From the start Beethoven planned a fine career for his nephew. "The boy must be an artist or a savant that he may lead a noble life," he said once. On another occasion, when the youth was about eighteen years of age, he said, on introducing him to a visitor, "you can ask him a riddle in Greek if you like." "My wishes and efforts have no other aim than that the boy may receive the best possible education," he wrote when contending in the Court of Appeals for possession of the boy, "as his capacity warrants the indulgence of the best hopes for his future, and that the expectation, which his father built upon my fraternal love may be fulfilled. The shoot is still flexible; but if more time be wasted it will grow crooked for want of the training hand of the gardener, and good conduct, intellect, and character, may be lost forever. I know no more sacred duty than the superintendence of the education of a child. The duty of guardianship can only consist in this—to appreciate what is good, and to take such measures as are conformable with the object in view."

The young man cared but little for this solicitude. In his uncle's home he had to study, listen to many a lecture perhaps, and do many a thing that he did not like to do. When with his mother it was different; spending-money was to be had while there and in general an easy time. No wonder that he preferred being with her. Later, when he entered the university he absented himself as much as possible from his uncle's house. Beethoven had centred his affections on the young man, and, when he remained indifferent, irresponsive, it caused him the keenest anguish. The master's letters to him from Baden are pathetic. "In what part of me am I not injured and torn?" "My continued solitude only still further enfeebles me, and really my weakness often amounts to a swoon. Oh! do not further grieve me, for the man with the scythe (Sensenman) will grant me no long delay." His journal entries on this account, are the utterances of a creature at bay; of a being in the last extremity. "O! hoere stets Unaussprechlicher, hoere mich deinen ungluecklichen ungluecklichsten aller Sterblichen."

It was not alone the necessity for study and other restraints, which led the young man to absent himself as much as possible from his uncle's house when he grew older and had more liberty of action. Comfortable living was not one of the factors in the Beethoven menage. Beethoven's requirements, so far as he himself was concerned, were simple almost to asceticism. He believed in discipline in the rearing of youth, but his belief in it did not extend to the point of inducing him to attempt it with his servants. The explanation of this is not far to seek. He would have had to conform to any rules made in the interest of discipline and system in the household, which would have been out of the question for him. He was wedded to an irregular mode of living and for the most part desired nothing but to be left alone. It is not surprising that the young man preferred his own quarters, to the haphazard mode of life, which characterized the master's household.

Character is never a finished product. Always it is in process of formation, of development, advancing or retrograding according to environment. Beethoven's influence, powerless during his lifetime on the mind of Karl may have been potent after death in the upbuilding of the young man's character. On arriving at years of discretion he changed his course entirely and became an exemplary citizen. As the last survivor of the Beethoven family he inherited the means of his two uncles, and settled down in Vienna living the life of a gentleman of leisure. He gave his attention to music to which he was passionately devoted, as well as to the rearing of his family, and was by all accounts a model family man. Like his illustrious uncle, he was in the habit of improvising at the piano for hours at a time.

To follow the fortunes of the posterity of great men is an interesting subject. From the researches of Dr. Vansca of Vienna, published in Die Musik (Berlin, March, 1902), it transpires that Karl married on July 16, 1832, a Miss Karoline Naska. Five children were born to them, as follows: Karoline, 1833; Marie, 1835; Ludwig, 1839 (named after his famous grand-uncle); Gabrielle, 1844, and Hermine, 1852. Ludwig, the only son, his military service over, married in 1865 Marie Nitche. To them a son was born on May 8, 1870, at Munich, and baptized Karl. Father and son, that is Ludwig and Karl 2d, were last heard from in 1889 in London, when the father applied for a passport to travel in various European countries. Ludwig's mother died in Vienna in 1891, at which time it was announced that the whereabouts of Ludwig and the son Karl were unknown. Efforts were then made to get news of the young Karl, who, if living, would have been a youth of twenty, but without avail, and the family are of the opinion that he died during his childhood. As far as can be ascertained at this writing the family of Beethoven on the male side is extinct.

Of the daughters of the master's nephew, Karoline and Marie married brothers, namely: Franz and Paul Weidinger. Gabrielle married a bank cashier named Robert Heimler. The youngest, Hermine, remained single. She graduated in 1889 from the conservatory at Vienna in piano and harmonium. Of the married daughters, only one, Marie, had children; a son and daughter. The only descendants of the Beethovens known to be living in 1891, are Karoline Weidinger, a widow, Gabrielle Heimler, and the son and daughter of Marie Weidinger. All these persons were at last accounts living in Vienna.



CHAPTER XI

METHODS OF COMPOSITION

A good painter should paint two things; man, and the thoughts of man's soul. —LEONARDO DA VINCI.

Beethoven usually had a definite idea before him when composing. The work progressed rapidly under such conditions. Often, however, on further consideration, a better idea would present itself in certain places on reading the work over, and these portions would have to be rewritten. He stated in this connection that he always had a picture in his mind when composing, which he aimed to reproduce in his work. "Ich habe immer ein Gemaelde in meinen Gedanken wenn ich am componiren bin, und arbeite nach demselben" (Thayer). Sometimes this picture was shadowy and elusive, as his gropings in the sketch-books show. He would then apply himself to the task of fixing the idea, writing and rewriting, until it stood out clearly in accordance with the concept already formed in his mind.

This picture, or idea, or representation, which exists in the brain of the artist, and to which he seeks to give expression in a tangible form so as to communicate it to others, is a miracle which is constantly going on in his inner consciousness. He can at will call up impressions, which immediately become objectified on the canvas of his mind, in the form of pictures. This mental process is the same in every form of creative work whether it be painting, sculpture, or any of the arts. The architect, before putting pencil to paper, will have the splendid cathedral before him as in a vision; the sculptor, the ideal form and facial expression. The mind of the artist is a vast canvas on which pictures appear, remaining a longer or shorter period at his will, and, when no longer required, giving place to others. The idea once recorded seems never to appear again. Nature is never so prodigal as with the man of genius. Of all her children he is the favorite; these pictures are given him in superfluity, out of all proportion to his ability to use them. The harder he works in the effort to catch up with his material, the more plentiful it becomes.

Mr. Chamberlain, in his Life of Wagner, calls attention to the curious fact that Wagner produced his operas in pairs for the most part, up to his fortieth year. This was true of Beethoven with his symphonies, to a great extent. He became so fired with enthusiasm while on a great work, his thoughts became so prolific, that another work must, perforce, come into being to utilize the surplus material.

This prodigality with which the artist is supplied, explains his absorption in his work. Once fairly started on a great work, this type of man carries it through with the force of a torrent. Nothing but physical exhaustion can stop him. Wagner, after completing a great work, usually had to drop all composing or writing for some months in order to recuperate. No slave-driver with a lash ever drove his victim so mercilessly as Wagner did himself when in the stress of composition. Being married he had some one to look after him, and this had an important bearing on the preservation of his health. Beethoven, with the strenuousness that came from his Rhenish ancestry, was more intractable, impatient of interference. His domestics were often afraid to go near him when engaged in composition. Usually when in deep thought he was oblivious of the outer world. He once agreed to sit for an artist, and maintained his pose for five minutes; then he forgot all about it and went to the piano, where he began improvising. This just suited the artist, who got a good position and worked along until he was tired, finally leaving the room without the master's knowledge.

The Swedish poet, Atterbohm, and Dr. Jeitteles, distinguished literary men of the period, called at Beethoven's house one hot afternoon. Their knocking met with no response, although they knew the master was in, as they heard him singing and occasionally striking a chord on the piano. Finding the door unlocked, they entered and went in search of him, finally discovering him in an inner room. He was in extreme dishabille, busily noting down his thoughts on the plastered wall. He had probably intended changing his clothes, and, while disrobing, these thoughts came crowding in on him to the exclusion of everything else. Beethoven, facing the wall with his back to the visitors, was unaware of their proximity, and they left without being discovered by him, as they did not wish to interfere with his work. This was probably in the year 1826, as Beethoven remained in Vienna all that summer, actively engaged on the great C sharp minor quartet. It may have been a part of this work which was thus produced.

Friederich Stark relates an incident that illustrates his abstraction. He called on Beethoven early one morning, and, being a friend, was given the privilege of looking him up. He went from room to room, and finally found him in his bedroom. He was just beginning to dress, his face thickly lathered with soap that had been put on the previous evening and had dried there; he had prepared to shave, but in the process had forgotten to go on with it.

His sketch-books are interesting as showing his frame of mind and temperament, while at work. In his abstraction he occasionally scribbled beautiful thoughts on the margin of his manuscripts. Thus, in the sketch-books of the Pastoral Symphony, we find this record of his joy in nature, showing how thoroughly his mind was imbued with his subject.

"Almaechtiger, im Walde ich bin selig, gluecklig im Wald. Jeder Baum spricht durch dich!"

"O Gott! Welche Herrlichkeit in einer solchen Waldgegend."

In summer he usually resorted to one of the beautiful villages in the environs of Vienna, since absorbed by the city. Thus he repaired to Heiligenstadt to write his first mass. "Oh, the charm of the woods, who can express it!" he writes, and in many of his letters from the country, he expresses his joy at being there. "No man on earth can love the country as I do. Thickets, trees and rocks supply the echo man longs for." His best ideas came to him while walking through the fields and woods. At such times his mind became serene and he would attain that degree of abstraction from the world which enabled him to develop his musical ideas. He always carried note-books and would jot down a thought as it came to him. When he got home he would elaborate it and work it into shape. He would walk for hours in all sorts of weather. Like Thoreau, he generally preferred to be alone in his walks, the presence of a companion preventing him from working out his thoughts.

Very properly, he occupied himself but little with the music of other composers. To a man of his individuality, inspiration from the outer world was not to be had or desired. His own inner wealth was sufficient. Curiously, he set a high value on Cherubini during the period of writing Fidelio and the Third Symphony. His own creations however, were of paramount interest to him. He was a slow worker, continually polishing and improving his work up to the moment that it reached the engraver's hands.

"The Andante" said Wagner "is the typical German style." It was not Beethoven's best style. Essentially a man of extremes, he delighted in swinging the pendulum to its furthest limit either way. He early in life acquired the irrepressible joyousness in his compositions, which was Haydn's distinguishing trait. It is the key-note to much of Beethoven's work up to the time of composing the Grand Mass. It figures to some extent in his subsequent work. It is a feature which Wagner never tires of exploiting in Beethoven's work. Whenever he mentions Beethoven's name the word Heiterkeit (joyousness) is sure to follow. The two are almost synonymous with him. Where Beethoven is unapproachable, however, is in his slow movements, the Adagios, solemn and portentous, in which all of world-sorrow finds expression. It is in these scenes of terror that his powers stand out with supernatural clearness.

His infinitude impresses one. It is as if he had penetrated other spheres and could speak in new tongues. He delighted in startling contrasts. The Kyrie of the Mass in D has always presented itself to my consciousness as a series of gigantic tone-pictures, in which the omnipotence of God, and the impotence of humanity is brought into juxtaposition. The Coriolanus overture is another instance among the many at hand illustrating this point. Here we see how the forceful, aggressive, bold, masterful genius, is subdued by the power of conjugal and filial love, a power in this case as irresistible as that of a glacier, which will make its way against any odds. Each side in striving for the mastery, displays its own peculiar characteristics and mode. It is the everlasting struggle between the evil principle and that which is good. He ranges titanic forces in opposition and lets us see the battle. By the magic of his art we are enabled to see these pictures as on a canvas.

It is frequently stated that Beethoven's music shows a deficiency in counterpoint. His originality, the wealth of his ideas, his versatility, will explain this. The fugue, while it is ingenious and interesting, is artificial and, indeed often arbitrary in musical composition, sometimes introduced merely to stop gaps or for brilliancy of effect. It is not surprising that Beethoven should have neglected it to some extent, although he has used it with excellent effect in some of the sonatas and in his two masses. His fertility of imagination was great and it was hard for him to tie himself down to the formal style in composition, after his powers had reached maturity. The fugue, in one form or another, seems to be almost indispensable in musical composition, but it is always characterized by learning instead of inspiration. It is something which has to be worked out like a problem in mathematics. Beethoven's thought in music is marked by something higher than the disposition to divert one's attention to his talent or skill. A definite meaning is there; he has something to reveal.

At the beginning of his career as composer, Beethoven was not above taking advice on the subject of his compositions. He frequently discussed them with Prince Lichnowsky, and adopted his suggestions when it came to alterations. As he advanced in knowledge of his art, however, he became reticent on the subject and would discuss them with no one. He acted on Goethe's idea that "the greatest art after all is to limit and isolate oneself." He did not like praise or applause. Knowing intuitively that the character is endangered thereby, he sought by every means to ward it off. His improvising was such that often on leaving the instrument he would find his hearers in tears. This would embarrass him, and he would affect anger, or would laugh at them. This does not imply that he did not care for appreciation, which is quite a different matter.

He was perfectly willing to listen to censure or adverse criticism. Trifles might anger him, but this never did, and, be it said, it never influenced him either. True artist that he was, he seldom wrote down to his public. Like Wagner, he knew what was best in art, and if the public did not, he gave the matter small concern. Not for one generation are great masterpieces born. The artist lives in the future; he is always in advance of his time.

Beethoven's character was a prism of many facets. Wagner views him always as the mystic, the seer, at odds with the world. Side by side with this characterization he constantly dwells, as just noted, on Beethoven's uncontrollable tendency to humor, gayety (Heiterkeit) which shows itself not only in his life, but still more in his works. This may have been a device deliberately assumed to enable him to escape mental suffering. At all events it was a prominent trait of his character, but does not seem to have added to his enjoyment of life. No circumstance, however painful, but that he is able to extract some jest or pleasantry from it. The paradox is before us of a man world-weary at the core, outwardly serene, gay. In the same ratio in which those things which serve to make life enjoyable to the average man were diminished or withdrawn, does his tendency to incessant humor increase.

The consciousness of being able to achieve great things, and the joy in accomplishing them, is what gives the artist the exultant mood, the feeling of gayety. To be sensible of such an heritage, to participate in this God-given wealth, to run riot in it, to know that the more of it that is used the more will be given, to be favored of the gods in a way that the possessor of untold wealth cannot aspire to—this is what gives the serene and joyous mood, which characterizes the man of genius for the most part. When he comes out of this ideal world into the commonplace every-day life, and realizes his unfitness for it, the other side of the picture is presented to his consciousness, and then is exhibited that strange melancholy, Weltschmerz, which constantly comes to the fore in the journals and letters of men like Wagner, or Beethoven, or Liszt.

The Sunday morning concerts, instituted by Czerny in the winter of 1816, call for more than passing notice. A select company of professional musicians and amateurs had banded themselves into an organization for the purpose of performing and studying the best class of chamber-music with special reference to Beethoven's compositions. Czerny was the originator and moving spirit, as stated, and the performances were held at his house. Beethoven attended them frequently. Czerny, whose admiration for the master was unbounded, was brought into more intimate relations with him through these concerts, as Beethoven was consulted in regard to the programmes and occasionally rehearsed some of his new compositions with him. Though a brilliant performer, Czerny did not like public life or society, and retired from the concert stage at a time when his powers were at their best, in order to give all his time to composition. His ability in improvising was a marvel even for those times. He was Beethoven's successor in Prince Lichnowsky's circle, frequently playing at concerts at his house. He is credited with being able to play from memory all of Beethoven's works. Like Schubert, his one pleasure was to be with a few chosen spirits, and talk on the subject of his art.

In these assemblages rank was ignored. Art was a leveller, or, rather, the devotees of the art were raised to a common plane, where social distinctions were for the time being obliterated. No special invitations were required. Any one interested in the art was made welcome, and found there a congenial atmosphere. Czerny, modest and retiring, had no thought of making social capital out of these concerts. No one not wholly devoted to the art was wanted, no matter what his social position was, and want of social position was no bar when the artistic qualifications were present. It was a band of chosen spirits, and the attrition engendered by these meetings must have been advantageous to each. They were true Concerts Spirituels, an audience of artists from which the performers were drawn.

Second only to Czerny as a pianist among this company was Beethoven's friend and pupil, the Baroness Ertmann, who frequently took part in these concerts. Madame Ertmann's virtuosity has already been commented on in these pages. She won new laurels at the Czerny concerts through her admirable interpretation of Beethoven's music.

During this winter of 1816 the master composed the fine sonata in A, opus 101, for her. It commemorates the spiritual kinship existing between these two gifted persons. "My dear, valued Dorothea Caecilia," he writes in his letter of dedication, "receive now what has long been intended for you, and may it serve as a proof of my appreciation of your artistic talents and of yourself; I regret not having heard you recently at Cz—(Czerny's). My absence was owing to illness, which at last appears to be giving way to returning health." Some years previously, when the Baroness had lost a son by death during her husband's absence on his military duties, Beethoven asked the stricken woman to call, and comforted her, not with words, but in the language which both best understood. "'We will talk in music,' said Beethoven, who remained at the piano over an hour in which he said everything and even gave me consolation." The incident is obtained from one of Mendelssohn's letters.

Among the important works produced in this period may be mentioned the Sonata, opus 90, "A struggle between the head and the heart." It is dedicated to Count M. Lichnowsky on the occasion of his marriage to a singer. There was also the chorus set to Goethe's words, "A Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage." This was written in 1815 and seven years later dedicated to Goethe. The two sonatas, opus 102, for piano and cello, one of which is called the Free Sonata, are interesting, as in them is foreshadowed the trend of Beethoven's mind toward religious music, which controlled him almost entirely from this time on.

The idea of writing another oratorio seems now to have taken possession of his mind. A preference for this mode appears in his journals and letters and was probably the subject of conversation on his part. At all events, the newly established Society of Friends of Music of Vienna (which Beethoven, with his usual aptitude for punning, used to refer to as the society of Musikfeinde, enemies of music) made him a proposition to write an oratorio for them, which he accepted. No stipulations were made as to subject or treatment, and the society agreed to pay the handsome sum of three hundred gold ducats, merely for the use of the work for one year. So far as known, this work was never begun. The Archduke soon after obtained his appointment as Cardinal-Archbishop, and the work on the mass for the Installation occupied Beethoven to the exclusion of other works.

The loss by death of three of Beethoven's old friends must have been greatly felt by him in these years. Prince Lichnowsky, who died in 1814, was the first, and was followed two years later by Prince Lobkowitz. Hardest of all, however, for the master was the loss of his friend, Wenzel Krumpholz, who died in 1817. His relations with the latter were more intimate than with the noblemen, and had continued without a break almost from the time of his advent in Vienna. Czerny, in his autobiography, gives an interesting picture of the devotion of Krumpholz, who attached himself to Beethoven much the same as did Boswell to Dr. Johnson. He was somewhat older than Beethoven, and his position as first violinist at the Court Theatre enabled him to be of much practical service to Beethoven, as he was widely known among the professional musicians, as well as the rich amateurs. He sounded Beethoven's praises far and wide: he encouraged him to begin composition, making propaganda for him among the wealthy dilettante, and spent a good portion of each day in his company. Beethoven, who at a later period said of himself that he was too strong for friendship, did not take kindly to this intimacy at first, but Krumpholz's persistency was not to be gainsaid. He gave him lessons on the violin, and identified himself in many ways with Beethoven's advancement. Beethoven finally became so accustomed to him, that the presence of the other did not disturb him, and he would improvise before him as if he were alone. Krumpholz though devoid of genius himself, intuitively recognized its presence in Beethoven, and led the younger man to discuss his musical plans and ideas with him. The compositions as they took form in the young man's mind, were played to Krumpholz, who advised and encouraged him. The extravagant admiration of the latter sometimes acted on Beethoven's sense of humor to such an extent that he would make fun of him, and call him his fool, but this did not deter Krumpholz, who seemed to think he had a divinely appointed task set him, in aiding the development of this young genius, and was willing to put up with some vagaries from him.

In truth, Beethoven needed a champion, for, from the first, a certain originality, a strenuousness, showed itself in his work, which put the art on a new and different footing. That the young man was reaching out for higher things his public may have been aware of, but only a few, here and there, kindred spirits, cared for this. The average person was unable to recognize any higher function in music than that of simple enjoyment; anything aside from this was irrelevant, and could but lead to deterioration. Although at the beginning of his career as composer, he made Mozart and Haydn his models, this originality showed itself, and when it was continued in subsequent works, it awoke the strongest opposition in certain quarters. The strong partisanship which Krumpholz brought to bear on the situation, was invaluable to the young man, whose views needed confirmation and indorsement. Krumpholz seems to have had an affinity for discovering talent in others. He brought Czerny, at the age of ten years, to Beethoven, who immediately recognized his genius, and offered to give him lessons. That Beethoven deeply felt the loss of his old friend and teacher is evidenced by his writing music to the Song of the monks,

Rasch tritt der Tod den Menschen an,

from Schiller's Wilhelm Tell, in commemoration of him.



CHAPTER XII

SENSE OF HUMOR

In tristitia hilaris, in hilaritate tristis. —MOTTO OF GIORDANO BRUNO.

Beethoven did not have much in the way of enjoyment, as the word is generally understood, to compensate him for the pain of existence. The resources vouchsafed others in this respect, family affection, love, friendship, generally failed him when put to the test. Out of harmony with the general order of things in the material world, the point in which he could best come to an understanding with his fellow-creatures was by the exercise of his sense of humor. The circumstances of his life tended to make a pessimist of him. He did not understand the world and was misunderstood in return. To counteract the tendency toward pessimism, his resource was to develop his sense of humor, to create an atmosphere of gayety, by which he was enabled to meet people on a common plane. But not only in the ordinary affairs of life does it stand him in good stead, this sense of humor. It comes out finely in his creative work in the sonatas and the Scherzo movements of his symphonies. He originated, invented the Scherzo, developing it from the simple minuet of the earlier composers. The primary object of the Scherzo was recreation pure and simple. It was introduced with the object of resting the mind.

The evolution of humor in music is an interesting subject of study. It is something foreign to it, an exotic, of slow growth, gaining but little in the hands of the earlier composers from Bach on. Even with Haydn it never advanced much beyond geniality. They had essayed it chiefly in the minuet, but succeeded only in producing something stately, in which the element of fun or humor, to modern ways of thinking is hardly appreciable. It found a sudden and wonderful expansion, an efflorescence in Beethoven, with whom every phase of the art was developed to colossal proportions. He has made of the Scherzo a movement of such importance that it lends a distinctive character to his symphonies. In this form he is unapproachable. In the whole range of music there is nothing like it elsewhere. It is peculiar to Beethoven, and is another example of the many-sidedness of the great composer. "Happiness is a new idea in Europe," said St. Just, speaking of the period immediately following the French Revolution. Whether or not Beethoven ever met with this remark, its significance at least was taken to heart. The word Scherz—joke, sport, is sufficiently obvious. He goes much farther at times than simply to play pranks, however. A wide range of expression is possible in the Scherzo when manipulated by a master-mind like that of Beethoven. The satirical, sarcastic humor which escaped him in social intercourse at times, is vented on a colossal scale in the Scherzo, in which he often makes sport of humanity itself, making it the subject of his jest, his ridicule—its foibles being shown up, its follies exposed. When projected in this mood, the movement calls for intellectual co-operation, and is of equal importance with the others.

Humor has been defined as the outcome of simplicity and philosophy in the character. It can exist independently of genius we know, but genius is never without humor. In other words, wherever there is a work of genius, it transpires that the author has a fund of humor with which he occasionally enriches his work. The profoundest philosophical treatises have it. It is a part of the stock in trade of every great novelist; Fielding, Thackeray, George Eliot, Walter Scott. It frequently comes to the surface in Schopenhauer pessimist though he be; it pervades Shakespeare. Few men regarded life with greater seriousness than Thoreau, but humor sparkles all over his works. It is only where this is in excess that it detracts from the value of the work. Not important in itself when separated from the deeper work which it accompanies, it is yet, all in all, one of the infallible tests, though a minor one, of the work of any man of genius. A sense of humor exists in the man even though he keep it out of his work, if he is good for anything.

Beethoven's humor was titanic, heroic, on a grand scale, always with what might be called a certain seriousness about it like that of a lion at play. Mozart gives many instances of humor in his compositions, but with a great difference in the character. His disposition was all gentleness and sweetness, and his humor is characterized by these attributes. It is on a small scale, and though enjoyable, has nothing commanding about it. The musician, more than any artist, reflects his character and trend of life in his work.

This sense of humor, inherent in the mental equipment of Beethoven, enabled him to enjoy a joke as well as give it, to perceive a ridiculous situation and extract due amusement from it, to appropriate it wherever he found it. But singularly enough, when the point of a joke was turned against himself, his sense of humor failed him utterly. He would often become angry in such cases and the perpetrator would come in for a round of abuse which made him chary of attempting it again.

Very bad music of which there was a sufficiency already in those times, gave him great amusement, which he manifested by roars of laughter, we are informed by Seyfried, who saw more or less of him during a period covering a quarter of a century. "All his friends," says Seyfried, "recognized that in the art of laughter, Beethoven was a virtuoso of the first rank." He often laughed aloud when nothing had occurred to excite laughter, and would in such case ascribe his own thoughts and fancies as the cause. Naive and simple as a child himself, he could only see the naivete in the worthless compositions above referred to, and could not understand the small ambition back of the pitiful effort. He often unintentionally afforded equally great amusement to others by his own naivete. Thus he once told Stein, of the noted family of pianoforte makers that some of the strings in his Broadwood were out of order or lacking, and to illustrate it, caught up a bootjack and struck the keys with it. Ries states that Beethoven several times in his awkwardness emptied the contents of the ink-stand into the piano. On this same piano the master was often begged to improvise. The instrument was a present from the manufacturers, and when made, was probably the best example of its kind extant. It later came into the possession of Liszt.

Beethoven's love of a joke was such that it appears in the title to one of his works, the opus 129. It is a rondo a capriccio for piano, with the title, Die Wuth ueber den verlorenen Groschen (fury over a lost penny), of which Schumann says "it would be difficult to find anything merrier than this whim. It is the most harmless amiable anger."

Beethoven was ready in repartee, and full of resources, with a wit that was spontaneous and equal to any emergency. One New-year's day, as he and Schindler were sitting down to dinner, a card was brought in

JOHANN VAN BEETHOVEN Gutsbesitzer (Landed proprietor).

Beethoven took the card and wrote on the back of it—

L. VAN BEETHOVEN Hirnbesitzer (Brain proprietor).

and sent it back to Johann. Cold-blooded, selfish, always ready to profit by his talented brother, and never caring how he compromised him, it was not to be expected that Johann would have the master's approval, or that there could be any accord between them. In any encounter, the composer generally managed to be master of the situation, through the exercise of his wit, something which the duller Johann could neither appreciate nor imitate. It may be said in passing, that the master supplied the funds which enabled Johann to start in business. This was in 1809. He made money rapidly in army contracts, a business for which he was well qualified, and finally bought an estate and set up for a landed proprietor.

Beethoven's waggishness was frequently vented on a young friend, Zmeskall, who was court secretary. Zmeskall undertook the task of keeping the master supplied with pens, which he cut from goose-quills. Beethoven used up large quantities of them and was incessant in his demands on him. A certain drollery characterizes all his letters to him. He knew how to hit the vulnerable points in the other, and they were often made the subject of attack. Zmeskall being a member of the nobility, is often addressed by him, "Most high-born of men." He was useful to Beethoven not alone on the subject of pens, but was appealed to by him for advice and assistance on all sorts of matters. Zmeskall, though a bachelor, lived in fine state, and maintained several servants. He was thus in a position to procure the right sort of one for Beethoven. Many of the letters are either on this theme or in regard to securing him another lodging. Zmeskall is his resource in many of the small matters of every-day life, perplexing to him, but simple enough to the practical man. The master's helplessness is shown with pathos and unconscious humor in the following note:

LIEBER ZMESKALL,—

Schicken sie mir doch ihrem spiegel, der naechts ihrem fenster haengt auf ein paar stunden der meinige ist gebrochen, haben sie zugleich die Guete haben wolten mir noch heute einen solchen zu kaufen so erzeigten sie mir einen grossen Gefallen. Ihre Auslage sollen sie sogleich zuruek erhalten. Verzeien sie lieber Z meiner zudringlichkeit. Ich hoffe sie bald zu sehen.

Ihr, BTHVN.

DEAR ZMESKALL,—

Won't you kindly send me the mirror that hangs next to your window for a few hours. Mine is broken. If you will at the same time have the goodness to buy me such another you will do me a great favor. Your outlay will be immediately returned to you.

Pardon dear Z my importunity. I hope soon to see you.

Your, BTHVN.

Beethoven's lapses from grammar (untranslatable into English), indicate his impatience at the trivial wants and necessities which interrupt his creative work and take his thoughts from his compositions. Instances of bad grammar in his letters are frequent, when dealing with ordinary topics. In no sense a polished man, he could, however, when the occasion required it, assume in his grammar and diction the grace and elegance of the scholar, but it does not often come to the front. He was too rugged, too headstrong, to pay much attention to the little niceties of life.

In common with his contemporaries, Zmeskall found his principal enjoyment in music. He gave musical parties at his quarters, playing the cello himself, and gathered about him many of the most distinguished artists and amateurs of the day. Beethoven was always interested in feats of virtuosity, but he cared little for the compositions of others. He occupied himself with his own work to the exclusion of that of his contemporaries. His musical library was scant, consisting of a small collection of the works of the early Italian masters, bound in one volume, some of Mozart's sonatas—which must have seemed to him curiously stunted and commonplace in comparison with his own—and a portion of Don Giovanni. In addition, he possessed all of Clementi's sonatas, which he greatly admired and which formed the basis of the musical studies of his nephew for several years. Lastly there were a few works of Bach, consisting of the Well-tempered Clavichord, some motets, three volumes of exercises, some inventions, symphonies and a toccato.

In speaking of Weber he said that he began to learn too late, and makes the curious criticism that Weber's only apparent effort was to attain the reputation of geniality. In reading Freischutz, he said he could hardly help smiling at certain parts, but afterward qualified this by saying that he could judge it better if he could hear it. Schindler says, that when Rossini came to Vienna in 1822, and endeavored to call on Beethoven, the master succeeded in escaping his visits. His opinion of Haendel is high. He once remarked to a friend who called on him, "Haendel is the greatest composer that ever lived." Continuing the narrative this friend, J.A. Stumpf of London, says, "I cannot describe the pathos and sublimity with which he spoke of the Messiah of that immortal genius. We all felt moved when he said, 'Ich wuerde mein Haupt entbloessen und auf seinem Grabe niederknieen.' (I would kneel at his grave with uncovered head.)"

Of Mozart, he said, near the end of his life, in a letter to the Abbe Stadler, "All my life I have been esteemed one of the greatest admirers of Mozart's genius and will remain so until my latest breath." Czerny said that he was at times inexhaustible in praise of Mozart, although he cared nothing for his piano works and he makes a severe criticism on Don Giovanni. "In this opera Mozart still retained the complete Italian cut and style. Moreover, the sacred art should never be degraded to the foolery of so scandalous a subject. The Zauberfloete will ever remain his greatest work, for in this he showed himself the true German composer." Of Cherubini's Requiem he said, "as regards his conception of it, my ideas are in perfect accord with his and sometime I mean to compose a Requiem in that style." (Later in life his opinion of Cherubini was greatly modified). He seldom spoke of Haydn, and had nothing of that master's compositions in his library.

Beethoven's collections in literature were far more extensive and interesting than in music. He was essentially a student. His predilections and thoughts all tended toward the acquisition of knowledge. This was a veritable passion with him. His mind ranged through almost every department of literature. In the intervals of his work, worn by fatigue, he was in the habit of resting his mind by reading the classics, or Persian literature. Schindler, who was near him for the last ten years of his life says in relation to Beethoven's love of the Greek classics. "He could recite long passages from them. If any one asked him where this or that quotation was to be found he could find it as readily as a motive from his own works." Elsewhere he says, "Plato's Republic was transfused into his very flesh and blood." He was an insatiable reader of history. As may be supposed Shakespeare was an especial favorite with him. There is a curious little work published called Beethoven's Brevier, made up of those portions of Shakespeare and the classics for which he had a particular regard. Here, Shakespeare is first on the list. There are also many selections from the Greek, and from Schiller, Goethe, Herder and others.

Although a man of considerable culture, he was not an educated man, all his available time and strength having been required for his musical training. He was, however, the equal or superior in mental attainments of any of the great musicians, with the exception of Wagner. He had the strongest faith in his own powers. It was his belief that almost anything could be accomplished by trying. Side by side with this belief was the ineradicable conviction that intellectual culture was of more importance than anything else in the universe. He stated his views finely on this subject in a letter to a young girl, unknown to him, who had sent him a present with a letter expressing her appreciation of his music. "Do more than simply practice the art (of music), penetrate rather, into the heart and soul of it. It will be found well worth while, for art and knowledge alone have the power to elevate mankind up to Deity itself. Should you want anything of me at any time, write me with entire confidence. The true artist is never arrogant; rather he sees with regret how illimitable all art is, and how far from the goal he remains. While he may be admired, he only grieves that he cannot reach the point toward which his better genius beckons him."

We read of his ordering complete sets of Schiller and Goethe in the summer of 1809. The study of these authors carried on under most unfavorable conditions, bore good fruit subsequently, as some good work was inspired by them. The Egmont music, which appeared the following year, the Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage, Bundeslied, the different settings of Erlkoenig, the four settings of Sehnsucht are instances, although this does not by any means complete the list of his settings from the works of the authors just named.



CHAPTER XIII

MISSA SOLEMNIS

Christianity is the doctrine of the deep guilt of the human race through its existence alone, and the longing of the heart for deliverance from it. —SCHOPENHAUER.

To Christianity and the spirit of religion in man we are indebted for some of the finest arts which adorn our civilization. It was the religious principle which brought into being the temples and statuary of ancient Greece, as well as the splendid examples of Gothic architecture, which have come down to us from the middle ages. It is this which has given us those masterpieces in painting and sculpture, which have so enriched the world; but above all it has given us music, highest of all the arts. Here its influence has been most potent. Originating outside the church, it found its best development within it. Religious fervor had inspired some imperishable works of genius at a period when nothing much had yet been done in secular music. The Masses of Palestrina, the entire life-work of Sebastian Bach, the oratorios of Haendel, are cases in point. The old masters with hardly an exception gave their best thought to sacred music. Bach has been mentioned. Haydn's important work comes under this classification. Of the works of Haendel, only those of a religious nature have survived to the present day, although he composed many operas.

The Masses and Passion-music of the old composers were often written without hope of reward, entirely from love of the subject; they were impelled to it, either through religious ardor, or from the force of their artistic perceptions. The stateliness and solemnity of the Mass, the tragic possibilities of the Passion, appealed to them, and satisfied the tendency toward mysticism, which is so often a part of the artistic nature.

As an art, music finds its best development when of a religious character. While operatic and even orchestral music in general, is written more for the sake of giving pleasure than with any clearly defined ethical purpose, the music of the Mass and Passion, religious ceremonies, entering into man's profoundest experiences, is given for spiritual enlightenment, and, being a part of the soul's needs, demands and receives higher treatment and more serious consideration than secular music. The very frame of mind which takes possession of a person while listening to music of a religious character, is favorable to a true appreciation of it. The listener is more in earnest, and the emotions called up by the subject impress him more strongly than when listening to secular music. These considerations have their influence on the composer also. We usually find in religious music of the best class, depth and earnestness of purpose commensurate with the expectation of the listener.

These few words are preliminary to a consideration of the Mass in D, the work in which Beethoven reached his culmination as an artist. He himself so regarded it, declaring it to be his greatest and best work. It is certain that he spent more time on it, and gave it a larger share of his attention than was devoted to any other of his works.

For several years prior to this, Beethoven's muse had been silent for the most part. No important work since the completion of the Eighth Symphony had been achieved, with the exception of the sonatas mentioned in a previous chapter. This was owing to the various lawsuits in which he found himself involved. His troubles had now been adjusted, however, to such an extent as to enable him to again turn his attention to large works. The pension which had been settled on him in 1809 had been imperilled by the death of Prince Kinsky and the bankruptcy of Prince Lobkowitz. The portion of it which had been pledged to him by these gentlemen had been discontinued or greatly reduced, and Beethoven had to have recourse to the law to protect his rights. A compromise was finally effected, which resulted in the pension being paid in part. Although the litigation, in regard to his nephew was still on, it was becoming more and more apparent that the outcome of it would be in his favor. His mind at rest on these points, we find him once more in good health and spirits, with creative energy not only unimpaired but greater than ever. "In general, every evil to which we do not succumb is a benefactor," said Emerson.

The announcement of the Archduke's appointment as Archbishop of Olmuetz, had been definitely made during the summer of 1818. It was well known for years previously that he would receive this appointment, and it is quite likely that Beethoven had always intended writing a mass to commemorate it. Considering the close relations existing between master and pupil for so many years, and Beethoven's obligations to Rudolph in money matters, he could hardly have let so momentous an event go by, without writing a mass for it. A mass was probably always intended, but not such a one as eventually grew out of his original idea, which, expanding, augmenting in force and grandeur as the significance of the work took possession of his mind, finally became an apotheosis of friendship, a message to the world.

That the Archduke appreciated Beethoven and valued his friendship is plain. He carefully preserved the letters written him by the master and dedicated to him some of his own compositions. He had as complete a library of Beethoven's works as was attainable, and was thoroughly familiar with the master's music. That Beethoven responded to this to an equal degree is not likely. He lived too abstracted a life for that. He valued this friendship as much as such a man could, considering the disparity in rank and the difference in mode of thought of the two men. In dedicating so many of his compositions to him, and in consenting to teach him for so long a period, he showed the esteem in which he held him. Probably no other person, man or woman received the deference and consideration from Beethoven, which he accorded the Archduke. The republican, socialistic Beethoven was not specially influenced by his rank; rather, it was his personality and devotion to music, which won the regard of the master and formed the bond between them.

In the composition of the mass, Beethoven was on familiar ground; the work was congenial to him. The emotions called up by the subject swayed him to such an extent that he had difficulty in keeping it within bounds. The mass was a form of music with which he had been associated from childhood. It will be remembered that he played the organ at the age of twelve years at church services, a practice which was kept up for some years. His earliest impressions on the subject of music were in this style. He was, in addition, inclined to it by temperament.

The beautiful text appealed to him strongly. It is related that when the German version of his first Mass (in C) was brought him, he quickly opened the manuscript and ran over a few pages. When he came to the Qui tollis, the tears trickled from his eyes and he was obliged to desist, saying with the deepest emotion, "Yes, that was precisely my feeling when I composed it."

His journal entries at the time of beginning work on the Mass in D show how completely the subject had taken possession of him. "To compose true religious music, consult the old chorals in use in monasteries," he wrote, which gives the clew to his frequent lapses into the ancient ecclesiastical modes, the Lydian and Dorian, in this mass, a practice for which Bach furnished a precedent. "Drop operas and everything else, write only in your own style," is another entry of this time, showing his predilection for church music.

The summer of 1818 was spent at Moedling. He was in the best of health and spirits as stated, and began the work with great energy and enthusiasm. His whole nature seemed to change, Schindler states, when he began the great work. His interest and absorption in it was extraordinary, as is shown by the sketch-books from the beginning. Enthusiasm carried him on to the consummation of a greater work than any he had yet accomplished. Hitherto, every achievement was merely a resting-place up the mountainside, the prospect acting as a spur to him to go yet higher, well knowing what Emerson finely stated, and was putting into practice at this very time, that new gifts will be supplied in proportion as we make use of those we have. Dem Muthigen hilft Gott! said Schiller. Beethoven seemed to have some prevision that only a few more years would be allotted him for work; when he began on the mass his inspiration was like a river that had broken its bounds. Every nerve and fibre of his being called him to his work. He was like a war-horse that scents the battle. He now abandoned himself more than ever to the impulse for creating. For the next few years he lived the abstracted life of the enthusiast to whom every-day concerns are but incidental and unimportant things, and his art the one great matter. The gigantic tone-pictures which were constantly forming themselves in his inner consciousness were of so much greater importance than the events of his external life, that the latter were dwarfed by comparison and lost their significance. He now made a greater surrender of the ties connecting him with every-day life than ever before. His industry was phenomenal, but it soon became apparent that the work would not be ready for the Installation, the date of which was set for March 20, 1820. It was in reality not completed until nearly two years after this event.

We have a good description of the master at this time by the artist Klober, who had been commissioned by a wealthy relative who was forming a gallery of famous Vienna artists, to paint a portrait of Beethoven.

"Beethoven had a very earnest look; his vivacious eyes were for the most part turned upwards, with a thoughtful and rather a gloomy expression, which I have tried to represent. His lips were closed, but the mouth was not an unkindly one. He was ready enough to expatiate on the arrogant vanity and depraved taste of the Viennese aristocracy, by whom he feels himself neglected, or at least underrated."

* * * * *

"Beethoven sat to me for nearly an hour every morning. When he saw my picture, he observed that the style of hair pleased him very much; other painters had always dressed it up as if he were going to court, not at all as he generally wore it."

* * * * *

"His house at Moedling was extremely simple; so, indeed, was his whole manner of life. His dress consisted of a light-blue coat with yellow buttons, white waistcoat and neckcloth, such as were then worn, but everything about him was very negligee. His complexion was florid, the skin rather pock-marked, his hair the color of blue steel, for the black was already changing to grey. His eyes were a bluish-grey and exceedingly vivacious. When his hair streamed in the breeze there was a sort of Ossian-like daemonism about him. But, when talking in a friendly way, he would assume a good-natured, gentle expression, particularly if the conversation was agreeable to him."

As we have seen, it had been a favorite project of Beethoven for years to write a mass. When he started to carry out his ideas, one course only seems to have been possible to him. This was, to project it on the principle of his Symphonies, in which the orchestra should take the commanding part in interpreting the emotional and dramatic possibilities of the text. His experience with his first mass had confirmed him in the belief that he could give the best expression to his ideas by the use of the orchestra, on account of its greater range, its mobility, the variety of its tones. The idea of making it of more importance than the voice, upset all preconceived theories on the subject. The orchestra was emphatically the tool best adapted to Beethoven's powers; he developed it into something wholly different from what it was when he found it. He put it to exquisite uses. His effects are the happiest imaginable and they are introduced with a prodigality and lavishness suggesting a reserve as of oceans from which to draw. Much of his vocal music is dominated by the orchestra.

It took a long while to make people understand that music instead of being the handmaid of poetry, whose function is merely to reflect the ideas of our spoken language, has a language of its own, which can convey ideas in itself, and that there are subtilties that can be expressed in this manner, which evade one when we come to use our coarser mode of expression. This is specially in evidence in Beethoven's later work, particularly in the mass we are now considering. Wagner frequently compares it to a symphony. In Zukunftsmusik, he says: "In his Great Mass Beethoven has employed the choir and orchestra almost exactly as in the symphony;" and elsewhere he cites it as being a "strictly symphonic work of the truest Beethovenian spirit."

In this work, however, he reaches out toward the infinite to a degree not attempted in the symphonies; his spirit takes a bolder flight; more of the inner nature of the artist is revealed; for the limits which bound him in the symphony were not operative in the mass. The very mode of projecting the first movement, the Kyrie, shows the splendor of the conception as it took form in his consciousness. The scheme of the movement can be summed up by the antithesis being presented of humanity, weak and sinful on the one side, and the overwhelming majesty of a just God on the other. It is a prayer for mercy, the cry of the soul in its extremity; the underlying thought being repentance. Here we have the embodiment of prayer, of supplication. A devotional feeling of the most exalted kind pervades it. The first of the three parts comprising the movement is storm and stress, a knocking on the gates, a De Profundus, an accusing conscience arraigning humanity. He works out of this vein to some extent in the second part, the Christe eleison, in which the appeal is made directly to the human element of the Godhead. In the third part, the themes of the first are again taken up, but by modulation they are made to take on a new significance, and bring peace in the end. Although the movement is cast for double chorus as regards the vocal part, the voices are given a subordinate place, the portrayal being carried on by the orchestra in true symphonic style. Notable in this movement is the rhythm. In all the storm and stress, a rhythmic motion, a systole and diastole, a surging to and fro, as of vast masses of beings in the last extremity of peril, is apparent.

To read meanings and design into the work of such a composer as Beethoven is the inevitable result of the transcendent nature of it. It was seldom that he vouchsafed any explanation of his musical intent in his compositions. Schindler, who thoroughly appreciated his genius, and who was eager for enlightenment on this phase of his art, was in the habit of drawing Beethoven out, as occasion offered, but it was always a difficult process. Simple and childlike in most matters, the master was wary and suspicious to an incredible degree when the conversation touched on the subject of his compositions. At times, however, this reserve gave way to Schindler's persistency. When he asked him about the opening bars of the C minor Symphony (the Fifth) it brought out the well-known remark, "thus fate knocks at the door." At another time, he asked him for an elucidation of the Sonatas in F minor (opus 57) and D minor (opus 29), and received the answer "read Shakespeare's Tempest," which was only half an answer. More definite is his meaning in the two Sonatas (opus 14), which represents the entreating and resisting principle in the conversation of a pair of lovers.

[Musical notation.]

Men of genius seldom care to explain their utterances. "The spirit gives it to me and I write it down" is a remark attributed to Beethoven, and this stated the case sufficiently from his point of view.

Zelter, director of the Singakademie of Berlin wrote Beethoven on completion of the Mass, asking him to arrange it for voices only, as nothing but a capella music was permitted by the institution. To this Beethoven gave a favorable reply, saying that with some modifications the project was feasible. It, however, was not carried out.

It is significant that Beethoven gives the German direction throughout in this Mass. At the Kyrie the direction is Mit Andacht. At the soli of the Agnus Dei he writes Aengstlich, denoting great agitation or anxiety. It may have been done as a kind of protest to the Italian cult in music, which had at this period taken complete possession of the Vienna public. The more solid German music was neglected in favor of Rossini, and Beethoven felt this change of front keenly, making it the subject of remark to Rochlitz and to others.

It can readily be supposed that works like the Mass in D are not easily produced. To get his materials for it Beethoven penetrated deeply the mystery surrounding life. The ideas which he voices seem always to have existed, like other great forces in the universe; he impresses one as being the discoverer, rather than the creator of them.

Schindler, who saw much of him during these years, says of his absorption in this work: "He actually seemed possessed, especially during the composition of the Credo." It was while he was at work on this portion of the Mass, notably the great fugue, et vitam venturi (the life everlasting), that Schindler called on him one afternoon, but could not gain admission. He knew the master was at home as he could hear him stamping and shouting, singing the different parts as if mad. Finally the door was opened and Beethoven appeared. He was faint from hunger and overwork, having eaten nothing since the previous noon. His servants had, indeed, prepared some food for him the previous day, but he was too much interested in his work to think of it, and they were afraid to urge it on him, or indeed, go near him, while in the stress of composition. He had worked the previous night until overtaken by exhaustion and on awaking in the morning had at once resumed his work, continuing it until interrupted by Schindler's arrival.

A work so transcendental in character as is this, calls for close and sympathetic study even to get an approximate understanding of its marvels. It is a characteristic of works of this nature, that although not easily comprehended, they are likewise not readily exhausted. Much study, many renderings only serve to bring out new values. Only by bringing to them of our best will they be revealed.

It must have been with a feeling of relief that he finally delivered a copy of the Mass complete into the Archduke's hands in March of 1822, just two years after the Installation.

Beethoven wrote the sovereigns of Russia, France, Prussia and Saxony, proposing a subscription of fifty ducats, about $115 each, for the Mass. The first acceptance came from Prussia. One of the minor officials in Vienna was commissioned by Prince von Hatzfeld, the Prussian Ambassador, to ask Beethoven if he would not prefer a royal order instead of the fifty ducats. Beethoven's reply was characteristic. Without a moment's hesitation he said with emphasis, "fifty ducats!" showing the slight value he placed on distinctions of this kind. A reply that must have gratified him very much was that received from the King of France. In his letter to him, Beethoven refers to the Mass as "L'oeuvre le plus accompli." Louis XVIII, not only forwarded his acceptance (and the fifty ducats), but had also a gold medal struck off, containing his portrait on one side, and on the other, the following inscription: "Donne par le Roi a monsieur Beethoven." The King of Saxony delayed his remittance for a long while, and Beethoven was greatly irritated thereby.

But little other work was undertaken during the four years he was occupied on the Mass unless we except the three grand piano sonatas, opus 109, 110 and 111, which were composed during the intervals. A mere by-product so to speak, undertaken with the object of resting his faculties jaded by the strain of the greater work, his mind notwithstanding was keyed up to a high pitch, while engaged on them. The lofty imaginings which occupied his thoughts while on the Mass are reflected in them, rendering them unapproachable as piano sonatas. The master himself, set a great value on them.

Now that the Mass was completed he began to give his attention to other works. To celebrate the opening of the rehabilitated Josephstadt theatre which occurred in the autumn of 1822, Beethoven wrote a new overture, Weihe des Hauses. He also worked over for this occasion his Ruins of Athens, written in 1812, for which the text was altered to suit the new conditions and several new numbers added. Another representation of the almost forgotten Fidelio, which was selected by Fraeulein Schroeder-Devrient for her benefit, and which was a pronounced success through the genius of this remarkable woman, led to a commission for a new opera from a Vienna manager. This was followed shortly after by a similar order from Berlin on his own terms. There had also been some talk before this about an opera on an American subject, the Founding of Pennsylvania. It was suggested by a minor poet and government official, Johann Ruprecht, whose poem, Merkenstein, Beethoven had set to music previous to 1816. In 1820 Beethoven had planned an Italian tour and had intended taking Ruprecht with him. They must have quarrelled later, as in a letter to Schindler in 1823 Beethoven refers to Ruprecht in the most abusive terms.

A commission that must have gratified Beethoven exceedingly, but which, however, was not acted upon, was that which emanated from Breitkopf and Haertel, who sent the famous critic Friederich Rochlitz to Vienna in July, 1822, with a proposition that he write some Faust music in the style of the Egmont music. It is narrated that Beethoven received the proposition with joy, but gave only a qualified assent. There is no doubt that he would have found inspiration in the text, and that a noble work would have resulted, but he feared the nervous strain of such an undertaking. "I should enjoy it," he said to Rochlitz, "but I shudder at the thought of beginning works of such magnitude. Once engaged on them, however, I have no difficulty." His labors on the Mass aged him. In his prime on its inception, he emerged from his seclusion on completing it, infirm and broken in health. The idea of the Faust music attracted him, as it would have been strictly symphonic in character. He occasionally refers to it subsequently, but never got so far as to enter themes for it in his note-books. Wagner essayed it, but went no further than to write the overture. The subject of Faust still awaits a capable interpreter.

His next commission was a simple one, consisting of an order early in the spring of 1823 from Diabelli, composer and head of a large publishing house in Vienna, for six variations on a waltz by him (Diabelli). The dance was always a favorite musical form with Beethoven in his lighter moments, and the variation form,—capable of a degree of sprightliness, vivacity and originality in the right hands which give it an entrancing effect, to which we come again and again with pleasure, was something peculiarly his own at every stage of his artistic career. His earliest essays in composition are in this form. Variations occupy a prominent part in all his works, whether chamber-music, sonatas or symphonies. They are introduced perhaps with best effect in the works of his last years, in the Ninth Symphony, and in the last quartets.

He accepted the order with pleasure and began work on it at once on reaching his summer quarters. This was congenial work, affording him relief from the mental strain imposed on him by his labors on the Ninth Symphony, which was then under way. A price of eighty ducats ($180) was fixed by the publisher at the outset for the set, but the master enjoyed his work so much, that the six, when completed, were increased to ten, then to twenty, and twenty-five, and so on until the number grew to thirty-three. These variations are extremely elaborate and difficult, a characteristic of most of his work in these years.

Wagner never tired of exploiting the variation form in his operas, particularly in the Tetralogy. He frequently refers to Beethoven's masterly use of it. "Haydn first, Beethoven last, have conferred artistic value on this form," he says in the article on conducting; later on in the same work, he says, "the wondrous second movement of Beethoven's great C minor Sonata" (opus 111), "and the last movement of the Eroica Symphony should be grasped as an infinitely magnified Variation section." Bach also excelled in it, the Variation form being constantly met with throughout his works.

The summer of 1823 was spent at Hetzendorf, a village of which Beethoven was always fond. He had secured large and comfortable quarters in the house of a Baron Pronay, which, from Schindler's account was a fine old mansion in the centre of a large park. It suited Beethoven admirably. There was a fine view of the surrounding country from his windows, the situation was healthful, and he delighted in walking about when not at work. But he gave up this comfortable home before the summer was ended, simply on account of the extravagant politeness of his landlord, who, conscious of the value of so distinguished a tenant, always greeted him with "profound obeisances" when they met. This opera bouffe deportment though undertaken with the best of motives on the Baron's part, became so embarrassing that Beethoven finally fled to Baden with all his belongings, including the grand piano, although his rent had been paid in advance for the entire summer. Schindler assisted in this migration, joining him at five o'clock one morning.

The year 1823 in which Beethoven practically completed his life-work (with the exception of the last quartets) is the dawn of a new musical genius, versatile, accomplished, many-sided, who as performer was qualified to rank with the older master. On New-year's day of this year, Franz Liszt, who had been studying under Czerny for two years past, made his first appearance in Vienna in concert, in which he took the public by storm. Beethoven seems not to have been present, and strangely, when we reflect on his intimacy with Czerny, seems to have been unaware of the existence of this talented youth. During the autumn of this year, the elder Liszt called on Beethoven, bringing with him the young Franz. Beethoven held himself aloof at first, receiving his visitors coldly. He unbent however, on hearing the youth perform, and stooped and kissed him. During this autumn he also received a visit from Weber and young Julius Benedict, his pupil. Weber was preparing his recently completed opera Euryanthe, for a first production in Vienna. He had produced Fidelio in the foregoing spring season at Dresden, where he was officially stationed, and had made a success of it with Frau Schroeder-Devrient. Considerable correspondence must have passed between the two composers on this matter, and Weber could hardly have omitted calling when coming to Vienna, although the memory of his former strictures on Beethoven's music must have embarrassed him. Weber had stated on hearing the Seventh Symphony for the first time that Beethoven was now fit for the madhouse, and his criticisms in general had been adverse. This, however, was something which Beethoven had never objected to; moreover, time had amply vindicated him as to the symphonies, so he could afford to be generous to his youthful critic. Beethoven was genial and kindly, and the younger man was deeply impressed by the master's reception of him. Euryanthe proved a failure and Weber called again to ask Beethoven's advice as to remodelling the work.

The libretto Melusina, which was submitted to him by Grillparzer found such favor in his eyes as to lead to its acceptance, but when he came face to face with the project, his former experience with opera was sufficient to deter him, and he abandoned the idea, giving as an excuse the inferiority of the German singers. That this was only an excuse, is plain, since only a short time afterward Mlle. Sontag was intrusted with the exceedingly difficult soprano parts of the Mass in D and the Ninth Symphony. He was hard at work on this Symphony at the time, which will serve to explain and accentuate his reluctance to again attempt operatic composition, a style of work diametrically opposed to that which had engaged his attention for many years previously. It would too, have necessitated shelving the Symphony indefinitely, and, although he needed the money which the opera would have yielded, his interest in the Symphony was paramount; he could not bring himself to abandon it. With failing powers superinduced by his excessive labors on the Mass, it was being borne in on him that he was nearing the end of his life-work. Under such circumstances the Symphony was sure to have the preference. The long cherished plans for another oratorio, and for a Requiem Mass also insistently came up for consideration, crowding out all serious intention of an opera.

The project of a Requiem Mass was of particular interest to him; it comes to the fore frequently. He mentioned it shortly after the completion of the Mass in C. Then, when his brother Karl died it is again considered. It is also mentioned on the occasion of the tragic death of Prince Kinsky, who had acted so liberally by him in the matter of the pension. It is probable that the work of writing a Requiem Mass would have proved congenial to him. He was in the right mood for it on completion of the Mass in D, and it is rather singular that he did not undertake it instead of the Symphony. Religious questions were occupying his mind more and more in these years. It must be admitted that his religion was as peculiar to himself as was his music. He affiliated with no church, although baptized as a Catholic, and brought up in that church; but the frequent appeals to the Divinity in his journals, show his belief in, and reliance on, a higher power. He formulated his own religion as did Thoreau. The man who could write, "Socrates and Jesus were patterns to me" lived a correct life in its essentials. His asceticism, his unselfishness, the sympathy which he continually showed for others, his unworldliness,—what else is this but the gist of New Testament teaching? Like a tree nourished on alien soil, which yet produces fairer and better fruit than the native ones, and becomes the parent of a new variety, this man achieved his high development of character by being a law unto himself like the anchorites of old.



CHAPTER XIV

NINTH SYMPHONY

We stand to-day before the Beethovenian Symphony as before the landmark of an entirely new period in the history of universal art, for through it there came into the world a phenomenon not even remotely approached by anything the art of any age or any people has to show us. —WAGNER.

During the period of his work on the Mass, and for some time before, Beethoven's thoughts were occupied more or less with that stupendous work, the Ninth Symphony, sketches for which began to appear already in 1813, shortly after his meeting with Goethe. That Beethoven looked up to Goethe ever after as to a spiritual mentor, studying his works, absorbing his thought, is plain. In projecting this symphony he may very well have designed it as a counterpart to Faust, as has been suggested. Actually begun in 1817, it had to be laid aside before much had been accomplished on it, in favor of the Mass in D. This gave him plenty of time to mature his conception of the work; and this ripening process, covering a period of ten years from its first inception, was one of the factors which helped him achieve his wondrous result. His work on the Mass was a good preparation for the psychological problems expounded in the Symphony.

Here is a work so interwoven into Beethoven's very life and spirit, that the mention of his name at once calls to mind the Ninth Symphony. It is the work of the seer approaching the end of his life-drama, giving with photographic clearness a resume of it. Here are revelations of the inner nature of a man who had delved deeply into the mysteries surrounding life, learning this lesson in its fullest significance, that no great spiritual height is ever attained without renunciation. The world must be left behind. Asking and getting but little from it, giving it of his best, counting as nothing its material advantages, realizing always that contact with it had for him but little joy, the separation from it was nevertheless a hard task. This mystery constantly confronted Beethoven, that, even when obeying the finer behests of his nature, peace was not readily attained thereby; often there was instead, an accession of unhappiness for the time being. Paradoxically peace was made the occasion for a struggle; it had to be wrested from life. No victory is such unless well fought for and dearly bought.

This eternal struggle with fate, this conflict forever raging in the heart, runs through all the Symphonies, but nowhere is it so strongly depicted as in this, his last. We have here in new picturing, humanity at bay, as in the recently completed Kyrie of the grand mass. The apparently uneven battle of the individual with fate,—the plight of the human being who finds himself a denizen of a world with which he is entirely out of harmony, who, wrought up to despair, finds life impossible yet fears to die,—is here portrayed in dramatic language. To Wagner the first movement pictured to him "the idea of the world in its most terrible of lights," something to recoil from. "Beethoven in the Ninth Symphony," he says, "leads us through the torment of the world relentlessly until the ode to joy is reached."

Great souls have always taught that the only relief for this Weltschmerz is through the power of love; that universal love alone can transform and redeem the world. This is the central teaching of Jesus, of Buddha, of all who have the welfare of humanity at heart. It was Beethoven's solution of the problem of existence. Through this magic power, sorrows are transmuted into gifts of peace and happiness. Beethoven loved his kind. Love for humanity, pity for its misfortunes, hope for its final deliverance, largely occupied his mind. With scarcely an exception Beethoven's works end happily. Among the sketches of the last movement of the Mass in D, he makes the memorandum, "Staerke der Gesinnungen des innern Friedens. Ueber alles ... Sieg." (Strengthen the conviction of inward peace. Above all—Victory). The effect of the Choral Finale is that of an outburst of joy at deliverance, a celebration of victory. It is as if Beethoven, with prophetic eye, had been able to pierce the future and foresee a golden age for humanity, an age where altruism was to bring about cessation from strife, and where happiness was to be general. Such happiness as is here celebrated in the Ode to Joy, can indeed, only exist in the world through altruism. Pity,[B] that sentiment which allies man to the divine, comes first. From this proceeds love, and through these and by these only is happiness possible. This was the gist of Beethoven's thought. He had occupied himself much with sociological questions all his life, always taking the part of the oppressed.

[B] The German rendering Mitleid has a higher significance than its English equivalent. Literally it means sharing the sorrow of the afflicted one. It may be said in passing that this sentiment is the central idea in Parsifal.

Schindler, who was almost constantly with Beethoven at this time, tells of the difficulty the master experienced in finding a suitable way of introducing the choral part. He finally hit upon the naive device of adding words of his own in the form of a recitative, which first appears in the sketch-book as, "Let us sing the immortal Schiller's Song, 'Freude schoener Goetterfunken.'" This was afterward changed to the much better form as now appears, "O Freunde, nicht diese Toene! sondern lasst uns angenehmere anstimmen, und freudenvollere." (O friends, not these tones. Let us sing a strain more cheerful, more joyous.)

The whole character and design of the Ode to Joy will be better apprehended when it is stated that it is in reality an Ode to Freedom. With its revolutionary spirit Beethoven was entirely in accord. Already in his twenty-third year he contemplated setting it to music. Later, in the note-book of 1812, the first line of the poem appears, in connection with a scheme for an overture. It is worthy of remark that the Symphony was well under way before he decided on incorporating the Ode in it.

The Ninth Symphony was first performed in this country in 1846 in Castle Garden, by the New York Philharmonic Society, which had been organized four years previously. George Loder conducted it. When we consider the herculean efforts Wagner was obliged to make to get permission to perform it in Dresden in this selfsame year, it speaks well for "North America." Subsequent performances of it in New York by this Society are as follows:

PERFORMANCE CONDUCTOR

Second April 28, 1860 Theo. Eisfeld. Third April 29, 1865 " " Fourth February 1, 1868 C. Bergmann. Fifth April 28, 1877 Dr. L. Damrosch. Sixth February 12, 1881 Theo. Thomas. Seventh April 10, 1886 " " Eighth April 12, 1890 " " Ninth April 23, 1892 Anton Seidl. Tenth April 11, 1896 " " Eleventh April 2, 1898 Vander Stucken. Twelfth April 7, 1900 E. Paur. Thirteenth April 4, 1902 " "

It was not performed in New York during the years 1903 and 1904.

Beethoven's correspondence with Count Bruehl of the Berlin Theatre in the matter of an opera for that city, led him, owing to the apathy of the Vienna public at this time toward his works, to offer the new Symphony and the Mass for a first hearing in Berlin. At this time, and for some years previously, Rossini's music had captured the Vienna public so completely that no other was desired. That this light evanescent work should be preferred to his own, was resented by the master. He decided to offer the new works to Count Bruehl, the Italian craze not having yet penetrated Berlin. As soon as this became known however, a reaction followed, and a memorial was addressed to Beethoven by his friends, begging him to reconsider the matter, and produce the new works in Vienna, as well as write a new opera for them. The appeal was signed by thirty of the most prominent men of affairs in the city. The list of names is a noble one, each being prominently connected in some way with music. Among composers and performers may be mentioned Czerny and the Abbe Stadler. Artario & Co., Diabelli and Leidersdorf, were music publishers. Count Palfy and Sonnleithner were operatic managers, while counselor Kiesewetter and J.F. Costelli were authors of libretti and songs. The others were prominent in court circles, and their devotion to music was such as to give weight to the communication. The memorial itself is discursive to a point which taxes one's patience, but the expressions of appreciation and friendship are genuine, and must have gratified Beethoven extremely. Naturally but one outcome was probable as a result of this memorial. Shortly after receiving it, he announced to his friends that the initial performance of these works would be held in Vienna. Strangely, a difficulty at once arose, in the matter of selecting a suitable place for the performance. Had Beethoven left the management of the affair in the hands of his friends, and given his attention to securing sufficient rehearsals for the new Symphony, which finally had to be produced after being rehearsed twice only, it would have been better all around. With the vacillating disposition which characterized him in all business matters, he was not only of no aid, but so complicated matters by his indecision on every point, that the arrangements finally came to a standstill, his friends who were assisting him being at their wits' end. These were Schindler, Count Lichnowsky, and the violinist Schuppanzich. At this juncture, these old and tried friends, thinking that strategy might succeed where diplomacy had failed, hit upon the following plan to bring matters to a focus. Schindler was at this time living at Beethoven's house, and the plan decided on was to have Count Lichnowsky and Schuppanzich call there as if by accident. The conversation would naturally turn to the approaching concert and leading questions were to be asked Beethoven. His answers in these years were usually in writing. The gist of these was to be written out by one of the party, who would then carelessly, or as if in jest, ask Beethoven to sign the paper, thus committing him to a definite course. These praise-worthy intentions were carried out with so much tact and skill that Beethoven not only saw through their innocent ruse, but discovered in the whole proceeding a deep-laid plot on the part of these arch-conspirators, whereof he was to be the victim of villainy and treachery. This dawned on him shortly after the friends had taken their departure, upon which he wrote the following notes, leaving them on the piano as was his custom, for Schindler to deliver.