Part 5

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.

“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.