, who composes only in order to get rich, by no means, but I love a life of independence and cannot achieve this without a little fortune, and then the honorarium must, like everything else that he undertakes, bring some honor to the artist.” He gives directions as to the dedications. Of the “Egmont” he says: “As soon as you have received the score you will best know what use to make of it and how to direct the attention of the public to it—I wrote it purely out of love for the poet, and to show this I accepted nothing from the theatre directors who accepted it, and as a reward, as ever and always, have treated my work with great indifference. There is nothing smaller than our great folk, but I make an exception in favor of the archdukes—give me your opinion as to a complete edition of my works, one of the chief obstacles seems to be in the case of new works which I shall continue to bring into the world I shall have to suffer in the matter of publication.”...

Without date, but endorsed by the firm as of August 21st, is the following little note containing an important correction in the Scherzo of the Fifth Symphony:

... I have found another error in the Symphony in C minor, namely, in the third movement in ¾ time where, after the ♮ ♮ ♮ the minor returns again, it reads (I just take the bass part) thus:

The two measures marked by a X are redundant and must be stricken out, of course also in all the parts that are pausing.

If the correspondence in this chapter seems in tone and character at variance with the assumption that, for some reason or other, this was a disastrous year to Beethoven, it must not be forgotten that there are troubles and sorrows which must be borne in silence—when to complain and lament is apter to excite ridicule than compassion. Though the burden be almost insupportable, the sufferer must perform his duties and pursue the business of life with a serene countenance, and permit no outward sign to reveal the secret pain. “The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun,” says Longfellow. “The brightness of our life is gone. Shadows of evening fall around us and the world seems but a dim reflection—itself a broader shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night. The soul withdraws into itself.” When “surprised” by Bettina, Beethoven’s great hope had set and “ill humor had complete control” of him. His “marriage project had fallen through.” Whoever the lady was, the blow had now fallen and must be borne in silence. Its disastrous effect upon Beethoven’s professional energies is therefore for us the only measure of its severity. True, he writes to Zmeskall and talks of his art as if great things were in prospect; but he had no heart for such labor, and not until October did he take up and finish the Quartetto Serioso for his friend. The long bright summer days, that in other years had awakened his powers to new and joyous activity and added annually one at least to the list of his grandest works, came and departed, leaving no memorial but a few songs and minor instrumental works—the latter apparently composed to order. He took no country lodging this summer—alternating between Baden and Vienna, and indulging in lonely rambles among the hills and forests. We think it must have been in this period of song composition and oriental studies that, on such an excursion, he had with him the undated paper containing a selection from the songs in Herder’s “Morgenländische Blumenlese” and wrote upon it in pencil:

Another half-sheet in the Library of the Musikfreunde in Vienna, mostly covered with rude musical sketches, is a suitable pendant to the above, as it contains these words: “Without the society of some loved person it would not be possible to live even in the country.”

It is well known that Beethoven’s duties to Archduke Rudolph soon became irksome and at last almost insupportable. It was, however, for his good that he was compelled to perform them and be master of himself to that extent; it was also fortunate that Elizabeth Brentano came just at the crisis with beauty, grace and genius to turn his thoughts into other channels. Nor was it without benefit to him that Thomson’s melodies, which required no severe study, gave some desultory but profitable employment to his mind. Just at the close of the year it was rumored that he contemplated a journey into Italy “next spring, in order to seek restoration of his health, which had suffered greatly for several years, under southern skies.” There was some foundation for this, for some years later Beethoven himself states in one of his letters: “I declined a call to Naples.”

The compositions of the year 1810 are:

The publications of the year were:

Beethoven’s intercourse with the Brentanos kept his interest in Bettina alive and to this we owe a characteristic and welcome letter which, like the first, is here taken from the Nuremberg “Athenæum”:

This letter invites attention to several erroneous comments which have been made on the Bettina letters and the history of the “Egmont” music. Czerny’s statement that Beethoven did not compose the music to the tragedy out of love for Goethe’s poems but would have preferred a commission for Schiller’s “Tell” is contradicted by Beethoven himself in a letter to Breitkopf and Härtel which was written six weeks before the letter to Bettina. In his book “Die Briefe Beethovens an Bettina von Arnim” (1882), Dr. Deiters expressed a doubt that Beethoven would have written in February, 1811, that he was “about to write to Goethe” about his work which was finished early in 1810; but this objection to the authenticity of the letter is removed by the fact that it was two months more before the purpose thus expressed was carried out. In the Goethe archives in Weimar there is a letter from Beethoven which was first given to the world in 1890, by Dr. Theodor Frimmel in his “Neue Beethoveniana” (p. 345). It runs as follows:

The music to “Egmont” was not published till January, 1812, and Goethe had to wait a long time before he was able to form an opinion concerning it. This was not Beethoven’s fault, however; on October 9, 1811, we find him writing to Breitkopf and Härtel:

This injunction was not obeyed, and on January 28, 1812, Beethoven makes another urgent request:

Beethoven had had the intention of sending the score of the “Egmont” music to Goethe from the moment he began on it, as appears from a memorandum on the autograph manuscript of the Quartet in E-flat, Op. 74, written in 1809: “Score of Egmont to Goethe at once.”

On the 28th of February, Beethoven sent his friend Mähler an invitation to a concert. Mähler accepted the invitation and received a ticket “extra-ordinaire,” signed “B^r. de Neuwirth,” admitting him free to three midday concerts on Thursdays, February 28, March 14 and 28. Beethoven’s elasticity of temperament therefore was doing him good service in enabling him to recover from the crushing blow of the preceding year; he was now able not only to find diversion and amusement in society, the theatre and the concertroom, but the spirit of composition was again awakened. In three weeks—March 3rd to the 26th—he produced the glorious B-flat Trio, Op. 97, which had been sketched in 1810.

There were now, or soon to be, in the hands of Breitkopf and Härtel’s engravers the Pianoforte Concerto, Op. 73, the Fantasia, Op. 80, the Sonate “Les Adieux,” Op. 81a, the Ariettes and Songs, Op. 82 and 83, and the “Christus am Ölberg.” The revision of these works for the press, with the correction of the proofs and his duties to the Archduke, are all the professional labors of Beethoven in these months of which we find any trace. Hence, that high appreciation of his greatness, which induced his admirers and friends even then to attach such value to the most trivial written communications from him as to secure their preservation, now does us excellent service; for—the dates of the Trio excepted—his correspondence furnishes the only materials for the history of the first half of this year. To this we turn.

There is a note, which may be dated about the end of March, apologizing to the Archduke for his absence, on the ground of having been for two weeks again with his “tormenting headache.” “During the festivities for the Princess of Baden (March 5-12), and because of the sore finger of Your Imp. Highness,” he adds, “I began to work somewhat industriously, of which, among other things, a new Trio for the piano is a fruit.” Soon after he sends the new Trio to the Archduke to have it copied, “but only in your palace, as otherwise one is never safe from theft.” He proceeds thus:

These professions may well excite a smile; for “it is surely true” when we say, that his duties to the Archduke had already become extremely irksome; and that the necessity of sacrificing in some small degree to them his previous independence grew daily more annoying and vexatious; so much so that, in fact, he availed himself of any and every excuse to avoid them. The Archduke made a point of adding a complete collection of Beethoven’s music to his library; and the master lent his aid in this both by presenting all his new productions in manuscript and in giving titles of older printed works—gaining thereby a secure depository for his compositions, where they were ever at his service. Thus (May 18) he sends for the Sonata “Das Lebewohl, etc.,” “as I haven’t it myself and must send the corrections”; some time after for the Scottish songs, “as two numbers, one in my handwriting, have been lost and they must be copied again so that they may be sent away.”[83]

Here is the place for a letter to Breitkopf and Härtel:

About this time Gottfried Chr. Härtel’s wife died, and on May 20th Beethoven wrote to him a letter of condolence in which he said: “It appears to me that in view of such a separation which confronts nearly every husband one ought to be dissuaded from entering this state.” To a suggestion made by his publishers he replies: “What you say about an opera would surely be desirable, the directors, too, would pay well for one, the conditions are just now unfavorable, it is true, but if you will write me what the poet demands I will make inquiry concerning the matter; I have written to Paris for books, successful melodramas, comedies, etc. (for I do not dare to write an original opera with any of our local poets), which I shall then have adapted—O, poverty of intellect—and pocket!”

The new theatre at Pesth was so far advanced in 1810, that the authorities began their preliminary arrangements for its formal opening on the Emperor’s name-day, October 4th, 1811, by applying to Heinrich von Collin to write an appropriate drama, on some subject drawn from Hungarian history, for the occasion. “The piece was to be associated with a lyrical prologue and a musical epilogue.” “The fear that he could not complete the work within the prescribed time and that his labors would be disturbed, compelled Collin to decline the commission with thanks.” The order was then given to Kotzebue, who accepted it and, with characteristic rapidity, responded with the prologue “Ungarn’s erster Wohltäter” (Hungary’s first Benefactor), the drama “Bela’s Flucht” (Bela’s Flight), and the epilogue “Die Ruinen von Athen” (The Ruins of Athens). As Emperor Franz had twice fled from his capital within five years, it is not surprising that “‘Bela’s Flight’ for various reasons cannot be given” and gave place to a local piece (“The Elevation of Pesth into a Royal Free City”). Kotzebue’s other two pieces were accepted and sent to Beethoven in May of this year. The composition of the music to them was the engagement above mentioned, and, of course, formed his principal employment during the summer.

Hartl had now retired from the direction of the Court Theatres, and Lobkowitz and Palffy were again at the helms respectively of the theatre next to the Kärnthnerthor and that An-der-Wien. Beethoven was busy with dramatic compositions and so, very naturally, the project of another operatic work was revived. He had also obtained a subject that pleased him—a French melodrama. “Les Ruines de Babylon”—probably from the Prussian Baron Friedr. Joh. Drieberg. This composer, much more favorably known for his researches into ancient Greek music than for his operas, had been five years in Paris, “where he studied composition under Spontini and probably for a short time also under Cherubini,” and now for two years in Vienna.

A series of notes from Beethoven to Drieberg, Treitschke and Count Palffy, written in June and July, 1811, show how the operatic project was shaping itself in his mind. On June 6, he is anxious to know if Treitschke has read the book, and wishes to re-read it himself before beginning work on it; to the same on July 13, he writes that he has now received the translation of the melodrama with directions from Palffy to discuss it with him. He expresses dismay to Palffy on July 11, because he has heard that a benefit performance of the melodrama “Les ruines de Babilone” is projected, sets forth how hard he had worked to find a suitable libretto, as he had in this, and how much more desirable it would be to have it given as an opera; and finally hopes that Palffy will forbid the intended performance.

“It is said,” writes the correspondent of the “Allg. Mus. Zeit.” under date January 8, “that Beethoven may next Spring undertake a journey to Italy for the purpose of restoring his health, which has suffered severely during the last few years.” One effect of his maladies was to produce long-continued pains in the head, and it was finally thought best by his physician, Malfatti, to abandon the journey and try the waters of Teplitz. This Beethoven decided to do and to take with him as friend and companion young Oliva. In a letter to Count Brunswick he thanks him for agreeing to make the journey with him, and tells him that on the advice of his physician he must spend two whole months at Teplitz until the middle of August, wherefore he could not accompany the Count. He adds: “I pray you so to arrange your affairs as to be here [i. e., Vienna] at the latest by July 2 or 3, as otherwise it will be too late for me, and the doctor is already grumbling that I am waiting so long, although he himself says that the companionship of such a dear good friend would benefit me.” In another letter he says: “I cannot accept your refusal; I have permitted Oliva to go away alone, and on your account; I must have some trusted one at my side if everyday life is not to become burdensome.... As I do not know how you came to have the portrait[84] it would be best if you were to bring it with you, no doubt a sympathetic artist will be found who will copy it for friendship’s sake.”

Brunswick did not come to Vienna, where Beethoven remained till the end of July, as we see from a note to Zmeskall after the return from Teplitz and a letter to Breitkopf and Härtel after he had been at the watering-place three weeks. Meanwhile Beethoven worked on the Scottish Songs for Thomson and announced their completion on July 20, in a letter in which he complains that, because the three copies of the 53 songs which he had previously sent to Thomson had not been received, he had been obliged practically to rewrite them from his sketches—which may have been a somewhat exaggerated statement of the facts. In it, furthermore, he says: “Your offer of 100 ducats in gold for the three sonatas is accepted for your sake and I am also willing to compose three quintets for 100 gold ducats; but for the dozen English songs my price is 60 ducats in gold (for four songs the price is 25 ducats). For the cantata on the naval battle in the Baltic sea, I ask 50 ducats; but on condition that the text contains no invectives against the Danes, otherwise I cannot undertake it....[85] I will not fail to send you the arrangements of my symphonies in a very short time, and will gladly undertake the composition of an oratorio if the words be noble and distinguished and the honorarium of 600 ducats in gold be agreeable to you.”

Beethoven arrived in Teplitz about August 1, possibly a day or two earlier, and for three weeks was chiefly concerned with his cure and the correction of proofs, as appears from a letter, dated on August 23, to Breitkopf and Härtel. In this, speaking about the “Christus am Ölberg,” he says:

He has words of approval for Mozart’s “Don Giovanni” and of dispraise for Italian musicians in general, as see:

Varnhagen von Ense, then a young man of 25 years and lieutenant in the Austrian service, came from Prague to Teplitz this summer to pass a few weeks with “The goddess of his heart’s most dear delight,” Rahel Levin. In his “Denkwürdigkeiten” we first meet Beethoven since his letter to Thomson—a solitary rambler in the Schlossgarten at Teplitz, whither, as Brunswick could not or would not accompany him, he had journeyed alone. Varnhagen was with Beethoven every day and came into more intimate relations with him through his eager desire to write texts for him for dramatic compositions or to revise such texts. With Tiedge and the Countess von der Recke, Beethoven formed a warm friendship. Varnhagen wrote to Rahel: “Only Oliva could I endure about me for any length of time; he was sympathetic, but deeply depressed because of violent altercations which he had with Beethoven.” From the source of these communications we also learn that Varnhagen was expected to adapt an opera text for Beethoven and to revise and improve another. In a letter of September 18, Varnhagen himself wrote to Rahel as follows on the subject: “I may translate a French piece as an opera for Beethoven; the other text might be written later, but this contains the entire scenic arrangement. It is entitled ‘Giafar’ and might bring me from 8 to 10 ducats.” But later, “Of Beethoven and Oliva I hear and see nothing; the latter must have been unable to make anything out of the opera which I was to make from a French melodrama and which, unfortunately, another had begun.”

Soon after Beethoven’s arrival in Teplitz there must have occurred the incident of Beethoven’s visit to the grave of Seume, which was referred to in a previous chapter in connection with the C-sharp minor Sonata. Seume had died on June 13, 1810, at Teplitz. There were other visitors, not mentioned by Varnhagen, with whom Beethoven formed relations more or less cordial and intimate. One was the Royal Imperial Gubernialrath and Steyermärkischer Kammerprokurator Ritter von Varena of Gratz; another was Ludwig Loewe, the actor, just then engaged for the theatre at Prague. “Thereby hangs a tale.”

Another visitor at Teplitz was Prince Kinsky; and this gave the composer an opportunity to obtain the arrears of his annuity. On the still existing envelope of the contract of 1809 is written: “Kinsky am letzten August behoben.” Another was Amalie Sebald, who had come with Countess von der Recke from Berlin, a member of a family who for years had furnished members to Fasch’s Singakademie, where she had appeared as a solo singer. She was said to have “a fascinatingly lovely singing voice.” Among the friends of Carl Maria von Weber when he was in Berlin in 1812, were Amalie Sebald and her sister Auguste, also “highly musical” and a singer. For Amalie, Weber conceived a warm and deep affection; and now Beethoven was taken an unresisting captive by her charms. She is mentioned—the reader will note how familiarly—in this letter to Tiedge, dated Teplitz, September 6, 1811:

The desire here expressed to visit his new friends in Dresden, could not be gratified, owing to the necessity of completing and forwarding the music composed for the opening of the Pesth theatre. How long Beethoven remained in Teplitz cannot be said with exactness, though there is evidence in a couple of letters to Breitkopf and Härtel and Countess von der Recke which, taken in connection with an established incident of his journey, fixes the date approximately. The letter to Breitkopf and Härtel of October 9, 1811, has so large an interest on other accounts as to merit translation and publication:

Two days later he wrote letters of apology for his sudden departure to Elise von der Recke and Tiedge, promising the former a setting of one of her poems. From the letters to Breitkopf and Härtel and Tiedge, it would appear that Beethoven composed the music to “The Ruins of Athens” and “King Stephen” within a month and sent it to its destination on Monday, September 16, and then departed from Teplitz without saying farewell to his friends. From Varnhagen’s “Denkwürdigkeiten” we learn that “Beethoven, who returned to Vienna from Teplitz with his friend and mine, Oliva, did not remain long in Prague”; and from the correspondence with Rahel (II, p. 154), that Oliva went on to Vienna on September 23, without Beethoven, who made a rather wide detour to visit Lichnowsky. Of this visit we learn in one of Jahn’s notices, namely: “In the year 1811, B. was at Prince Lichnowsky’s on his estate Grätz near Troppau. The Mass in C was performed at Troppau, for which everything possible was drummed up; the master of athletics was put at the tympani; in the Sanctus, Beethoven himself had to show him how to play the solo. The rehearsals lasted three days. After the performance Beethoven improvised on the organ for half an hour to the astonishment of every one; Fuchs was the soprano soloist.” Beethoven returned to Vienna refreshed and invigorated both in body and mind; and something of his old frolicsome humor again enlivens his notes to Zmeskall: He expects him to dine with him at the Swan (which was at that time exceptional, as Beethoven had his own cook); he begs for more quills, and promises shortly a whole parcel of them, so that Zmeskall “will not have to pull out his own”; he may receive “the great decoration of the Order of the ’Cello”; and so on.

Beethoven’s notes to Zmeskall are a barometer that indicates very correctly the rising and sinking of his spirits; they were now high—at composition point—and, as the Archduke did not return from Pressburg until the 7th November, he had at least one month for continuing without hindrance the studies, whatever they were, that followed the completion of the music for Pesth. In our judgment they are those, which occupy the last leaves of the sketchbook (Petter’s) partly filled in the Spring of 1809.[88]

There was no call nor special inducement for the immediate completion of any orchestral work. Since the “Egmont” Overture and the “Pastoral” Symphony, produced by Schuppanzigh in May, and the “Coriolan” Overture at a charity concert on July 14, there is but one notice of the performance of any one of Beethoven’s greater compositions, and even this (November 15) is very doubtful. In truth, this was no season for grand musical entertainments with a view to private emolument. The Finance Patent of February shed its baleful influence on the just and the unjust and compelled all classes alike to study and practise economy. Even the old favorite of the Vienna public, Franz Clement, returning from a musical tour in Russia, and Sebastian Meier, “although Handel’s ‘Acis and Galatea’ was performed” in their annual Akademies, “had few hearers.” Two or three virtuosos were able to fill small halls; but no performances on a grand scale were ventured, except for charities; at these the wealthy appeared in force, it being a pleasant and fashionable method of doing something to alleviate the general distress. Beethoven was not the man to hasten his works to completion when there was no prospect of making either in public or in private any present use of them.

The ascertained compositions of this year were:

The publications:

Beethoven must again, for the present, be made his own biographer. The selections from his correspondence taken for this purpose will all gain in interest and perspicuity by first giving the notes to Zmeskall and the Archduke so as to afford a sort of background for the more important ones, and by introducing here the explanations which numerous allusions demand in a short series of observations. Schindler writes in 1840:

An error of some kind must be here involved. This seems so obvious and palpable, as to render it hardly credible that, in all the long years since 1840, it has not caught the attention of some one writer on Beethoven and induced him to cast his eye for a moment upon the Patent itself. The depreciation of a national paper currency to null and its subsequent repudiation by the Government that emitted it is, in effect, a domestic forced loan equal in amount to the sum issued; and the more gradual its depreciation, so much the more likely is the public burden to be general and in some degree equalized. Such a forced loan was the “Continental Currency” issued by the American Congress to sustain the war against England in 1775-83; and such were the French “Assignats” a few years later; and such, to the amount of 80 per centum of all the paper in circulation, was the substitution of notes of redemption for the bank-notes at the rate of one for five, by the Austrian Finanz-Patent, promulgated February 20th, and put in force March 15th, 1811. But if Schindler be correct, the Imperial Royal Government went farther and committed the folly and injustice—with little or no advantage to itself—of issuing and enforcing a decree which, in its effect, simply confiscated 80 per centum of all domestic indebtedness—where the payment in specie or its equivalent was not stipulated—to the gain of the debtor and the loss of the creditor! According to more modern ideas of national economy, those ordinances of the Finanz-Patent of February 20, which relate to “continuing, periodically recurring payments of interest, incomes, farm-rents, pensions, maintenance moneys, annuities, etc.,” were certainly unwise and uncalled-for; but they involved no such blunder as that. The Government assumed that every contract of pecuniary obligation between Austrian subjects, wherein special payment or its equivalent was not stipulated, was payable in bank-notes; and that the real indebtedness under any such contract was in justice and equity to be determined and measured by the value in silver of the bank-notes at the date of the instrument. This second proposition is fallacious and deceptive, because such contracts rested upon the necessary presumptions that the faith and honor of the supreme authority were pledged to the future redemption of its paper at par and that the pledge would be redeemed. But this was not seen or was not regarded. Consequently, there was annexed to the Finanz-Patent a table showing decimally the average equivalent of the silver florin in the bank-notes, month by month, from January, 1799 to March, 1811. This table was made a “Scala über den Cours der Bancozettel nach welchem die Zahlungen zufolge des Paragraphs 13 und 14 des Patents vom 20 Hornung, 1811, zu leisten sind.” (“Scale of the rate of exchange according to which payments are to be made in accordance with paragraphs 13 and 14 of the Patent of February 20, 1811.”) We copy two of the months as examples:

Beethoven’s annuity contract bore date March 1, 1809, when one florin in silver was equal to two and forty-eight hundredths in bank-notes. Hence his 4000 did not shrink to 800 but to 1612-9/10[89] in paper money; but this paper money then was intended to be, and for some time was, equal to silver. More than this he could not legally demand; but the original reasons for the contract, the intentions of the donors and the mutual understanding of the parties gave him a perfect claim in equity for the full amount of 4000 florins in notes of redemption. Nor did the princes hesitate to admit its justice. They were men of honor and this was a debt of honor. Archduke Rudolph immediately gave the necessary order and instructions in writing; and Beethoven’s anxiety because the others had not yet given him the same security was justified by the event, although he might have expressed it rather more delicately.[90]

The opening of the new theatre in Pesth not having taken place in October as proposed, was deferred to Sunday, February 9th, that it might bear the character of a festivity in honor of the Emperor’s birthday (October 12th). The performances were repeated on the 10th and 11th to crowded audiences which received Beethoven’s music to “King Stephen” and “The Ruins of Athens” (reported to be “very original, excellent and worthy of its master”) with clamorous applause. Beethoven had been so favorably impressed with Kotzebue’s texts that in January, 1812, he applied to him for an opera text:

As the date of this letter plainly shows, it was sent to Breitkopf and Härtel together with one to Goethe, with the request that the two be forwarded to their destinations.

Among the sufferers by the Finanz-Patent were the Ursuline nuns at Graz, whose institution, since 1802, had at no time less than 50 wards and always more than 350 pupils. At this juncture they were excessively poor and in debt. In the hope of gaining them some substantial aid Beethoven’s new friend, Varena, now wrote to him offering to pay him properly for the use of some of his compositions in a concert for their benefit to be given on Easter Sunday, March 29. Beethoven at once presented two of his new compositions to the Art Society of Graz for gratuitous use at charity concerts. At the concert on Easter Sunday there were eight numbers, Beethoven being represented by the overture to “King Stephen,” the march with chorus from “The Ruins of Athens,” the overture to “Egmont,” and the Septet. The nuns gained on the occasion the handsome sum of 1836 fl. 24k. Vienna Standard.

Walter Scott somewhere remarks: “It is seldom that the same circle of personages, who have surrounded an individual at his first outset in life, continue to have an interest in his career till his fate comes to a crisis. On the contrary, and more especially if the events of his life be of a varied character and worth communicating to others, or to the world, the hero’s later connections are usually totally separated from those with whom he began the voyage, but whom the individual has outsailed, or who have drifted astray, or foundered on the passage.”

A few years more and this will begin to be very true of Beethoven. The old familiar names will rapidly disappear and new ones take their places; some half a dozen perhaps will remain to the end. But this is not yet. The old friends, Lichnowsky, Rasoumowsky, Erdödy and that class, Streicher, Zizius, Breuning and their class, are his friends still. We see less of them, because Beethoven is no longer the great pianist performing in the saloons of the nobles, or playing his new compositions in the lodgings of his untitled admirers. His astonishing playing in the concert of December, 1808—which completed full thirty years since his appearance in Cologne as a prodigy—proved to be, as it happened, the splendid close of his career as a virtuoso. He had surely earned the right to retire and leave that field to his pupils, of whom Baroness Ertmann and Carl Czerny were preëminent as performers of his music. In the more private concerts he had already long given place to the Baroness; and now Czerny began to take it before the public, even to the extent of introducing his last new composition for pianoforte and orchestra. Theodor Körner, lately arrived in Vienna, writes home under date February 15:

Castelli’s “Thalia” gives the reason, why this noble work on this, its first public performance in Vienna, was so coldly received:

That was precisely the truth. The work was out of place. The warblings of Fräulein Sessi and Herr Siboni, and Mayseder’s variations on the march in “Aline,” were suited to the occasion and the audience. Instead of Beethoven’s majestic work, Chapelmaster Himmel, who had recently been in Vienna, should have been engaged to remain and exhibit his brilliant finger gymnastics.

The new symphony, to which there are allusions in this correspondence, was the Seventh, which he took up and completed this spring (May 13), with the hope of producing it in a concert about the time of Pentecost—but the project fell through.[92]

Explanatory of the Zmeskall correspondence, it is to be noted, that with the approach of the inclement season, Beethoven ceased to cross the wind-swept Glacis to dine with Breuning; that the “greatest thanks” of one of the notes is merely for keeping his pens in order; and that Zmeskall had been making experiments to determine whether the oscillations of a simple weight and string (without lever) might not answer as a practicable and convenient metrometer.

The works of Beethoven publicly performed in Vienna during this half year, so far as has been learned, were the Pianoforte Concerto as above stated; on March 22nd, march with chorus from “The Ruins of Athens,” in Clement’s concert; on April 16th, the “Coriolan” Overture in Streicher’s Pianoforte Warerooms, conducted by Schuppanzigh—the first piece in the concert, which opened the way for the great performance of Handel’s “Timotheus” in November, which in turn led to the foundation of the Society of the Friends of Music; on April 24th, the “Egmont” Overture in the Concert for the Theatrical Poor Fund; and on May 5th, the overture to “Prometheus,” and the C minor Symphony in Schuppanzigh’s first Augarten Morning Concert of the season. His (Schuppanzigh’s) quartet productions were on Thursdays, at noon; “As it is nearly 12 o’clock and I am going to Schuppanzigh’s,” says Beethoven in a note to Zmeskall, on Thursday, February 20—unfortunately only as an auditor. No record of the programmes during the season has been discovered.

And now turn we to the selection from the Zmeskall correspondence:

The correspondence with the Archduke, of course including the notes to his “spiritual adviser,” Baumeister, and his “chamberlain,” Schweiger, in the very profuseness of its expressions of devotion, awakens some mistrust of its writer’s sincerity. There is too much of profession. True zeal in and a hearty performance of one’s duty need few verbal attestations.

In a note to the Archduke he excuses his absence the two previous days because he was “unexpectedly” ill, “at just the time when he was about to go” to him. In another he has “oftener than usual” waited upon him “in the evening hour, but no one was to be found.” In another “certain unexpected circumstances prevent” his attendance “to-day, but,” he says, “I shall make use of the gracious privilege of waiting upon you to-morrow evening.” In still another:

The last of these selections affords another illustration of the usefulness of the Archduke’s library to the composer. Its date has also some importance in the discussion of the famous love-letter; and it is the final notice of Beethoven before his departure from Vienna for the summer.

A very interesting series of letters to Varena, and one very creditable to Beethoven, began at the end of January this year and ended, so far as is known, in 1815. Could the space be spared they would all be printed here; but they may be read in the published collections of Beethoven’s letters.

The arrangements of the Irish and Scottish songs for Thomson were continued in this year. A French letter to Thomson under date February 29, 1812, chiefly devoted to business matters, yet contains some expressions which are characteristic of Beethoven’s views and predilections.

He repeats his request that the texts be sent with the Scottish songs, asks if violin and violoncello are to be treated obbligato or if the pianoforte might compose an ensemble in itself, and closes, after having again demanded 9 ducats in gold, with: “we need the gold here, for our country is at present only a paper fountain, and I in particular, for I shall probably leave this country and go to England and then to Edinburgh in Scotland, and rejoice in the prospect of there making your personal acquaintance.”

The letter to Brunswick which follows, has been printed with the date 1809; but in that year Beethoven was not in the Pasqualati house; he was then on the most cordial terms with Oliva (barring the disagreement at Teplitz in 1811); and his satisfaction with the “honorable decree”—the annuity contract—which retained him in Vienna, was at the flood. The date, 1812, renders every point in the letter, except who is meant by “R,” perfectly intelligible.[94] “T” is the manuscript Trio, Op. 97; “S,” the printed sonata, “Les Adieux, etc.,” Op. 81a; “the quartet” is Op. 95, also in manuscript; “nothing decisive” refers to the non-receipt of the desired written instructions from Kinsky and Lobkowitz to their cashiers respecting the notes of redemption, and the “unhappy war” was that movement by Napoleon which proved to be the fatal invasion of Russia.

The letter reads:

The cause of the estrangement between Beethoven and Oliva is hinted at in two letters from Oliva to Varnhagen. On March 25, Oliva writes: “I should like to write you a great deal about the things that sadden me, about Stoll, and Beethoven still more, but I must postpone it—I was ill lately and it moves me greatly to write about things which are so painful”; and in a letter of June 3, after asking Varnhagen in behalf of Beethoven to deliver a letter to Prince Kinsky and seek to persuade the Prince to come to a decision in the matter of paying the annuity contract in notes of redemption, he adds: “Concerning my unfortunate affairs I can only say that Of.” [Offenheimer, the Vienna banker, Oliva’s employer, is meant] “has treated me very shabbily and I am compelled to seek another engagement, perhaps I shall accept Beethoven’s renewed offer and go with him to England. Stoll cheated me in a very miserable manner and even sought to bring about a rupture with Beethoven, in which he was almost successful; I am completely separated from him.” Beethoven’s wrath, to which he gave expression in his letter to Brunswick, seems to have been assuaged and their friendship continued as before until the departure of Oliva for Russia in 1820.

There is a little Trio in one movement, which bears the superscription in Beethoven’s hand: “Vienna, June 2, 1812. For my little friend Max. Brentano to encourage her in pianoforte playing.” On one of his visits to the Brentanos, soon after, “the little maiden, whom he occasionally teased, in a fit of childish petulance unexpectedly poured a bottle of ice-cold water over his head when he was overheated.”[96]

This was the year in which Beethoven allowed a mask to be taken, at the desire of Streicher, who wished to add his bust to those which already adorned his pianoforte warerooms. The bust was executed by Professor Klein, a pupil of the famous sculptor Fischer, and still adorns the hall for which it was designed. The effigy is the one which has been so often copied and is generally attributed to Dannhauser. That artist was born in 1805, and must have been indeed remarkably precocious, if Beethoven consented to have him, at the age of seven years, plaster his face with gypsum! In May, the son of the Corsican advocate Bonaparte held court at Dresden and received his father-in-law, Emperor Franz, Frederick William of Prussia, the princes of the Rheinbund, etc., etc. Before the end of June, he had crossed the Niemen with his half million of men on his fatal march to Moscow. As if from a presentiment and in the hope of the disastrous failure of the foolhardy invasion of Russia, Teplitz (that neutral ground, but central point of plot and agitation against the parvenu Emperor) became the scene of a virtual congress of imperial personages, or their representatives, accompanied by families, ministers and retinues. Ostensibly they met for health, recreation, social diversion; but views and opinions were exchanged and arrangements made for such concerted action as the result in Russia might render politic. Herr Aug. Rob. Hiekel, Magisterial Adjunct in Teplitz, has kindly communicated copious excerpts from the lists of arrivals that summer, from which these are selected, through the friendly mediation of Dr. Schebek of Prague, which is gratefully acknowledged:

Passing from the royal and diplomatic circles, we note:

No hint anywhere appears that Beethoven renewed his intercourse with Tiedge and Countess von der Recke—they had, no doubt, departed before his arrival—nor that a meeting took place between him and any one of those persons who arrived on and between the 1st of August and the 19th of the same month. With Varnhagen,[98] too, the meetings during the sojourn at Teplitz this year seem to have been few and fleeting. On June 9, Varnhagen had reported to Oliva in Vienna concerning the success of his visit to Prince Kinsky. On July 5 Beethoven arrived in Prague in company with Oliva’s friend Willisen. Varnhagen writes to Rahel on July 2: “I am writing after the arrival of Beethoven and Willisen.” As appears from a letter from Beethoven to Princess Kinsky dated December 20, 1812, Beethoven called upon the Prince and received 60 ducats on account. Unfortunately he delayed the definitive settlement of the annuity matter; had he attended to it at once he would have been spared the negotiations which followed the sudden death of the Prince.

On July 14th, Beethoven wrote a letter to Varnhagen from Teplitz in which he said: “There is not much to be said about Teplitz, few people and among the few nothing extraordinary, wherefore I live alone! alone! alone!” Three days later Beethoven wrote to Breitkopf and Härtel, promising some corrections in the Mass in C with the words: “We say to you only that we have been here since the 5th of July, how are we?—on that point much cannot yet be said, on the whole there are not such interesting people here as were last year and are few—the multitude seems fewer than few.”

On July 19, Goethe enters Beethoven’s name for the first time among his “visits”—no doubt those made by him. On the same day he writes to his wife, who had gone on to Karlsbad for a cure:

Already on the next day Beethoven made a pleasure trip with Goethe to Bilin, and on the 21st and 23rd Goethe spent the evening with Beethoven. Hence the note on the 21st, “He played delightfully.” As Arnim and Bettina are mentioned in the list of arrivals, it is easily possible that this was the evening concerning which Bettina reported to Pückler-Muskau. On the 27th of July, Beethoven went to Karlsbad on the advice of his physician, Dr. Staudenheimer, and he did not return to Teplitz till after September 8th, Goethe having already journeyed to Karlsbad on August 11th. That there was no estrangement between them is proved by the letter of Goethe to Christiane advising him to give Beethoven a letter addressed to him; he therefore expected Beethoven to return, which he did not do, because Staudenheimer sent him further on to Franzensbrunn. Goethe’s letter says: “Herr van Beethoven went from here to Karlsbad a few days ago; if you can find him, he would bring me a letter in the shortest time.” On August 2nd, Beethoven is still looked upon as the possible courier: “If I receive the consignment through Beethoven I will write again, then nothing more will be necessary” (because Goethe himself went to Karlsbad). In Karlsbad Goethe and Beethoven may have met each other only between September 8 and 11. On September 12, Goethe departed; but on the 8th he had written in his journal: “Beethoven’s arrival.”

In view of these things, Beethoven’s report to Archduke Rudolph from Franzensbrunn on August 12th, which will appear presently, will be read with greater interest, and the only known utterance of Goethe touching Beethoven in the letter to Zelter be viewed with different eyes:

Many things which have been reported and had so much of a legendary sound as to cause them to be received with doubt, may, under the circumstances, serve to complete the story of the relations between Goethe and Beethoven; such, for instance, as the familiar anecdote according to which, when Goethe expressed his vexation at the incessant greetings from passers-by, Beethoven is said to have replied: “Do not let that trouble your Excellency, perhaps the greetings are intended for me.” This is variously related to have occurred in a carriage at Karlsbad and in the Prater, and during a walk together on the old walls at Vienna; while the late Joseph Türk, the Vienna jeweler, who was in Teplitz in the summer of 1812, makes that place the scene of the story. It may, therefore, possibly have some foundation in truth.

Rochlitz, in 1822, reporting a conversation with Beethoven, has him say: “In Karlsbad I got acquainted with him (Goethe)”; but he makes him also say: “at that time, while I was veritably burning with enthusiasm (so recht im Feuer sass), I also conceived my music for his Egmont.” But this music was composed two years before. Beethoven’s allusion here to the “Egmont” music certainly, and to meeting with Goethe in Karlsbad probably, if correctly reported, prove nothing but the truth of Schindler’s observation: “Beethoven’s memory of the past always proved to be very weak.” Dr. Eduard Knoll, of Karlsbad, in a detailed investigation of the dates of the visit of Goethe and Beethoven to Teplitz and Karlsbad—which also fixes August 6th as the date of the Beethoven-Polledro concert—comes to the same conclusion as the present writer, namely: “In all probability Beethoven came in contact with Goethe only in Teplitz, for during Beethoven’s presence in Karlsbad, it can be proved Goethe was not there. But even in Teplitz the period of their mutual presence was a rather limited one.”

On July 26th, a large portion of the town of Baden, near Vienna, including the palace of Archduke Anton, the cloister of the Augustines, the theatre and casino, the parochial church and the palace of Count Esterhazy, was destroyed by a conflagration which broke out between noon and 1 o’clock. In all, 117 houses were burned. “From Karlsbad under date of August 7, it is reported,” writes the “Wiener Zeitung” of August 29th, that “scarcely had the misfortune which recently befel the inhabitants of Baden become known here before the well-known musicians Herr van Beethoven and Herr Polledro[99] formed the benevolent purpose to give a concert for the benefit of the sufferers. As many of the guests of high station were already prepared to depart and it became necessary to seize the favorable moment, and in the conviction that he who helps quickly helps twofold, this purpose was carried out within twelve hours.... Universal and rousing applause and receipts amounting to 954 florins, Vienna Standard, rewarded the philanthropic efforts” of the concert-givers. Beethoven himself gives a very different aspect to this concert in a letter to Archduke Rudolph:

Three days before, Beethoven had written in a letter to Breitkopf and Härtel:

Beethoven arrived in Franzensbrunn on August 8, and on September 7 returned to Karlsbad, where he remained only a few days; after the 16th of September, he was again in Teplitz.[101] His arrival in Franzensbrunn was simultaneous with that of the family Brentano from Vienna.

Madame von Arnim in her letter to Pückler-Muskau gives some account of the intercourse between Goethe and Beethoven:

In these passages we have the substance of a large portion of the famous third of the Beethoven-Bettina letters. Are they an abstract of that letter or is the letter an expansion of them? In other words, the question is forced upon us: Is that letter authentic? The last paragraph of the Pückler letter affords a decisive answer: “Afterward Beethoven came running to us and told us everything, and was as happy as a child at having teased Goethe so greatly, etc., etc.” Who were they to whom Beethoven came running? They are named in Herr Hiekel’s list of visitors: Ludwig (Achim) von Arnim, his young wife Bettina Brentano and Frau von Savigny, her sister! In the pseudo-letter we read: “Yesterday we met the entire imperial family.” Therefore, if the letter to Pückler be true—and it bears all the marks of being so—and if the other be authentic, Beethoven is made to relate the story one day and write a long letter containing it to the same person the next! It follows: when such a letter in Beethoven’s well-known handwriting shall be seen and accepted as authentic by competent judges, its genuineness may be conceded but, henceforth, until then, never.[103]

Beethoven returned to Teplitz with no amelioration, but rather an increase of his maladies, and was compelled to remain until near or perhaps quite the end of September. To his great satisfaction, he found there the young lady who had so powerfully attracted him the previous summer. The character of their renewed acquaintance is sufficiently obvious from the series of notes following, which are given in the order which appears to correspond best with their contents.

Hard upon the first letter to Amalie Sebald there followed a letter to Breitkopf and Härtel which confirms the statement concerning his illness and its cause and discloses his desire to leave Vienna, though temporarily, for concert purposes.

Beethoven’s health must have rapidly improved after the 16th of September, for Chapelmaster Glöggl’s “Linzer Musik-Zeitung” announces his arrival in that place on October 5th:

He had come thither, probably direct via Prague and Budweis, to pass a few weeks with his brother Johann, who gave him a large room affording him a delightful view of the Danube with its busy landing-place and the lovely country beyond. Franz Glöggl—later a music publisher in Vienna, then a youth in Linz—shortly before his death wrote down his reminiscences of the composer, for use in this work.

One of Beethoven’s memoranda, copied into the Fischoff Manuscript, is this: “In 1812, I was in Linz on account of B.” Supposing this B. to stand for Beethoven’s brother it confirms certain very unpleasant information obtained in Linz (1860), from perfectly competent authority, namely, that the principal object of the journey thither was to interfere in Johann’s domestic affairs.

Soon after coming to Linz, the apothecary, being unmarried and having a house much too large for his necessities, leased a part of it to a physician from Vienna, whose wife’s sister some time later joined them. She, Therese Obermeyer, was described as possessing a very graceful and finely proportioned figure, and a pleasing, though not beautiful, face. Johann van Beethoven soon became acquainted with her, liked her, and made her his housekeeper and—something more.

When it is considered, that the apothecary was a man of some thirty-five years, that he had gained his present position entirely by his own enterprise, perseverance and good fortune, and that, beyond advice and remonstrance, his brother had no more right to meddle in his private concerns than any stranger, it seems hardly credible that Beethoven, with all his eccentricities of character, could have come to Linz with precisely this purpose in view. But, according to the evidence, this was so. Had the motive of his visit been simply fraternal affection, and had he then and there first discovered his brother’s improper connection with Therese, he could justly have employed earnest expostulation and entreaty to the end of breaking it off—but nothing more; if unheeded, he could leave the house. But to come thither for this express object, and employ force to accomplish it, was an indefensible assumption of authority. Such, at all events, was Johann’s opinion, and he refused to submit to his brother’s dictation. Excited by opposition, Ludwig resorted to any and every means to accomplish his purpose. He saw the Bishop about it. He applied to the civil authorities. He pushed the affair so earnestly, as at last to obtain an order to the police to remove the girl to Vienna if, on a certain day, she should be still found in Linz. The disgrace to the poor girl; the strong liking which Johann had for her; his natural mortification at not being allowed to be master in his own house; these and other similar causes wrought him up almost to desperation. Beethoven, having carried his point, might certainly have borne his brother’s anger with equanimity; might have felt pity for him and sought to soothe him in his trouble. But no; when Johann entered his room with reproaches and upbraidings, he, too, became angry and a scene ensued on which—let the curtain be drawn. It was, unhappily, more disgraceful to Ludwig than Johann. The apothecary, to use the language of the card-table, still had the commanding trump. Should he play it? The answer is in the parochial register at Linz. It is the record of marriage, November 8th, 1812, of Johann van Beethoven to Therese Obermeyer. There is some slight reason to think that the journey to Linz was suddenly undertaken in consequence of a false report that Johann was about to marry Therese, and with the intention to prevent it. Whether this be true or not he lost the game and immediately hastened away to Vienna, angry and mortified that the measures he had taken had led to the very result which he wished to prevent; had given to the unchaste girl the legal right to call him “brother,” and had put it in Johann’s power—should he in the future have cause to rue his wedding-day—to reproach him as the author of his misfortune. Indeed, when that unhappy future came, Johann always declared that Ludwig had driven him into this marriage; how the composer then viewed the matter, we shall see when the time comes. One sister-in-law had already been to Beethoven a bitter source of shame and mortification; and now the other?—Time must show. Here we part from the apothecary, and it will be long before we meet him again.

Beethoven’s professional occupation in Linz was the completion of the Eighth Symphony, which, on Johann van Beethoven’s doubtful authority, was wrought out from the sketches during walks to and upon the Pöstlingberg.[107] Schindler’s account of the origin of the famous Allegretto Scherzando adds a new name to our dramatis personæ.

Johann Nepomuk Mälzel was the son of an organ-builder of Ratisbon. He received a thorough musical education, and began life on his own account as a performer upon and a teacher of the pianoforte of no mean ability; but his extraordinary taste for mechanism and talent for invention soon led him to exchange the music-room for the workshop. It is somewhere related, that, having been appointed “Court Mechanician” at Vienna and having a work to execute for the Empress, rooms were assigned him, in 1809, in Schönbrunn. Soon after this, Napoleon took possession of that palace, and while there played a game with Kempelen’s chess player (of which Mälzel had become proprietor), Allgaier being (probably) the person concealed in the chest. The truth of the anecdote we cannot warrant. From Schönbrunn, Mälzel removed to rooms in Stein’s pianoforte manufactory, and began the construction of a new and improved panharmonicon, having sold his first one in Paris. This was his principal employment in the year 1812. Carl Stein (from whom the author derived this information) remembered distinctly the frequent visits of Beethoven to Mälzel’s workshop, the great intimacy of the two men, and the persevering efforts of the mechanician to construct an ear-trumpet which the deaf composer should find of practical use and benefit. It is well known, that of the four instruments constructed, one was so far satisfactory as to be used occasionally for some eight or ten years. The necessity and practicability of inventing some kind of machine by which composers should be able to indicate exactly the duration of a piece of music—in other words, the rapidity of its execution—had been for several years subjects of wide discussion. An article in the “Wiener Vaterländische Blätter” of October 13, 1813, entitled “Mälzel’s musikalischer Chronometer,” reads:

The “Allg. Mus. Zeit.” of December 1st devotes some two pages to the instrument, from which a few words of description are enough for our purpose:

That “chronometer” was not what is now known as Mälzel’s “metronome.”

It is now to be seen whether Schindler’s account of the Allegretto Scherzando will bear examination. It is this:

Schindler here prints the now well-known canon and adds: “Out of this canon was developed the Allegretto Scherzando.” That Mälzel’s “ta, ta, ta,” suggested the Allegretto, and that at a farewell meal the canon on that subject was sung, is doubtless true; but it is by no means certain that the canon preceded the symphony. Schindler was then a youth of 17 years, “in the last course of the gymnasium at Olmütz,” and consequently relates his story on the authority of another—Count Brunswick. There may have been a slight lapse of memory on the part of Brunswick as to date, but it is far more probable that Schindler unconsciously adapted what he heard to his own preconceived notions. At all events, the preceding pages show that he was in the wrong as to the metronome, as to the proposed journeys of both Beethoven and Mälzel, and therefore, probably, as to the date of the farewell meal. On this last point, the lists of “Arrivals in Vienna” offer very strong negative evidence, namely: Forray comes from Pesth-Ofen in 1809-10-11; Countess Brunswick, 1811; but no Count Brunswick after March, 1810, until the end of February, 1813—four months after the Eighth Symphony is completed. At that date, we shall find reasons in plenty for the farewell gathering—though none in the “Spring of 1812.” The canon could not have contained the word “Metronome” until 1817; nor could the “ta, ta, ta,” have represented the beat of a pendulum of an instrument not yet invented; it was an imitation of the beat of the lever on the anvil.

The Conversation Books show, in Schindler’s own hand, how he became possessed of the canon. Beethoven, during the first years of their acquaintance, was in the habit of meeting frequently evenings a captain of the Arcierenleibgarde des Kaisers, a certain Herr Pinterics, well known then in musical circles, and Oliva, “in a retired room in the Blumenstock in the Ballgässchen.” In a Conversation Book (1820) Schindler writes:

On the first of these occasions, therefore, the word “Chronometer” must have been sung; on the second, as Mälzel had returned to Vienna with the “Metronome,” that word was substituted, and of course retained in the copy made in 1820. The necessary conclusion is this: If the canon was written before the Symphony, it was not improvised at the farewell meal; if it was improvised on that occasion, it was but the reproduction of the Allegretto theme in canon-form.

Pierre Rode, who at his culmination had occupied perhaps the first place among living violinists, being driven from Russia, made a concert tour in Germany and came in December to Vienna. Spohr, whose judgment of violin playing cannot be impugned, had heard him ten years before with delight and astonishment, and now again in a public concert on January 6. He now thought that he had retrograded; he found his playing “cold and full of mannerisms”; he “missed the former daring in the overcoming of difficulties,” and felt himself “particularly unsatisfied by his cantabile playing.” “The public, too, seemed dissatisfied,” he says, “at least he could not warm it into enthusiasm.” Still, Rode had a great name; paid to and received from the nobles the customary homage; and exhibited his still great talents in their saloons. Beethoven must have still thought well of his powers, for he now took up and completed his Sonata, Op. 96, to be played at one of Lobkowitz’s evening concerts by him and Archduke Rudolph. From the tone of two notes to the Archduke (printed by Köchel), the composer seems to have been less satisfied by Rode’s performances than he had expected to be:

The date of the concert was December 29th. Therefore, if the sketches for the second, third and fourth movements of this noble sonata do not belong to the year 1811, as argued near the close of the preceding chapter, the entire work, except the first movement, was produced in twelve or fifteen days at most.

Though it may be slightly in advance of strict chronological order, it would seem well to quote here what Spohr in his Autobiography writes of his personal intercourse with Beethoven. It is interesting and doubly acceptable as the only sketch of the kind belonging to just this period; it is, moreover, trustworthy. In general, what he relates of the composer in that work so abounds with unaccountable errors as to necessitate the utmost caution in accepting it; it is pervaded by a harsh and grating tone; and leaves the impression, that his memory retained most vividly and unconsciously exaggerated whatever tended to place Beethoven in a ridiculous light. What is here copied is, at least comparatively, free from these objections:

Beethoven had other cares, troubles and anxieties in the coming year—to which these reminiscences in strictness belong and serve as a sort of introduction—not known to Spohr. Theirs was not the confidential intercourse which lays bare the heart of friend to friend. As Varnhagen last year, so Theodor Körner this and the next informs us that Beethoven’s desire again to try his fortune on the operatic stage was in no wise abated. On June 6th the youthful poet writes: “If Weinlig does not intend soon to compose my Alfred, let him send it back to me; I would then, having bettered my knowledge of the theatre and especially of opera texts, strike out several things, inasmuch as it is much too long, and give it to the Kärnthner Theatre, as I am everlastingly plagued for opera texts by Beethoven, Weigl, Gyrowetz, etc.” On February 10, 1813, he writes: “Beethoven has asked me for ‘The Return of Ulysses.’ If Gluck were alive, that would be a subject for his Muse.”

The ascertained compositions of 1812 were:

The publications:

Short as Bettina’s stay in Vienna was, it occurred at the very crisis of Beethoven’s unlucky marriage project; and her society served a good purpose in distracting his thoughts; while her known relations to her future husband prevented the growth of any such feeling on his part as some have conjectured did really awaken. Next came the rather absurd affair with Fräulein Malfatti; but this was so little of an earnest nature[109] as in turn to be quite forgotten, so soon as the rejected lover came fairly under the influence of the remarkable mental and personal charms of Amalie von Sebald, in whom he found all that his warmest wishes could desire. The renewal in the last summer of his acquaintance with her completely cured him of his recent unfortunate passions, but, there is too much reason to believe, at the cost of plunging him into a new one, not the less powerful because utterly hopeless, and so firmly rooted that in 1816 “it was still as on the first day.”

The so-called journal (Tagebuch) of the Fischoff MS. begins thus:

The date given is simply 1812; but the month of September in Teplitz suggests itself instantly for the first two paragraphs, and the time when Beethoven was busy with the Eighth Symphony for the other. The next-following in the manuscript is dated:

It is obvious that the hated “servitude” is the instruction of the Archduke in music, and that the new feeling which he has to defy, and if possible conquer, lest everything go to destruction, is the absorbing affection for Amalie Sebald which he had unconsciously suffered to gain tyrannical sway over his mind and heart. The “great act” of the last citation is the “long journey” of the first—of which hereafter.[110]

Other causes also joined to render his case now truly pitiable. The result of his interference with his brother Johann, vexatious and mortifying as it was, was of little moment in comparison with the anxiety and distress caused by the condition of his brother Karl. In 1809, Karl had been advanced to the position of Deputy Liquidator with 1000 fl. salary and 160 fl. rent money; but all salaries being then paid in bank-notes, the minor public officials, especially after the Finanz-Patent, were reduced to extreme poverty. Karl van Beethoven was already owner of the house in the Alservorstadt near the Herrnalser Linie, which contained lodgings for some ten or twelve small families, enclosed a court-garden with fruit trees, etc., and was valued (1816) at 16400 fl.: so long as he remained in the Rauhensteingasse, the whole of this house was rented, and, after deducting interest and taxes, gave him a very desirable addition to his miserable salary. When Beethoven writes, that he had wholly to support “an unfortunate sick brother together with his family,” it must be therefore understood cum grano; but that he had for some time been obliged very largely to aid them in obtaining even the necessaries of life is beyond question. Just now, when his own pecuniary prospects were so clouded, his anxieties were increased by Karl’s wretched state of health, which partly disabled him for his official duties, and seems to have forced him to pay for occasional assistance. In March, he appeared rapidly to be sinking from consumption, and he became so hopeless of improvement in April as to induce him—in his wellfounded distrust of the virtue and prudence of his unhappy wife—to execute the following

Happily for all parties concerned, Spring “brought healing on its wings.” Karl’s health improved; he was advanced to the position of Cashier of the “Universal-Staats-Schulden Kasse,” with 40 fl. increase of rent money; and now, at last, the decree was issued for the payment of all salaries (of public officials) in silver. Twelve hundred florins in silver, used with reasonable economy, was amply sufficient to relieve Ludwig of this part of his troubles.

In a letter to Rudolph written in January, Beethoven said bitterly: “neither word, nor honor, nor written agreement, seems binding.”—The words relate to non-payments of the Kinsky and Lobkowitz subscriptions to his annuity.

Kinsky, on the 2nd or 3rd of the preceding November, while riding at Weldus near Prague, was—by the breaking of his saddle-girth—thrown from his horse with such force as to crush his skull, and survived but ten hours. In settling his affairs, the question arose whether, under the Finanz-Patent, Beethoven was entitled to more than the subscription as computed by the scale: or, more correctly, there being no question under the law, Beethoven raised one, by claiming the full nominal sum (1800 fl.) in notes of redemption. The curators of the estates—as it was their sworn duty to do—refused to admit the claim until it should be established by competent judicial authority; and, pending the decision, withheld all payments. As to Lobkowitz, his profuse expenditures had brought him to a suspension of payments and had deprived him of the control of his vast estates. What has just been said of the Kinsky subscription for Beethoven applies, therefore, literally to his. Hence, nothing of the annuity was paid by the Kinsky curators from November 3rd, 1812, to March 31st, 1815; nor by those of Lobkowitz from September 1st, 1811, until after April 19th, 1815. From the abundant correspondence called out by these differences of opinion, as to whether law or equity should rule in the case, three letters to the widowed Princess Kinsky may be selected as explanatory of Beethoven’s views. In the first of these letters, dated at Vienna, December 30th, 1812, Beethoven rehearses the story of the origin of the annuity contract, the disarrangement of the governmental finances, Archduke Rudolph’s prompt compliance with the request that payments be made in notes of redemption instead of bank-notes, and thus reaches the visit of Varnhagen von Ense to Prince Kinsky at Prague. He quotes a letter written by Varnhagen as follows:

Continuing, Beethoven tells the Princess of his visit to Kinsky, who confirmed the statements in the letter and paid 60 ducats on account—as the equivalent of 600 florins, Vienna Standard. It was agreed that the arrears should be paid when the Prince should come to Vienna and instructions be given to his agents. Beethoven’s illness kept him at Teplitz longer than he had expected. Nevertheless, through Oliva he reminded the Prince, then in Vienna, in December of his promises, who again confirmed them and added that he would arrange matters at his exchequer in a few days. After the departure of the Prince with his family he had made inquiries and learned to his astonishment that nothing had been done in the matter. In conclusion he expressed the conviction that the heirs of the noble Prince would act in the spirit of magnanimity which had inspired him and pay the arrears and give directions for the future payments in notes of redemption.

In the second letter he repeats the request, having learned first from the Prince’s representatives that nothing could be done in the matter until a guardian had been appointed, which office had been assumed by Her Highness. “You will easily see,” he continues,

The third letter, dated February 12, 1813, again urges the duty of the heirs to carry out the intentions of the Prince and formulates his petition as follows:

The payment of the 60 ducats on account of the salary which by the Prince’s consent was to be paid in notes of redemption is again advanced as evidence of the Prince’s intentions, as is also the plea on the score of his necessities. The first and third letters are written in a strange hand and merely signed by Beethoven. The petition contained in the third was not granted.

Schindler has enlarged upon Beethoven’s inexperience and lack of skill in matters of business, and of his propensity to waste his resources in needless changes of lodgings; Wegeler and others inform us of his ignorance of the value of money; Karl van Beethoven had been a great expense to him; and five-eighths of his annuity had for some time remained unpaid. Still, it is impossible to account satisfactorily for the very low state of his finances at this time. He must have been strangely imprudent in non-husbanding his resources. From March 1, 1809, to March 1, 1813, he had received from Kinsky rather more than five semi-annual payments (the “60 ducats” included), from Lobkowitz five and from the Archduke seven—five of them in notes of redemption; in all, 11500 florins. In the Spring of 1810, Collard (Clementi) had paid him £200; from Thomson he had received 150 ducats, if not in July, 1810, at least in July, 1811, and 90 ducats more in February, 1813, and within the last years Breitkopf and Härtel had certainly paid him several thousand florins for the many works of magnitude purchased by them; besides all this he had borrowed at least 1100 florins from Brentano, for two or three years only after this he notes: “I owe F. A. B. 2300 fl., once 1100 and 60 ducats”; and we know of no time after the beginning of 1814, when he was under the necessity of applying to that generous friend for any sums like these. But, whatever was the cause, and whoever was in fault, Beethoven was now, up to the time when his brother Karl received his new appointment, learning by harsh experience a lesson in economy—happily to his profit.

To finish this topic at once, we pass on to the summer, which the composer spent in Baden, meeting there his friends the Streichers. Frau Streicher afterwards related to Schindler, that she “found Beethoven in the summer of 1813, in the most desolate state as regards his physical and domestic needs—not only did he not have a single good coat, but not a whole shirt,” and, adds Schindler, “I must hesitate to describe his condition exactly as it was.” Frau Streicher, after her return to the city, “put his wardrobe and household affairs to rights and, with the help of her husband, saw to the provision of the necessities,” and, what was still better, they impressed upon him the necessity of “putting money by against the future, and Beethoven obeyed in every particular.” A small sum received from Gratz, and the 750 fl. due from the Archduke, September 1st, relieved him for the moment; but before the end of the year, he was again so reduced, probably by the necessary expenditures made on his account by the Streichers, as to obtain a loan of 50 ducats from Mälzel.

The tone of the correspondence during the first half of this year is far less depressed than might be expected under the adverse circumstances just detailed, to which is to be added constant ill health; indeed, his notes to Zmeskall are enlivened by divers gleams of his old humor. For the better understanding of the selections here made it is to be premised, that

(a) Brunswick arrived in Vienna, February 21; that

(b) Beethoven contributed a “newly composed Triumphal March” to Kuffner’s tragedy “Tarpeia” for its first performance in the Burgtheater, March 26; that

(c) One of his symphonies was the principal attraction of the Theatrical Poor Fund Concert in the Kärnthnerthortheater, April 16; that

(d) He could justly claim the use of that theatre from Prince Lobkowitz for a benefit concert; that

(e) Varena had again applied to him for music for another charity concert in Gratz; that

(f) Louis Bonaparte, Ex-King of Holland, then residing in Gratz, was the “rich third party” referred to in one of the letters; and

(g) That the pecuniary embarrassments of Lobkowitz reached their climax this summer and recalled Beethoven from Baden to take the needful steps to secure himself from farther loss, if possible.

On January 24th, he writes to Zmeskall:

Between this letter and the next there falls a rather long letter in French to Thomson, dated February 19, 1813, which informs us touching the progress of the work on the British songs. Beethoven writes:

Further on in the letter he asks Thomson to tell him whether Andantino was to be understood as meaning faster or slower than Andante, “for this term, like so many in music, is of so indefinite a significance that Andantino sometimes approaches an Allegro and sometimes, on the other hand, is played like Adagio.”

A rather long note to Zmeskall of February 25, being about a servant, is not worth copying. It begins: “I have, my dear Z., been almost continuously ill since I saw you last,” and closes after the signature with the word “Miserabilis.” Omitting others of similar contents we come to this interesting letter to Varena:

Closely connected with this in subject, and no doubt in time, is the following letter to Zmeskall:

Thereupon he wrote again to Varena:

Numbers 8 and 9 of Köchel’s “Drei-und-achtzig Original-Briefe” by Beethoven to Archduke Rudolph and his chamberlain, pray the Archduke to intercede for him with the Rector of the University for permission to give two concerts in the hall of the University. The result is shown in a note to Zmeskall dated April 19:

The rehearsal took place on Resurrection Day, April 18, as we learn from the 48th letter in the Köchel Collection, which, together with the preceding two (Nos. 46 and 47), belong in the year 1813, not in 1819, as Köchel surmised. The following little note to Zmeskall refers to the rehearsal:

To Zmeskall he wrote on April 23:

There follows another long letter to Varena:

In a letter to the Archduke, who was then in Baden (also written on May 27), Beethoven reports his arrival there. From Baden the correspondence with Varena was continued, as appears from a letter of July 4, 1813, in which Beethoven says:

We learn from the “Aufmerksame” of Gratz, that “Christus am Ölberg,” sent there by Beethoven in the preceding year, was sung as the second part of a concert for the poor on Palm Sunday, April 11, with applause which did honor to the good taste of the musical public of the Styrian capital.

In Vienna the C minor symphony opened and the new march from “Tarpeia” closed Schuppanzigh’s concert on the 1st of May in the Augarten; but no such enthusiasm was awakened as to induce Beethoven to risk the trouble and expense of producing his new symphonies, and the projected “Academies” were abandoned.

Recalled to Vienna early in July, Beethoven wrote thence to Archduke Rudolph:

Beethoven soon returned to Baden, where for the present he may be left in the enjoyment of nature, taking such pleasure as his deafness still granted in Rasoumowsky’s quartets, and submitting with what patience he could to his servitude with the Archduke.

Mälzel, during the past winter, had opened his “Künstler-cabinet” as a public exhibition. There were marbles, bronzes and paintings and a variety of contributions, scientific or curious, from various artists—among them a large electrical machine with apparatus for popular experiments, but the principal attractions were his own Mechanical Trumpeter and the new Panharmonicon. The Trumpeter executed a French cavalry march with signals and melodies which Mälzel himself accompanied on the pianoforte. The Panharmonicon combined the common instruments then employed in military bands, with a powerful bellows—the whole being inclosed in a case. The motive power was automatic and the keys were touched by pins fixed in a revolving cylinder, as in the common hand-organ or music-box. Compositions of considerable extent had each its own cylinder. The first pieces made ready were Cherubini’s “Lodoiska” Overture, Haydn’s “Military” Symphony, the overture and a chorus from Handel’s “Timotheus”; and by the end of January, Mälzel was at work upon an echo piece composed for him some years before by Cherubini. In the course of the summer he added a “few marches” composed by the popular young pianist, Moscheles, who during their preparation much frequented the workshop.

Beethoven’s “long journey” and “great act” both refer to a proposed journey to England with Mälzel, seriously contemplated during the first months of this year. Brunswick’s visit to Vienna occurred just when the project seemed ripe for execution; as it was on his authority that Schindler reports the “farewell meal” and the singing of the canon, this may be accepted as credible.

The condition of Karl van Beethoven’s health forced his brother to defer the journey; and Mälzel, too, found reason to wait until the end of the year—the idea of his really very beautiful and striking exhibition, the “Conflagration of Moscow,” had occurred to him and he willingly remained in Vienna to work it out. The change for the better in Karl van Beethoven’s health and pecuniary condition, and the completion of the “Conflagration,” left both Beethoven and Mälzel late in autumn free for their departure. The mechanician was not only a man of unquestionable inventive genius, but he also understood the public; knew as by instinct how to excite and gratify curiosity without disappointing expectation, and had the tact and skill so to arrange his exhibitions as to dismiss his visitors grateful for an amusement for which they had paid. He was personally both respected and popular. He knew by experience the principal cities of the Continent, and London well enough to foresee, that the noble compositions of Handel, Haydn and Cherubini secured the success of his Panharmonicon there; but that if he could add to its repertory some new, striking and popular piece, bearing the now great name of Beethoven, he would increase both its attractiveness and the public interest and curiosity in the composer. Battles and sieges had for many years been favorite subjects for descriptive music, and the grand engagements of the last fifty years were few indeed which had not been fought over again by orchestras, bands and all sorts of instruments. Poor Koczwara—who hanged himself in jest at London in 1792—was the author of a “Grande Battaille” (in D) for orchestra, and the “Battaille de Prague” for pianoforte trio “avec tambour,” or pianoforte solo, commemorative of a victory of Frederick II of Prussia. This, for forty years, was a showpiece throughout Europe and even in America. Devenne composed the “Battle of Gemappe”; Neubauer, of Martinestie; Jadin, of Austerlitz; Fuchs, of Jena; and so on, for orchestra. The grand battle piece for two flutes, which is generally supposed to have existed but in a joke, the point of which is its absurdity, was really published—it was an arrangement of Fuchs’ “Jena.” For the pianoforte solo, or with the accompaniment of two or more instruments, the press teemed with battles. Among them were those of Fleurus, Würzburg, Marengo, Jena (by others than Fuchs), Wagram, the bombardment of Vienna. Steibelt produced two land engagements and a “Combat naval”; Kauer, “Nelson’s Battle”; and so on indefinitely.

When, therefore, the news of Wellington’s magnificent victory at Vittoria, June 21, 1813, reached Vienna, Mälzel saw instantly that it presented the subject of a composition for his Panharmonicon than which none could be conceived better fitted to strike the popular taste in England. A work which should do homage to the hero, flatter national feeling by the introduction of “Rule Britannia” and “God save the King,” gratify the national hatred of the French, celebrate British victory and Gallic defeat, bear the great name of Beethoven and be illuminated by his genius—what more could be desired? He wrought out the plan and explained it to the composer, who, for once, consented to work out the ideas of another. In a sketchbook for this composition, having signals for the battle on its first page, we read: “Wellington’s Victory Vittoria, only God save the King, but a great victory overture for Wellington”; and in the so-called “Tagebuch”: “I must show the English a little what a blessing there is in God save the King”; perhaps, also, another remark just after this was occasioned by his experience on this work: “It is certain that one writes most beautifully when one writes for the public, also that one writes rapidly.” There is nothing in this at all contradictory to Moscheles’s positive and unimpeachable testimony on the origin of the work. In a note to his English edition of Schindler’s book he writes:

The same, in general and in most of its particulars, was related to the author by Carl Stein, who was daily in Mälzel’s rooms—they being, as before noted, in his father’s pianoforte manufactory—and who was firmly of the opinion, that Mälzel was afterwards very unfairly, not to say unjustly, treated by Beethoven in the matter of this composition. The composer himself says: “I had already before then conceived the idea of a battle which was not practicable on his Panharmonica,” thus by implication fully admitting that this idea was not his own; moreover, the copy of a part of the Panharmonicon score, in the Artaria Collection, has on the cover, in his own hand: “On Wellington’s Victory at Vittoria, 1813, written for Hr. Mälzel by Ludwig van Beethoven.” This is all more or less confirmatory of Moscheles, if indeed any confirmation be needed. It is almost too obvious for mention, that Mälzel’s share in the work was even more than indicated above, because whoever wrote for the Panharmonicon must be frequently instructed by him as to its capacities and limitations, whether a Beethoven or the young Moscheles. We may reasonably assume, that the general plan of “Wellington’s Victory” was fixed during the composer’s occasional visits to the city in August and September, and such alterations in the score determined upon as the nature of the instrument demanded; so that early in October the whole was ready for Mälzel to transfer to its cylinder.

On Beethoven’s return to his city lodging, between the 15th and 20th of September, his notes to Zmeskall become as usual numerous, the principal topic just now being the engagement of a new servant. While with the assistance and under the direction of the excellent Streichers, Beethoven got his lodgings and wardrobe into decent order, with the aid of Zmeskall he obtained that servant spoken of by Schindler,

This is touching and trustworthy.

To return to “Wellington’s Victory.” Schindler, supposing the Panharmonicon to have played it, remarked in the first edition of his book: “The effect of the piece was so unexpected that Mälzel requested our Beethoven to instrumentate it for orchestra.” He is mistaken as to the reason; for Mälzel had only, in Beethoven’s words, “begun to engrave.” In truth, he was musician enough to see from the score, how very effective it would be if instrumentated for grand orchestra, and sagacious enough to perceive, that the composition in that form might prove of far greater advantage to them in London and probably be more attractive afterwards when performed by the Panharmonicon. But there was another consideration far more important.

Before the age of steam a journey from Vienna to London with the many huge cases required for even a part of Mälzel’s collection, was a very expensive undertaking. The problem now was, how to provide the necessary funds. Beethoven’s were exhausted and his own were very limited. To go alone and give exhibitions at the principal cities on the way, involved little or no risk for Mälzel, as the experience of the next year proved; but to make the journey direct, with Beethoven for his companion, was impossible until in some manner a considerable sum of ready money could be provided.

The only resource of the composer, except borrowing, was, of course, the production of the two new Symphonies, one of which had been copied for trial with small orchestra at the Archduke’s, thus diminishing somewhat the expenses of a concert. It was five years since he had had a benefit, and therefore one full house might be counted on with reasonable certainty; but no concert of his had ever been repeated, and a single full house would leave but a small margin of profit. Moreover, his fruitless efforts in the Spring to arrange an “Akademie” were discouraging. Unless the new Symphonies could be produced without cost to himself, and the interest and curiosity of the public so aroused as to insure the success of two or three subsequent concerts, no adequate fund for the journey could be gained; but if so great a sensation could in some manner be made as to secure this object, the fame of it would precede and nobly herald them in London.

Beethoven was helpless; but Mälzel’s sagacity was equal to the occasion. He knew that for the highly cultivated classes of music-lovers, able and ready to appreciate the best, nothing better could be desired than new Symphonies by Beethoven; but such auditors are always limited in number; the programme must also contain something surprising, sensational, ad captandum vulgus, to catch the ear of the multitude, and open their pockets. His Trumpeter was not enough; it had lost its novelty; although with an orchestra instead of pianoforte accompaniment, it would be something. Beethoven alone could, if he would, produce what was indispensable. Time pressed, Mälzel had long since closed his exhibition, and every day of delay was a serious expense. The “Conflagration of Moscow,” the model of his Chronometer and the cylinders for his Panharmonicon were all finished, except the “Victory,” and this would soon be ready. Before the end of the year, therefore, he could be in Munich, as his interest imperatively demanded, provided Beethoven should not be his companion. There was nothing to detain him in Vienna after the “Victory” was completed, but his relations to the composer. Him he knew too well to hope from him any work deliberately written with a view to please the multitude, had the time allowed, which it did not.

Preparations were making in October for two grand performances on the 11th and 14th of November, in the R. I. Winter Riding Academy, of Handel’s “Timotheus” for the benefit of the widows and orphans of Austrians and Bavarians who had fallen in the late campaign against Napoleon. On this hint Mälzel formed his plan. This was, if Beethoven would consent to instrumentate the “Victory” for orchestra—in doing which, being freed from the limitations of the Panharmonicon, he could give free play to his fancy—he (Mälzel) would return to him the score, risk the sacrifice of it for its original purpose, remain in Vienna, and make it the popular attraction of a grand charity concert for the benefit of the Austrians and Bavarians wounded in the battle at Hanau, trusting that it would open the way for two or more concerts to be given for their own benefit. Under all the circumstances, it is difficult to decide, whether to admire the more Mälzel’s good judgment, or his courageous trust in it and in Beethoven’s genius. He disclosed his plan and purposes to the composer, they were approved by him, and the score was returned.

While Beethoven wrought zealously on his task, Mälzel busied himself with the preparations for the concert. His personal popularity, the charitable object in view, curiosity to study Beethoven’s new productions, especially the battle-piece, secured the services of nearly all the leading musicians, some of whom were there only in passing or temporarily—Dragonetti, Meyerbeer, the bassoon-player Romberg, and others. Tomaschek, who heard the “Victory” next year, writes that he was “very painfully affected to see a Beethoven, whom Providence had probably assigned to the highest throne in the realm of music, among the rudest materialists. I was told, it is true, that he himself had declared the work to be folly, and that he liked it only because with it he had thoroughly thrashed the Viennese.” There is no doubt that this was so; nor that they, who engaged in its performance, viewed it as a stupendous musical joke, and engaged in it con amore as in a gigantic professional frolic.

The University Hall was granted on this occasion and the 8th of December was fixed for the concert. Young Glöggl was in Vienna, visited Beethoven, and was by him granted the privilege of attending the rehearsals. “I remember,” he writes,

Spohr, playing among the violins,

Mälzel’s first placards announcing the concert spoke of the battle-piece as his property; but Beethoven objecting to this, others were substituted in which it was said to have been composed “out of friendship, for his visit to London.” No hint was conveyed of Mälzel’s share in the composition. The programme was:

The success of the performances was so unequivocal and splendid as to cause their repetition on Sunday, the 12th, at noon, at the same prices, 10 fl. and 5 fl. “The net receipts of the two performances, after deducting the unavoidable costs, were 4006 florins, which were reverently turned over to the ‘hohen Kriegs-Präsidio’ for the purposes announced” (“Wiener Zeitung,” December 20). The “Wiener Zeitung,” “Allg. Mus. Zeit.” of Leipsic, and the “Beobachter,” contained excessively laudatory notices of the music and vivid descriptions of its effect upon the auditors, whose “applause rose to the point of ecstasy.” The statements of the contemporary public prints are confirmed by the veteran Spohr, who reports that the Allegretto of the Seventh Symphony “was demanded da capo at both concerts.”

Schindler calls this rightly “one of the most important moments in the life of the master, at which all the hitherto divergent voices, save those of the professional musicians, united in proclaiming him worthy of the laurel.” “A work like the battle-symphony had to come,” adds Schindler with good judgment, “in order that divergent opinions might be united and the mouths of all opponents, of whatever kind, be silenced.” Schindler also preserved a “Note of Thanks” prepared for the “Wiener Zeitung” and signed by Beethoven, which ends with a just and merited tribute to Mälzel:

Why was this document not printed? Beethoven had suddenly quarreled with Mälzel.

Evidence of the impatience with which Beethoven conducted the controversy with the heirs of Prince Kinsky, concerning the payment of the annuity installments, is given by a letter dated “Vienna, December 18, 1813,” to Dr. Beyer, a lawyer in Prague, in which he says:

The ascertained compositions of this year are:

Publications:

On the last day of 1813, the “Wiener Zeitung” contained this public notice:

Mälzel saw, therefore, that the objects for which he had sacrificed the “Battle,” for which he had lost so many precious weeks and had spent so much labor and pains, were accomplished in so far as Beethoven’s new works were now the subjects of general interest and curiosity, and their repeated performance to large and profitable audiences was secured. To his courage and sagacity this was wholly due. It is thoroughly unjust to deny or ignore the value of his services. What his feelings were now, to find himself deprived of all share in the benefit resulting from them, and therefore left without compensation, may readily be conceived. His Mechanical Trumpeter was necessarily discarded with himself, and Beethoven had to find something to take its place on the programme. Hence this note (in December) to Moritz Lichnowsky:

The result of this conference was the selection of Nos. 6, 7 and 8 of the “Ruins of Athens” music, viz: the “Solemn March with Chorus” and the concluding Bass Air, sung by Weinmüller, with the choruses. The last was exceedingly appropriate in a concert in the Redouten-Saal, it being the number in which (as in the old Bonnian “Blick in die Zukunft”) the bust of the monarch is made suddenly to appear. To insure the effectiveness of this is the object of a humorous note to Zmeskall, on New Year’s Day.

The orchestra was for the most part composed of the same professional and amateur artists as had taken part in the two previous concerts, so that the rehearsals were comparatively inexpensive, the only new music being the selections from “The Ruins”; but Salieri, as director of the cannonade, gave place to Hummel. Franz Wild, the singer, was present and records in his “Autobiography” his reminiscences of the occasion thus:

The composer had every reason to be satisfied with the result, for not only was it pecuniarly profitable but

So speaks the “Wiener Zeitung” on the 9th, which on the 24th of January printed this:

“Only in this room” (the large Redoutensaal), says Schindler, “was the opportunity offered to put into execution the manifold intentions of the composer in the Battle Symphony. With the help of the long corridors and the rooms opposite to each other the opposing forces were enabled to approach each other and the desired illusion was strikingly achieved.” Schindler was among the listeners on this occasion and gives assurance that the enthusiasm awakened by the performance, “heightened by the patriotic feeling of those memorable days,” was overwhelming.

Among the direct consequences of this sudden and boundless popularity of Beethoven’s music, to which Mälzel had given the occasion and impulse, was one all the more gratifying, because totally unexpected—the revival of “Fidelio.”

“The Inspizienten of the R. I. Court Opera, Saal, Vogel and Weinmüller, about this time were granted a performance for their benefit, the choice of a work being left to them, without cost.” There was then no opera, German, French or Italian, likely to draw a remunerative house in the repertory of the theatre, which could be produced without expense to the institution. The sensation caused by Beethoven’s new music, including the numbers from “The Ruins of Athens” in which Weinmüller had just sung, suggested “Fidelio.” All three had been in Vienna at its production and therefore knew it sufficiently to judge of its fitness for them as singers, and the probability of its now being successful; at all events the name of Beethoven would surely secure for their night a numerous audience. “Beethoven was approached for the loan of the opera,” says Treitschke, who had this year been re-appointed stage-manager and poet at the Kärnthnerthor-Theater after having been employed some years at the Theater-an-der-Wien, “and very unselfishly declared his willingness, but on the unequivocal condition that many changes be made.”

The principal changes made by Treitschke were, by his own account, these:

Concerning this air, Röckel writes:

Treitschke continues:

At this point, Treitschke avoided what had always appeared to him to be “a great fault”—namely, that the dungeon was the scene of the entire second act—by introducing a change in the scenery so that the conclusion should be “in full daylight upon a bright green courtyard of the palace.”

Before the middle of February the alterations to be made were determined by musician and poet, and each began his task; both were hindered by frequent interruptions, and its completion deferred.[116]

Beethoven’s attention to it was immediately called away by the concert of which these two notes speak:

The “Wiener Zeitung” of February 24th contains the advertisement of the “Akademie, next Sunday, the 27th inst. in the large Redoutensaal,” announcing “a new symphony not yet heard and an entirely new as yet unheard terzetto” as novelties. To Hummel, Beethoven now wrote:

The report in the “Allg. Mus. Zeit.” contains the programme in full with a few short and pertinent observations:

The “something new for Milder” resulted in something rather old; for the terzetto in which she sang was the “Tremate, empj, tremate,” fully sketched in 1801-1802, but now first written out and completed in its present form.

Schindler discovered among Beethoven’s papers, and has communicated substantially in his book, certain accounts of expenses incurred in this concert. Only the Eighth Symphony and the terzetto had to be copied; for these “the specification amounted in total: 452 written pages at 12 kreutzers, makes 90 florins, 24 kr.; the specified cost of the orchestra alone at this concert amounted to 344 florins. Nevertheless, only 7 first violinists and only 6 seconds who were paid some 5 some 7 fl. are mentioned by name, because in each part twice as many dilettanti had played.” One of Beethoven’s own memoranda gives the exact number of the string instruments: “At my last concert in the large Ridotto-room there were 18 first violins, 18 second, 14 violas, 12 violoncellos, 17 contra-basses, 2 contra-bassoons.” Whether the audience numbered 5000, as Schindler reports, or 3000, which is more likely, the clear pecuniary profits of the two concerts were very large. Czerny remembered that on this occasion the Eighth Symphony “by no means pleased” and Beethoven was angry thereat, “because it is much better,” he said. Another of his reminiscences is that Beethoven “often related with much pleasure how, when walking on the Kahlenberg after the performance of the Eighth Symphony, he got some cherries from a couple of girls and when he asked the price of one of them, she replied: ‘I’ll take nothing from you. We saw you in the Ridotto-room when we heard your beautiful music.’”

The University Law Students had a composition by Beethoven on the programme of their concert, on February 12; the Medical Students opened their concert, March 6, with the “Egmont” Overture; and the Regiment Deutschmeister, theirs of March 25 with that to “Coriolan”; with these concerts Beethoven had nothing to do; but in the Annual Spring “Akademie,” March 25, in the Kärnthnerthor-Theater for the Theatre Poor Fund, he conducted the “Egmont” Overture and “Wellington’s Victory.”

Both poet and composer had now been again delayed in their “Fidelio” studies, in this wise: The French Armies had so often taken possession of the capitals of the various Continental states, that the motives are inconceivable, which induced Schwarzenberg to restrain the approach of the allied armies on Paris, until Blücher’s persistence, enforced by his victories, at last compelled the Commander-in-Chief to yield the point. When this became known in Vienna, it was determined to celebrate the event, so soon as news of it should arrive, by an appropriate performance in the Court Opera. To this end, Treitschke wrote a Singspiel in one act entitled “Gute Nachricht” (“Good News”). Of the nine pieces of music in it, the overture was given to Hummel and the concluding chorus, “Germania, wie stehst du jetzt im Glanze da,” to Beethoven.

In a note to Treitschke, called out by the proposed changes in the scenery of “Fidelio,” Beethoven wrote:

Towards the end of March, Beethoven received the new text to “Fidelio.” To Treitschke he wrote: “I have read your amendments to the opera with great pleasure; they determine me to rebuild the ruins of an old castle.” A letter to the poet refers again to the chorus which he had composed for Treitschke’s Singspiel:

Beethoven’s attention was now again called away from the opera by a concert in the hall of the Hotel zum Römischen Kaiser, arranged by the landlord and Schuppanzigh for a military charity. Czerny relates that a new grand trio had then for some time been a subject of conversation among Beethoven’s friends, though no one had heard it. This work, Op. 97, in B-flat major, was to open the second part of the concert and the composer had consented to play in it. Spohr was by chance in Beethoven’s rooms at one of the rehearsals and heard him play—the only time. “It was not a treat,” he writes:

The concert took place at noon on Monday, April 11. Moscheles was present and wrote in his diary:

In those days a well-to-do music-lover, named Pettenkofer, gathered a number of young people into his house every Saturday for the performance of instrumental music. One evening a pupil of Schuppanzigh’s requested his neighbor at the music-stand, a youth of 18 years, to take a note from his teacher next day to Beethoven, proposing a rehearsal of the Trio, and requiring no answer but “yes” or “no.” “I undertook the commission with joy,” he records:

This youth was Anton Schindler. He continues his narrative:

And thus ended all personal intercourse between Schindler and Beethoven until the end of the year—a fact to be noted.

A few weeks later Beethoven played in the Trio again at a morning concert of Schuppanzigh’s in the Prater, and thus—excepting once accompanying a song—he took leave of the public as a pianist.

“Gute Nachricht” was first played also on the evening of Monday, April 11; for the news of the triumphal entry of the allied armies (March 31), as Moscheles records in his diary, reached Vienna the day before. It was repeated on the 12th, 14th, 17th, 24th and May 3rd, in the Kärnthnerthor-Theater, and on June 11th and 14th in the Burg.

Meantime an event had occurred, the effect of which on Beethoven is nowhere indicated; but let us hope and believe that it, for the moment, unfitted him for labor—Prince Carl Lichnowsky, his old friend and protector, died April 15. It is gratifying that the last notice of him in our work is that touching reminiscence by Schindler, which proves that time had neither cooled nor diminished the warm affection that he had conceived twenty years before for the young Bonn pianist.

The following note to Zmeskall was written about this time:

This new lodging, for which Beethoven now left the Pasqualati house, was in the 1st storey of the Bartenstein house, also on the Mölker Bastei (No. 96); so that he still remained in the immediate vicinity of his friends, Princess Christine Lichnowsky and the Erdödys.

The other matters mentioned in the note call our attention again to Mälzel, who, notwithstanding his bitter disappointment at the turn which his affairs with Beethoven had taken, had still lingered in Vienna several weeks in the hope of making some kind of amicable arrangement with him. As his side of the story was never made public, there is little to add to the information on the subject contained in the papers of Beethoven, preserved by Schindler. From them these facts appear; that Beethoven repaid the fifty ducats of borrowed money; that Mälzel and he had several interviews at the office of the lawyer, Dr. Adlersburg, which had for their subject the “Battle of Vittoria” and the journey to England; that he made various propositions which Beethoven would not accept “to get the work, or at least the right of first performance for himself,” and the like; that, incensed by the conduct of the composer and hopeless of benefit from any farther consultation, he did not appear at the last one appointed; and that he obtained by stealth so many of the single parts of the “Battle” as to be enabled therefrom to have a pretty correct score of the work written out, with which he departed to Munich and there produced it in two concerts on the 16th and 17th of March.

When this became known in Vienna[122] Beethoven’s wrath was excited and, instead of treating the matter with contemptuous silence, or at most making an appeal to the public in the newspapers, he committed the absurdity of instituting a lawsuit against a man already far on his way to the other extremity of Europe, at the same time in all haste preparing a copy of the “Battle” and sending it to the Prince Regent of England, that at least he might prevent Mälzel from producing it there as a novelty. It was a costly and utterly useless precaution; for, on the one hand, Mälzel found in London no inducement to attempt orchestral concerts, and on the other, the score sent by Beethoven lay buried in the library of the Prince, who neither then nor ever took the slightest notice of it (except to permit its performance, as we shall presently see) or made any acknowledgment to the composer.

Casting aside all extraneous matter contained in Beethoven’s documents, the real question at issue is very clear. The two leading facts—one of which is admitted by implication, and the other explicitly stated by Beethoven himself—are already known to the reader: First, that the plan of the work was Mälzel’s; second, that the composer wrought it out for the Panharmonicon gratis. In this form, therefore, the composition beyond all doubt was Mälzel’s property. There was, therefore, but one point to be decided: Did the arrangement of the work for orchestra at Mälzel’s suggestion and request, transfer the proprietorship? If it did, Beethoven had a basis for his suit; if it did not, he had none. This question was never decided; for after the process had lingered through several years, the two men met, made peace, Beethoven withdrew his complaint, and each paid the half of all expenses that had been incurred![123]

Thus had been caused a new interruption of the work on “Fidelio.”

“The beneficiaries,” says Treitschke, “urged its completion to take advantage of the favorable season; but Beethoven made slow progress. To one of the poet’s notes urging haste, Beethoven wrote, probably in April:

The repetitions of the “Gute Nachricht” came to a conclusion with the performance in the Kärnthnerthor-Theater on May 3, and the beneficiaries became more and more impatient. Hence, Treitschke wrote again to Beethoven, asked him what use was to be made of the chorus “Germania,” and urged him to make haste with the work on “Fidelio.” Notwithstanding so much was wanting, the rehearsals had begun in the middle of April, and the performance was now fixed for the 23rd of May. Beethoven’s memorandum of his revisal of the opera reads: “The opera Fidelio [?] March to 15th of May, newly written and improved.” May 15th was Sunday, the “Tuesday” of his answer to Treitschke was therefore the 17th, and the date, doubtless, about the 14th:

“The final rehearsal,” says Treitschke, “was on May 22d, but the promised new overture was still in the pen of the creator.” It was then, on the 20th or 21st, that Beethoven dined with his friend Bertolini in the Römischer Kaiser. After dinner he took a bill of fare, drew lines on the blank side and began to write. “Come, let us go,” said Bertolini; “No, wait a little; I have the idea for my overture,” replied Beethoven, who remained and finished his sketches then and there. Treitschke continues:

Schindler says an overture to “Leonore,” Seyfried the overture to “The Ruins of Athens,” was played on this occasion. The “Sammler” in its contemporary notice confirms Seyfried: “The overture played at the first performance does not belong to the opera and was originally written for the opening of the theatre at Pesth.” In 1823, Beethoven in conversation happened to speak of this substitution and remarked: “The people applauded, but I stood ashamed; it did not belong to the rest.” In the manuscript book of the text prepared for use in the theatre on this occasion, one is surprised to see the title begun thus:

“Leonore, Fidelio
An Opera in Two Acts, etc.”

The word “Leonore” is crossed out and “Fidelio” written at the side in red pencil afterwards inked over. There was then on the part of some one—whom?—an intention subsequently abandoned, of thus changing the title. Again, in the list of “properties,” stands

and the same name occurs in the list of the

Dramatis Personæ

Madame Hönig was a new soprano, engaged after the “Hoftheater-Taschenbuch” for 1814 had been printed, whose name appears in that for 1815. Though appointed to the part when this text-book was copied, she gave place before the day of performance to the original Fidelio, Mme. Milder-Hauptmann.

“Herr v. B.,” says the “Sammler,” “was stormily called out already after the first act, and enthusiastically greeted.” The opera was first repeated on the 26th, when the new overture in E major “was received with tumultuous applause and the composer again called out twice at this repetition.”

The chorus “Germania,” in pianoforte arrangement, was published in June “im K. K. Hoftheater-Verlag.” A characteristic note of Beethoven to Treitschke asks for the manuscript for the purpose of correcting the proof and introduces to our acquaintance a personage or two, who will often meet us henceforth to the end, and therefore merit a short personal paragraph here.

The “K. K. Priv. Chemische Druckerey,” the property of Rochus Krasinzky and Sigmund Anton Steiner, passed about 1810 into the hands of Steiner alone. In that year Tobias Haslinger (of Zell in Upper Austria), who had been one of Chapelmaster Glöggl’s singing-boys at Linz and assistant in his music-shop, came to Vienna with the design of establishing himself in business, and there soon became acquainted with Steiner. He detailed to him his purposes and plans and induced him to withdraw his prints and other wares from Grund’s bookstore in the Singerstrasse, and open a shop of his own in the narrow passage then existing at the northeast corner of the Graben, known as the “Paternoster-Gassel,” employing him (Haslinger) as bookkeeper and manager; from which position he soon rose to be partner in the firm, “S. A. Steiner and Co.” Beethoven conceived an odd and whimsical liking for the young man, and in a few years his relations to the firm became very much the same as those which formerly existed between him and the “Kunst- und Industrie-Comptoir.” Haslinger had learned divers instruments in Linz, had begun the study of composition there and continued it in Vienna. His Opus 10, “Ideal einer Schlacht,” for the pianoforte, had just been published—the subject of Homeric laughter to Jupiter-Beethoven and the other gods. He made his place of business attractive and it became a favorite resort of composers, musicians, singers, writers for the theatre, the public press, and the like. In his correspondence with the firm Beethoven was “Generalissimus”; Steiner “Lieutenant-General”; Haslinger “Adjutant” or rather “Adjutanterl” (the diminutive of Adjutant); their assistants were “Subalterns”; and the shop, “Office of the Lieutenant-General.” These titles make their appearance in a note, typical of many, written to Treitschke:

One of Beethoven’s minor productions (still unpublished) was now composed for his friend Bertolini. The occasion was an evening festival arranged by the doctor at his own expense on the name-day (St. John’s day) and in honor of Malfatti. It was a little piece for four voices with pianoforte accompaniment to a text written by Abbate Bondi:

Invitations were extended not only to Malfatti’s relatives and personal friends but to a large number of artists of the various professions, resident or temporarily in Vienna—Dragonetti among the musicians. The scene was Malfatti’s villa in Weinhaus. There they feasted; the wine flowed; the cantata was sung; Beethoven, “thoroughly unbuttoned,” improvised; fun and frolic ruled the hour. “The sport cost me a few hundred florins,” laughingly said the good doctor fifty years afterwards.

“Fidelio” was repeated on May 26, June 2d and 4th and on Tuesday, June 7th. The theatre was then “closed because of preparations for the spectacle to be presented on the return of the Emperor.” After this the theatre closed again for two days and on the 21st was reopened with “Fidelio.” A letter to Treitschke was written about this time:

The day here proposed for the benefit was not granted. The “Wiener Zeitung” of July 1st contained a “Musical Notice” which may be quoted as a comment on the first topic of the above note:

Moscheles, then just twenty years of age, wrote about this time in his diary: “The offer has been made to me to make the pianoforte score of the masterpiece ‘Fidelio.’ What could be more desirable?” “We now find entries,” says his widow, “of how he carried two, and again two numbers to Beethoven, who looked through them; and then, alternately, ‘he changed little’ or ‘he changed nothing,’ or sometimes ‘he simplified it’ or ‘he reinforced it.’ One note reads, ‘Coming early to Beethoven, he was still in bed; this day he was particularly merry, leaped up at once, and, as he was, went to the window, which opened on the Schottenbastei, to look through the arranged numbers. Naturally the street boys assembled under the window until he cried out: ‘Damn the youngsters, what do they want?’ I smilingly pointed to his garment. ‘Yes, yes, you are right,’ said he and hastily threw a dressing-gown over his shoulders.[127] When we reached the last great duet, ‘Namenlose Freude,’ where I had written down the text ‘Ret-terin des Gat-ten,’ he crossed it out and wrote ‘Rett-erin des Gatt-en’; for it was not possible to sing on ‘t.’ Under the last number I had written ‘fine with God’s help.’ He was not at home when I carried it to him; and when he sent it back under mine were the words: ‘O man, help yourself.’”

Before bidding Moscheles farewell for the next half a dozen years, let us look at a few sentences from the preface to the English translation of Schindler’s book, partly for the information they impart and partly to prevent a mistake or two from passing into history on his authority. He thus writes:

As to the “Fidelio,” Moscheles told the writer (February 22, 1856) that he was selected to arrange it because Beethoven was on bad terms with Hummel; and that to hasten the work, Hummel did arrange one of the finales; but when Beethoven received it and looked it through, he tore it to pieces without remark, or explaining why he did so. Two errors in these last sentences will at once strike the reader—that Schindler was then much with Beethoven, and that Beethoven was on bad terms with Hummel. The explanation is easy. Moscheles had translated Schindler’s book, and unconsciously had adopted certain ideas from it, which in course of time had taken the form of memories. This is a common experience with us all. The true reason why Beethoven rejected Hummel as the arranger of “Fidelio” is obvious: Hummel was a man of sufficient talent and genius to have a style of his own—and one (as is well known) not much to Beethoven’s taste; “Fidelio” arranged by him would necessarily exhibit more or less of this style; moreover, Beethoven could not feel the same freedom in discarding, correcting, making suggestions if the work were done by him, as when performed by a young man like Moscheles.

So the score was not now published—a mistake, as the event proved, and as Beethoven himself confessed in the note to Treitschke below. “In accordance with his wish,” says Treitschke, in concluding the relation from which so much has been cited,[131] “I offered our work to foreign theatres; several ordered it, others declined because they already had the opera by Paër. Still others preferred to get it in a cheaper way by hiring cunning copyists who, as is still the custom, stole the text and music and sacrificed them for a few florins’ profit. It was of little use to us that others translated ‘Fidelio’ into several languages and made large sums by it. The composer received scarcely more than a handsome laurel-wreath, and I a little leaf, and the sincere affection of the Immortal.”

Meantime the season had far advanced, the summer heats were approaching, the departure of the nobility and the wealthy for their country-seats was near, and Beethoven thought, perhaps justly, that new attractions must be added to “Fidelio” and the public journals moved to say an appropriate word, to secure him a full house at his benefit, so long deferred. Doubtless with this last object in view, he now gave the “Friedensblätter” the song “An die Geliebte” (text by Stoll), which was engraved as a supplement to the number for July 12, and a notice closing with

This was certainly to the purpose. The earliest hint as to what the new attractions of the opera were to be is found in a note to Treitschke:

Beethoven’s benefit performance of “Fidelio” took place on Monday evening, July 18, 1814. The song so impatiently awaited could have been no other than Rocco’s “gold aria” which had been sung only in the two performances of 1805. Beethoven, desiring now to give Weinmüller a solo, restored it to the score. Jahn, in his edition of “Leonore,” gives two texts—the original by Sonnleithner and one which he conjectures may have been written by Breuning. From them Treitschke now prepared a text, as we have it, by changing somewhat and improving Sonnleithner’s first stanza and joining to it the second stanza of the other, unchanged except by the omission of its close.

As to the new piece for Milder, Treitschke says explicitly it was “a grand aria for Leonore, but as it checked the rapid movement of the rest it was again omitted.” In the advertisement of his benefit Beethoven says only: “For this performance ... two new pieces have been added.” The notice in the “Friedensblätter” next day is somewhat more explicit: “‘Fidelio’ will be given with two entirely new arias to be sung by Mme. Milder and Hrn. Weinmüller, for the benefit of the composer”; and from the “Sammler” we learn that at the performance the new air sung by Madame Milder-Hauptmann “was very effective and the excellent performance seemed to labor under peculiarly great difficulties.” What is known from printed sources concerning this air is this: it was in E-flat major with four horns obbligati;[133] the text was “Komm’ Hoffnung, etc.”; it was not the aria already sung by the Milder six times this season; it was one which the composer is not certain that she can sing after fourteen days’ study; it was not the one which Moscheles had arranged for the new edition of the opera.

Now we read in the “Fidelio” sketchbook about the time when Beethoven wrote to Treitschke about “sending out the opera” (p. 107): “Hamburg, 15 ducats in gold; Grätz, 12 fl.; Frankfort, 15 ducats in gold; Stuttgart, 12 ducats in gold; Carlsruhe, 12 ducats in gold; Darmstadt, 12 ducats in gold”—evidently the price of the opera; and on the next page, “Abscheulicher, wo eilst du hin!” i. e., sketches for the recitative; but sketches for the aria are not known. Are not our informants in error? Was not the new air after all the one which Moscheles arranged and which is still sung? And if not, what has become of it?[134]

Shortly before the performance on July 14, 1814, Beethoven wrote a letter to Archduke Rudolph in which he said:

Next day, Friday the 15th, appeared, over his own signature, the advertisement of “Beethoven’s Benefit” on Monday, the 18th. “Boxes and reserved seats may be ordered Saturday and Sunday in the lodgings of the undersigned on the Mölkerbastei, in the Baron Pasqualati house, No. 94, in the first storey.” Imagine his comical consternation when the “Wiener Zeitung” came to hand and he read the “Pasqualatischen” instead of the “Bartenstein’schen” house! But the number was correct and that would save his friends the needless ascent of four flights to his old lodging. The contemporary reports of the performance are numerous and all very eulogistic. Forti, as Pizarro, was “entirely satisfactory”; the “gold aria,” although well sung by Weinmüller, “did not make a great effect”; “beautiful and of large artistic value was the aria in E-flat major with four [!] obbligato French horns, but the reviewer is of the opinion that it retards the rapid progress of the first act. The house was very full; the applause extraordinary; the enthusiasm for the composer, who has now become a favorite of the public, manifested itself in calls before the curtain after every act.” All free tickets were invalid; the pecuniary results must therefore have been in a high degree satisfactory.

Another consequence of Beethoven’s sudden popularity, was the publication of a new engraving of him by Artaria, the crayon drawing for which was executed by Latronne, a French artist then in Vienna. Blasius Höfel, a young man of 22 years, was employed to engrave it. He told the writer,[136] how very desirous he was of producing a good likeness—a matter of great importance to the young artist—but that Latronne’s drawing was not a good one, probably for want of a sufficient number of sittings. Höfel often saw Beethoven at Artaria’s and, when his work was well advanced, asked him for a sitting or two. The request was readily granted. At the time set, the engraver appeared with his plate. Beethoven seated himself in position and for perhaps five minutes remained reasonably quiet; then suddenly springing up went to the pianoforte and began to extemporize, to Höfel’s great annoyance. The servant relieved his embarrassment by assuring him that he could now seat himself near the instrument and work at his leisure, for his master had quite forgotten him and no longer knew that anyone was in the room. This Höfel did; wrought so long as he wished, and then departed with not the slightest notice from Beethoven. The result was so satisfactory, that only two sittings of less than one hour each were needed. It is well known that Höfel’s is the best of all the engravings made of Beethoven. In 1851, Alois Fuchs showed to the writer his great collection, and when he came to this, exclaimed with strong emphasis: “Thus I learned to know him!”

Höfel in course of the conversation unconsciously corroborated the statements of Madame Streicher, as reported by Schindler, in regard to Beethoven’s wretched condition in 1812-13. The effect upon him of his pecuniary embarrassments, his various disappointments, and of a mind ill at ease, was very plainly to be seen in his personal habits and appearance. He was at that time much accustomed to dine at an inn where Höfel often saw him in a distant corner, at a table, which though large was avoided by the other guests owing to the very uninviting habits into which he had fallen; the particulars may be omitted. Not infrequently he departed without paying his bill, or with the remark that his brother would settle it; which Karl did. He had grown so negligent of his person as to appear there sometimes positively “schmutzig” (dirty). Now, however, under the kind care of the Streichers, cheered and inspirited by the glory and emolument of the past eight months, he became his better self again; and—though now and to the end, so careless and indifferent to mere externals as occasionally to offend the sensitiveness of very nice and fastidious people—he again, as before quoted from Czerny, “paid attention to his appearance.” From a note of apology to the Archduke, written while busy with the “arrangements for my opera,” we learn that Beethoven contemplated another visit to Teplitz; but the public announcement of a royal congress to meet in Vienna, August 1, put an end to that project, and Baden again became his summer retreat, for recreation but not for rest. Sketches for the “Elegiac Song” (“Sanft wie du lebtest”) are found among the studies for the new “Fidelio,” and this short work was probably now completed in season to be copied and delivered to his friend Pasqualati on or before the 23rd of August, that day being the third anniversary of the death of his “transfigured wife,” in honor of whose memory it was composed. The Sonata in E minor, Op. 90, bears date August 16. Then comes a cantata—as it is named in the “Fidelio” sketchbook, where some hints for it are noted; in fact, it is but a chorus with orchestra—a piece of flattery intended for the royal personages of the coming congress.

This is the text; but as the congress was deferred, there was no haste, and the chorus was not finished until September 3rd.

Meanwhile the controversy with the Kinsky heirs had entered upon a new phase. Dr. Johann Kanka, a lawyer in Prague, in a communication to the author,[137] wrote:

Then, after a rather protracted history of the annuity and the effect produced upon it by the Finanz-Patent of 1811, “whereby Beethoven’s means of subsistence were materially reduced and his longer residence in Vienna rendered impossible,” he continues:

Dr. Kanka closed with the promise to grant for use in this work, such letters of Beethoven—“precious relics”—as remained in his possession—a promise fulfilled a few days afterwards. Thus, in half a dozen lines—indeed, by the single statement that he was the curator of the Kinsky estate and as such effected a compromise between the parties—the venerable doctor exposes the mistakes and destroys the hypotheses of all who treated the topic at length from Schindler onward. Beethoven’s lawyer in Vienna was Dr. Adlersburg, and his “legal friend” in Prague, Dr. Wolf, who must have already become heartily weary of his client, for Beethoven himself writes in a letter to the court at Prague:

That, as is here insinuated, Wolf instituted the suit against the Kinsky heirs without explicit instructions from his client, is doubtful; but at all events that proceeding brought matters to a crisis, and led to an interview in the course of the summer between Beethoven and the Verlassenschafts-Curator, with the object, on the part of the latter, of effecting a settlement of the affair by compromise. Kanka, a fine musician and composer, an old friend, or rather acquaintance of Beethoven’s, and of the same age, was a man also whose legal talents and knowledge must have no less deeply than favorably impressed him. The letters written during the next six months to his new friend, show us how Beethoven first relinquished the notion of a legal claim to the 1800 florins in notes of redemption, then abandoned the claim in equity, and at length came into a rational view of the matter, saw the necessity of compromising, and sought no more than to effect this on the best terms possible.[138]

There is a letter to Thomson dated September 15, and another in October, the day not specified. Both are in Italian and only signed by Beethoven. In the first, the demand of “4 zecchini” per melody is renewed and “mille ringraziamente” sent to the author of a sonnet printed in the “Edinburgh Magazine” which Thomson had enclosed to the composer. The occasion of the poem was the performance of selections of Beethoven’s music at a rural festival of artists in England. The hour was advanced to near midnight, when Grahame, the Scotch poet, who was present, inspired by the music and by the beauty of the bright moonlit night, improvised the lines:

Beethoven’s thanks came too late; Grahame was dead. The letter of October again presses the demand of “4 zecchini,” but is for the most part devoted to urging Thomson to purchase for publication the “Wellington’s Victory”—about as preposterous as if Professor Max Müller had solicited the editor of a popular magazine, to which he had contributed articles, to undertake a Sanskrit dictionary. Our narrative brings us to a letter

To Count Moritz von Lichnowsky.

Baden, Sept. 21, 1841 [sic].

Worthy honored Count
and friend.

I did not receive your letter, unfortunately until yesterday—cordial thanks for your thought of me and all manner of lovely messages to the worthy Princess Christine—yesterday, I made a lonely promenade with a friend in the Brühl and you up came particularly in our friendly conversation and behold on arriving here yesterday I find your good letter—I see that you still persist in overwhelming me with kindnesses, as I do not want you to think that a step which I have taken was prompted by a new interest or anything of that kind, I tell you that a new sonata of mine will soon appear which I have dedicated to you. I wanted to surprise you, for the dedication was set apart for you a long time ago, but your letter of yesterday leads me to make the disclosure, no new cause was needed for the public expression of my feelings for your friendship and kindness—but you would give me pain with anything resembling a gift, since you would totally misapprehend my purpose, and everything of the kind I could only refuse.

I kiss the hands of the Princess for her thought of me and her kindness, I have never forgotten how much I owe you all, even if an unfortunate circumstance brought about conditions under which I could not show it as I should have liked to do—what you tell me about Lord Castleregt, the matter is already well introduced, if I were to have an opinion on the subject, it would be that I think that Lord Castleregt ought not to write about the work on Wellington until the Lord has heard it here—I am soon coming to the city where we will talk over everything concerning a grand concert—nothing can be done with the court, I have made an offer—but

Adagio
but, but, but, but, but, but
and yet Silentium!

Farewell, my honored friend and think of me always as worthy of your kindness—

Your
Beethoven.

I kiss the hands of the honored Princess C. a thousand times.

Beethoven’s “Lord Castleregt” was Viscount Castlereagh, now in Vienna as British plenipotentiary in the coming congress; and his object was to obtain through him some recognition from the Prince Regent for the dedication of the “Wellington’s Victory.” Nothing came of it.

The Sonata was the Op. 90, dated “August 16, 1814”—the subject of one of Schindler’s authentic and pleasantest anecdotes. Lichnowsky, after the decease of his first wife, fell in love with Fräulein Stummer, a singer just now transferred from the Theater-an-der-Wien to the Hoftheater, whose talents and unblemished character rendered her worthy of the Count’s affection. Difference in social position long prevented their marriage, nor was it solemnized until some time after the death of Prince Karl.

The only new work suitable for a grand concert which Beethoven now had, was the chorus; “Ihr weisen Gründer.” Over the title of the manuscript is written in pencil by him: “About this time the Overture in C.” This work he had now in hand; also a vocal composition of considerable length. The author of the text, whoever he was, must have profoundly studied and heartily adopted the principles of composition as set forth by Martinus Scriblerus in his “Treatise on Bathos, or the Art of Sinking in Poetry”: for anything more stilted in style, yet more absurdly prosaic, with nowhere a spark of poetic fire to illuminate its dreary pages, is hardly conceivable. It begins something like this:

Neither the Overture nor the Cantata was finished, when the arrival at Vienna of the King of Wurtemberg on the 22d of September, of the King of Denmark on the 23d and the announcement of the coming of the Russian Emperor with the King of Prussia on Sunday the 25th, brought Beethoven back to the city. Owing to the failure of Lobkowitz, the Court theatres had passed under the management of Palffy. If there be any truth whatever in his alleged hostility to Beethoven, it is not a little remarkable that the first grand opera performed in the presence of the monarchs—Monday the 26th—was “Fidelio.” One of the audience on that evening, in a published account of his “Journey to the Congress,” records: “To-day I went to the Court Theatre and was carried to heaven—the opera ‘Fidelio’ by L. v. Beethoven was given.” Then follow some fifteen pages of enthusiastic eulogy. That auditor was Alois Weissenbach, R. I. Councillor, Professor of Surgery and Head Surgeon of the St. John’s Hospital in Salzburg, where after sixteen years’ service in the Austrian armies he had settled, devoting his leisure to poetry and the drama. His tragedy “Der Brautkranz” in iambics, five acts, was produced January 14, 1809, at the Kärnthnerthor-Theater. Whether his “Barmeciden” and “Glaube und Liebe” were also brought out in Vienna we have no means of deciding. At all events, he was a man of high reputation. Of him Franz Graeffer writes:

Weissenbach himself writes:

Remarks follow upon Beethoven’s ignorance of the value of money, of the absolute purity of his morals (which, unfortunately, is not true) and of the irregularity of his life. “This irregularity reaches its climax in his periods of productiveness. Then he is frequently absent days at a time without any one knowing whither he is gone.” [?]

We know no reason to suppose that Beethoven received Weissenbach’s poem before the interview with him; but, on the contrary, think the citations above preclude such a hypothesis. Moreover, the composer’s anxiety to have an interview at the earliest possible moment arose far more probably from a hint or the hope, that he might obtain a text better than the one in hand, than from any desire to discuss one already received. What is certain is this: Beethoven did obtain from Weissenbach the poem “Der glorreiche Augenblick,” and cast the other aside unfinished—as it remains to this day.

First, Beethoven had to complete his overture, the supposed scope and design of which may occupy us a moment.

Scott said, that when he wrote “Waverly, or ’Tis Sixty Years Since,” it had already become impossible for the people of England and Scotland, in their greatly changed and improved condition, to form any correct conception of the state of public feeling in those kingdoms in 1745, when the Pretender made that last effort against the House of Brunswick which is the subject of “Waverly,” and the defeat of which is commemorated by Handel in “Judas Maccabæus.” It is equally difficult for us to conceive adequately the sensations caused by the downfall of Napoleon at the time of which we are writing.

When monarchs play chess with armies, “check to the king” means the shock of contending foes and all the horrors of war; but in perusing the history of Bonaparte’s campaigns, we become so interested in the “game” as to forget the attendant ruin, devastation and destruction, the blood, carnage and death, that made all central Europe for twenty long years one vast charnel-house. But only in proportion as the imagination is able to form a vivid picture of the horrors of those years, can it conceive that inexpressible sense of relief, the universal joy and jubilee, which outside of France pervaded all classes of society, from prince to peasant, at the fall of the usurper, conqueror and tyrant. And this not more because of that event, than because of the all-prevailing trust, that men’s rights, political and religious—now doubly theirs by nature and by purchase at such infinite cost—would be gladly and gratefully accorded to them. For sovereign and subject had shared danger and suffering and every evil fortune together, and been brought into new and kindlier relations by common calamities; thus the sentiment of loyalty—the affectionate veneration of subject for sovereign—had been developed to a degree wholly unprecedented. Nothing presaged or foreboded the near advent and thirty years’ sway of Metternichism. No one dreamed, that within six years the “rulers” at this moment “of happy states” would solemnly declare, “all popular and constitutional rights to be holden no otherwise than as grants and indulgences from crowned heads”;[139] that they would snuff treason in every effort of the people to hold princes to their pledged words; and that their vigilance would effectually prevent the access of any Leonore to the Pellicos, Liebers and Reuters languishing for such treasons in their state prisons. At that time all this was hidden in the future; the very intoxication of joy and extravagant loyalty then ruled the hour. It was, as we believe, to give these sentiments musical expression, that Beethoven now took up and wrought out certain themes and motives, noted by him five years before in connection with the memorandum: “Freude schöner Götterfunken Tochter—Ouverture ausarbeiten.”[140] The poetic idea of the work was not essentially changed—the joy of liberated Europe simply taking the place of the joy of Schiller’s poem. But the composer’s particular purpose was to produce it as the graceful homage of a loyal subject on the Emperor’s name-day. How else can the autograph inscription upon the original manuscript be understood: “Overture by L. v. Beethoven, on the first of Wine-month, 1814—Evening to the name-day of our Emperor”? In the arts, as in literature, there is no necessary connection between that which gives rise to the ideas of a work, and the occasion of its composition; the occasion of this overture was clearly the name-day festival of Emperor Franz; why then may it not in the future, as in the past, be known as the “Namensfeier” Overture?

Assuming the “first of the Wine-month” (October 1) to date the completion of the work, there remained three days for copying and rehearsal. The theatre had been closed on the 29th and 30th of September, to prepare for a grand festival production of Spontini’s “La Vestale” on Saturday evening, October 1st; but for the evening of the name-day, Tuesday the 4th, “Fidelio” (its 15th performance) was selected. It was obviously the intention of Beethoven to do homage to Emperor Franz, by producing his new overture as a prelude on this occasion. What, then, prevented? Seyfried answers this question. He writes: “For this year’s celebration of the name-day of His Majesty, the Emperor, Kotzebue’s allegorical festival play ‘Die hundertjährigen Eichen’ had been ordered. Now, as generally happens, this decision was reached so late that I, as the composer, was allowed only three days, and two more for studying and rehearsing all the choruses, dances, marches, groupings, etc.” This festival play was on the 3d and rendered the necessary rehearsals of Beethoven’s overture impossible.[141]

“Fidelio” was sung the sixteenth time on the 9th. Tomaschek, one of the auditors on that evening, gave to the public in 1846 notes of the impression made upon him, in a criticism which, by its harshness, forms a curious contrast to Weissenbach’s eulogy. Having exhausted that topic, however, Tomaschek describes his meetings in an account which has a peculiar interest not only because, though general descriptions of Beethoven’s style of conversation are numerous, attempts to report him in detail are very rare. The description is also valuable because of its vivid display of Beethoven’s manner of judging his contemporaries, which was so offensive to them and begat their lasting enmity. A dramatic poem, “Moses,” words by Klingemann, music (overture, choruses and marches) by von Seyfried, was to be given on the evening of Tomaschek’s first call. Tomaschek says he has no desire “to hear music of this kind” and the dialogue proceeds as follows:

Before Tomaschek visited Beethoven again, Meyerbeer’s opera “Die beiden Caliphen” had been produced at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre. Tomaschek comes to take his farewell. Beethoven is in the midst of preparations for his concert and insists upon giving him a ticket. Then the conversation goes on:

Of some minor compositions belonging to this autumn, this is the story: The Prussian King’s Secretary, Friedrich Duncker, brought to Vienna, in the hope of producing it there, a tragedy, “Leonore Prohaska,” “which tells the story of a maiden who, disguised as a soldier, fought through the war of liberation.” For this Beethoven composed a soldiers’ chorus for men’s voices unaccompanied: “Wir hauen und sterben”; a romance with harp, 6/8, “Es blüht eine Blume”; and a melodrama with harmonica. It is also stated, that he instrumentated for orchestra the march in the Sonata, Opus 26, Duncker preferring this to a new marcia funebre.[143] Dr. Sonnleithner had also a note from some quarter—discredited by him—that even an overture and entr’actes were written. Nothing of the kind is known to exist, and doubtless never did. “It is said the censor would not allow the piece”—it certainly never came to performance; and until its production was made sure, Beethoven would of course—even if he had the time—not have engaged in a work of such extent.

Beethoven had announced a grand concert for November 20, in the large Ridotto Room, but advertisements in the “Wiener Zeitung” of the 18th postponed it till November 22d, then till the 27th, and finally till the 29th. On November 30th, the newspaper reports:

One would like to know what Beethoven said when he read this; for the symphony supposed by the writer to be composed as a companion-piece (Begleitung) to the “Wellington’s Victory” was the magnificent Seventh![144]

The solo singers in the Cantata were Mme. Milder, Dem. Bondra, Hr. Wild and Hr. Forti, all of whom sang well, and the Milder wonderfully. “The two Empresses, the King of Prussia” and other royalties were present and “the great hall was crowded. Seated in the orchestra were to be seen the foremost virtuosi, who were in the habit of showing their respect for him and art by taking part in Beethoven’s Academies.” All the contemporary notices agree as to the enthusiastic reception of the Symphony and the Battle, and that the Cantata, notwithstanding the poverty of the text, was, on the whole, worthy of the composer’s reputation and contained some very fine numbers. The concert, with precisely the same programme, was repeated in the same hall on Friday, December 2d, for Beethoven’s benefit—nearly half the seats being empty! And again in the evening of the 25th for the benefit of the St. Mark’s Hospital, when, of course, a large audience was present. Thus the Cantata was given three times in four weeks, and probably Spohr, who was still in Vienna, played in the orchestra; yet he gravely asserts in his autobiography that “the work was not performed at that time.”

The proposed third concert for Beethoven’s benefit was abandoned and there is no clue to the “new things in hand” for it, which Beethoven mentioned in a letter to Archduke Rudolph, unless possibly the “Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt” may have been begun for the occasion. The most remarkable and gratifying thing in the letter, however, is to find Beethoven once more speaking of “pleasures and joy”—whence arising, we learn from Schindler. True, he does not, nor cannot yet, speak from personal observation; but his well-known relations to the composer began while the memories of these days were still fresh; and what he records is derived from Beethoven himself for the most part, though, as usual, he has inserted a statement or two, honestly made, but not the less incorrect on that account. But first, a paragraph from an article by Schindler in Raumer’s “Hist. Taschenbuch,” published in 1863:

Turn we to Schindler:

As Rasoumowsky was not elevated to the rank of Prince until June 3rd, 1815, Schindler, in his next sentences, is all wrong in making that incident “the cause of festivities of a most extraordinary character to which Beethoven was always invited.”

There is reason to believe that these receptions in the apartments of the Archduke did not begin until those at Rasoumowsky’s had come to their disastrous end. Huge as the palace was, it lacked space for the crowds invited thither to the Czar’s festivities. A large temporary structure of wood was therefore added on the side next the garden, in which, on the evening of December 30th, a table for 700 guests was spread. Between five and six o’clock of the morning of the 31st, this was discovered to be on fire—probably owing to a defective flue—the conflagration extending to the main building and lasting until noon.

And thus Rasoumowsky also passes out of our history.—Among the visitors to Vienna at the time of the Congress was Varnhagen von Ense, who had gone into the diplomatic service; he came in the company of the Prussian Chancellor von Hardenburg. His attitude toward Beethoven had cooled—probably because of Oliva’s complaints touching Beethoven’s behavior towards him. His brief report of his meeting with the composer derives some interest from its allusion to Prince Radziwill, to whom Beethoven dedicated the Overture, Op. 115 (which was not published until 1825). The report (printed in Varnhagen’s “Denkwürdigkeiten,” Vol. III, pp. 314-15) is as follows:

The compositions of the year 1814 were these:

The publications of the year:

Beethoven might well have adopted Kotzebue’s title: “The most Remarkable Year of my Life” and written his own history for 1814, in glowing and triumphant language; but now the theme modulates into a soberer key. “Then there is the matter of a new opera,” says a letter to the Archduke early in December. The “Sammler” of the 17th explains the allusion: “It is with great pleasure that we inform the music-loving public that Herr van Beethoven has contracted to compose an opera. The poem is by Herrn Treitschke and bears the title: ‘Romulus and Remus.’” The notice was based upon this note to Treitschke:

Now here was a promising operatic project; but before six weeks had passed came the “Allg. Mus. Zeitung” bringing Johann Fuss’s musical “Review of the month of December,” wherein among the items of Vienna news was a notice that “Hr. Fuss had composed an opera in three acts entitled ‘Romulus and Remus’ for the Theater-an-der-Wien”! And this was so; portions of it were afterwards sung by a musical society of which Dr. L. Sonnleithner was a member, and in Pressburg it was put upon the stage at a later date;—but it never came to performance in the theatres of Vienna, perhaps in consequence of measures adopted after the following letter to Treitschke:

The matter was so arranged with Fuss as to leave the text in Beethoven’s hands; but how, and on what terms, is not known.

Among the sketches to “Der glorreiche Augenblick” appears the theme of the Polonaise for Pianoforte, Op. 89, the story of which is as follows: In a conversation with Beethoven one day, in the time of the Congress, Bertolini suggested to him that, as polonaises were then so much in vogue, he should compose one and dedicate it to the Empress of Russia; for, perhaps, thereby he might also obtain some acknowledgment from Emperor Alexander for the dedication to him of the Violin Sonatas, Op. 30,—for none had ever been made. As usual, Beethoven at first scorned dictation, but at length thought better of the proposal, sat down to the pianoforte, improvised various themes and requested Bertolini to choose one; which he did. When it was completed, they waited upon Walkonski, to seek through him permission to make the proposed dedication, which was granted. At the appointed time Beethoven was admitted to an audience with the Empress and presented the Polonaise, for which he received a present of 50 ducats. On this occasion he was asked, if he had ever received anything from the Czar? As he had not, a hundred ducats was added for the Sonatas.[145]

It was about this time (precisely when the painter could not remember when speaking of it in 1861), that Beethoven sat again to his friend Mähler, who wished to add his portrait to his gallery of musicians. This was the picture which, after the death of the artist, was purchased by Prof. Karajan. Another portrait of Beethoven was painted by Mähler for Gleichenstein. On the 25th of January, a grand festival took place in the Burg on the occasion of the Russian Empress’s birthday, which in part consisted of a concert in the Rittersaal. The last piece on the programme was the canon in “Fidelio”: “Mir ist so wunderbar,” and by a whimsical stroke of fortune Beethoven himself appeared, and, to the audience of emperors and empresses, kings and queens, with their ministers and retinues, played for the last time in public! Wild, who dates the concert a month too soon, gives an account of it in which, after telling of his own success with “Adelaide,” he says:

By far the most important event in Beethoven’s history during these months, was the final settlement, by compromise, of the annuity affair with the Kinsky heirs, on the 18th of January. So soon as the legal formalities could be ended and communicated to Beethoven, he issued in autograph a power of attorney to Baron Josef von Pasqualati in Prague to collect the money due, and act for him in all things necessary. On March 26th, Pasqualati acknowledged the receipt of 2479 florins W. W. as payment on the annuity in full up to the end of March, 1815. In this instance “W. W.” (Wiener Währung) meant notes of redemption, since the bank-notes had been retired from circulation in 1812. The compromise decree arrived at through the ministration of Dr. Kanka fixed the original annuity of 1800 florins at 1200 florins, beginning on November 3d, 1812. There was therefore due to Beethoven, for from November 3d to the end of March, 1815, 2890 florins, from which was deducted 411 florins, as the equivalent of the 60 ducats paid to Beethoven by Prince Kinsky in October, 1812, leaving 2479 florins as aforesaid. The decision in the case with Lobkowitz also soon followed. According to the judgment of the Court, entered on April 19, 1815, the future annual payments were fixed at 700 florins (the equivalent of 280 fl. conventional coin, silver), and the 2508 fl. arrears were ordered paid in notes of redemption within two months. Payments were made accordingly and (as Dr. v. Köchel reported in a private note to the author), from 1811 up to his death, Beethoven received on the annuity contract the following sums every year:

Notwithstanding that Prince Lobkowitz’s financial affairs had been satisfactorily ordered, his return to Vienna was delayed until the Spring of 1815, one reason being that (as he states in a letter to Archduke Rudolph, dated Prague, December 29, 1814) an opinion prevailed in the Austrian capital that his presence would be “unseemly.” In this letter he gives expression to his feelings toward Beethoven as follows:

Is this not nobly said?

Consider these facts: Lobkowitz was now deprived of the control of his revenues; those revenues, in so far as they were based upon contracts, were subject to the Finanz-Patent of 1811; the curators of his estates were also bound by it; and the General Court (Landrecht) had no power arbitrarily to set it aside. What that tribunal could and did do was, by its assent and decree, to give binding force to such agreement between the parties in principal, as had obtained the sanction of the curators, with, probably, the consent of the principal creditors of the Prince. It follows then that the concession of Beethoven’s full demand of 700 fl. in notes of redemption could have been obtained only through the good will and active intervention of Lobkowitz himself, using his personal influence with the other parties concerned. Schindler incidentally confirms this.

Will the reader here pause a moment and think what impression the aspersions on Lobkowitz’s character in Beethoven’s letters have left upon his mind? Have they not begotten a prejudice so strengthened by “damnable iteration” that it is now hardly possible to overcome it, and believe it unfounded? Lobkowitz, young, generous to prodigality, rendered careless by the very magnitude of his possessions, had, in the lapse of some twenty years, so squandered his enormous resources, as to fall into temporary embarrassments, which threw the responsibility of meeting his pecuniary engagements upon others, who were bound by the nature of their office to pay none but strictly legal claims. Thus Beethoven became a loser in part of what was originally no debt, but a gift—or rather would have been so, but for the interference of Lobkowitz.

We have here another warning of the great caution to be exercised when using private correspondence for purposes of biography. In writing of Beethoven this is especially necessary, because so large a proportion of it consists of confidential notes and communications containing the ebullitions of splenetic moments, and not seldom hasty charges and mistaken accusations, such as he gladly withdrew on learning the truth. To accept all this without question is preposterous; to use it as authentic historic matter without scrupulous examination, is to do great injustice to the dead.

The proof is ample, that Beethoven was already fully convinced of the entire innocence of both Prince Kinsky and Prince Lobkowitz of all desire to escape any really just demands upon them: yet, probably, until the greater part of our present Beethoven literature has sunk into oblivion, the memory of those noble and generous personages will be made to suffer on the authority of Beethoven’s hasty expressions.

A letter written in English, probably by his friend Häring, who had been much in England, and signed by Beethoven, marks the progress of his business with Thomson:

This naturally turns our attention to Beethoven’s English affairs. “Christus am Ölberg” (“The Mount of Olives,” as the oratorio is called in England and America) had been given for the first time in England on February 25, 1814, by Sir George Smart, who in 1861, in conversation with the author at his house (the one in which Weber died), related the circumstances of this production and of “Wellington’s Victory,” which was a consequence of the success of the oratorio, substantially as follows:

In the winter of 1812-1813, Smart undertook the Lenten oratorio season at Drury Lane Theatre, introducing at the first concert, January 30, 1813, Handel’s “Messiah” with Mozart’s additional accompaniments, but not noting this fact upon the programme. The audience was delighted with the new effects and Mozart’s name appeared on the next programme. During this season Smart heard the “Christus am Ölberg” spoken of. Desiring to find some novelty the next season and Beethoven having already a great name, he offered £50 to anyone who would procure him the score of that work published by Breitkopf and Härtel—an exceedingly difficult thing to get at that time, when Napoleon had almost hermetically sealed the Continent against England. The next winter (1813-14) Jack Morris, keeper of a tavern or eating-house of the better sort, a man who had free entry behind the scenes of the theatre and was continually there, came to Smart and put the score of the oratorio into his hands, to his (Smart’s) great astonishment.

“Well,” said Smart, “I’ll give you the £50.”

“No,” was the reply, “I’ll take only two guineas, for that’s what I paid for it.”

“How did you get it?” asked Smart.

“A friend of mine who is a King’s Messenger bought it for me in Leipsic.”

The only acknowledgment that Morris would take, beside the two guineas, was that Smart should accept an invitation from him to be present at a pugilistic exhibition and at the supper afterwards. The score bears the date of reception, January 7, 1814.

Now to bring it out.

Samuel J. Arnold translated the text, putting all the characters into the third person, so as not to shock English feelings of reverence by producing Christ and the Apostles on the stage, and Smart adapted the translation to the music. It was rehearsed at his house (“in this room,” said he), and very ill received by amateurs present, who told Smart, he was mad to produce such a thing! On February 25th, the first part of the programme of the “Oratorio,” a sacred concert, at Drury Lane Theatre, was selections from the “Messiah” in which Catalani sang; Part II, “The Mount of Olives,” solos by Mrs. Dickens, Mrs. Bland, Mr. Pyne and Mr. Bellamy; Part III, Musical selections. Parts I and II also closed with selections from “Paradise Lost” read by Miss Smith. The tenth, and last, performance was on May 28th.

Subsequently, Kramer, master of the Prince Regent’s band, told Smart that the Prince had the score of a Battle Symphony by Beethoven, and he was welcome to the use of it, if he desired to produce it. Smart, encouraged by the success of the “Christus,” was delighted, notwithstanding the musicians called the work a piece of musical quackery. On examining it, Sir George saw that it would never do with his audience to end with the fugue on “God save the King,” and consulted with Ferdinand Ries as to what kind of close to make. Ries added to the score a short passage of modulation, which led from the fugue into the plain, simple tune. The work was copied, rehearsed, and produced on the 10th of February, 1815, as Part II of a Drury Lane “Oratorio”—the word being used then for a sacred concert, like “Akademie” in Vienna for a secular one. As the orchestra ended Ries’ passage of modulation, the hymn was taken up and sung by the principal solo singers, and the full chorus. The audience used also to join in and make the old theatre ring again. The success was immense; it was performed several seasons, and Smart cleared £1000 by it.[147]

There is a sketchbook in the Mendelssohn collection, which shows in part what compositions employed Beethoven’s thoughts about this time. It contains sketches to marches; for a “Symphony in B minor”; a “Sonata ’cello pastorale”; a chorus, “Meeresstille”; a song, “Merkenstein.” This confirms a statement of Czerny’s: “On ‘Merkenstein,’ Beethoven composed two little songs, both, I think, for almanacs.” The one published by Steiner and Co., however, does not appear to have come out in that manner. The date of these sketches is fixed by a memorandum of Beethoven’s on the seventh leaf, of Smart’s production in London of “Wellington’s Victory”: “In Drurylane Theatre on February 10th, and repeated by general request on the 13th, ‘Wiener Zeitung’ of March 2d.” This led to inquiry, and Sir George Smart’s name, as leader of the Lenten concerts in London, became known to Beethoven, who engaged his friend Häring, who knew Smart intimately, to write the following English letter in his behalf:

Häring now writes the following for Beethoven to sign:

The works enumerated in this letter, taking them in the same order, are Op. 95, 91, 92, 93, 97, 113, 115, 117 and 96. Häring was evidently ignorant that all of Beethoven’s new works were even then sold, except for England. Steiner had purchased them. The precise terms of the contract between the composer and this publisher are not known; for, although the transaction was too important to have been left to a mere parole agreement, no written instrument has been discovered. Jahn had no copy of any; and Nottebohm writes (November 19, 1875): “I was yesterday in the comptoir of Haslinger, but there nothing is to be found.” The earliest reference to the business yet discovered is a letter to Steiner, from which it is to be inferred that Karl van Beethoven was in some manner interested—perhaps as arranger, under his brother’s inspection, of the editions for pianoforte of the orchestral works:

The works purchased by Steiner are named in a list sent by Nottebohm with the letter above cited. It is the copy of an unsigned memorandum, evidently proceeding from Beethoven, which, except the omission of the works mentioned in the Häring letter, runs thus:

Whatever may have been the proposed interest of Karl van Beethoven in the contract, his failing health soon prevented him from performing any labor under it. The correspondence with Steiner and Co. indicates that the task of arranging the orchestral works for the pianoforte was performed by Haslinger and Anton Diabelli, with occasional assistance from Carl Czerny, under Beethoven’s superintendence.

Diabelli, born near Salzburg in 1781, had now been for some years one of the more prolific composers of light and pleasing music, and one of the best and most popular teachers in Vienna. He was much employed by Steiner and Co., as copyist and corrector, and in this capacity enjoyed much of Beethoven’s confidence, who also heartily liked him as a man. In the composer’s comical military staff, he was the “General Profoss,” and in the correspondence his name becomes “Diabolus”—for Beethoven could never resist the temptation to a play upon words. About the 1st of April Beethoven received a package which proved to be an opera text by Rudolph von Berge, sent to him with a letter by his old friend Amenda from Courland. While this letter was under way Beethoven received a visit from a friend of Amenda’s who, on his departure from Vienna, carried with him a letter in which he said:

The opera book sent by Amenda was entitled, “‘Bacchus,’ Grand Lyric Opera in Three Acts.” The libretto was preserved among Schindler’s papers in the Royal Library in Berlin. It seems likely that Beethoven gave some thought to the opera and experimented with some themes. There are interesting notes on a work with a classical subject, the words apparently the beginning of an invocation to Pan, in a sketchbook of 1815, which Nottebohm describes in his “Zweite Beethoveniana” (p. 329 et seq.) without saying whether they belong to Treitschke’s “Romulus” or von Berge’s “Bacchus.” Dr. Riemann assumes without hesitation that the sketches were made for “Bacchus” and sees a premonition of Wagner’s methods in the following:

bountiful

bountiful Pan
not quite so characteristic, it must be evolved out of the B. M.[150] where the
dance only intermittently

Corni

Throughout the opera probably dissonances, unresolved or very differently, as our refined music cannot be thought of in connection with those barbarous times.

On the approach of warm weather the Erdödys removed for the summer to Jedlersee, never to return to the Schottenbastei; and as Lichnowsky was dead, Beethoven had no inducement longer to remain in that vicinity and therefore departed from the Mölkerbastei—also never to return. The new lodging was in the third storey of a house then belonging to Count Lamberti, in the Sailerstätte, with a double number 1055, 1056, near which he had lived a dozen years before, having the same sunny aspect and the glorious view across the Glacis from the Karlkirche and the Belvidere Gardens, away across the Danube to the blue Carpathian mountains in the distance. In this house, about the first of June, Häring introduced to Beethoven the very fine English pianist and enthusiastic musician Charles Neate, who after five months’ study with Winter in Munich had come to Vienna in the hope of obtaining instruction from the great symphonist. To his application, Beethoven replied in substance: “I cannot teach, but I will give you an introduction to my master, Förster” (which he did by letter), “and you may bring your compositions to me for my inspection, and I will examine and remark upon them.” In consequence of this permission Neate saw him almost daily. Beethoven spent a part of this summer in Baden, and Neate took a room very near him. There the composer was in the habit of working all the forenoon, dining early at twelve or one o’clock, and, towards evening, walking with Neate—sometimes up the Helenen-Thal, oftener through the fields. Neate, in the course of his long life—he was nearly eighty when he related these things to the author[151]—had never met a man who so enjoyed nature; he took intense delight in flowers, in the clouds, in everything—“nature was like food to him, he seemed really to live in it.” Walking in the fields, he would sit down on any green bank that offered a good seat, and give his thoughts free course. He was then full of the idea of going to England, but the death of his brother and adoption of his nephew put an end to the project. Neate remembered the boy as a very beautiful, intelligent lad. Beethoven, at that time, and as Neate knew him, was charmingly good-tempered to those whom he liked—but his dislikes were so strong, that to avoid speaking to persons to whom he was not well affected, he would actually increase his pace in the street to a run. At this time, his dark complexion was very ruddy and extremely animated. His abundant hair was in an admirable disorder. He was always laughing, when in good humor, which he for the most part was, as Neate saw him.

One day Neate spoke to him about the popularity of his Sonatas, Trios, etc., in England and added that his Septet was very much admired:—“That’s damned stuff” (or “a damned thing”), said Beethoven, “I wish it were burned!” or words to this effect, to Neate’s great discomfiture. Another time, walking in the fields near Baden, Neate spoke of the “Pastoral Symphony” and of Beethoven’s power of painting pictures in music. Beethoven said: “I have always a picture in my mind, when I am composing, and work up to it.”

Neate conversed with him in German and had no difficulty in making him understand, when speaking into his left ear. He brought to Beethoven an order from the Philharmonic Society of London—obtained by the exertions of Ries—for three concert overtures, of which we shall hear more hereafter.[152]

The destruction of Rasoumowsky’s palace suspended his quartets, and Linke, the violoncellist, passed the summer with the Erdödys at Jedlersee. This gave the impulse to Beethoven to write the principal works of this year: the two Sonatas for Pianoforte and Violoncello, Op. 102. The first bears his date: “Towards the end of July”; the second: “Beginning of August.” While he was employed upon them, Treitschke called upon him for a closing chorus, “Es ist vollbracht,” to a little dramatic piece similar to the “Gute Nachricht,” entitled “Die Ehrenpforten,” and prepared to celebrate the second capitulation of Paris. It was performed July 15, 16 and 23; and, on the occasion of the Emperor’s nameday, was revived “with appropriate changes” October 3rd and 4th; but (according to the theatre bills) with the chorus “Germania” substituted for “Es ist vollbracht.”

This was the last year of Beethoven’s personal intercourse with the Erdödys, a very interesting memorial of which, namely, a series of notes and letters, has been preserved and made public by the coolness and decision of Otto Jahn. Being in Munich in 1852, or about that time, he learned that this correspondence was in the hands—if our memory serve—of the widow Brauchle, and obtained permission to read it in the presence of the possessor. Suddenly starting up he exclaimed (in effect): “I will copy this at the hotel,” and before the lady, in her amazement and perplexity, could refuse or prevent, he was away, and made the only copy known to be in existence, except transcripts made from it.[153] Several of these papers are only Beethoven’s apologies for not coming to Jedlersee “to-day” or “to-morrow”—but all are interesting in the glimpse which they give of the affectionate intimacy which they show as existing between Beethoven and the family.

A letter to Brauchle is important from a biographical point of view. It reads:

Neate and the Erdödys have carried us forward quite out of the strict order of time, to which we now return, beginning with letters to our old Bonn and London acquaintance, Johann Peter Salomon and others:

Some time about October 15th, Beethoven returned to Vienna. And now another bitter parting: The Erdödys, accompanied by Brauchle, Sperl and Linke, departed to Croatia never to return.

The letters to Smart, Salomon and Ries were not in vain; through their efforts, especially Salomon’s, Mr. Robert Birchall, Music Publisher of No. 133 New Bond St., was induced to purchase four of the works enumerated by Häring, viz: the pianoforte arrangements of the “Wellington’s Victory,” Op. 91, and Symphony in A, Op. 92; the Trio in B-flat, Op. 97, and the Sonata for Pianoforte and Violin, Op. 96, for “the sum of one hundred and thirty-five gold Dutch ducats—value in English currency, sixty-five pounds.” The correspondence between the composer and publisher as presented by Mr. Birchall’s successors begins with a paper in extraordinary English which has hitherto passed as a note received from Vienna, but which, it is obvious, is nothing but the effort of some resident German to interpret the contents of the following letter from Beethoven:[155]

We now reach one of the most important and at the same time most melancholy events in Beethoven’s life—an event which exerted the profoundest influence on the rest of his life—the death of his brother Karl. We introduce it with that brother’s last will and testament:

On November 20, 1815, the “Wiener Zeitung” printed the announcement: “Died on November 16, Hr. Karl van Beethoven, Cashier in the R. I. Bank and Chief Treasury, aged 38 years,[156] of consumption.” And so in his own house died the brother Karl whose last moments came with a suddenness which aroused his brother’s suspicions that the end had been hastened by poison! Nor would he be satisfied upon the matter until his friend Bertolini had made a post mortem examination “whereby the lack of foundation for the suspicion was proved.”

A few weeks before his death, Karl had applied for leave of absence from his office on the score of his feeble condition; but his petition was harshly refused in a document on which Beethoven afterwards wrote: “This miserable financial product caused the death of my brother.” In fact, however, it made probably little difference; his was evidently one of those common cases of phthisis, where the patient, except to the experienced eye, shows no signs of immediate danger; who at the last moments finds himself free from pain and blessed with a buoyancy of spirit that gives him vain hopes of prolonged life. It is the last flickering of the flame, as the skillful physician well knows.

As above noted, Karl van Beethoven’s will was deposited with the proper authorities on the 17th, and “the R. I. L. Austrian Landrecht (General Court) on November 22, 1815, appointed the widow of the deceased, Johanna van Beethoven, guardian, the brother of the deceased, Ludwig van Beethoven, associate guardian of the minor son Karl.” And so, for the present, we will leave the matter.[157]

And Breuning? Why during these years and especially in this time of sorrow does his name nowhere meet us? His son answers the question in that extremely interesting little volume “Aus dem Schwarzspanierhause.”[158]

Jacob Rösgen, an employee in the office of the Minister of War in which Breuning was a Secretary, had learned certain facts, or suspicions, in relation to Karl van Beethoven’s integrity, which he thought should be communicated to Ludwig as a warning “not to have anything to do with him in financial matters.” To this end he, having obtained Breuning’s word of honor not to make known the source of the information, imparted to him the whole matter. “Breuning faithfully performed the task which he had assumed; but Ludwig, in his tireless endeavor to better his brother, hastened to take him to task for his conduct and charge him with the acts which had been reported to him; he went so far, when pressed by his brother for the source of his information, as to mention the name of his friend Steffen. Kaspar (Karl) then appealed directly to my father and asked the name of the author of the ‘denunciation,’ and when my father resolutely declined to give the name (Rösgen) Kaspar indulged himself in abuse to such an extent that he left insulting letters addressed to him and unsealed with the portier of the Ministry of War. My father, angered and pained at this impertinence and Ludwig’s breach of confidence, read the latter a sharp lecture which ended with the declaration that because of such unreliability it would be impossible longer to hold association with him.”[159] It will be long before we meet Breuning again.

There is a striking incongruity between Beethoven’s pleas of poverty in his letters to correspondents in England at this period and the facts drawn from official and other authentic sources. Let us tarry a moment on this point.

He was now, at the end of 1815, in the regular receipt of his annuity, 3400 florins in notes of redemption; in March and April the arrears, 4987 florins in such notes, had been paid him; the profits of his concerts since January 1, 1814, with presents from crowned heads and others were, if we may trust Schindler, who appears to speak from accurate knowledge, sufficient in amount to purchase somewhat later the seven bank-shares, which at his death, “according to the price current on the day of his death,” had a value in convention-coin of 7441 florins; Neate had paid him 75 guineas; for the works sold to Steiner and Co. he had “been wholly compensated”; in March (1816) he received from Mr. Birchall 65 pounds sterling; and there were payments to him from Thomson and others, the aggregate of which cannot be determined.

This incongruity is not essentially diminished either by his taxes—sixty pounds for 1814, he tells Thomson—nor by the 10,000 florins W. W. expended for the benefit of his brother, whether the “Wiener Währung” in the letter to Ries be understood as the old five for one, or the new in notes of redemption; for this fraternal charity extended back over a series of years. In this letter to Ries, the reader will observe also a remarkable instance of its writer’s occasional great carelessness of statement, where he speaks of his “entire loss of salary” for several years; for the Archduke’s share had throughout been punctually paid; not to mention again the receipt of what had for a time been withheld of the Kinsky and Lobkowitz subscriptions. The omission of these facts in this and other letters, imparted to Ries an utterly false impression; and on their publication in 1838, to the public also. Hence the general belief that Beethoven was now in very straitened circumstances, and that Karl’s widow and child had been left in abject poverty; the truth as to them being this: that the property left them produced an annual income, which with the widow’s pension amounted at this time to above 1500 florins. From the day that Beethoven assumed the office of guardian and took possession of the child, he had a valid claim upon the mother for a part of the costs of maintaining him—a claim soon made good by legal process. If he afterward elected to suffer in his own finances rather than press his sister-in-law, this is no justification of the heedless statements in some of his letters now—a truth to be held in mind. And now the letter to Ferdinand Ries:

On the same day he wrote to Birchall:

The Trio and Sonata, however, were not forwarded until the 3d of the next February—a decidedly long “fortnight.”

In those days £65 was no small sum for the mere right of republication in England of these pianoforte works and arrangements, and Ries richly merited these words of his old master: “And now my heartiest thanks, dear Ries, for all the kindness you have shown to me, and particularly for the corrections. Heaven bless you and make your progress even greater, in which I take a cordial interest.”

About the first of December, “a magisterial deputation solemnly delivered” into the hands of Beethoven a certificate conferring upon him the citizenship of Vienna in acknowledgment of his benevolent services in behalf of St. Mark’s Hospital. Ries, writing on September 29th for Salomon, who had broken his right shoulder in a fall from his horse, informs Beethoven that at that date the three overtures purchased by Neate for the Philharmonic Society had not reached London. Beethoven, in December, repeats this to Neate, who was still in Vienna, adding, in substance, his readiness to make any desired written agreement about these things in England. Salomon’s misfortune occurred in August; he lingered only until the 25th of November. No higher proof of his reputation in England can be given than the fact that the remains of this Bonn violinist rest near those of Handel in Westminster Abbey.

Schindler somewhere censures the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde for its long delay in making Beethoven an honorary member. It did what was better. Hardly was it organized, when its directors turned their attention to him; and, in the second year of its legal existence, proposed to him through Zmeskall to compose an oratorio for its use. On the 22d of December, Count Appony reported: “that Hr. L. v. Beethoven, through Hrn. v. Zmeskall, had declared his readiness to deliver a large work to the society and that the Board of Management were awaiting his conditions.” It was but the course of common propriety—of ordinary delicacy—to leave him free of all obligation to the society until this matter of business should be settled; indeed, that Streicher was one of the principal founders and most influential members of the society is a sufficient pledge, that no disrespect for, nor indifference to, his great merits, had aught to do with the delay, which Schindler blames. We shall find that, so soon as it was certain that Beethoven could not live to fulfill his engagement, the society sent him its honorary diploma. Could it well do this before?

Of noteworthy new friends and acquaintances may be mentioned here Peters, tutor of the young Princes Lobkowitz, and Carl Joseph Bernard, a young literateur and poet—the reviser of Weissenbach’s poem—a great admirer of Beethoven’s music, soon to be appointed Editor of the official “Wiener Zeitung.” He is the “Bernardus non Sanctus” of the Conversation Books; and the two are the friends whom Beethoven set to music in the text:

Another was Anton Halm, “in whose fresh military nature Master Ludwig took delight,” says Schindler. He was a native of Styria, and now but twenty-six years of age. After some years’ service against Napoleon, he had resigned (1812) his lieutenancy in the 44th Regiment. He was a pianoforte player of very respectable rank, and even before entering the army had appeared in public in Beethoven’s C minor Trio, Op. 1, and the C major Pianoforte Concerto, Op. 15. He had now been three years in Hungary, living during the third with his friend, Brunswick, who gave him a letter to Beethoven upon his departure for Vienna, whither he had come to be tutor in a Greek family named Gyike. “Halm once brought a sonata of his own composition to him,” says Czerny, “and when Beethoven pointed out a few errors, Halm retorted that he (B.) had also permitted himself many violations of the rules, Beethoven answered: ‘I may do it, but not you.’”

Young Schindler’s acquaintance with Beethoven had now advanced a step:

But Schindler’s intimacy with Beethoven was not yet such as to save him from errors when writing of this time. Thus he gravely assures us that a concert which took place on the 25th of December “provided the impulse which led the Magistracy of Vienna to elect our master to honorary citizenship.” And yet the “solemn delivery” of the diploma is already an item of news in the Vienna newspapers of December 15. This concert, in the large Ridotto room, conducted by Beethoven was for the benefit of the Bürgerspitalfond (Citizens’ Hospital Fund) and the works performed were “an entirely new overture” (that in C, known as the “Namensfeier”); “a new chorus on Goethe’s poem ‘Die Meeresstille’”; “Christus am Ölberg.” Between the cantata and the oratorio, Franz Stauffer, “the twelve-year-old son of a citizen of Vienna,” played a “Rondo brillant” by Hummel.

The compositions which are known or, on good grounds, are supposed to belong to the year 1815 are:

The ascertained publications of the year are:

Compared with the years immediately preceding, the year 1816 is comparatively barren of large incidents in the life of Beethoven; its recorded history, therefore, is to be found to a still larger extent than before in the composer’s extended correspondence together with explanatory annotations. Some of the letters, especially those written to his English friends, are likely to make a somewhat melancholy, and to that extent erroneous, impression. The real record of the writer finds expression in the letters which he wrote to Steiner and Co. and Zmeskall. These are bubbling over with playfulness and jocularity, proving that the writer was generally in a cheerful humor and in this year was anything but the melancholy Beethoven of the romance writers. He seems to have endured the rapid and disquieting increase in his malady, an inevitable consequence of the exertions and excitement attending the rehearsing and conducting of so many large concerts, with surprising patience and resignation. And why not? His pecuniary affairs were in good condition, notwithstanding his lamentations to Ries and others; he had won his lawsuit with his brother’s widow, and his artistic ambition must have found complete satisfaction in the great fame which he had won. A letter concerning a new operatic project first invites attention. The eight rôles which Madame Milder had played in the past summer in Berlin, had given such keen delight that she had been reëngaged for a second and much longer series. Domestic troubles and sorrows, in which her husband, the jeweler Hauptmann, appears to have been entirely the guilty party and which embittered all her future life, rendered her utterly unable for the present to appear upon the stage; and “because of illness and weakness” it was not until several weeks after her return from the baths at Pyrmont that she could begin the new engagement on October 3d. Meantime “Fidelio” had been put upon the boards and “given for the first time on October 11th with great success.” “This opera,” said the Berlin “Dramaturgisches Wochenblatt” in its notice of the event, “bears within itself the seeds of a dramatico-musical reformation and will hasten the end of the bastard music.” And yet on this evening, the Leonore was Mad. Schultze—Schuppanzigh’s sister-in-law. When, three days after, Mad. Milder took the part, its greatness was for the first time fully appreciated; and of the twenty-four evenings to which her engagement extended, this greatest representative then living of Gluck’s grandest inspirations devoted eleven to “Fidelio.” This triumph of his opera in Berlin, drew from the composer a letter (dated January 6, 1816) full of expressions of gratitude and enthusiastic appreciation of the singer’s talents, and giving voice too, to a rekindled dramatic ambition. He says:

The next letter relates to the oratorio for the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde:

The next selections require the preliminary statement of certain facts. Beethoven’s dissatisfaction at the appointment (on November 22d) of his sister-in-law as the guardian of her son—now nine years old—was expressed in an appeal to the Upper Austrian Landrecht on the 28th, to transfer the guardianship to himself. Next day, the 29th, that tribunal ordered the petitioner and Dr. Schönauer to appear before it in this matter on December 2d at 10 o’clock a. m. At that time the subject was deferred to the same hour on the 13th. Beethoven then appeared and declared that he could produce “weighty reasons why the widow should be entirely excluded from the guardianship.” Whereupon, on the 15th, it was ordered that he produce those grounds within three days, “failing which, the preparation of the guardianship decree to the widow would be proceeded with without further delay.” The same day Beethoven signed a petition to the City Magistrates for an official certificate concerning the “condemnation of his (Karl’s) mother, Johanna van Beethoven, on an investigation for infidelity.” The magistrate answered him on the same day through their secretary that they could not legally grant him a copy of the judgment against her, but would communicate the “necessary disclosures” to the tribunal. This was done on the 21st. Then came the Christmas holidays, and no further action was taken until the 9th of January, when a decision was rendered in Beethoven’s favor, and he was ordered to appear on the 19th to take the “vows for the performance of his duties.” He complied, and on the outside of this order is written:

This document also empowered the new guardian to take possession of the boy, who of course was still with his mother. But what to do with him? Beethoven could not take him into his own lodging; a child of that age needs a woman’s care and tenderness.

A certain Cajetan Giannatasio del Rio was at that time proprietor and manager of a private school in the city for boys, which enjoyed a high and deserved reputation. His family consisted of his wife and two highly accomplished daughters, young women of fine talents, of much musical taste and culture, and—especially the eldest—enthusiasts for Beethoven’s music. The composer, accompanied by Bernard and the boy, visited and inspected the school, and was so much pleased with it and the family, that he determined to withdraw his nephew from the public school, and place him there as pupil and boarder. On February 1st, he wrote to Giannatasio:

The next day, February 2, the boy was taken from his mother. The intolerable annoyance caused by her appearing in person or sending a messenger daily to take him from the school, drew from Giannatasio on the 11th a written application to the guardian for “a formal authority in a few lines for refusing without further ado to permit her to fetch her son.” In his reply, Beethoven writes: “as regards the mother I request that on the plea that he is busy you do not admit her to him at all.” He then consulted Joseph Edler von Schmerling, a member of the Landrecht, upon the measures proper for him to adopt, and communicated that gentleman’s advice to Giannatasio by letter, on the morning of the 15th. The same day, taking Bernard with him, he went to the school, and there meeting Giannatasio, the three prepared a formal petition to the Landrecht, praying that tribunal to grant the guardian plenary authority to exclude the widow and her agents from all or any direct communication with the boy. This was signed by Beethoven and immediately presented. On the 20th, the Landrecht granted, essentially, this petition; but its decree contained this proviso: that the mother might still visit her son “in his leisure hours, without disturbing the course of his education or the domestic arrangements, in the company of a person to be appointed by the guardian or the director of the educational institution.” Armed with this authority, Giannatasio on March 8th informed in writing “Madame Jeannette de Beethoven, Vorstadt, Alsergasse, No. 121,” that she has in future “to apply solely to the uncle as to whether, how and when” she can see her son. And thus this wretched business again for the present rested. In these days belongs a letter by Beethoven to Giannatasio:

Neate was now gone to London. On his departure Beethoven wrote in his album two canons entitled “Das Schweigen” (Silence) and “Das Reden” (Speech), adding with the date, “January 24, 1816,” the words:

The document concerning the sale of the three overtures to the Philharmonic Society which Beethoven promised to give Neate (which Moscheles printed in his paraphrase of Schindler’s biography in translation, as if it had been written in English and not altogether correctly)[162] ran as follows:

The three overtures had already been sold to Steiner, but were not published till six years later. The works entrusted to him, as remembered by Mr. Neate forty-five years afterwards, were: 1. A copy of the Violin Concerto, Op. 61, with a transcription of the solo for Pianoforte on the same pages, which Beethoven said he himself had arranged and was effective; 2. The two Sonatas for Pianoforte and Violoncello, Op. 102, with a dedication to Neate; 3. The Seventh Symphony in score; 4. “Fidelio” in score; and 5. The String Quartet in F minor, Op. 95—all in manuscript. There is some reason to think that besides these works Neate also took a copy of “Der glorreiche Augenblick.” On January 20, Beethoven wrote the following letter to Ries in London:[164]

It is necessary here to state certain facts, both to explain the failure of Mr. Neate to sell any of these works to the London publishers, and to render some of the letters to come intelligible.

The Philharmonic Society was an association of the first musicians of London and its vicinity, and no city on earth could at that time present such an array of great names. Here are a few of them taken alphabetically from its roll: Atwood, Ayrton, Bridgetower, Clementi, Cramer, Carnaby, Dragonetti, Horsley, Lindley, Mazzinghi, Mori, Naldi, Novello, Ries, Shield, Smart, Spagnoletti, Viotti, Watts, S. Webbe, Yanewicz. Imagine the disappointment of these men, fresh from the performance of the C minor Symphony, when they played through the overtures to “The Ruins of Athens” and “King Stephen,” which, however interesting to a Hungarian audience as introductions to a patriotic prologue and epilogue in the theatre, possess none of those great qualities expected from Beethoven and demanded in a concert overture! Nor was the “Namensfeier” thought worthy of its author. Ries speaks thus of this matter:

But when it became known that neither of the three—Op. 115 possibly excepted—was new, and that not one of them had been composed to meet the Society’s order, is it surprising that this act of Beethoven’s was deemed unworthy of him, disrespectful, nay, an insult to the Society, and resented accordingly?

Another matter was personal with Mr. Birchall. That publisher, having at last (early in February) received the last of the works purchased by him, immediately deposited with Coutts and Co. the sum agreed upon, to the composer’s credit, and forwarded the following “Declaration” to Vienna for signature, leaving the day of the month blank—as it still remains—to be inserted when signed:

Instead of this document, so indispensable for his security, the publisher received a new demand from Beethoven!—one for five pounds additional, as per memorandum:

The very unfavorable impression which this proceeding made upon the mind of Mr. Birchall may readily be conceived. These £5 are the 10 ducats mentioned in the following letter, portions of which were suppressed when printed by Ries:

Immediately upon the receipt of this letter, Ries spoke with Mr. Birchall, who next day (March 15), deposited the £5 with Coutts and Co.; but month after month passed and still the “Declaration” with Beethoven’s signature did not arrive. Of the justice, propriety, delicacy of this new demand, nothing need be said; its historical importance is due entirely to the very unfavorable effect which it and the correspondence relating to it produced upon the minds of the London publishers. Mr. Neate was in some degree prepared for the coldness with which those gentlemen received his proposals in Beethoven’s behalf, by a letter written to him after the trial of the overtures. One sentence in it he remembered word for word: “For God’s sake, don’t buy anything of Beethoven!” But he was not prepared for the utter refusal in all quarters to listen to him. He besought Mr. Birchall to purchase the overtures. The reply was: “I would not print them, if you would give me them gratis.”

As to the score of the Symphony in A (the Seventh), it was folly to expect that the Philharmonic Society would pay a large sum for the manuscript of a work already (March 6) advertised in Vienna for subscription at the price of twenty-five florins.

It is another instance of Beethoven’s unlucky tendency to suspect the conduct and motives of others, that seeing in a newspaper a notice of the production of one of his Symphonies by the Philharmonic Society, he at once assumed that it was the Seventh and that Neate had given the use of his manuscript!

Under such circumstances Neate could do nothing for Beethoven; nor could he well disclose the true causes of his failure; so the composer characteristically assumed that he would do nothing, and, as will be seen, gave vent to his wrath in terms equally bitter and unjust. The letters selected pertaining to these transactions are reserved for their places in chronological order.

Linke’s departure with the Erdödys to Croatia was noted in the last chapter; he returned to Vienna in the Autumn in season to enable Schuppanzigh to begin his winter season of quartets in November. They were given in the hall of the hotel “Zum Römischen Kaiser,” and had now ended. So, too, had ended the engagement of Schuppanzigh, Weiss and Linke with Rasoumowsky. The destruction of his palace, the approach of old age, and failing sight, induced him now to dismiss them with suitable pensions from his service. Schuppanzigh went to Russia; Linke returned to the Erdödys and Weiss remained in Vienna. Before their departure the first two gave each a farewell concert. Schuppanzigh’s took place in the palace of Count Deym, the programme being made up entirely of Beethoven’s works, viz: Quartet C major, Op. 59; Quintet for Wind-instruments and Pianoforte, Op. 16, Carl Czerny, pianist; and the Septet, Op. 20. Beethoven “entered at the beginning of the quartet” and shared in the deafening applause of the crowded audience. Czerny relates: “When I played the Quintet with Wind-instruments at Schuppanzigh’s concert, I allowed myself in my youthful frivolity, many changes—increasing the difficulty of passages, using the higher octaves, etc. Beethoven very properly and severely upbraided me for it in the presence of Schuppanzigh, Linke and the other players. The next day I received from him the following letter, which I copy exactly from the original lying before me”:

Linke’s concert took place on the 18th of February in the hall of the “Römischer Kaiser,” the programme, except a Rondoletto for the Violoncello by Romberg, being also entirely Beethoven. Stainer von Felsburg played the new Sonata, Op. 101, and Czerny the pianoforte part of one of the Sonatas, Op. 102, on which occasion the composer “made it good publicly.” And so, except for an occasional visit to Vienna by Linke, two more of our old acquaintances disappear for several years; also Hummel and Wild. Hummel we shall meet again beside Beethoven’s death-bed; Wild no more. An album-leaf containing a canon, “Ars longa, vita brevis est” and “A happy journey, my dear Hummel, think occasionally of your friend, Ludwig van Beethoven, Vienna, April 4, 1816,” was the farewell to the pianist and composer. On the 20th, Wild gave a little musical festival “in the home of an art-lover,” at which he sang the “Adelaide” and “An die Hoffnung,” Op. 94. Beethoven was present and played the accompaniments. And this was his farewell to the singer. On April 3d, Beethoven wrote the following letter to Ries:

On May 15, a letter of condolence to Countess Erdödy was called out by the sudden death of her son Fritzi. At the countryseat in Croatia, the lad burst one morning into his sister’s room and, complaining of his head, with a cry of anguish sank dead at her feet. Beethoven labors sadly in his effort to find words of comfort for the stricken mother: “Reflect that your son might have been forced to go into battle and might then, like millions of others, have met his death, besides you are still the mother of two dear, hopeful children.” On the same day he wrote a French letter to Neate which, because of its characteristic style and unconventional spelling, Moscheles reproduced literally. A paragraph will suffice us here:

The following letter of a few days later was written in English, probably by Häring, and only signed by Beethoven:

We can follow the progress of the business in connection with the compositions to be published in London in the following letter to Ries:

Touching the unhappy negotiations with Birchall and the “declaration,” Beethoven finally wrote, in French, the following letter:

Beethoven had now made up his mind to take his nephew from Giannatasio’s care and make a home for him with himself. The removal was to be made at the end of the approaching quarter and meanwhile Karl was to remain where he was so that he might have proper care during his recovery from the effects of an operation for hernia. Beethoven notified his purpose to Giannatasio on July 28, 1816, and admonished his friend that in the interim the old strictness was to be observed touching the mother’s visits. The following passage is from the letter:

The surgical operation on the boy was performed by Dr. Smetana and under the affectionate care which he received at the hands of the Giannatasios he quickly recovered and visited his uncle at Baden, going thither with the Giannatasios. Fräulein Fanny tells the story of the visit simply and gracefully:

Beethoven’s project now was, upon returning to the city to abandon his tavern life and so to arrange his domestic affairs as to have his nephew live with him and attend school or study with private tutors—perhaps both. As usual Zmeskall was charged with looking after servants, discovering their qualifications, etc. After Karl should come there would be need of a housekeeper, but meanwhile Beethoven suggested to Zmeskall that he find for him a servant who should be good, of decent deportment, well recommended, married “and not murderous so that my life may be safe inasmuch as for the sake of several rapscallions I want to live a little longer in this world.” He returned to Vienna by September 27 at the latest.

That brilliant youth Alois Jeitteles of Brünn, now a student of medicine at Vienna, wrote when hardly twenty-one years of age the beautiful series of songs “An die ferne Geliebte,” so exquisitely set to music by Beethoven. Schindler states, that the composer thanked the young poet for the happy inspiration; but whether he had found them in a handbook, which is probable, or received them in manuscript, does not appear. But no one can hear them adequately sung without feeling that there is something more in that music than the mere inspiration of the poetry. It was completed not many weeks before, in his letter to Ries (May 8), he wrote: “I found only one whom I shall doubtless never possess”; and but six months before the above conversation with Giannatasio. Just five years had now elapsed since he became acquainted with Amalie von Sebald: was she not the real inspiration of “An die ferne Geliebte”?[168]

Peter Joseph Simrock of Bonn, then 24 years of age, was now in Vienna. He was often with Beethoven, in Baden, in his lodging in the Sailerstätte and in the inn “Zur goldenen Birn,” where he often dined after the removal of Giannatasio to that quarter. Mr. Simrock also told the writer that he had no difficulty in making Beethoven understand him if he spoke into his left ear; but anything private or confidential must be communicated in writing. On one occasion the composer handed him paper and pencil, remarking that his servant was an eavesdropper, etc. A few days afterwards when Simrock called again, “Now,” said Beethoven, “we can talk, for I have given my servant 5 florins, a kick in the rear and sent him to the devil.”

Everywhere in public, said Simrock, Beethoven railed at Emperor Franz because of the reduction of the paper money. “Such a rascal ought to be hanged to the first tree,” said he. But he was known and the police officials let him do what he pleased. He ate a great deal at the tavern because he ordered haphazard and sent away what was not to his taste.

Another of Beethoven’s visitors just now was Alexander Kyd. This gentleman, since July 25, 1810, a Major-General in the East India Company’s Engineer Corps, paid the usual tribute to the climate, and, broken down in health, came to Vienna to put himself under the treatment of Malfatti. He thus made the acquaintance of Dr. Bertolini, who gave to Jahn and the present writer the following details:

Kyd was a great lover of music, and, after his long residence in India, enjoyed to the utmost his present opportunities of hearing it. Bertolini took him to Czerny, who during several visits played to him all the pianoforte works of Beethoven then in print. The General was ravished with these compositions, asked for a complete thematic catalogue of the composer’s works, and besought Bertolini to introduce him to their author. This took place on the 28th of September “in the house next to the Colorado Palace,” said Bertolini. They found him shaving and looking shockingly, his ruddy face browned by the Baden sun variegated by razor cuts, bits of paper, and soap. As Kyd seated himself crash! went the chair. In the course of the interview, the General, showing the common belief of Beethoven’s poverty, proposed to him through the Doctor, to compose a symphony for which he would pay him 200 ducats (£100), and secure its performance by the London Philharmonic Society, not doubting that the profits of the work to the composer would thus amount to £1000. He offered also to take him himself to London. To Beethoven’s leaving Vienna just now there really seems to have been no serious impediment, other than his nephew; and the boy was certainly in the best of hands so long as he remained with Giannatasio. However, he did not accept the proposition, nor even the order for the Symphony; because Kyd desired to have it rather like the earlier, than the later ones—that is, somewhat shorter, simpler, and more easy of comprehension than these last. The conclusion of the story as told in the Fischoff MS. corresponds entirely with the Doctor’s relation:

When he afterwards quarrelled with and insulted Malfatti he broke entirely with Bertolini; but both those gentlemen were too honorable ever to disclose the details of this breach. Simrock writes in an autograph notice for this work:

“Whom I threw down stairs” was, of course, meant metaphorically. It is pretty evident that Beethoven in some degree misunderstood General Kyd’s proposition and that this ebullition of spleen was rather directed against Neate and the Philharmonic Society than the General. It is greatly to be regretted that this artistic pride had so little restraining effect upon his correspondence when pecuniary matters form the topic—which remark brings us again to Mr. Birchall. Beethoven had at last discovered the £5 to his credit in the bank of Fries and Co., and signed a receipt for it on August 3d—too late to prevent the following letter being sent to him:

Beethoven’s reply in English bears all the marks of Häring’s pen, being only signed by himself:

Beethoven not only complained of Neate to Ries, but now wrote to Smart of him in such bitter terms that that gentleman suppressed the letter entirely except to show it to Neate himself, whose grief and astonishment at the injustice done him are but partly expressed in this next letter:

Zmeskall, whose patience and forbearance were inexhaustible, had again provided his friend with servants—a man and his wife—and something was done towards making the lodging in the Sailerstätte ready to receive the nephew at the end of the quarter. But this was not yet to be. The circumstances explain the following little letter to Zmeskall of date November 3, 1816:

Further information is provided by the following letter to Giannatasio:

In November, Mr. Lonsdale wrote as follows in behalf of Mr. Birchall:

To this letter Beethoven sent an answer addressed to Mr. Birchall dated December 14, 1816, as follows:

This letter closed the correspondence; for upon the death of Mr. Birchall his successor, Lonsdale, did not deem the connection with the composer to be worth retaining. Letters to Zmeskall, Sir George Smart and Neate, in London, tell of incidents which make up the history of the latter part of the year 1816:

Toward the end of the month Beethoven wrote a lengthy letter to Dr. Kanka:

A little cantata, written in honor of Prince Lobkowitz, belongs to this month of December. An autograph copy was given some forty years afterwards to Dr. Ottokar Zeithammer, of Prague, by the aged widow of Beethoven’s friend Peters, who gives this account of its origin:

The intended performance never took place, because Lobkowitz, born on December 7, 1772, died on December 16, 1816. And so he, too, disappears from our history. The foregoing receives all needful confirmation in this letter:

To the few names which this year have appeared in our narrative, there is still to be added one worthy of a paragraph: that of a wealthy young man from Gratz, an amateur musician and composer of that class whose idol was Beethoven—Anselm Hüttenbrenner, who came to Vienna in 1815 to study with Salieri, and formed an intimate friendship with Franz Schubert. His enthusiasm for Beethoven was not abated when the present writer, in 1860, had the good fortune to enjoy a period of familiar intercourse with him, to learn his great and noble qualities of mind and heart, and to hear his reminiscences from his own lips. That these, in relation to Beethoven, were numerous, no one will expect; since no young man of twenty-two years, and a stranger, could at the period before us be much with the master except as a pupil—and he took none—or in the position lately occupied by Oliva and soon to be assumed by Schindler; which of course was all out of the question with Hüttenbrenner.

And again:

Hüttenbrenner remembered as a common remark in Vienna in those days that what first gave Beethoven his reputation on coming there twenty-four years before, was his superb playing of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavichord.”

Two or three minor notes will close the story of the year. In the concert for the Theatrical Poor Fund, in the Theater-an-der-Wien, September 8th, one of the finales to Beethoven’s “Prometheus” music was revived: “A glorious piece worked out in a masterly manner,” says a reporter; and the concert for the Hospital of St. Mark, on December 25, opened with his “Symphony in A, one difficult of execution, which was performed with the greatest precision under the direction of this brilliant composer.” More important was a proposition made early in the year by his old friend Hoffmeister in Leipsic, for a complete edition of his pianoforte works, which came to nothing and concerning which more in another connection. In July he received another series of songs from Thomson which, according to a letter in French to Thomson, dated January 18, 1817, he had already finished by the end of September.

The works composed in 1816 are:

The publications for the year were:

Beethoven’s splenetic remarks to strangers in his last years upon the music, musicians and public of Vienna have given rise to widely diffused but utterly false conceptions as to the facts. Thus William Henry Fry, a leading American writer on music in the middle of the nineteenth century,[172] did but express a common opinion in the following:

The popular want of appreciation of his merits “doomed Beethoven to a garret, which no Irish emigrant would live in.” It is altogether unnecessary to argue against such statements, as the whole tenor of this biography refutes them; but the public press of Vienna deserves a vindication, and the appearance of a new “Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung” on January 2nd, 1817, affords a suitable opportunity for the little that need be said on the subject. This journal, conducted “with particular reference to the Austrian Empire,” and published by Steiner and Co., was, during the first two years, without the name of any responsible editor; the volumes for 1819 and 1820 announce Ignaz von Seyfried as holding that position; the others, from 1821 to 1824, bear the name of Friedrich August Kanne. A leading writer in the earlier volumes was Hofrath Ignaz von Mosel, who already had some local celebrity for his articles on musical topics in the “Vaterländische Blätter” and other periodicals, and who continued a prolific contributor to musical journals to the end of his life in 1844. Beethoven valued him as a writer; but Mosel had the temerity to undertake, like Mozart, the task of revising and modernizing Handel. Of his eight mutilations of that great man’s works, two, “Samson” and “Belshazzar,” were printed and, for some fifty years, adopted for performance throughout Austria and Germany—a remarkable proof of the general ignorance which prevailed concerning the works of the greatest oratorio composer; for two such monuments of arrogant presumption, of incompetency to comprehend his author and of a false and perverted taste, probably do not exist unless, perhaps, among the other six works which were not printed. One of Beethoven’s sarcasms, remembered by Carl Czerny, indicates his opinion of Mosel’s dilettantism. Reading a newspaper once at Artaria’s, he saw that Mosel “had been ennobled, particularly because of his services in behalf of music.” “The Mosel is muddy where it flows into the Rhine” (Der Mosel fliesst trüb in den Rhein!), said Beethoven, laughingly. Kanne ranked with the best musical journalists of the day, and, to use the words of Hanslick, his labors and influence as a critic were considerable, especially because of his enthusiasm for Beethoven, is certain.

Taking 1821-1822 as a medium date, the leading political and literary journals in Vienna in those years were the “Wiener Zeitung,” Joseph Carl Bernard, editor; the “Beobachter,” Joseph Pilat, editor; the “Sammler,” Portenschlag and Ledermeyer, editors; the “Wiener Zeitschrift” (fashion journal), Johann Schickh, editor; and the “Theater-Zeitung,” Adolph Bäuerle, editor. Most of these editors were personal friends of Beethoven; and whoever performs the weary task of looking through their myriads of pages sees that all were his admirers and let no opportunity pass unimproved of adding a leaf to his laurels. Still, disappointment at the comparative paucity of matter relating to him follows such an examination. The cause, however, lay in himself; in the small number of his new compositions of high importance, and in the rarity of his appearance before the public. True, there were newspapers, and in divers languages, that took no note of Beethoven and his works because music and musicians were not within their scope; but not one of them was hostile. In short, whether the periodical press be considered as the exponent or the guide of public opinion, in either case its tone at Vienna during the ten years which remained of Beethoven’s life is ample refutation of the so oft asserted disregard for and contemptuous neglect of their great composer on the part of the Viennese. The correspondence of this and the next two or three years is very voluminous. Schindler says most pertinently of it:

There are few men of whom a most false and exaggerated picture may not be presented by grouping together their utterances, spoken or written at long intervals and in the most diverse moods and states of mind. Thomas Carlyle says: “Half or more of all the thick-plied perversions which distort the image of Cromwell will disappear if we honestly so much as try to represent them in sequence as they were, not in the lump as thrown down before us.” Hence, strict chronological order must not lightly be abandoned—never when distortion of the image is thereby produced. But there are series of letters covering comparatively short periods of time, which may be grouped and placed apart with no ill consequence. Such is the series to Steiner and Co.; and such to the Streichers and Zmeskall, which are too unimportant to place in the text.[173] An abstract or analysis of them would serve but a small purpose; but they should be read despite their triviality, for they show, better than any description would, the helplessness of their writer in all affairs of common life; also, by implication, the wretched prospect of any good result to his undertaking the supervision and education of a boy more than usually endowed with personal attractions and mental capacity, but whose character had already received a false bias from the equally indiscreet alternate indulgence and severity of his invalid and passionate father and of his froward and impure mother. Moreover, this undertaking rendered necessary a sudden and very great change in the domestic habits of a man nearly fifty years of age, who, even twenty years before, had not been able, when residing in the family of his Mæcenas, Lichnowsky, to bear the restraints imposed by common courtesy and propriety. It is obvious that there was but one course to be taken for the boy from which a good result might reasonably have been expected; and this was to send him at once to some institution far enough from Vienna to separate him entirely, vacations excepted, from both mother and uncle; to subject him there to rigid discipline and give him the stimulus of emulation with boys of his own age. When it was too late, as will be seen, this idea was entertained, but not sanctioned by the civil authorities. That such a course with the boy would have resulted well, subsequent events leave no doubt; for, passing over the question how far facts justify the harsh judgments recorded against him for more than half a century, each new writer bitterer than the last, we know this: that after his uncle’s death, although his bad tendencies of character had been strengthened and intensified by the lack of efficient, consistent, firm and resolute restraint from 1815 to 1827, yet a few years of strict military discipline made of him a good and peaceable citizen, a kind and affectionate husband and father. Had Beethoven’s wisdom and prudence equalled his boundless affection for his nephew, many painful pages in this work would have no place; many which, if the truth and justice to the dead and living permitted, one would gladly suppress. But it must not be forgotten that Beethoven, on his death-bed, as Schindler relates, expressed “his honest desire that whatever might some day be said of him, should adhere strictly to the truth in every respect, regardless of whether or not it might give pain to this or the other person or affect his own person.”

Let us again take up the thread of our narrative. We are still to imagine Beethoven living in the lofty, narrow house. No. 1055-6 Sailerstätte, entered from the street, but its better rooms on the other side looking over the old city wall and moat and out across the Glacis and little river Wien to the suburb Landstrasse, where, fronting on the Glacis, stood the institute of Giannatasio in which his nephew was a pupil, having been placed there in February, 1816. There is no record, nor do the sketchbooks show, that in the first half of this year his mind was occupied with any important composition; on the contrary, his time and thoughts were given to the affairs of his nephew, to his purposed housekeeping and to quarrels with his servants, as the frequent letters to the Streichers and Zmeskall show ad nauseam. A curiously interesting picture of the man and his doings is disclosed by the letters referred to, Fanny Giannatasio’s records, and the jottings which that young woman wrote down in the form of a diary.[174]

At the beginning of the year 1817, Beethoven seems to have harbored a desire to take lodgings nearer the institute. Giannatasio offered to let him have one which was at his disposal, but Beethoven declined the offer with the words: “Gladly as I should like to make use of your kind offer that I live with you in the garden-house, it is for various reasons impossible.” In April he moved into rooms in the Gärtnerstrasse near the Streichers and the institute. Meanwhile there had been a misunderstanding between him and Giannatasio. A fortnight later explanations had been made and peace restored; but when Nanni asked Beethoven if he was still angry he replied: “I think much too little of myself to get angry.” The nephew had been to blame and had disclosed new evidences of a thoughtlessness which had deeply pained his good uncle.

Chiefly from the letters written in this year, we learn a sequence of other happenings. Early in January, Beethoven sends copies of the song-cycle, “An die ferne Geliebte,” to Court Councillor Peters, tutor in the house of Prince Lobkowitz, for the new prince whose Christian name he does not know. In the same month he writes an autograph French communication to Thomson, in Edinburgh, stating that all the songs which he had commissioned in the previous July had been completed by the end of September, but had not been forwarded because of an illness from which he was not yet quite recovered. As to the folksongs of various nations he urges that prose versions of the texts be obtained as being preferable to the versified, a thing which he had suggested before, the prose being a better guide for him to the sentiment of the songs than rhymed lines. On January 30, he rebukes Zmeskall for having pained him by sending him a gift in acknowledgment of the dedication of the String Quartet, Op. 95, which had come from the press in December, 1816. “Although you are only a performing musician,” he writes, “you have several times exercised the power of imagination, and it seems to me that it has occasionally put unnecessary whims into your head—at least so it seemed to me from your letter after my dedication. Good as I am and much as I appreciate all the good in you, I am yet angry, angry, angry.” Other letters to Steiner at this time refer to the Pianoforte Sonata in A, Op. 101, which was then in the hands of the printers and appeared in February with a dedication to Baroness Ertmann. The suggestion had gone out that German composers substitute German terms in music in place of Italian. With characteristic impetuosity, Beethoven decided to begin the reform at once, although it seems to have involved the reëngraving of the title-page of the new Sonata. He wrote to Steiner in the military style with which we are already familiar:

Beethoven was in doubt as to the correctness of “Hammerclavier,” thinking that it might better be “Hämmerclavier.” In another communication he says the matter must be referred to a philologist. At the same time he offers, if necessary, to pay for the engraving of a new title, adding that perhaps the old one might be utilized for another sonata. He bases his acceptance of the new word on the belief that the instrument itself was a German invention—a theory long ago disproved so far as the priority of the invention is concerned.

Baroness Ertmann now lived at St. Pölten, where the command of her husband lay quartered, and thither Beethoven sent a copy of the “Hammerclavier” sonata accompanied by the following letter:

The picture of Beethoven’s domestic affairs will gain in vividness by imagining the following extracts from the so-called “Tagebuch” of the Fischoff Manuscript to be scattered through these preceding pages. Dates are nowhere given; but memoranda of letters to Brentano in April follow which prove these notes to belong to the previous months:

Beethoven’s mind was engrossed with the plans of travel indicated in these excerpts throughout the year; he considered a tour of some kind essential to the restoration of his health and the recovery of his creative powers. A remittance from the Kinsky estate falling due in April, he wrote a letter to Kanka asking him to make the collection for him and enclosed a receipt. He complains of still feeling the effects of an inflammatory catarrh with which he had been attacked in the previous October, and ends by asking what would be the consequence if he were to leave the Austrian Empire; would a signature sent from a foreign place be valid?—meaning, probably, would such a signature be looked upon as evidence of a violation of the contract which he was under to his noble patrons not to take up a residence outside the Austrian dominions. His chronic dissatisfaction with the conditions which surrounded him in Vienna, as well as the moody mind in which his illness had left him, also breathes through the following letter (written in German) to Charles Neate in London:

The Sonatas had been published three months before this letter was written, by Simrock in Bonn; a fact which Beethoven seems to have assumed was not known in London. The Frau v. Jenny mentioned was the Countess von Genney, through whose aid Beethoven hired a villa in Hetzendorf, from Baron von Pronay in 1823. Beethoven’s irascible outbreak against Neate must be read in the light of the latter’s letter of explanation and apology dated October 29, 1816, and printed in the preceding chapter.

The new lodgings in Georgi were occupied by Beethoven on April 24, 1817, but the contract of rent may have been temporary and conditional, for in July and again in September he wrote to Frau Streicher about lodgings in the Gärtnergasse, and later in the year he changed his lodgings, for which he had little use during the summer because of his sojourn in the country.

Alois Fuchs, now a youth of nearly 18 years, had come to Vienna some months earlier to enter the university, dependent largely upon his musical talents and knowledge for his support. Here he appears to have studied the violin under Beethoven’s old friend, Krumpholz. Whether because the composer remembered him as the solo singer in his mass at Troppau, or through the intervention of Krumpholz, Fuchs has not informed us; but at any rate he had promised a contribution to the youngster’s album. On May 2nd Krumpholz died very suddenly of apoplexy while walking on the Glacis, and Beethoven commemorated the event by writing his “Gesang der Mönche” (from Schiller’s “Tell”) for three male voices in Fuchs’s album with the superscription: “In memory of the sudden and unexpected death of our Krumpholz on May 3rd, 1817.” The date was not intended to record the time of composition, but of the death of the violinist; as such a record it was an error.

After the composer’s removal to the suburb Landstrasse, his mind was much occupied with a new matter between himself and the widow van Beethoven, namely, her bearing a share of the expenses of her son’s education. This was concluded by a contract signed by both parties on May 10, 1817, binding her to pay at once into court 2,000 florins for the lad’s education and support, and in the future to pay to the same tribunal every quarter at least one-half of the pension which the widow was to receive, as well as other contributions. Reference is had to this agreement in the following entries in the Fischoff “Tagebuch” in January or February of the next year:

This was the barren result of negotiations which had cost Beethoven, as to any important work, the first half of the year. In May, Beethoven took rooms in Heiligenstadt to try the baths for his obstinate catarrh, of which he speaks in a characteristic letter to Countess Erdödy, railing against his Italian physician (either Malfatti or Bertolini), whom he accuses of lacking both honesty and insight, and describing the treatment prescribed for him.

Christian Kuffner, a poet, afterwards Court Secretary, who (though Nottebohm questioned it) probably gave poetical form to the text for the Choral Fantasia, also spent some time in the summer of 1817 in Heiligenstadt, and, as he told Music Director Krenn, often went with Beethoven of an evening to Nussdorf for a fish supper in the tavern “Zur Rose.” On one of these occasions, when Beethoven was amiably disposed, Kuffner began:

Long years afterwards, in 1826, when Kuffner was negotiating with Beethoven for an oratorio text, he recalled the meetings in Nussdorf and wrote in Beethoven’s Conversation Book: “Do you remember the fisherman’s house in Nussdorf, where we sat till midnight in the light of the full moon on the terrace, before us the rushing brook and the swollen Danube? I was your guest.” Beethoven soon had his fish with less trouble; he moved to Nussdorf, perhaps in June (at least he was there in July, though he kept his lodging in the city), and in Nussdorf he remained till October, sending occasional notes to Frau Streicher, from which it appears that he was having his customary trouble with servants. Here, too, he received the following highly important letter from Ferdinand Ries, written in London on June 9, 1817:

Beethoven was prompt with his answer, but wishing to send a fair copy to Ries and having his own reasons for not wanting Häring’s handwriting to appear in the correspondence he sent his letter to Zmeskall for transcription and posting. The letter, which was promptly forwarded to London, was as follows:

To this Beethoven appended an autograph postscript as follows:

These letters, as well as those which passed between Beethoven and Ries subsequently, ought to serve to indicate that the relationship between them at this time was, and remained, one of cordial friendship, Schindler’s statements to the contrary notwithstanding. That biographer’s list of grievances between the men may have had a small shadow of foundation, but after all it would be better to take them with a few grains of salt. It is very possible, as Czerny told Jahn, that Beethoven once complained to him that Ries imitated his style more than was agreeable to him; but this is far from saying, as Schindler says, that Ries, following a bent for brilliant technique, gradually lost his understanding of Beethoven’s works, took it upon himself to find fault with some of his daring innovations and made arbitrary changes in performing them. Nor does it seem likely that Ries should have been so indifferent to the success of Beethoven’s compositions in London as to withhold his help while reporting their great popularity to the composer in such enthusiastic words; yet Schindler intimates that it was this fact which, coming to the ears of Beethoven, provoked the latter to expressions of anger which in turn were reported to Ries. There is in all this, we fear, an undercurrent of prejudice which is not difficult of explanation; at any rate, if Ries cherished a feeling of ill-will against his master it found no expression in the “Notizen.”

Efforts of the widow van Beethoven to keep in touch with her son, and questions of discipline in his bringing-up and education, were matters which weighed heavily on Beethoven’s mind during the summer of 1817, and occasioned more misunderstandings between Giannatasio and the composer, as also much distress in the minds of the former’s daughters, especially the solicitous Fanny, as is evidenced by entries in her diary under dates June 25 and July 8 and 21. In an undated letter which seems to belong to this period, Beethoven explains to Giannatasio that the mother had expressly asked to see Karl at his, the composer’s, house and that certain evidences of indecision on his part which his correspondent had observed (and apparently held up to him) had not been due to any want of confidence, but to his antipathy to “inhuman conduct of any kind,” and the circumstance that it had been put out of the power of the woman to do the lad harm in any respect. On the subject of discipline he writes:

He requested that the letter be read to his nephew. Beethoven’s “antipathy to inhuman conduct of any kind” seems to have led him to make concessions to the widow of which he soon repented. In a letter to Zmeskall dated July 30, he says: “After all, it might pain Karl’s mother to be obliged to visit her son at the house of a stranger and, besides, there is more harshness in this affair than I like; therefore I shall permit her to come to me to-morrow”; and he urgently begs his friend to be a witness of the meeting. In a note to Giannatasio he informs him of his intention to take Karl to see his mother, because she was desirous to put herself in a better light before her neighbors, and this might help. But a fortnight after the letter to Zmeskall he has changed his mind, as witness a letter to Giannatasio dated August 14, in which he writes:

Notwithstanding the jeremiads in Beethoven’s letters this year, and the annoyance caused him by his sister-in-law, there are indications in plenty that he was not on the whole in that state of dejection which one might suppose. One of these indications is a work which amused him during the summer, the story of which the careful Dehn admitted into the “Cäcilia.” A musician, whose name is not mentioned, brought to Beethoven the Pianoforte Trio, Op. 1, No. 3, which he had arranged for string quintet (two violins, two violas and violoncello). Though the composer, no doubt, found much to criticize in the transcription it seems to have interested him sufficiently to lead him to undertake a thorough remodelling of the score, on the cover of which he wrote the whimsical title:

The score of the arrangement is in the handwriting of a copyist with corrections by Beethoven; the title, however, is his autograph. It is preserved in the Royal Library at Berlin. The work was published by Artaria in February, 1819, as Op. 104. Beethoven evidently attached considerable importance to it. He referred to it in letters to Frau von Streicher, Zmeskall and Ries; it was performed at a musical entertainment of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde in Vienna on December 13, 1818.

Beethoven having obtained possession of his nephew and placed him in Giannatasio’s institute, very naturally took measures that he should have systematic instruction in music; to this end he employed Carl Czerny as teacher, and to him we now turn for information on this point.[176] Czerny writes:

In the year 1815 [1816], at his request I began teaching his nephew Karl, whom he had already adopted, and from that time I saw him almost daily, since for the greater part of the time he brought the little fellow to me. From this period I still have many letters written by him, one of which I reproduce here with absolute fidelity because it is musically noteworthy:

“I beg of you to have as much patience as possible with Karl even if matters do not go now as well as you and I might wish, otherwise he will accomplish even less, for (but this he must not know) he is already subjected to too great a strain because of the improper division of his studies. Unhappily this cannot be changed at once, therefore treat him with as much loving consideration as possible, but with seriousness; thus you will have better success with Karl in spite of the unfavorable conditions. In regard to his playing for you, I beg that not until he has acquired a correct fingering and can play in time and reads the notes with reasonable correctness, you direct his attention to the matter of interpretation, and thereafter not to stop him because of trifling mistakes but to point them out after he has finished the piece. Although I have given but few lessons I have always followed this method, it soon makes musicians which, at the last, is one of the first purposes of art, and gives the minimum of weariness to master and pupil. At certain passages like

I wish that you would use all the fingers occasionally as well in such as these

so that they may be played in a gliding manner. True, such passages sound ‘pearly’ as the phrase goes (played with few fingers) or ‘like a pearl,’ but at times other jewels are desirable. More at another time. I wish that you may receive all this in the loving spirit in which it is expressed and intended, at any rate I am and will always remain your debtor. May my sincerity be a pledge for future payment so far as possible.”

Noteworthy in this interesting letter is the very correct view that one ought not to weary the talent of a pupil by too much petty concern (wherein much depends on the qualities of the pupil, it is true) as well as the singular fingering and its influence on interpretation.

Much more valuable were Beethoven’s oral remarks about all kinds of musical topics, other composers, etc., touching whom he always spoke with the greatest positiveness, with striking, often caustic wit and always from the lofty point of view which his genius opened to him and from which he looked out upon his art. His judgment even concerning classic masters was severe, as a rule, and uttered as if he felt his equality. At one lesson which I gave his nephew he said to me: “You must not think that you will do me a favor by giving him pieces of mine to play. I am not so childish as to desire that. Give him what you think good for him.”

I mentioned Clementi. “Yes, yes,” said he; “Clementi is very good,” adding, laughingly “For the present give Karl the regular things so that after a while he may reach the irregular.”

After such conceits, which he was in the habit of weaving into nearly every speech, he used to burst into a peal of laughter. Since irregularities used to be charged against him by the critics in his earlier days he was wont often to allude to the fact with merry humor. At that time (about 1816) I began to have musical entertainments at my home for my very numerous pupils every Sunday before a very select circle. Beethoven was almost always present, he improvised many times with kindly readiness and with that wealth of ideas which always characterized his impromptu playing as much, or often more, than his written works. As his compositions were chiefly played at these meetings and he indicated the tempo, I believe that in this respect I am intimately acquainted with his wishes regarding his works (even his symphonies, which were frequently played in arrangements for two pianofortes).

No animadversion upon the venerable Carl Czerny is intended in again remarking that both in his memoirs and in the language in which he has sometimes recorded them there is occasionally a very disturbing inexactness. In the citations above the date 1815 for 1816, the loose expression “from that time I saw him almost daily,” “Beethoven was almost always present” in the Sunday music meetings, which can have been true only of the first months, and the words “he improvised many times,” must not be understood too literally. Schindler, in whose hands Jahn placed Czerny’s notes and other manuscripts for examination and remark, observes touching this improvising: “Only twice; the first time when Frau von Ertmann played one of his sonatas, the other time when Czerny performed Op. 106, which he had repeatedly gone through with him. In the year 1818, and those that followed, Beethoven never improvised outside of his own dwelling.” Schindler is certainly mistaken upon this last point, and, very possibly, upon the other. It is not a matter of much importance in any aspect, but it offers an opportunity for remarking upon errors in his dates which have long been and still are an abundant source of confusion in this part of Beethoven’s life, like those of Wegeler and Ries in his youth and early manhood. More than one recent writer speaks of his “intimate association with the composer from the year 1814 onward”; one has even learned that “he lived ten years in the same house with Beethoven, devoting all the time at his command to him.” Nothing is more common than to find circumstances accepted as undoubted facts on Schindler’s authority. The present writer[177] discussed at length Schindler’s character as a biographer with Otto Jahn, both of us having known him personally. Our opinions coincided perfectly. We held him to be honest and sincere in his statements, but afflicted with a treacherous memory and a proneness to accept impressions and later formed convictions as facts of former personal knowledge, and to publish them as such without carefully verifying them. In justice to him it must be remembered that when, at Frankfort-on-the-Main, he rewrote his book in the form in which it appeared in 1860, he had no longer the means of doing this, for the Conversation Books which would have prevented his more glaring errors had, since 1845, been in the Royal Library in Berlin. Therefore, whoever studies his life of the master and his numberless contributions to the periodical press during the long period of thirty years—all abounding in biographical matter of great value—must be continually upon his guard. When one seeks precise information upon Beethoven’s life during the years 1816-1820 in Schindler’s writings, his notices are found to be so meagre and vague, and to exhibit occasionally such inconsistencies and errors, as to awaken the suspicion that he, as to those years, did not always write from personal knowledge, and that his memory served him ill.

If he had had the Conversation Books still in his possession he could not have written: “About 1817, Oliva left the Imperial City forever,” for there he would have seen that Oliva was still in his old relation with Beethoven in 1820. Again: “Already in 1816 he [Beethoven] found himself involved in circumstances which compelled him to do a vast amount of writing. Dr. Bach, in whose office I worked several hours every day, advised him to confide everything to me; thus I became Beethoven’s private secretary—without pay.” Later we read in connection with the topic of Beethoven’s nobility, and the transfer of his suit with the mother of Karl to the Vienna magistracy: “There it was possible to achieve something advantageous to Beethoven only by dismissing his representative and pitting an entirely different person against his opponent. His choice fell upon Dr. Johann Baptist Bach, who had just entered the ranks of the court and trial advocates.” Finally: “When Dr. Bach took his case in hand he declared that thenceforward his client must present himself with the title of Chapelmaster, because the gentlemen magistrates were chiefly Bœotians, and a composer was as good as nothing in their eyes, etc.” Now, a document of the Landrecht dated November 29, 1815, contains these words: “Ludwig van Beethoven (Royal Imperial Chapelmaster and Music Composer).” Dr. Bach may have continued to use this title, but how could he have introduced it? Again: “Dr. Bach took the oath as advocate on January 21, 1817.” How then could Schindler in 1816 have “worked several hours every day” in an office not yet in existence? Still again: the decree of the Landrecht transferring Beethoven’s case to the Magistracy is dated December 18, 1818, and Schindler is correct in making this the cause of the employment of Dr. Bach in 1819; how then could he have been the composer’s “private secretary” on Bach’s recommendation during the two years preceding?

The unavoidable conclusion is this: Although there is no reason to doubt that Schindler was upon excellent terms with Beethoven, and often visited him in 1817-1819, the “intimate association” above-noted and in the sense there intended, could not have begun before 1819; and even then, for Oliva was still in Vienna, did not extend beyond aiding in correspondence and like duties. The earliest Conversation Book preserved by Schindler is from April, 1819, in which both he and Dr. Bach write; and from this time onward these books show that the association grew more intimate and of course his records become more trustworthy. Returning to the trivial matter which led to this digression, the accuracy of Schindler’s statement that Beethoven improvised but twice at Czerny’s Sunday concerts may well be doubted. Czerny’s testimony is the weightier.

We resume an account of the events of the year. In August and September the after-effects of the attack of catarrh and the state of Beethoven’s health generally are so distressing and so depressing upon his spirits that he seems to be on the verge of despair. A letter which Zmeskall notes as received by him on August 21, says: “God have pity on me! I look upon myself as good as lost. This servant steals. My health calls for meals at home. If my condition does not improve I shall not be in London next year—perhaps in my grave. Thank God, the part is nearly played.” On September 9, he writes to the same friend: “I am trying every day to near my grave, without music.” Only two days later he is able to report to Zmeskall that the reply to his letter had been received from the London Philharmonic Society (on September 10). There is no tone of elation in his note; it merely mentions the arrival of the letter and a request for the name of some one who could translate it for him, it being in English. As might have been expected the Philharmonic Society rejected the new terms demanded by him, but, as the Society’s records show, repeated the old. These were now at once accepted by Beethoven.

And did he now sit himself down zealously and perseveringly to work on a ninth and tenth symphony? Not at all. His thoughts had become engaged upon a new pianoforte sonata (in B-flat, Op. 106), and so far as is yet discovered, he did not even resume his work on the Ninth Symphony, some parts of which were already sketched. That “indecision in many things,” noted by Breuning a dozen years before, was only aggravated by the lapse of time; and this now was his bane. There was really nothing to prevent his departing at once except that the new symphonies were still to be written. If his nephew must remain in or near Vienna, he could nowhere be so well placed as in the school and family of the excellent Giannatasios, who had all the necessary legal power to save the boy from the bad influence of his mother. The effects of such a journey; of a stay of some months in England; of the intercourse of cultivated people; of the enthusiastic admiration which awaited him there, and of the great pecuniary rewards for his labors which were certain, could only have been propitious in the highest degree to both his physical and mental health. There was, too, just now a new and powerful motive for accepting and fulfilling this engagement.

Though the depreciation of the redemption certificates never quite touched the point feared by him in his letter to Ries in 1815, it did once amount to 4 for 1; and the Government was again forced to repudiate its obligations in part. It founded that National Bank (seven shares in which Beethoven soon afterwards purchased), and made a contract with a new institution by which the bank assumed the obligation of redeeming the redemption certificates at the rate of 2½ for 1. It went into full operation July 15, 1817, and thenceforth Beethoven’s annuity remained instead of 3,400 florins in that paper, 1,360 florins in silver. But this fatal indecision! Could he have but resolutely taken up any two of the many new symphonies which he had planned, as the sketchbooks show, and once fairly engaged himself upon them, he could not have rested until they were finished; he could, and doubtless would, then have redeemed his promises; and like Handel, Haydn and many other German musicians of far less note, have secured from an admiring and generous London public an ample sufficiency for the future. The standard of excellence was high and catholic in London and musical taste pure and exalted. True, at the first trial of the C minor Symphony by the Philharmonic Society a part of it only was played, for the leader of the violins—really the conductor, as the orchestras were then constituted—declared it “rubbish.” But this leader was a German—our old Bonn acquaintance J. P. Salomon. He, however, repented and made amends. At another trial of it, two or three years afterwards, after the first movement, Salomon laid his violin upon the pianoforte, walked to the front and, turning to the orchestra said (through his nose): “Gentlemen, some years ago I called this symphony rubbish; I wish to retract every word I then said, as I now consider it one of the greatest compositions I ever heard!”

We have had occasion heretofore to refer to several young British Beethoven enthusiasts; another is now added to the list—Cipriani Potter—who came just at this time to Vienna, bringing letters to the composer from Neate, Ries, Rode, Dragonetti and others. He heard so much of Beethoven’s rudeness of manners and moroseness of disposition, and so often noticed how people shook their heads when he or his music was mentioned, that he hesitated to visit him. Two weeks had thus passed when one day, at Streicher’s, he was asked if he had seen Beethoven and if he had letters to him. He therefore explained why he had not seen him. He was told this was all nonsense; Beethoven would receive him kindly. He exclaimed: “I will go out at once!” which he did, namely, to Mödling.[178] He presented a letter or two, one of the first being that of Dragonetti. Upon opening that Beethoven also opened his heart to his visitor and demanded immediately to see some of his compositions. Potter showed him an overture—probably one that had been commissioned and played by the London Philharmonic Society in 1816. Beethoven looked through it so hurriedly that Potter thought he had only glanced at it out of politeness and was greatly astonished when Beethoven pointed to a deep F-sharp in the bassoon part and said it was not practicable. He made other observations of a similar nature and advised him to go to a teacher; he himself gave no lessons but would look through all his compositions. In answer to Potter’s question as to whom he would recommend, Beethoven replied: “I have lost my Albrechtsberger and have no confidence in anybody else”; nevertheless, on Beethoven’s recommendation Potter became a pupil of Aloys Förster, with whom he studied a long time until one day the teacher said to him that he had now studied sufficiently and needed only to practise himself in composition. This brought out the remark from Beethoven that no one ought ever to stop studying; he himself had not studied enough: “Tell Förster that he is an old flatterer!” Potter did so, but Förster only laughed. Beethoven never complimented Potter to his face; he would say: “Very good, very good,” but never give unequivocal praise. Yet at Streicher’s he praised him and expressed his surprise that Potter did not visit him at Mödling.[179] Once Beethoven advised him never to compose sitting in a room in which there was a pianoforte, in order not to be tempted to consult the instrument; after a work was finished he might try it over on the instrument, because an orchestra was not always to be had.

Beethoven used to walk across the fields to Vienna very often and sometimes Potter took the walk with him. Beethoven would stop, look around and give expression to his love for nature. One day Potter asked: “Who is the greatest living composer, yourself excepted?” Beethoven seemed puzzled for a moment, then exclaimed “Cherubini.” Potter went on: “And of dead authors?” Beethoven answered that he had always considered Mozart as such, but since he had been made acquainted with Handel he had put him at the head. The first day that Potter was with Beethoven the latter rushed into politics and called the Austrian government all sorts of names.[180] He was full of going to England and said his desire was to see the House of Commons. “You have heads upon your shoulders in England,” he remarked. One day Potter asked him his opinion of one of the principal pianists then in Vienna (Moscheles). “Don’t ever talk to me again about mere passage players,” came the answer. At another time Beethoven declared that John Cramer had given him more satisfaction than anybody else. According to the same informant, Beethoven spoke Italian fluently but French with less ease. It was in Italian that Potter conversed with him, making himself heard by using his hands as a speaking-trumpet; Beethoven did not always hear everything, but was content when he caught the meaning. Potter considered “Fidelio” the greatest of all operas and once remarked to Beethoven that he had heard it in Vienna, which brought out the remark that he had not heard it, as the singers then at the opera-house were not able to sing it. He was asked if he did not intend to write another opera. “Yes,” replied Beethoven, “I am now composing ‘Romulus’;[181] but the poets are all such fools; I will not compose silly rubbish.” Potter told him of the deep impression made upon him by the Septet when first he heard it; Beethoven replied in effect that when he wrote the piece he did not know how to compose; he knew now, he thought, and, either then or at another time, he said, “I am writing something better now.” Soon after, the Pianoforte Sonata in B-flat (Op. 106) was published.

Another visitor now, and probably occasionally during the winter following, was Heinrich Marschner, who had come from Carlsbad to Vienna on the invitation of Count Amadée. He was 21 years old, ambitious and eager to get Beethoven’s judgment on some of his compositions, which he carried to the great master in manuscript. Beethoven received him, glanced through the music hurriedly, handed it back with a muttered “Hm,” in a tone more of satisfaction than dispraise, and the words: “I haven’t much time—do not come often—bring me something again.” The young man was grievously disappointed; he had expected so much more. He did not understand Beethoven’s sententious manner, and not until he told the story of his reception to his patron and Prof. Klein of Pressburg, did he recall that Beethoven had looked kindly upon him when he spoke the words and had given him his hand at parting. He had gone to his lodgings in a passion of despondency, torn up the manuscripts, packed his trunk with the resolve to abandon music and return to Leipsic to continue his studies for the profession for which he had been designed. But now, on the advice of his friends, he took a different view of Beethoven’s actions, and continued his intercourse with him. The great man was always gracious, and even occasionally let fall a word of encouragement; but an intimacy never sprang up between them.

Beethoven’s intercourse with a third new acquaintance was, doubtless, far more delightful than any other; but not at all of the nature assumed by Schindler, who has attributed to it a very exaggerated and, indeed, ludicrous importance. This visitor was Frau Marie Pachler-Koschak, of Gratz, whom Anselm Hüttenbrenner described as the most beautiful maiden and for several years the most beautiful woman in her native town, who was called “heaven’s daughter,” and who “glowed with admiration for Jean Paul, Goethe, Schiller, Beethoven, Mozart and Schubert.” Beethoven had already heard from Prof. Schneller, whose pupil she had been, of her extraordinary beauty, talents, intellectual culture and refinement, and of her genius for music. He had unconsciously the year before borne testimony to this last in this wise: Her brother-in-law, Anton Pachler, Dr. jur. in Vienna, had at her request showed him for an opinion a fantasia composed by her, but without disclosing the author’s identity. Beethoven looked at the piece carefully and said that it was a good deal from one who had not studied composition, and if the composer were present he would point out the faults in it; it would take too much time to do this in writing and the composer would find them out for himself if he studied diligently. The lady was 24 years old and had been married a little over a year. She had never been in Vienna, Beethoven never in Gratz, and they, of course, had never met. But when they did, it could not be as strangers; for his music had been to her like a new divine revelation, and such noble mental and personal qualities as distinguished her always awakened in him feelings akin to worship. Unfortunately, absolutely nothing is known of their personal association except that Dr. Anton Pachler introduced her to him, that she wrote ten years later that “they were often in each other’s company,” and that Beethoven wrote her two notes “in pencil”—one utterly illegible, the other in terms placing her as a player of his pianoforte music even higher than Frau von Ertmann. He wrote:

Her son has so fully exploded Schindler’s assumption that she was the object of Beethoven’s “autumnal love” that no words need be wasted upon it. It was, no doubt, upon seeing in Beethoven’s papers the letter “M”[182] in this outburst of feeling:

A consideration of the dates given in Dr. Pachler’s pamphlet proves conclusively, however, that this “M” cannot refer to Marie Pachler, for its writer could never have seen her “drive past” on any 27th of July!

There are few unmarried men of highly sensitive nature who have not had the bitter experience of a hopeless passion, who have not felt how doubly grateful at such times is intercourse with a glorious creature like Madame Pachler, and how beneficial in preventing the thoughts from continually dwelling on the impossible, and thus aiding reason and conscience to gain the victory over the heart and fancy. Now it happens that one of Beethoven’s transient but intense passions for a married woman, known to have occurred in this period of his life, has its precise date fixed by these passages in the so-called “Tagebuch” from the years 1816 and 1817. “In the case of T. there is nothing to do but to leave it to God, never to go where one might do a wrong through weakness—to Him, to the all-knowing God, be all this committed.” And again: “But as kind as possible to T. her attachment deserves never to be forgotten even if the results could never prove advantageous to you.” Let the reader recall the passages in his letters showing a strong desire to leave Vienna and read again: “Work during the summer for the journey, only thus can you carry out the great task for your poor nephew, afterwards wander through Italy, Sicily, with a few artists—make plans and be of good cheer for the sake of C....” The last initial is uncertain. Other copies have “L.”; what the original was in Beethoven’s handwriting is not now to be determined. No instance, however, is known of his writing his nephew’s name with a C, and this “C” or “L” was probably T. As the family name of this lady, whose husband was a man of high position and distinction though not noble by birth, is known, it is certain that the T in the above citations is not Therese Malfatti, now Baroness Drosdick; but as her baptismal names have eluded search one can only hint the possibility that the “T” and “M” may indicate the same person, and that this last cry of anguish was written a year or two afterwards when the sight of “M” again, for a moment, tore open a half-healed wound.

In numbers 5 to 8 inclusive of the “Neue Musik-Zeitung” appeared, from the pen of J. Kandler, a long article containing historical notices of various attempts to produce a satisfactory instrument for measuring time in music, and closing with an account, taken from the English, of Mälzel’s metronome. To No. 25 (June 19) of the same journal, Gottfried Weber contributed a paper “On a chronometric tempo designation which makes Mälzel’s metronome, as well as all other chronometric instruments, unnecessary,” in which he repeated his idea, already put forth in the Leipsic “Musikzeitung” in 1813, that the simplest and most correct chronometer is a simple pendulum, a bit of thread with a bullet at the end, whose oscillations would mark the duration of measures according to the length of the thread. This article pleased Beethoven, and in one of his variations on the theme of pens he commends it to his “clarissime amice” Zmeskall, as the best invention yet made. Zmeskall took up the subject with interest and in two articles in the same journal called attention to the fact that Neate, in London, had described a time measurer of the same kind which was known in England, but had not remained long in use—“a little ball hanging at the end of a thread and below it a line divided into a scale of inches.” Zmeskall approved of Weber’s suggestion in principle but improved upon it by proposing that the oscillations of the pendulum indicate the duration of a note instead of a measure, and that the varying lengths of the pendulum be marked by knots in the thread. Beethoven, to whom Zmeskall seems to have sent his contrivance, was interested and lauded its simplicity, playfully wondering whether or not it might be used in measuring from time to eternity.

Music had already come from the press with Mälzel’s tempo marks, and Weber, who seems to have had no kindly feeling for him, prints an article, in the number of the journal following Zmeskall’s, entitled “Mälzel’s Metronome to be had gratis everywhere,” and gives a table showing the lengths of a pendulum in Rhenish inches and French centimetres corresponding to all the numbers on the metronome. As the months passed, the metronome had come largely into use in England, France and the United States, but not in Germany and Austria. It was of high importance to the manufacturers of the instruments to obtain the countenance and good will of the composers in those countries also—Salieri, Weigl, Beethoven, etc.—and Mälzel came back to Vienna to try the effect of personal effort, taking the risk of any serious consequences arising from the lawsuit between him and Beethoven. But there were none. The matter was amicably adjusted, each party paying half of the legal expenses which had been incurred. This would be incredible had Beethoven had any substantial grounds for the action; for his sanction of the metronome was of such value that Mälzel would readily have conceded much to obtain it; and the whole tone of the composer’s correspondence in this period, so far as relates to his pecuniary affairs, shows how little likely he was to sacrifice any just claim.

Beethoven was at first not well disposed to the instrument, notwithstanding he had joined Salieri and the other composers in strongly recommending the “chronometer” in 1813, which certificate had been used in England a fortiori for the new metronome. In a letter[183] Mr. Joseph J. Mickley, of Philadelphia, writes: “Mr. Mälzel, with whom I was well acquainted, told me that he had been particularly anxious Beethoven should mark his music by his metronome, and to get his recommendation; that he (B) refused and became quite indignant, saying: ‘It is silly stuff; one must feel the tempos’”; but Beethoven soon yielded to the obvious considerations in favor of the invention. These were presented to the public together with the objections to Weber’s and Zmeskall’s pendulums, clearly, explicitly and cunningly by Mosel in an article in Steiner’s “Musik-Zeitung” on November 27, which put an end to controversy on the topic.

Meanwhile, Beethoven had prepared a table of tempos for his eight symphonies which was printed in the Leipsic “Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung” on December 17 (copied, says Nottebohm, from a little pamphlet published by Steiner and Co. in which also tempos of the Septet were included), and followed this up with a general metronomizing of his works. On the autograph of his song, “Nord oder Süd,” he wrote: “100 according to Mälzel; but this must be held applicable to only the first measures, for feeling also has its tempo and this cannot entirely be expressed in this figure (i. e., 100).”[184]

If the picture of Mälzel drawn by Schindler and his copyists is true, even the most Christian and forgiving spirit could scarcely have demanded more of Beethoven than this public acknowledgement of the value of the metronome by way of heaping coals of fire upon his head; but he did more, by writing to Mosel this very valuable and for us very interesting letter:

Still more: he joined with Salieri in a public announcement which was printed in the “Wiener Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung” of February 14, 1818, setting forth that the metronome would attest its utility forever, was indispensable to all students of singing, the pianoforte or other instruments, etc. On one of the last days of December, Beethoven writes to Madame Streicher: “Day before yesterday I was busy with Mälzel, who is in a hurry as he is soon to leave here.” What had he so important to do with this “rude fellow, wholly without education or breeding,” to cite his own words? Was it in contemplation to make this sudden zeal for the metronome a source of pecuniary profit? No one knows.

As the lodging in the Sailerstätte was separated from Giannatasio’s institute by the whole breadth of the Glacis, Beethoven, on his return from Mödling, exchanged it for one in the house “Zum grünen Baum,” first étage, 2nd storey, No. 26, in the Gärtnergasse, suburb Landstrasse. He was now near both his nephew and the Streichers (in the Ungarstrasse), and, with the aid of Madame Streicher, he had at last brought his domestic arrangements into a condition so that he might take his nephew to himself. While making these arrangements, doubtless he asked practical guidance of some unknown friend touching his table. On one side of a large sheet of paper (it is now preserved in the Royal Library in Berlin) he wrote a list of questions which were painstakingly answered, by the friend to whom they were addressed, on the opposite page. The questions were as follows:

Beethoven announced his intention to take his nephew to himself at the end of the current quarter in a letter to Giannatasio dated November 12, 1817. The step involved not only an increase in his expenses, but also an abandonment of his engagement with the London Philharmonic Society and of all the profits which might thence arise. Giannatasio, moved by his complaints of poverty, and probably also by a desire to aid him in the proposed visit to London, kindly offered to keep the boy at a much reduced rate of remuneration for board and instruction. Beethoven’s reply shows him to be still undecided as to his movements in the coming spring, and it is possible, could he have made ready the required symphonies, that he might have gone to England; but now the new Sonata had got possession of his imagination, and the symphonies must wait.

But one public appearance professionally of Beethoven is recorded this year. At the concert for the Hospital Fund on December 25, the first part was devoted to the Eighth Symphony, which was conducted by the composer. In the second part Seyfried produced C. P. E. Bach’s oratorio, “The Israelites in the Wilderness,” which he had revised, adding to the accompaniments, curtailing the airs, prefixing it with the well-known fugue on B-A-C-H (orchestrated by himself), and concluding it with the double chorus “Holy, holy, holy.” Nottebohm has shown that the sketches for the overture on the name of the great Leipsic cantor which Beethoven once thought of writing, belong to a later period; but it is yet possible, if not likely, that he conceived the idea at this concert. On November 15, Anton Halm gave a concert for the benefit of the poor in the Kärnthnerthor-Theater at which the Choral Fantasia was performed; but we know nothing of Beethoven’s participation in it in any way.

It is probable that to this time is to be assigned a portrait in oils painted by Christoph Heckel, who was a student at the Royal Imperial Academy in Vienna from 1814 to 1818. Beethoven, it is said, made the acquaintance of the painter in Streicher’s pianoforte wareroom. There is but little to be added to what has been said about the compositions of this almost sterile year. The transcription of the Pianoforte Trio as a quintet (which was the largest work of the year), and the “Song of the Monks,” written on the death of Krumpholz, have been mentioned. Besides these we have a few short songs with pianoforte accompaniment. “Nord oder Süd” (also known as “So oder So”), the poem by Karl Lappe, was known and widely liked in a setting by K. Klage. “Resignation” (“Lisch aus mein Licht”), words by Count Paul von Haughwitz, was composed towards the end of the Summer, and the sketches show that Beethoven contemplated a setting for four voices. A Fugue in D major, for five stringed instruments, was completed on November 28, 1817, and was designed for the manuscript collection of Beethoven’s works projected by Haslinger, who published it soon after Beethoven’s death in 1827, as Op. 137. Beethoven was particularly interested in fugues at the time. “To make a fugue requires no particular skill,” he said later to Holz; “in my study days I made dozens of them. But the fancy wishes also to assert its privileges, and to-day a new and really poetical element must be introduced into the old traditional form.” The sketches for the conclusion of the Quintet fugue (Nottebohm, “Zweite Beethoveniana,” p. 350) are mixed with notes from Bach and others showing how zealous were his studies in the form at that time. The year also saw work done on the Pianoforte Sonata in B-flat, Op. 106, and the beginning of the Symphony in D minor.

The list of publications for the year is also very small:

An entry in an old “Porter’s Book” of John Broadwood and Sons, manufacturers of pianofortes in London, offers an agreeable starting-point for the story of Beethoven’s life in 1818. In this book the porter of the firm signs his name, Millet, to the record that on December 27, 1817, he took from the warehouse “A 6 octave Grand Pianoforte, No. 7,632, tin and deal case, Thomas Broadwood, Esq., marked V. B. care of F. E. J. Bareaux and Co., Trieste (a present to Mr. van Beethoven, Viene), deliv’d to Mr. Farlowes to be shipped.” Some time previously Mr. Thomas Broadwood, the then head of the house, with a Mr. Goding (probably the rich brewer), visited the principal cities of the continent and doubtless became acquainted with Beethoven and offered to present to him one of the firm’s pianofortes. On January 3, 1818, Mr. Broadwood seems to have informed Beethoven that the instrument had been shipped, and exactly one month later Beethoven sent the following acknowledgment to the generous donor:

This letter was sent to Broadwood by Joseph Anton Bridi of the firm of Bridi, Parisi and Co., in Vienna, who had evidently been commissioned to look after the delivery of the instrument to Beethoven after its arrival in Trieste. At least Bridi, in transmitting the letter to Broadwood under cover and date February 5, informs the latter that he had taken the proper steps to have the pianoforte sent to Vienna by Bareaux (or Barraux) and Co., and asks for instructions how to carry out what he understands to be the donor’s desire that the instrument be delivered to Beethoven without his being put to any expense whatever, not even for the import duty. The latter charge must have been in the mind of Beethoven when he wrote a letter, without date, to Count Lichnowsky enclosing a document bearing on the case expressing the hope that he be permitted to receive the instrument and proposing to apply by word of mouth to Count Stadion, the Austrian Minister of Finance. Madame Streicher was also appealed to in the matter, Beethoven begging her in a letter to ask her “Cousin from Cracow” to get from the chief customs official in Vienna an order for the forwarding of the pianoforte, which could be sent to the custom house in Trieste. But neither Broadwood nor Beethoven was called on to pay the duty, the Austrian Exchequer remitting the charge. After some delay the pianoforte was delivered at Streicher’s wareroom and later sent to Beethoven at Mödling. While it was still in his possession, Streicher asked Potter to try it, saying that Moscheles and others could do nothing with it—the tone was beautiful but the action too heavy. Potter, who was familiar with the English instruments, found no difficulty in disclosing its admirable qualities. He told Beethoven, however, that it was out of tune, whereupon the latter replied in effect: “That’s what they all say; they would like to tune it and spoil it, but they shall not touch it.” Beethoven’s delight in the pianoforte must have been great. Bridi reports to Broadwood that the composer already rejoiced in it in anticipation and expressed a desire to dedicate the first piece of music composed after its reception to the donor, “convinced that it would inspire something good.” His jealousy of it seems to have been so great that he would not permit anybody to tune it except Stumpff, of London, who came with a letter of introduction from Broadwood.[185]

The case of the instrument, simple, plain but tasteful in design, is of mahogany and the structure generally of a solidity and strength paired with grace which caused no little surprise at the time. The compass is six octaves from C, five leger-lines below the bass staff. Above the keys is the inscription: Hoc Instrumentum est Thomœ Broadwood (Londini) donum, propter Ingenium illustrissimi Beethoven. On the board, back of the keys, is the name “Beethoven,” inlaid in ebony, and below this the makers’ mark: “John Broadwood and Sons, Makers of Instruments to His Majesty and the Princesses. Great Pulteney Street. Golden Square. London.” To the right of the keyboard are the autograph names Frid. Kalkbrenner, Ferd. Ries, C. G. Ferrari, J. L. Cramer and C. Knyvett. The presence of these names gave rise to a theory which was widely spread, and is not yet wholly dissipated, that their owners had joined Mr. Broadwood in making the gift; it has also been stated that the gift came from the Philharmonic Society. This latter statement is disproved by the fact that the records of the Society contain no mention of such a transaction; as for the names of the virtuosi, they were no doubt scratched upon the instrument as a compliment to Beethoven and an evidence that they had played upon it. Beethoven kept the instrument as long as he lived. At the sale of his effects it was bought by Spina, the music publisher, for 181 florins; Spina gave it to Liszt, in whose house at Weimar it was up to his death. In 1887, Princess Marie Hohenlohe, daughter of Liszt’s friend, the Princess Sayn-Wittgenstein, presented it to the National Museum in Buda-Pesth.

The time had come for Beethoven to take his nephew from the home and institute of the Giannatasios. On January 6 he wrote to inform the director that Karl would leave his “admirable institute” at the expiration of the month and that Giannatasio might rest assured of his and the lad’s life-long gratitude: “I have observed in Karl that he already feels grateful, and this is a proof that though he is frivolous he is not malicious, and least of all is he bad at heart. I have hopes of all manner of good from him, all the more because he has been under your excellent care for nearly two years.” Karl left the institute on January 24, and on June 15 Fanny Giannatasio wrote in her diary: “We hear nothing from Beethoven,” who was then in Mödling.

Ill-advised and full of evil consequences as was Beethoven’s step in taking personal charge of his nephew, it was yet creditable to his heart and bears strong witness to his high sense of duty. His purpose was pure and lofty, and his action prompted by both love and an ideal sense of moral obligation. It was a woeful mistake, however; Beethoven sadly misjudged his fitness to fill the delicate and difficult rôle of guardian and parent. In all his life he had never had occasion to give a thought to the duties which such an office involved. In the conduct of his own affairs he had always permitted himself to be swayed by momentary impulses, emotions and sometimes violent passions, and he could not suddenly develop the habits of calm reflection, unimpassioned judgment and consistent behavior essential to the training of a careless and wayward boy. In his treatment of him he flew from one extreme to the other—from almost cruel severity to almost limitless indulgence, and, for this reason, failed to inspire either respect for his authority or deep affection for his person, to develop the lad’s self-control or a desire for virtuous living. Very questionable, too, if not utterly unpardonable, were the measures which Beethoven took to separate the boy from his mother in spite of the dying wishes of his father. We have seen his protestations at times of his unwillingness to give her pain. When he was cruel in his own confession it was because he imagined himself constrained to be so by a high obligation of duty. There can be no doubt that the woman whom Beethoven called “The Queen of Night” was wicked and vicious, and that his detestation of her was as well founded as his wish to save his nephew from evil communications and influences. But there were times when he seemed willing to give filial instincts their due. “Karl did wrong,” he writes to Madame Streicher from Mödling in June 1818, “but—mother—mother—even a bad one remains a mother. To this extent he is to be excused, especially by me, who know his intriguing, passionate mother too well.” Why did he not follow this thought to its ultimate conclusion? Why did he permit, if indeed, he did not encourage, the lad to speak disrespectfully of his mother? A memorandum in the Tagebuch after February 20th reads: “Karl’s mother has not seen him since August 10”—a period of more than six months. How often she was allowed to see him during the following months is not of record; we only know from Beethoven himself, in his letters to Madame Streicher, that the mother’s instinct—if, because she was a bad woman, the word “love” be not allowed—drove her to employ the only means by which she could know the condition of her son during the summer in Mödling—i. e., bribing or feeing the servants. That at least is Beethoven’s accusation, and exceedingly wroth he was.[186]

After taking Karl from Giannatasio’s institute to his own home Beethoven engaged a tutor to prepare him for matriculation at the gymnasium. This tutor, whose name has not been learned, was a professor at the Vienna University and had evidently agreed not only to look after all of the lad’s intellectual needs but also to have an eye on some of the domestic affairs and to that end to become a member of the Beethoven household. On this point, Beethoven enjoined secrecy upon Madame Streicher. How long the service of his “steward,” as he playfully called him to Madame Streicher, continued is not known, nor how satisfactory it was. He does not become a subject of Beethoven’s correspondence beyond a single reference to the fact that once he staid out all night. Beethoven’s London trip had been abandoned without notice or explanation to the Philharmonic Society, apparently; but Ries must have written to him, renewing the offer previously accepted, for on March 25, Beethoven writes to his old pupil as follows:

Ries’s reverence for royalty, apparently, led him to omit Beethoven’s unkind allusion to his august patron and pupil, Archduke Rudolph; Schindler, writing much later, prints it and admits, very properly, as we know from other instances of the same kind, that Beethoven sometimes used his friends as whipping-boys and that his words and deeds were not always consistent with each other. Beethoven removed to Mödling on May 19, taking with him his nephew and the two servants whose treachery aroused the storm of passion which he loosed in the long letter to Madame Streicher, written in June. He found lodgings in the so-called Hafner House in the Hauptstrasse, now ornamented by a memorial tablet. He began taking the baths two days after his arrival and the desire and capacity for work soon returning, he took up energetically the Pianoforte Sonata in B-flat. Karl was placed in a class of boys taught by the village priest, named Fröhlich, who dismissed him a month later for reasons which became a matter of judicial record before the end of the year.[187] In a document filed as an appendix to Madame van Beethoven’s application for guardianship over her son, Fröhlich sets forth that Beethoven had encouraged his nephew to revile his mother, applauding him when he applied vile epithets to her either in writing or by shrieking them into his ear, “thus violating the fourth divine commandment”; that the boy had confessed to him that while he knew that he was doing wrong he yet defamed his mother to curry favor with his uncle and dared not tell him the truth because he would only believe lies. “This he once told his mother and would have said more had he not feared being found out and maltreated by his uncle.” Once, too, Beethoven came to him (the priest) and in a tone of malicious joy told him that his nephew had that day called his mother a “Ravenmother” (Rabenmutter—meaning a wicked and unnatural mother). Karl’s training being thus contrary to all moral principles, he having also displayed indifference to religious instruction, been guilty of unruly conduct in church and in the streets, so that many of the inhabitants of the village had come to him with complaints, and, therefore, admonitions to the boy and appeals to the uncle having borne no fruit, he had been constrained for the sake of his twelve other pupils, who had said “they did not want to study with the unruly Karl van Beethoven,” to dismiss him.

These unfortunate first-fruits of Beethoven’s error in undertaking personal and sole care of his nephew will call for more attention before the history of the year 1818 is closed, and may be dismissed for the present for more cheerful topics. Towards the end of the year 1815, the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde had instituted inquiries through Zmeskall touching Beethoven’s willingness to compose a work of magnitude for the Society. Beethoven signified his assent to the project and in turn asked Zmeskall whether or not the Society would allow him 400 ducats as an honorarium. There the matter seems to have rested until May, 1818, on the 17th of which month Vincenz Hauschka, a violoncello player and member of the governing committee of the Society, was authorized by his associates to offer Beethoven from 200 to 300 “pieces of gold” for the music to a “heroic oratorio” to be the exclusive property of the Society for one year after the date of its first performance. Hauschka wrote to Beethoven at Mödling and received a droll letter in reply. It bears no date. In it Beethoven addresses his friend as “Chief Member of the Society of Enemies of Music [the play on the words Freunde and Feinde is impossible in English], in the Austrian Empire” and “Grand Cross of the Order of the Violoncello.” He signifies his willingness to accept the commission in the words: “I am agreed” (Ich bin bereit) set to a fugue-theme:

I am agreed! etc.
Tenore

adding that he had no subject on hand except a sacred one, while the Society had expressed a desire for a heroic work. This was satisfactory to him, but he suggested that as the choir was a large one something sacred be “mixed in”:

Amen!
etc.

Mr. v. Bernard would suit him as poet, but the Society, since it claimed to be friendly to music, ought to pay him. He said nothing of his own compensation, but concluded with:

I am agreed! I am agreed!
Amen!

Schindler also places this letter in 1818, and is doubtless correct in so doing, for its tone and contents show that it was not designed as an official communication to the Society, whose minutes show that such a communication was not received until June 15, 1819. In the interim, no doubt, some negotiations were in progress between Beethoven and Hauschka, for the former had refrained from mentioning the matter of remuneration. Some understanding on this point must have been reached, however, for, if Pohl is correct, Beethoven was paid an advance sum of 400 florins on August 18, 1819. Nothing came of the matter, as we shall see later. In this year, however, there came to Beethoven an incitation of a different nature and one productive of lasting and magnificent results. About the middle of 1818, as Schindler relates, it became known as a settled fact that Archduke Rudolph had been appointed Archbishop of Olmütz. March 20th, 1820, was fixed as the day of his installation. Without bidding, invitation or summons of any kind Beethoven “resolved to compose a mass for the solemnity, thus turning again after the lapse of many years to that branch of his art, toward which, after the symphonic—as he himself often said—he felt himself most drawn. This resolution shows that his outburst against the Archduke[188] was merely a passing cloud, even if we did not know that the master never missed an opportunity to disclose his affection for his august pupil. I saw the score begun late in the Autumn of 1818, after the gigantic Sonata in B-flat major, Op. 106, had just been finished.” Though there is no reason for questioning the rest of Schindler’s statement, the concluding observation is probably incorrect. It may be accepted, inasmuch as the Credo of the mass was already far advanced in 1819, that the Kyrie, at least, perhaps the Gloria, as well, was begun in 1818. The two great works which now filled the mind of Beethoven, which he wrote, indeed, with his heart’s blood, were not only dedicated to the Archduke, but were designed for him from the beginning—facts which may be cited as proof that despite his petulant outbursts against his pupil and patron he was after all sincerely devoted to him in his innermost soul.

The same summer saw the beginning of the most widely distributed portrait of Beethoven. At the instance of his uncle, Baron von Skrbensky, a young painter named August von Klöber (born at Breslau in 1793), who was continuing his artistic studies in Vienna, undertook to paint a portrait of the composer. His own account of his acquaintance with Beethoven and the incidents connected with the painting of the portrait (or rather with the original sketch) were published in the “Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung,” of 1864 (p. 324). From it we learn that the artist was introduced to Beethoven by a letter written by Dont.[189] He visited Beethoven at Mödling, after receiving permission to make a drawing of him and found him giving a lesson to his nephew on the Broadwood pianoforte. This fact fixes the date of the picture. Though the artist found it impossible to make himself understood unless he wrote his words or spoke them into an ear-trumpet, Beethoven corrected the errors in the lad’s playing, compelled him to repeat passages apparently without difficulty. He grew uneasy after Klöber had worked about three-quarters of an hour and the latter, heeding the advice given by Dont, suspended his work and asked permission to come again on the morrow, since he was living in Mödling. “Then we can meet often,” said Beethoven, “because I do not like to sit long. You must take a good look at Mödling, for it is very beautiful here, and, as an artist, you must be a lover of nature.” Klöber met him often in his promenades and saw him suspend his work at intervals, stand as if listening and make notes on music paper which he carried about with him. When Beethoven saw the picture he was pleased with the treatment of the hair; the artists had hitherto always made him look too well groomed. Klöber’s description of the composer as he saw him was this:

Klöber’s original painting has disappeared. It was a full-length portrait with a bit of Mödling landscape as a background. The nephew Karl was included, reposing under a tree. The composer was depicted with note-book and pencil. The head only was reproduced in a lithograph in Klöber’s atelier, and has been widely copied.

We now reach an incident in the story of Beethoven’s life concerning which much has been written from the biased and frequently erroneous, because uninformed or ill-informed, point of view adopted by Schindler and which it becomes a duty to rectify not only so that the picture of Beethoven as he was may be kept true, but that the better motives and impulses which prompted the woman whom he so cordially and no doubt justly detested be placed in their proper light also. There is nothing in the narrative which brings reproach upon Beethoven so far as his high sense of duty and disinterested affection for his nephew is concerned—an affection which was as little weakened by the self-sacrifice which it entailed as it was balked by the conduct of his ward and the frequently unwarranted means employed by his mother to acquire possession of the lad and the right to superintend his physical, mental and moral training; but the rights of a woman and the honor which a world has always accorded to the strongest, noblest, divinest instinct of woman—maternal love—were also at stake. The mother of Karl, though she had been convicted and punished for adultery at an earlier period, and though she might not have proved a safe mentor for her son, was yet a mother, his mother. That fact Beethoven was willing, in the long letter to Madame Streicher in which he set forth the wicked acts of his servants, to recognize as palliating the conduct of the boy; but he could not bring himself to recognize that it might also palliate if it did not justify the steps which his harshness compelled a mother to take to gratify the need implanted in her by nature. Johanna van Beethoven is at least entitled to the same hearing at the bar of posterity that she received in the tribunals of her day, and it is the duty of Beethoven’s biographer to strip the story of the quarrel between her and her brother-in-law of the romantic excrescences which many writers have fastened upon it. In this narrative the truth will be told, perhaps for the first time, as it is disclosed by the documents, the evidence and the judicial decrees in the case. To set forth these documents in full in the body of the text would call for the sacrifice of much space and sadly interrupt the story; what is essential in them will be given literally, or in outline, whenever it becomes necessary.[190]

After his dismissal from the class of the parish priest at Mödling, Karl van Beethoven was placed in the hands of a private tutor to be prepared for admission to one of the public schools of Vienna—no doubt that known as the Academic Gymnasium. To enter this school the boy had to pass an examination, and for this purpose Beethoven brought him to Vienna about the middle of August. Madame van Beethoven was now determined to wrest from her brother-in-law the authority, which was his as sole guardian, to keep the boy in his care and to direct his training. She took to her aid Jacob Hotschevar, a Hofconcipist (clerk or scrivener in the government service), and petitioned the Landrecht of Lower Austria to take from Beethoven the authority to direct the future training of his ward. The Landrecht was a tribunal with jurisdiction in litigations and other matters affecting the nobility. Acting on the assumption that the Dutch “van,” like the German “von,” was a badge of noble birth, it had listened to Beethoven’s plea and appointed him sole guardian of his nephew, removing the widow from the joint guardianship directed in the will of the boy’s father on the score of her immorality, as we already know. The proceedings were begun in September and were dismissed, as the records show, on the 18th of that month. Three days later, that is, on September 21, she applied to the court again, this time for permission to place her son in the Royal Imperial Convict, where he would have board, lodging and instruction. She and Beethoven as “co-guardian” were commanded to appear in court on September 23, and the latter was directed to bring the report of the lad’s examination with him. There was a postponement of the hearing till September 30, and on October 3d the widow’s application was rejected. Thus far victory had gone to Beethoven.

The postponement of the hearing was had in great likelihood to enable Beethoven to change his residence from Mödling to the city. At any rate, Karl is a public school scholar on November 6th, as Fanny Giannatasio records in her diary on that day together with the fact that her father had met Beethoven, who had shortly before returned from the country. That the boy was in the third grammar class and remained there during the months of November and December, receiving also instruction in pianoforte playing, French and drawing from a private teacher, is known from the court proceedings which were held later. The lad made good progress in his studies, all seemed well and something of the old cordial relations seemed again to be established between Beethoven and the Giannatasios. They provided him with a housekeeper and on one day in November he spent three hours with the family. Fanny writes:

Before long Beethoven is at the Giannatasio house again and becomes interested in the singing of the sisters, singing with them, which produced a comical effect, as he seldom was in tune, but helping them to give the correct expression to the music. Fanny now deplores that their childish timidity had so long deprived them of such a pleasure, which would now perhaps be of short duration, since he had received a second invitation to England. This entry bears date November 20. Within a fortnight the diary chronicles the severest trial that the boy had yet caused his uncle: he ran away from home and sought a haven with his mother. The sympathetic young woman wrote later:

“One day B. came in great excitement and sought counsel and help from my father, saying that Karl had run away! I recall that on this occasion amid our expressions of sympathy he cried out tearfully: ‘He is ashamed of me!’” The incident is recorded in her diary under date of December 5; it occurred, apparently two days before. The diarist’s entry is as follows:

We learn the probable reason for the lad’s truancy from Beethoven’s statement at the examination in court on December 11th. Two letters written by his housekeeper to Fanny Giannatasio, and one written by the latter, had fallen into Beethoven’s hands and from them he had learned of certain delinquencies with which he then confronted his nephew. But let us call Beethoven himself to the witness stand; his recital will give more vitality to the history than any statement of a historian writing nearly a century later. We quote from the minutes of the Landrecht:

In listening to these words from Beethoven on the witness stand we have stretched the thread of our story; for this testimony was given in court on December 11th, and the second attempt of the widowed mother to get control of her son had been foiled by the decision on October 3rd. It was therefore a new case which the court had under consideration when Beethoven made the above utterances. This third application on the part of the mother was filed on December 7, and grew out of the runaway prank of Karl and her fear of what might be its consequences. In her petition she set forth the fact that her son had left the home of his uncle and guardian without her knowledge, that he had been taken back by the police, and that “as, to judge by his actions, Ludwig van Beethoven was willing to send her son away from Vienna, perhaps into foreign lands,” she asked that he be restrained from doing so, and she renewed her request that she be permitted to send her son to the Royal Imperial Convict for keep and education.

Hotschevar supported this petition in a document like a modern law brief, explaining his interest in the matter on the grounds that his wife was a stepsister of Madame van Beethoven’s deceased mother, that the law permitted such an act in all cases where human rights were concerned and that he, having had experience for several years as instructor in the houses of the aristocracy, could not be blamed if he put the knowledge of pedagogics and psychology thus acquired at the service of a lad to whom he bore a family relationship and brought to the attention of the supreme guardian matters which it (the Landrecht) could not possibly know concerning its wards unless proceedings were brought before it. He admitted that Madame van Beethoven had years before been guilty of a moral delinquency for which she had been punished, but asserted her right to a standing in court; he then contended: (1) that the mother had illegally been denied all influence over her son partly with, partly without the knowledge of the court, and (2) that her son could not remain under the sole influence of his uncle and guardian without danger of suffering physical and moral ruin. In support of these contentions he recited that the brothers van Beethoven were eccentric men, so often at odds with each other that they might better be called enemies than friends, Karl van Beethoven being pleasantly disposed toward his brother only when he was in need of money from him, and that the suspicion lay near that the boy had been an object of traffic between them, inasmuch as an agreement touching the payment of 1,500 florins had been made only on condition that Ludwig van Beethoven surrender a document which appointed him guardian. Karl van Beethoven, moreover, knowing the animosity which his brother felt towards his wife, had in a codicil to his will expressly said that he did not want Ludwig van Beethoven to be sole guardian of his son but joint guardian with the mother, and had, for the sake of the boy, admonished more compliancy on the part of the mother and more moderation on that of the brother. Although the Court had deprived the mother of the guardianship over her son, it had granted permission to her to visit him; but this privilege had been withheld from her. The statement of the village priest Fröhlich (which has already been given in these pages) was appended to the widow’s application as evidence of the physical and moral degeneration of the boy, and for himself Hotschevar says that he had observed after the boy had run away from his uncle that his hands and feet were frostbitten, that he had no seasonable clothing and that his linen and baths had been neglected. The priest’s statement was also appealed to to show that the boy had been led into unfilial conduct, indifference toward religion, hypocrisy, untruthfulness and even theft against his guardian—in short, was in danger of becoming a menace to society. He willingly granted Beethoven’s readiness and desire to care for his ward, but maintained that his hatred of the mother, his passionate disposition inflamed by the talebearing of others (once naming Giannatasio), made it difficult for him to employ the proper means. Conceding Beethoven’s magnanimity, he yet urged that in view of the danger in which the lad was, he ought to forgo the guardianship or associate with himself either the mother or some other capable person, it appearing from the facts in the case that he was “physically and morally unfit” for the post.

Madame van Beethoven’s deposition, apparently filed as appendix to Hotschevar’s brief (like that of Fröhlich), alleges that a letter of Giannatasio’s dated March 8, 1816, showed that she had to forgo her desire to visit her son or satisfy it once a month and then “like a thief.” After Beethoven took the boy, and especially after his removal to Mödling, she was not permitted to see him at all. She had been assured that her son would be admitted to the Convict, but his testimonials had been withheld from her and so she had been unable to file them with her application for a scholarship. His expenses were 750 florins per year for board, lodging, clothes, books, medicines, etc., to pay which 2,000 florins had been deposited in Court and yielded 100 florins interest per annum. She had pledged herself to give one-half of her pension of 333 florins, 20, that is 116 florins, 40 kreutzers towards his education. This amounted to 380 florins W. W., including the interest on the deposit; and she would gladly pay the difference between this sum and 750 florins until she should get the promised scholarship for her son. On December 11, the widow appealed to the court that in case the guardian of her son should make application touching plans for his future training it be not granted without giving her a hearing. This was the day when Beethoven, who had brought Joseph Carl Bernard with him, no doubt to protect him in his deafness, gave the testimony already set forth. The nephew had been examined before him:

The testimony of the widow, like that of her son, was taken before Beethoven had been examined and the answer to the final question, no doubt, raised a doubt in the mind of the court touching its jurisdiction; hence the question concerning his birth put to Beethoven. His answer that “van” was a Dutch predicate not confined to the nobility and that he had no proof of noble birth, is all that the minutes of the court show bearing on this question. It led to the Landrecht’s sending the proceedings to the Vienna Magistracy on December 18; this action cut Beethoven to the quick, but the record as here produced also gives a blow, perhaps a fatal one, to one of the pretty romances to which a statement of Schindler’s gave currency. The world knows the story: Doubt having arisen in the mind of the court touching Beethoven’s nobility, he was called upon to produce documentary proof. “At the appointed time he appeared before the tribunal in person and exclaimed: ‘My nobility is here and here,’ pointing to his head and his heart.” But the court would not accept the proof. It is a pity to lose the story, but it must be relegated to the limbo of fiction unless it shall appear that Beethoven made the remark and the clerk refused to record it; and who shall now prove this? Schindler’s insinuation that the reference of the case to the Magistracy had been planned as a move by the widow’s advocate to get the case into a more pliant tribunal is made questionable by the circumstances that it was she who insisted upon the noble birth of the Beethovens and Beethoven who gave the claim a quietus by his straightforward and incontestable answer. It remains a mystery, if she spoke the truth when she said that proof of nobility had been demanded at the probate of the will of her husband, how the case ever got into the Landrecht. As a matter of fact, it deserves to be mentioned, however, that, as later events showed, the lower court espoused the cause of Madame van Beethoven with something like the zeal of an advocate.

Schindler’s comments on the effect of the reference of the case to the Civic Magistrates demand a moment’s attention. Schindler says:

It is also certain that Schindler was not as well informed as he ought to have been in the premises and that his memory often left him in the lurch, as we have frequently seen already and shall see again. Not exact knowledge but an amiable bias in favor of his hero speaks out of his recital. It is scarcely conceivable that Beethoven should have cherished the thought that possibly he was of noble birth or that he seriously encouraged such a belief among his exalted friends.

The nephew’s stay at Giannatasio’s was not of long duration and the signs of an imminent disruption of a beautiful and profitable friendship soon showed themselves, though for the nonce amiable relations between Beethoven and the Giannatasio family were continued. Yet Fanny saw her lovely illusions melting away. It had been agreed that Karl should not associate with the other pupils at the institute. Willing, perhaps desirous at first, that such an arrangement should be made, it seems that Beethoven felt his amour propre hurt by it as soon as the first fit of resentment against the lad gave way before one of his tender moods; now there ensued one of the old fits of moroseness, dissatisfaction and suspicion. He wrote to Giannatasio that Karl’s room should be better heated—that he had never had frostbitten hands and feet when living with him;[192] moreover, too much importance was being attached to his act, and the consequences to the delinquent were being carried too far. In her diary under date December 14, Fanny deplores that Beethoven’s moodiness, and weakness for the lad, had taken possession of him again and induced him to believe “the liar” rather than his tried friends; she concludes with the lamentation that it will never be possible to gain Beethoven’s entire confidence; she has grievous forebodings as to the outcome.

Let the rest of the year’s history be devoted to Beethoven’s creative work. Considering the revival of interest and desire on the part of the composer, the net result, measured by finished products, was not as large as might have been expected. Two explanations for this circumstances may be offered: the first lies in his domestic miseries and the frame of mind in which they kept him for long stretches at a time—that is obvious; the second may be read in his compositions. He was growing more and more prone to reflection, to moody speculation; his mental processes, if not slower than before, were more protracted, and also more profound, and they were occupied with works of tremendous magnitude. The year produced sketches and partial developments of the Sonata in B-flat, the Symphony in D minor and the great Mass in D. The Sonata, so two sketchbooks carefully analyzed by Nottebohm show, was begun in 1817, and occupied much of the composer’s time during the summer of 1818, notes showing that he worked upon it in his walks about Mödling and in the Brühl valley. Notes of an announcement of a sale of carriages and of a house for rent, taken from a Vienna newspaper (probably in some inn), show that his thoughts were on the London visit and another of his frequent changes of residence. In April the Sonata was so far advanced that he could write to Archduke Rudolph that on his name-day (April 17) he had written out the first two movements in a fair copy, but this does not necessarily mean that the pieces had received their definitive shape. Among the sketches for the last movement there is an outline for a pianoforte piece in B-flat which, according to an inscription upon the autograph, was composed on the afternoon of August 14.[193] Plainly he was already at work on the finale before the end of 1818, and there is no reason for questioning Schindler’s correctness when he says that the Sonata was finished late in the fall when he took up the “Missa Solemnis.” Czerny played it in Beethoven’s presence in the spring of 1819, and it was in London ready for the engraver in April of that year.

Nottebohm, believing that the letter in which Beethoven informed the Archduke that he had written out the first two movements on his name-day could not refer to April 17, 1818, placed both incident and letter in the year following.[194] But, as has been said, it does not at all follow from Beethoven’s remark that the two movements were in a finished state;[195] the reference may have gone only to the first elaboration of the sketches. The “latest happening” to the Archduke was, probably, his elevation to the archbishopric of Olmütz, which occurred on June 4, 1819; but this was merely the formal execution of a purpose which had long been known in anticipation. Nottebohm’s contention for the name-day of 1819, is untenable for the reason that on April 17 of that year the Sonata had been so long in London that, as Ries says, it was already engraved when he received a note dated April 16, 1819, giving metronomic indications for all the movements and prefixing the Adagio with its present first measure.[196] This note must have been preceded by the one erroneously dated April 30; erroneously, because it promises the metronome marks; and this letter again by a still earlier one, mentioning the Sonata as ready for publication. This letter, which Ries does not even mention, is as follows:[197]

The letters printed in the “Notizen” ought to be read in connection with this; we give the first and refer the reader to Ries, or the collections, for the others:

The Sonata was sold to Artaria in Vienna for 100 ducats. The publisher sent the proofs to Beethoven on July 24, and announced it as “marking a new period in Beethoven’s pianoforte works” in the “Wiener Zeitung” of September 15, 1819. It appeared under the title: “Grosse Sonate für das Hammerklavier Seiner Kais. Königl. Hoheit und Eminenz, dem Durchlauchtigsten Hochwürdigsten Herrn Erzherzog Rudolph von Österreich Cardinal und Erzbischoff von Olmütz, etc., etc., etc., in tiefster Ehrfurcht gewidmet von Ludwig van Beethoven, Op. 106.” Soon after its publication (on October 1st), Beethoven in a jocose letter asked for six copies of the Sonata and six of the Variations on Scottish Songs. Beethoven informed Ries of the publication in a letter printed in the “Notizen” and wanted to send him a copy to aid him in correcting the English edition, which was not ready. The Sonata Op. 106 was, therefore, the chief product of the year 1818. Beethoven told Czerny that it was to be his greatest; and so it is, not only in its dimensions but also in its contents. “The Sonata was composed under distressful circumstances,” said Beethoven in a letter to Ries (April 19, 1819), “for it is hard to write almost for the sake of bread alone, and to this pass I have come.”

Simultaneously with the Sonata, Beethoven was at work on the Ninth Symphony during a large portion of the year, but these labors were suspended when his mind became engrossed with the great Mass which was to be a tribute to his pupil, Archduke Rudolph, about to be invested with eminent ecclesiastical dignities. Not alone the Ninth Symphony, a Tenth also was before his fancy, but with neither of them had Schiller’s “Ode to Joy” been brought into association, though the employment of the human voice in one or the other was already under consideration. Schindler records that he saw a beginning made on the score of the Mass in D “late in the fall of 1818”; how far he had proceeded in the work by the end of the year cannot be determined from the sketches which have been discovered up to the present time. It is safe to assume, however, that the Kyrie was fully sketched and fixed in outline, and, as he worked pretty continuously on the Credo throughout 1819, it seems likely that the Gloria had also been begun in the year immediately preceding. Notes in the Tagebuch and sketchbooks which, to judge by their context, were written during the summer sojourn in Mödling show the trend of Beethoven’s thoughts on religious subjects and may be naturally associated with the Mass. Thus (in the Tagebuch):

Among the sketches for the Sonata in B-flat are memoranda of vocal pieces which came into his mind during his wanderings in the environs of Mödling. Goethe’s “Haidenröslein,” to which his mind several times turned, occupied him again. His spiritual exaltation finds expression in fragments which he notes as “written while walking in the evening between and on the mountains,” among them this:

Gott allein ist unser Herr. Er allein
(God alone is God our Lord. He alone)

The remark made in the letter to Hauschka that he was compelled to do a lot of scribbling (or “smearing,” as he expressed it) for the sake of money in order to procure leisure for great works may be explained by the fact that he was engaged upon the arrangement of folksongs for Thomson, which were published in Thomson’s Vol. VI, as well, possibly, as those contained in the subsequent octavo edition of 1822-24. The pianoforte piece in B-flat, published by Schlesinger in Berlin under the title “Dernière pensée musicale,” of which mention has already been made, was no doubt a potboiler. With the folksongs must be associated the Variations for Pianoforte alone, or Pianoforte and Flute (or Violin), which he wrote in this and the following year and which were published as Op. 105 and 107. The suggestion had come from Birchall; but Beethoven’s demands for an honorarium was thought too large by the English publisher, and though Beethoven modified them, nothing came of the project at the time. On February 21, 1818, Beethoven offered Thomson twelve “overtures” (in the sense of introductions, or preludes, no doubt) for 140 ducats, and twelve Themes and Variations for 100 ducats, both lots for 224 ducats. The Themes and Variations were accepted and published by Thomson. Beethoven composed sixteen Themes and Variations on folksong material in all; six of them were published by Artaria in Vienna (Op. 105) and the other ten by Simrock in Bonn (Op. 107).

Little is to be added to what has been said about the works published in 1818. Thomson’s Vol. V, the settings for which had been made earlier, was published on June 1, Thomson’s announcement in the preface reading: “On the first of June, 1818, was published by George Thomson, Nr. 3, Royal Exchange, Edinburgh, and by T. Preston, 97 Strand, London, the fifth Volume of Select Scottish Melodies with Symphonies and Accompaniments to each Melody for the Pianoforte, Violin and Violoncello, composed by Haydn and Beethoven.” Four of the settings are by Haydn; the rest by Beethoven. The song “Resignation” was published on March 31, as supplement of the Vienna “Modezeitung.”

End of Volume II

Page headers in the original text have been moved above the paragraph to which they relate.

All instances of "i.e." have been regularised to "i. e.".

The following printing errors have been corrected:

• p. 5 "he “doubled" changed to "he doubled"
• p. 6 "performance." changed to "performance.”"
• p. 26 "that that this" changed to "that this"
• p. 30 "difficult one. Beethoven violently" changed to "difficult one, Beethoven violently"
• p. 35 "and the begining" changed to "and the beginning"
• p. 54 the paragraph beginning "Many years after" was indented
• p. 76 "you were!”" changed to "you were!””"
• p. 103 "prefer me?" changed to "prefer me?”"
• p. 123 "in the “house" changed to "in the house"
• p. 153 "much easier.”" changed to "much easier.’”"
• p. 161 "“Weinmonath”" changed to "“Weinmonath"
• p. 171 "diastrous" changed to "disastrous"
• p. 174 "From Zmeskall’s lodgings" changed to "From Beethoven’s lodgings"
• p. 215 "out of place" changed to "out of place."
• p. 219 "acquaintaince" changed to "acquaintance"
• p. 226 "romatic" changed to "romantic"
• p. 227 "you good.”" changed to "you good.””"
• p. 231 "similiar" changed to "similar"
• p. 262 "Zukünft" changed to "Zukunft"
• p. 266 "Gründer" changed to "Gründer”"
• p. 290 "inprovised" changed to "improvised"
• p. 296 "etc.," changed to "etc."
• p. 296 "This seems" changed to "“This seems"
• p. 302 "III “Fidelio”" changed to "III. “Fidelio”"
• p. 313 "in C major" changed to "in C major."
• p. 325 "Farwell" changed to "Farewell"
• p. 327 "passively" changed to "passively."
• p. 342 "out attention" changed to "our attention"
• p. 366 "disatisfaction" changed to "dissatisfaction"
• p. 381 (note) "Zurich" changed to "Zürich"
• p. 383 "wereoften" changed to "were often"
• p. 389 "was compossed" changed to "was composed"
• p. 398 "setted" changed to "settled"
• p. 412 "two movenents" changed to "two movements"

The following possible errors have not been changed:

• p. vii "Disappointing Decrease" and p. 170 "Decrease"
• p. 3 "at both: and in this wise:"
• p. 6 and p. 267 "Tremate, empj, tremate"
• p. 151 (note) "Neverthless"
• p. 273 "“urged its completion" has no closing quotation mark
• p. 291 "you up came"
• p. 341 "how how right"
• p. 353 "xThe present"
• p. 415 "was thought"

The text uses the following inconsistently:

• Carl and Karl
• contrabass and contra-bass
• Kozeluch and Koželuch
• Les Ruines de Babylon and Les ruines de Babilone
• nameday and name-day
• P.P. and P. P.
• pianoforte and piano-forte

In addition, there are many inconsistencies in spelling and punctuation in quotations, which have not been changed.

Grätz and Gratz are different names.