| By Author | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Title | [ A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Other Symbols ] |
| By Language |
|
Download this book: [ ASCII ] Look for this book on Amazon Tweet |
Title: Ludwig Van Beethoven (Life Stories for Young People)
Author: Upton, George P. (George Putnam), Hoffman, Franz
Language: English
As this book started as an ASCII text book there are no pictures available.
*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Ludwig Van Beethoven (Life Stories for Young People)" ***
(This file was produced from images generously made
[Illustration: _When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid
his face in his mother’s dress_ (Page 17)]
_Life Stories for Young People_
LUDWIG VAN
BEETHOVEN
_Translated from the German of
Franz Hoffmann_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” etc._
THIRD PRINTING
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published October 1, 1904
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
Preface
The life-story of Beethoven, contained in these pages, is a _résumé_ of
the events of his childhood and youth, those of his maturer years being
merely indicated in order to give symmetry to the narrative. It covers
just that period of his life in which young readers are likely to be
interested. Those who have the leisure and inclination to study the
details of his entire career will find them in the biographies of
Schindler, Ries, Marx, Thayer, and others, but it is questionable
whether any of these will bring the reader as closely to the actual man
and musician as this little story. And this is so not only because it is
a story, but because it is a story true to life, with actual, not
imaginary, personages, set in a social, domestic, and musical
environment which is accurately reproduced, and dealing with historical
events which are correctly stated. In a strict sense, therefore, it is
not fiction, far less is it rhapsody; and to this extent it is valuable
not alone for facts charmingly set forth, but for effects which are
realistic and which seem to bring the actual Beethoven before the
reader. It is the story of a sad struggle against obstacles which
sometimes appeared almost insuperable; but its lesson for youth is the
reward of world-wide fame which followed the exercise of industry,
courage, honesty, self-respect, and self-devotion to his calling. The
translator has endeavored to reproduce the story in an English setting
without sacrificing its charming German characteristics.
G. P. U.
Chicago, September 1, 1904.
Contents
In Childhood 11
The Walk 26
New Friends 49
A Merciful Punishment 65
In Vienna 83
The End 108
Appendix 117
List of Illustrations
When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid his face
in his mother’s dress _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler 34
Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector,
the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance 77
He had lost his hearing. Ries tried to console and calm him 109
{lyre} Beethoven {lyre}
_In Childhood_
December days are not usually considered the most agreeable or most
comfortable days of the year, but no December day could have been more
disagreeable or uncomfortable than the seventeenth of that month in
1774. A dense, almost impenetrable fog enveloped that afternoon the city
of Bonn on the Rhine, and the country for miles around, in a cold, gray
veil of mist, through which hardly a ray of sunshine could find its way.
A fine rain, mingled with occasional flakes of snow, drizzled through
the fog and made the pavements slippery and filthy. Everything one
looked upon, whether animate or inanimate, seemed disagreeable. The sky
was disagreeable. Disagreeably the trees and shrubs in avenues and
gardens shook their leafless branches to free them from the frozen
raindrops which weighed them down. The houses in the street were
disagreeable, and their usually attractive and brightly lighted windows
appeared that day most inhospitable. Disagreeably and sullenly the rooks
sat upon the roof-tops, and the sparrows themselves, usually the
sauciest and jolliest companions among the feathered folk, fluttered
about anxiously, deserted each other, and sought the warmest and driest
little nooks in the cornices, or near a warm chimney, without any
concern for the rest of the world. If two acquaintances met on the
street, the one greeted the other with a woe-begone countenance.
Everything seemed depressed and disagreeable—the huckster women in the
market, the sentries at their posts, the few pedestrians on the
promenade, and the few faces which appeared here and there at the
darkened windows and looked with lonesome gaze into the tedious, gray,
dense, cold fog.
No person or object, however, appeared more irritable, morose, and
disagreeable than the court musician and singer, Herr Johann van
Beethoven,[1] who hurried through the unfriendly streets of Bonn, on the
third hour of that afternoon, frequently muttering to himself
imprecations and other exclamations to relieve his feelings.
“What weather!” he growled, as he wrapped his threadbare cloak around
him more closely, when, in turning a street corner, a sharp gust of wind
smote him fiercely. “Everything goes wrong in these ill-fated days. It
is enough to drive one mad. Two hours lost already this morning. Now I
am sent for again to make music because my lady is not in good humor! Do
these distinguished people think that a musician of His Most Serene
Highness, Max Franz,[2] Elector of Cologne, is a bootblack? I am tired
of it all! And this weather, too! Nothing but fog and rain, and not a
kreuzer in one’s pocket! There may be those who can bear such things
patiently. I can’t. Pah! The innkeeper will trust me once more. I will
go to him, and better thoughts will come with something to strengthen
the heart and some lively company.”
Muttering these words, he turned into a side street, and after a few
hundred paces entered a house, over the door of which hung a green
wreath, signifying that wine was sold there. It was not until twilight
fell, and the streets, already darkened by the fog, became doubly dark,
that he came out. Another person followed, escorting him with a light,
evidently so that he might not stumble upon the door-sill.
“Good-night, Herr van Beethoven,” this person said. “I must look after
my own interests. I must have the money in eight days, or credit stops.
I also am the father of a family, Herr van Beethoven, and must take care
of my own.”
“Don’t make so many words, gossip,” replied the musician with some
bitterness. “I give you my word of honor. You know me. Can you not act
generously with me?”
The musician went on his way. The other, evidently the keeper of the
wine-shop, looked after him, shaking his head.
“What a pity,” he said to himself. “He well deserves better fortune. He
is a pleasant, good-natured companion, but certainly his position as a
member of the court chapel pays him but little, and it costs money to
feed a wife and two little children. But he is past help. I cannot give
him credit longer than eight days at the most. He already owes me too
much.”
While the wine-shop keeper was making these reflections, his guest found
his way with difficulty through the dark streets. Had it been lighter,
one would have noticed by his actions that his craving for a “heart
strengthener” had in no way bettered his condition. On the contrary, he
appeared even more sullen and morose than when he found it. His brow was
wrinkled. His lips, tightly closed by his bitter feelings, opened only
to utter imprecations and words of discontent, as they had done a little
while before.
After walking around for about five minutes he reached the Bonn Gasse.
Here he lived in a small, narrow, dark part of the “Graus Haus.”[3] He
entered boisterously, and with great difficulty climbed the dark, narrow
staircase.
“Is it you, Johann?” asked a gentle voice on the floor above, while at
the same time a gleam of light illumined the darkness.
“It is I,” replied the musician sullenly. “Have I come home a little too
early, Marie?”
“Never too early, and you are always welcome, Johann,” replied the first
voice, with the same gentleness as before. A pretty but somewhat faded
woman stepped forward and cordially gave her hand to her husband to
assist him up the last steps.[4] “What is the matter, Johann? You seem
so gloomy! Think of it, this is the birthday of our little Ludwig.”[5]
The husband was visibly surprised, and pressed his hand to his brow.
“That I should have forgotten it!” he exclaimed. “But,” he added
bitterly, “how would it have helped matters, anyway? I have not a
kreuzer with which to make the little one happy.”
“Oh! do not let that trouble you, dear husband,” replied his wife,
smiling. “Ludwig is happy enough, and cares nothing for presents and the
like. If you would sing a little bit to him and play the piano a little
he would be perfectly contented.”
“Certainly he can have that much, and at least it costs nothing,”
replied Johann Beethoven in a somewhat more cheerful manner, as he
returned the cordial handshake of his wife. “Yes, I will sing and play,
and thereby drive the bad spirit of discontent out of my soul.”
The two stepped into a small, narrow, meanly furnished apartment, where
they were welcomed with a loud cry of joy by a little four-year-old boy,
who stretched out both his little hands to his mother. He may have been
somewhat timid in the dark room, and the sight of his mother returning
with the light elicited from him the outcry. It had little consolation
for the father, however, for when the child saw him he shrank back
afraid, and hid his face in the folds of his mother’s dress.
“Be polite, Ludwig, dear child,” she said kindly to him. “It is your
father. Give him a pat of the hand.”
The boy timidly stretched out his hand, but his father did not take it.
It was evident the child’s conduct had displeased him, for his eyes were
again gloomy and his brows wrinkled.
“It’s of no use,” he said, repulsing the mother, who sought to
conciliate her husband. “I know already what you will say, ‘Children are
children, and I’—well, certainly I am not always the tenderest of
fathers to his own. But how can one be so when there is nothing for him
but poverty, wretchedness, and thirstiness?”
Ill-humoredly he threw off his cloak, and with a gloomy countenance
paced to and fro in the narrow chamber. Ludwig and his mother quietly
withdrew to a corner. She could scarcely keep back the tears. Her little
son clung to her anxiously and tenderly.
Some minutes passed in gloomy, oppressive stillness. At last Johann
Beethoven, without saying a word, seated himself at the piano and
touched the keys. The tender tones which he drew from the instrument
seemed gradually to allay his agitation and brighten his darkened
countenance. He played on, and finally began the pleasant melody of a
folk-song, gently humming it at first, and then singing it with the full
power of his voice.
Upon hearing the first tones of the song, the little Ludwig raised his
head and fixed his gaze with rapt attention and glistening eyes upon his
father. As he began to sing aloud, the boy got down from his mother’s
lap and, step by step, unheard by his father, approached him, until he
stood close by his side, and clung to him as tenderly as he had clung to
his mother a moment before. All his fears were dispelled by the
soothing, gentle tones of the music. He listened only to them. All else
was buried and forgotten. His eyes were raised to heaven, he stood
transfixed, and his young soul fluttered, as if on wings, among the soft
modulations of the simple yet heart-stirring, beautiful melody of the
song.
His father stopped abruptly, turned round, and saw the child standing
near him, as it were, in a kind of ecstasy.
“Ha! Ludwig, are you dreaming?” he asked, not harshly as before, but
with an entirely changed and softer tone.
“No, father, I was only listening to you,” replied the child, “and it
seemed to me that I heard an angel singing in heaven. It was beautiful.
Oh, if I could only play something too!”
“Try it,” said his father encouragingly, as he placed the boy’s fingers
upon the keys. “Keep your fingers firm and let them follow as I guide
them.”
The little Ludwig was greatly pleased. His father repeated the melody
which had so much delighted him. After he had played it a few times, the
boy said:
“It is all right now, father. Now I can play it all alone.”
“Oho!” said his father. “You can hardly do that yet. You are venturing a
little too far.”
“Only let me try,” persisted the boy.
His father let him do as he wished. He seated himself at the piano; at
first he ran his fingers over the keys and then accurately began the
folk melody, which he played smoothly to the end without hesitation or
mistake.
His father, who had not expected any kind of excellence in the
performance, sat as if spell-bound and regarded the boy with wide-open
eyes.
“Youngster, truly there is more in you than I have expected or thought
of until to-day,” he exclaimed, and, taking him upon his knee, he kissed
his fresh, young lips. “You will yet become a finished musician, and a
support for your father and mother.”
“I wish for nothing better than to be able to make music correctly,”
said the boy, as he joyfully clapped his hands.
“Good! No one shall prevent you, and I myself will be your teacher,”
said his father. “If you are truly industrious, you will get ahead
wonderfully, provided you do not go too fast and will practise
regularly.”
No sooner said than done. The father began at once to teach his son the
piano and the violin. At first it seemed as if both father and son would
enjoy the work. But it was only at first. It was soon apparent that the
little Ludwig was possessed of the most extraordinary obstinacy. The
continual finger and other dry exercises soon disgusted him, and he
played them with unconcealed and extreme reluctance. He was willing to
be faithful in his piano practice, but only in his own, not in his
father’s way. Owing to the latter’s temper, this sometimes occasioned
violent scenes. Johann Beethoven was easily excited to anger, and once
irritated he lost all control of himself. He hurled taunts and
reproaches at the boy, and boxed his ears; but Ludwig bore it all with
unyielding firmness, and confronted his father defiantly in these
outbreaks. Then his mother would weep and earnestly beseech her husband
to have patience with the boy, who was too little and childish to
understand. She usually appeased his anger, for, in reality, he was kind
and tender-hearted. The stubborn little fellow likewise could not long
withstand the piteous appeals of his mother. His defiant heart at last
would yield to her caresses, and for a while he would good-naturedly
submit to his father’s directions.
But of course it was only for a little while. His old obstinacy would
continually block the way, and sometimes the situation would become so
intolerable that the boy would declare he would have nothing more to do
with music. The violent outbreaks would occur afresh. Reproaches,
threats, and punishment were not spared, but they served only to make
the boy still more obstinate and completely to harden him against his
father. In fact, the danger that the little Beethoven might abandon
music altogether could not have been averted had not the happy influence
of his mother’s loving appeals continually drawn him back to its sweet
diversion.
There was still another thing that kept the sacred flame alive in the
breast of the boy, and that was the frequent absence of his father,
which permitted him to follow the inclinations of his own caprice and
pleasure, and to draw beautiful accords and melodies, now from the
piano, now from the violin.
Upon one occasion, when his father had treated him with unusual severity
and had looked at him threateningly, the boy fled with his violin to his
little bed-chamber, and there, shut out from all the world, gave vent to
his anger and his sorrow in mournful tones. As this did not help to
allay his inward tumults his mother, as a last expedient, adopted a
course which always had the happiest result; namely, she told him of his
dead grandfather,[6] of whom the boy had preserved active and loving
memories, and whose life-sized portrait hung in his chamber, thus
keeping him freshly in remembrance.
This grandfather in his lifetime was a highly esteemed and distinguished
man, and had served as chapelmaster for Max Frederick of Cologne. The
little Ludwig looked up to him as an exemplar for his future life. When
his mother told him how beautifully he sang in the opera, what a fine,
stately man he was, and how high he stood in the favor of his electoral
patron, the boy listened with the most eager attention to every word,
and not infrequently exclamations would escape from him, such as, “I
shall have as great success,” or, “I shall become a famous man also,
mother.”
Then the patient woman smiled, kissed the boy’s red cheeks, and all that
had happened before between father and son was buried in the sea of
forgetfulness.
Some years passed in this way, ending as unsatisfactorily for the father
as for the son. The former, when the little Ludwig was seven years old,
at last realized that his method of teaching was not adapted to him and
that they must look about for another and more suitable teacher.
Fortunately they found such a one, first in the person of chapelmaster
Pfeiffer,[7] later in court organist Van den Eeden,[8] and then in court
organist Neefe,[9] all of whom instructed him in piano, violin, and
organ playing; also in composition.
Ludwig now made rapid and truly astonishing progress in his art. The
applause of his teachers was accorded to him in most plentiful measure.
He developed into a capable and thorough musician. Every one who knew
him esteemed and loved him; and yet the already mature boy was not
inwardly happy. There was a secret sorrow in his breast, which
embittered his life and dispelled all his joyousness. He never had a
glowing face and laughing eyes, like other young men of his age. Silent,
reserved, and absorbed in himself, he went his way, and many a one who
saw him walking sadly through the streets of Bonn looked wonderingly
after him, and probably said, “That is a strange expression of
countenance for such a young fellow to wear.”
Indeed, people knew not what oppressed the young Beethoven and what had
prematurely given him such a serious and melancholy disposition.
Fortunately, however, the time was not far distant which would bring him
a friend in whom he could fully confide, and to whom he could
unreservedly pour out all the cares and troubles of his heart.
_The Walk_
A divine spring day filled the beautiful Rhine valley with radiance and
light. The surface of the river glistened as if strewn with thousands of
diamonds. On the not far away “Sieben Gebirge”[10] hung a blue haze,
like a fine transparent veil, not concealing, but only beautifying and
softening the rugged outlines of the peaks. The island of Nonnenwerth,
with its bright green foliage, was set in the river like an emerald, and
high above it on the left bank gleamed the red ruins of the old castle
of Rolandseck[11]—a suggestion of the flight of time in the midst of the
peaceful, restful, perfect beauty of the present.
It was Sunday. Near and far sounded the peal of bells. The crisp tones
from the little chapels and village churches mingled harmoniously with
the deep diapason of the great church bells in Bonn, and with their
trembling vibrations filled the beautiful landscape, which seemed
listening in prostrate devotion. Hardly any other sound than that of the
bells could be distinguished. Even the little song-birds, which a short
time before had chirped and twittered loudly and joyously, were now
quiet. Sunday peace and Sunday silence rested upon city and plain.
A young man slowly walked along a path which leads from Bonn down to the
Rhine, threading its way through fields and meadows. He was simply and
somewhat shabbily but neatly clad. One forgot, however, his modest
attire as one looked into the face of the wanderer and saw those eyes in
which ever and anon bright gleams sparkled and revealed the holy fire in
his spirit. For the moment he had no regard for the beauty of
surrounding nature. He only listened. His soul was floating, as it were,
in a sea of tones, which, now loudly, now softly, like the breaking of
ocean waves on the shore, forced themselves upon his tensely strained
nerves and filled him with emotion. For a time he gazed up into the
bright blue sky with gleaming eyes, and folded his hands upon his
breast, like one in ecstasy, as if thereby he could relieve this flood
of rapture. Then he advanced a few steps, but again paused, and,
muttering to himself some unintelligible exclamations, flung both hands
suddenly and wildly about in the air.
He continued for a moment this strange action, which not only would have
caused a quiet passerby to smile, but might have amazed him. His
amazement, however, would have lasted only until he had seen the
piercing eyes of the young man and the lofty expression upon his brow,
around which hung thick, bushy hair like a lion’s mane. His eyes and
forehead saved him from the ridicule which his otherwise insignificant
appearance might have excited, and made it, if not exalted, at least
entitled to respect.
Softly the bells pealed on. Only a gentle and gradually dying away
murmur trembled in the almost motionless air. The young man remained
immovable, his head bowed upon his breast, until the last vibrations had
died away. Then, like one awakening from a dream, he raised his head and
looked around with a quiet, gentle glance. He was already within a few
hundred steps of the Rhine, and on the opposite shore gleamed brightly
and hospitably the houses of Königswinter,[12] above which rose the
lofty, huge, and majestic peaks of the Seven Mountains.
“I will go over there,” he said to himself. “The day is so beautiful,
one should improve it.”
With quick steps he went down to the bank of the river and sprang into
one of the boats lying there, saying to the boatman the single word,
“Across.”
Arrived on the other side, he threw the boatman a little silver piece
and then took the first, best road he came to and went on at random.
Soon he found himself in a shadowy beech wood, whose light green leaves
rustled high above him. In one lighter spot he could see the blue sky
through the foliage, and here and there a sunbeam found its way through
the dense leaves and glistened at the young wanderer’s feet like a
sparkling jewel or a bright silver shield.
There were no people in the wood. The bustle of the world did not
penetrate its dusky recesses, but, notwithstanding this, there was
joyousness and liveliness in its broad, dark halls. Numberless songbirds
swung on the slender branches or flew lightly from bough to bough. The
finches warbled their lively, rollicking songs. The blackbirds and song
thrushes sang their soft and yet full-toned strophes. In the distance
the cuckoo intoned its name. The young wanderer heard and watched it
all, and, filled with happy feelings, his face wore a more cheerful
aspect. No sound in this beautiful solitude escaped his acute ears,—not
the rustle of the leaves when a gentle breeze stirred them; not the
light gurgling and splashing of the little brook along the bank of which
his course led him; not the rush of the water when it plunged over rocks
and made pretty little waterfalls; not the tapping of the woodpecker,
whose strong bill pierced the bark of the tree that concealed insects
and larvæ; not the sharp scream of a large bird of prey, high overhead;
and, least of all, the ravishing song of a nightingale, which suddenly
rose from a thicket close by the side of the lonely wanderer, so full,
so tender, so pensive and heart-stirring, that he remained motionless
and forgot all else that he might listen only to this wonderful,
inspiring song.
“Brava, bravissima,” he involuntarily exclaimed, as the lovely singer
shook its pretty feathers, and then, following a gently alluring call,
probably the cry of its mate, flew as swiftly as an arrow through the
bushes. “The utmost that can be accomplished in a bird’s throat is in
thy song, charming Philomel; but the artist still must create the higher
things,—so high that they bring him near to the divine. And this height
I will and shall attain, with God’s help.”
The young man uttered these last words loudly in the wood, but hardly
had he done so when a merry and mocking laugh came back in reply. For an
instant he felt a little frightened, but immediately recovered himself,
and angrily answered:
“Who laughs there? I hope no one here is making sport of me.”
“I have taken the liberty to do so,” said a young man, stepping forward
from behind the trunk of a beech-tree and making a low bow with a
slightly ironical smile. “If you wish to resent it, honorable sir, I
herewith surrender myself to your merciful judgment.”
The angry frown which his words had caused disappeared, and Beethoven
good-naturedly extended his hand, which the stranger cordially shook.
“Very learned Franz Gerhard Wegeler,[13] worthy student of medicine,” he
said, “what chance brought you into this solitude, where I fancied I was
all alone and far from the human rabble?”
“Doubtless the same chance which brought my melodious friend here,”
replied the other. “Yes, my excellent master of tone, my Ludwig van
Beethoven, it was the blue sky and golden sun which enticed me out of
the dull study-room into God’s glorious world, where at least one can
get a breath of fresh air and enjoy the wonderful works of the Almighty.
Was not that your object also, worthy pupil of Mistress Musica?”
Ludwig nodded assent. “For all that, it is a strange and remarkable
chance that we should have met each other in this solitary wood,” he
said.
“Not altogether strange and not very wonderful, my dear fellow,” replied
Wegeler, “for in crossing the Rhine I engaged the same boatman who took
you over. Knowing that we were old acquaintances, he told me that you
had crossed scarcely half an hour before, and were roving about in this
wood. As I would rather have company than walk alone, I followed your
trail, found you lost in ecstasy over a nightingale, and finally
learned, for you announced it in an exceedingly loud tone of voice, that
you intended shortly to soar to the very Deity. That made me laugh; but
you will excuse me when you reflect that the ascent to the Deity is a
somewhat difficult performance for one of your years, unless you make
what they call a ‘salto mortale’ (deadly leap). It is the easiest way in
the world to break one’s neck or bones.”
Ludwig again frowned a little, but quickly smoothed his brow with his
hand, as if wiping away all troubles and gloomy thoughts. “You are
right,” said he. “I was a fool to entertain such bold fancies and daring
hopes. And this, too, in my melancholy circumstances and wretched
plight! It is not possible. I was mad, that I was.” With these last
words such deep dejection manifested itself in his countenance that
Wegeler suddenly felt the warmest sympathy for the young man.
“What is the matter? Why do you speak of wretchedness and melancholy,
Ludwig?” he cordially said, as he threw his arm around his much younger
friend and drew him affectionately toward him.
“Ah! you know not—no one knows—what it is that depresses and weighs me
down,” answered Ludwig. “Poverty is such a heavy burden. It rests like a
load upon the pinions of the soul. Oh, it is awful to feel here, here in
one’s inmost soul, that one could accomplish the great and the
beautiful, and yet not be able to do it because he lacks a few miserable
gulden and kreuzers. It is hard, Wegeler.”
Tears stood in young Beethoven’s eyes, and his lips quivered in the
effort to repress his emotions. Wegeler’s eyes rested with an expression
of deep sympathy upon the dejected figure which he had seen only a short
time before exulting in the joyousness of hope.
“Ludwig,” he said,—and his voice had an unusually tender tone,—“I pray
you, open your heart to me, and do not conceal what troubles and
oppresses you. I feel for you as for a true and sincere friend. Take me
for your friend and then speak, for you know between true heart-friends
there should be no restraint, no secrets.”
“Friend!” said Ludwig. “Would you actually be my true friend?”
“To the last hour of my life. I swear it,” said Wegeler, in such an
honest manner that his sincerity could not be doubted.
Ludwig understood him and was comforted. With an exclamation of joy he
embraced Wegeler and kissed him. “So we are friends, always friends,” he
cried. “Oh, how I have longed for a soul that could and would understand
me, and lo, at last I have found one. Now you shall learn, dear, good
Wegeler, what has disturbed my soul and checked its flights. I am not
happy, and the cause of my unhappiness, alas, is my father’s conduct. I
have kept this melancholy secret deeply hidden in my breast, but here,
where no one but the dear God and the little birds can hear, I will
disclose it.”
[Illustration: _With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler_]
He told in passionate words how his father’s temper had made him suffer
from the days of his childhood, of that father’s insatiable craving for
drink, and how, on that account, the family often had to go without the
necessaries of life.
“Though my father naturally is good-natured,” he went on, “this craving
makes him exceedingly irritable and sometimes violent. His habits drive
him to extremes. At one moment he is a tender father, at the next a
cruel tyrant. The despair of it all is that when necessity and trouble
press hardest he has no patience to bear, but seeks consolation and
forgetfulness in wine. This is my heaviest burden, for, so long as he
cannot resist drinking, there is no hope of better conditions for our
family. My mother, my good, true, tender mother, secretly weeps, and
bears her hard lot with Christian calmness. But I and my two younger
brothers[14] suffer unspeakably, and many a time I have been tempted to
throw myself into the Rhine and end all my miseries.”
“Calm yourself, dear boy,” said Wegeler soothingly. “Don’t be so
vehement. I am free to acknowledge that your situation is bad and gloomy
enough, but bad as it is, some relief will be found. Let me think it
over. For the present banish your sad thoughts, and let us enjoy the
delicious atmosphere, the blue sky, the green woods, and the sparkling
sunshine. This is not a day for melancholy. Cheer up! Let us go farther
into the wood and visit my good friends, the monks of the Heisterbach
cloister. We shall be well received there, and in any case find a good
breakfast, which doubtless we shall greatly relish after the morning
tramp.”
Ludwig was ready to accept his friend’s guidance. They sprang up from
the mossy bank upon which they had been sitting during their
conversation, and followed a small, scarcely perceptible footpath that
led through the wood. Wegeler chattered about everything possible, told
his new friend many humorous and pleasant stories, and quickly succeeded
in cheering him up. When they reached the Heisterbach cloister, shortly
before noon, Ludwig’s melancholy had given place to a somewhat defiant
but still good humor.
At the entrance to the grounds sat the Father Doorkeeper, apparently
basking in the sunshine. He regarded the new-comers with a pleasant
smile on his broad, rosy face. “Welcome, Herr Studiosus,” he said to
Wegeler,—for he had made his acquaintance in previous visits. “Have you
been here long? The Abbot and the others also will be glad to see you
again. Enter without any ceremony—that way—but you already know the way
to the refectory.”
“God’s greeting for your friendly reception, Father Doorkeeper,” replied
Wegeler. “We come hungry and thirsty, and kindly ask you for a cordial.”
“Apply to the chief cook. You may be certain he knows no greater
pleasure than feeding the hungry and providing a strengthening cordial.”
Wegeler bowed and proceeded with Ludwig through the forecourt, which,
with its flower-beds, fountains, and cleanly kept gravel walks, looked
like a garden. Arrived at the abbey, they were cordially greeted anew
and escorted to the refectory,—a cool hall, with great Gothic window
recesses, in which, so roomy were they, tables with stone slabs were
standing. The monk cordially invited them to be seated at one of these
tables and then left to announce in kitchen and cellar that two beloved
guests laid claim to hospitality. In reply to the Father Chief Cook he
gave the name of the student Wegeler, and at once several ministering
spirits actively began to prepare food and drink in abundance for the
welcome strangers. Hardly ten minutes after the arrival of Wegeler and
Ludwig a hearty breakfast was served upon the side table, which was
covered with a neat cloth, and then came the Father Cellar-Master
striding along, under each arm a carafe of costly, sparkling golden
wine, from which he filled the glasses of his guests.
Wegeler and Ludwig thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of this large-hearted
hospitality, and paid it due honor by partaking abundantly of the food
and emptying more than one glass of the delicious wine. The monks asked
for the latest news in Bonn, the cream of which Wegeler was giving them,
when the Abbot himself, with his friend the Father Lector,[15] appeared,
and greeted his guests with the same friendliness the other inmates of
the abbey had shown. Naturally he was somewhat reserved with Ludwig, as
he did not yet know him, and only recognized him with a nod of the head;
but he was soon engaged in a lively conversation with Wegeler about the
affairs of the new university at Bonn, in which the venerable man showed
a special interest.
As Ludwig could take no part in this conversation, and as the attention
of all the other cloister brothers was also devoted to the Abbot and
Wegeler, he found time hanging heavily. He arose, slipped out of the
refectory unnoticed, and enjoyed himself strolling around the abbey and
the grounds, observing and admiring notable and interesting objects.
While thus wandering about at pleasure, he came to the beautiful church
of the abbey, and at once noticed its large handsome organ, which
naturally had a greater attraction for him as a musician than anything
else. He went up into the choir, scrutinized the organ closely, and
admired its beautiful construction.
“It is too bad the organ-blower is not here,” he said aloud, for he did
not suppose there was any one else in the church. “It would be the
greatest pleasure to me to try such a splendid organ.”
“Ho! ho! who is talking there?” said an entirely unexpected voice, and
out of the organ-blower’s closet stepped a serving brother, who regarded
Ludwig with astonishment. “How is this?” he went on. “Did I not hear
something about Monsieur wishing he could play the organ? Are you the
Monsieur who wanted an organ-blower?”
“Certainly, it must have been I, since no one else but ourselves is at
present in the church,” replied Ludwig.
“But,” said the man in amazement, and looking somewhat doubtfully at the
short, thick-set figure of Beethoven, “does Monsieur say that he can
play the organ?”
“Certainly,” replied Ludwig; “I could easily convince you if only there
were a blower at hand who was willing to serve me.”
“I am the organ-blower,” said the man, shaking his head and still
somewhat doubtful. “If you are really in earnest about playing the organ
I will right gladly offer my service.”
“That is fine, perfectly splendid,” cried Ludwig exultantly. “To your
post, worthy colleague. We will both take the utmost pains and each one
of us do his best.”
Still dubiously and suspiciously shaking his head, the organ-blower took
his place, but left the door ajar so that no tone of the young man’s
playing should escape him. Ludwig seated himself, struck the keys with
his strong hands, and evoked from the splendid instrument a stream, a
full volume of tones, such as had never been heard in the church before.
Majestically they rang through the church like the thunder of the Lord.
Then suddenly there were soft and gentle tones like the vibrations of
the harp, a heavenly melody, sung as it were by the voices of angels,
anon pealing out grandly in a majestic hymn, like a song of praise from
the heavens and the earth, glorifying the Eternal, the only God, the
Almighty Creator of heaven and earth. Powerful as the solemn tones had
been, they died away again to a soft and lovely piano, until at the
close the last sound exhaled itself like a breath and seemed softly to
disappear among the lofty columns of the choir.
Beethoven, who had sat like one entranced during his wonderful playing,
and had looked upwards with fixed, wide-open eyes, now came to himself,
wiped the perspiration from his heated brow, and drew a deep sigh.
“Young man, who taught you to play like that?” said a man in the dress
of the order, advancing out of the dusk of the organ-loft. “Truly, you
play magnificently. I have never heard such execution before. Who taught
you this?”
“I taught myself,” Beethoven replied curtly and somewhat aggressively.
“Then be doubly greeted and doubly welcome, noble disciple of the art,
who sometime will make a high and mighty eagle’s flight,” said the monk
with deep earnestness as he grasped the young man’s hand. “Turn not away
from me. I am also a member of the great guild which has devoted its
lifework to Mistress Musica. I am the Father Organist of the abbey, and
hence I am qualified to appreciate and admire your wonderful art.”
Beethoven’s darkening countenance quickly lightened up as he recognized
in the venerable monk not an officious, inquisitive person, but a
colleague, and he warmly returned the grasp of his hand.
“I thank you for your kindness, Father,” he gently replied, “but you
praise me too highly. I am not yet worthy of it, but I hope and shall
strive to deserve it sometime. But now, what can I do to show my
gratitude for your gracious words?”
“Repeat what you have just played, my son,” said the father. “Your
playing has touched my old heart powerfully. Those were not earthly
tones; they were the harmonies and melodies of heaven.”
“No, no; that was only a free Fantasie of my own,” said Ludwig. “To
repeat it would be somewhat of a task, but I will gladly play something
else for you, if you will wait a moment.”
The father nodded assent and retired to a dark corner, where he could
abandon himself to his anticipated enjoyment without any danger of being
disturbed. Beethoven ran his fingers over the keys several times, as if
searching for a theme, until he found a soft old melody, which he played
through in simple, noble style, and then varied with marvellous skill
and ingenuity. As the ravishing tones powerfully and ever more
powerfully rang out, the church gradually filled up. The monks slipped
in in groups. The Father Head Cook left his kitchen and the Father
Doorkeeper his door to listen to the young man’s playing, reports of
which had quickly spread through the abbey. The Abbot and the Father
Lector also came, in Wegeler’s company, went up into the organ-loft, and
seated themselves just behind Beethoven, who, lost in inspiration, was
not aware of their presence. He continued playing variations until the
theme was completely exhausted, and then, weary and exhausted himself,
bowed his head upon his breast.
A unanimous “Brava, brava,” resounded through the church. The Abbot
stepped forward, tapped him gently on the shoulder, and said with
emotion: “Those were indeed sounds from another world, and they have
penetrated my very soul. Accept my thanks, my young friend. You are
truly a master, and a great future lies before you if God preserve your
life and health, which I doubt not He will do.”
The Lector also spoke words of praise to the young man. The Father
Organist bowed low before him. The organ-blower emerged from his closet
and with astonishment regarded the young man who had accomplished such
prodigies and unprecedented feats in his art. “Truly,” said the homely
old man, “if he played the organ here I would never get tired. My old
arms would work the bellows from morning to night.”
Beethoven in the meantime accepted these praises somewhat coolly and
indifferently, and contented himself by expressing his thanks with an
awkward bow.
“He is always thus, your reverence,” said Wegeler, as he seated himself
again with the Abbot and the Father Lector at the wine in the cool
refectory—“a sound kernel in a rough shell; a jewel of the purest water,
which needs only a little polish to glisten at its real value. He is not
to blame for it so much as his unhappy domestic conditions. How can he
have politeness and ease of manner when there is not even daily bread in
the house? I beg you therefore to treat him with gracious indulgence.”
“It is entirely unnecessary to intercede for this young genius,” replied
the Abbot. “His magnificent playing has impressed me so deeply that I
can overlook his lack of courtesy, though really his deportment is a
little awkward. One must bear with everything in a great genius,—and
such he is, for, after what we have heard, there cannot be the slightest
doubt of it. I should greatly like to talk with him a little while.”
“I should not be surprised if he had already slipped out of the church
and were again roving about the wood,” said Wegeler smiling. “I know his
ways. He does not crave praise like many other musicians. It is
absolutely painful to him to be commended to his face. He prefers to
escape from it and bury himself in solitude. He is always that way, and
one must take him as one finds him. The rich treasures of his soul make
thousandfold compensation for his external roughness.”
“Well, we shall have to acquiesce in his absence,” replied the Abbot;
“but promise me, dear Wegeler, that you will soon bring this wonderful
artist here again.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” answered Wegeler. “Ludwig can do his best
in the company of cultivated and sympathetic persons only, and I hope I
shall succeed in introducing him into a circle of dear friends in Bonn
where he will surely find a second home. But now, your reverence, it is
time for me to take my departure and hunt up my young runaway friend, so
that we may get back to Bonn in good season.”
Once again the glasses were filled, and they were clinked for the last
time with the wish for an early and happy “Wiedersehen,”[16] and Wegeler
begged to be kept in affectionate remembrance. He then hastened in the
direction of Bonn, and had been gone hardly a quarter of an hour when he
found his friend Beethoven sitting upon a stump on the side of the road,
lost in deep thought.
“Well, my fine fellow,” said Wegeler to him, “what induced you to run
away from the abbey so secretly and without saying good-bye?”
Beethoven turned about with an abrupt motion of resentment and shook his
thick, curly hair, which fell about his neck like the mane of a lion. “I
could not stay any longer and indulge in empty chattering after the
Genius of Art in the church had struggled with me and bidden me to soar.
I had to get away from it and out into the open air, into the solitude,
where, as I know by experience, I can most easily find my way back to
the common places of life.”
“But the Abbot regretted that he could not speak with you again,” said
Wegeler.
“Some other time,” replied Beethoven. “He is a kind, friendly man, whom
I appreciate and esteem; but he must let me go my way, undisturbed, if I
am to visit him again.”
“And he will do that, stubborn-headed one,” replied Wegeler, laughingly.
“Only play for him a little from time to time and he will always be a
benevolent patron and have all possible patience with your caprices. We
do not always know how, when, or where such a man may be of service to
us. A visit with him is always a genuine recreation and a comfort to the
heart. We will soon revisit Heisterbach, will we not, Ludwig?”
Beethoven nodded assent. “But it is time now to go home. The sun is
already low, and I have a presentiment that things are not as they
should be at home. Let us hasten, Wegeler.”
They quickened their pace. Soon they reached the Rhine, crossed it, and
went on to Bonn, which was already growing dim in the gathering
twilight. When their ways separated they parted from one another, but
Wegeler promised he would certainly visit Beethoven the next evening,
and hoped that he would bring him some good and cheering news. With a
last cordial shake of the hand they separated, and Beethoven flew rather
than walked through the streets, that he might reach his dwelling in the
narrow and gloomy Bonn Gasse as quickly as possible; for it was already
late, and the house door might be closed with the coming of darkness.
_New Friends_
Wegeler kept his word. With a beaming countenance he appeared at
Beethoven’s house the next evening and exultantly said: “I have
succeeded. Congratulate yourself, friend Ludwig! I shall introduce you
this evening to a family with whom you will feel perfectly at home.”
“And what kind of a family might that be?” said Beethoven,
distrustfully. “You know I am not adapted to all the world, and that all
the world is not adapted to me.”
“But this family is in no way of the character which you so sweepingly
apply to the world,” replied Wegeler. “You will find it a model of the
noblest sociality and a place where art and science are most zealously
cherished. It is the family of the widow, Frau Hofrathin von
Breuning,[17] to which I have permission to introduce you.”
“Ah! the Frau Hofrathin von Breuning,” cried Ludwig, with a perceptibly
brighter countenance. “Truly that is something different from what I
mean by ‘all the world.’ I have heard of this family. They are lovely
people.”
“The best in the world, Ludwig,” eagerly protested Wegeler. “So hasten.
Get yourself in readiness. They are expecting us immediately.”
“I am already dressed,” replied Beethoven, haughtily. “I have no other
coat than this threadbare one. If they won’t have me in this, they shall
not have me at all.”
“Unruly, stubborn, cross-grained fellow that you are!” exclaimed
Wegeler, with a laugh. “Will you never learn to master your capricious
nature? Come along even in your threadbare coat. These dear people into
whose circle I shall take you care only for your heart and disposition,
not for your clothes. You are, like all geniuses, a most ridiculous
fellow. But that does not signify. You already know them, and
consequently you will learn to appreciate them. Frankly, you should not
appear wilful and capricious, but behave like a polite youth, and
occasionally perform something on the piano in your own style. They are
very fond of music and have much of it at their home. The Elector’s
chapelmaster Ries,[18] whom you know, and other members of the chapel,
often enjoy pleasant intercourse in this hospitable home, and we
certainly shall meet some of them there this evening.”
“Now, that is a splendid suggestion,” said Beethoven, with gleaming
eyes. “Then I can appear as I am. Yes, they shall learn to know me! I
have composed to-day a trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello. We
will take it with us. If a violin and violoncello can be had I will play
the piano, and they will open their eyes, these people, when they hear
my composition.”
“Oho! you have plenty of confidence that you have made something
particularly good and beautiful,” said Wegeler in gentle banter.
“Certainly I have,” replied Beethoven, with self-assurance. “I tell you
I have created something entirely new, which will please every one of
good musical taste and will be widely imitated.”
“But consider, Ludwig; you will be judged not by dilettanti, but by
genuine connoisseurs,” said Wegeler, earnestly.
“All the better,” proudly replied Ludwig. “I never intend to compose for
ignorance and stupidity.”
“Well, then, take your trio. We will make a trial of it,” said Wegeler.
“Or, what is better, give it to me. I will say that it is a composition
by one of my acquaintances. If it does not please, we need not mention
your name; but if it pleases, as I wish and hope it may, then, at least,
you may be sure they will not flatter or over-praise you.”
“That is all right,” answered Ludwig, as he handed the manuscript to his
friend, who placed it in his pocket. “Now I am ready.”
“Then we will start, for they will be waiting for us at the Breunings’,”
replied Wegeler.
Arm in arm they went through the already silent and dark streets until
they came to a handsome house, before the door of which hung a lighted
lantern. Wegeler was no stranger there. He conducted Ludwig up a broad,
easy flight of steps, opened the door, and led his somewhat timid young
friend into a spacious and brilliantly lighted apartment, in which a
company of twelve persons was assembled. An elderly lady, whose face
still revealed traces of beauty, and with an unusually noble and
gracious expression of goodness and benevolence, advanced a few steps
and received them with a kindly smile.
“Welcome, dear Wegeler,” she said in a soft, gentle voice which came
straight from the heart; “I think I make no mistake in welcoming in your
companion my future young friend, Ludwig van Beethoven.”
“You are right, gracious lady,” replied Wegeler. “This is my friend
Ludwig, and this, Ludwig, is the Frau Hofrathin von Breuning.”
“Welcome, cordially welcome, dear Beethoven,” said the Frau Hofrathin,
extending her hand with friendly and very motherly good wishes.
Beethoven was by nature a strong, proud character, who did not easily
bow before any one, and least of all was inclined to waste much civility
in social intercourse. The amiability of Frau von Breuning, however,
made such a deep impression upon him that he took the hand offered him,
bowed low, and kissed it.
In the meantime the others present came forward. The sons of Frau von
Breuning—Stephen, Christopher, and Lenz—shook the young man’s hand
cordially, and then the sister, Eleonora, welcomed him with a cordial
inclination of the head and bright, friendly eyes. Some of the guests
already knew Ludwig, particularly the chapelmaster Ries, and some
members of the Elector’s chapel. He exchanged a few friendly words with
them and was then presented to a handsome, distinguished looking man,
the Count von Waldstein,[19] who, notwithstanding his high rank and
standing, greeted him with genuine cordiality. In a short time Beethoven
felt as much at home in this circle as if he had been in it for years,
and Wegeler therefore quietly indulged the hope that his young protégé
would bring no discredit upon his urgent recommendations of him. He was
in no way disappointed in this hope. Beethoven appeared more cheerful,
companionable, frank, and affable than ever before, and when the talk
turned upon music he seated himself at the piano without being urged,
much to Wegeler’s astonishment and delight, and played a long time with
such a splendid technique and depth of feeling that all conversation at
once stopped and every one paid the closest attention to his beautiful
melodies.
“Brava, brava!” cried every one when the young artist finished his
performance. Count Waldstein stepped up to him and tapped him lightly on
the shoulder. “You have indeed done splendidly,” he cordially said. “I
fancy that I also understand music a little, and therefore speak so
positively.”
Chapelmaster Ries complimented Ludwig so enthusiastically that he felt
extremely comfortable as well as happy. Wegeler thought it an opportune
time to try the new trio, and took it from his pocket. “As we are
engaged with music,” he said, “and as we have professional artists right
at hand, I would beg you to play an entirely new composition, which by a
happy chance has come into my possession.”
“What is it?” said chapelmaster Ries, “and who is the composer?”
“The composer wishes temporarily to remain unknown,” replied Wegeler,
“but the work is a trio for piano, violin, and violoncello.”
“That can be arranged without any difficulty,” said Ries. “Our Beethoven
will play the pianoforte, friend Muller the violoncello, and I will
undertake the violin. The instruments are here, so let us get to work at
once.”
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.”
[Illustration: _Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the
Elector, the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance_]
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.
He walks rapidly at first, until he is away from the bustle of the
streets. Then he slackens his speed, and moves on at a moderate pace,
with his hands behind him, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the
sky. Sometimes he remains motionless, as if he were unconscious of the
world around him. Upon these occasions his figure rises to its full
height, and his eyes roll and flash brightly, looking upward or straight
forward with the eyeballs fixed and motionless. A moment of the highest
inspiration has come to him, as it often came, not alone in the streets,
but also in the midst of the gayest company.
After some minutes of this inward ecstasy, Beethoven goes on his way,
runs around the city a few times, and then rushes to his house as if his
head were burning. People in the streets stare at him, wondering why he
hurries so, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In this way he
reaches his house, and enters his room.
“For mercy’s sake, Herr van Beethoven, where have you left your hat?”
exclaims his housekeeper.
Beethoven does not hear her. He rushes to the piano, plays beautiful
melodies for an hour, then hastens to his desk and writes with the
enthusiasm of one inspired.
When he again lays down his pen his housekeeper ventures to approach him
and repeat her question—“For mercy’s sake, Herr van Beethoven, where
have you left your hat?”
“Lost it, very likely,” he replies in a distracted sort of way.
“But, sir, this is the third time in two months,” she says. “You are so
absent-minded I really must fasten your hat upon your head more
securely.”
Beethoven smiles. “I will buy another,” he says, and thus the matter
ends.
“Ries,”[30] calls Beethoven after a little. A young man soon appears,
and salutes the master reverently and tenderly. He is the son of
Beethoven’s old friend, chapelmaster Ries of Bonn. The great master, who
usually was extremely reluctant to give lessons, accepted the young man
as a pupil as a mark of gratitude to his father. Chapelmaster Ries had
been very kind to Beethoven’s mother in the last years of her life, and
Beethoven repaid his kindness by this favor to his son.
“Let us get to work,” says he.
Young Ries puts some sheets before the master, and, now at the piano,
now at the desk, they are speedily absorbed in their work, which is
continued until the housekeeper announces that dinner is ready. Work is
laid aside, and they refresh themselves with a frugal repast. Beethoven,
always simple in his tastes, drinks a little of the wine grown on the
heights around Buda.[31] Fresh, clear spring-water is his favorite
beverage, copious draughts of which satisfy his needs.
After dinner they go out to enjoy the sylvan beauty of the Schönbrunn
gardens.[32] Ries accompanies the master, but there is little
conversation between them. Beethoven’s brain is restlessly at work. It
seems, indeed, that the beauty of the spot was made only for the purpose
of inspiring his musical ideas. He frequently stops, and jots them down
in a notebook which he always carries, and in which he preserves them
for future use. As evening approaches they return to the city. On their
arrival at home, the old housekeeper hands Beethoven two notes, which
had been delivered during his absence. One is from Prince Lichnowski,
simply inviting Beethoven to a musical soirée that evening. The other is
from Baron Swieten[33], and is characteristic enough. It runs: “Dear
Beethoven, if there is nothing to prevent, I should be glad to see you
about nine o’clock this evening, with your nightcap in your pocket.”
“Well, this will do for to-day,” says Beethoven, as he throws both the
invitations on the table. “I feel at home with the Prince, and I can
enjoy myself at Van Swieten’s. But I shall be late to bed. When Van
Swieten tells me to come with my nightcap it means in plain language, ‘I
will not let you off before midnight.’ Well, let it be so. He is, at
least, a clever musician and a generous host. That’s all right. But when
you are continually pestered by people who have not the slightest idea
of music, and who only invite you that they may give their guests some
piano-pounding, and then force you to play until the blood under your
fingernails is on fire, the devil might stand it,—I won’t.”
“Well, the Prince will not be likely to force you to play, and Van
Swieten just as little,” says Ries quietly.
“Yes, you are right. I will go, and am glad to go.”
And he goes. Between one and two in the morning he returns in a lively,
cheerful mood which promises pleasant dreams. He is in bed in five
minutes, and five minutes later is sleeping soundly. And so ends the
day—one day in Beethoven’s life.
_The End_
Although Beethoven lived to see happy days and happy times in beautiful
Vienna, other days and other times succeeded them, darkened by a
terrible fate which only a strong and lofty spirit like his could endure
and even overcome.
One fine summer evening Beethoven and his pupil, Ries, took a pleasant
ramble among the beautiful fields around Vienna. The setting sun flooded
the earth with a sea of gold and purple. Rosy clouds slowly floated in
the sky. High in air the lark sang its sweet-toned evening song. On a
green hillock sat a shepherd lad, filling the fields and woods around
with the pretty melody of his flute, which he had fashioned out of
elder. Beethoven and Ries stopped and quietly enjoyed the wonderful
beauty of the dying day.
“How beautifully the song of the lark blends with the shepherd’s
melody,” said Ries. Beethoven leaned forward and listened. “Flute and
lark? I do not hear them,” he said, with an expression of painful
suspense on his face.
[Illustration: _He had lost his hearing. Ries tried to console and calm
him_]
“There is the young shepherd, playing on his pipe. Do you not see him?”
“I see him,” said Beethoven in a pitiful tone. “I see him—but—I do not
hear him.”
On that spot his distressing fate was pronounced. Beethoven, the
musician, who lived only in the realm of music, had lost his hearing! He
could no longer hear his own beautiful melodies! He would never hear
again the song of the nightingale, or the orchestra’s surging volume of
tone.
His misfortune did not come suddenly, like a bolt out of the clear sky.
For years Beethoven had observed the gradual loss of his hearing, and
had sought medical help for it; but it was during this walk that the
conviction was at last forced upon him that there was no hope he would
ever be better. Silent, sad, and absorbed in gloomy thought, he went
home. Ries tried to console and calm him, but for such an artist, with
such an affliction, there could be no consolation, no relief except in
humble submission to the divine will.
An extract from a letter written by him to his old true friend, Wegeler,
in Bonn, dated May 2, 1810, shows how keenly Beethoven felt this
affliction. He writes: “I, however, should have been happy, perhaps the
happiest of men, had not that demon taken possession of my ears. I have
read somewhere that man should not wilfully part from this life so long
as he can do even one good deed; and but for this I should ere now have
ceased to exist, and by my own hand too.”
It could not well be otherwise. His total deafness could not but
exercise a depressing influence upon Beethoven’s disposition, even
though it could not completely dominate his strong character. Usually
frank, cordial, and confiding in his friends, Beethoven soon became
suspicious and distrustful, irritable and passionate. It was easy for
any outsider to slander his truest friends and set him against them. On
such occasions—and, alas, they were not rare—Beethoven would show no
outward sign of his enmity, utter no reproaches, make no complaints, and
not even call the suspected one to account. But from that time he would
exhibit the utmost contempt for him. At the same time he would feel the
deepest sorrow, and yet make no explanation of his conduct. When by some
chance the misunderstanding was cleared up, then Beethoven sought to
make reparation for his injustice in every possible way. He would offer
apologies, and not rest until reconciled to his injured friend. Then he
was as usual the truest friend, ready to help in every time of trouble
as much as it was in his power to do so. Even those nearest to him
bitterly felt the pain of his capricious disposition.
“You cannot believe,” writes Stephen von Breuning, one of Beethoven’s
devoted friends at Bonn, “what an indescribable impression the decay of
his hearing has made upon Beethoven. Think what the feeling of
unhappiness must be in one of such earnest character, besides his
reserve and frequent distrust of his best friends and his irresolution
in many things. For the most part, when he expresses his original
feeling freely, intercourse with him is an actual exertion, as one can
never feel absolutely free.”
True indeed; but was not the unfortunate one the most to be pitied? Let
us hear what he says about it himself.
Early in 1802 Beethoven was attacked by an illness so dangerous that for
the first time he had serious doubts whether he should recover. His
friend, the celebrated Doctor Schmidt, checked the progress of the
disease, and when he was fully restored sent him to Heiligenstadt, a
village in the suburbs of Vienna. There in solitude, his mind busy with
thoughts about death, he wrote the following document, a kind of will,
addressed to his two brothers:
“_For my brothers_, Carl _and_ Johann Beethoven:
“Oh, you who consider or assert that I am hostile, obstinate, or
misanthropic, what injustice you do me! You know not the secret causes
of that which makes me appear so. My heart and my mind have been moved
by the tender feelings of affection from childhood. I have always been
disposed to perform great actions; but consider that for the last six
years I have been afflicted with a hopeless complaint, aggravated by
the unskilful treatment of physicians; that I have been disappointed
from year to year in the hope of relief, and am at last obliged to
submit to the endurance of an evil the removal of which may take
years, if it can be removed at all. Born with an ardent, lively
disposition, susceptible to the pleasures of society, I was forced at
an early age to renounce them, and pass my life in seclusion. When I
strove to rise above this, oh, how cruelly was I forced back by the
doubly painful experience of my defective hearing! And yet, how could
I say to people, ‘Speak louder—shout—for I am deaf’? How could I
proclaim the defect of a sense that I had once in the highest
perfection—a perfection which few of my colleagues ever surpassed? I
could not! Forgive me then when you see me refrain from mingling with
you, which I would very gladly do. My misfortune is doubly mortifying
to me, for it causes me to be misunderstood. I am cut off from
recreation in the society of my fellow-creatures, from the pleasures
of conversation, and from the enjoyment of friendship. Well-nigh alone
in the world, I dare not go into society more than is absolutely
necessary. I am obliged to live like an exile. If I go into company, a
painful anxiety seizes me lest I may be forced to betray my situation.
This has been my condition also during the half year I have spent in
the country. Enjoined by my sensible physician to spare my hearing as
much as possible, I have been almost encouraged by him in my present
disposition, though, carried away by fondness for society, I have
allowed myself to be drawn into it. But how humiliating it was when
one beside me could hear at a distance a flute that I could not hear,
or a shepherd singing, and I could not distinguish a sound! Such
things brought me to the verge of despair, and only my art restrained
my hand from putting an end to my life. It seemed impossible for me to
quit the world before I had completed the work which I felt myself set
apart to do. So I endured this wretched life—a life so absolutely
wretched that the slightest thing is capable of plunging me from the
best into the worst condition. I am told I must be patient. I have
been so. I hope I may be steadfast in my resolution to persevere until
it shall please the inexorable Fates to cut the thread. I may be
better, I may not. I am prepared for the worst,—I, who as early as my
twenty-eighth year was forced to become a philosopher. It is not
easy—it is harder for the artist than for any other. O God! Thou seest
my misery. Thou knowest that, wretched as I am, I love my
fellow-creatures, and am disposed to do good. O men! when you shall
read this, reflect that you have wronged me; and let the child of
affliction take comfort on finding one like himself, who, in spite of
all the impediments of nature, yet did his utmost to obtain admittance
into the ranks of worthy artists and worthy men.”[34]
And he has been admitted to those ranks. Notwithstanding the malignant
disease which dispelled every outward joy of life, Beethoven created
those immortal symphonies, overtures, and sonatas, in which he proved
himself the greatest master of music and inscribed his name indelibly in
the history of the art. Misfortune could not overcome him. His splendid
genius made him superior to it. “I will clutch fate by the throat,” he
once wrote to a friend. “It never shall make me bow to it.” And it never
did. He wrestled manfully with it, and subjected it to his powerful
will.
That in spite of this he was unsociable to the end, and often alienated
his nearest friends, is easily explained by the nature of his ailment,
which made conversation extremely difficult. It was due to this also
that Beethoven, always good-hearted and generous to the suffering,
experienced the ingratitude of his own brothers in various ways. He had
suffered them to come to Vienna, supported them in every way, and
sacrificed a considerable part of his income in their maintenance for a
year. They treated him with shameful ingratitude, and broke open his
chest and stole all the jewels, snuff-boxes, watches, rings, and other
souvenirs which had been given to Beethoven by high personages, in
recognition of his performances. Beethoven, that great, noble heart,
made no allusion to the theft; but the knowledge that those who were
nearest to him, who owed their very existence to him, upon whom he had
absolutely heaped benefactions, had lied to him, cheated him, and robbed
him,—such knowledge could not contribute to his happiness, cheerfulness,
and affability.
And yet, notwithstanding all this, with all his misfortune, was
Beethoven actually unhappy? Was he alone in his gloomy solitude? He may
have been at first, but in his later life certainly not.
The happiness of knowing he could create sublime masterpieces was
greater than the unhappiness of being deaf and misunderstood. He was not
solitary, for the divine genius of art always was his companion.
Beethoven was really happy because he was greater than his misfortunes.
Upon his heroic brow rests a more splendid ornament than the crown of
any king,—the laurel-wreath of everlasting fame, the radiant diadem of
immortality.
Footnotes
[1]Johann or Jean van Beethoven, father of the composer, was a tenor
singer in the chapel of the Elector of Cologne at Bonn.
[2]Max Franz was brother of the Emperor Joseph II.
[3]The Graus Haus, where Beethoven was born, is No. 515 in the Bonn
Gasse (Bonn Street), and is now marked by a tablet, placed there in
1870.
[4]Beethoven’s mother, Marie Magdelena Laym, was the daughter of the
chief cook at Ehrenbreitstein.
[5]There is a question whether Beethoven was born on the 16th or 17th of
December, 1770. Probably he was born on the 16th.
[6]Beethoven’s grandfather was Ludwig van Beethoven, chapelmaster for
the Elector of Cologne. He died in 1773, when his grandson was three
years of age.
[7]Pfeiffer was a tenor singer in the opera at Bonn.
[8]Van den Eeden was organist at the Court Chapel and an old friend of
Beethoven’s grandfather.
[9]Neefe succeeded Van den Eeden as organist, and when he in turn gave
up the position, he left Beethoven in charge of the organ.
[10]Seven Mountains.
[11]A castle on the Rhine, twenty-two miles from Cologne.
[12]Königswinter is seven miles from Bonn, and is the favorite resort of
tourists to the “Sieben Gebirge,” a mountainous region famous for its
picturesque beauty.
[13]Dr. Wegeler was a physician of Bonn, who subsequently married
Eleonora von Breuning, a daughter in the Breuning family, Beethoven’s
devoted friends.
[14]Beethoven had four brothers, viz.: Ludwig Maria, born April 1, 1769;
Caspar Anton Carl, April 7, 1774; Nikolaus Johann, Oct. 1, 1776;
August Franz Georg, Jan. 16, 1781; and two sisters, the elder of
whom, born Feb. 23, 1779, lived only four days, and Maria Margaretha
Josepha, born May 4, 1786.
[15]Reader.
[16]“Auf wiedersehen,” or, “till we see each other again,” equivalent to
the French “Au revoir.”
[17]Frau von Breuning was the widow of the electoral counsellor von
Breuning. The family consisted of three sons and a daughter,
Eleonora, who for some time was a pupil of Beethoven, and eventually
married Dr. Wegeler. Beethoven dedicated his first variations for the
piano to her.
[18]Franz Anton Ries, violinist, was born at Bonn, Nov. 10, 1755, and
was a teacher and friend of Beethoven. His son Ferdinand was a pupil
of Beethoven.
[19]The Count von Waldstein was a patron of the arts and a connoisseur
in music. He was of special service to Beethoven, who dedicated to
him his great Sonata (op. 53).
[20]Beethoven was appointed organist to the electoral chapel in 1785,
being then in his fifteenth year.
[21]Dr. Heinrich Doring, in his “Life and Characteristics of Beethoven,”
says: “He preferred the English writers to the French. Thompson is
his favorite poet, but particularly great is his admiration for
Shakespeare.”
[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.
LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ATTRACTIVE SERIES FOR CHILDREN
_TITLES_
_HISTORICAL_
BARBAROSSA
WILLIAM OF ORANGE
MARIA THERESA
THE MAID OF ORLEANS
FREDERICK THE GREAT
THE LITTLE DAUPHIN
HERMANN AND THUSNELDA
THE SWISS HEROES
EMPEROR WILLIAM I
LOUISE, QUEEN OF PRUSSIA
THE YOUTH OF THE GREAT ELECTOR
ELIZABETH, EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA AND QUEEN OF HUNGARY
MARIE ANTOINETTE’S YOUTH
THE DUKE OF BRITTANY
_MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY_
BEETHOVEN
MOZART
JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH
JOSEPH HAYDN
_LEGENDARY_
FRITHJOF SAGA
GUDRUN
THE NIBELUNGS
WILLIAM TELL
ARNOLD OF WINKELRIED
UNDINE
Sold single or boxed in sets of two, four, and eight volumes
Uniform size, 5 × 6¾ inches. Green cloth binding, stamped in white and
gold. Each, 60 cents net; by mail, 68 cents
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
_Translated from the German by_
GEORGE P. UPTON
24 Volumes Now Ready
_Historical and Biographical_
Barbarossa
William of Orange
Maria Theresa
The Maid of Orleans
Frederick the Great
The Little Dauphin
Herman and Thusnelda
The Swiss Heroes
Marie Antoinette’s Youth
The Duke of Brittany
Louise, Queen of Prussia
The Youth of the Great Elector
Emperor William First
Elizabeth, Empress of Austria
_Musical Biography_
Beethoven
Mozart
Johann Sebastian Bach
Joseph Haydn
_Legendary_
Frithjof Saga
Gudrun
The Nibelungs
William Tell
Arnold of Winkelried
Undine
Illustrated. Each 60 cents _net_
_In Preparation_
Eugenie, Empress of the French
Charlemagne
Prince Eugene
Queen Marie
Sophie of Naples
A. C. McCLURG & CO., Chicago
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Ludwig Van Beethoven (Life Stories for Young People)" ***
Copyright 2023 LibraryBlog. All rights reserved.