1813-1823.
THE MISSA SOLEMNIS AND THE NINTH SYMPHONY.
Resignation--Pecuniary Distress--Napoleon’s Decline--The
Battle-Symphony--Its Success--Beethoven’s Own Estimate of
It--Wellington’s Victory--Strange Conduct--Intellectual
Exaltation--His Picture by Letronne--The Fidelio Before the
Assembled Monarchs--Beethoven the Object of Universal
Attention--Presents from Kings--Works Written in 1814 and
1815--The Liederkreis--Madame von Ertmann--His Nephew--Romulus
and the Oratorio--His “Own Style”--Symphony for London--Commission
from London--Opinion of the English People--His Songs--His Missa
Solemnis--His Own Opinion of It--Its
Completion--Characteristics--The Ninth Symphony.
“Resignation, the most absolute and heartfelt resignation to thy fate!
Thou shouldst not live for thyself, but only for others. Henceforth
there is no happiness for thee, but in thy art. O God, grant me
strength to conquer myself. Nothing should now tie me to life.” With
this cry of the heart, taken _verbatim_ from his diary of 1812,
Beethoven consecrated himself to the noble task which after this he
never lost sight of--of writing “for the honor of the Almighty, the
Eternal, the Infinite.”
The national bankruptcy of Austria did not leave Beethoven unaffected.
It compelled him, besides, to come to the assistance of his sick
brother, Karl. The first thing, therefore, that he felt called upon
to undertake, in order to provide himself with the mere means of
subsistence, was the public representation of his new compositions.
It was not long before an occasion of an extraordinary kind offered,
an occasion which lifted Beethoven’s creations to the dignity of one
of the motive powers of the national life of the period. The star of
Napoleon’s destiny was declining; and the gigantic struggle begun
to bring about the overthrow of the tyrant of Europe, enlisted the
sympathy and active participation of our artist.
“To abandon a great undertaking and to remain as I am! O, what a
difference between the un-industrious life I pictured to myself so
often! O, horrible circumstances which do not suppress my desire to
be thrifty, but which keep one from being so. O, God! O, God! look
down on thy unhappy Beethoven. Let this last no longer as it is.” Thus
did he write in May, 1813, in his diary. Madame Streicher, interested
herself in him in his pecuniary embarrassment, which was so great
that at one time, he did not have so much as a pair of boots to leave
the house in. He writes: “I do not deserve to be in the condition I
am--the most unfortunate of my life.” The payments due him from Kinsky
did not come, because of his sad death, and Prince Lobkowitz’s love of
music and the theater had greatly embarrassed him financially. Even
the giving of a concert which he contemplated had to be abandoned in
consequence of the bad times.
The idea of a journey to London now took possession of him all the
more strongly because of the straits to which he was reduced. This
journey was, doubtless, the “great undertaking” referred to above. It
is deserving of special mention here, because to it we are indebted for
the ninth symphony.
Maelzl, the inventor of the metronome, had built a panharmonicum, and
was anxious to make the journey to London in company with Beethoven.
He had had the burning of Moscow set for his instrument; and he
now wanted a musical representation of the next great event of the
time--Wellington’s victory at Vittoria. He suggested the idea to
Beethoven. Beethoven’s hatred of Napoleon and love of England induced
him to adopt it, and this was the origin of the _Schlachtsymphonie_
(battle-symphony) op. 91. For, in accordance with Maelzl’s proposition,
he elaborated what was at first a trumpeter’s piece into an
instrumental composition. It was performed before a large audience “for
the benefit of the warriors made invalids in the battle of Hanau.”
And--, irony of fate!--a work which Beethoven himself declared to be a
“piece of stupidity,” took the Viennese by storm, and at a bound, made
him very popular in Vienna.
It was performed on the 12th of December, 1813. The applause was
unbounded. All the best artists of the city were with him. Salieri,
Hummel, Moscheles, Schuppanzigh, Mayseder, and even strangers like
Meyerbeer, assisted him. The Seventh Symphony was the ideal foundation
of the entire production, for that symphony was the expression of the
awakening of the heroic spirit of the nation. Anton Schindler, of whom
we have already spoken more than once, and of whom we shall have more
to say in the sequel, as Beethoven’s companion, writes: “All hitherto
dissenting voices, with the exception of a few professors of music,
finally agreed that he was worthy of the laurel crown.” He rightly
calls the production of this piece one of the most important events in
Beethoven’s life; for now the portals of the temple of fame were opened
wide to receive him; and if he had had nothing “nobler or better” than
this to do in life, he certainly would never again feel the want of the
good things of this world.
His next concern was to turn the occasion of the moment to advantage,
to give some concerts with _Wellington’s Victory_, and thus obtain
leisure to work. Pieces from the “Ruins of Athens” also were played
at these concerts. The success of one aria in particular from that
composition suggested to one of the singers of the court-opera the
idea of reviving the _Fidelio_. It then received the form in which
we have it to-day. And what a hold the character of Leonore still
had on our artist’s soul, we learn from the account of the dramatic
poet, Treitschke, who again tried to abridge the text. He had given
expression to the last flash of life in the scene in Florestein’s
dungeon, in the words:
“Und spür’ ich nicht linde, sanft säuselnde Luft?
Und ist nicht mein Grab mir erhellet?
Und seh’, wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft
Sich tröstend zur Seite mir stellet,
Ein Engel, Leonoren, der Gattin so gleich,
Der führt mich zur Freiheit ins himmlische Reich.”
“What I now tell you,” he continues, “will never fade from my memory.
Beethoven came to me in the evening. He read, ran up and down the
room, murmured, growled, as he usually did instead of singing, and
tore open the pianoforte. My wife had frequently begged him in vain to
play. To-day he placed the text before him and began playing wonderful
melodies, which unfortunately no charm could preserve. The hour passed.
Beethoven, however, continued his improvisation. Supper was served but
he would allow no one to disturb him. It grew quite late. He then put
his arms about me and hurried home. A few days after the piece was
finished.”
At this time he wrote to Brunswick: “My kingdom is in the air. My
soul trills as the winds warble;” to Treitschke: “In short I assure
you, the opera will win the crown of martyrdom for me.” Thus Leonore’s
sorrows and victory found expression a second time; for now the
so-called _Fidelio_ overture (E major) was composed. At its performance
on the 23d of May, 1814, Beethoven was after the very first act,
enthusiastically called for and enthusiastically greeted. The applause
increased with every succeeding performance.
Beethoven was now one of the best known characters in Vienna. He
had, even before this, given several concerts of his own, and at
several others music composed by him had been performed. His picture
by Letronne appeared at this time. “It is as natural as life,” said
Dr. Weissenbach. He had, on the 26th of September, received with his
music of the _Fidelio_, the assemblage of monarchs who had come to
attend the Congress of Vienna; and what was more natural than that
he should now greet them with something new in the nature of festal
music? He did this with the cantata, _der Glorreiche Augenblick_
(“the glorious moment”) op. 136. The production of it took place
in the ever memorable Academy, on the 29th of November, 1814, when
Beethoven, before a “parterre of kings,” and what was more, before
the educated of Europe, by the mere assistance of his art, helped
celebrate the solemn moment which did away with oppression and tyranny
and marked the beginning of a new and happier period. His audience
was numbered by thousands, and “the respectful absence of all loud
signs of applause gave the whole the character of worship. Every one
seemed to feel that never again would there be such a moment in his
life.” This extract is from Schindler’s account, yet, at certain places
“the ecstasy of all present found expression in the loudest applause,
applause which drowned the powerful accompaniment of the composer.” The
_Schlachtsymphonie_ (battle-symphony) as well as the seventh symphony,
contributed to the achievement of this victory. After it was over, he
wrote to the archduke: “I am still exhausted by fatigue, vexation,
pleasure and joy.” But to get an idea of the overpowering impression
made on him by those days, we must refer to his diary of the following
spring, when all that he had then experienced took a definite form in
his feelings and consciousness. He then writes:
“May all my life be sacrificed to the sublime. May it be a sanctuary
of art.... Let me live, even if I have to have recourse to
‘assistance,’ and such means can be found. Let the ear apparatus be
perfected if possible, and then travel! This you owe to man and the
Almighty. Only thus can you develop what is locked up within you.
The court of a prince, a little orchestra to write music for, and to
produce it, for the honor of the Almighty, the Eternal, the Infinite.
Thus may my last years pass away, and to future humanity....”
He breaks off here as if he did not need to express an opinion on what
he aimed at achieving and left after him as an inheritance. But the
reputation which he had acquired is correctly described as “one of
the greatest ever won by a musician.” And now, more than ever before,
he was the object of universal attention, especially at the brilliant
entertainments given by the Russian ambassador, count Rasumowsky, to
the monarchs present, on one of which occasions he was presented to
them. The Empress of Russia wished to pay him a special “compliment.”
She did so at the palace of Archduke Rudolph, who thus helped
celebrate the triumph of his honored teacher. At a court concert on
the 25th of January, 1815, he accompanied the _Adelaide_ for Florestan
Wild himself; and Schindler closes his account of it with the words:
“The great master recalled those days with much feeling, and with a
certain pride once said that he had made the great pay their court to
him, and that with them he had always preserved his dignity.” He thus
verified what, as we saw alone, he had said to Goethe: “You must let
them clearly understand what they possess in you.”
The “assistance” he longed for came in the form of presents from
monarchs, especially of the “magnanimous” one of the Empress of Russia,
for whom he, at that time, wrote the polonaise, op. 89. These presents
enabled him to make a permanent investment of twenty thousand marks,
which his friends were very much surprised to find he owned, after
his death. But, although by “decree” he drew yearly the sum of 2,700
marks, his principal source of income continued to be derived from his
intellectual labor; for his dearly beloved brother Karl died and left
him, as an inheritance, so to speak, his eight-year-old son, named
after his father--the mother not being a fit person to take care of the
child, and, besides, not enjoying the best of reputations. Beethoven’s
struggles for his “son,” _the unfortunate nephew_, with the mother,
whom he was wont to call the “queen of the night,” filled the next
succeeding years of his life with legal controversies and negotiations
to such an extent that they seem to have hindered him in his work.
Extreme trouble of mind, brought about by the social and political
degeneration of Vienna immediately after the Congress, soon entirely
obscured the lustre of the days we have just described; and it was
only for short moments of time, as on the occasion of the celebrated
concert of the year 1824, that we see his old pride and fame revive.
The works performed at that concert were the _Missa Solemnis_ and the
Ninth Symphony. The former was a token of gratitude and devotion to the
Archduke Rudolph, but at the same time a reflection of the soul of the
artist himself as we have heard him describe it above. The symphony
was written “for London;” whither in these saddening times his eyes
were directed, and which, although he never undertook the contemplated
journey thither, became the incentive to the composition of many
important works.
Among the works which date from 1814 and 1815, we may mention the
sonata, op. 90, a “struggle between the head and the heart,” addressed
in the summer of 1814 to Count Moritz Lichnowsky on the occasion of his
marriage to a Vienna singer; the song _Merkenstein_ (op. 100), composed
in the winter of 1814; Tiedge’s _Hoffnung_ (op. 94), composed after
the last court concert for the singer Wild; the chorus _Meeresstille
und Glueckliche Fahrt_ (op. 112), which was written in 1815, and in
1822, “most respectfully dedicated to the immortal Goethe;” lastly, the
magnificent cello sonatas, op. 102, dedicated to Countess Erdoedy, who
became reconciled with him once more during this winter, after there
had been a variance between them for a time. He calls the first of
these sonatas the “free sonata,” and, indeed, freedom now became the
characteristic of his higher artistic pictures. The _adagio_ of the
second discloses to us, in the choral-like construction of its theme,
the prevailing religious direction taken by his thoughts, which is also
apparent in very many expressions and quotations to be found in his
diary.
We have already mentioned the _Liederkreis_, op. 98. Beethoven worked
at it and at the sonata op. 101 at the same time. The latter, an
expression of the deepest poetry of the soul, was ready the following
year, and was dedicated to Madame von Ertmann, his “dear Dorothea
Caecilia,” who, because she thoroughly understood the meaning of
Beethoven’s music, became a real propagandist of his compositions for
the piano. In 1831, Mendelssohn could say that he had “learned much”
from her deeply expressive execution. The noble lady had lost her only
son during the absence of her husband in the wars of emancipation;
and Beethoven had rescued her from a condition of mind bordering on
melancholy, by coming to her and playing for her until she burst into
tears. “The spell was broken.” “We finite creatures with an infinite
mind are born only for suffering and for joy; and we might almost say
that the best of human kind obtain joy only through their sorrow.”
Thus spoke Beethoven to Countess Erdoedy, and this little incident
confirms its truth. His own sufferings gave our artist the tones of his
musical creations, and these creations were to him “the dearest gift of
heaven,” and, as it were, a consolation from on high.
But to continue our biography.
When, after a violent contest with the mother, he was made sole
guardian of his nephew, and could then call him his own, he seems, as a
lady whose diary is embodied in the little book _Eine stille Liebe zu
Beethoven_, informs us, to gain new life. He devoted himself heart and
soul to the boy, and he wrote, or was unable to write, according as the
care of his nephew brought him joy or sorrow. We can readily understand
how it came to pass that he now penned the words found by the lady
just mentioned, in a memorandum book of his: “My heart overflows at
the aspect of the beauties of nature--and this without her.” His
“distant loved one” was still to him the most valued possession of his
life--more to him, even, than himself.
He had now in view several great projects--among them an opera,
_Romulus_, by Treitschke, and an oratorio for the recently founded
“Society of the Friends of Music,” in Vienna. The latter failed,
through the niggardliness of the directors, and the former was not
finished, although our artist never gave up the intention of completing
it. In the autumn of 1816, an English general, Kyd, asked Beethoven to
write a symphony, for two hundred ducats. But as the general wanted it
written in the style of his earlier works, Beethoven himself refused to
accept the commission. Yet this narrow English enthusiast had excited
Beethoven’s imagination with glowing accounts of the harvest of profit
he might reap in England, and as Beethoven had recently sold many
of his works there, and as, besides, the new “Philharmonic Society”
had handsomely remunerated him for these overtures, his intention
of crossing the Channel began to assume a more definite form. His
_Schlachtsymphonie_ (battle-symphony), especially, had already met
with a very flattering reception in England. And a project was on foot
in that country, even now, to give him a “benefit” by the production
of his own works; and such a “benefit” was actually given for him
there when he was on his death-bed. He wrote in 1816 that it would
flatter him to be able to write some new works, such as symphonies and
an oratorio, for the Society which embraced a greater number of able
musicians than almost any other in Europe.
His diary covering this period to 1818, published in the work _Die
Beethovenfeier und die deutsche Kunst_, because of the many items of
interest it has in it, contains these characteristic lines: “Drop
operas and everything else. Write only in your own style.” But even
the sketches of the Seventh Symphony had the remark accompanying them:
“2. Symphony in D minor,” and those of the eighth: “Symphony in D
minor--3. Symphony.” Belonging to the years succeeding 1812, we find
drafts of the _scherzo_ of the Ninth Symphony. The headings above given
undoubtedly had reference to this last, but the sketches of the first
movement, decisive of the character of such a work, are not to be found
until the year 1816, but then they are found with the physiognomy so
masculine and so full of character which distinguishes this “symphony
for London.” He once said of Englishmen that they were, for the most
part, “clever fellows;” and he--of whom Zelter wrote to Goethe, that
“he must have had a man for his mother”--felt that, in England, he,
as a man, had to do with men, and, as an artist, to enter the list
with Handel, whose own powerful influence was due to his decided
manfulness of character. And then, had not England produced a tragic
poet like Shakespeare, whom Beethoven loved above all others? Deep,
tragic earnestness, and a masculine struggle with fate, are here the
fundamental tone and design of the whole. “And then a cowl when thou
closest thy unhappy life”--such is the conclusion of the lines quoted
above, in which he says that he must write “only in his own style.”
And now, in July, 1817, came from London the “direct commission” he had
so long endeavored to obtain. The Society desired to send him a proof
of their esteem and gratitude for the many happy moments his works had
given them to enjoy, and invited him to come to London to write two
great symphonies, promising him an honorarium of three hundred pounds
sterling. Beethoven immediately accepted the commission, and assured
them that he would do his very best to execute it--honorable as it was
to him, and coming as it did from so select a society of artists--in
the worthiest manner possible. He promised to go to work immediately.
“He believed that he could nowhere receive the distinction which his
gigantic genius--in advance of his age by several centuries--deserved,
as he could in Great Britain. The respect shown him by the English
people, he valued more than that of all Europe besides. The feeling he
had of his own powers may, indeed, have contributed to make him prefer
the English nation to all others, especially as they showered so many
marks of distinction on him.” Thus writes one of his most intimate
friends in Vienna, Baron Von Zmeskall, already mentioned; and certain
it is that he did his very best on this work. It, as well as the
symphony in C minor, is of the true Beethoven type--more so, perhaps,
than any other of his works--the full picture of his own personal
existence and of the tragedy of human life in general. This work was
followed by the Tenth Symphony, the “poetical idea,” at least, of
which we know. The first movement was intended to represent a “feast of
Bacchus,” the _adagio_ a _cantique ecclesiastique_, a church hymn, and
the _finale_ the reconciliation of the antique world, which he esteemed
so highly with the spirit of Christianity, into the full depth of which
he came to have a deeper insight every day that passed. We see that he
had lofty plans, and that no poet ever soared to sublimer heights than
he. We must bear these great plans and labors of Beethoven in mind if
we would rightly understand his subsequent life--if we would comprehend
how, in the desolate and distracted existence he was compelled
henceforth to lead, he did not become a victim of torpidity, but that,
on the contrary, the elasticity of his genius grew greater and greater,
and that his creations gained both in depth and perfection.
Thus do we see with our own eyes at least one of his works born of his
own life.
The songs _Ruf von Berge_ and _So oder so_, were composed in the winter
of 1816-17; and in the following spring, after the sudden death of one
of his friends, the chorus _Rasch tritt der Tod_, from Schiller’s
Tell. “O God, help me! Thou seest me forsaken by all mankind. O hard
fate, O cruel destiny! No, no, no, my unhappy condition will never
end. Thou hast no means of salvation but to leave here. Only by so
doing canst thou rise to the height of thy art. Here thou art immersed
in vulgarity. Only one symphony, and then away, away, away!” Thus
does he write in his diary. He next, in 1817, finished the quintet
fugue, op. 137, and, in 1818, the great sonata for the Hammer-clavier,
op. 106. The _adagio_ of the latter is the musical expression of
earnest prayer to God. Its first movement shows how he had soared
once more to the heights of his art. “The sonata was written under
vexatious circumstances,” he says to his friend Ries; and to a younger
fellow-artist, the composer Schnyder von Wartensee: “Go on. There is
no calmer, more unalloyed or purer joy than that which arises from
ascending higher and higher into the heaven of art.” Such, too, was
his mood in those days when he promised his friend Zmeskall the trio
for the piano in C minor, his op. 1, worked over into the quintet op.
104; for he wrote: “I rehearse getting nearer the grave, without
music, every day.” In keeping with this is the song, _Lisch aus, mein
Licht_, “Put out my light,” which also belongs to this period. The
supplication: “O hear me always, Thou unspeakable One, hear me, thy
unhappy creature, the most unfortunate of all mortals,” found in his
diary, belongs to this same time. It is now easy to see that he was in
a very suitable frame of mind when he resolved, in 1818, to write a
solemn mass for the occasion of the inauguration of his distinguished
pupil as Archbishop of Olmutz. It was the “little court,” the “little
orchestra” for which he wished to write the music “for the honor of
the Almighty, the Eternal, the Infinite;” for the Archduke thought of
making him his _capellmeister_ there. After four years’ labor, the
_Missa Solemnis_, op. 123, was finished. Beethoven called it “_l’œuvre
le plus accompli_, my most finished work.” And, like the _Fidelio_, it
is deserving of this characterization, but more on account of the pains
taken with it and the labor expended on it than of its matter.
“Sacrifice again all the trivialties of social life to thy art. O, God
above all! For Providence eternal omnisciently orders the happiness
or unhappiness of mortal men.” With these words from the Odyssey, he
resolved to consecrate himself to this great work. And it was a resolve
in very deed. For, as in opera, he knew that he was here bound by
traditionary forms--forms which, indeed, in some details afforded rich
food to his own thoughts, but which, on the whole, hindered the natural
flow of his fancy. We now approach a period in Beethoven’s life in
which he was strangely secluded from the world. The painter, Kloeber,
the author of the best known portrait of Beethoven, and which is to
be found in _Beethoven’s Brevier_--it was painted during the summer
of 1818--once saw him throw himself under a fir tree and look for a
longtime “up into the heavens.” In some of the pages of his written
conversations--for it was now necessary for him to have recourse to
putting his conversations on paper more frequently on account of his
increasing deafness--he wrote in the winter of 1819-20: “Socrates and
Jesus were patterns to me;” and after that: “The moral law within us
and the starry heavens above us.--Kant!!!” Just as on the 4th of March,
1820, he wrote:
“Ernte bald an Gottes Thron
Meiner Leiden schoenen Lohn.”
This was the time of the struggles with the mother of his “son” and of
the heartfelt sorrow he had to endure on account of the moral ruin of
the poor boy himself, who, always going from the one to the other, did
not really know to whom he belonged, and who, therefore, deceived both.
“From the heart--may it in turn appeal to hearts!” He wrote these words
on the score of the mass; and Schindler, who was now his companion,
says that “the moment he began this work his whole nature seemed to
change.” He would sit in the eating-house sunk in deep thought, forget
to order his meals, and then want to pay for them. “Some say he is
a fool,” wrote Zelter to Goethe in 1819. And Schindler tells us “he
actually seemed possessed in those days, especially when he wrote the
fugue and the _Benedictus_.” That fugue, _Et vitam senturi_ (life
everlasting!) is the climax of the work, since the depiction of the
imperishableness and inexhaustibleness of Being was what Beethoven’s
powerful mind was most used to. The wonderful _Benedictus_, (Blessed
is he who cometh in the name of the Lord) whose tones seem to float
down from heaven to earth, the bestowal of help from on high, was
subsequently the model used by Wagner for his descent of the Holy
Grail, the symbol of divine grace, in the prelude to the _Lohengrin_.
“When I recall his state of mental excitement, I must confess that I
never before, and never after this period of his complete forgetfulness
of earth, observed anything like it in him.” So says Schindler. They
had gone to visit him in Baden, near by, whither he repaired in the
interest of his health, and where he loved so well to “wander through
the quiet forest of firs” and think out his works. It was four o’clock
in the afternoon. The door was closed, and they could hear him
“singing, howling, stamping” at the fugue. After they had listened to
this “almost horrible” scene, the door opened, and Beethoven stood
before them, with trouble depicted on his countenance. He looked as
if he had just gone through a struggle of life and death. “Pretty
doings here; everybody is gone, and I have not eaten a morsel since
yesterday noon,” he said. He had worked the previous evening until
after midnight; and so the food had grown cold and the servants left in
disgust.
His work assumed greater and greater dimensions as he himself gradually
rose to the full height of the subject. He no longer thought of
completing it for the installation ceremonies. It became a grand fresco
painting--a symphony in choruses on the words of the mass. He now
began to work more calmly, and to compose at intervals other works,
in order to quiet his over-excited mind and to earn a living for his
“dear” nephew. And thus, while he was composing his mass, he produced
not only the _Variirten Themen_, op. 105 and 107, which Thompson, of
Edinburg--who had sent Beethoven the Scotch songs like op. 108 to be
arranged--had ordered, but also the three _Last Sonatas_, op. 109,
dedicated to Bettina’s niece, Maximiliane Brentano, to whose excellent
father he was indebted for ready assistance during these years of his
pecuniary embarrassment; also op. 110, which was finished at Christmas,
1821, as op. 111 was on the 13th of January, 1822. It is said that
he entertained a higher opinion himself of these sonatas than of his
previous ones. They are greatly superior, however, only in some of
their movements; and they are written in the grand, free style of that
period, especially the _arietta_ in the last opus, the variations of
which are real pictures of his own soul. In the intervals between
them, however, we find some trifles such as the _Bagatellen_, op. 119,
which his pecuniary condition made it imperative he should compose,
since, “as a brave knight by his sword, he had to live by his pen.”
And even the “_33 Veraenderungen_” (variations), op. 120, on the works
of Diabelli, of the year 1822-23, are more the intellectual play of
the inexhaustible fancy of an artist than the work of the genuine
gigantic creative power which Beethoven undoubtedly possessed. He had
overtaxed his strength working on the mass, and thus exhausted it for
a moment. The two chorus-songs, op. 121^b and op. 122, the _Opferlied_
and _Bundeslied_, which date from the year 1822-23, bear the stamp of
occasional compositions, which they, in fact, are.
But in the meantime the lion had roused himself again. He now only
needed to give the finishing touch to the Mass, and in the spring of
1823 the entire work was completed. The summer of 1822 found him fully
engaged on the composition of that monument to his genius, the Ninth
Symphony. Freedom from the torment of exhausting labor, and the entire
surrender of himself to “his own style,” gave his fancy back its old
elasticity and all its productive power. Scarcely any year of his life
was more prolific of works than this year 1822.
“Our Beethoven seems again to take a greater interest in music, which,
since the trouble with his hearing began to increase, he avoided almost
as a woman-hater avoids the sex. To the great pleasure of all, he
improvised a few tunes in a most masterly manner.” Thus do we read in
the Leipzig _Musikzeitung_, in the spring of 1822, and the Englishman,
John Russell, gives us a charming description of such an evening in
the Cotta _Beethovenbuch_. Weisse’s droll poem, _Der Kuss_ (the kiss)
op. 128, is found among the serious sketches of this year. And now he
received a whole series of commissions. An English captain, named
Reigersfeld, wanted a quartet, and Breitkopf and Haertel an operatic
poem worthy of his art, before he “hung up his harp forever.” Others
asked for other kinds of music. “In short,” he writes to his brother
Johann, “people are fighting to get works from me, happy, unhappy
man that I am. If my health is good, I shall yet be able to feather
my nest.” Friederich Rochlitz brought him, too, a commission from
Breitkopf and Haertel to write “music for Faust.” Rochlitz gives us a
very interesting account of Beethoven’s appearance and whole mode of
life at this time. Not Beethoven’s neglected, almost savage exterior,
he says, not his bushy black hair, which hung bristling about his head,
would have stirred him; what stirred him was the whole appearance of
the deaf man who, notwithstanding his infirmity, brought joy to the
hearts of millions--pure, intellectual joy. But when he received the
commission, he raised his hand high up and exclaimed: “That might be
worth while. But I have been intending for some time to write three
other great works--two great symphonies, very different from each
other, and an oratorio. I shudder at the thought of beginning works of
such magnitude. But once engaged on them, I shall find no difficulty.”
He spoke of the Ninth Symphony, to which he had now begun to give the
finishing touches, in all earnestness.
This was interrupted for a short time by the overture, _Zur Weihe des
Hauses_ (op. 124), for the opening of the renovated Josephstadt theater
with the “Ruins of Athens,” of 1812. It is the portal to the temple
in which art is praised as something consecrated to the service of
mankind--as a thing which may lift us for blissful moments into the
region of the purifying and elevating influences of higher powers.
Even in this work, which dates from September, 1822, we may hear the
solemn sound and rhythm of the Ninth Symphony. And, indeed, after a
memorandum on the “Hungarian Story,” we find in the sketches of it the
words, “Finale, _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_,” together with the
wonderfully simple melody itself, which sounds to humanity’s better
self like the music of its own redemption. Beethoven’s own nature was
deeply moved at this time. Weber’s _Freischuetz_, with Wilhelmine
Schroeder, afterwards so celebrated, had excited the greatest
enthusiasm. Rossini’s reception in Vienna was “like an opeotheosis;”
and Beethoven was determined to let the light of his genius shine
forth, which he could do only by writing a work “in his own style.”
The world was “his for another evening,” and he was anxious to turn
that evening to account. And, indeed, had he not a world of sorrows
to paint--sorrows which actual life had brought to him? He had also a
world of joys--joys vouchsafed to him by his surrendering of himself to
a higher life.
An incident which occurred during this fall of 1822 tells us
something of this gloomy night of his personal existence. Young
Schroeder-Devrient, encouraged by her success with _Pamina_ and
_Agathe_, had chosen the _Fidelio_ for her benefit, and Beethoven
himself was to wield the baton. Schindler tells us how, even during
the first scene of the opera, everything was in confusion, but that
no one cared to utter the saddening words: “It’s impossible for you,
unfortunate man.” Schindler finally, in response to Beethoven’s
own questioning, wrote something to that effect down. In a trice,
Beethoven leaped into the parterre, saying only: “Quick, out of here!”
He ran without stopping to his dwelling, threw himself on the sofa,
covered his face with his two hands, and remained in that position
until called to table. But, even at table, he did not utter a word. He
sat at it, the picture of the deepest melancholy. Schindler’s account
of the incident closes thus: “In all my experience with Beethoven,
this November day is without a parallel. It mattered not what
disappointments or crosses misfortune brought him, he was ill-humored
only for moments, sometimes depressed. He would, however, soon be
himself again, lift his head proudly, walk about with a firm step, and
rule in the workshop of his genius. But he never fully recovered from
the effect of this blow.”
The performance itself brought out, for the first time, in all its
completeness, musico-dramatic art, in the representation of the scene,
“Kill first his wife.” Richard Wagner, who has so highly developed this
musico-dramatic art, admits that he acquired the real idea of plastic
shaping for the stage from Schroeder-Devrient. To it, also, Beethoven,
owed it that he was invited, during the same winter (1822-23), to
compose a new opera. It was Grillparzer’s _Melusine_, but the intention
to compose it was never carried into effect.
We have now reached the zenith of the life of Beethoven as an artist.
Besides the Ninth Symphony, he finished only the five last quartets
which beam in their numerous movements like “the choir of stars about
the sun.” The welcome incentive to the composition of these last came
to him just at this time from the Russian, Prince Gallitizin, who gave
him a commission to write them, telling him at the same time to ask
what remuneration he wished for his work. But the Symphony filled up
the next following year, 1823. Nothing else, except the “fragmentary
ideas” of the _Bagatellen_, op. 126, engaged him during that time.
“To give artistic form only to what we wish and feel, that most
essential want of the nobler of mankind,” it is, as he wrote himself to
the Archduke at this time, that distinguishes this mighty symphony, and
constitutes, so to speak, the sum and substance of his own life and
intuition. This symphony was soon connected in popular imagination with
Goethe’s Faust, as representing the tragic course of human existence.
And when we hear in mind how closely related just here the musician was
to the poet, this interpretation of the work, given first by Richard
Wagner on the occasion of its presentation in 1846 in Dresden, seems
entirely warranted. What was there of which life had not deprived him?
The words it had always addressed to him were these words from Faust:
_Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren_ (renounce thou must, thou must
renounce). He now wished to paint a full picture of this vain struggle
with relentless fate in tones, and what he had just gone through in
his own experience enabled him to do it in living colors. All the
recollections of his youth crowded upon him. There were the “pretty
lively blonde” whom he had met in Bonn; Countess Giulietta, who had a
short time before returned to Bonn with her husband; and his “distant
loved one” in Berlin! A promenade through the lovely Heiligenstadt
valley, in the spring of 1823, brought to his mind anew pictures of
the reconciling power of nature, as well as of the _Pastorale_ and
the C minor symphony. He was now able to form an idea of their common
meaning, and to put an interpretation on them very different from his
first idea and first interpretation of them. He began to have a much
deeper insight into the ultimate questions and enigmas of existence.
But, all of a sudden, his humor left him. He refused to receive any
visitors. “Samothracians, come not here; bring no one to me,” he wrote
to Schindler, from the scene of his quiet life in the country. What
had never happened before, even when he was in the highest stages of
intellectual exaltation, now came to pass: he repeatedly returned from
his wanderings through the woods and fields without his hat. “There is
nothing higher than to approach nearer to the Deity than other men, and
from such proximity to spread the rays of the Deity among the human
race.” In these words, directed to the Archduke Rudolph, he summed
up his views of his art and what he wished to accomplish in it. It
was everything to him--a language, consolation, admonition, light and
prophecy.
This we learn most clearly from the Ninth Symphony, which he finished
at this time, in Baden.
From the dark abyss of nothing arises the Will, infinite Will: and with
it the struggles and the sorrow of life. But it is no longer personal
sorrow--for what is personal sorrow compared with the sorrow of the
world as known to a great mind, experienced by a great heart?--it
is the struggle for a higher existence which we “mortals have to
engage in against the infinite spirit.” “Many a time did I curse my
Creator because he has made his creatures the victims of the merest
accidents.” Cries of anguish and anger like this--the cries of great
souls whose broad vision is narrowed by the world, and whose powerful
will is hampered--find utterance here. “I shall take fate by the
jaws,” he says again, and how immense is the struggle as well as the
consciousness of a higher, inalienable possession, which lives as a
promise in the breasts of all! Such blows, murmurs, prayers, longings,
such despair; and then, again, such strength and courage after trial,
had never before been expressed in music. In the Ninth Symphony, we
hear the voices of the powers which through all ages have been the
makers of history; of the powers which preserve and renovate the life
of humanity; and so the Will, the Intellect, man, after a terrible
effort and concentration of self, stands firmly before us, bold and
clear-eyed--for Will is the world itself.
But when we see the man Beethoven, we find him divided against himself.
We have often heard him say that he found the world detestable; and
we shall again hear him express his opinion on that subject plainly
enough, in this his work.
In the second movement, which he himself calls only _allegro vivace_,
and which, indeed, is no _scherzo_, not even a Beethoven-like one, but
rather a painting, we have a dramatic picture of the earthly world
in the whirl of its pleasures, from the most ingenuous joy of mere
existence--such as he himself frequently experienced in such fullness
that he leaped over chairs and tables--to the raging, uncontrollable
Bacchanalian intoxication of enjoyment. But we have in it also a fresco
painting of the “dear calmness of life,” of joy in the existing, of
exultation and jubilation as well as of the demoniacal in sensuous
life and pleasure. But what nutriment and satisfaction this splendid
symphony affords to a noble mind! It carries such a man from the arms
of pleasure to “the stars,” from art to nature, from appearance to
reality.
This ideal kingdom of the quiet, sublime order of the world, which
calms our minds and senses, and expresses our infinite longings,
is heard in the _adagio_ of the work. And when, in an incomparably
poetical union to the quiet course of the stars and to the eternally
ordered course of things, the longing, perturbed human heart is
contrasted by a second melody, with a wealth of inner beauty never
before imagined, we at last see the soul, so to speak, disappear
entirely before itself, dissolved in the sublimity of the All. The
steps of time, expressed by the rhythm of the final chords, sound like
the death knell of the human heart. Its wants and wishes are silenced
in the presence of such sublimity, and sink to naught.
But the world is man, is the heart, and wants to live, to live! And
so here the final echo is still the longing, sounding tones of human
feeling.
Beethoven himself tells us the rest of the development of this powerful
tragedy, and thus confirms the explanation of it we have given, as
well as the persistence of ultimate truth in his own heart; for in
it we find--after the almost raging cry of all earthly existence in
the orchestral storm of the beginning of the _finale_, which was even
then called a “feast of scorn at all that is styled human joy”--in the
sketches, as text to the powerful recitatives of the contra-bassos:
“No, this confusion reminds us of our despairing condition. This is a
magnificent day. Let us celebrate it with song.” And then follows the
theme of the first movement: “O no, it is not this; it is something
else that I am craving.” “The will and consciousness of man are at
variance the one with the other, and the cause of man’s despairing
situation.” Next comes the _motive_ for the _scherzo_: “Nor is it
this thing either; it is but merriness and small talk”--the trifles
of sensuous pleasure. Next comes the theme of the _adagio_: “Nor
is it this thing either,” and thereupon the words: “I myself shall
sing--music must console us, music must cheer us;” and then the
melody, _Freude schoener Goetterfunken_, is heard, expressive of the
newly-won peace of the soul, descriptive of human character in the
full beauty of its simplicity and innocence restored. Beethoven knew
from what depths of human nature music was born, and what its ultimate
meaning to mankind is.
We are made to experience this more fully still by the continuation
of the _finale_ which represents the solution of the conflict of this
tragedy of life. For the “joy” that is here sung plainly springs from
its only pure and lasting source, from the feeling of all-embracing
love--that feeling which, as religion, fills the heart. The _Ihr
stuerzt nieder, Millionen_ is the foundation, the germ (to express
it in the language of music of double counterpoint) of the _Seid
umschlungen, Millionen_, and then the whole sings of joy as the
transfiguration of the earthly world by eternal love. The will can
accomplish nothing greater than to sacrifice itself for the good of the
whole. To our great artist, the greatest and most wonderful phenomenon
in the world was not the conqueror but the overcomer of the world; and
he knew that this spirit of love cannot die.
This is celebrated by the _finale_ as the last consequence of the
“struggle with fate,” of man’s life-struggle. Is it claiming too much
to say that out of the spirit of this music a “new civilization” and
an existence more worthy of human beings might be developed, since it
leads us back to the foundation and source of civilization and human
existence--to religion? Beethoven was one of those great minds who have
added to the intellectual possessions of our race in regions which
extend far beyond the merely beautiful in art. When we bear this in
mind, we can understand why he wanted to write a tenth symphony as
the counterpart and final representation of these highest conceptions
of the nature and goal of our race. This tenth symphony he intended
should transfigure the merely humanly beautiful of the antique world
in the light of the refined humanity of modern ideas--the earthly in
the light of the heavenly. And we may understand, too, what we are told
of himself, that as soon as cheerfulness beamed in his countenance,
it shed about him all the charms of childlike innocence. “When he
smiled,” we are told, “people believed not only in him, but in
humanity.” Occasionally there would blossom on his lips a smile which
those who saw could find no other word to describe but “heavenly.” So
full was his heart of hearts of the highest treasure of humanity.
We shall see how the last quartets, which follow now, represent
this, his sublime transfigured condition of soul, in the most varied
pictures, and disclose it to the very bottom.
Of works composed during this period, we may mention: March to
“Tarpeja” and the _Bardengeist_ composed in 1813; _Gute Nachricht_,
_Elegischer Gesang_, _Kriegers Abschied_, composed in 1814; Duos
for the clarionette and bassoon, which appeared in 1815; _Es ist
vollbracht_, _Sehnsucht_, Scotch songs, composed in 1815; _Der Mann
von Wort_, op. 99. _Militaermarsch_, composed in 1816; quintet op. 104
(after op. 1, III), composed in 1817; _Clavierstueck_ in B, composed
in 1818; _Gratulations-menuet_, composed in 1822. It will be noticed
that the number of his works grows steadily smaller according as their
volume or their depth of meaning grows greater. This last will be
evident especially from his subsequent quartets which, so to speak,
stand entirely alone.