but in his behavior toward other people. One day he was invited by an
old, wealthy Countess to a reception which she gave in honor of Prince
Louis Ferdinand of Prussia.[28] Beethoven accepted the invitation, for
he highly esteemed the Prince, with whom he was personally acquainted
and of whom he once said: “He plays the piano not like a Prince, but
like a correct, skilful musician.” There was music, and the Prince was
friendly and unconstrained in his intercourse with Beethoven. When they
were invited to supper Beethoven noticed that the haughty old Countess
had arranged to serve the Prince and certain gentlemen of the higher
nobility at a special table. He arose in a rage, uttered some coarse
expressions about the “old fool,” put on his hat, turned his back upon
the whole company, and rushed out like the thundering Jupiter.
All the greater was his delight when the Prince shortly afterwards
compensated him in a most satisfactory manner. The Prince gave a dinner
of state a few days later, to which, besides Beethoven, the “old fool”
and the guests of the previous evening were invited. When they went to
the table he seated Beethoven at his right hand and the old Countess at
his left. Beethoven at last was contented, and chatted with the Prince
during the dinner in the most agreeable manner.
Beethoven cordially despised what is called etiquette, and he neither
could nor would submit to the etiquette of the royal court. The Archduke
Rudolph[29] had prevailed upon Beethoven, though he was very unwilling
to do it, to give him lessons on the piano and in composition. He highly
esteemed the Prince, and on that account faithfully performed his “court
service,” as he called his lessons to the Archduke, but submission to
instructions from the court chamberlain, who tried to make him observe
the formalities of etiquette, was far from his intentions. The
chamberlain, however, did not relax his efforts to instruct him in the
regulations, and made all sorts of signs to him, until at last
Beethoven’s patience was completely worn out.
One day, when the chamberlain attempted to give him a stricter lesson
than usual, Beethoven said in a violent tone: “Sir, follow me to the
Archduke’s room. I am sick of your everlasting court chamberlaining and
will make an end of it, once for all.”
The chamberlain’s face grew a yard long at Beethoven’s order to go to
the Archduke, as well as at his furious tone. He indignantly refused to
obey the sharp command, and Beethoven might perhaps have been still more
vociferous had not the Archduke himself, who had heard the dispute,
opened the door at that instant and come out of his room.
“What is going on here?” he asked, astonished at the wrathful expression
on Beethoven’s face.
“Herr Archduke, I have the utmost possible respect for Your Royal
Highness, but if I am expected to obey all the orders and instructions
the court chamberlain is continually pestering me with, then I must give
up coming here any more, for I don’t care about such trifles.”
The Archduke smiled good-naturedly and then turned with a serious
countenance to his chamberlain.
“I must request you,” he said, “to let Herr van Beethoven go his own way
undisturbed. He is my teacher, and I regard myself simply as his pupil.
I consider it an honor to be one.”
The chamberlain of course accepted this suggestion in silence, and
concealed his chagrin in a low bow. Beethoven did not again have cause
to complain of him. The chamberlain always kept out of his way if he
could. It was not, however, silly caprice and obstinacy which made
Beethoven so haughty, but simply the consciousness of his own greatness,
which made him feel himself a peer of all the great ones of the earth.
He would never humble himself, and he would not be humbled by any one
else; hence at times his justifiable haughtiness of manner.
His outward circumstances improved every year that he spent in Vienna.
In 1792 he had the opportunity to avail himself of instruction by Haydn
and others, which greatly assisted his artistic progress. Eight years
later he had composed famous works, and was justly ranked as one of the
first masters in his art, whose star of glory shone not less brilliantly
than those of Mozart and Haydn. He visited in the highest circles of
Vienna society, and was on friendly terms with the most distinguished
members of the aristocracy of the Austrian capital. Notwithstanding
this, his manner of life was extremely simple; but he was somewhat
peculiar in his personal habits. A description of one day in his life
will give the reader some idea of his habits.
It is a fine summer day. As the first rays of the sun stream into his
chamber, Beethoven springs from his bed and rushes to the basin to wash
in cool, fresh water. A bath was an absolute necessity to him. He pours
one pitcherful after another over his head and hands, and indulges so
freely in this refreshment that he does not notice the wash-basin is
running over. In a few minutes the floor is inundated, so that he is
standing in the water like a duck. He no longer thinks of the bath. His
head being refreshed, he begins composing, and while thus engaged
continually pours streams of water over his body, at the same time
roaring and humming to himself—for he had no voice for singing—in a way
that would have made a dog run. His old housekeeper in the outer room
hears the noise and knows from experience what it all means. She pounds
on the door with both fists and cries: “Alas! Herr van Beethoven! Herr
van Beethoven!”
“What is the matter?” he thunders back from his room.
“You will flood all Vienna if you go on in this way.”
Now, for the first time, Beethoven comes to his senses. Ashamed of what
he has done, he discontinues his ablutions, quickly throws on his
clothes, and hurries to the desk in his room to create one of those
majestic masterpieces which are destined to astonish the world. Suddenly
he throws down his pen, and calls: “Christine!”
The old housekeeper thrusts her head in the doorway. “What is your
pleasure, Herr van Beethoven?”
“Coffee.”
The head vanishes, but shortly after, the whole figure of the old woman
appears. With an air of solemnity she gives her master a tin box.
Beethoven opens it. It is filled with roasted coffee beans. Beethoven
sniffs their fragrance with delight, then takes the box and counts the
beans, one by one, with scrupulous accuracy, placing them in a little
pile on the table.
“Sixty! hold!” he cries. “That is one cup. Now another.” Again he
carefully counts sixty beans, and then gives both piles to the
housekeeper.
“Here is enough for two cups. Make it good, or I will make it myself
to-morrow.”
The housekeeper promises to do her best, and Beethoven resumes his work,
sketching down notes with wonderful rapidity. When the housekeeper
brings the coffee, he sips it with evident satisfaction, and then goes
to the window to see what the weather is.
“Beautiful! The sun shines! I will take a walk,” he says.
“Oh, you never trouble yourself much about the weather,” suggests the
old woman. “We know that you run around the city two or three times
every day, whether it blows, rains, freezes, or snows. I believe you
would walk even if you knew that the heavens above you would fall.”
Beethoven assents to this. “It is healthy.” Then he takes his hat and
disappears.
He walks rapidly at first, until he is away from the bustle of the
streets. Then he slackens his speed, and moves on at a moderate pace,
with his hands behind him, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the
sky. Sometimes he remains motionless, as if he were unconscious of the
world around him. Upon these occasions his figure rises to its full
height, and his eyes roll and flash brightly, looking upward or straight
forward with the eyeballs fixed and motionless. A moment of the highest
inspiration has come to him, as it often came, not alone in the streets,
but also in the midst of the gayest company.
After some minutes of this inward ecstasy, Beethoven goes on his way,
runs around the city a few times, and then rushes to his house as if his
head were burning. People in the streets stare at him, wondering why he
hurries so, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In this way he
reaches his house, and enters his room.
“For mercy’s sake, Herr van Beethoven, where have you left your hat?”
exclaims his housekeeper.
Beethoven does not hear her. He rushes to the piano, plays beautiful
melodies for an hour, then hastens to his desk and writes with the
enthusiasm of one inspired.
When he again lays down his pen his housekeeper ventures to approach him
and repeat her question—“For mercy’s sake, Herr van Beethoven, where
have you left your hat?”
“Lost it, very likely,” he replies in a distracted sort of way.
“But, sir, this is the third time in two months,” she says. “You are so
absent-minded I really must fasten your hat upon your head more
securely.”
Beethoven smiles. “I will buy another,” he says, and thus the matter
ends.
“Ries,”[30] calls Beethoven after a little. A young man soon appears,
and salutes the master reverently and tenderly. He is the son of
Beethoven’s old friend, chapelmaster Ries of Bonn. The great master, who
usually was extremely reluctant to give lessons, accepted the young man
as a pupil as a mark of gratitude to his father. Chapelmaster Ries had
been very kind to Beethoven’s mother in the last years of her life, and
Beethoven repaid his kindness by this favor to his son.
“Let us get to work,” says he.
Young Ries puts some sheets before the master, and, now at the piano,
now at the desk, they are speedily absorbed in their work, which is
continued until the housekeeper announces that dinner is ready. Work is
laid aside, and they refresh themselves with a frugal repast. Beethoven,
always simple in his tastes, drinks a little of the wine grown on the
heights around Buda.[31] Fresh, clear spring-water is his favorite
beverage, copious draughts of which satisfy his needs.
After dinner they go out to enjoy the sylvan beauty of the Schönbrunn
gardens.[32] Ries accompanies the master, but there is little
conversation between them. Beethoven’s brain is restlessly at work. It
seems, indeed, that the beauty of the spot was made only for the purpose
of inspiring his musical ideas. He frequently stops, and jots them down
in a notebook which he always carries, and in which he preserves them
for future use. As evening approaches they return to the city. On their
arrival at home, the old housekeeper hands Beethoven two notes, which
had been delivered during his absence. One is from Prince Lichnowski,
simply inviting Beethoven to a musical soirée that evening. The other is
from Baron Swieten[33], and is characteristic enough. It runs: “Dear
Beethoven, if there is nothing to prevent, I should be glad to see you
about nine o’clock this evening, with your nightcap in your pocket.”
“Well, this will do for to-day,” says Beethoven, as he throws both the
invitations on the table. “I feel at home with the Prince, and I can
enjoy myself at Van Swieten’s. But I shall be late to bed. When Van
Swieten tells me to come with my nightcap it means in plain language, ‘I
will not let you off before midnight.’ Well, let it be so. He is, at
least, a clever musician and a generous host. That’s all right. But when
you are continually pestered by people who have not the slightest idea
of music, and who only invite you that they may give their guests some
piano-pounding, and then force you to play until the blood under your
fingernails is on fire, the devil might stand it,—I won’t.”
“Well, the Prince will not be likely to force you to play, and Van
Swieten just as little,” says Ries quietly.
“Yes, you are right. I will go, and am glad to go.”
And he goes. Between one and two in the morning he returns in a lively,
cheerful mood which promises pleasant dreams. He is in bed in five
minutes, and five minutes later is sleeping soundly. And so ends the
day—one day in Beethoven’s life.
_The End_
Although Beethoven lived to see happy days and happy times in beautiful
Vienna, other days and other times succeeded them, darkened by a
terrible fate which only a strong and lofty spirit like his could endure
and even overcome.
One fine summer evening Beethoven and his pupil, Ries, took a pleasant
ramble among the beautiful fields around Vienna. The setting sun flooded
the earth with a sea of gold and purple. Rosy clouds slowly floated in
the sky. High in air the lark sang its sweet-toned evening song. On a
green hillock sat a shepherd lad, filling the fields and woods around
with the pretty melody of his flute, which he had fashioned out of
elder. Beethoven and Ries stopped and quietly enjoyed the wonderful
beauty of the dying day.
“How beautifully the song of the lark blends with the shepherd’s
melody,” said Ries. Beethoven leaned forward and listened. “Flute and
lark? I do not hear them,” he said, with an expression of painful
suspense on his face.
[Illustration: _He had lost his hearing. Ries tried to console and calm
him_]
“There is the young shepherd, playing on his pipe. Do you not see him?”
“I see him,” said Beethoven in a pitiful tone. “I see him—but—I do not
hear him.”
On that spot his distressing fate was pronounced. Beethoven, the
musician, who lived only in the realm of music, had lost his hearing! He
could no longer hear his own beautiful melodies! He would never hear
again the song of the nightingale, or the orchestra’s surging volume of
tone.
His misfortune did not come suddenly, like a bolt out of the clear sky.
For years Beethoven had observed the gradual loss of his hearing, and
had sought medical help for it; but it was during this walk that the
conviction was at last forced upon him that there was no hope he would
ever be better. Silent, sad, and absorbed in gloomy thought, he went
home. Ries tried to console and calm him, but for such an artist, with
such an affliction, there could be no consolation, no relief except in
humble submission to the divine will.
An extract from a letter written by him to his old true friend, Wegeler,
in Bonn, dated May 2, 1810, shows how keenly Beethoven felt this
affliction. He writes: “I, however, should have been happy, perhaps the
happiest of men, had not that demon taken possession of my ears. I have
read somewhere that man should not wilfully part from this life so long
as he can do even one good deed; and but for this I should ere now have
ceased to exist, and by my own hand too.”
It could not well be otherwise. His total deafness could not but
exercise a depressing influence upon Beethoven’s disposition, even
though it could not completely dominate his strong character. Usually
frank, cordial, and confiding in his friends, Beethoven soon became
suspicious and distrustful, irritable and passionate. It was easy for
any outsider to slander his truest friends and set him against them. On
such occasions—and, alas, they were not rare—Beethoven would show no
outward sign of his enmity, utter no reproaches, make no complaints, and
not even call the suspected one to account. But from that time he would
exhibit the utmost contempt for him. At the same time he would feel the
deepest sorrow, and yet make no explanation of his conduct. When by some
chance the misunderstanding was cleared up, then Beethoven sought to
make reparation for his injustice in every possible way. He would offer
apologies, and not rest until reconciled to his injured friend. Then he
was as usual the truest friend, ready to help in every time of trouble
as much as it was in his power to do so. Even those nearest to him
bitterly felt the pain of his capricious disposition.
“You cannot believe,” writes Stephen von Breuning, one of Beethoven’s
devoted friends at Bonn, “what an indescribable impression the decay of
his hearing has made upon Beethoven. Think what the feeling of
unhappiness must be in one of such earnest character, besides his
reserve and frequent distrust of his best friends and his irresolution
in many things. For the most part, when he expresses his original
feeling freely, intercourse with him is an actual exertion, as one can
never feel absolutely free.”
True indeed; but was not the unfortunate one the most to be pitied? Let
us hear what he says about it himself.
Early in 1802 Beethoven was attacked by an illness so dangerous that for
the first time he had serious doubts whether he should recover. His
friend, the celebrated Doctor Schmidt, checked the progress of the
disease, and when he was fully restored sent him to Heiligenstadt, a
village in the suburbs of Vienna. There in solitude, his mind busy with
thoughts about death, he wrote the following document, a kind of will,
addressed to his two brothers:
“_For my brothers_, Carl _and_ Johann Beethoven:
“Oh, you who consider or assert that I am hostile, obstinate, or
misanthropic, what injustice you do me! You know not the secret causes
of that which makes me appear so. My heart and my mind have been moved
by the tender feelings of affection from childhood. I have always been
disposed to perform great actions; but consider that for the last six
years I have been afflicted with a hopeless complaint, aggravated by
the unskilful treatment of physicians; that I have been disappointed
from year to year in the hope of relief, and am at last obliged to
submit to the endurance of an evil the removal of which may take
years, if it can be removed at all. Born with an ardent, lively
disposition, susceptible to the pleasures of society, I was forced at
an early age to renounce them, and pass my life in seclusion. When I
strove to rise above this, oh, how cruelly was I forced back by the
doubly painful experience of my defective hearing! And yet, how could
I say to people, ‘Speak louder—shout—for I am deaf’? How could I
proclaim the defect of a sense that I had once in the highest
perfection—a perfection which few of my colleagues ever surpassed? I
could not! Forgive me then when you see me refrain from mingling with
you, which I would very gladly do. My misfortune is doubly mortifying
to me, for it causes me to be misunderstood. I am cut off from
recreation in the society of my fellow-creatures, from the pleasures
of conversation, and from the enjoyment of friendship. Well-nigh alone
in the world, I dare not go into society more than is absolutely
necessary. I am obliged to live like an exile. If I go into company, a
painful anxiety seizes me lest I may be forced to betray my situation.
This has been my condition also during the half year I have spent in
the country. Enjoined by my sensible physician to spare my hearing as
much as possible, I have been almost encouraged by him in my present
disposition, though, carried away by fondness for society, I have
allowed myself to be drawn into it. But how humiliating it was when
one beside me could hear at a distance a flute that I could not hear,
or a shepherd singing, and I could not distinguish a sound! Such
things brought me to the verge of despair, and only my art restrained
my hand from putting an end to my life. It seemed impossible for me to
quit the world before I had completed the work which I felt myself set
apart to do. So I endured this wretched life—a life so absolutely
wretched that the slightest thing is capable of plunging me from the
best into the worst condition. I am told I must be patient. I have
been so. I hope I may be steadfast in my resolution to persevere until
it shall please the inexorable Fates to cut the thread. I may be
better, I may not. I am prepared for the worst,—I, who as early as my
twenty-eighth year was forced to become a philosopher. It is not
easy—it is harder for the artist than for any other. O God! Thou seest
my misery. Thou knowest that, wretched as I am, I love my
fellow-creatures, and am disposed to do good. O men! when you shall
read this, reflect that you have wronged me; and let the child of
affliction take comfort on finding one like himself, who, in spite of
all the impediments of nature, yet did his utmost to obtain admittance
into the ranks of worthy artists and worthy men.”[34]
And he has been admitted to those ranks. Notwithstanding the malignant
disease which dispelled every outward joy of life, Beethoven created
those immortal symphonies, overtures, and sonatas, in which he proved
himself the greatest master of music and inscribed his name indelibly in
the history of the art. Misfortune could not overcome him. His splendid
genius made him superior to it. “I will clutch fate by the throat,” he
once wrote to a friend. “It never shall make me bow to it.” And it never
did. He wrestled manfully with it, and subjected it to his powerful
will.
That in spite of this he was unsociable to the end, and often alienated
his nearest friends, is easily explained by the nature of his ailment,
which made conversation extremely difficult. It was due to this also
that Beethoven, always good-hearted and generous to the suffering,
experienced the ingratitude of his own brothers in various ways. He had
suffered them to come to Vienna, supported them in every way, and
sacrificed a considerable part of his income in their maintenance for a
year. They treated him with shameful ingratitude, and broke open his
chest and stole all the jewels, snuff-boxes, watches, rings, and other
souvenirs which had been given to Beethoven by high personages, in
recognition of his performances. Beethoven, that great, noble heart,
made no allusion to the theft; but the knowledge that those who were
nearest to him, who owed their very existence to him, upon whom he had
absolutely heaped benefactions, had lied to him, cheated him, and robbed
him,—such knowledge could not contribute to his happiness, cheerfulness,
and affability.
And yet, notwithstanding all this, with all his misfortune, was
Beethoven actually unhappy? Was he alone in his gloomy solitude? He may
have been at first, but in his later life certainly not.
The happiness of knowing he could create sublime masterpieces was
greater than the unhappiness of being deaf and misunderstood. He was not
solitary, for the divine genius of art always was his companion.
Beethoven was really happy because he was greater than his misfortunes.
Upon his heroic brow rests a more splendid ornament than the crown of
any king,—the laurel-wreath of everlasting fame, the radiant diadem of
immortality.
Footnotes
[1]Johann or Jean van Beethoven, father of the composer, was a tenor
singer in the chapel of the Elector of Cologne at Bonn.
[2]Max Franz was brother of the Emperor Joseph II.
[3]The Graus Haus, where Beethoven was born, is No. 515 in the Bonn
Gasse (Bonn Street), and is now marked by a tablet, placed there in
1870.
[4]Beethoven’s mother, Marie Magdelena Laym, was the daughter of the
chief cook at Ehrenbreitstein.
[5]There is a question whether Beethoven was born on the 16th or 17th of
December, 1770. Probably he was born on the 16th.
[6]Beethoven’s grandfather was Ludwig van Beethoven, chapelmaster for
the Elector of Cologne. He died in 1773, when his grandson was three
years of age.
[7]Pfeiffer was a tenor singer in the opera at Bonn.
[8]Van den Eeden was organist at the Court Chapel and an old friend of
Beethoven’s grandfather.
[9]Neefe succeeded Van den Eeden as organist, and when he in turn gave
up the position, he left Beethoven in charge of the organ.
[10]Seven Mountains.
[11]A castle on the Rhine, twenty-two miles from Cologne.
[12]Königswinter is seven miles from Bonn, and is the favorite resort of
tourists to the “Sieben Gebirge,” a mountainous region famous for its
picturesque beauty.
[13]Dr. Wegeler was a physician of Bonn, who subsequently married
Eleonora von Breuning, a daughter in the Breuning family, Beethoven’s
devoted friends.
[14]Beethoven had four brothers, viz.: Ludwig Maria, born April 1, 1769;
Caspar Anton Carl, April 7, 1774; Nikolaus Johann, Oct. 1, 1776;
August Franz Georg, Jan. 16, 1781; and two sisters, the elder of
whom, born Feb. 23, 1779, lived only four days, and Maria Margaretha
Josepha, born May 4, 1786.
[15]Reader.
[16]“Auf wiedersehen,” or, “till we see each other again,” equivalent to
the French “Au revoir.”
[17]Frau von Breuning was the widow of the electoral counsellor von
Breuning. The family consisted of three sons and a daughter,
Eleonora, who for some time was a pupil of Beethoven, and eventually
married Dr. Wegeler. Beethoven dedicated his first variations for the
piano to her.
[18]Franz Anton Ries, violinist, was born at Bonn, Nov. 10, 1755, and
was a teacher and friend of Beethoven. His son Ferdinand was a pupil
of Beethoven.
[19]The Count von Waldstein was a patron of the arts and a connoisseur
in music. He was of special service to Beethoven, who dedicated to
him his great Sonata (op. 53).
[20]Beethoven was appointed organist to the electoral chapel in 1785,
being then in his fifteenth year.
[21]Dr. Heinrich Doring, in his “Life and Characteristics of Beethoven,”
says: “He preferred the English writers to the French. Thompson is
his favorite poet, but particularly great is his admiration for
Shakespeare.”