Chapter X: Part II (2)

Since you went I have had many uncomfortable hours, in which the power to do anything is lost. After you had gone away, I rambled about for some three hours in the Museum at Schönbrunn; but no good angel met me there, to chide me into good humour, as an angel like you might have done. Forgive, sweetest Bettine, this transition from the fundamental key;--but I must have such intervals, to vent my feelings. And you have written of me to Göthe, have you not? saying that I would fain pack up my head in a cask, where I should see nothing, and hear nothing, of what passes in the world; since you, dearest angel, meet me here no longer. But surely I shall at least have a letter from you. Hope supports me; she is indeed the nursing mother of half the world, and she has been my close friend all my life long;--what would have become of me else? I send, with this, written in my own hand, "_Kennst du das Land?_" as a memorial of the time when I first became acquainted with you; also I send another, which I have composed since I took leave of you, dear, dearest heart!

"Heart, my heart, what change comes o'er thee?
What wrings thee thus with pain?
What a strange sour world's before thee!
I know thee scarce again!"

Yes, dearest Bettine, answer me this question; write, and tell me what shall become of me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your truest friend,

BEETHOVEN.

2.

Vienna, Feb. 10, 1811.

My dear beloved Bettine!

I have now had two letters from you, and learn from your letter to Antonia that you continue to think, and indeed far too favourably, of me. Your first letter I carried about with me all the summer through, and it has often made me happy. Although I do not often write to you, and you may hear nothing from me, yet, in thought, I write to you a thousand thousands of letters. How you feel yourself in the presence of all this world's rubbish I could have fancied, even had I not read it in your letters--this haranguing and gossiping about art, without anything done! The best delineation of this that I know, is found in Schiller's poem "_Die Flüsse_," where the Spree[78] is made to speak. You are going to be married, dear Bettine, or are married already, and I have not been able to see you once more before this. May every blessing which marriage can bestow flow upon you and your husband! What can I say to you of myself? "Pity my fate!" I exclaim with poor Johanna[79]--if I can but obtain a few more years of life, I will still thank for this, as for all other weal and woe, the most High, the all-embracing Power. Whenever you write of me to Göthe, select any expression that you can use, so as to convey to him the most fully my profound respect and admiration. I am, however, purposing to write to him myself, concerning _Egmont_, which I have set to music; and this solely from love for his poetry, which makes me happy; but, indeed, who can be sufficiently grateful to a great poet, the most precious jewel that a nation can possess? And now I must end, dear, good Bettine. I returned this morning as late as four o'clock from a Bacchanalian revel, at which I was even made to laugh heartily, and for which I am now tempted to weep nearly as much. Uproarious mirth often has the effect of casting me violently back upon myself. I owe Clemens[80] many thanks for his attention; as respects the Cantata, the subject is not of sufficient importance for us here; in Berlin it is a different matter: as regards our affection, his sister has so much of mine, that not much will remain for the brother's portion; will he be contented with this? And now farewell, my dear Bettine; I kiss you on the forehead, and therewith impress on it as with a seal all my thoughts for you! Write soon, write often, to your friend,

BEETHOVEN.

3.

Töplitz,--1812.

Dearest, good Bettine,

Kings and princes can indeed create professors and privy councillors, and bedeck them with titles and orders; but they cannot make great men--spirits that rise above the world's rubbish--these they must not attempt to create; and therefore must these be held in honour. When two such come together as I and Göthe, these great lords must note what it is that passes for greatness with such as we. Yesterday, as we were returning homewards, we met the whole Imperial family; we saw them coming at some distance, whereupon Göthe disengaged himself from my arm, in order that he might stand aside; in spite of all I could say, I could not bring him a step forwards. I crushed my hat more furiously on my head, buttoned up my top coat, and walked with my arms folded behind me, right through the thickest of the crowd. Princes and officials made a lane for me: Archduke Rudolph took off his hat, the Empress saluted me the first:--_these great people know me!_ It was the greatest fun in the world to me, to see the procession file past Göthe. He stood aside, with his hat off, bending his head down as low as possible. For this I afterwards called him over the coals properly and without mercy, and brought up against him all his sins, especially those against you, dearest Bettine! We had just been speaking of you. Good God! could I have lived with you for so long a time as _he_ did, believe me I should have produced far, far more great works than I have! A musician is also a poet; a pair of eyes more suddenly transport him too into a fairer world, where mighty spirits meet and play with him, and give him weighty tasks to fulfil. What a variety of things came into my imagination when I first became acquainted with you, during that delicious May-shower in the Usser Observatory, and which to me also was a fertilising one! The most delightful themes stole from your image into my heart, and they shall survive and still delight the world long after Beethoven has ceased to _direct_. If God bestows on me a year or two more of life. I must again see you, dearest, dear Bettine, for the voice within me, which always will be obeyed, says that I must. Love can exist between mind and mind, and I shall now be a wooer of yours. Your praise is dearer to me than all other in this world. I expressed to Göthe my opinion as to the manner in which praise affects those like us; and that by those that resemble us we desire to be heard with _understanding_; emotion belongs to women only (pardon me for saying it!): the effect of music on a man should be to strike fire from his soul. Oh, my dearest girl, how long have I known that we are of one mind in all things! the only good is to have near us some fair, pure spirit, which we can at all times rely upon, and before which no concealment is needed. _He who will_ SEEM _to be somewhat must really be what he would seem._ The world must acknowledge him--it is not for ever unjust; although this concerns me in nowise, for I have a higher aim than this. I hope to find at Vienna a letter from you; write to me soon, very soon, and very fully. I shall be there in a week from hence. The court departs to-morrow; there is another performance to-day. The Empress has thoroughly learned her part; the Archduke and the Emperor wished me to perform again some of my own music. I refused them both; they have both fallen in love with _Chinese porcelain_. This is a case for compassion only, as reason has lost its control; but I will not be piper to such absurd dancing--I will not be comrade in such absurd performances with the fine folks, who are ever sinning in that fashion. Adieu! adieu! dearest; your last letter lay all night on my heart and refreshed me. Musicians take all sorts of liberties! _Good Heaven! how I love you!_

Your truest friend, and deaf brother,

BEETHOVEN.

No. IV.

LETTER OF MADAME BETTINE VON ARNIM TO GÖTHE.[81]

Vienna, May 28, 1810.

* * * * And now I am going to speak to you of one who made me forget all the world besides. The world vanishes when recollections spring up--indeed it vanishes. It is Beethoven who made it vanish before me, and of whom I would fain speak to you. It is true I am not of age, yet I would boldly assert that he has far outstepped our generation--too far perhaps to be come up with: (shall I be understood or believed in this assertion?) No matter. May he but live until the great and mighty problem of his mind has ripened into maturity; may he but attain his own noble aim, and he will carry us on to loftier regions, to bliss more perfect than is yet known to us. Let me own it to you, dear Göthe, I do believe in a spell--not of this world, the element of our spiritual nature; and it is this that Beethoven calls around us by his art. If you would understand him, you must enter into his own magic circle; you must follow him to his exalted position, and occupy with him that high station which he alone can claim for a basis in this sublunary world. You will, I know, guess at my meaning, and extract truth from it. When could such a mind be reproduced?--when equalled? As to other men, their doings are but mechanical clock-work compared to his: he alone freely creates, and his creations are unthought of! What indeed could the intercourse with this world be to him, who before sunrise is at his holy work, who after sunset scarcely looks up from it, who forgets his bodily food, and, carried past the shallow banks of every-day life, is borne along the current of enthusiasm? He said himself, "When I lift up mine eyes I must sigh, for that which I behold is against my creed; and I must despise the world, because it knows not that music is a higher revelation than science or philosophy. Music is like wine, inflaming men's minds to new achievements, and I am the Bacchus serving it out to them, even unto intoxication. When they are sobered down again, they shall find themselves possessed of a spiritual draught such as shall remain with them even on dry land. I have no friend--I must live all to myself; yet I know that God is nearer to me than to my brothers in the art. I hold converse with him, and fear not, for I have always known and understood him. Nor do I fear for my works: no evil can befal them; and whosoever shall understand them, he shall be freed from all such misery as burthens mankind."

All this did Beethoven say to me the first time I saw him. A feeling of reverence came over me as I heard him speak his mind with such unbounded frankness, and that to me, who must have been wholly insignificant to him; and I was perhaps the more struck with his openness, having often heard of his extreme reserve, and of his utter dislike to converse with any one. Thus it was that I could not get any one to introduce me to him, but I found him out alone. He has three sets of apartments in which he alternately secretes himself: one in the country, one in town, and a third on the ramparts (Bastei). It was there I found him in the third floor. I entered unannounced; he was seated at the piano; I gave my name; he was most friendly, and asked me if I would hear a song which he had just been composing; and sang, with a shrill and piercing voice that made the hearer thrill with woefulness, "Know'st thou the land?" "Is it not beautiful?" said he, enthusiastically; "exquisitely beautiful! I will sing it again." He was pleased with my cheerful praise. "Most people are _moved_ on hearing music, but these have not musicians' souls: true musicians are too _fiery_ to weep." He then sang another song of yours, which he had lately been composing: "Dry not, ye tears of eternal love." He accompanied me home, and it was during our walk that he said all these fine things on the art--talking so loud all the while, and standing still so often, that it required some courage to listen to him in the street. He however spoke so passionately, and all that he uttered startled me to such a degree, as made me forget even the street. They were all not a little surprised at home on seeing me enter the room with him, in the midst of a large dinner-party. After dinner he sat down to the instrument and played, unasked, wonderfully, and at great length. His pride and his genius were working _that_ out together which to any mind but his would have been inconceivable--to any fingers but his, impossible of execution.

He comes daily ever since--if not, I go to him; and thus I miss all sorts of gaieties, theatres, picture-galleries, and even the mounting of St. Stephen's church-steeple. Beethoven says, "Never mind seeing these things: I shall call for you, and towards evening we shall walk together in the _Schönbrunn_ avenues." Yesterday, as we were walking in a lovely garden, everything in full bloom, and the open hot-houses almost intoxicating one's senses with their perfumes, he suddenly stopped in the oppressive heat of the sun, saying, "Göthe's poems exercise a great sway over me, not only by their meaning, but by their rhythm also. It is a language that urges me on to composition, that builds up its own lofty standard, containing in itself all the mysteries of harmony, so that I have but to follow up the radiations of that centre from which melodies evolve spontaneously. I pursue them eagerly, overtake them, then again see them flying before me, vanish in the multitude of my impressions, until I seize them anew with increased vigour, no more to be parted from them. It is then that my transports give them every diversity of modulation; it is I who triumph over the first of these musical thoughts, and the shape I give it, I call symphony. Yes, Bettina, music is the link between intellectual and sensual life. Would I could speak to Göthe on this subject, to see whether he could understand me! Melody gives a sensible existence to poetry; for does not the meaning of a poem become embodied in melody? Does not Mignon's song breathe all her feelings through its melody, and must not these very feelings be reproductive in their turn? The mind would embrace all thoughts, both high and low, and embody them into one stream of sensations, all sprung from simple melody, and without the aid of its charms doomed to die in oblivion. This is the unity which lives in my Symphonies--numberless streamlets meandering on, in endless variety of shape, but all diverging into one common bed. Thus it is I feel that there is an indefinite something, an eternal, an infinite, to be attained; and although I look upon my works with a foretaste of success, yet I cannot help wishing, like a child, to begin my task anew, at the very moment that my thundering appeal to my hearers seems to have forced my musical creed upon them, and thus to have exhausted the insatiable cravings of my soul after my 'beau ideal!'

"Speak of me to Göthe: tell him to hear my Symphonies, and he will agree with me that music alone ushers man into the portal of an intellectual world, ready to encompass _him_, but which _he_ may never encompass. _That_ mind alone whose every thought is rhythm can embody music, can comprehend its mysteries, its divine inspirations, and can alone speak to the senses of its intellectual revelations. Although spirits may feed upon it as we do upon air, yet it may not nourish all mortal men; and those privileged few alone, who have drawn from its heavenly source, may aspire to hold spiritual converse with it. How few are these! for, like the thousands who marry for love, and who profess love, whilst Love will single out but one amongst them, so also will thousands court Music, whilst she turns a deaf ear to all, but the chosen few. She too, like her sister-arts, is based upon morality--that fountain-head of genuine invention! And would you know the true principle on which the arts _may_ be won?--It is to bow to their immutable terms, to lay all passion and vexation of spirit prostrate at their feet, and to approach their divine presence with a mind so calm and so void of littleness as to be ready to receive the dictates of Fantasy and the revelations of Truth. Thus the art becomes a divinity, man approaches her with religious feelings, his inspirations are God's divine gifts, and his aim fixed by the same hand from above, which helps him to attain it.

"We know not whence our knowledge is derived. The seeds which lie dormant in us require the dew, the warmth, and the electricity of the soil, to spring up, to ripen into thought, and to break forth. Music is the electrical soil in which the mind thrives, thinks, and invents, whilst philosophy damps its ardour in an attempt to reduce it to a fixed principle.

"Although the mind can scarcely call its own that, which it produces through inspiration, yet it feasts upon these productions, and feels that in them alone lies its independence, its power, its approximation to the Deity, its intercourse with man, and that these, more than all, bear witness of a beneficent Providence.

"Music herself teaches us harmony; for _one_ musical thought bears upon the whole kindred of ideas, and each is linked to the other, closely and indissolubly, by the ties of harmony.

"The mind creates more readily when touched by the electrical spark: my whole nature is electric. But let me cease with my unfathomable wisdom, or I might miss the rehearsal. Write of me to Göthe--that is, if you have understood me; but mark me, I am not answerable for anything, although ready to be taught by him."

I promised to write to you as best I could. He took me to a grand rehearsal with full orchestra. There I sat quite alone in a box, in the vast unlit space: single gleams of light stole through crevices and knot-holes in the walls, dancing like a stream of glittering sparks. There I saw this great genius exercise his sovereignty. Oh! Göthe, no Emperor or King feels so entirely his power, and that all might proceeds from himself, as this Beethoven, who but just now in the garden was at a loss to find from whom it _did_ come. He stood there with such firm decision; his gestures, his countenance, expressed the completion of his creation; he prevented every error, every misconception--not a breath but was under command--all were set in the most sedulous activity by the majestic presence of his mind. One might prophesy that a spirit like this might, in a future state of perfection, reappear as the ruler of a world.

I put all this down last night, and this morning read it to him. He said, "Did I say this?--Well then I have had my _raptus_." He read it again most attentively, erased the above, and wrote between the lines; for he wishes above all that you should understand him.

* * * * *

BETTINE.

GÖTHE TO BETTINE.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Say everything that is kind for me to Beethoven, and that I would willingly bring a sacrifice to make his acquaintance, when a mutual interchange of ideas would certainly lead to the most beneficial results. May be, you could persuade him to visit Karlsbad and meet me there on my annual tour, for then I should have leisure to hear and be tutored by him. As to his being taught by me, that would be a sacrilege indeed, even in those more competent than I am; for surely his genius enlightens him, and will often dart flashes of brightness around him, whilst we are groping in the dark, scarcely sensible of the approaching dawn. I should be delighted if Beethoven would send me my two Songs which he has composed, but clearly written. I am most anxious to hear them, since nothing gives me greater pleasure and lays a firmer hold on my gratitude than the finding such poems of a former period embodied and sensualised anew by music, as Beethoven justly calls it.

* * * * *

GÖTHE.

BETTINE TO GÖTHE.

Dearest Friend,

I have shown Beethoven your beautiful letter, as far as it concerned him: he was overjoyed, and cried, "If any one can brighten him up about music, it is I." He was most enthusiastic about your proposal of meeting him at Karlsbad, struck his forehead, and said, "Might I not have done this before? But i' faith I did think of it, and was restrained by timidity; that _will_ sometimes worry me as though I were not a man of the right mettle; but I am no more afraid of Göthe now. Make sure therefore of my seeing him next year."

No. V.

A DAY WITH BEETHOVEN.[82]

[Extract of a letter from Vienna to a friend in London.]

I now fulfil the promise I made on my departure for Germany last summer, of giving you, from time to time, an account of whatever might appear interesting in the fine arts, particularly in music; and as I then told you that I should not confine myself to any order of time and place, I commence at once with Vienna. This is the city which, speaking of music, must be called, by way of eminence, the capital of Germany. As to the sciences, it is quite otherwise, it being generally considered as one of the most inferior of the German Universities. The north of Germany has at all times possessed the best theorists--the Bachs, Marpurg, Kirnberger, Schwenke, Türk; but the men most celebrated for composition were always more numerous in the south, above all in Vienna. Here Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Hummel, M. v. Weber, Spohr, &c., not only received their musical education, but most of them produced the works which have acquired them the greatest celebrity; and, even at the present period, Vienna abounds with eminent musicians--C. Kreutzer, Stadler, Mayseder, C. Czerny, Pixis, and that young prodigy on the piano-forte, Liszt. To give you a succinct account only of the present state of music in Vienna would exceed the limits of a letter; I will therefore rather devote the remainder of this to one who is still the brightest ornament of that imperial city--to Beethoven. You must not, however, expect from me now anything like a biography--that I shall reserve for a future communication. I wish now to give you only a short account of a single day's visit to the great man, and if, in my narration, I should appear to dwell on trifling points, you will be good enough to attribute it to my veneration for Beethoven, which leads me to consider everything highly interesting that is in the slightest degree connected with so distinguished a character.

The 28th of September, 1823, will be ever recollected by me as a _dies faustus_; in truth, I do not know that I ever spent a happier day. Early in the morning I went, in company with two Vienna gentlemen, one of whom, Mr. H., is known as the very intimate friend of Beethoven, to the beautifully situated village of Baden,[83] about twelve miles from Vienna, where the latter usually resides during the summer months. Being with Mr. H., I had not to encounter any difficulty in being admitted into his presence. He looked very sternly at me at first, but he immediately after shook me heartily by the hand, as if an old acquaintance, for he then clearly recollected my first visit to him in 1816, though it had been but of a very short duration,--a proof of his excellent memory.

I found, to my sincere regret, a considerable alteration in his appearance, and it immediately struck me that he looked very unhappy. The complaints he afterwards made to Mr. H. confirmed my apprehensions. I feared that he would not be able to understand one word of what I said; in this, however, I rejoice to say I was much deceived, for he made out very well all that I addressed to him slowly and in a loud tone. From his answers it was clear that not a particle of what Mr. H. uttered had been lost, though neither the latter nor myself used a machine. From this you will justly conclude that the accounts respecting his deafness lately spread in London are much exaggerated. I should mention, though, that when he plays on the piano-forte, it is generally at the expense of some twenty or thirty strings, he strikes the keys with so much force. Nothing can possibly be more lively, more animated, and, to use an epithet that so well characterises his own Symphonies, more energetic, than his conversation when you have once succeeded in getting him into good humour; but one unlucky question, one ill-judged piece of advice--for instance, concerning the cure of his deafness--is quite sufficient to estrange him from you for ever.

He was desirous of ascertaining, for a particular composition he was then about, the highest possible note of the trombone, and questioned Mr. H. accordingly, but did not seem satisfied with his answers. He then told me that he had in general taken care to inform himself, through the different artists themselves, concerning the construction, character, and compass of all the principal instruments. He introduced his nephew to me, a fine young man of about eighteen, who is the only relation with whom he lives on terms of friendship, saying, "You may propose to him an enigma in Greek, if you like;" meaning, I was informed, to acquaint me with the young man's knowledge of that language. The history of this relative reflects the highest credit on Beethoven's goodness of heart; the most affectionate father could not have made greater sacrifices on his behalf than he has made.

After we had been more than an hour with him, we agreed to meet at dinner, at one o'clock, in that most romantic and beautiful valley called _das Helenenthal_, about two miles from Baden. After having seen the baths and other curiosities of the town, we called again at his house about twelve o'clock, and, as we found him already waiting for us, we immediately set out on our walk for the valley. Beethoven is a famous pedestrian, and delights in walks of many hours, particularly through wild and romantic scenery: nay, I was told that he sometimes passes whole nights on such excursions, and is frequently missed at home for several days. On our way to the valley, he often stopped short and pointed out to me its most beautiful spots, or noticed the defects of the new buildings. At other times he seemed quite lost in himself, and only hummed in an unintelligible manner; I understood, however, that this was the way he composed, and I also learnt that he never writes one note down till he has formed a clear design for the whole piece.

The day being remarkably fine, we dined in the open air, and what seemed to please Beethoven extremely was, that we were the only visitors in the hotel, and quite by ourselves during the whole day. The Viennese repasts are famous all over Europe, and that ordered for us was so luxurious, that Beethoven could not help making remarks on the profusion which it displayed. "Why such a variety of dishes?" he exclaimed; "man is but little above other animals, if his chief pleasure is confined to a dinner-table." This and similar reflections he made during our meal. The only thing he likes in the way of food is fish, of which trout is his favourite. He is a great enemy to all _gêne_, and I believe that there is not another individual in Vienna who speaks with so little restraint on all kinds of subjects, even political ones, as Beethoven. He hears badly, but he speaks remarkably well, and his observations are as characteristic and as original as his compositions.

In the whole course of our table-talk there was nothing so interesting as what he said about Handel. I sat close by him and heard him assert very distinctly in German, "Handel is the greatest composer that ever lived."[84] I cannot describe to you with what pathos, and, I am inclined to say, with what sublimity of language, he spoke of the Messiah of this immortal genius. Every one of us was moved when he said, "I would uncover my head and kneel down on his tomb!" H. and I tried repeatedly to turn the conversation to Mozart, but without effect; I only heard him say, "In a monarchy we know who is the first;" which might or might not apply to the subject. Mr. C. Czerny, who, by the by, knows every note of Beethoven's by heart, though he does not play one single composition of his own without the music before him, told me, however, that Beethoven was sometimes inexhaustible in his praise of Mozart. It is worthy of remark that this great musician cannot bear to hear his own earlier works praised; and I was apprised that a sure way to make him angry is to say something complimentary of his Septetts, Trios, &c. His latest productions, which are, so little relished in London, but much admired by the young artists of Vienna, are his favourites: his second Mass he looks upon as his best work, I understood.

He is at present engaged in writing a new opera called _Melusine_, the words by the famous but unfortunate poet Grillparzer. He concerns himself very little about the newest productions of living composers, insomuch that, when asked about the _Freischütz_, he replied, "I believe _one_ Weber has written it." You will be pleased to hear that he is a great admirer of the ancients; Homer, particularly his Odyssey, and Plutarch, he prefers to all the rest; and of the native poets, he studies Schiller and Göthe in preference to any other; this latter is his personal friend. He appears uniformly to entertain the most favourable opinion of the British nation. "I like," said he, "the noble simplicity of the English manners," and added other praises. It seemed to me as if he had yet some hopes of visiting this country together with his nephew. I should not forget to mention that I heard a MS. Trio of his, for the piano-forte, violin, and violoncello, which I thought very beautiful, and is, I understood, to appear shortly in London. The portrait you see of him in the music-shops is not now like him, but may have been so eight or ten years back. I could tell you many things more of this extraordinary man, who, from what I have seen and learnt of him, has inspired me with the deepest veneration; but I fear I have taken up your time already too much. The friendly and hearty manner in which he treated me, and bade me farewell, has left an impression on my mind, which will remain for life. Adieu.

[Greek: E.]

No. VI.

A VISIT TO BEETHOVEN.[85]

[Extract from a letter written by an English lady, dated Vienna, October, 1825.]

The imperial library is the finest room I ever saw, and the librarian very agreeable and obliging. What will you say when I tell you, that after taking an infinity of trouble, he succeeded in obtaining for me an introduction to BEETHOVEN, who is exceedingly difficult of access; but, in answer to the note requesting that I might be allowed to visit him, wrote--

"Avec le plus grand plaisir je recevrai une fille de * * * * *.--BEETHOVEN."

We went to _Baden_, a pretty little town in the Archduchy of Austria, about fifteen miles south-west of Vienna, much frequented for its hot baths, (whence it derives its name, similarly to our Bath,) where _the giant of living composers_, as Mr. ---- always pleases me by calling him, retires during the summer months.

The people seemed surprised at our taking so much trouble; for, unaccountable as it may seem to those who have any knowledge of or taste for music, his reign in Vienna is over, except in the hearts of a chosen few, with whom, by the bye, I have not yet met * * * * *, and I was even taught to expect a rough, unceremonious reception. When we arrived, he had just returned home, through a shower of rain, and was changing his coat. I almost began to be alarmed, after all that I had heard of his _brusquerie_, lest he should not receive us very cordially, when he came forth from his Sanctum with a hurried step and apparently very nervous; but he addressed us in so gentle, so courteous, so sweet a manner, and with such a truth in his sweetness, that I only know Mr. ---- with whom he can be compared, whom he much resembles in features, person, address, and also in opinions. He is very short, extremely thin, and sufficiently attentive to personal appearance. He observed that * * * was very fond of Handel, that he himself also _loved_ him, and proceeded for some time eulogising that great composer. I conversed with him in writing, for I found it impossible to render myself audible; and, though this was a very clumsy mode of communicating, it did not much signify, as he talked on, freely and willingly, and did not wait for questions, or seem to expect long replies. I ventured to express my admiration of his compositions, and, among others, praised his _Adelaide_ in terms by no means too strong for my sense of its beauties. He very modestly remarked that the poetry was beautiful.

Beethoven speaks good French, at least by comparison with most other Germans, and conversed a little with * * * in Latin. He told us that he should have _spoken_ English, but that his deafness had prevented his acquiring more of our language than the power of reading it. He said that he preferred English to French writers, because "_ils sont plus vrais_." Thomson is his favourite author, but his admiration for Shakspeare is very great indeed.

When we were about to retire, he desired us to stop--"_Je veux vous donner un souvenir de moi._" He then went to a table in an adjoining room and wrote two lines of music--a little Fugue for the pianoforte--and presented it to me in a most amiable manner. He afterwards desired that I would spell my name to him, that he might inscribe his Impromptu to me correctly. He now took my arm and led me into the room where he had written, that I might see the whole of his apartment, which was quite that of an author, but perfectly clean; and, though indicating nothing like superfluity of wealth, did not show any want of either useful furniture, or neatness in arrangement. It must he recollected, however, that this is his country residence, and that the Viennese are not so costly or particular in their domestic details as we English. I led him back very gently to a room on the other side, in which was placed his grand pianoforte, by Broadwood, but he looked, I thought, melancholy at the sight of it, and said that it was very much out of order, for the country tuner was exceedingly bad. He struck some notes to convince me; nevertheless, I placed on the desk the page of MS. music which he had just given me, and he played it through quite simply, but prefaced it by three or four chords--such handfuls of notes--that would have gone to Mr. ----'s heart. He then stopped, and I would not on any account ask for more, as I found that he played without any satisfaction to himself.

We took leave of each other in a tone, of what in France would be called confirmed friendship; and he said, quite voluntarily, that if he came to England, he would certainly pay us a visit.

* * * * *

London: Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES and SONS, Stamford Street.

THE LIFE OF BEETHOVEN,

INCLUDING HIS

CORRESPONDENCE WITH HIS FRIENDS,

NUMEROUS CHARACTERISTIC TRAITS,

AND REMARKS ON HIS MUSICAL WORKS.

EDITED BY

IGNACE MOSCHELES, ESQ.,

Pianist to his Royal Highness Prince Albert.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOLUME II.

LONDON:

HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1841.

LONDON.

Printed by WILLIAM CLOWES and SONS, Stamford Street.

CONTENTS

OF THE

SECOND VOLUME.

THIRD PERIOD.