The friendship of the Archduke Rudolph relieved Beethoven of the
immediate pressure of poverty; for in 1809 he settled a small
life-pension upon him. The next ten years were passed by him in
comparative ease and comfort, and in this time he gave to the world five
of his immortal symphonies, and a large number of his finest sonatas and
masses. His general health improved very much; and in his love for his
nephew Karl, whom Beethoven had adopted, the lonely man found an outlet
for his strong affections, which was medicine for his soul, though the
object was worthless and ungrateful.
We get curious and amusing insights into the daily tenor of Beethoven's
life during this period--things sometimes almost grotesque, were they
not so sad. The composer lived a solitary life, and was very much at the
mercy of his servants on account of his self-absorption and deafness.
He was much worried by these prosaic cares. One story of a slatternly
servant is as follows: The master was working at the mass in D, the
great work which he commenced in 1819 for the celebration of the
appointment of the Archduke Rudolph as Archbishop of Olmutz, and which
should have been completed by the following year. Beethoven, however,
became so engrossed with his work, and increased its proportions so
much, that it was not finished until some two years after the event
which it was intended to celebrate. While Beethoven was engaged upon
this score, he one day woke up to the fact that some of his pages were
missing. "Where on earth could they be?" he asked himself, and the
servant too; but the problem remained unsolved. Beethoven, beside
himself, spent hours and hours in searching, and so did the servant, but
it was all in vain. At last they gave up the task as a useless one, and
Beethoven, mad with despair, and pouring the very opposite to blessings
upon the head of her who, he believed, was the author of the mischief,
sat down with the conclusion that he must rewrite the missing part. He
had no sooner commenced a new Kyrie--for this was the movement which was
not to be found--than some loose sheets of score paper were discovered
in the kitchen! Upon examination they proved to be the identical pages
that Beethoven so much desired, and which the woman, in her anxiety to
be "tidy" and to "keep things straight," had appropriated at some time
or other for wrapping up, not only old boots and clothes, but also some
superannuated pots and pans that were greasy and black!
Thus he was continually fretted by the carelessness or the rascality of
the servants in whom he was obliged to trust. He writes in his diary:
"Nancy is too uneducated for a housekeeper--indeed, quite a beast." "My
precious servants were occupied from seven o'clock till ten trying to
kindle a fire." "The cook's off again." "I shied half a dozen books at
her head." They made his dinner so nasty he couldn't eat it. "No soup
to-day, no beef, no eggs. Got something from the inn at last."
His temper and peculiarities, too, made it difficult for him to live in
peace with landlords and fellow-lodgers. As his deafness increased, he
struck and thumped harder at the keys of his piano, the sound of which
he could scarcely hear. Nor was this all. The music that filled his
brain gave him no rest. He became an inspired madman. For hours he would
pace the room "howling and roaring" (as his pupil Ries puts it); or he
would stand beating time with hand and foot to the music which was
so vividly present to his mind. This soon put him into a feverish
excitement, when, to cool himself, he would take his water-jug, and,
thoughtless of everything, pour its contents over his hands, after which
he could sit down to his piano. With all this it can easily be imagined
that Beethoven was frequently remonstrated with. The landlord complained
of a damaged ceiling, and the fellow-lodgers declared that either they
or the madman must leave the house, for they could get no rest where he
was. So Beethoven never for long had a resting-place. Impatient at being
interfered with, he immediately packed up and went off to some other
vacant lodging. From this cause he was at one time paying the rent of
four lodgings at once. At times he would get tired of this changing from
one place to another--from the suburbs to the town--and then he would
fall back upon the hospitable home of a patron, once again taking
possession of an apartment which he had vacated, probably without
the least explanation or cause. One admirer of his genius, who always
reserved him a chamber in his establishment, used to say to his
servants: "Leave it empty; Beethoven is sure to come back again."
The instant that Beethoven entered the house he began to write and
cipher on the walls, the blinds, the table, everything, in the most
abstracted manner. He frequently composed on slips of paper, which he
afterward misplaced, so that he had great difficulty in finding them. At
one time, indeed, he forgot his own name and the date of his birth.
It is said that he once went into a Viennese restaurant, and, instead of
giving an order, began to write a score on the back of the bill-of-fare,
absorbed and unconscious of time and place. At last he asked how much
he owed. "You owe nothing, sir," said the waiter. "What! do you think I
have not dined?" "Most assuredly." "Very well, then, give me something."
"What do you wish?" "Anything."
These infirmities do not belittle the man of genius, but set off his
greatness as with a foil. They illustrate the thought of Goethe: "It is
all the same whether one is great or small, he has to pay the reckoning
of humanity."