Beethoven was a true son of the Rhine in his love for nature. As a boy
he had taken extended trips, sometimes occupying days, with his father
“through the Rhenish localities ever lastingly dear to me.” In his days
of physical health Nature was his instructress in art; “I may not come
without my banner,” he used to say when he set out upon his wanderings
even in his latest years, and never without his note books. In the
scenes of nature he found his marvelous motives and themes; brook, birds
and tree sang to him. In a few special cases he has himself recorded the
fact.
But when he was excluded more and more from communion with his fellow
men because of his increasing deafness, until, finally, he could
communicate only by writing with others (hence the conversation-books,
which will be cited often in this little volume), he fled for refuge to
nature. Out in the woods he again became naively happy; to him the woods
were a Holy of Holies, a Home of the Mysteries. Forest and mountain-vale
heard his sighs; there he unburdened his heavy-laden heart. When his
friends need comfort he recommends a retreat to nature. Nearly every
summer he leaves hot and dusty Vienna and seeks a quiet spot in the
beautiful neighborhood. To call a retired and reposeful little spot his
own is his burning desire.