Chapter II: Part 2

In a few minutes the necessary arrangements were made and the trio began. The three accomplished artists easily played it at sight, and the audience paid close attention to the entirely original harmonies and melodies. The trio was played to its close smoothly and with precision, but instead of loud applause after the last tones there was a very painful silence. The good Wegeler turned pale with anxiety, but Beethoven sat as proud as Jupiter at the piano and seemed to have forgotten where or in whose company he was.

Chapelmaster Ries was the first to break the uncomfortable silence and, turning quickly to Wegeler, said: “This is truly a charming composition, full of originality, and developed with true genius. Who is the composer? I am really eager to know, for I never before have heard such music.”

“In fact, very strong but characteristic,” Count Waldstein added.

“I have never heard anything more beautiful,” said Christopher Breuning, enthusiastically and excitedly. “It must be an entirely distinctive art-work by Mozart, or perhaps something of Haydn’s.”

Wegeler, who had regained his natural color, smiled and shook his head. “Neither Mozart nor Haydn,” said he. “The composer is a new man, and is in our midst.”

“Ah! Count Waldstein,” said Frau von Breuning with a light, graceful bow. “Do not deny it, Count. You have prepared a most pleasant surprise for us.”

“On the contrary, dear lady, I should consider myself most fortunate if I could accept your compliment,” replied Count Waldstein, “but I must reluctantly decline it. Probably we have to thank our chapelmaster for the great surprise.”

“No, no,” said the chapelmaster, “I will not adorn myself with borrowed feathers however beautiful they may be. But really, if I could accomplish such a work as this trio, I should regard myself as a pretty good artist.”

“But who can the composer be if he is neither our dear Count nor the chapelmaster?” said Frau von Breuning. “Surely you are just teasing us a little, dear Wegeler. Anyway, the composer of the trio is known by name.”

“Yes, he has a name,” said Wegeler, smiling, “but his name is not yet famous, though I have no doubt it will become so one day. The composer’s name is—Ludwig van Beethoven, and he has the honor to sit before your ladyship, at the piano.”

If a bomb had fallen into the company it could not have caused greater astonishment than Wegeler’s simple announcement. All present evidently were surprised in the highest degree. Beethoven alone sat entirely unmoved and at ease, and looked about him smilingly and unembarrassed.

“What is there to be astonished at?” he said. “I composed the entire trio to-day.”

It is hard to describe the effect these few words produced. All crowded around Beethoven, and each had his word of admiration for him. He was quietly pleased when they shook his hand and overwhelmed him with compliments; but at last he became uneasy, and sprang up from his seat.

“This is too much,” he said. “I do not deserve it. Later, years hence, perhaps,—but now? no! There are still those who can construct better things than I.”

“But there are very few of them,” said Count Waldstein, earnestly. “Anyway, I feel impelled to exercise all my influence for the advancement of a talent such as yours, dear Beethoven. I beg you to consider me as your fatherly friend and patron.”

Beethoven bowed, and stammered a few words of thanks. A moment later he had forgotten the assurances of the Count and was chatting in the most intimate manner with the sons of Frau von Breuning, who welcomed this talented new acquaintance with genuine enthusiasm. The mother also graciously conversed with the young man, and at last asked him if he would at some future time give piano lessons to her daughter Eleonora, which Beethoven naturally was glad to promise.

As it was getting rather late, the company left one after another. Beethoven withdrew with Wegeler, and warmly thanked his friend on the street for introducing him into this pleasant family circle.

“I did it with all my heart,” said Wegeler, “and with the hope that it will be for the pleasure and advantage of both parties.”

All of Wegeler’s hopes were realized. Beethoven soon found himself at home among his new friends. This was not strange, for the Hofrathin entertained a true motherly affection for him, and her children regarded him as a brother. Beethoven himself, at a later period, often declared that his happiest years were spent in the Breuning home.

Thus weeks and months passed. Beethoven’s outward circumstances gradually improved, for the Hofrathin Breuning was assiduous in procuring pupils for him among her acquaintances, which paid well at that time. Ludwig could now furnish a part of the support for his brave mother, so that matters gradually became more pleasant in the household life. Everything contributed to keep him in good humor, so that he commended himself more and more to the affection and good-will of his new friends.

Ludwig had heard nothing for a long time from Count Waldstein about the patronage he had promised. In reality he had hardly given it a thought. But the Hofrathin Breuning many a time quietly wondered that the Count should have forgotten his protégé so quickly and completely, “especially when there is so much he might do for his advantage,” she said to herself. “He is a favorite with the Elector, and hardly needs do more than drop a word occasionally to interest him in our Beethoven. If he would do so but once, everything else would take care of itself, and I should no longer have any anxiety about the young man’s future.”

But none of the Hofrathin’s wishes or hopes seemed likely to be realized. Count Waldstein appeared now and then in the Hofrathin’s social circle, but seldom remained there long, and seemed to concern himself little about Beethoven, though at times he gave him a friendly word. One evening, however, he asked for the trio which Beethoven composed, and requested permission to keep it a few days. The permission naturally was granted promptly and willingly, although Beethoven did not appear to attach the slightest importance to the Count’s request. Frau von Breuning, however, smiled to herself in silent satisfaction. She anticipated and conjectured more than Ludwig, and this simple, unimportant act aroused the hope that something would come of it, and that his interests would be promoted.

Nothing in the least occurred in the next few days to confirm these hopes, and Frau von Breuning, though she still clung to her hope, had to admit to herself there was little foundation for it, when one evening Count Waldstein appeared entirely unexpectedly in the circle of friends who were entertaining themselves with music. Besides the Breuning family, Beethoven, Wegeler, and chapelmaster Ries were present. All extended a respectful and friendly greeting to the Count. He smiled contentedly, roguishly looked at Beethoven, and pressed his right hand upon his left breast-pocket, in which something light rustled.

“Young man,” he said good-humoredly, “what do you imagine I am carrying here in my coat-pocket? Guess!”

“How can I guess, Count?” replied Ludwig. “It must be something of considerable importance, since Your Grace is so mysterious about it.”

“Why, yes, important enough for certain people, though to me simply pleasant and agreeable. But I already perceive you are not gifted with the faculty of guessing, dear Ludwig, so I must help you a little. This mysterious thing in my pocket is a document from the electoral court. I got sight of the address there, and incidentally, as I intended to visit my worthy friend here, I took the document with the intention of handing it to the person addressed. He is a certain Ludwig van Beethoven, and I was sure I should find him here.”

“A document from the electoral court to me! Impossible!” exclaimed Beethoven, at first astonished and then delighted, while the kindly face of Frau von Breuning was lit up with joy.

“Yes, yes, to you, my young friend,” said the Count, as he removed the document from his pocket. “Here, take it. Open it, and see what the Elector has done for you.”

Beethoven slowly took the large envelope, looked at the address and seal, and shook his head. “The Count doubtless is only making sport of me,” he said. “If I break the seal I shall only be heartily laughed at.”

“Oh, you most distrustful of all distrustful men and musicians!” the Count replied. “How can you entertain such a foolish supposition? Open it! Open it! Quick!”

“I will not,” replied Beethoven, firmly, as he placed the envelope on the table.

“You foolish fellow, you can do as you please, of course,” said the Count, a little impatiently. “This much I know, however, that our most gracious lord, the Elector, has not done this for a fool, but for his court organist, and this highest of all honors he has bestowed upon you in this document.”[20]

“Impossible!” exclaimed Beethoven.

“I thought so,” joyfully said the Hofrathin.

“Fine! splendid!” cried all the others.

Beethoven was so overcome with astonishment that he seemed as rigid as a statue, but at a sign from the Count, chapelmaster Ries opened the envelope, showed the signature of the Elector, and the appointment of Ludwig van Beethoven as court organist, carefully drawn up in due form.

“Hearty congratulations, Ludwig,” said he, handing the document to him. “I call this good fortune, even if it does come to the one most deserving of it.”

All present surrounded Beethoven and congratulated him. He received their good wishes with a radiant smile and beaming eyes. Then he suddenly rushed to Count Waldstein, pressed his lips to his hand, and exclaimed to him from the fulness of his heart, “Thanks! thanks! my benefactor!” Thereupon he seized his hat, crying joyously, “To my mother, to my good mother! Good-night to all!”—and was out of the house as quick as a flash.

No one wondered at his somewhat strange behavior. All knew him and his ways and manners, and all were his friends, which signified for him all that was sincerely true and good.

_A Merciful Punishment_

Good fortune often arouses jealousies and enmities, for while there are many good men in the world, there are also many base and evil-minded ones. Beethoven was destined to make this discovery at once. His appointment as court organist was received by most of the members of the electoral chapel with expressions of great discontent, and some of them did not conceal their resentment that such a green young student should have been selected as their colleague. Of course it never occurred to these narrow-minded persons that there was more creative skill in this “green student” than in the whitening heads of all these old musical pedants.

Beethoven was one who troubled himself very little about such displays of petty hatred and jealousy. As he was exempt from the pressing anxieties of everyday life by his position and teaching, and had found in Count Waldstein a truly good and fatherly patron, he carried his head high, and looked down with proud self-assurance upon his enemies. Not that he had grown supercilious,—nothing was farther from him than that,—but he could clearly discriminate between himself and these malicious ones. He knew that he surpassed them as far as the heavens are above the earth.

It happened one day that Count Waldstein called upon his young protégé and found him deeply absorbed in a book.

“How is this, Ludwig?” said the Count. “I expected to find you busy at the piano, or with the violin, and now I catch you reading an insipid novel! Shame on you, my young friend! In your difficult art there is but one road to success—‘forward, always forward.’ You should not waste time on trifles if you expect to accomplish great and important things.”

At the first words of his patron Beethoven had arisen, and greeted him in the most cordial manner. His manner did not change, however, when the Count reproached him; on the contrary, he handed him the book he was reading, and smilingly said: “Excuse me, this is not a trifle, Count; it is ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ but unfortunately only a good translation, for I cannot read it in the original.”

The Count’s frown began to disappear. “Of course I cannot disapprove of good reading. But I see you have more books. Are they all Plutarch?”

“No, worthy sir,” replied Beethoven, excitedly, as he took his books and quickly opened them one after another. “This is Homer’s Odyssey, these are Plato’s writings, this the Odes of Horace, and these a few volumes of Shakespeare—all classical literature.”[21]

“Yes, yes, I see; but of what use are they to you?” said the Count, wonderingly. “Do you learn anything about music in them?”

“Certainly not, Herr Count,” replied Beethoven, “but I am acquiring the general information which all composers and musicians should have. You perhaps are not aware that in consequence of my parents’ poverty I could not attend a good school. The natural result was that I learned very little, and now, if I am not to be an ignoramus, I must make up by my own exertions what I lost in childhood.”

“Ah, that is really quite another thing,” said the Count, approvingly, “and instead of censuring you, I ought to have praised you for your zeal and industry. In reality I have called to-day neither to blame nor to praise you, but for an entirely different purpose.”

“Tell me what it is, Herr Count. I am entirely at your pleasure,” said Beethoven, eagerly. “You will make me very happy by assigning me to any position where I can be of the slightest service to you.”

“Good, good, dear Ludwig! I knew as much when I applied to you,” said the Count. “And now to the point. A Ritter ballet is to be given at the forthcoming carnival for the pleasure of His Highness, the Elector. Those who are to participate in it are already engaged, and the sketch and text are prepared and contained in this roll. The music alone is lacking. Will you do me the favor to compose it?”

“I shall be a thousand times delighted,” said Beethoven. He took the roll as if it had been a precious treasure. “I will take the utmost pains to meet your expectations, so that I may not only show my gratitude to you, my most esteemed patron, but also to my most gracious lord and Prince. At what time must the music be ready, Herr Count?”

“You can have at least four weeks,” replied the Count. “Therefore do not be in too much haste. When you are ready let me know. Adieu, and good luck, my young friend.”

Beethoven applied himself with enthusiastic zeal to the composition of the different parts which were necessary for the performance of the ballet, and was able to give the work to Count Waldstein before the expiration of the allotted four weeks. The Count, himself a clever musician, or at least a well-schooled amateur, glanced over the score with experienced eyes, nodded several times in a satisfied way, and smiled to himself.

“Thanks, my friend,” he said at last. “I hope the music will please. You are to conduct. I have this further suggestion to make. I know the prejudices of many of your colleagues against you. If they know that you composed the ballet music, then the envious ones will seize the opportunity to play badly, and thereby intentionally spoil the pretty music. Keep it secret until after the first performance that you are the composer. I will privately have the report circulated that I was the artist who wrote the music. When it comes to the knowledge of the gentlemen of the chapel for whom they are taking so much pains, they certainly will do their utmost to please. So, secrecy and silence. I will make the necessary explanation to the Elector, and after the first, and as I hope successful, performance of the ballet, I will let all the world know who the real composer is. Are you satisfied with this arrangement?”

“I am extremely grateful to you for it, Herr Count,” replied Beethoven. “You have rightly remarked that many of my associates are maliciously disposed toward me, and caution therefore will do no harm. On my part, I accept all your arrangements with pleasure.”

“Then I am convinced we may hope for the best results,” replied the Count.

Everything turned out as Count Waldstein had expected. The report that he had composed the music of a Ritter ballet in honor of the Elector was circulated all over the city, and particularly among the artists and musicians. Hence when the first rehearsal of the ballet took place the chapel orchestra played excellently and correctly. After the rehearsal the members were of the unanimous opinion that the music was thoroughly graceful, charming, and masterly. All were loud in their praises, and many a one cast a malicious side glance at Beethoven, as much as to say, “Now you see what certain people can learn from a mere amateur.”

Rehearsals were repeated several times, and then followed the performance of the ballet in the presence of the Elector and all his court. Everything passed off well, and the music in particular received enthusiastic applause. Count Waldstein smilingly accepted the compliments which were tendered him on all sides, but no one concerned himself about Beethoven. He was not in the least troubled on that score, but smiled to himself at the fawning of his associates, who bowed low to the Count and extolled to heaven the music of the ballet. “They will be astonished sometime, when they hear that the music is mine,” he said to himself, rubbing his hands.

When it was announced a few days afterwards that Beethoven was the composer of the much-praised ballet, his associates were not only astonished, but many of them openly acknowledged they had been deceived in taking him for a fool. Of course this was said only behind his back, but he heard of it, and discovered that one of the electoral singers, named Heller, had been particularly busy in attacking him.

Some days later Beethoven went, either accidentally or purposely, to a popular wine-shop where there were a number of his chapel associates, among them the aforesaid singer, Heller. After a hasty greeting Beethoven seated himself at a side table and overheard them making sport of him. Heller, in particular, gave the young composer many palpable side-thrusts, and boasted that there were plenty of musicians who could compose better things than a certain conceited young person ever dreamed of.

Beethoven listened calmly for a little while without taking personal notice of the abuse or the boasting. Suddenly, however, he arose, went to the table where his colleagues were sitting, and looked the singer Heller sharply in the eye. “Tell me,” he said quietly but firmly, “do you not perform ‘The Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah’ in church in the morning?”

“Certainly,” replied Heller. “Why do you ask?”

“Because, perhaps I can make a wager with you,” said Beethoven. “I will play the accompaniment on the piano, and will bet that I will break your time, or, as they say, ‘put you out.’”

“I take the bet. What shall it be?” cried Heller with malicious glee; for he believed himself so sure of winning that he already regarded his opponent as a loser.

“A keg of wine, which we can empty together after church here in the wine-shop,” replied Beethoven.

“It is agreed. I take the bet,” said Heller.

“It’s agreed,” said all the other musicians, with a malicious look at Beethoven; for not one of them believed that he could “put out” the most correct singer of them all. But Beethoven finished his glass of wine, smiling to himself.

“The Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah” are little sentences of four or six lines each, and in performance are chanted like the old chorals in a definite rhythm. The tune consists of four successive tones, several words and sometimes whole sentences being sung upon the third, and coming to a rest which the accompanist fills in with a free harmonic passage. Thereupon the singer returns to the ground tone,—not a difficult accomplishment for a clever musician, if the accompanist does not “put him out.”

On the following morning, confident of winning, Heller began his song. Beethoven accompanied him at first in the old and customary manner. All at once, however, he modulated so freely and independently, while he firmly held the first tone in the treble, that Heller could not find his way back to it, and, in fact, was completely “put out” by the “conceited young person.”

“He played incorrectly,” said Heller, angrily.

“On the contrary, he played correctly and in a masterly way,” retorted Ries, “but all the same in a way that is too much for you. Everything was done fairly and honestly, as all here will concede. So keep quiet. You have lost your bet.”

“Be it so, then. I will pay for the miserable keg of wine,” roared Heller, “but I will also make complaint to our most gracious Elector about an accompaniment out of which the devil himself could not find his way.”

“Complain all you will; you will make nothing by it,” said Lucchesi.[22] “As chapelmaster Ries has already declared, we not only must, but will, testify that everything was done fairly.”

“That does not signify,” replied Heller, still in bad humor. “I will yet disgrace him. Such an accompaniment as his is not proper in church at least.” Seizing his hat, he ran out, and disappeared before any one could stop him.

Beethoven, entirely unconcerned, let him go. Neither he nor the others believed that Heller was in earnest with his threats or that he would really complain to the Elector against his enemy. But when the entire party after the service returned to the wine-shop, where they expected to find Heller, there was no trace of him.

“Well, that is of no consequence,” said Beethoven, good-humoredly. “We will drink the keg of wine regardless of him. I will pay for it out of my own pocket.”

Mine host was ordered to furnish some excellent wine, the glasses clinked, and they gave themselves up to unrestrained conviviality. Beethoven, delighted over the defeat of his obstinate and bitter enemy, overflowed with hilarity, when suddenly a lackey in the electoral livery appeared in their midst and loudly asked whether the court organist, Ludwig van Beethoven, was present.

Deep silence followed the question, and consternation was manifest on every countenance. Had Heller in his wrath really carried out his threat after all? Beethoven, who was the one most closely concerned, understood at once and sprang up. “Here I am,” he said. “What does His Highness, the Elector, wish of me?”

“That you come at once, just as you are, to the castle,” was the reply. “The Elector wishes to speak with you.”

“I will obey at once,” replied Beethoven, as he took his hat. “Do not be disturbed, friends. Perhaps I shall return soon.”

Although he had succeeded tolerably well in concealing his apprehensions while with his companions, he was not altogether easy in his mind on his way to the castle. To be sure, he knew from Count Waldstein’s description of the Elector that he was a very kind and merciful man, but notwithstanding this he neither knew nor could imagine how he might criticise that pleasant little artistic performance in the church. Therefore he prepared himself to receive an appropriately long and sound rebuke. He determined to accept it, humbly and patiently, and at last with tolerable composure entered the apartment of the Elector.

That high personage was sitting with his back to Beethoven, writing at his desk. He did not turn around when Beethoven entered, and apparently did not hear the servant’s announcement. Five minutes, which seemed an eternity to Beethoven, passed in utter silence. At last the Elector suddenly threw down his pen and quickly turned round. “Ah! there you are, dear Beethoven,” he said in a by no means unfriendly manner. “Come a little nearer.”

Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector and bowed low, the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance, which the delinquent stood bravely.

“My dear Beethoven,” began the Elector, “I have sent for you that I may thank you for the beautiful music which you composed for our Count Waldstein’s Ritter ballet. Accept for your services your appointment as my chamber musician, and this slight compensation of one hundred ducats.” With these words he took a little roll of gold pieces and a signed document from his desk and gave them to Beethoven, whose beaming countenance could not conceal his joyous surprise.

“Gracious master, this is too much, really too much,” he exclaimed.

“Take them, take them,” insisted the Elector. “I am well satisfied with you. Count Waldstein has told me many nice things about you, and I myself have noticed in the court concerts that God has bestowed upon you a beautiful and important talent. It is my duty to promote this,—and besides, do you suppose that I will allow you to give me your compositions? So take this.”

With trembling hands Beethoven took the roll and the document, and, in his extreme confusion, stammered out a few disconnected words of gratitude. The Elector interrupted him.

“Very good,” said he. “But”—and here his face assumed a stern expression—“now that we have finished up this piece of business, a word about a more serious matter. Heller has been to me, and complained of you. Before I make my decision I would like to hear from you what you have really been doing to Heller.”

The flush of joy in Beethoven’s face disappeared, and gave place to the pallor of fear. He courageously composed himself, however, and frankly told, without reserve and with exact truth, the circumstances of the hostile encounter with Heller.

“I understand, and find that you are not as guilty as I feared,” said the Elector, resuming a kindly tone. “But, notwithstanding this, are you not aware that you have made a bad mistake?”

“Yes, I realize it now, gracious master,” replied Beethoven. “The church should not have been the scene of our quarrel. In my passion I did not think of that. I deserve punishment, and will submit to it humbly and repentantly.”

“Well,” replied the Elector, smiling, “he who recognizes and regrets his faults has already half atoned for them. I will not be too severe in my sentence, but I ought not to let your fault go unpunished. The venerable Abbot of Heisterbach told me some time ago you had an unsurpassed talent for organ playing. This gives me the opportunity to announce your punishment. You are to be banished from my court for a year, with the special order that you spend that year in Vienna, where all distinguished organists ought to go that they may profit by the knowledge they can gain there. So you are banished for a year to Vienna. This is your punishment.”

Beethoven could hardly believe he heard aright. “But, Your Highness,” he exclaimed, his eyes glistening brightly, “this is not a punishment; it is a reward—the fulfilment of my dearest wishes.”

The Elector could not repress a slight smile at the open-hearted simplicity of the young man, but he quickly assumed a more serious manner and said earnestly: “Any other one would have considered banishment from my court a very severe punishment, and I regard it so also, and expected that you would. It is not complimentary to me that you should regard removal from my vicinity as a reward.”

“Great heavens! I did not mean it that way,” said Beethoven, seriously alarmed. “I intended to say I had always wished to go to Vienna sometime, because one can learn the most in music there. Pardon me, my gracious master. My whole heart is filled with gratitude to you.”

“Well, well, quiet yourself,” replied the Elector, and the kindly smile returned to his face. “I think you understand that you are still in favor, but your punishment must make expiation, and it must also be considered as punishment. Keep this in mind. In future I recommend a simple accompaniment for the church music. As to the other matter, if you should need any money for the journey, or anything else, apply to Count Waldstein. He knows my intentions in relation to you. Adieu, dear Beethoven, and employ your time usefully in Vienna, so that it may compensate for your absence from my court. Adieu.”

A gracious inclination of the head by the Elector, a low bow by Beethoven, and the audience was at an end. Intoxicated with delight Beethoven staggered rather than walked down the steps, and in a corridor of the castle happened upon Count Waldstein, whom he would have rushed by without recognizing if the Count himself had not stopped him.

“Here, here, my dear fellow, are you again all fire and flame?” he said to him. “Has anything special happened to you?”

“Oh, you know everything already, Herr Count, for it is you I have to thank for your kind intercession,” replied Beethoven, cordially. “Chamber musician! A hundred ducats! A journey to Vienna! My head swims.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose because of your sorrow over the unkindness of the Elector, who has punished you for your petulancy,” said the Count, with his peculiar smile. “As a punishment you have been consigned to banishment from your colleagues. Keep this in mind. The Elector so wills it.”

“Yes, but for my advantage, Herr Count,” said Beethoven, joyfully. “But, God knows, it is a merciful punishment, for which one should be a thousand times thankful.”

And away he flew to the beloved mother to make his sorrowful complaint of the severity of the hard, cruel, merciful Elector.

Tears flowed. It was but natural. But the tears were certainly not altogether those of sorrow.

_In Vienna_

The most distinguished and refined society of that period was accustomed to assemble at the house of Prince Lichnowski,[23] and the best music was often performed there by the most eminent artists. Both the Prince and his amiable wife had received a thorough musical education, and loved and promoted music of the highest kind.

Beethoven brought a most cordial letter of introduction from Count Waldstein to the Prince, and consequently received an immediate invitation to a musical evening at the Lichnowski palace, which he of course accepted.

Upon entering the splendid apartments of the Prince, he found a brilliant company assembled. The contrast with his simple, ordinary dress made him feel a little uneasy, and he would have quietly slipped away had not Prince Lichnowski fortunately prevented his attempt to escape, just in time. Beethoven’s name had hardly been announced to him by a servant before he hastened to receive him, greeted him in the most cordial manner, bade him welcome, and shook hands with him warmly.

“I am exceedingly delighted to see you at my house,” said he. “My friend, Count Waldstein, has written many nice and kindly things about you, and His Electoral Highness, the Archbishop, has added with his own hand the strongest and most hearty words of recommendation. I hope you will feel perfectly at home with us very soon. I beg you to come with me, that I may present you to the Princess, who will be no less pleased than myself to make your acquaintance.”

After such a cordial reception Beethoven quickly regained his composure, and walked through the hall at the Prince’s side with uplifted head and without permitting the glitter and finery of the other guests to disturb him. Many eyes followed with astonishment the strange figure which, notwithstanding its entire lack of physical attractiveness, suggested the bearing of the lion, and notwithstanding its youthfulness concealed something great and distinguished under its insignificant exterior.

The Princess Lichnowski received the young man with an expression of gracious satisfaction, which was very agreeable to Beethoven. “It is nice that you are here,” said she. “I hope we shall be good friends, and then we shall have some good music together. Dear Mozart”[24]—she turned quickly to a simply but nicely dressed gentleman who stood near by—“please come here a moment.”

Mozart smilingly obeyed the summons and bowed low before the Princess, who held out her hand familiarly to him, and said: “No such ceremony between us, sir. Here, look at this young man. This is Herr Ludwig van Beethoven of Bonn, the electoral chamber musician and court organist—and this, my dear Beethoven, is our world-renowned master, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the brightest sun in our musical firmament.”

Mozart greeted the young man, of whom he perhaps had not yet heard, in a friendly but at the same time somewhat cool manner. Beethoven, on the other hand, who enthusiastically admired Mozart’s compositions, could not conceal his delight that an opportunity was offered him to make the acquaintance of the great master, and expressed his feelings in the most emphatic manner.

“Let us be a little more quiet, young man,” interposed Mozart, smiling at Beethoven’s excessive adoration. “I can readily believe you like some of my compositions, and that pleases me. But we will not make too much noise about them. I see that you know me, but I do not yet know your ability as a musician. Therefore may I ask that sometime you will give us something of your best on the piano? I shall be delighted if I can return your compliments.”

Beethoven needed no second request. He felt inspired by the presence of the high priest in the temple of art, whose wonderful melodies had so charmed him, and he replied eagerly and quickly: “Where is the piano? If you will listen to me, Herr Mozart, I will play at once.”

“All the better,” said Mozart. “There is a piano in the next room. Let us go there.”

“Brava!” said the Princess, as she clapped her hands. “We shall hear something beautiful now. Let us go at once.”

Beethoven, his heart swelling with pride and eager to show himself to the master of music in the most advantageous light, threw himself into his work with impetuous vigor, and played continuously for a full quarter of an hour whatever the occasion and his own genius suggested. Those present listened intently, and when Beethoven brought his performance to a close with some splendid chords, a storm of applause followed. Prince and Princess Lichnowski openly expressed their astonishment at Beethoven’s artistic skill, and all the others praised him. Mozart alone remained calm and unexcited, and contented himself with saying a few coolly polite words of praise.

Beethoven blushed and turned pale alternately. He had expected a warmer recognition on the part of the renowned master, and such cool civility chilled the enthusiasm and inspiration in his breast like an icy breath. With a bitter smile he bowed his proud head and covered his heated brow with his hand. A moment before, he thought he had accomplished something excellent. Had his feelings deceived him? Had he completely overestimated his talent? That was a terrible thought.

Silence reigned in the room. The guests also were disturbed by Mozart’s reserved manner,—the same Mozart who was always so willing to praise and quick to appreciate, when there was occasion for praise and appreciation, and who now showed not a trace of his customary enthusiasm after such a specially masterly performance.

“You judge the young man too severely, dear Mozart,” whispered Prince Lichnowski to him. “His playing has really electrified me.”

“Oh, that performance is of no great consequence,” replied Mozart, with a shrug of the shoulder. “It is only a prepared show-piece which the young man has given us; I do not allow myself to be excited by such things.”

This was said in a low voice, but Beethoven heard it. The cloud disappeared from his brow. He raised his head, shook his mane, and with flashing eyes said to Mozart:

“No, sir, that is not a show-piece learned by heart that I played, but a free fantasie. In proof of this I ask you to give me a theme for another free fantasie, and then I will show you what I can do.”

“Oho! Oho! don’t get too excited, young man,” replied Mozart. “You can have a theme—develop this one.”

Mozart leaned over Beethoven’s shoulder, played the theme, and then stepped back a little. Beethoven instantly grasped the theme. He always played best when aroused, and at this instant he was still excited by the presence of the honored master. He developed the theme with such skill and brilliancy of technique that he carried his audience away with wonder at his inspired performance.

All indifference and coolness disappeared from Mozart’s manner. With the young musician’s first passages and accords, deep interest was apparent on his countenance, and when Beethoven finished his fantasie and arose from the piano, Mozart went up to him, embraced him, and said in a tone of voice all could hear, “This young man, some day or other, will make a noise in the world.”

Now it was all joy and exultation. Beethoven was visibly affected, and trembled, while flashes of triumph shot from his piercing eyes. The princely couple and the guests overwhelmed him with congratulations.

After that evening Beethoven was regarded in Vienna as destined to musical greatness, and he found friends and well-wishers everywhere. Prince Lichnowski was completely devoted to him. He gave him a room in his palace, and a standing invitation to his table as a guest.

Beethoven thoroughly appreciated these friendly attentions, but he was not on that account any the less obstinate and self-willed. Proud of his genius, which the great Mozart had so clearly recognized, he did not display a fawning, servile manner. He seemed rather like one who was on guard against favors, than as one who was receiving them.

Prince Lichnowski, an extremely amiable man, and one who was well acquainted with the world, let Beethoven go his own way. He clearly recognized the great genius of his young friend, and did not trouble himself about the oddities, and at times rude ways, in his behavior. The Princess did the same. She valued and admired the inner worth of the young artist, and did not concern herself about his rough exterior.

The first visit of Beethoven to Vienna was not a long one. His leave of absence, or, if you prefer, his term of banishment from the electoral court at Bonn, approached its end, and he must return home. His devoted friends, Prince and Princess Lichnowski chief among them, let him go reluctantly, and cordially and urgently invited him to return soon.

“Always consider my house as your residence, dear Beethoven,” said Prince Lichnowski, as he embraced him at his departure. “Whether I may be in Vienna or not, you will always find a room ready for you here.” The Princess manifested the same kind feeling.

Beethoven was deeply affected by his separation from these noble and devoted friends, and with heart-felt emotion expressed his gratitude for all the favors he had received.

“I shall come again,” said he. “Be it sooner or later, depend upon it, I shall come. Vienna has become very dear to me. Such friends as I have found here are treasures for a lifetime. One must find such friends to appreciate the joyousness of living.” So he departed; but he forgot neither his promises nor his affectionate friends and admirers.

In the narrow limits of Bonn the young eagle, Beethoven, could not spread his wings for his highest flight. He longed to be back again in the Kaiser city. There were the great masters of the art, Gluck, Haydn,[25] and Mozart, whose music was admired by all cultured persons; and there, music was considered the highest of all the arts and was most honored. Beethoven needed such a soil to bring his mighty genius to its highest development, and therefore his thoughts repeatedly turned toward Vienna, and he longed for nothing so ardently as to go back there. This was not because he loved and esteemed his old friends in Bonn less than his new Vienna friends. He clung to them with all his earlier attachment; but his art urged him on to the highest and holiest things of life, and it was only in Vienna that he could find at that time the soil fitted to bring his art to its complete blossoming.

The Elector, in whose good graces Beethoven still remained, heard of the ardent wishes of the young man from Count Waldstein, but for a long time he did nothing to promote them. A fortunate dispensation brought the renowned Haydn to Bonn in July, 1792,[26] and Beethoven did not lose the opportunity to renew the acquaintance which he had made during his first visit to Vienna.

Haydn manifested delight at seeing the young artist again, and expressed his astonishment that he had not yet gone back to Vienna, where he would be received with the greatest possible pleasure and honors.

“It is not my fault that I was not there long ago,” he replied. “The Elector wishes me to remain here, and I am so greatly indebted to him that it is impossible for me to oppose his desires.”

“That is truly an unanswerable argument,” said Haydn. “For all that, keep up good courage. Everything will come out right yet.”

And so it did, and more quickly than Beethoven had dared to hope. The good Haydn eloquently appealed to the Elector to gratify the young man’s wishes, and Count Waldstein reinforced him so enthusiastically that the Elector at last decided to let him go. It was done as a mark of favor and honor; and delighted with the realization of his longings, Beethoven returned, in 1792,[27] to his loved Vienna, where he was to settle down for the rest of his life.

His friends in Vienna received him with open arms. Prince Lichnowski again arranged a room for him in his palace, and gave him a seat at his table, and the Princess treated him as if she had been his mother. Beethoven accepted all these proffered favors with gratitude, and such truly intimate relations soon existed between his patron and himself, that his peculiarities, and the little improprieties of which he was often guilty, failed to disturb them for any length of time. And the young musician showed himself peculiar, very peculiar, often extremely so. For instance, he did not come to the table for a long time. Prince Lichnowski asked him the reason, and Beethoven curtly replied:

“What! do you think it strange that I am not seated promptly at table at four o’clock in the afternoon? Must I be at home every day at half-past three, dress myself, comb my hair, and shave? Not by any means! I will not endure it. I decided at the very first it was best to go to a restaurant. There at least I am under no restraint, and I can go and eat at any hour I please.”

The Prince let him have his own way. He fully realized that one must not put bridle and reins on an artist like Beethoven, but must let him go as he pleases.

At another time Beethoven took a fancy to have daily horseback rides, and had hardly intimated his purpose when Prince Lichnowski generously placed his entire stable at his disposal.

“What!” said Beethoven, “shall I ride a strange horse? shall I go and obsequiously ask the stable-master every time I wish to ride whether it is agreeable to him to saddle a horse for me? I will do nothing of the kind; I will buy my own horse.”

And he did so. He rode a fortnight, and then seemed entirely to have forgotten that he had a horse. His whim was over, and his servant had been doing a profitable business for a long time by hiring the horse out by the hour.

On still another occasion Beethoven rang his bell several times one morning, but the servant did not answer the call. When he came at last, and excused his neglect by saying that he was ordered to wait upon the Prince, Beethoven flew into a passion, took the fellow by the collar, and marched him to the Prince.

“This churl has let me wait,” he cried in a furious rage, “because you had called him.”

“That is all right, of course,” said the Prince, quietly. “Excuse me, dear Beethoven; but you, Friedrich”—he turned and spoke decidedly to the servant—“must serve Herr van Beethoven first when he and I ring for you at the same time.”

The young artist’s anger was quickly changed to shame, and the result was that he procured a servant of his own that very day, to answer his bell.

The Prince, as usual, let him do as he pleased, without paying any attention to his extraordinary conduct. The good understanding between them was so little disturbed by it that he gave him an annuity of six hundred gulden, for the Elector of Cologne had died in the meantime, and by his death Beethoven’s salary as chamber musician was cut off.

The young artist’s obstinacy was not only displayed in his countenance, 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.