eethoven's period of study embraced over two years, during which many events took place that produced a revolution in his circumstances, and left him at their close in a very different position from that in which they had found him.

The first of these was the death of his father, which happened about a month after his arrival in Vienna, obliged the young man to take upon himself once more the duties of guardian to his two brothers, and necessitated the following petition to the Elector:—

This request was granted, and Franz Ries undertook the management of the money; but after June, 1793, not only this but the pension granted to Beethoven himself was suddenly stopped. The fruits of the French Revolution had made themselves apparent, and the Elector was forced to fly from Bonn and take refuge in Mergentheim. Henceforth, Beethoven must depend upon himself.

Luckily the emergency found him prepared; he was already esteemed as one of the best pianoforte players of the day—nay, there were not wanting those who assigned to him the very first place. The recommendation of Count Waldstein, who was nearly related to more than half a dozen of the best families in Austria, coupled with that of the elector (uncle to the reigning emperor), together with the fact that he was Haydn's most promising pupil, gained for the young man admission to the highest circles in the capital, where his extraordinary abilities speedily met with recognition, and placed him above all fear of want.

In accounting for the peculiar facility with which Beethoven obtained a hearing in Vienna, the state of society and position of art at the period must not be forgotten.

In a wide sense, and as we should understand it now, music was not universally cultivated or appreciated. The opera houses were two in number, one entirely given up to Italian performances; the other plain and unattractive, struggling under great disadvantages to bring forward native composers.

Church music was at a low ebb; the influence of Albrechtsberger at the cathedral not tending to much life or novelty in that branch of composition.

Public concerts, such as are now of daily occurrence, happened perhaps once a year, when funds were required for some charity.

Thus, music was not then the universal pursuit of all classes. The enjoyment of it was almost entirely limited to the privileged few—the aristocracy—who, following the example set by the reigning family, professed an adoration of the art, a devotion to it, which (though, of course, in many instances genuine) was so general, so common, as to cast a doubt upon its reality. Music was, in short, the fashionable rage; to be non-musical was to shut oneself out of the pale of society—an alternative not to be thought of without shuddering by the gay, pleasure-loving Viennese.

Accordingly the musical enthusiasm was wonderful. We find no less than ten private theatres, each with its full corps of actors and actresses, at most of which operettas were performed; and an orchestral society, composed exclusively of members of noble houses, who gave public concerts, open only to their equals in society, at the unwonted hour of six in the morning.

In addition to these, every nobleman had his private orchestra, or his Quartettistes, or, if his means would not admit of this, at least one eminent instrumental player, attached to his household. As all the great families of Austria vied with each other in the splendour and recherchÉ style of their musical entertainments, it may easily be imagined how, in such a state of society, Beethoven was lionized, petted, and fÊted.

Thayer gives a list of no fewer than thirty-one great houses (nine of them belonging to princes) which must have been open to him, as the owners were all recognised, worthy dilettanti in the highest sense—not mere followers of the fickle goddess, Fashion. Add to these the crowd that is ever ready to patronize him whom the leaders of ton have taken by the hand, and we see that Beethoven could not have wanted either for pupils or for opportunities of playing at private concerts.

It was, doubtless, the bustle and pressure of this episode in his life, the contact with vulgarity in high places, that gave him the dislike he afterwards manifested to playing in public. At an earlier period in Bonn, as we have seen, it was his delight to communicate his ideas to others, and to pour forth the inmost feelings of his soul in the presence of a little circle of sympathising, cultivated listeners. But here, in Vienna, to play at the command of some birth-proud aristocrat, who regarded art and artists as mere ministers to his pleasure—from such a task Beethoven's mind revolted. Wegeler relates the effect which such an occurrence would have upon him:—

"An invitation to play in society robbed him of all gaiety. He would come to me gloomy and down-cast, complaining that he was forced to play till the blood tingled to his very finger tips. By degrees we would begin to talk together in a friendly way, when I sought to distract his thoughts and to soothe him. When this end was achieved, I let the conversation drop. I placed myself at my desk, and if Beethoven wished to speak to me again, he was obliged to seat himself on a chair before the pianoforte. Soon, and often without turning, he would strike a few undecided chords, out of which the most beautiful melodies were gradually developed. I dared not hazard a remark about his playing, or only allude to it en passant. Beethoven would go away quite cheerful, and always return willingly to me. The dislike, however, remained, and was often the occasion of a rupture between him and his best friends."

But the halcyon days had not yet arrived when the great tone-poet could devote himself entirely to his life-mission. His own wants and those of his brothers had to be provided for, and accordingly the round of pianoforte-playing was gone through, as that of teaching had been before, and with the same result, it paved the way to life-friendships.

Amongst the distinct leaders of the musical taste of the capital was Gottfried, Baron van Swieten, the son of Maria Theresa's Dutch physician, and the composer of twelve symphonies (on which Haydn's verdict was—"as stiff as himself.") He had formerly passed some time in Berlin, where he had become acquainted with Friedemann and Emanuel Bach, and had heard the "Messiah," "Judas MaccabÆus," and "Alexander's Feast." After his return to Vienna, he acted as secretary to a musical society which met at his house, where the great works of Bach, Handel, and the old Italian writers (including Palestrina), were devotedly studied. Mozart's co-operation in this undertaking had been invaluable; but Mozart was gone, and Van Swieten was inconsolable for his loss until he discovered Beethoven. He was a quaint type of a race long extinct—the genuine old kenner or connoisseur. One can almost see him, when at a concert an incautious whisper was heard in the background, rising majestically from his place, and conspicuous from his great height, taking an awful survey of the room to discover the offender and wither him by a glance! In his efforts after the true in art, however, no very marked line was discernible to him between the sublime and the ridiculous; hence the earnestness with which he persuaded Haydn (and for which the latter never forgave him) to insert the croaking of the frogs in the Seasons. But take him for all in all, he was a valuable friend to Beethoven, and as such the latter regarded him. A carefully preserved note of his is still extant: "If nothing comes in the way, I should like to see you here next Wednesday, at half-past eight o'clock, with your nightcap in your pocket."

The latter precaution was not unnecessary, for the insatiable host (after the evening's entertainment was over and the guests gone home) would not consent to release his young protÉgÉ under at least half-a-dozen of Bach's fugues for a "good-night," or "evening blessing," as he was wont to call it.

Most valuable were the evenings spent in Van Swieten's house to Beethoven, for here he was first made fully acquainted with the majesty of Handel, "that unequalled master of all masters," in Beethoven's estimation, of whom he once said: "Go, and learn of him how to produce, with small means, such great effects!"

Another patron of the young musician, and one able to benefit him more substantially, was the Prince Karl Lichnowski, the accomplished pupil of Mozart, who, with his amiable wife Christiane, devoted every leisure hour to artistic pursuits. This couple, worthy in all respects of their exalted rank, at first attracted by the wonderful improvisation of Haydn's pupil, soon discovered, on a more intimate acquaintance, the true nobility of soul and dazzling genius which lay beneath the rough exterior.

They were childless; with the utmost delicacy it was proposed to Beethoven in 1794 that he should come to them; he accepted the offer in the spirit in which it was made, and for several years was an inmate of the Lichnowski Palace, treated with more than parental tenderness by the Prince and Princess. The latter took the place of Madame von Breuning, and Beethoven used afterwards to say laughingly, "They wanted to train me there with grandmotherly love; and the Princess Christiane would have liked to put a glass case over me, so that no evil might come nigh me."

Not that there was never any misunderstanding between Beethoven and his patron; on the contrary, the Princess had very often to mediate between them. How could it be otherwise? it was not easy for the powerful, impulsive mind of Beethoven, with his previous training, to accommodate itself to the smooth, etiquette-trammelled life of a palace. To abide by a settled routine was to him impossible; and after a few ineffectual struggles the attempt to make him do so was abandoned, and the artist left free to develop himself in his own way.

Wegeler relates that when he came to Vienna he found Beethoven installed in the Lichnowski Palace, but by no means so content with his position as one would imagine. Amongst other things he complained to him that the Prince's dinner-hour was fixed at four o'clock. "Now," said he, "I ought to be at home by half-past three to dress and trim my beard, &c. I could not stand that!" So some restaurant was more frequently honoured by his presence than the Lichnowski dinner-table.

It must not be thought that Beethoven forfeited any of his independence by thus becoming an inmate of the palace. On the contrary, he knew well, and the Prince did also, that the advantage was mutual. If he had a zealous and wealthy patron, the Prince had in return the benefit of the constant presence of the first pianist and improvisatore of the day at all his Musikabende, besides the Éclat attached to the fact that so many of the composer's productions were first performed at his house. Not that either of them ever coolly balanced the one set of advantages over against the other. This was in point of fact the relation between them; in reality it was more like that of father and son.

The critical judgment of the Prince was highly esteemed by Beethoven, who often allowed himself to be persuaded by him into making alterations which no other influence had power to effect; and his proficiency as a pianoforte-player, which enabled him to master with comparative ease the difficulties in the new style inaugurated by his protÉgÉ, confirmed Beethoven in his own views, and gave him fresh strength to resist those who would have had him adopt a more simple manner of writing.

Beethoven's independence of thought and action was of vital importance in his development. "Help thyself!" was his motto. But we are sometimes inclined to smile at the lengths to which he carried his favourite doctrine. For instance, having overheard the prince (who had a peculiarly loud voice) direct his JÄger, that whenever Beethoven and he rang at the same time, the latter should be waited on first; he took care that very day to procure a servant for himself. Another time, when he had a great desire to learn riding, and the Prince's stud had been placed at his disposal, he would not accept the offer, but bought an animal for his own special use. Any one who has ever been so unlucky as to borrow a friend's favourite horse, will not find Beethoven's conduct in this instance so very peculiar.

We can now imagine our master settled for a time, in the possession of much that could make life enjoyable. His days were entirely at his own disposal, and generally occupied by study; his evenings were passed either in his patron's salon, at Van Swieten's, or at the house of some connoisseur. Wherever he went, he was welcomed, in spite of his unpolished manner and appearance.

We have seen how, rather than submit to the necessity of an elaborate toilette, he would content himself with the plainest fare; but there was that in Beethoven's physique which the utmost pains could never have smoothed down to the conventional standard. Rather short, with a figure more indicative of strength than elegance, hair that baffled Figaro's efforts to reduce it to order, and a broad face, whose one redeeming point was the lofty, expansive forehead—a true throne of genius—Beethoven presented a tout-ensemble which at once marked him out from all others, and was an index to the independent, original spirit within.

His demeanour was such as might be expected in one who had made his own life-path, and had constantly encountered hostility and misunderstanding; brusque, angular, and a little defiant; but—where he was sure of his ground—gentle and loveable as a woman, innocent and guileless as a child.

Beethoven had no time for the petits-soins of life, his thoughts were too deeply engrossed with higher matters, but that he was the bear so often represented, we emphatically deny. Such accusations were brought against him by those who were incapable of appreciating either him or his works, who would have had the great poet descend to the common level of every-day life, fritter away precious time and thought, and force his powerful mind to the punctilious observance of every little social etiquette.

One condition alone was necessary for Beethoven to come out in a favourable light in society, viz, he must be understood. Not flattered, not admired, not caressed,—simply understood in his true character as a poet, an artist, a revealer of beauty undreamt of by others. The following anecdote is an illustration of this:—

"When we were both still young (writes Herr von Griesinger, Ambassador from the Court of Saxony to Vienna), I only an attachÉ, and Beethoven only a celebrated pianoforte player, but as yet little known as a composer, we happened to be both together at the house of Prince Lobkowitz. A gentleman, who thought himself a great connoisseur, entered into a conversation with Beethoven upon a poet's life and inclinations. 'I wish,' said Beethoven, with his native candour, 'that I was relieved from all the bargain and sale of publication, and could meet with some one who could pay me a certain income for life, for which he should possess the right to publish exclusively all that I wrote; and I would not be idle in composition. I believe Goethe does this with Cotta, and, if I mistake not, Handel's London publisher held similar terms with him.'

"'My dear young man,' said this grave wiseacre, 'you must not complain, for you are neither a Goethe nor a Handel, and it is not to be expected that you ever will be, for such masters will not be born again.'

"Beethoven bit his lips, gave a most contemptuous glance at the speaker, and said not another word to him. Afterwards, however, he expressed himself pretty warmly on the subject of this flippant individual.

"Prince Lobkowitz endeavoured to draw Beethoven into more temperate habits of thought, and said in a friendly manner, when the conversation once turned upon this person, 'My dear Beethoven, the gentleman did not intend to wound you; it is an established maxim, which most men adhere to, that the present generation cannot possibly produce such mighty spirits as the dead, who have already earned their fame.'

"'So much the worse, your Highness,' replied Beethoven; 'but with men who will not believe and trust in me because I am as yet unknown to universal fame, I cannot hold intercourse.'

"Many then shook their heads, and called the young composer arrogant and overbearing. Had these gentry been able to look into the future, they would have been a little ashamed of themselves."

With Beethoven's residence in the Lichnowski Palace, many characteristic anecdotes are connected, amongst others that already referred to of his reading the complicated Bach MS. a prima vista.

But one of the most important features of his life here was his connection with the Schuppanzigh Quartette, afterwards known as the Razoumowski, which, under his auspices, took so notable a place in musical annals. The players were all very young (Schuppanzigh, first violin, a boy of sixteen; Sina, second violin, still a very young man; Weiss, viola, fifteen; and Kraft, violoncello, only fourteen years of age), and this was probably a recommendation in the eyes of the Prince, who was passionately fond of the quartets of Haydn and Mozart, and doubtless found that he could more easily inoculate young and unformed minds with his peculiar views regarding the performance of them, than he could persuade more mature artists into adopting his views. Beethoven was his able coadjutor in this attempt, and the boy-quartet, directed by one not much older than themselves, did honour to the discernment of their patron. For many years they worked harmoniously together, meeting for practice every Friday morning, and probably no quartet-players, either before or since, enjoyed advantages so great. For them Beethoven composed his immortal productions, and his genius fired and animated theirs, so that one mind and one will alone seemed at work. The following note, preserved by Schindler, relative to the production of the difficult E flat major Quartet in March, 1825, shows how his desire that his old companions should prove equal to their reputation continued unabated to the last:—

"My good Friends,—Herewith each will receive his part, and must with it promise allegiance, and pledge himself in all honour to do his very best to distinguish himself, and to vie with the others in zeal.

"Every one who wishes to take part in the affair must sign this paper."

(Here follow the four signatures.)

uffering and genius! apparently so far apart, in reality so near!

The bitter cry of Milton,—

"Dark, dark, dark, amidst the blaze of noon!"

has gone up from many a thousand hearts to the eternal throne; but who may presume to fathom the dispensations of a mysterious providence? or to question that wisdom which gives to every earthborn soul the necessary discipline for immortality? Let us rather wonder and adore, and—

"Know how sublime a thing it is
To suffer and be strong."

We left our young musician in the full flush of success, in apparently vigorous health, caressed and flattered by princes, without a rival as a virtuoso, and fast leaving all competitors behind him as a composer, when suddenly a cloud appears, the brightness is overcast, and darkness comes on apace. Beethoven became deaf.

For three years he had had premonitory fears, which were too sadly realized in the year 1801.

The loss of hearing is deprivation enough in ordinary cases; but to a young man of excitable artist temperament, and a musician! it seemed for a while worse than the loss of life itself. Our Beethoven writes thus to Wegeler:—

"If I had not read somewhere that man must not of his own free will depart this life, I should long ere this have been no more, and that through my own act."

From this despair he was mercifully rescued. The strong, secret voice within, impelling Beethoven onwards and upwards to that aim which he "felt, but could not describe," spoke now in more stirring accents and with more thrilling emphasis amid the profound silence and desolation of his nature.

He "was not disobedient" to the heavenly call; the triumph of mind was achieved; and from the dark prison-house the noblest strains the world has ever heard escaped to wake responsive echoes in the hearts of all who have felt and suffered.

But this victory was not gained without leaving behind it evident tokens of the struggle; distrust, suspicion, irritability, those constant attendants on deafness, haunted Beethoven day and night, poisoning his happiness, and casting their shadow over his childlike, benevolent disposition. Stephan Breuning writes thus of the alteration in his friend in a letter dated the 13th of November, 1806:—"You cannot realize the indescribable impression made upon Beethoven by the loss of his hearing. Imagine, with his excitable temperament, the feeling of unhappiness, added to reserve, distrust of his best friends, and indecision in many things. In general, intercourse with him is a positive exertion, in which it is impossible to feel entirely at one's ease; the occasions on which his old true nature shows itself are few indeed."

Schindler, also his friend and biographer, describes him as being "like a child, devoid of all experience, suddenly cast upon this earth from some ideal world; like a ball, tossed from one hand to another; consequently, at the mercy of other people. And," he adds, "so Beethoven remained throughout his whole life."

These evils were increased by the presence of his brothers, Carl and Johann (the "evil principles" of his life, as Schindler calls them), who now began to exercise an almost unlimited influence over him. These men seem to have been totally incapable of appreciating the true character or work of Ludwig; they only saw that he was making money rapidly (and, as they thought, easily), and determined to take advantage of it. To this end they resolved to obtain entire possession of him, and began by endeavouring to alienate as far as possible Beethoven's friends, misrepresenting to him all that occurred, and fanning every little spark of anger into a flame.

Their efforts partially succeeded; our unhappy composer, absorbed in his own creations, overwhelmed by his misfortune, and intensely irritable, was but too ready to believe all the world in league against him, and would have shut the door against his best friends. Prince Lichnowski alone had still some weight with him, and when once persuaded that he had acted unjustly, nothing could exceed Beethoven's contrition and desire to make amends to those he had wounded.

But he would never lay any blame upon his brothers, and even when their duplicity and falseness had been clearly pointed out to him, he would still continue to defend them strenuously, refusing to look upon their conduct in any but the most favourable light, and adding, "After all, they are my brothers."

It may easily be believed how, with dispositions such as those of Carl and Johann, this mistaken lenity and brotherly feeling confirmed them in their course. It was they who generally made all arrangements with the music publishers, and through their instrumentality many minor pieces were given to the world which the composer had produced in Bonn, and kept back from publication as unworthy of his name.

Such a consideration, however, had no weight with the two; money they wanted, and were resolved to get at all hazards. Once only did Beethoven come into collision with them regarding this, when he discovered that Carl had, without his knowledge, sold a copyright which had been promised to another person.

Carl held a situation in the National Bank of Austria, and Johann had been established by Beethoven as an apothecary. In a very short time, however, the latter became so wealthy (how?) as to be able to exchange the pestle and mortar for the state of a country gentleman. Of this he was so immoderately proud, that one New Year's day he sent in to his brother a card, on which was written,—

"Johann van Beethoven, Land Proprietor."

The composer, who was at table when it was brought to him, laughed heartily, and writing on the other side,—

"Ludwig van Beethoven, Brain Proprietor,"

sent it back to him.

The following letters to Wegeler display, more fully than we can describe, Beethoven's condition during the first few years of his calamity:—

---

The year 1800 found Beethoven already busy with his "Mount of Olives," which, however, was not produced till 1803. This, the master's first and last attempt at oratorio writing, "is a striking instance of the insufficiency of even the highest powers to accomplish that to which the special call has not been given. It was impossible for Beethoven to feel himself so inspired by his task as the composer of a time when the mind of the people was almost exclusively occupied by religious convictions; the man of the revolutionary period could not see or think out a Christ like that of Bach and Handel before him. Even the pure spring, out of which we Protestants of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries draw our ideas of Christ—the Bible—flowed not for him; his Christ must first be poetically made for him. And how? The poet had no other aim but that of making verses for a composer; the latter no other motive than the ordinary creative impulse prompting him to try his powers in a different and important sphere. The result on both sides could not, therefore, be other than Phrases, although the better of the two proceeded from the composer, and that composer was Beethoven. To conceal or palliate this would be derogatory to the reverence which we all owe to Beethoven,—he stands too high to be in need of extenuation."

So far Marx; but in addition to the miserable libretto (which imparted unreality, artificiality, to the whole work, and especially gave to the part of the Saviour a theatrical air which Beethoven afterwards deplored) many peculiarities of the oratorio—with all deference to the able critic just quoted—may be traced to the period in which it was composed. The very choice of subject reveals the convulsion that was taking place in Beethoven's volcanic nature. It is a question whether Beethoven would ever have asserted his sovereignty in this branch of composition; it may be, as Marx hints, that the peculiar tone of thought and feeling necessary to the successful treatment of sacred subjects was wanting in him; but there can be no doubt that had the master's attention been devoted to the subject in happier days, when his tempest-tossed natures had attained to some degree of peace and serenity, the result would have been very different. Let him who would see Beethoven as a devotional writer, turn to his Gellert songs, which breathe the very depths of true religious feeling.

The greater part of the oratorio, and also of "Fidelio," was composed at Hetzendorf, a pretty little village near the imperial summer palace of SchÖnbrunn. Here Beethoven passed several summers in the greatest retirement—wandering all day long, from early dawn to nightfall, amid the leafy glades of the park. His favourite seat was between two immense boughs of an old oak, which branched out from the parent stem about two feet from the ground. This memorable tree, endeared to Beethoven as the birthplace of many a thought, was afterwards visited by him, in Schindler's company, in 1823.

In 1802 a gleam of hope dawned upon the sufferer; his deafness was for a time cured by the skilful treatment of Dr. Schmidt (to whom, out of gratitude, he dedicated his Septet arranged as a Trio), by whose advice he went for the summer to the village of Heiligenstadt, in the hope that the calm, sweet influence of nature, to which he was at all times most sensitive, might act beneficially upon his troubled mind.

This spot—this consecrated town—must always be an object of veneration to those who cherish the name of Beethoven, for here it was that he wrote his remarkable will, or promemoria, a document which excites our warmest sympathy, revealing, as it does, the depths of that great heart.

Several writers have maintained that the consequences of Beethoven's deafness are plainly discernible in his compositions; that he lost all idea of harmonic relations, that his later works are mere incongruous, erratic fancies, devoid of form and melody, and, in short, compared to his former productions, what the second part of "Faust" is to the first.

Happily, such ideas—promulgated by theorists of the old school like FÉtis, and dilettanti of the Mozart-Italian school like Oulibicheff—have now exploded, and the service rendered to Art by Beethoven's latest works—especially his pianoforte sonatas—is fully recognised. It is these which have brought the pianoforte to its present eminence as the most intellectual and ideal of all instruments, and which, by their depth of thought and loftiness of aim, have raised an insuperable barrier between the dilettante who trifles with music for amusement, and the artist who devotes his life to its cultivation as a God-appointed means of developing the divine in man.

At the same time we come upon passages here and there which Beethoven would, perhaps, have written otherwise, had his ear, as well as his mind, been sensitive to their effect.

It is not posterity that has been the loser by Beethoven's deafness; we, at least, ought to appreciate the "precious jewel" which his adversity carried within it, and has handed down to us. His contemporaries, however, had cause to lament, for in a few years it put a stop to all improvising and playing in public. We read, indeed, of a plan for an artistic tour with his pupil Ries, when the latter was to make all arrangements for concert-giving, and to play the pianoforte Concertos and other works, while Beethoven conducted and improvised—but the project never came to maturity. It was, in fact, impossible. Beethoven entirely lost the sensitiveness of touch which had once distinguished his playing from that of all contemporaries; and, in his efforts to extract some nourishment for his hungering ear, used to hammer the pianoforte so unmercifully as generally to break several strings. Nor could it be obviated by a special instrument constructed for himself, nor by a sound-conductor invented for him by the ingenious Graff.

A curious feature of his deafness was the gradual manner in which the auricular nerve decayed; he first lost the power of catching the higher notes of singers or instruments, as we have seen, while deep, low sounds were long audible to him; this may account for the prevalence of those deep-lying tones in almost all his later works, especially the Second Mass and the Ninth Symphony.

As a natural consequence of his affliction, he soon became unable to conduct his own orchestral works. This, however, was no great loss, for he had never possessed either the self-possession or the experience necessary to wield the bÂton satisfactorily. Knowing thoroughly as he did what every instrument had to say, he listened excitedly for each in detail—without calmly attending to the effect of the whole; at each crescendo he would rise as if about to fly, gesticulating so rapidly and energetically that the members of the orchestra (who had enough to do to follow such new and peculiar music) were often more bewildered than guided by his directions. At the same time be it distinctly understood that, however low the performance might fall beneath his "ideal," however vexatious the mistakes of individual performers might be, he never lost his temper so far as to act in the manner related by Ries in his Notices, of which the following is a specimen:—

"Beethoven was present at the first performance of his Fantasia for pianoforte, orchestra, and chorus. The clarinettist, in a passage where the beautiful subject of the finale has already entered, made by mistake a repetition of eight bars. As very few instruments are heard at this point, the error in the execution was torturing to the ear. Beethoven rose furiously, turned round, and insulted the musicians in the grossest manner, and so loudly that it was heard by the whole audience. Then, resuming his seat, he exclaimed, "From the beginning!" The movement was recommenced, and this time all went well, and the success was brilliant. But when the concert was over, the artists recollected only too well the honourable titles by which Beethoven had publicly addressed them; and, as if the matter had but that moment occurred, became excessively angry, and vowed never to play again when Beethoven was in the orchestra, &c., &c."

That the clarinettist did make a mistake is true, but that Beethoven behaved in the outrageous way described was most positively denied by all who were present on the occasion, including the conductor, Franz Clement. Where Ries got the story from is difficult to imagine, since he was himself in St. Petersburg at the time. On the contrary, the members of the orchestra were all on excellent terms with Beethoven, who prized their approval far more than that of the general public; and was wont, when particularly pleased with a performance, to turn round, his face beaming with delight, and exclaim, "Bravi, tutti!" But woe betide those who dared to question the effect of the new and somewhat startling combinations which he introduced! Ries found this out to his cost. At the unexpected entrance of the horn in the Allegro of the Eroica, he—as usual, beside his master in the orchestra—exclaimed, "How abominably wrong!" for which outburst he was nearly rewarded by a box on the ear.

Pianoforte playing, improvisation, and orchestral conducting were given up one after the other—not suddenly, for Beethoven was resolved to defy his fate as long as possible,—but henceforth it is with Beethoven the composer alone that we have to do.

The autumn of 1802 saw him so far restored as to be able to commence his great work on Napoleon, which, however, on account of many interruptions, was not finished until the year 1804.

In 1802 he writes thus to his publisher, Hofmeister, who had requested him to compose a sonata of a revolutionary tendency:—"Are you riding to the devil in a body, gentlemen, that you propose to me to write such a sonata? At the time of the revolutionary fever it might have done, but now, when everything is once more in the beaten track, when Bonaparte has signed the Concordat with the Pope—now such a sonata! If it had been a missa pro Sancta Maria a tre voci, or a Vesper, I would immediately have taken pen in hand and written in ponderous notes a Credo in unum,—but, good heavens! such a sonata in these fresh, dawning Christian times! Ho! ho! I'll have nothing to do with it!" and yet at this very time he must have been busy with a work destined to the honour of the great Disturber of the Peace of Europe. The idea for this emanated originally from General Bernadotte, the French Ambassador at Vienna—a great admirer of the composer,—and was in reality warmly entered into by Beethoven, who, with his red-hot Republicanism and love for Plato, was an enthusiastic supporter of the First Consul, and imagined nothing less than that it was Napoleon's intention to remodel France according to the Platonic method, and inaugurate a golden age of universal happiness. With the news of the empire came the destruction of this elysian prospect,—Beethoven in a fury tore to pieces the title-page of his symphony on which was written simply,—

"Bonaparte.
"Luigi v. Beethoven;"

and stamping it under foot, showered a volley of imprecations on the head of the tyrant who had played so false a game.

No persuasion could induce him at first to publish the work, but after the lapse of some years this masterpiece of ideal writing was given to the world under the title of "Sinfonia Eroica per festegiare il sovvenire d'un grand' uomo." Great man as Napoleon had been in Beethoven's estimation, he never could think of him otherwise than with detestation, till the sudden collapse of the Napoleonic idea in 1815, and the death of its promoter in 1821, changed his wrath into a kind of grim commiseration, which he showed by remarking that he had "seventeen years before composed the music suited to this catastrophe!" meaning the Funeral March in the Eroica.

This, the first great manifesto of the Sovereign of the World of Sound, was a wonderful advance on the first two symphonies, produced somewhere about the years 1800-1802. In these he took up the art where Haydn and Mozart had left it; but, "though he could dally and tarry awhile with them, he would not remain with them;" his greater earnestness impelled him on to realms unknown to them, to conquest compared with which theirs faded into comparative insignificance.

In 1805 Ferdinand Ries left Vienna, after having enjoyed Beethoven's instruction for five years. He was, in fact, the only one whom Beethoven recognised as his pupil (with the exception of the Archduke Rudolph), and to him he entrusted the playing of his concertos, &c., for the first time, when no longer able to do so himself. The impressions which Ries has left in his Notices, of Beethoven as an instructor, are like his other statements, somewhat contradictory. In one place he declares that during the lessons the master was engaged in composition or some similar work at one end of the room, while he was playing at the other, and that he seldom sat down by him for half an hour at a time. Again, he says that Beethoven took extraordinary pains with him—sometimes extending the lesson over two hours, and making him repeat ten times—nay, oftener—any passage with which he was not quite satisfied. Probably the truth lies between these two extremes. Beethoven, who had no settled order in his life, could not be expected to be systematic in tuition; hence the impression of desultoriness left upon the mind of the pupil. A characteristic anecdote of this period is worth quoting.

"Beethoven," says Ries, "had given me the manuscript of his third concerto, that I might appear in public with it for the first time as his pupil; Beethoven conducted and turned over the pages for me. I had begged him to compose a cadenza for me, but he directed me to write one myself. He was satisfied with my composition, and altered little; but one brilliant and very difficult passage, which seemed to him too hazardous, I was to change. The easier one did not please me, and I could not make up my mind to play it in public. The critical moment arrived—Beethoven had seated himself quietly—but when I boldly attacked the difficult cadence, he gave his chair a violent push. The cadenza, however, succeeded, and Beethoven was so delighted that he exclaimed, 'Bravo!' which electrified the audience."

In 1805 Beethoven produced his solitary opera, "Leonora" (afterwards known as "Fidelio"), amid a series of annoyances and vexations such as probably no operatic writer, either before or since, has ever had to contend against. What between troubles arising out of the libretto, the overture, the singers, the critics, and the theatrical cabals, our poor Beethoven was well-nigh driven distracted.

The story on which the opera is founded (originally taken from the French, and so well known as to require no repetition here) is almost too slight for dramatic purposes, inasmuch as there is but one really powerful situation—that of the grave scene—in the entire piece, and the whole interest, therefore, is concentrated on the one figure, Leonora. What Beethoven has made out of these slender materials; how he has depicted, in all its intensity and tenderness, that love which he was doomed never to experience, needs no description from us.

What was Beethoven's object in choosing this theme for his labours? Was it a foreshadowing of bliss that might be his? or was it the delineation of a character which, in its earnestness and purity, should be the reverse of that "Don Juan" of Mozart, of which he once said, "The divine art ought never to be lowered to the folly of such a scandalous subject"?

The little byplay and domestic "asides" cost our soaring Beethoven infinitely more trouble than the most impassioned scenas, and he was obliged to write the little air of Marcelline, "O, wÄr' ich schon mit Dir vereint," no less than thrice before he could attain the requisite lightness.

The composition of the four "Leonora" overtures is without a parallel in musical annals. When Beethoven had finished No. 1, in C major, he consented to its being first tried over by a small orchestra at Prince Lichnowski's, in the presence of a select number of critics and connoisseurs, by whom it was condemned as being light and almost flimsy in structure, and as affording no clue to the contents of the opera. It was therefore withdrawn, and not published till after the composer's death.

But may not the light-heartedness which distinguishes this overture have been intentional on the part of Beethoven? may he not have wished to represent his heroine before the shadow of grief had fallen upon her, in the enjoyment of the highest wedded bliss?

Marx takes this view of "Leonora" No. 1, adducing in support of it the following extract from one of the manuscript books in which Beethoven was accustomed to hold intercourse with his friends:—

"Aristotle, when he speaks of tragedy, says that the hero ought first to be represented as living in the greatest happiness and splendour. Thus we see him in 'Egmont.' When he is in the enjoyment of felicity, Fate comes and throws a noose over his head from which he is not able to extricate himself. Courage and Defiance appear upon the scene, and boldly look Destiny—aye, and death—in the face. ClÄrchen's fate interests us, like that of Gretchen in 'Faust,' because she was once so happy. A tragedy which begins as well as continues gloomily, is tedious."

"Leonora" No. 2 was condemned on account of the predominance of the wind instruments, and No. 3 ultimately, because the stringed instruments had so much to do that precision was out of the question.

When, at length, the composer was satisfied with his creation; when the singers (pacified by the friendly intervention of Seyfried) had agreed to give the music as it was written; when all difficulties were apparently overcome, the unlucky composer's annoyances reached a climax in the reception accorded to his work by the public.

With great want of judgment (purposely to annoy him, as Beethoven thought) the opera was produced a few days after the French troops had entered Vienna; when all his friends and patrons, including Lichnowski, had sought refuge at their country seats till the storm had blown over; and the theatre was filled with French officers and soldiers, an audience utterly incapable of appreciating the master. As might have been anticipated, the work was coldly received, and, after three representations, withdrawn. In 1806 it met with the same fate, and not till 1814 did this, the grandest work of the German school—a work which has fought its way to every stage in Europe, and has been brought home to every heart by a Malibran, a SchrÖder-Devrient, or a Tietjens,—obtain a favourable hearing.

During the time the opera was in progress, Beethoven (like Mozart in producing his "Seraglio") suffered keenly from the jealousy of some of his opponents, and his brothers took care that every barb should find its way home to his sensitive mind. Even his friend Stephan Breuning, in his great desire to help the composer, aggravated the evil by the very warmth of his partisanship,—and thus, by constant dwelling upon them, many little slights assumed a disproportionate magnitude, and annoyed our poor Beethoven intensely.

But enough of darkness and despondency; life now begins, by one of those sudden and apparently inexplicable changes, to wear a rosier hue for the composer. Reserving our inquiry into the cause of this, we close this chapter with the beautiful letter to the poet Matthison, whose "AdelaÏde" he had set to music some time previously.

"Most esteemed Friend,—You will receive, together with this, a composition of mine which has already been printed for several years, but of which, to my shame, you perhaps know nothing yet.

"I may, perhaps, be able to excuse myself, and to explain why I dedicated anything to you, which came so warmly from my heart, and yet did not make you acquainted with it,—by the plea that, at first, I did not know where you resided, and then my diffidence led me to think that I had been somewhat hasty in dedicating anything to you without knowing if it had your approval. And, indeed, even now I send you the 'AdelaÏde' with some timidity. You yourself know what changes a few years produce in an artist who is constantly progressing; the more one accomplishes in art, the less is one satisfied with former works.

"My most fervent wish will be realized if you are not altogether dissatisfied with the music to your heavenly 'AdelaÏde,' and if you are incited by it to compose a similar poem soon, and (should my request not seem too bold) to send it to me forthwith, when I shall put forth all my strength to approach your lovely poetry in merit.

"Consider the dedication as a mark of my esteem and gratitude for the exquisite pleasure which your poetry has always afforded, and will still afford me.

"When playing the 'AdelaÏde,' remember sometimes

"Your sincere admirer,
"Beethoven."

hence comes it that after a storm of darkness and gloom—after the disappointment of his "Leonora"—the next offspring of the poet's fancy should be a symphony (No. 4), the most delicately finished and bright in colouring which we possess?

The mystery is not easily solved. Former biographers have at once come to the conclusion that this was the period in which Beethoven's love for Julia Guicciardi, alluded to in a letter to Wegeler, had reached its climax. This hypothesis has, however, been put to flight by the discovery of Alexander Thayer that the lady was married to Count Gallenberg (afterwards the Keeper of the Archives of the Imperial Opera) in 1803—that is, three years before the composition of the work.

Is the B flat major Symphony, after all, as much the exponent of the master passion as is, in another way, the C sharp minor Sonata? Or is it, with its troubled, gloomy opening, expanding into glorious warmth and sunshine, another evidence of Beethoven's resolution to set fate at defiance, and to keep at bay the monster Grief which threatened to annihilate him? Who can tell? When the traveller, suddenly emerging from some mist-hung mountain gorge, steps out upon the rocky platform, he beholds in the distance, beneath his delighted gaze, a landscape bathed in sunshine; so to the poet's excited fancy there must have been present some bright vision, one of those "loftier spirits, who sported with him and allotted to him nobler tasks," drawing a veil over the troubled Past, and pointing him onwards to a glorious Future.

Let the Reader take which interpretation he will.

We propose briefly to present to him the two sets of letters which show us Beethoven in two different aspects as a lover—the first pur et simple, the second Platonic.

Nothing is known with certainty of Beethoven's "immortal beloved," whose name vibrates throughout the Adagio of the Moonlight Sonata. The letters to her (of date unknown, written from some baths in Hungary, whither he had been ordered for his health) breathe the very intensity of passion—a passion at times too deep for words.[30]

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It was indeed the case that no other love ever did "possess his heart" in the same way. This was, if not his first, at least his only real love. Such letters as these Beethoven wrote to no one else; the contrast between them and the three following (addressed to Bettina Brentano, afterwards Madame von Arnim) will be at once apparent:—

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These letters were first published in Bettina's book, "Ilius Pamphilius und die Ambrosia," but the style is so unlike Beethoven's simple mode of expression, that it is difficult to discover what the composer really wrote to Bettina, and what has been supplied by the latter's rather too vivid imagination. The reiterated dear, dearest, and the write soon, soon, often, are very feminine and very un-Beethovenish. This strange, inexplicable little being, who fascinated not only Beethoven, but every one else with whom she came in contact, has also published an account of her interviews with Beethoven. This is so highly coloured that we may be excused for doubting the perfect truth of the recital, especially as we know what a gloss—nay, what falseness—she contrived to give to all that related to her intercourse with Goethe. She herself tells us, naÏvely enough, that when she showed Beethoven one morning her account of what he had said the previous day, he was quite surprised, and exclaimed, "Did I really say that? I must have had a raptus!"

Bettina was, however, of some service to him, as it was doubtless she who paved the way to his acquaintance with Goethe, and their meeting in 1812 at Toeplitz; and her family remained true, warm friends of the composer long after the great minister had forgotten his very existence.

Beethoven was most unfortunate in his attachments, the objects of which were always of much higher social standing than himself. Constantly associating with people of rank and culture, it was natural that to the sensitive nature of our poet, the young girl nobly born, with all the intuitive, nameless fascinations of the high-bred aristocrat, should present a great contrast to the plebeian, every-day graces of the bourgeoise. Beethoven used to say that he had found more real appreciation of his works amongst the nobility than in any other circle, and we can hardly wonder at the infatuation with which he stakes all his chances of happiness on a love which he knows can never be gratified.

The following little scrap in his handwriting has been preserved:—"Only love—yes, only that—has power to give me a happier life. Oh, God! let me at length find her—her who destined to be mine, who shall strengthen me in virtue!" Schindler imagines that these words have reference to a well-known dilettante of great talent, FrÄulein Marie Pachler, whom Beethoven admired exceedingly. He never summoned up courage enough to propose to her however, and she afterwards married an advocate in Gratz. This lady may also be the subject of the allusion in a letter to Ries, 1816:—"Say all that is kind from me to your wife; I, alas! have none. I found only one with whom I could have been happy, and she will probably never be mine. But I am not on this account a woman-hater!"

Another love of Beethoven's was the Countess Marie ErdÖdy, to whom he dedicated the two splendid Trios, Op. 70, but this seems to have been entirely a Platonic affection.

Who can exaggerate the immense benefit that a loving, tender wife would have been to Beethoven—a wife like Mozart's Constance? The consciousness of one ever by his side to whom he might safely confide all that wounded or annoyed him, would have more than neutralized the chilling, exasperating effects of the calamity that had overtaken him, would have been a fresh impetus to great achievements. But fate had willed it otherwise.

In nothing was the want of a wife so apparent as in Beethoven's domestic mÉnage, which certainly was the non plus ultra of discomfort. One great cause of this was his habit of frequently changing his abode. He had long since left the Lichnowski Palace, his infirmity rendering it desirable that he should have a home of his own, but he was extremely difficult to please in the choice of a residence. One house he would leave because the sun did not shine into his apartment; another because the supply of water was deficient (a serious drawback to him, as he was accustomed to lave his head and face profusely while composing), and for even less cogent reasons he would pack up and leave at an hour's notice, so that it soon became a difficult matter to find a suitable abode for him. It may easily be imagined that this constant removal was not effected without considerable outlay, and so badly did he manage that at one time he had no less than four houses on his hands. When all other resources failed, he would take refuge in the fourth story of his friend Baron Pasqualati's house, which was constantly reserved for him. The summer he always spent in the country, generally in a hired lodging. On one occasion a suite of apartments in the villa of Baron Pronay had been placed at his disposal, and as the house stood in the midst of a superb park, it was thought that Beethoven would be fully satisfied. In a few days, however, the bird had flown, alleging as his reason that he could not endure to listen to the ceremonious salutation with which his host accosted him every morning in his ramble—much less to return it!

Oulibischeff's amusing description of our composer's surroundings is worth repeating:—

"In his room reigned a confusion, an organized chaos, such as can hardly be imagined. Books and music lay on every article of furniture, or were heaped up like pyramids in the four corners. A multitude of letters which he had received during the week or the month covered the floor like a white carpet with red spots. On the window-sill were displayed the remains of a succulent breakfast, by the side or on the top of proof sheets awaiting correction. There a row of bottles, partly sealed, partly empty; further on an escritoire, and on it the sketch of a quartet; on the pianoforte a flying sheet of note-paper with the embryo of a symphony; while to bring so many directly opposite things into harmony, everything was united by a thick layer of dust.

"It may easily be imagined that amidst such a well-arranged whole, the artist had often no small trouble to find what he required. He used to complain bitterly about this, and always put the blame on other people's shoulders, for he fancied that he was extremely systematic in the way in which he kept his things, and used to declare that in the darkest night he could find even a pin belonging to him, if people 'would but put things back in their proper places'!

"On one occasion an important paper was missing—neither a sketch nor a loose sheet, but a thick, clearly copied score from the Mass in D. At last it was found; but where, think you? In the kitchen, where it had been used to wrap up eatables! More than one Donnerwetter! and more than one bad egg must have flown at the head of the devoted cook, when this was discovered; for Beethoven liked fresh eggs too well to use them as missiles.... Once, when he had dismissed his housekeeper, a very good orderly person (and soon received into favour again), he resolved to make himself independent, and to keep no more servants, since they only 'worked mischief in the house.' And why should he not wait upon himself, and look after the kitchen himself? Could it be more difficult to prepare a dinner than to compose a C minor symphony? Charmed with this glorious idea, Beethoven hastens to put it into execution. He invites some friends to dinner, buys the necessary provisions in the market, and carries them home himself; ties on the business-like white apron; adjusts the indispensable nightcap on his head; grasps the cook's knife, and sets to work. The guests arrive, and find him before the fire, whose scorching flame seems to act like the fire of inspiration upon him. The patience of the Viennese appetites was put to an unwonted trial. At length the dishes were placed on the table, and the host proved that it was worth while waiting for him. The soup might have challenged the soupe maigre given in charity; the boiled meat, scarcely cooked, presupposed in individuals of the human race the digestion of an ostrich; the vegetables swam in a sea of fat and water; the roast meat, splendidly burned to a cinder, looked as though it had found its way down the chimney; in short, nothing was fit to eat. And nobody did eat anything except the host, who by word and example encouraged his guests to fall to. In vain; Beethoven's chefs-d'oeuvre of cookery were not appreciated, and the guests made their dinner on bread, fruit, and sweetmeats, adding plenty of wine to prevent any bad effects from their enforced abstinence. This remarkable feast convinced even the great Maestro that composing and cooking are two very different things, and the unjustly deposed cook was speedily re-established in her rights."

It was very fortunate for Beethoven that after some years passed in this erratic way, a sensible lady-friend at length came to the rescue, and by her feminine tact and adroitness, succeeded in persuading him to abandon his nomadic habits to some extent, and to mingle a little more in society. This was Frau Nanette Streicher, the amiable wife of the celebrated instrument maker, and early friend of Schiller. She began by putting the wardrobe of the composer to rights (as might be imagined, it was in a deplorable plight), and afterwards, in conjunction with her husband, hired a respectable house for Beethoven, furnished it suitably, and engaged a man (a tailor by trade) and his wife to wait upon him. In this quiet haven our tempest-tossed Beethoven came to anchor for a while, and might have been seen busy over his pianoforte, or among his papers, while his cross-legged knight of the Goose stitched away comfortably in the adjoining anteroom.

When fairly domiciled, Beethoven's mode of life was very regular. His habit was to rise every morning, winter and summer, at daybreak, when he at once proceeded to his desk, where he wrote till about two o'clock without any interruption, except the necessary interval for breakfast, and—if his ideas did not flow rapidly enough—an occasional run of half an hour or longer into the open air. Between two and three he dined, after which it was his invariable custom to make the circuit of the town twice or three times; and no weather could keep him within doors—summer heat or winter frost, thunder, hail, rain, sleet,—nothing prevented this afternoon ramble. It was, in fact, his time for composition; he never ventured out without his note-book to preserve any fugitive thoughts that might flit across his mind, and used laughingly to apply to himself Johanna's words, "I dare not come without my banner!" Necessarily, therefore, he was a very silent companion, but in one sense only, as the whole way he continued humming (or rather growling) in a manner peculiar to himself any thema on which he was mentally at work. Ries relates that on one occasion when they were walking together, Beethoven suddenly exclaimed, "A theme has occurred to me!" They hurried onwards in silence, and on arriving at home the master went at once to the pianoforte (without even removing his hat), where he thundered like an inspired giant for more than an hour, during which the beautiful finale to the Sonata Op. 54 (in F major) struggled into existence.

Beethoven generally returned from his promenade only when warned by the shadows that evening was coming on; then alone in the darkening twilight he loved to breathe to his best, his only friend, his Clavier,[31] the thoughts which met with no response in human sympathy. During the evening he very seldom worked, but would smoke his pipe, and play occasionally on his viola or violin, both of which must always be placed ready for him on the pianoforte.

Our poor deaf Beethoven had, too, his little coterie of sincere and attached friends, among whom his real nature could show itself without restraint or distrust, and who clung to him through life in spite of the unceasing efforts of the two brothers to dislodge them. These were—naturally Prince Lichnowski and his brother Count Moritz, who cherished a love and admiration for Beethoven which the latter warmly reciprocated, dedicating to the Count his Variations, Op. 35, and the beautiful Idyl, Op. 90. To these must be added the worthy Baron von Zmeskall, a Hungarian State Secretary, to whom the composer addressed many a humorous epistle; his old friend Stephan Breuning; the Baron von Gleichenstein; his secretary Schindler; and last, but not least, Franz, Count von Brunswick, to whom he dedicated the Sonata Appassionata, and who had more influence over him than anybody else.

One proceeding Beethoven never omitted, viz., the reading of the evening paper. In these stirring times the newspaper was an absolute necessity, and our musician would never retire to rest without previously ascertaining the state of the political horizon. He used to frequent a coffee-house which boasted another means of exit besides the general one, and taking up his position in the background, he would steadily peruse the Gazette (not a very long task in those days, when "our own" correspondents were as yet undreamt of), and as soon as the last word of the last page had been scanned, beat a hasty retreat through the private door, and wend his solitary way homewards. Ten o'clock rarely found him out of bed. Such was his simple, innocent day! It was no mere phrase, that declaration of his, "I live only in my art,"—it was indeed the one connecting link between him and others.

What he produced in suffering and loneliness stirred, like a mighty wind among the forest branches, the noblest feelings of a thousand hearts, bidding them grapple with Destiny as he had done, and prove themselves men and heroes!

CHAPTER VIII

VICTORY AND SHADOW.

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This did not in the least deter them, however, from doing what they believed necessary for his benefit: the concert took place, and was the scene of a triumph such as few have experienced. The glorious Jupiter Symphony seemed to act upon the immense mass of human beings that thronged the building in every part, like ambrosial nectar; they became intoxicated with delight, and when the refrain was caught up by the choir, "Seid umschlungen Millionen!" a shout of exuberant joy rent the air, completely drowning the singers and instruments. But there stood the master in the midst, his face turned towards the orchestra, absorbed and sunk within himself as usual,—he heard nothing, saw nothing. FrÄulein Unger, the soprano, turned him gently round, and then what a sight met his astonished gaze,—a multitude transported with joy! Almost all were standing, and the greater number melted to tears, now for the first time realizing fully the extent of Beethoven's calamity.—Probably in all that great assembly the master himself was the most unmoved. Simply bowing in response to the ovation, he left the theatre gloomy and despondent, and took his homeward way in silence.

Verily, he, like a Greater, knew what was in man. In eight days from this eventful epoch he was completely forgotten; a second concert proved an utter failure, and Rossini's star was again in the ascendant. Nor did the flighty Viennese public cast another thought upon our Beethoven until the news of his death came upon them like the shock of an earthquake, and they hastened, when it was too late, to repair the past.

But if it was painful to meet with ingratitude from the public, how much harder must it have been for the master to endure the same from one nearly related to him! We have said that he adopted his brother's orphan child. This nephew, also a Carl Beethoven, was at his father's death about eight years of age, and a boy of great talent and promise. The four succeeding years, during which the lawsuit dragged its weary length, were extremely detrimental to him, as he seems to have been tossed about from one person to another—now with his mother, and again with his uncle—in a manner very prejudicial to any good moral development. Events showed him only too plainly the character of his mother, but nature—stronger still—urged him to take her part in the contest so far as he dared; and, incited by her evil counsels, he soon began secretly to despise his uncle's authority, and openly to follow a path he had laid down for himself,—the path of self-will and sensual indulgence. Expelled from the University where he was attending the Philosophical Course, his more than father received the repentant prodigal with open arms, and placed him in the Polytechnic School to study for a mercantile career, that he might be under the supervision of Herr Reisser, Vice-President of the Institute, and co-guardian with himself over Carl. In the summer of 1825 the composer wrote no fewer than twenty-nine letters to his erring nephew, every one of which exhibits his character in the most beautiful light. They breathe the cry of a David, "Oh! Absalom! my son! my son!"—but it is a living Absalom who has to be lamented, and the most energetic appeals, the most loving remonstrances are invoked to move that stony heart. In vain,—Carl went from bad to worse, and in 1826 the master was compelled to give up the habit which had been his only solace for years—that of spending the summer in the country—and to remain in Vienna to watch over the young man. Matters soon came to a crisis,—Carl, urged to pass an examination which he had long neglected, attempted, in a fit of despair, to put an end to his own life. Here the law stepped in, and after he had been treated in an asylum where his spiritual as well as his bodily condition was cared for, the miserable youth was restored to his no less wretched uncle, with orders to quit Vienna within four-and-twenty hours. Beethoven's old friend, Stephan Breuning, exerted himself to procure a cadetship for the lad, and he was at length permitted to join the regiment of the Baron von Stutterheim, to whom the composer gratefully dedicated one of his last quartets. Pending this arrangement the unhappy uncle and nephew took refuge at Gneixendorf, the estate of Johann v. Beethoven, who had offered them a temporary asylum. A few days here, however, were enough for the composer; irritated by the unjust reproaches and low taunts of his brother, he determined at once to return to Vienna, taking his nephew with him. It was a raw, cold, miserable day in December; Johann refused to lend his close carriage to him to whom he owed all his prosperity, and Beethoven was obliged to perform a long journey in an open conveyance, with no shelter from the keen wind and pitiless rain. His health, which had long been failing, sank under this exposure, and he arrived in Vienna with a severe attack of inflammation of the lungs, which ultimately caused his death.

As soon as they arrived at home, Carl was charged instantly to procure a physician for his uncle, one Dr. Wawruch; but this loving nephew's whole thoughts were for his old companions and his old haunts. He went to play billiards, entrusting his commission to the tender mercies of a servant of the establishment, who, in his turn, let the affair pass entirely from his memory until two days after, when he happened to be taken ill himself, and to be carried by chance to the same hospital in which the doctor practised. At the sight of the physician his instructions flashed upon his memory, and he besought him to go at once to the great Beethoven. Horror-struck, Dr. Wawruch, who was an enthusiastic admirer of the composer, hastened to his house and found him lying in the most precarious state, completely alone and neglected. His unwearied efforts so far succeeded that Beethoven rallied for a time, when his first care was—to appoint his worthless nephew sole heir to all his effects! Soon symptoms of dropsy showed themselves, he had to be tapped four times, and it became evident that the master spirit would soon leave its earthly tabernacle for a better and more enduring habitation. He was always resigned and patient, remarking, with a smile, when a painful operation was being performed, "Better water from my body than from my pen!"

The Philharmonic Society sent him a magnificent edition of Handel, and the greatest pleasure of his last days consisted in going through the works of his favourite composer.

His illness, however, lasted some time; in the meanwhile he was making nothing, and his small resources began to fail him. The money he had recently made by his works he had added to the fund which he sacredly kept for his nephew, and which no persuasion could induce him to touch; he had been disappointed in a sum owing to him by the Russian dilettante, Prince Galitzin; and in great distress the question arose, what was he to do? to whom could he turn? He bethought him of the offer made by the Philharmonic Society in London to give a concert for his benefit, and after much hesitation, finally applied to them, through Moscheles and Sir George Smart, for the fulfilment of the promise. His countrymen have never been able to forgive Beethoven for this step, especially as it was found after his death that he had left about £1,200; but this, as we said before, he looked upon as his nephew's property, and would not appropriate any of it to his own use—therefore, what was he to do? Forsaken by the whole world in Vienna, was he to starve? The society rejoiced in the opportunity of showing the gratitude of England to him who has placed the whole human race under an eternal obligation, and immediately despatched £100 to Vienna, with the intimation that if this were not sufficient more would be forthcoming.

Alas! more was not required; a few days after the gift arrived the great musician breathed his last. We leave the description of the closing scene to Schindler:—

"When I went to him on the morning of the 24th of March, 1827, I found him with distorted face, and so weak that only by the greatest effort could he utter a few words. In a short time the physician entered, and, after looking at him in silence, whispered to me that Beethoven was advancing with rapid steps towards dissolution. As we had fortunately provided for the signing of the will some days previously, there remained to us but one ardent wish—that of proving to the world that he died as a true Christian. The physician, therefore, wrote a few lines, begging him in the name of all his friends to allow the holy sacrament to be administered to him, upon which he answered calmly and collectedly, 'I will.' The physician then left, that I might arrange for this; and Beethoven said to me, 'I beg you to write to Schott, and send him the document, he will require it; write to him in my name, I am too weak; and tell him that I beg him earnestly to send the wine he promised. If you have time to-day, write also to England.' The pastor came about twelve o'clock, and the holy office was performed with the greatest solemnity.

"Beethoven himself now began to believe in his approaching end; for hardly had the clergyman gone than he exclaimed, 'Plaudite amici, comedia finita est; have I not always said that it would come thus?' He then begged me again not to forget Schott, and to thank the Philharmonic Society once more for their gift, adding that the society had cheered his last days, and that even on the verge of the grave he thanked them and the whole English nation. At this moment the servant of Herr von Breuning entered with the little case of wine sent by Schott. I placed two bottles of Rudesheimer on the table by his side; he looked at them and said, 'What a pity!—too late!' These were his last words. In a few moments he fell into an agony so intense that he could no longer articulate. Towards evening he lost consciousness, and became delirious. This lasted till the evening of the 25th, when visible signs of death already showed themselves. Notwithstanding, he lingered till the evening of the 26th, when his spirit took flight, while without a violent storm of thunder and lightning seemed to reflect his death struggle in Nature herself—his best friend."

The last agonies of the master were soothed by but one friendly touch, that of Anselm HÜttenbrenner from Gratz, who had hurried into Vienna to press the loved hand once more. He was borne to his last resting-place by an immense concourse, exceeding twenty thousand; composers, poets, authors, artists, surrounded his coffin with lighted torches, while the choristers sang to one of his own melodies the words of Grillparzer:—

"Du, dem nie im Leben,
RuhestÄtt ward, und Heerd und Haus,
Ruhe nun im stillen
Grabe, nun im Tode aus,"—

Thou, who ne'er in life hadst resting-place, nor hearth, nor home—rest thee now in the quiet grave—in death. Amen.