Beethoven: A Memoir Part 12

"LUDWIG."

"_Monday evening, 6th July._

"Thou grievest--thou--the dearest of all beings!--I have just learned that the letters must be sent off very early. Mondays and Thursdays are the only days on which the post goes to K---.--Thou grievest! Ah! where I am, there thou art with me--with our united efforts I shall attain my object--I shall pa.s.s my life with thee--what a life!!! whereas now!!! without thee--persecuted at times by the kindness of others, a kindness which I neither deserve nor wish to deserve. Servility from man to his fellow-creature pains me; and, when I consider myself in relation to the universe, what am I? what is he who is called the greatest? and yet even here is displayed the Divine in man!--I weep when I think that thou wilt probably receive no tidings of me before Sat.u.r.day. However much thou mayest love me, I love thee more fervently still--never hide thy feelings from me.--Good night! as a patient here I must now go to rest. Ah, G.o.d! so near!--so far apart! is not our love a true celestial mansion, enduring as the vault of heaven itself!"

"_7th July._

"Good morning!

"Even before I rise my thoughts throng to thee, my immortal beloved, at times with joy, then again mournfully, waiting to hear if fate be favourable to us. I can only live entirely with thee, or not at all.

Yes! I am resolved to wander apart from thee until the moment shall arrive when I may fly into thine arms, may feel my home in thee, and send my soul encompa.s.sed by thine into the world of spirits. Yes, alas! it must be so! Thou wilt be prepared, for thou knowest my faithfulness. Never can another possess my heart; never, never. Oh G.o.d! why must I fly from what is so dear to me?--and yet my life in V---- is, as at present, a sorrowful one. Thy love made me at once the happiest and the most miserable of men. At my age I require a uniformity, an evenness of life; and can this be possible in our relations?--Angel! I have just heard that the post goes out every day; and must stop that thou mayest receive this letter soon.--Be calm; only by calmly viewing our existence can we attain our aim of pa.s.sing our lives together. Be calm; love me--to-day--yesterday--what longing, what tears for thee--for thee--for thee--my Life! my All! Farewell! Oh! continue to love me--never misjudge the faithful heart of thy lover.

L.

"Ever thine,

"Ever mine,

"Ever each other's."

It was indeed the case that no other love ever did "possess his heart"

in the same way. This was, if not his first, at least his only _real_ love. Such letters as these Beethoven wrote to no one else; the contrast between them and the three following (addressed to Bettina Brentano, afterwards Madame von Arnim) will be at once apparent:--

"_Vienna, August 11, 1810._

"DEAREST FRIEND,--Never has there been a more beautiful spring than this year; I say so, and feel it too, because in it I first made your acquaintance. You have yourself seen that in society I am like a fish on the sand, which writhes, and writhes, and cannot get off until some benevolent Galatea throws it back into the mighty ocean.

I was, indeed, quite out of my element, dearest friend, and was surprised by you at a time when discouragement had completely mastered me--but how quickly it vanished at your glance! I knew at once that you must be from some other sphere than this absurd world, in which, with the best will, one cannot open one's ears. I am a miserable being, and yet I complain of others!!--But you will forgive me for this with that good heart which looks out of your eyes, and that intelligence which is hidden in your ears,--at least they know how to flatter by the way in which they listen.

"My ears are, alas! a part.i.tion wall through which I cannot easily have any friendly intercourse with men. Otherwise!--perhaps!--I should have felt more a.s.sured with you; but I could only understand the full, intelligent glance of your eyes, which has so taken hold of me, that I shall never forget it. Dear friend, dearest girl!--Art! who understands her? with whom can I discuss this great G.o.ddess?... How dear to me are the few days in which we chatted together, or, I should say, rather corresponded! I have preserved all the little notes with your witty, charming, most charming answers, and so I have to thank my defective hearing that the best part of those hasty conversations is written down. Since you left I have had vexatious hours--hours of shadow in which I can do nothing.

I wandered in the Schonbrunn Allee for about three hours after you left, but no angel met me who could have taken possession of me as you did, _my Angel_.

"Pardon, dearest friend, this deviation from the original key, but such intervals I must have as a relief to my heart. So you have written about me to Goethe, have you not? I could bury my head in a sack, so that I might not hear or see anything of all that is going on in the world, because I shall not meet you again, dearest angel, but I shall receive a letter from you soon. Hope sustains me, as she does half the world; through all my life she has been my companion.

What would otherwise have become of me?--I send you 'Kennst du das Land,' written with my own hand, as a remembrance of the hour in which I first knew you. I send you also another, which I have composed since I took leave of you; my dearest _Herz_!"

Herz, mein Herz, was soll das geben, Was bedranget dich so sehr; Welch ein neues, fremdes Leben, Ich erkenne dich nicht mehr.

"Answer me at once, dearest friend; write and tell me what is to become of me since my heart has turned such a rebel. Write to your most faithful friend,

"BEETHOVEN."

"_Vienna, 10th February, 1811._

"DEAR, BELOVED FRIEND,--I have already had two letters from you, and see from those to Tonie that you still remember me, and even too kindly. Your first letter I carried about with me the whole summer, and it has often made me very happy. Although I do not write to you frequently, and you see nothing at all of me, yet in thought I write you a thousand times a thousand letters. How you must feel in Berlin amongst all the frivolous, worldly rabble, I could imagine, even though you had not written it to me yourself,--mere prating about Art without any results!! The best description of this is to be found in Schiller's poem, 'The River,' in which the Spree speaks.--You are about to be married, dear friend, or are so already, and I have not been able to see you even once previously.

May all the felicity with which marriage blesses those who enter into her bonds be poured upon you and your husband! What shall I say to you about myself? I can only exclaim with Johanna, 'Compa.s.sionate my fate!' If I am but spared for a few years longer, I will thank Him who embraces all within Himself--the Most High--for this as well as for all other weal and woe.--If you should mention me when writing to Goethe, strive to find all those words which can express to him my deepest reverence and admiration. I am just about to write to him myself regarding 'Egmont,' to which I have composed the music, solely out of love for his poetry, which always makes me happy;--but who can sufficiently thank a Poet, the most precious jewel of a Nation! Now no more, my dear, good friend. I only returned this morning from a _Baccha.n.a.le_ where I laughed too heartily, only to weep nearly as much to-day; boisterous joy often drives me violently back upon myself. As to Clemens, many thanks for his courtesy; with regard to the Cantata, the subject is not important enough for us, it is very different in Berlin. As for my affection, the sister has so large a share of it that not much is left for the brother--will he be content with this? Now farewell, dear, dear friend. I imprint a sorrowful kiss upon your forehead, thus impressing, as with a seal, all my thoughts upon it. Write soon, soon, often, to your Brother,

"BEETHOVEN."

"_Toeplitz, 15th August, 1812._

"MY MOST DEAR, KIND FRIEND,--Kings and princes may indeed be able to create professors and privy councillors, and to bestow t.i.tles and decorations, but great men they cannot make. Spirits that tower above the common herd, these they cannot pretend to make, and therefore they are forced to respect them. When two men like Goethe and myself come together, these grandees must perceive what is accounted great by such as we.

"On our way home yesterday we met the whole imperial family; we saw them coming in the distance, when Goethe immediately dropped my arm to place himself on one side; and say what I would, I could not get him to advance another step. I pressed my hat down upon my head, b.u.t.toned up my great-coat, and made my way with folded arms through the thickest of the throng. Princes and courtiers formed a line, Duke Rudolph took off his hat, the Empress made the first salutation. The great ones of the earth _know me_! To my infinite amus.e.m.e.nt, I saw the procession file past Goethe, who stood by the side, hat in hand, bending low. I took him to task for it pretty smartly, gave him no quarter, and reproached him with all his sins, especially those against you, dearest friend, for we had just been speaking about you. Heavens! had I been granted a time with you such as _he_ had, I should have produced many more great works! A musician is also a poet, and can feel himself transported by a pair of eyes into a more beautiful world, where n.o.bler spirits sport with him, and impose great tasks upon him. What ideas rushed into my mind when I first saw you in the little observatory during that glorious May shower, which proved so fertilizing to me also! The loveliest themes stole from your glances into my heart,--themes which shall enchant the world when Beethoven can no longer direct. If G.o.d grant me a few years more, I must see you again, my dearest friend; the voice which ever upholds the right within me demands it. Spirits can also love one another; I shall ever woo yours; your applause is dearer to me than aught else in the world. I told Goethe my opinion of the effect of applause upon men like us--we must be heard with intelligence by our peers; emotion is very well for women (pardon me), but music ought to strike fire from the souls of men. Ah!

dearest child, how long is it since we were both so perfectly agreed upon all points! There is no real good but the possession of a pure, good soul, which we perceive in everything, and before which we have no need to dissemble. _We must be something if we would appear something._ The world must recognise us, it is not always unjust; but this is a light matter to me, for I have a loftier aim.

"In Vienna I hope for a letter from you; write soon, soon and fully; in eight days I shall be there. The court goes to-morrow; to-day they are to play once more. Goethe has taught the Empress her _role_. His duke and he wished me to play some of my own music, but I refused them both, for they are both in love with Chinese porcelain. A little indulgence is necessary, for understanding seems to have lost the upper hand; but I will not play for such perverse tastes, neither do I choose to be a party to the follies of princes who are for ever committing some such absurdity. Adieu, adieu, dear love; your last letter lay for a whole night next to my heart, and cheered me there. Musicians allow themselves everything.

Heavens! how I love you!

"Your most faithful friend and deaf brother,

"BEETHOVEN."

These letters were first published in Bettina's book, "Ilius Pamphilius und die Ambrosia," but the style is so unlike Beethoven's simple mode of expression, that it is difficult to discover what the composer really wrote to Bettina, and what has been supplied by the latter's rather too vivid imagination. The reiterated _dear_, _dearest_, and the _write soon_, _soon_, _often_, are very feminine and very _un-Beethovenish_.

This strange, inexplicable little being, who fascinated not only Beethoven, but every one else with whom she came in contact, has also published an account of her interviews with Beethoven. This is so highly coloured that we may be excused for doubting the perfect truth of the recital, especially as we know what a gloss--nay, what falseness--she contrived to give to all that related to her intercourse with Goethe.

She herself tells us, navely enough, that when she showed Beethoven one morning her account of what he had said the previous day, he was quite surprised, and exclaimed, "Did I really say that? I must have had a _raptus_!"

Bettina was, however, of some service to him, as it was doubtless she who paved the way to his acquaintance with Goethe, and their meeting in 1812 at Toeplitz; and her family remained true, warm friends of the composer long after the great minister had forgotten his very existence.

Beethoven was most unfortunate in his attachments, the objects of which were always of much higher social standing than himself. Constantly a.s.sociating with people of rank and culture, it was natural that to the sensitive nature of our poet, the young girl n.o.bly born, with all the intuitive, nameless fascinations of the high-bred aristocrat, should present a great contrast to the plebeian, every-day graces of the _bourgeoise_. Beethoven used to say that he had found more real appreciation of his works amongst the n.o.bility than in any other circle, and we can hardly wonder at the infatuation with which he stakes all his chances of happiness on a love which he knows can never be gratified.

The following little sc.r.a.p in his handwriting has been preserved:--"Only love--yes, only that--has power to give me a happier life. Oh, G.o.d! let me at length find her--her who destined to be mine, who shall strengthen me in virtue!" Schindler imagines that these words have reference to a well-known dilettante of great talent, Fraulein Marie Pachler, whom Beethoven admired exceedingly. He never summoned up courage enough to propose to her however, and she afterwards married an advocate in Gratz.

This lady may also be the subject of the allusion in a letter to Ries, 1816:--"Say all that is kind from me to your wife; I, alas! have none. I found only one with whom I could have been happy, and she will probably never be mine. But I am not on this account a woman-hater!"

Another love of Beethoven's was the Countess Marie Erdody, to whom he dedicated the two splendid Trios, Op. 70, but this seems to have been entirely a Platonic affection.

Who can exaggerate the immense benefit that a loving, tender wife would have been to Beethoven--a wife like Mozart's Constance? The consciousness of one ever by his side to whom he might safely confide all that wounded or annoyed him, would have more than neutralized the chilling, exasperating effects of the calamity that had overtaken him, would have been a fresh impetus to great achievements. But fate had willed it otherwise.

In nothing was the want of a wife so apparent as in Beethoven's domestic _menage_, which certainly was the _non plus ultra_ of discomfort. One great cause of this was his habit of frequently changing his abode. He had long since left the Lichnowski Palace, his infirmity rendering it desirable that he should have a home of his own, but he was extremely difficult to please in the choice of a residence. One house he would leave because the sun did not s.h.i.+ne into his apartment; another because the supply of water was deficient (a serious drawback to him, as he was accustomed to lave his head and face profusely while composing), and for even less cogent reasons he would pack up and leave at an hour's notice, so that it soon became a difficult matter to find a suitable abode for him. It may easily be imagined that this constant removal was not effected without considerable outlay, and so badly did he manage that at one time he had no less than four houses on his hands. When all other resources failed, he would take refuge in the fourth story of his friend Baron Pasqualati's house, which was constantly reserved for him. The summer he always spent in the country, generally in a hired lodging. On one occasion a suite of apartments in the villa of Baron p.r.o.nay had been placed at his disposal, and as the house stood in the midst of a superb park, it was thought that Beethoven would be fully satisfied. In a few days, however, the bird had flown, alleging as his reason that he could not endure to listen to the ceremonious salutation with which his host accosted him every morning in his ramble--much less to return it!

Oulibischeff's amusing description of our composer's surroundings is worth repeating:--

"In his room reigned a confusion, an organized chaos, such as can hardly be imagined. Books and music lay on every article of furniture, or were heaped up like pyramids in the four corners. A mult.i.tude of letters which he had received during the week or the month covered the floor like a white carpet with red spots. On the window-sill were displayed the remains of a succulent breakfast, by the side or on the top of proof sheets awaiting correction. There a row of bottles, partly sealed, partly empty; further on an _escritoire_, and on it the sketch of a quartet; on the pianoforte a flying sheet of note-paper with the embryo of a symphony; while to bring so many directly opposite things into harmony, everything was united by a thick layer of dust.

"It may easily be imagined that amidst such a _well-arranged whole_, the artist had often no small trouble to find what he required. He used to complain bitterly about this, and always put the blame on other people's shoulders, for he fancied that he was extremely systematic in the way in which he kept his things, and used to declare that in the darkest night he could find even a pin belonging to him, if people 'would but put things back in their proper places'!

"On one occasion an important paper was missing--neither a sketch nor a loose sheet, but a thick, clearly copied score from the Ma.s.s in D. At last it was found; but where, think you? In the kitchen, where it had been used to wrap up eatables! More than one _Donnerwetter_! and more than one bad egg must have flown at the head of the devoted cook, when this was discovered; for Beethoven liked fresh eggs too well to use them as missiles.... Once, when he had dismissed his housekeeper, a very good orderly person (and soon received into favour again), he resolved to make himself independent, and to keep no more servants, since they only 'worked mischief in the house.' And why should he not wait upon himself, and look after the kitchen himself? Could it be more difficult to prepare a dinner than to compose a C minor symphony? Charmed with this glorious idea, Beethoven hastens to put it into execution. He invites some friends to dinner, buys the necessary provisions in the market, and carries them home himself; ties on the business-like white ap.r.o.n; adjusts the indispensable nightcap on his head; grasps the cook's knife, and sets to work. The guests arrive, and find him before the fire, whose scorching flame seems to act like the fire of inspiration upon him. The patience of the Viennese appet.i.tes was put to an unwonted trial. At length the dishes were placed on the table, and the host proved that it was worth while waiting for him. The soup might have challenged the _soupe maigre_ given in charity; the boiled meat, scarcely cooked, presupposed in individuals of the human race the digestion of an ostrich; the vegetables swam in a sea of fat and water; the roast meat, splendidly burned to a cinder, looked as though it had found its way down the chimney; in short, nothing was fit to eat. And n.o.body did eat anything except the host, who by word and example encouraged his guests to fall to. In vain; Beethoven's _chefs-d'oeuvre_ of cookery were not appreciated, and the guests made their dinner on bread, fruit, and sweetmeats, adding plenty of wine to prevent any bad effects from their enforced abstinence. This remarkable feast convinced even the great Maestro that composing and cooking are two very different things, and the unjustly deposed cook was speedily re-established in her rights."

It was very fortunate for Beethoven that after some years pa.s.sed in this erratic way, a sensible lady-friend at length came to the rescue, and by her feminine tact and adroitness, succeeded in persuading him to abandon his nomadic habits to some extent, and to mingle a little more in society. This was Frau Nanette Streicher, the amiable wife of the celebrated instrument maker, and early friend of Schiller. She began by putting the wardrobe of the composer to rights (as might be imagined, it was in a deplorable plight), and afterwards, in conjunction with her husband, hired a respectable house for Beethoven, furnished it suitably, and engaged a man (a tailor by trade) and his wife to wait upon him. In this quiet haven our tempest-tossed Beethoven came to anchor for a while, and might have been seen busy over his pianoforte, or among his papers, while his cross-legged knight of the Goose st.i.tched away comfortably in the adjoining anteroom.

When fairly domiciled, Beethoven's mode of life was very regular. His habit was to rise every morning, winter and summer, at daybreak, when he at once proceeded to his desk, where he wrote till about two o'clock without any interruption, except the necessary interval for breakfast, and--if his ideas did not flow rapidly enough--an occasional run of half an hour or longer into the open air. Between two and three he dined, after which it was his invariable custom to make the circuit of the town twice or three times; and no weather could keep him within doors--summer heat or winter frost, thunder, hail, rain, sleet,--nothing prevented this afternoon ramble. It was, in fact, his time for composition; he never ventured out without his note-book to preserve any fugitive thoughts that might flit across his mind, and used laughingly to apply to himself Johanna's words, "I dare not come without my banner!" Necessarily, therefore, he was a very silent companion, but in _one_ sense only, as the whole way he continued humming (or rather growling) in a manner peculiar to himself any thema on which he was mentally at work. Ries relates that on one occasion when they were walking together, Beethoven suddenly exclaimed, "A theme has occurred to me!" They hurried onwards in silence, and on arriving at home the master went at once to the pianoforte (without even removing his hat), where he thundered like an inspired giant for more than an hour, during which the beautiful finale to the Sonata Op. 54 (in F major) struggled into existence.

Beethoven generally returned from his promenade only when warned by the shadows that evening was coming on; then alone in the darkening twilight he loved to breathe to his best, his only friend, his _Clavier_,[31] the thoughts which met with no response in human sympathy. During the evening he very seldom worked, but would smoke his pipe, and play occasionally on his viola or violin, both of which must always be placed ready for him on the pianoforte.

Our poor deaf Beethoven had, too, his little coterie of sincere and attached friends, among whom his real nature could show itself without restraint or distrust, and who clung to him through life in spite of the unceasing efforts of the two brothers to dislodge them. These were--naturally Prince Lichnowski and his brother Count Moritz, who cherished a love and admiration for Beethoven which the latter warmly reciprocated, dedicating to the Count his Variations, Op. 35, and the beautiful Idyl, Op. 90. To these must be added the worthy Baron von Zmeskall, a Hungarian State Secretary, to whom the composer addressed many a humorous epistle; his old friend Stephan Breuning; the Baron von Gleichenstein; his secretary Schindler; and last, but not least, Franz, Count von Brunswick, to whom he dedicated the Sonata Appa.s.sionata, and who had more influence over him than anybody else.