Op. 55.
This was copied and the original score despatched to the amba.s.sador for presentation, while Beethoven retained the copy. Before the composition was laid before Napoleon, however, the great general had accepted the t.i.tle of Emperor. No sooner did Beethoven hear of this from his pupil Ries than he started up in a rage, and exclaimed--"After all, then, he"s nothing but an ordinary mortal! He will trample the rights of men under his feet!" saying which, he rushed to his table, seized the copy of the score, and tore the t.i.tle-page completely off. From this time Beethoven hated Napoleon, and never again spoke of him in connection with the symphony until he heard of his death in St. Helena, when he observed, "I have already composed music for this calamity," evidently referring to the "Funeral March" in this symphony.
The opera of "Fidelio," which he composed about the same time, may be considered, in the severe sense of a great and symmetrical musical work, the finest lyric drama ever written, with the possible exception of Gluck"s "Orpheus and Eurydice" and "Iphigenia in Tauris." It is rarely performed, because its broad, ma.s.sive, and n.o.ble effects are beyond the capacity of most singers, and belong to the domain of pure music, demanding but little alliance with the artistic clap-trap of startling scenery and histrionic extravagance. Yet our composer"s conscience shows its completeness in his obedience to the law of opera; for the music he has written to express the situations cannot be surpa.s.sed for beauty, pathos, and pa.s.sion. Beethoven, like Mendelssohn, revolted from the idea of lyric drama as an art-inconsistency, but he wrote "Fidelio" to show his possibilities in a direction with which he had but little sympathy. He composed four overtures for this opera at different periods, on account of the critical caprices of the Viennese public--a concession to public taste which his stern independence rarely made.
IV.
Beethoven"s relations with women were peculiar and characteristic, as were all the phases of a nature singularly self-poised and robust.
Like all men of powerful imagination and keen (though perhaps not delicate) sensibility, he was strongly attracted towards the softer s.e.x. But a certain austerity of morals, and that purity of feeling which is the inseparable shadow of one"s devotion to lofty aims, always kept him within the bounds of Platonic affection. Yet there is enough in Beethoven"s letters, as scanty as their indications are in this direction, to show what ardour and glow of feeling he possessed.
About the time that he was suffering keenly with the knowledge of his fast-growing infirmity, he was bound by a strong tie of affection to Countess Giulietta Guicciardi, his "immortal beloved," "his angel,"
"his all," "his life," as he called her in a variety of pa.s.sionate utterances. It was to her that he dedicated his song "Adelaida,"
which, as an expression of lofty pa.s.sion, is world-famous. Beethoven was very much dissatisfied with the work even in the glow of composition. Before the notes were dry on the music paper, the composer"s old friend Barth was announced. "Here," said Beethoven, putting a roll of score paper in Barth"s hands, "look at that. I have just finished it, and don"t like it. There is hardly fire enough in the stove to burn it, but I will try." Barth glanced through the composition, then sang it, and soon grew into such enthusiasm as to draw from Beethoven the expression, "No? then we will not burn it, old fellow." Whether it was the reaction of disgust, which so often comes to genius after the tension of work, or whether his ideal of its lovely theme was so high as to make all effort seem inadequate, the world came very near losing what it could not afford to have missed.
The charming countess, however, preferred rank, wealth, and unruffled ease to being linked even with a great genius, if, indeed, the affair ever looked in the direction of marriage. She married another, and Beethoven does not seem to have been seriously disturbed. It may be that, like Goethe, he valued the love of woman not for itself or its direct results, but as an art-stimulus which should enrich and fructify his own intellectual life.
We get glimpses of successors to the fair countess. The beautiful Marie Pachler was for some time the object of his adoration. The affair is a somewhat mysterious one, and the lady seems to have suffered from the fire through which her powerful companion pa.s.sed unscathed. Again, quaintest and oddest of all, is the fancy kindled by that "mysterious sprite of genius," as one of her contemporaries calls her, Bettina Brentano, the gifted child-woman, who fascinated all who came within her reach, from Goethe and Beethoven down to princes and n.o.bles. Goethe"s correspondence with this strange being has embalmed her life in cla.s.sic literature.
Our composer"s intercourse with women--for he was always alive to the charms of female society--was for the most part homely and practical in the extreme, after his deafness destroyed the zest of the more romantic phases of the divine pa.s.sion. He accepted adoration, as did Dean Swift, as a right. He permitted his female admirers to knit him stockings and comforters, and make him dainty puddings and other delicacies, which he devoured with huge gusto. He condescended, in return, to go to sleep on their sofas, after picking his teeth with the candle-snuffers (so says scandal), while they thrummed away at his sonatas, the artistic slaughter of which Beethoven was mercifully unable to hear.
V.
The friendship of the Archduke Rudolph relieved Beethoven of the immediate pressure of poverty; for in 1809 he settled a small life-pension upon him. The next ten years were pa.s.sed by him in comparative ease and comfort, and in this time he gave to the world five of his immortal symphonies, and a large number of his finest sonatas and ma.s.ses. His general health improved very much; and in his love for his nephew Karl, whom Beethoven had adopted, the lonely man found an outlet for his strong affections, which was medicine for his soul, though the object was worthless and ungrateful.
We get curious and amusing insights into the daily tenor of Beethoven"s life during this period--things sometimes almost grotesque, were they not so sad. The composer lived a solitary life, and was very much at the mercy of his servants on account of his self-absorption and deafness. He was much worried by these prosaic cares. One story of a slatternly servant is as follows:--The master was working at the ma.s.s in D, the great work which he commenced in 1819 for the celebration of the appointment of the Archduke Rudolph as Archbishop of Olmutz, and which should have been completed by the following year. Beethoven, however, became so engrossed with his work, and increased its proportions so much, that it was not finished until some two years after the event which it was intended to celebrate.
While Beethoven was engaged upon this score, he one day woke up to the fact that some of his pages were missing. "Where on earth could they be?" he asked himself, and the servant too; but the problem remained unsolved. Beethoven, beside himself, spent hours and hours in searching, and so did the servant, but it was all in vain. At last they gave up the task as a useless one, and Beethoven, mad with despair, and pouring the very opposite to blessings upon the head of her who, he believed, was the author of the mischief, sat down with the conclusion that he must rewrite the missing part. He had no sooner commenced a new Kyrie--for this was the movement which was not to be found--than some loose sheets of score paper were discovered in the kitchen! Upon examination they proved to be the identical pages that Beethoven so much desired, and which the woman, in her anxiety to be "tidy" and to "keep things straight," had appropriated at some time or other for wrapping up, not only old boots and clothes, but also some superannuated pots and pans that were greasy and black!
Thus he was continually fretted by the carelessness or the rascality of the servants in whom he was obliged to trust. He writes in his diary--"Nancy is too uneducated for a housekeeper--indeed, quite a beast." "My precious servants were occupied from seven o"clock till ten trying to kindle a fire." "The cook"s off again." "I shied half-a-dozen books at her head." They made his dinner so nasty he couldn"t eat it. "No soup to-day, no beef, no eggs. Got something from the inn at last."
His temper and peculiarities, too, made it difficult for him to live in peace with landlords and fellow-lodgers. As his deafness increased, he struck and thumped harder at the keys of his piano, the sound of which he could scarcely hear. Nor was this all. The music that filled his brain gave him no rest. He became an inspired madman. For hours he would pace the room "howling and roaring" (as his pupil Ries puts it); or he would stand beating time with hand and foot to the music which was so vividly present to his mind. This soon put him into a feverish excitement, when, to cool himself, he would take his water-jug, and, thoughtless of everything, pour its contents over his hands, after which he could sit down to his piano. With all this it can easily be imagined that Beethoven was frequently remonstrated with. The landlord complained of a damaged ceiling, and the fellow-lodgers declared that either they or the madman must leave the house, for they could get no rest where he was. So Beethoven never for long had a resting-place.
Impatient at being interfered with, he immediately packed up and went off to some other vacant lodging. From this cause he was at one time paying the rent of four lodgings at once. At times he would get tired of this changing from one place to another--from the suburbs to the town--and then he would fall back upon the hospitable home of a patron, once again taking possession of an apartment which he had vacated, probably without the least explanation or cause. One admirer of his genius, who always reserved him a chamber in his establishment, used to say to his servants--"Leave it empty; Beethoven is sure to come back again."
The instant that Beethoven entered the house he began to write and cipher on the walls, the blinds, the table, everything, in the most abstracted manner. He frequently composed on slips of paper, which he afterwards misplaced, so that he had great difficulty in finding them.
At one time, indeed, he forgot his own name and the date of his birth.
It is said that he once went into a Viennese restaurant, and, instead of giving an order, began to write a score on the back of the bill-of-fare, absorbed and unconscious of time and place. At last he asked how much he owed. "You owe nothing, sir," said the waiter.
"What! do you think I have not dined?" "Most a.s.suredly." "Very well, then, give me something." "What do you wish?" "Anything."
These infirmities do not belittle the man of genius, but set off his greatness as with a foil. They ill.u.s.trate the thought of Goethe: "It is all the same whether one is great or small, he has to pay the reckoning of humanity."
VI.
Yet beneath these eccentricities what wealth of tenderness, sympathy, and kindliness existed! His affection for his graceless nephew Karl is a touching picture. With the rest of his family he had never been on very cordial terms. His feeling of contempt for sn.o.bbery and pretence is very happily ill.u.s.trated in his relations with his brother Johann.
The latter had acquired property, and he sent Ludwig his card, inscribed "Johann von Beethoven, land-owner." The caustic reply was a card, on which was written, "Ludwig von Beethoven, brain-owner." But on Karl all the warmest feelings of a nature which had been starving to love and be loved poured themselves out. He gave the scapegrace every luxury and indulgence, and, self-absorbed as he was in an ideal sphere, felt the deepest interest in all the most trivial things that concerned him. Much to the uncle"s sorrow, Karl cared nothing for music; but, worst of all, he was an idle, selfish, heartless fellow, who sneered at his benefactor, and valued him only for what he could get from him. At last Beethoven became fully aware of the lying ingrat.i.tude of his nephew, and he exclaims--"I know now you have no pleasure in coming to see me, which is only natural, for my atmosphere is too pure for you. G.o.d has never yet forsaken me, and no doubt some one will be found to close my eyes." Yet the generous old man forgave him, for he says in the codicil of his will, "I appoint my nephew Karl my sole heir."
Frequently, glimpses of the true vein showed themselves in such little episodes as that which occurred when Moscheles, accompanied by his brother, visited the great musician for the first time.
"Arrived at the door of the house," writes Moscheles, "I had some misgivings, knowing Beethoven"s strong aversion to strangers. I therefore told my brother to wait below. After greeting Beethoven, I said, "Will you permit me to introduce my brother to you?"
""Where is he?" he suddenly replied.
""Below."
""What, downstairs?" and Beethoven immediately rushed off, seized hold of my brother, saying, "Am I such a savage that you are afraid to come near me?"
"After this he showed great kindness to us."
While referring to the relations of Moscheles and Beethoven, the following anecdote related by Mdme. Moscheles will be found suggestive. The pianist had been arranging some numbers of "Fidelio,"
which he took to the composer. He, _a la_ Haydn, had inscribed the score with the words, "By G.o.d"s help." Beethoven did not fail to perceive this, and he wrote underneath this phylactory the characteristic advice--"O man, help thyself."
The genial and sympathetic nature of Beethoven is ill.u.s.trated in this quaint incident:--
It was in the summer of 1811 that Ludwig Lowe, the actor, first met Beethoven in the dining-room of the Blue Star at Toplitz. Lowe was paying his addresses to the landlord"s daughter; and conversation being impossible at the hour he dined there, the charming creature one day whispered to him, "Come at a later hour, when the customers are gone and only Beethoven is here. He cannot hear, and will therefore not be in the way." This answered for a time; but the stern parents, observing the acquaintanceship, ordered the actor to leave the house and not to return. "How great was our despair!" relates Lowe. "We both desired to correspond, but through whom? Would the solitary man at the opposite table a.s.sist us? Despite his serious reserve and seeming churlishness, I believe he is not unfriendly. I have often caught a kind smile across his bold, defiant face." Lowe determined to try.
Knowing Beethoven"s custom, he contrived to meet the master when he was walking in the gardens. Beethoven instantly recognised him, and asked the reason why he no longer dined at the Blue Star. A full confession was made, and then Lowe timidly asked if he would take charge of a letter to give to the girl.
"Why not?" pleasantly observed the rough-looking musician. "You mean what is right." So pocketing the note, he was making his way onward when Lowe again interfered.
"I beg your pardon, Herr von Beethoven, that is not all."
"So, so," said the master.
"You must also bring back the answer," Lowe went on to say.
"Meet me here at this time to-morrow," said Beethoven.
Lowe did so, and there found Beethoven awaiting him, with the coveted reply from his lady-love. In this manner Beethoven carried the letters backward and forward for some five or six weeks--in short, as long as he remained in the town.
His friendship with Ferdinand Ries commenced in a way which testified how grateful he was for kindness. When his mother lay ill at Bonn, he hurried home from Vienna just in time to witness her death. After the funeral he suffered greatly from poverty, and was relieved by Ries, the violinist. Years afterwards young Ries waited on Beethoven with a letter of introduction from his father. The composer received him with cordial warmth, and said, "Tell your father I have not forgotten the death of my mother." Ever afterwards he was a helpful and devoted friend to young Ries, and was of inestimable value in forwarding his musical career.
Beethoven in his poverty never forgot to be generous. At a concert given in aid of wounded soldiers, where he conducted, he indignantly refused payment with the words, "Say Beethoven never accepts anything where humanity is concerned." To an Ursuline convent he gave an entirely new symphony to be performed at their benefit concert.
Friend or enemy never applied to him for help that he did not freely give, even to the pinching of his own comfort.
VII.
Rossini could write best when he was under the influence of Italian wine and sparkling champagne. Paisiello liked the warm bed in which to jot down his musical notions, and we are told that "it was between the sheets that he planned the "Barber of Seville," the "Molinara," and so many other _chefs-d"oeuvre_ of ease and gracefulness." Mozart could chat and play at billiards or bowls at the same time that he composed the most beautiful music. Sacchini found it impossible to write anything of any beauty unless a pretty woman was by his side, and he was surrounded by his cats, whose graceful antics stimulated and affected him in a marked fashion. "Gluck," Bombet says, "in order to warm his imagination and to transport himself to Aulis or Sparta, was accustomed to place himself in the middle of a beautiful meadow. In this situation, with his piano before him, and a bottle of champagne on each side, he wrote in the open air his two "Iphigenias," his "Orpheus," and some other works." The agencies which stimulated Beethoven"s grandest thoughts are eminently characteristic of the man.
He loved to let the winds and storms beat on his bare head, and see the dazzling play of the lightning. Or, failing the sublimer moods of Nature, it was his delight to walk in the woods and fields, and take in at every pore the influences which she so lavishly bestows on her favourites. His true life was his ideal life in art. To him it was a mission and an inspiration, the end and object of all things; for these had value only as they fed the divine craving within.
"Nothing can be more sublime," he writes, "than to draw nearer to the G.o.dhead than other men, and to diffuse here on earth these G.o.dlike rays among mortals." Again: "What is all this compared to the grandest of all Masters of Harmony--above, above?"
"All experience seemed an arch, wherethrough Gleamed that untravelled world, whose margin fades Forever and forever as we move."
The last four years of our composer"s life were pa.s.sed amid great distress from poverty and feebleness. He could compose but little; and, though his friends solaced his latter days with attention and kindness, his st.u.r.dy independence would not accept more. It is a touching fact that Beethoven voluntarily suffered want and privation in his last years, that he might leave the more to his selfish and ungrateful nephew. He died in 1827, in his fifty-seventh year, and is buried in the Wahring Cemetery near Vienna. Let these extracts from a testamentary paper addressed to his brothers in 1802, in expectation of death, speak more eloquently of the hidden life of a heroic soul than any other words could:--
"O ye, who consider or declare me to be hostile, obstinate, or misanthropic, what injustice ye do me! Ye know not the secret causes of that which to you wears such an appearance.
My heart and my mind were from childhood p.r.o.ne to the tender feelings of affection. Nay, I was always disposed even to perform great actions. But, only consider that, for the last six years, I have been attacked by an incurable complaint, aggravated by the unskilful treatment of medical men, disappointed from year to year in the hope of relief, and at last obliged to submit to the endurance of an evil the cure of which may last perhaps for years, if it is practicable at all. Born with a lively, ardent disposition, susceptible to the diversions of society, I was forced at an early age to renounce them, and to pa.s.s my life in seclusion. If I strove at any time to set myself above all this, oh how cruelly was I driven back by the doubly painful experience of my defective hearing! and yet it was not possible for me to say to people, "Speak louder--bawl--for I am deaf!" Ah! how could I proclaim the defect of a sense that I once possessed in the highest perfection--in a perfection in which few of my colleagues possess or ever did possess it? Indeed, I cannot! Forgive me, then, if ye see me draw back when I would gladly mingle among you. Doubly mortifying is my misfortune to me, as it must tend to cause me to be misconceived. From recreation in the society of my fellow-creatures, from the pleasures of conversation, from the effusions of friendship, I am cut off. Almost alone in the world, I dare not venture into society more than absolute necessity requires. I am obliged to live as an exile. If I go into company, a painful anxiety comes over me, since I am apprehensive of being exposed to the danger of betraying my situation. Such has been my state, too, during this half year that I have spent in the country.