Chapter III: Part 3

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.

“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.”

[22]A bass singer in the electoral chapel.

[23]Prince Karl Lichnowski was a highly cultivated nobleman, and a pupil
of Mozart. His consort, Princess Christiane, born Countess of Thun,
was also refined, scholarly, and devoted to music.

[24]Mozart was at this time thirty-one, and Beethoven seventeen years of
age.

[25]Gluck was born in 1714, and Haydn in 1732, so at this time (1788)
Gluck was seventy-four and Haydn fifty-six years of age. Both these
composers made Vienna their home, and both died there.

[26]Haydn was at this time returning from his visit to England.

[27]Beethoven was now in the twenty-second year of his age.

[28]Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia, nephew of Frederick the Great,
was born Nov. 18, 1772, and died on the battlefield at Saalfeld, Oct.
10, 1806. He was an excellent pianist and composer, and so fond of
music that he kept musicians with him in the army.

[29]Archduke Rudolph, son of Leopold of Tuscany and Marie Louise of
Spain, was born at Florence, Jan. 8, 1788, and died at Vienna, July
24, 1831. He was a pupil of Beethoven, but eventually gave up music
and went into the Church, and was appointed cardinal.

[30]Ferdinand Ries, pianist and composer, and the pupil of Beethoven,
was born at Bonn, Nov. 28, 1784, and died at Frankfurt, Jan. 13,
1838. He was considered one of the best pianists of his time.

[31]Buda is that part of Budapest lying on the west bank of the Danube.

[32]These gardens were attached to the imperial palace of Schönbrunn.

[33]Baron Gottfried van Swieten was a distinguished musical amateur and
a patron of Beethoven and Haydn. Beethoven dedicated his first
symphony to him.

[34]In the original text the will ends at this point. The remaining
portion directs Doctor Schmidt to describe his disease, makes his two
brothers his heirs, and expresses his joy that when death comes, it
will release him from constant suffering. The will is dated Oct. 6,
1802.

Appendix

The following is a chronological statement of the principal events in the life of Ludwig van Beethoven, which was mostly spent in Vienna, and mainly devoted to composition:

1770 Born at Bonn, Prussia, Dec. 16.
1783 First composition, “Variations on a March.”
1785 Appointed Court Organist.
1787 Sent to Vienna by Elector of Cologne to study with Mozart.
1792 Second visit to Vienna to study with Haydn.
1795 Composed three trios in Vienna, marked Opus 1, indicating that
he regarded all he had previously produced as of no consequence.
1796 Made an artistic tour in North Germany.
1797 First Symphony.
1798 Deafness began, and continually increased during the remainder
of his life.
1802 Second Symphony.
1803 Oratorio of “Mount of Olives” performed in Vienna.
1804 Third Symphony (“Eroica”).
1805 Composed “Fidelio,” his only opera.
1806 Fourth Symphony.
1808 Fifth Symphony.
1808 Sixth Symphony (“Pastoral”).
1812 Seventh Symphony.
1812 Eighth Symphony (“The Little”).
1822 Mass in D.
1823 Ninth Symphony (“Choral”).
1827 Died in Vienna, Dec. 26.

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