was not prepossessing. 'He was meanly dressed, and very ugly to look
at,' wrote a lady who knew and admired him, 'but full of nobility and
fine feeling, and highly cultivated.' It must have been difficult to
describe a face which was subject to such frequent changes of
expression, but its forcefulness must have been apparent to every
beholder. The eyes were black and bright, and they had a way of
dilating when the composer was buried in thought so as to impart to
his face an expression of being inspired. Gloomily abstracted as he
would be at times, when possessed by some absorbing train of ideas,
nothing could have been more cordial or more winning than the smile
which lighted up his face at the sight of a friend. With a mass of
dark hair surmounting a high and broad forehead, and the quick,
penetrative glance which shot from beneath the large overhanging
eyebrows, Beethoven's face must have struck the observer with a sense
of its strong individuality. Nevertheless, only a few of the portraits
have succeeded in conveying a true likeness of the man who was so
unlike every one else. His hands were hairy, and the fingers 'strong
and short, and pressed out with long practising.' He was very
particular about the position of his hands when playing, and as a rule
he kept his body quite still. When conducting, however, his movements
were constant and curious. At a _pianissimo_ passage 'he would crouch
down so as to be hidden by the desk, and then, as the _crescendo_
increased, would gradually rise, beating all the time, until at the
_fortissimo_ he would spring into the air with his arms extended, as
if wishing to float on the clouds.'[19]
It was one of the most striking of Beethoven's characteristics that he
dearly loved a joke. Ever since the time when he played off the rather
unkind joke on the singer Heller the passion for joking had grown upon
him to such an extent that evidence of its ruling force appears in
every chapter of his life. He occasionally introduced a joke into his
compositions. Thus, in the 'Pastoral Symphony,' we come across a trio
between a nightingale, a quail, and a cuckoo. Again, in other works,
such as the No. 8 Symphony, the bassoons are brought in unexpectedly,
in such a manner as to produce a humorous effect. He never missed an
opportunity of playing off a joke upon any of his friends, both in
season and out of season, and he always showed his appreciation of the
victim's discomfiture by roars of laughter. His letters are full of
puns, and he bestows uncomplimentary nicknames upon his intimates. One
day his brother Johann, who had acquired a small property in the
neighbourhood of Vienna, called upon him in his absence, and left his
card, bearing the inscription, 'Johann van Beethoven, Gutsbesitzer'
(Land proprietor). Beethoven was so tickled with the conceit of this
designation that he could not resist returning the card to his
brother with the following inscription scrawled upon the back: 'L. van
Beethoven, Hirnbesitzer' (Brain proprietor). Some of his jokes,
however, were in extremely bad taste. On one occasion a lady admirer
preferred a request for a lock of his hair as a keepsake, and he sent
her instead a wisp cut from the beard of a goat! With his inordinate
love of joking, however, he was a poor hand at bearing a joke that
told against himself. It is related that, having once been rude enough
to interrupt a player named Himmel in the midst of the latter's
improvisation by asking when he was going to begin, Himmel afterwards
wrote to him that 'the latest invention in Berlin was a lantern for
the blind'--a joke which Beethoven not only failed to see, but 'when
it was pointed out to him he was furious, and would have nothing more
to do with his correspondent.'
His carelessness in matters of dress was very noticeable. Czerny, his
pupil, has described how he found him at home on his first visit, with
his shock of black hair and his unshaven chin, and his ears stuffed
with cotton-wool, whilst his clothes seemed to be made of so rough a
material, and were so ill-fitting that he resembled nothing so much as
a Robinson Crusoe. It is related that once, when he was engaging a
servant, the man stated as a reason for leaving his last situation
that he failed to dress his master's hair to the latter's
satisfaction. 'It is no object to me to have my hair dressed,'
remarked Beethoven, as he signified his approval of the engagement. He
always described himself as 'a disorderly creature,' and he certainly
merited the designation. He was clumsy and awkward in his movements;
he could not shave without cutting himself, or handle delicate things
without breaking them; and whilst composing he invariably spilt the
ink over the pianoforte. His handwriting was so illegible as to call
forth objurgations from himself whenever he was called upon to
decipher it. 'Yesterday,' he writes to a friend, 'I took a letter
myself to the post office, and was asked where it was meant to go to;
from which I see that my writing is as often misunderstood as I am
myself,' Nevertheless, he was very fond of letter-writing, as the
collections which have been preserved abundantly testify.
The letters of great men are often valued for the opinions they
contain on persons and subjects of the day, as well as for the insight
they afford into the private thoughts and feelings of the writers.
Beethoven's letters contain no word-pictures of scenery or events; nor
do they express his views on questions or matters in which the world
at large might be supposed to take an interest. But they are none the
less valuable on that account; for they reflect the openness and
simplicity of his character, and lay bare his wishes, his hopes and
his disappointments, his joys and his sorrows--and especially his love
of fun--just as one or another of these feelings or aspirations was
uppermost at the moment.
As a teacher Beethoven exhibited none of the carelessness or
impatience that characterised his personal habits. If the rendering of
a passage was not in accordance with his own ideas of what it should
be, he insisted upon the pupil playing it over and over again until he
was satisfied. He was comparatively indifferent to the playing of
wrong notes, but failure on the part of a pupil to give the right
shade of expression, or to grasp the true character of a piece, never
failed to arouse his anger. The one, he would say, might be an
accident, but the other showed a want of knowledge, or feeling, or
attention.
Beethoven was by nature exceedingly unpunctual, and frequently kept
his pupils waiting for their lessons. Even Madame von Breuning, for
whom he had a strong affection, and who was one of the few people who
could be said to have managed him, often failed in persuading him to
be in time. 'Ah! I may not disturb him--he is in his _raptus_,' she
would exclaim despairingly, in allusion to his habit of relapsing into
gloomy reverie. And not even his dearest friend dared to intrude upon
him at such moments. His absent-mindedness was the subject of many a
joke. He often forgot to come home to dinner--a fact which, seeing
that he was a man, deserves to be recorded; and it is even said that,
on one occasion, he insisted on tendering money for a meal which he
had not ordered, under the belief that he had dined. At another time
he composed a set of variations on a Russian dance for the wife of an
officer in the Russian service--a compliment which was acknowledged by
the gift of a horse. Straightway Beethoven forgot all about the horse
until he was reminded of its existence by a long bill presented for
its keep. He persisted in shaving himself at his bedroom window,
without a blind, and exposed to the view of passers-by; and when he
discovered that this habit caused a crowd of jeering idlers to collect
in front of the house, he flew into a rage, and exchanged his lodgings
for others situated in a more retired spot, rather than discontinue
the practice. His explosive temper has furnished many amusing
anecdotes. One day his cook, who, in consideration of her master's
incurable unpunctuality, must be regarded as an aggrieved personage,
served up some eggs which were not to his taste, and he emphasised his
displeasure by throwing the entire batch at the head of the
unfortunate domestic. On another occasion a waiter who mistook his
order was rewarded by having the contents of a dish of stew poured
over his head. Even where his temper was not concerned his manners
were directly opposed to those prevailing in polite society--though,
in a large measure, this may have been due to his perfect simplicity
and his ignorance of what was expected of him. Thus, it is told that,
returning from one of his long walks in the pouring rain, he would
make straight for the sitting-room of the house in which he happened
to be staying and calmly proceed to shake the water from his hat over
the carpet and chairs, after the fashion of a retriever just emerged
from a pond, humming to himself the while some theme which had been
occupying his thoughts during his walk. One of his pleasanter habits,
to which he was greatly attached, was washing. He would pour the water
backwards and forwards over his hands with childish delight, and if,
as frequently happened, a musical idea suggested itself to him during
the operation, he became oblivious to everything else, and would
continue to send the water to and fro, spilling it in huge quantities,
until the floor resembled a miniature lake.
Beethoven would never allow that his disorderliness was anything more
than personal, always contending that he had a love of order and
neatness with regard to his surroundings and arrangements. Yet here is
a sketch of the condition of his living-room, as seen by one of his
friends: 'The most exquisite confusion reigned in his house. Books and
music were scattered in all directions; here the residue of a cold
luncheon, there some full, some half-emptied, bottles. On the desk the
hasty sketch of a new quartet; in another corner the remains of a
breakfast. On the pianoforte the scribbled hints for a noble symphony,
yet little more than in embryo; hard by a proof-sheet, waiting to be
returned; letters from friends, and on business, spread all over the
floor. Between the windows a goodly Stracchino cheese, and on one side
of it ample vestiges of a genuine Verona Salami....' If an article
were missing Beethoven would declare that he knew just where to put
his hand upon it; and then, when two or three days' search failed to
discover its whereabouts, he would storm at the servants, asseverating
that they hid his things away on purpose to annoy him. But the storm
would clear as quickly as it had gathered, and peace reign once more,
until the next occasion called it forth; and the servants knew their
master's heart too well to be angered by his reproaches.
The mention of his rambles in the rain recalls his fondness for the
open air. It was a passion which clung to him through life. As each
summer came round, during these years of unremitting toil, he would
hail with delight the moment when he could close the door of his
lodgings in the hot, stuffy city, and betake himself to some retired
spot where he could ramble about and hold communion with Nature,
secure from interruption. 'No man,' he wrote to one of his friends,
'loves the country more. Woods, trees, and rocks give the response
which man requires.... Every tree seems to say, "Holy, holy."' A
forest was to him a paradise. He would penetrate its cool depths, and,
selecting a tree which offered a seat in a forking branch close to the
ground, he would climb into it and sit there for hours, buried in
thought. It was amidst the trees of Schönbrunn that he made the first
rough notes for several of his great works. With his back planted
against the trunk of a favourite lime-tree, his legs stretched along
the big branch, and his gaze fixed upon the network of branchlets and
quivering leaves above him, he sketched the framework of the oratorio
'The Mount of Olives,' the opera 'Fidelio' (or 'Leonore,' as it was
first called), and that glorious symphony which is known by the title
of the 'Eroica.'
When not resting amidst the trees Beethoven would set off on long
walks through the fields, sketch-book[20] in hand, and humming or
roaring to himself as he went along. The rough jottings in the
sketch-books were later on developed with the utmost care, being
written out again and again, with fresh alterations and additions each
time, until every trace of crudeness had disappeared, and the finished
work stood out with such clearness and precision as to suggest that it
had been but that moment created. Nothing, indeed, has struck those
who have followed the gradual development of his work from the first
sketches which have been preserved more than the number of attempts
which mark the growth of the idea in the composer's mind, until it
assumed its final form. Yet there was no trace in the finished work of
the process of refining and elaboration through which it had passed.
Very curious was the origin of some of the suggestions which found
their way into the sketch-books. It was Beethoven's practice to keep
one of these books by his bedside, in case an idea occurred to him
during the night, and it is told that he was once aroused by the
knocking of a neighbour who had been accidentally locked out of his
house in the small hours of the morning. The irate neighbour knocked
four raps at a time, with a pause at the end of every fourth rap, and
the rhythmic regularity of the sounds not only startled Beethoven out
of his sleep, but suggested a musical idea to his mind. Up jumped the
composer, and down went the idea in his sketch-book, and the next
morning the jotting was included in one of his most striking
compositions--the 'Violin Concerto in D,' where the passage, given to
the drums, is many times repeated.
A village which formed one of his favourite resorts was Heiligenstadt,
situated about seven miles from Vienna. Here he went in the summer of
1802, after a severe illness. For some time past he had been suffering
from increasing deafness, and the malady seemed now to have reached an
acute stage, so that his country surroundings failed to exercise their
accustomed charm, and he fell into a deep melancholy. Indeed, he
appeared to have become impressed with the idea that his life-work was
ended, and that he had nothing to look forward to but the
companionship of an affliction which must sever him from the social
intercourse in which he delighted, and render his remaining years
solitary and miserable. It would be difficult to imagine a more
terrible calamity than that which had befallen Beethoven, or to
exaggerate its effects upon an over-sensitive nature such as he
possessed. As his deafness increased, his efforts to conceal the
results of the malady from those outside his own immediate circle
became more and more painfully evident. No one failed to observe how
he was affected, yet none dared to commiserate with him; and when he
discovered that his mistakes were drawing public attention to what he
was so anxious to hide, his mortification was intensified to a degree
that for the time destroyed his peace of mind and left him a prey to
melancholy. It was whilst in this state of mental and physical
depression that he penned from his village retreat the touchingly
eloquent letter which has since been called his 'will.' In this
epistle, which is addressed to 'My brothers Carl and Johann
Beethoven,' and which they are admonished to 'read and execute after
my demise,' Beethoven pleads for consideration both on account of his
irritability and his apparent lack of affection. To his misfortunes,
not to his faults, must be attributed the obstinacy, the hostility, or
the misanthropic attitude which he has shown towards those whom he
loves, and by whom he is loved in return. 'My heart and my mind,' he
says, as if in extenuation of this fancied ill-feeling, 'were from
childhood prone to the tender feelings of affection.' It is a pathetic
appeal to natures which, unfortunately for the writer, were the least
likely to echo its tenderness in their own hearts; for neither of the
brothers had ever shown him true affection. They had followed him to
Vienna to found a livelihood for themselves, and thenceforward, with
selfish zeal for their own interests, they had simply served to clog
his progress. Blinded by the nobility of his own character, however,
Beethoven now takes upon himself the entire blame for what he imagines
to be a lessening of the affection between them, and, sunk in health,
and viewing his future through the darkest of glasses, he reproaches
himself for what he could never have helped. Though his brothers are
the only persons who are actually named in this remarkable letter, no
one who reads it can doubt that Beethoven is addressing the world at
large, who will judge both himself and his works.
Towards the end of this year his health had improved, but the deafness
remained constant, and he was at length compelled to desist from
conducting his works. Shortly after this an incident occurred which
must have served to convince him of the sympathy which the public felt
for him in his affliction. His great work, the 'Choral Symphony,' was
being performed, and the composer was standing on the platform with
his back to the audience, intently following the music. As the
concluding chords died away the whole house broke out into
enthusiastic applause. Again and again the shouts rent the air, but
Beethoven stood motionless, unmoved--a pathetic figure amidst the
storm. Possibly at this moment those whose ears he had charmed by his
music realised to the full the ineffable sadness of his condition, for
a reverential hush fell suddenly on the gathering. The next moment,
however, the storm of cheers broke out afresh, for a young singer,
named Caroline Unger, who had been taking part in the symphony, went
up to the unconscious composer, and, taking his hand, turned him round
to the audience. As the glance of the deaf man lighted upon the sea of
upturned faces, and he witnessed the emotion which his work had
aroused, he was deeply moved.
[Illustration: '_Taking his hand, turned him round to the
audience._']
The 'Choral Symphony' ranks amongst the greatest of Beethoven's works,
but we should like to mention one of his smaller, though not less
famous, compositions--that which is known by the title of the
'Kreutzer Sonata for Pianoforte and Violin'--because no fitter
illustration could be found of the rapidity with which the composer
worked under pressure than is afforded by the beautiful work which he
dedicated to his friend Rodolphe Kreutzer, a violinist attached to
Count Bernadotte's suite of performers. He had undertaken the writing
of the sonata at the instance of a violinist, a mulatto named
Bridgetower, who was staying in Vienna, and it was to be jointly
performed by Bridgetower and himself. The concert was announced to
begin at 8 a.m., but when the public were hastening to the theatre in
the Augarten at that early hour of the spring morning, the music for
the pianoforte part was practically unwritten, with the exception of a
few scattered suggestions, whilst the variations, which are justly
renowned for their grace and beauty, were hurriedly written in at the
last moment, and had to be played by the violinist at sight from the
rough manuscript. The _andante_ is of unsurpassable beauty, and it was
rendered by the composer in such a manner as to excite the audience to
enthusiasm. Beethoven's powers of playing were never shown to greater
advantage than in his _andante_ movements. His execution of the
quicker parts was apt to be confused by his frequent use of the pedal,
but nothing occurred to mar or obscure the clearness and depth of
expression with which he rendered the slower movements, and it was in
these that his playing was most truly inspired.
The year 1804 is a memorable one in the life of Beethoven, for it
witnessed the completion of his grand symphony, the 'Eroica,' the
rough idea of which had been sketched amidst the woods of Schönbrunn
two years before. The suggestion of the work is said to have come from
Count Bernadotte, the French Ambassador at Vienna, with whom Beethoven
was on terms of intimacy; but the man whom it was intended to honour
by its dedication was the General whose exploits had shaken the whole
of Europe--Napoleon Buonaparte. Beethoven had been greatly attracted
by Napoleon's character. He believed in him as the one man who was
capable of making his adopted country a pattern for the world, by
establishing a Republic on the principles laid down by Plato. But his
confidence in the unselfishness of Napoleon's aims was soon to receive
a rude shock. The fair copy of the symphony, with its dedicatory
inscription, had been completed, and was on the point of being
dispatched to Paris, when suddenly the news reached Vienna that the
hero's glorious entry into the French capital had culminated in his
allowing himself to be proclaimed Emperor. In a moment Beethoven's
worship was turned into hatred and contempt. He seized the manuscript,
tore the title-page to shreds, and flung the work itself to the other
end of the room. 'He designs to become a tyrant, like the rest,' he
exclaimed, with scornful bitterness; and it was a long time before he
could even be induced to look at the music again, or to consider the
question of its publication. Eventually, however, he consented to its
appearing under a new title, the 'Sinfonia Eroica,' by which it has
since been known to the world.
It is impossible within the limits of a short story-life to give even
a brief description of the composer's chief works, or to convey more
than an idea of how much work, despite his irregular habits, Beethoven
accomplished. His untiring industry in developing the rough jottings
which formed the foundations of his compositions has been mentioned;
but without following his life from year to year we can have only a
very imperfect conception of the actual amount of labour which was
involved in bringing to perfection the long list of works that we see
appended to the biographies of the composer. When we follow the story
of his life in detail, we are struck by the fact of his unceasing
toil. Nothing seems to have checked the constant flow of composition;
yet many causes were at work to hinder it, such as ill-health,
poverty, an ill-balanced temperament, and an oversensitiveness with
regard to the petty troubles arising out of his injudicious mode of
life. 'I live only in my music,' he writes, 'and no sooner is one
thing done than the next is begun. As I am now writing, I often work
at three or four things at once.' And think what such work meant! It
has been said that it is difficult to find in Beethoven's life
anything corresponding to the extraordinary beauty and grandeur of his
creations--in other words, there seems to exist no parallel in his
life, as he lived it, to the outpourings of his musical soul. There
is, indeed, little doubt that Beethoven had but one channel through
which to express his deepest thoughts and feelings--the language of
music. Through his music he reaches our hearts; by his music we are
brought into contact with his innermost soul; and by his music alone
can we know the man Beethoven as he really was.
Yet his life was by no means devoid of noble qualities. It was in
every sense a great life, full of energy, full of power, full of a
determination which carried him through every obstacle, and enabled
him to hold his own against the attacks of his enemies. Apart,
however, from the genius that ennobled it, it was not a life which
could altogether compel admiration. The down-right simplicity and
directness of purpose which shone forth as Beethoven's chief
characteristics, and in themselves were undoubted virtues, were,
unhappily, overshadowed by faults and shortcomings of such magnitude
as to shut out much of the friendship and sympathy that he might
otherwise have enjoyed; and no one reading his life can doubt that he
stood greatly in need of such assistance.