1806-1812.
THE SYMPHONY C MINOR--THE PASTORALE AND THE SEVENTH SYMPHONIES.
The Pastorale--Its Composition--Meaning of the Apassionata--Its
History--Beethoven’s Letter to His “Immortal Loved One”--His Own
Opinion of the Apassionata--New Acquaintances--Thinks of Writing
Operas--Court-theater Composer--Overture to Coriolanus--The Mass
in C., op. 86--His Sacred Music--The Fidelio in Prague--Music
for Goethe’s Faust--“Power, the Moral Code”--Power Expressed
in Beethoven’s Music--Character of His Works about this
Period--Intercourse with the Malfattis--The Cello Sonata, op.
69--Other Compositions and their Meaning--Improvement in His
Pecuniary Circumstances--Joseph Bonaparte--Vienna Fears to Lose
Him--Contemplated Journey to England--The Seventh Symphony--Wagner
on the Seventh Symphony--His _Heirathspartie_--His Letter to
Bettina--His Estimate of Genius.
Beethoven’s Heiligenstadt Will, written in the year 1802, closed with
this painful appeal: “O thou, Providence, let one day more of joy dawn
on me. How long have I been a stranger to the heartfelt echo of true
happiness! When, when, O God, can I feel it once more in the temple of
nature and of man. Never? No! O, that were too hard!” Our artist’s
thoughts were thus directed into channels which carried him far from
the scenes immediately surrounding him into regions of a higher
existence--of an existence which he soon described so exquisitely in
the language of music. The _Pastorale_ which celebrates this “Temple
of nature” was originally designated as No. 5, and was, therefore,
intended to be completed before the symphony in C minor. But it would
seem that Beethoven had to go through many an internal conflict, the
result of his great depression of spirits, before he could acquire the
calmness of mind necessary to form a proper conception of the “Peace of
God in Nature,” and to give it proper form and expression in art.
Breuning wrote, on the 2nd of June, 1806, that the intrigues about the
_Fidelio_ were all the more disagreeable to Beethoven because the fact
that it had not been performed reduced him to some pecuniary straits,
and that it would take all the longer time for him to recover, as the
treatment he had received deprived him of a great deal of his love for
his work. Yet the first of the quartets, op. 59, bears the memorandum:
“Begun on the 26th of May, 1806;” and the fourth symphony (op. 60), as
well as the violin concerto (op. 61), also belong to this year. In the
meantime op. 56, which had been begun some time previous, the triple
concerto, op. 57, called the _Apassionata_, and op. 58, the fourth
concerto, were all either continued or finished. What wealth there is
here--in the number of compositions, in their magnitude and in their
contents! The three quartets are dedicated to Count Rasumowsky, who had
given Beethoven the commission to write them, and who had furnished the
Russian melodies on which they are based. How well the _adagio_ of the
second of them points us to that higher region in which Beethoven now
felt himself more and more at home. He himself told Czerny that that
_adagio_ suggested itself to him one night, when he was contemplating
the starry heavens, and thinking of the harmony of the spheres. In the
serene calmness of these vanishing tones, we see the revolution of the
stars mirrored in all its grandeur. Here all pain seems lightened, all
passion stilled. Yet how both had raged even in the _Apassionata_,
the draft of which is to be found immediately following that of the
_Fidelio_. The _Apassionata_ is written in his heart-blood. Its tones
are cries of excitement the most painful. It was finished in the
summer, and dedicated to Count Franz Brunswick. An oil painting of the
count’s sister, Countess Theresa, was found among Beethoven’s effects,
after his death. It bore the superscription: “To the rare genius,
the great artist, the good man. From T. B.” It is supposed that the
letter to his “immortal love,” already referred to, was addressed
to her--and it is truly a letter which gives us a pen-picture of
Beethoven’s condition of mind at that time, and which affords an idea
of the “gigantic sweep of his ideas.” It was found after his death,
together with other important papers, in an old chest, and is dated on
July 6, from a watering place in Hungary. It is rightly supposed to
have been written in the year 1806, in which Beethoven paid a visit to
the Brunswicks. But, be this as it may, it gives evidence of intense
feeling, and shows that Beethoven now dwelt on that sublime height on
which all earthly desires are silent. It seems also to lead us over to
the understanding and appreciation of Beethoven’s subsequent creations,
which henceforth gain an ideal character not of this earth. We can here
touch only on the principal points in these letters.
“My angel, my all, my other self.” Thus does he begin it on the 6th
of July, in the morning. He proceeds: “Only a few words to-day, and
those in lead-pencil, and that your own pencil, dear. Nothing can
be settled about my dwelling until to-morrow. What a wretched loss
of time for such trifles! Why this deep affliction where necessity
speaks? How can our love continue to exist except through sacrifice,
except by limitation of our desires? Can you change the fact that you
are not entirely mine nor I entirely yours? Look out on the beauties
of nature, and resign yourself to what must be. Love asks everything,
and rightly so. It does in my case. It does in your case. But you
forget too easily that I have to live for you as well as for myself.
Were we entirely one, you would feel the pain there is in this as
little as I.... We shall, I trust, soon meet.... I cannot tell you
to-day what reflections I have made upon my life, during the past
forty-eight hours. Were our hearts always close to one another, I
am sure I should make no such reflections. My heart is too full to
tell you much. There are moments when I find that language is nothing
at all. Cheer up; be my faithful, my only pet, my all, as I am all
yours. The gods must direct the rest in our lives. Thy faithful
LUDWIG.”
But, on the same dainty little piece of note paper, he continues, for
the mail had already left:
“You suffer, dearest creature. Wherever I am, you are with me. I must
try to so arrange it that our life may be one. But what, what a life
to be thus without you! I am pursued by the kindness of men which I
do not intend to earn, and yet, which I really do earn. That a man
should humble himself before his fellow man, pains me; and when I
consider myself as a part of the universe, what am I, and who is He
they call the Most High? And yet here, again, we find the divine in
that which is human.... No matter how great your love for me, my love
for you is greater still. Never hide yourself from me. Good night!
Being an invalid, I must go to sleep. Alas, that I should be so near
and yet so far from you. Is not our love a real firmament of heaven?
And is it not as firm as the foundation of the heavens?”
He takes up the same piece of paper once more:
“Good morning, this 7th of July! Even before I rise my thoughts fly
to you, dear--to you, immortal love, now joyfully, now sadly, waiting
to see whether the fates will hear our prayer. If I shall live at
all, it must be with you. I am resolved to wander about far away
from you, until the time comes when I may fly into your arms, and
say that I belong to you; until I may send my soul absolved by you,
dear, into the land of spirits. Yes, unfortunately it must be so.
You will be all the more composed, since you know how faithful I am
to you. Another can never possess my heart--never! Why, O God, must
a man be so widely separated from the object of his love? And yet
the life I now live in Vienna is so wretched! Your love makes me, at
once, the happiest and the most unfortunate of men. At my present
age, there should be some uniformity in my life; but is such a thing
possible in my present circumstances? Be patient. Only by the patient
contemplation of our existence can we gain our object and live
united. Be patient! love me! How I longed and wept for you to-day and
yesterday; you, my life, my all! Farewell; love me ever, never forget
the most faithful heart of thy beloved Ludwig. I am ever thine and
thou forever mine.”
How completely like Beethoven! It was during this very summer that he
completed the _Apassionata_, which he always considered the greatest
of his sonatas, at the home of the Brunswicks. Can it be said that
its language is in anything greater than the language of this letter?
He seems at this time to be nearly always possessed by a feeling of
melancholy. But for this very reason he took refuge more than ever in
music. It was, indeed, a real sanctuary to him, and he refused to open
that sanctuary to the eyes of strangers, and, least of all, to the eyes
of enemies. This he very plainly proved to Prince Lichnowsky during
the fall. Beethoven had left Hungary and was spending some time in
Silesia with the prince. The latter desired him to play for some French
officers who were quartered in his castle. A violent scene immediately
ensued. After it was over, Beethoven left the castle. He refused to go
back with the prince who had followed him, but repaired, post haste,
back to Vienna, in which city the prince’s bust was broken to pieces
as an expiatory sacrifice. It was not long, however, before the old
friendship of the two was re-established.
In the quartet sketches of this year, we find the words: “Just as you
can cast yourself here into the whirl of society, it is possible to
write operas spite of all social impediments. Let the fact that you
do not hear be a mystery no longer, even in your music.” This “whirl
of society” introduces us to some new acquaintances. Count Rasumowsky
held very brilliant soirées, at which the amiable and charming wife
of his librarian, Marie Bigot, performed some of Beethoven’s works in
an exquisite manner. The playing of the elegant and handsome Countess
Marie Erdoedy, whom Beethoven himself called his “father confessor,”
was not inferior to that of Madame Bigot. Other patrons of the musical
art were Madame Dorothea von Ertmann, a charming Frankfort lady, and
the Malfattis, one of whom was Beethoven’s physician. The home of
Streicher, who had married Nanette Stein, daughter of the Augsburg
piano-maker, described in Mozart’s letter of 1777 in so droll a manner,
was the rendezvous of lovers of music. Nor must we forget to mention
Prince Lobkowitz and the Emperor’s youngest brother, the Archduke
Rudolph, Beethoven’s distinguished pupil, who, as our artist himself
admitted, understood music thoroughly.
The chief value, however, of the works quoted above, is that they
inform us how Beethoven, spite of his experience with the _Fidelio_,
was thinking very seriously of the writing of “operas.” If successful
here, his fortune was made, and there was nothing then to hinder the
crowning of his love by marriage. There now seemed to be a very good
prospect of that success, for, in the year 1807, the two court-theaters
passed into the hands of a company of noblemen, with Lobkowitz at
their head. Lobkowitz immediately called upon Beethoven to act as
composer for the Court-theater. Our artist accepted the position, and
bound himself to write at least one great opera and operetta each
year, and to supply whatever other music might be needed. A feeling of
inexhaustible power must have inspired him at this time, when he was
actuated by the tenderest love, with the utmost confidence in self. A
forcible proof of this is the overture which he then wrote to Collins’s
_Coriolanus_. But the gentlemen did not accede to his wishes; they did
not want to trust him as composer of instrumental music in this point;
and thus Beethoven, although not particularly pleased by the action of
his princely friends, was, fortunately for himself and for us, retained
in the field of labor most in harmony with his disposition.
“If it be true that genuine strength and a fullness of deep feeling
characterize the Germans, we must say that Beethoven was, above all,
a German artist. In this, his most recent work, we cannot but admire
the expressiveness and depth of his music, which so grandly painted
the wild, perturbed mind of _Coriolanus_, and the sudden and terrible
change in his fate, while it elicited the sublimest emotion.” These
lines are from an account of a concert given in the _Augarten_ by
Lichnowsky in the spring of 1807. But we have very reliable information
that Beethoven was now engaged on the symphony in C minor and on the
_Pastorale_. Thanks to Clementi, who was doing a large and thriving
music business in London, and to his old friend Simrock, in Bonn, which
was French at the time, he felt at his ease so far as money matters
were concerned. He writes to Brunswick on the 11th of May, 1807: “I
can now hope to be able, in a few years, to maintain the dignity of
a real artist.” And when, in the same letter, we read the farther
passage, “Kiss your sister Theresa. Tell her that I fear that I shall
become great without a monument, to which she has contributed,” we can
understand how love, fame and lofty intuition conspired to fit him for
new and mighty exploits in art.
The next work published by Beethoven was the Mass in C, op. 86,
which Esterhazy gave him a commission to write. But here Beethoven,
even more than in opera, missed the spirit of his subject. The Mass
bears witness to his intellect, and has all the charms of sound; but
it is not a religious composition. When Beethoven himself wrote to
Esterhazy, as he did at this time: “Shall I tell you that it is not
without many misgivings that I shall send you the Mass, for I know
you are accustomed to have the inimitable works of the great Haydn
performed for you,” he proves that he did not understand the real
spirit of church music; for Haydn had, just as little as Beethoven,
a true conception of what church music is. Haydn was now seventy-six
years old, and Beethoven attended a performance of his _Creation_ the
following year, and, with a number of the distinguished nobility,
received the celebrated guest at the door. The fame of the man whom
he was thus called upon to honor, was a type of what his own was
destined one day to be. And what his own fame would be, the production
of the great works he had recently finished, must have enabled him
to foresee. When the Mass was performed, in September, 1807, in
Eisenstadt, our composer had a personal falling out--the result of a
misunderstanding--with Mozart’s pupil, Hummel; and one which was not
made up for for some years. The prince had criticised Beethoven’s Mass
by asking the strange question: “But, my dear Beethoven, what have you
been doing now?” Hummel could not help laughing at this strange mode of
criticism. Beethoven supposed he was laughing at his work; and after
this would have nothing more to do with the prince.
It was otherwise with the magnanimous, noble lover of art, Prince
Lobkowitz, one of the principal grandees of Bohemia, and one of the
principal patrons of the theater. To him Beethoven was indebted for
the suggestion that the _Fidelio_ should be performed in Prague. For
the occasion, Beethoven wrote, in this year, 1807, the overture, op.
138, which is, therefore, to be accounted not the second, but the third
_Leonore_ overture. The performance of the _Fidelio_, however, did
not take place until 1814, the same year in which it was performed in
Vienna. In the following summer (1808), it was publicly announced that
“the gifted Beethoven had conceived the idea to put Goethe’s Faust to
music, as soon as he could find any one to prepare it for the stage.”
The first part of Faust had appeared in 1807, as a “tragedy;” and,
as we shall see, the poem made a deep impression on our artist. Long
after, and even on his death-bed, it occupied his thoughts. But he had,
even now, written some Faust music--the symphony in C minor. To it we
now turn, for it is one of the greatest of Beethoven’s creations.
We have seen how Beethoven himself once said: “Power is the moral code
of men who distinguish themselves above others.” And so we hear how
one person described him as “power personified;” how another said of
him that “a Jupiter occasionally looked out through his eyes:” and
a third, that “his magnificent forehead was the seat of majestic,
creative power.” Spurred on by the opposition of “fate,” that is,
by what nature had denied him, we see this power appear in all its
concentration and sublimity. The power which has created, and which
preserves all things, has been called “will,” and music, one of its
immediate phenomena, while the other arts are only reflections of that
will, and reflect only the things of the world. In the first movement
of the symphony in C minor, we feel the presence of this power or
personal will, to an extent greater than in any other work of art. It
there appears in fullest action, in all its nobility. The symphony
might not inappropriately have been called the Jupiter-symphony;
for it is a veritable head of Jove, such as only a Phidias could
have imagined. Melody has been described as the history of the will
illuminated by reason, and the sonata-form of the symphony is just such
kind of melody. And it is this fifth symphony of Beethoven’s, which,
more than any other, tells us the most secret history of that personal
will, of all its strivings and motions. No type in any art, could have
suggested a Siegfried to Richard Wagner. Here Beethoven’s genius acts
as force, as will, and as the conscious intelligence of the prototype
of the Great Spirit. Yet when the work was performed in Paris, Hector
Berlioz heard his teacher, Lessieur, say of it--and this, although he
was deeply moved by it--“but such music should not be heard.” “Don’t
be afraid,” was the reply, “there will be little of that kind of
music written.” How correct was the insight of the gifted Frenchman!
Siegfried’s _Rheinfahrt_, in the _Goetterdaemmerung_, is music of “that
kind.”
But it is only the night of sorrow that gives birth to the
concentration of power. It is only by great effort that this energy
can be maintained. And as Coriolanus finely presses all the darts
aimed at him by his mother into her own heart, in defying sacrifice,
so we find, in the background of this holiest and most manly will, the
consciousness of the variety and transitory character of all things.
In his heart of hearts, Beethoven feels that fate has knocked at his
door, only because in his following the dictates of force and action,
he has sinned against nature, and that all will is only transitoriness
and self-deception. The _adagio_ expresses subjection to a higher will.
The consciousness of this highest act of the will, to sacrifice one’s
self and yet to preserve one’s freedom, gave birth to the song of
jubilation in the _finale_ which tells not of the joy and sorrow of one
heart only; it lifts the freedom which has been praised and sought for
into the higher region of moral will. Thus the symphony in C minor has
a significance greater than any mere “work of art.” Like the production
of religious art, it is a representation of those secret forces which
hold the world together.
The consciousness of this deeper, intimate dependence of all things on
one another, is henceforth seen like a glimmer of light in the darkness
which gathered around him, and it continues to beautify and transfigure
his creations.
The _Pastorale_ immediately followed the symphony in C minor. It
gives expression to the peace of nature and to the fulfillment of
the saying: “Look out on the beauties of nature and calm your soul
by the contemplation of what must be.” While the fourth symphony
compared with the fifth, is a symphony and nothing more--even if
it be Beethoven’s--we plainly discover in this sixth, the poetic
spirit, the pure feeling of God. The idea and character it illustrates
constitutes in Beethoven’s life the transition from the external beauty
of nature to the comprehension of the eternal. Over it is written:
“Recollections of country life,” but also, “More an expression of
feeling than a painting.” “The Beethovens loved the Rhine,” the young
playmates of the boy Ludwig were wont to say, and he wrote himself to
Wegeler: “Before me is the beautiful region in which I first saw the
light as plainly and as beautiful as the moment I left you.” On a
leaf, written in his own hand, we find the words: “O the charm of the
woods--who can express it?” But now that he was compelled to live a
solitary life, nature became to him a mother, sister and sweetheart.
He looked upon the wonders of nature as into living eyes; she calmed
him who was naturally of such a stormy temperament, and to whom life
had been unkind in so many ways. In the _Scene am Bach_ (Scene by the
Brook), the waters murmur peace to his soul; and the birds by the
brooklet, in Heiligenstadt, where these two symphonies were finished,
whisper joy. His _Lustiges Zusammensein der Landleute_, infuses new
courage into the heart, and when his _Gewitter und Sturm_, tells of the
might of the Eternal, the shepherds express their joyful and grateful
feelings in the words: _Herr wir danken dir_. The _finale_, like the
_Chorphantasie_ (op. 80), planned in 1800 but not finished until 1808,
was intended to contain a chorus expressing in words the joyful and
thankful feeling of the people. Beethoven’s own personal experience
is always expressed in his music. A more intimate acquaintance with
nature gave it to him to find yet deeper expression for the feelings
which it excites in our hearts, as its everlasting change enabled him
to conceive the eternal and imperishable.
We now turn to a whole series of new and brilliant creations of our
hero. It would seem as if his intercourse with the eternal in nature
had given him new life.
During these years, Beethoven’s intimacy with the Malfattis and their
two charming daughters, was a great source of pleasure to him. His
feelings towards them may be inferred from the following passages in
his notes to his friend Gleichenstein. He writes: “I feel so well when
I am with them that they seem able to heal the wounds which bad men
have inflicted on my heart.”... “I expect to find there in the _Wilden
Mann_ in the park, no wild men, but beautiful graces.” And again: “My
greetings, to all who are dear to you and to me. How gladly would I
add--and to whom we are dear???? These points of interrogation are
becoming, at least in me.” Gleichenstein married the second daughter,
Anna Malfatti, in 1811. To the young dark-eyed Theresa, who made her
debut in society about this time, and whom he writes of as “volatile,
taking everything in life lightly” but “with so much feeling for all
that is beautiful and good, and a great talent for music,” he sends
a sonata, and recommends Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister and Schlegel’s
translation of Shakespeare. We thus see that his intercourse with the
family had that intellectual foundation which Beethoven could not
dispense with, on anything. It would even seem as if, in his enthusiasm
to put his strength to the test of new deeds, even his “eternal loved
one” should fade from his view.
The cello sonata (op. 69) dedicated to his friend Gleichenstein
immediately followed the _Pastorale_. The two magnificent trios
dedicated to Countess Erdoedy, with whom he resided at this time,
follow as op. 70. The first movement of the trio in D major is a
brilliantly free play of mind and force, while the _adagio_ suggests
Faust lost in the deep contemplation of nature and its mysteries. The
whole, on account of the mysterious awe expressed by this movement has
been called by musicians the _Fledermaustrio_, i. e., the bat-trio.
The _Leonore_ is numbered op. 72. It was published in 1810. Op. 73,
the most beautiful of all concertos, was dedicated to the Archduke
Rudolph. We have further, op. 74, the harp-quartet, dedicated to Prince
Lobkowitz, and the fantasia for the piano, op. 77, to his friend
Brunswick; lastly, the sonata in F sharp major, op. 78, very highly
valued by Beethoven himself, dedicated to his sister Theresa. Verily
“new acts” enough, and what glorious deeds!
This brings us to the year 1809, which witnessed a change for the
better in Beethoven’s pecuniary circumstances. He now received a
permanent salary. On the 1st of November, 1808, he wrote to the
Silesian Count, Oppersdorf,--whom he had visited in the fall of 1806,
in company with Lichnowsky, and who gave him a commission to write
a symphony, which the count, however, never received--as follows:
“My circumstances are improving without the assistance of people who
entertain their friends with blows. I have also been called to act as
_capellmeister_ to the King of Westphalia, and perhaps I may obey the
call.” The following December, Beethoven gave a great concert, the
programme of which embraced the two new symphonies, parts of his Mass,
the concerto in G minor, and the _Chorphantasie_. He himself improvised
at the piano. The attention of people far and near was called anew
to this great and grave master in music, whom the sensualist Jerome
Bonaparte endeavored to attract to his Capua in Cassel, and they became
anxious lest he might leave Vienna. Beethoven’s friends bestirred
themselves to keep him in Vienna, as did Beethoven himself to stay.
This is very evident from the letters to Gleichenstein and Erdoedy.
Three friends of his, to whom it was largely due that he wrote one of
his greatest works, were instrumental in keeping him in Vienna. They
were the Archduke Rudolph, Prince Lobkowitz and Prince Kinsky, to whose
wife the six songs, op. 75, are dedicated. The sum guaranteed amounted
to eight thousand marks. “You see, my dear good Gleichenstein,” he
writes, on the 18th of March, 1809, _a propos_ of the “decree” which he
had received on the 26th of February, from the hands of the archduke,
and which imposed on him no duty but to remain in Vienna and Austria,
“how honorable to me my stay here has become.” He could not, however,
have meant seriously what he added immediately after: “The title of
imperial _capellmeister_ will come to me also;” for what use had a
man like the Emperor Franz for such an “innovator” at his court? The
dedications of his works mentioned above were simply testimonials of
gratitude for the friendship thus shown him.
He now planned an extensive journey, which was to embrace England,
and even Spain. He writes to Gleichenstein: “Now you can help me get
a wife. If you find a pretty one--one who may perhaps lend a sigh to
my harmonies, do the courting for me. But she must be beautiful; I
cannot love anything that is not beautiful; if I could I should fall
in love with myself.” The coming war interrupted all his plans. But,
at the same time, it suggested to the imagination of our artist, that
wonderful picture of the battle of forces, the seventh (A major)
symphony (op. 92), which Richard Wagner has called the “apotheosis
of the dance.” Germany now first saw the picture of a genuinely
national war. Napoleon appeared as Germany’s hereditary foe, and
the whole people, from the highest noble to the meanest peasant rose
up, as one man, to fight the battle of freedom. The march is, after
all, only the dance of war, and Beethoven gathered into one picture
of instrumentation, the glad tramp of warlike hosts, the rhythm of
trampling steeds, the waving of standards and the sound of trumpets,
with a luminousness such as the world had never witnessed before. The
poet needs only see the eddy created by a mill-wheel to paint the
vapor and foam of Charybdis. In the case of Beethoven, this joy in the
game of war was, as the character of Bonaparte, on another occasion,
a stimulant to his imagination, which now painted a picture of the
free play of force and of human existence from the material of recent
historical events. And even in after years the timeliness of this work
and the spirit which called it into existence were evident. And, as
we shall soon see, it constituted the principal part in the musical
celebration, when, in 1813, the real war of emancipation occurred and
led to a most decided victory. Personally, Beethoven felt himself
not inferior to the mighty conqueror in natural power, and, like
Schiller, he clearly foresaw the awakening of the national genius which
overthrew Napoleon. To this second-sight of the prophet, possessed by
every genuine poet--to this sure presentiment of ultimate triumph--our
artist owed it, that, even in the days of Germany’s greatest ignominy
and subjection he sang of the disenthrallment of the mind and of the
jubilation of victory. Napoleon defeated the Austrians again. But as
Beethoven first felt the weight and the power of resistance of Germany
after the battles of Aspern and Wagram, he now depicted (after Napoleon
had taken the Emperor’s daughter to wife and seemed predestined to
become the despot of all Europe), in the _scherzo_ and _finale_ of
the seventh symphony, better than ever before, the jubilation of the
victorious nation, with all its popular feasts and games. Yet, in the
melancholy second part, with its monotonous beats on the _dominante_,
we think we hear the gloomy rhythm of a funeral march. This exceedingly
characteristic theme is found at the very beginning of a sketch-book of
the year 1809.
Affairs were for a time in a very bad condition in Vienna and all
Austria. The burthen of taxation was severely felt. Everything was at
a standstill. When his beloved pupil, the Archduke Rudolph retreated
from Vienna he wrote the _Lebewohl_ of the sonata op. 81^a; but its
_finale_ (_die Ankunft_) was not written until the 30th of January,
1810. The summer was a dreary one to Beethoven, and there was no demand
for the exercise of his genius. Following Ph. E. Bach, Kirnberger,
Fux and Albrechtsberger he prepared the _Materiellen zum Generalbass_
(materials for thorough-bass) for his noble pupil. This work was
subsequently but wrongly published under the name of _Beethoven’s
Studien_. On the 8th of September, a charity concert was given at
which--to the disgrace of the period, be it said, for Napoleon had only
just left Schoenbrunn--the _Eroica_ was performed, Beethoven himself
holding the baton. The rest of the summer he hoped to spend in some
quiet corner in the country. He sojourned sometime with the Brunswicks
in Hungary, and composed those works of his genius, op. 77 and 78. His
genius, indeed, seems to have awakened to a new life during this fall
of 1809. For the sketch-book of the seventh symphony (op. 92) contains
sketches of the 8th (op. 93) also; and Beethoven contemplated giving
another concert at Christmas, at which, of course, only new works
could be performed. These sketches are followed by drafts for a new
concerto. On these drafts we find the words: _Polonaise fuer Clavier
allein_, also _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_--“finish the overture”
and “detached periods like princes are beggars, not the whole.” He
here takes up once more those ideas of his youth, but with a grander
conception of their meaning. They constitute the intellectual germ of
the _finale_ of the ninth symphony. But the melody which he actually
noted down was elaborated in 1814 into the overture op. 115 (_Zur
Namensfeier_).
During this period of Germany’s national awakening, the theaters had
again turned their attention to Schiller’s dramas. The effect of this
was to revive Beethoven’s youthful ideas. He now desired to give _Tell_
a musical dress. He had already received a commission of this kind
for the _Egmont_, and, on the occasion of his receiving it, he gave
expression to a remarkable opinion. Said he to Czerny: “Schiller’s
poems are exceedingly difficult to set to music. The composer must
be able to rise high above the poet. But who can rise higher than
Schiller? Goethe is much easier.” And, indeed, his _Egmont_ overture
breathes a higher spirit and takes a loftier flight than Goethe’s
beautiful tragedy. The composition of this music led to his more
intimate acquaintance with the poet. To this same year, 1810, belong
the incomparable songs _Kennst du das Land_, and _Herz mein Herz_, in
op. 75.
This year, 1810, brings us to a somewhat mysterious point in
Beethoven’s life, to his _Heirathspartie_ (marriage speculation).
In the spring, he writes to his friend Zmeskall: “Do you recollect the
condition I am in--the condition of Hercules before Queen Omphale?
Farewell, and never again speak of me as the great man, for I never
felt either the weakness or the strength of human nature as I do now.”
But writing to Wegeler on the second of May, he says: “For a couple of
years I have ceased to lead a quiet and peaceful life. I was carried by
force into the world’s life. Yet I would be happy, perhaps one of the
very happiest of men, were it not that the demon has taken up his abode
in my ears. Had I not read somewhere that man should not voluntarily
take leave of life while he is still able to do one good deed, I should
long have departed hence, and by my own act. Life is very beautiful,
but, in my case, it is poisoned forever.” He asked for the certificate
of his baptism, and this in a manner so urgent that it creates
surprise. It was three months before the answer to the enigma was
found, and Breuning wrote that he believed that Beethoven’s engagement
was broken off. But it continues a mystery, even to this day, who his
choice was. It has been surmised that it was his “immortal loved one,”
or Theresa Brunswick. But we know nothing certain on this point. True,
he had now acquired both fame and a position which raised him above all
fear of want. But she was thirty-two years old, and he hard of hearing.
In addition to this, there was, on his side, a relationship of the
nature of which we shall yet have something to say. Her passion, if
such there was on her part, must have been prudently concealed; and it
is certainly remarkable that, from this time forward, her name is not
mentioned by Beethoven. However, her niece, Countess Marie Brunswick,
who is still living, expressly writes: “I never heard of any intimate
relation nor of any love between them, while Beethoven’s profound love
for my father’s cousin, Countess Guicciardi, was a matter of frequent
mention.” But Giulietta had at this time long been Countess Gallenberg.
The solution of this mystery, accordingly, belongs to the future.
On the other hand, we have a few notes to Gleichenstein, who married
the younger Malfatti, the following year. In one of them we read: “You
live on still, calm waters--in a safe harbor. You do not feel or should
not feel the distress of the friend who is caught in the storm. What
will people think of me in the planet Venus Urania? How can one judge
of me who has never seen me? My pride is so humbled, that even without
being ordered to do so, I would travel thither with thee.” And, in the
other: “The news I received from you cast me down again out of the
regions of happiness. What is the use of saying that you would send
me word when there was to be music again? Am I nothing more than a
musician to you and to others? Nowhere but in my own bosom can I find a
resting-place. Externally, to myself there is none. No, friendship and
feelings like it have only pain for me. Be it so, then. Poor Beethoven,
there is no external happiness for you. You must create your own
happiness. Only in the ideal world do you find friends.” The sketch of
that and Klaerchen’s song _Freudvoll und leidvoll_ were found in the
possession of Theresa Malfatti. When Gleichenstein was engaged, the
feelings of the man who had been so bitterly deceived overflowed. But
how could the young girl of eighteen dare to do what the grave Countess
would not venture? Theresa Brunswick died unmarried. Theresa Malfatti
married, in 1817, one Herr von Drossdick. Nevertheless, Beethoven’s
intercourse with the family continued.
We next hear of his acquaintance with Bettina Brentano which led to his
meeting Goethe in person.
Her brother Francis had married a Miss Birkenstock, of Vienna.
Beethoven had been long and well acquainted with the Birkenstock
family. Bettina Brentano herself was betrothed to Achim von Arnim, and
her deep love of music had inspired her with a genuine affection for
Beethoven. One beautiful day in May, she, in the utmost simplicity
of heart, went, in company with her married sister, Mrs. Savigny, to
Beethoven and met with the very best reception. He sang for her _Kennst
du das Land_, with a sharp and unpleasant voice. Her eyes sparkled.
“Aha!” said Beethoven, “most men are touched by something good. But
such men have not the artist’s nature. Artists are fiery and do not
weep.” He escorted her home to Brentano’s, and after this they met
every day.
Bettina at this time sent Goethe an account of the impression made on
her by Beethoven’s appearance and conversation. Her charming letters
are to be found in the Cotta _Beethovenbuch_. They show how exalted
an idea Beethoven had of his own high calling. She writes: “He feels
himself to be the founder of a new sensuous basis of the intellectual
life of man. He begets the undreamt-of and the uncreated. What can such
a man have to do with the world? Sunrise finds him at his blessed
day’s work, and at sunset he is as busy as at early morning. He forgets
even his daily food. O! Goethe, no Emperor or King is as conscious of
his power and of the fact that all power proceeds from him, as is this
man Beethoven.” And Goethe, who “loved to contemplate and fix in memory
the picture of real genius,” who well knew “that his intellect was
even greater than his genius, and who frequently throws from himself a
luminousness like that of lightning, so that we can scarcely tell, as
we sit in the darkness, from what side the day may break,” invited him
to Carlsbad, whither he was wont to go every year.
The two remarkable letters to Bettina of the 11th of August, 1810,
and the 10th of February, 1811, the autographs of which have since
been found, show us how deeply the heart of our artist was stirred
by love at this time. They are to be found in “Beethoven Letters.” A
work of his composed about this time, the _Quartetto serioso_, op.
95, of October, 1810, throws some light on this love, and yet it
rises far above the pain and the sorrow of the situation in which
he found himself. Heavy thunders announce Vulcan at work; but in the
_finale_, how Beethoven’s giant mind frees itself from itself! The
noble, powerful soaring Trio op. 97 dates from the spring of 1811,
and, especially in the _adagio_, gives evidence of wonderful heartfelt
bliss. But the fact that in this period no other compositions were
written would go to show the influence of bitter experience. It may
be, however, that the commission he received for the plays “The Ruins
of Athens” and “King Stephen,” took up the best portion of his time;
and, besides, the two symphonies had to be finished. The song _An die
Geliebte_ also belongs to this year 1811, as well as the principal
draft of op. 96, the charmingly coquettish sonata for the violin
which was finished in 1812, on the occasion of the visit of the then
celebrated violin player Rode to Vienna.
Beethoven’s work on these two plays took up the summer of 1811, but
they were not put upon the stage until the spring of 1812. At the same
time, an opera was wanted for Vienna. It was the “Ruins of Babylon.”
He also received an invitation to Naples, where Count Gallenberg
was director of the theater. We next find him traveling to Teplitz,
a bathing place, where he formed a more intimate acquaintance with
Varnhagen, Tiedge and Elise von der Recke. Amalie Sebald, a nut-brown
maid of Berlin, twenty-five years of age, was stopping with Elise.
Amalie had a charming voice, and was as remarkable for her intellectual
endowments as for her beauty of physique. Beethoven, spite of his many
disappointments, was greatly taken with her. Her picture is before
us. Her eye betokens intellect and nobility of soul, and her mouth
extreme loveliness. Beethoven subsequently wrote to Tiedge: “Press
the Countess’s hand for me very tenderly, but very respectfully. Give
Amalie a right loving kiss, when no one is looking.” He did not see
Goethe on this occasion. He was at Teplitz again the following year,
when his meeting--of which so much has been said and written--“with
the most precious jewel of the German nation,” as he called Goethe,
when writing to Bettina, occurred. We can here give only the principal
incidents of that event.
The Austrian imperial couple, their daughter, the Empress of France,
the King of Saxony, the Duke of Saxe-Weimar, and a great many Princes
were there. The company already in the place was joined by Goethe, the
jurist Savigny and his brother-in-law, A. von Arnim, together with his
charming wife, Bettina. Beethoven himself writes on the 12th of August,
1812, to his Archduke in Vienna:
“I was in Goethe’s company a great deal.” And the poet, writing
to Zelter, passes the following judgment on Beethoven: “I became
acquainted with Beethoven in Teplitz. His wonderful talent astounded
me. But, unfortunately, he is an utterly untamed character. He is
not, indeed, wrong in finding the world detestable. Still, his
finding it detestable does not make it any more enjoyable either to
himself or to others. But he is very excusable and much to be pitied.
His hearing is leaving him. He is by nature laconic, and this defect
is making him doubly so.”
The remarkable incident related in the third letter to Bettina, a
letter which has been widely read and the authenticity of which
has been much contested--for the original does not seem to be
extant--Bettina herself describes in a letter to Pueckler-Muskau.
Goethe, she says, who had received many marks of attention from the
Princes present, was desirous of testifying his special devotion to
the Empress, and in “solemn, unassuming expressions” signified to
Beethoven that he should do the same. But Beethoven replied: “What! You
must not do so. You must let them clearly understand what they possess
in you; for if you do not, they will never find it out. I have taken
quite a different course.” And then he told how his Archduke once sent
him word to wait, and how, instead of doing so, he went away. Princes
might indeed, he said, decorate one with the insignia of an order, or
make a man a court counsellor, but they could never make a Goethe or a
Beethoven. To such men they owed respect. The whole court now came in.
Beethoven said to Goethe: “Keep my arm; they must make way for us.”
But Goethe left him and stood aside with his hat in his hand, while
Beethoven, with folded arms, went through the midst of them and only
touched his hat. The court party separated to make place for him, and
they had all a friendly greeting for our artist. He stood and waited
at the other end for Goethe, who bowed profoundly as the court party
passed him. Now Beethoven said: “I have waited for you, because I
honor and respect you, as you deserve, but you have done them too much
honor.” Then, it is said, Beethoven ran to them, and told them all that
had happened.
That his behavior, on this occasion, was not by any means dictated
by any over-estimation of himself, but by a deep human feeling of
equality--an equality which the artist finds it harder than any one
else to assert and acquire--the whole course of Beethoven’s life, as
well as his intercourse with people at this bathing place at Teplitz,
proves. He there found Miss Sebald again. A series of very tender
notes written to her tells us of his heartfelt and good understanding
with this refined and clever North German lady, who made greater
allowances for his natural disposition than were wont to be made. He
writes in 1816: “I found one whom, I am sure, I shall never possess.”
His admission that, for five years--that is from 1811,--he had known
a lady to be united to whom he would have esteemed it the greatest
happiness he could have on earth, was made in this same year. But, he
added, that was a happiness not to be thought of; union with her was
an impossibility, a chimera! And yet he closed with the words: “It is
still as it was the first day I saw her. I cannot dismiss the thought
of her from my mind.” He did not know that Amalie Sebald had been the
wife of a councillor of justice named Krause. Again did he give vent to
his feeling in the songs _An die ferne Geliebte_--“to the distant loved
one”--which bear the date; “in the month of April, 1816.”
This was the last time that Beethoven seriously concerned himself
about marriage. Fate would indeed have it that he should soon become a
“father,” but without a wife. Yet no matter what the personal wishes
of our artist through the rest of his life may have been, or what the
wants he felt, his eye was ever fixed on a lofty goal; and it was
in the ideal world that he found his real friends. He finished the
seventh symphony, and after it the eighth, in this fall of 1812. The
coquettish _allegretto scherzando_ of the latter was suggested by
the Maelzl metronome invented a short time before, and the strange
minuet with its proud step is a hit at the high court society whom
Beethoven so solemnly warned that the times of the old regime, when
the principle _l’état c’est moi_ obtained in society, were passed.
These works are clearly expressive of the free and progressive spirit
of a new and better age. It was the seventh symphony especially that,
in the broadest sense, opened to Beethoven himself the hearts of that
age. This symphony helped celebrate the newly-won peace established
by the Congress of Vienna. Beethoven now entered a new stage of
development, and rose to his full height as an artist and a man. Other
works composed by Beethoven during this period are the following: 82
variations (1806-7); _In questa tomba_ (1807); _sonatine_ (op. 79);
variations op. 76 and _Lied aus der Ferne_ (composed 1809); _die laute
Klage_ (probably 1809); Sextett op. 8^b. _Andenken_, _Sehnsucht_ by
Goethe; _der Liebende_, _der Juengling in der Fremde_ (appeared in
1810); three songs by Goethe, op. 83, (composed in 1810); Scotch songs
(commenced in 1810); four ariettes, op. 82, (appeared 1811); trio in
one movement and three _equale_ for four trombones, (composed in 1812)
the latter of which was re-arranged as a dirge for Beethoven’s burial.