THE YOUTH.
The first emotions of chagrin and mortification soon passed away in the bosom of young Beethoven, but he did not soon recover his vivacity. His warmest feelings had been cruelly outraged; the spring of love was never again to bloom for him; and it seemed, too, that the fair blossoms of genius also were nipped in the bud. His self-confidence, so necessary to the development of the artist, was shaken—nay, had nearly deserted him.
The wings of his spirit had unfolded joyously in the sunshine of love, and were spread for a bold flight into the upper regions of Art, where the every-day world could not follow him. As in after life, he was entirely indifferent to the applause of the multitude, and never sought it. What he thought and felt he expressed in his enthusiastic inspiration; his best reward was the consciousness of having aimed at the best, and deserved the approbation of true artists.
If, however, the cultivated taste of the present day fails fully to appreciate him, it will not be wondered at that the critics of the time, fettered as they were to the established form, should have been shocked at his departure from their rules. Even Mozart, whose fame stood so high, whose name was pronounced with such enthusiastic admiration, what struggles had he not been forced into with those who would not approve his so called innovations!
The youth of nineteen had struck out a bolder path! What marvel, then, that instead of encouragement, nothing but censures awaited him? His master, Neefe, who was accustomed to boast of him as his pride and joy, now said coldly and bitterly, his pupil had not fulfilled his cherished expectations—nay, was so taken up with his new-fangled conceits, that he feared he was forever lost to real art.
“Is it so, indeed?” asked Louis of himself in his moments of misgiving and dejection. “Is all a delusion? have I lived till now in a false dream? Oh! where is truth on earth? I wish I were dead, since my life is worse than useless!”
Young Beethoven sat in his chamber, leaning his head on his hand, looking gloomily out of the vine-shaded window. There was a knock at the door: piano—pianissimo; crescendo,—forte,—fortissimo! Still, wrapped in his deep despondency, he heard it not, nor answered with a “come in.”
The door was opened softly a little way, and in the crevice appeared a long and very red nose, and a pair of small, twinkling eyes, overshadowed by coal-black bushy eye-brows. Gradually became visible the whole withered, sallow, comical, yet good-humored face of Master Peter Pirad.
Peter Pirad was a famous kettle-drummer, and was much ridiculed on account of his partiality for that instrument, though he also excelled on many others. He always insisted that the kettle-drum was the most melodious, grand, and expressive instrument, and he would play it alone in the orchestra, partoutement, as he said. But he was one of the best-hearted persons in the world. It was quite impossible to look upon his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure, which, year in and year out, appeared in the well-worn yellow woolen coat, siskin colored breeches, and dark worsted stockings, with his peculiar fashioned felt cap, without a strong inclination to laugh; yet ludicrous as was his outward man, none remained long unconvinced that spite of his exterior, spite of his numerous eccentricities, Peter Pirad was one of the most amiable of men.[9]
From his childhood, Louis had been attached to Pirad; in later years they had been much together. Pirad, who had been absent several months from Bonn, and had just returned, was surprised beyond measure to find his favorite so changed. He entered the room, and walking up quietly, touched the youth on the shoulder, saying, in a tone as gentle as he could assume, “Why, Louis! what the mischief has got into your head, that you would not hear me?”
Louis started, turned round, and recognising his old friend, reached him his hand.
“You see,” continued Pirad, “you see I have returned safely and happily from my visit to Vienna. Ah! Louis! Louis! that’s a city for you! May I be hanged if ’tis not a noble city! Something new every day; something to please all tastes. Such living! Oh! ’twas admirable! and as for taste in art, you would go mad with the Viennese! As for artists, there are Albrechtsberger and Haydn, Mozart and Salieri,—my dear fellow, you must go to Vienna.” With that Pirad threw up his arms as if beating the kettle-drum, (he always did so when excited) and made such comical faces, that his young companion, spite of his sorrow, could not help bursting out a laughing.
“Saker!” cried Pirad, “that is clever; I like to see that you can laugh yet; it is a good sign; and you shall soon give care and trouble to the winds. Ay, ay, where old Peter comes, he banishes despondency; and now, Louis, pluck up like a man, and tell me what all this means. Why do I find you in such a bad humor, as if you had a hole in your skin, or the drums were broken? You know me, lad, for a capital kettle-drummer; there is not another such in the land. I warrant you there are plenty of ninnies who fancy they can beat me; but everybody who is a judge laughs at them. You know, too, I have always wished you well; so out with it, my brave boy, what is the matter with you?”
“Ah!” replied Beethoven, “much more than I can say; I have lost all hope, all trust in myself. You, perhaps, will not understand me, Pirad; you will censure me if I have been doing wrong; yet you have always been a kind friend to me, and I will tell you all my troubles, for indeed, I cannot keep them to myself any longer!” So the melancholy youth told all to his attentive auditor: his unhappy passion for his cousin; his master’s dissatisfaction with him, and his own sad misgivings.
When he had ended, Pirad remained silent awhile, his forefinger laid on his long nose, in an attitude of thoughtfulness. At length, raising his head, he gave his advice as follows:
“This is a sad story, Louis! but it convinces me of the truth of what I used to say: your late excellent father—I say it with all respect for his memory—and your other friends, never knew what was really in you. As for your disappointment in love, that is always a business that brings much trouble and little profit. Women are capricious creatures at best, and no man who has a respect for himself will be a slave to their humors. I was a little touched in that way, myself, when I was something more than your age, but the kettle-drum soon put such nonsense out of my head. My advice is, that you stick to your music, and let her go; my friendship will be a truer accompaniment for you; and that, I need not assure you, will never fail. For what concerns the court-organist, Neefe, I am more vexed; his absurdity is what I did not precisely expect. I will say nothing of Herr Yunker; he forgets music in his zeal for counterpoint; as if he should say, he could not see the wood for the tall trees, or the city for the houses! Have I not heard him assert, ay, with my own living ears, slanderously assert, that the kettle-drum was a superfluous instrument? Only think, Louis, the kettle-drum a superfluous instrument! Donner and —. Did not the great Haydn—bless him for it!—undertake a noble symphony expressly with reference to the kettle-drum? What could you do with “Dies iræ—dies illa,” without the kettle-drum? I played it at Vienna in Don Giovanni, the chapel-master Mozart himself directing. In the spirit scene, Louis, where the statue has ended his first speech, and Don Giovanni in consternation speaks to his attendants, while the anxious heart of the appalled sinner is throbbing, the kettle-drum thundering away—” Here Pirad began to sing with tragical gesticulation. “Yes, Louis, I beat the kettle-drum with a witness, while an icy thrill crept through my bones: and for all that, the kettle-drum is a useless instrument! What blockheads there are in the world! To return to your master,—I wonder at his stupidity, and yet I have no cause to wonder. You are perhaps aware that many wise and sensible people take me for a fool and a ridiculous fellow, because I disagree with them on certain subjects; nevertheless, I know much that wise and sensible people do not know. Now my creed is, that Art is a noble inheritance left us by our ancestors, which it is our duty to enlarge and increase by all honest and honorable means. There are those among the heirs who think the capital already large enough; talk of the impossibility of bettering it—a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, etc. But such spiritless persons only waste what they know not how to use to advantage. He who has a soul for art will not spare his labor, but consider how he may best do justice to the testator, and render useful the good gift of the Almighty, surely not bestowed for nought! No, my dear boy, I tell you I hold you for an honest heir, who would not waste your substance; who has not only power, but will, to perform his duty. So take courage; be not cast down at trifles; and take my advice and go to Vienna. Himmeltausend! whom have you here above yourself? but there you will find your masters: Mozart, Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and others not so well known, but well worthy your emulation. One year, nay, a few months in Vienna will do more for you than ten years vegetating in this good city. You can soon learn, then, what you are capable of, and what not; only mind what Mozart says, when you are playing in his hearing.”
The young man started up, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing with new enthusiasm, and embraced Pirad warmly. “You are right, my good friend!” he cried, “I will go to Vienna; and shame on any one who despises your counsel! Yes, I will go to Vienna.”
When he told his mother of his resolution she looked grave, and wept when all was ready for his departure. But Pirad, with a sympathizing distortion of countenance, said to her, “Be not disturbed, my good Madame von Beethoven! Louis shall come back to you much livelier than he is now; and even if he does not, why, the lot of the artist is always to suffer some privation, that he may cling more closely to his science. And, madam, you may comfort yourself with the hope that your son will become a great artist!”
Young Beethoven visited Vienna for the first time in the spring of the year 1792. He experienced strange emotions as he entered that great city; perhaps a dim presentiment of what he was in future years to accomplish and to suffer. He was not so fortunate this time as to find Haydn there; that artist had set out for London but a little before. He was disappointed, but the more anxious to make the acquaintance of Mozart.
Albrechtsberger, Haydn’s intimate friend, undertook to introduce him. “But we must not be out of patience, Beethoven,” said he, good humoredly, “if we have to go frequently to the master’s house without finding him. Schickaneder has got him in his clutches at present—for Mozart has written an opera for his company. There are some new and difficult scenes in the piece which the manager wants to arrange, and he gives our friend the master no rest, with his suggestions and contrivances. It is a shame that Mozart has to work for such a man; but he must live, you know, with his wife and children; and I heard Haydn say his place here has only brought him in eight hundred guilders for the last year.”
They went several times, in fact, to Mozart’s house before they found him at home. At last, on a rainy day, one that suited not for an excursion with the Impressario, they were so fortunate as to find him. They heard him from the street, playing; our young hero’s heart beat wildly as they went up the steps, for he looked on that dwelling as the temple of art.
When they were in the hall, they saw through a side door that stood open, Mozart sitting playing the piano; close by him sat a short, fat man, with a shining red face; and at the window Madame Mozart, holding her youngest son, Wolfgang, on her lap, while the eldest was sitting on the floor at her feet.
“Stop, my good sir,” cried the fat man, seizing Mozart’s hand, “I do not altogether like the last! You must alter it, you must indeed! Look you, this is what occurs to me: that slow adagio may stand, if you like; the people do not care about listening to it; they lean back in their seats and gaze at the doors swinging; but that allegro, it does not suit—”
“I believe you are a fool outright, besides having no conscience!” interrupted Mozart, rising angrily from the piano. “I have yielded you far too much, but the overture you have nothing to do with; and I wish I may be hanged if I alter a single note in it for you! I would rather take back the whole opera and throw it into the fire!”
“If you will not write popular music,” grunted the other, “you cannot expect me to have your pieces represented.”
“Very well,” said the master, decidedly, “then we owe each other nothing, and I need plague myself no more about it.”
“Nay, nay,” pursued the fat man, who changed his ground when he saw the composer was really in earnest, “you may leave the overture as it is; it is all the same to me; I only wanted to give you my ideas on the subject.”
“I would not give much for your ideas,” muttered the master; and he turned to receive his new visitors. His face soon brightened up; he greeted Albrechtsberger cordially, and looked inquiringly on his young companion.
“Herr von Beethoven from Bonn,” said Albrechtsberger, presenting his friend; “an excellent composer and skilful musician, who is desirous of making your acquaintance.”
“You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect you to remain and dine with me to day,” said Mozart; and taking Louis by the hand he led him to the window where his wife sat. “This is my Constance,” he continued; “and these are my boys; this little fellow is but three months old”—and throwing his arm round Constance’s neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant.
Louis looked with surprise on the great artist! He had fancied him quite different in his exterior; a tall man, of powerful frame, like Händel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a furred coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season; his pale face showed the evidences of long continued ill health; his large, bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius that had created Idomeneus and Don Giovanni.
“So you, too, are a composer?” asked the fat man, coming up to Beethoven; “Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do; lay yourself out for the opera; the opera is the great thing!”
Louis looked at him in surprise and silence.
“Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous Impressario,” said Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh.
“Yes,” continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, “I tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side of it; if Mozart would only be led by me he could do well! I say, if you will compose me something,—(I have written half-a-dozen operas myself)—by the way, here is a season ticket; I shall be happy if you will visit my theatre; to-morrow night we shall perform the Magic Flute; it is an admirable piece, some of the music is first rate, some not so good, and I myself play the Papageno.”
“You ought to do something in that line,” said Mozart, laughing, “Your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door-hinge.”
The Impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an important air, “I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a secondary thing in the opera, for I know the public; however, I have some good singers; and as for myself, even you, Mozart, will acknowledge my merit one of these days.” And he went on to tell them of an ingenious and comical arrangement he had devised in the dress of the new part.
They were all much amused with it; and the Impressario continued to repeat, “I can tell you, I know the public.”
Here several persons, invited guests of the composer, came in; among them Mozart’s pupils, Sutzmayr and Wolfl, with the Abbe Stadler and the excellent tenorist, Peyerl. After an hour or so spent in agreeable conversation, enlivened by an air from Mozart, they went to the dinner table. Schickaneder here played his part well, doing ample justice to the viands and wine. The dinner was really excellent; and the host, notwithstanding his appearance of feeble health, was in first rate spirits, abounding in gayety, which soon communicated itself to the rest of the company.
After they had dined, and the coffee had been brought in, Mozart took his new acquaintance to the window, apart from the others, and asked, “Did you come through Leipzig?”
Beethoven replied in the affirmative.
“Did you remain long there?”
“I merely passed through.”
“That is a pity! I love Leipzig; I have many dear friends there; the dearest, my good old Doles, is dead some time since; yet I have others, and when you return thither you may stay longer; I will give you letters to them. But now, I beg of you, tell me how it stands with yourself, and what you have learned? If I can be of any service to you, command me.”
Louis pressed the master’s hand, which was cordially extended to him, and without hesitation gave his history, and informed him of his plans; concluding by asking his advice.
Mozart listened with a benevolent smile; and when he had ended, said, “Come, you must let me hear you play.” With that he led him to an admirable instrument in another apartment; opened it, and invited him to select a piece of music.
“Will you give me a thema?” asked Louis.
The master looked surprised; but without reply wrote some lines on a leaf of paper and handed it to the young man. Beethoven looked over it; it was a difficult chromatic fuguetheme, the intricacy of which demanded much skill and experience. But without being discouraged, he collected all his powers and began to execute it.
Mozart did not conceal the surprise and pleasure he felt when Louis first began to play. The youth perceived the impression he had made, and was stimulated to more spirited efforts. As he proceeded the master’s pale cheeks flushed; his eyes sparkled; and stepping on tiptoe to the open door, he whispered to his guests, “Listen, I beg of you! you shall have something worth hearing.”
That moment rewarded all the pains, and banished the apprehensions of the young aspirant after excellence. Louis went through his trial piece with admirable spirit, sprang up, and went to Mozart; seizing both his hands and pressing them to his throbbing heart, he murmured, “I also am an artist!”
“You are, indeed!” cried Mozart, “and no common one! And what may be wanting, you will not fail to find, and make your own. The grand thing, the living spirit, you bore within you from the beginning, as all do who possess it. Come back soon to Vienna, my young friend—very soon! Father Haydn, Albrechtsberger, friend Stadler and I will receive you with open arms; and if you need advice or assistance, we will give it you to the best of our ability.”
The other guests crowded round Beethoven, and hailed him as a worthy pupil of art! even the silly Impressario looked at him with vastly increased respect, and said, “I can tell you, I know the public,—well, we will talk more of the matter this evening over a glass of wine.”
“I also am an artist!” repeated Louis to himself, when he returned late to his lodgings. Much improved in spirits, and re-inspired with confidence in himself, he returned to Bonn; and ere long put in practice his scheme of paying Vienna a second visit.
This he accomplished at the Elector’s expense, being sent by him. He did not, indeed, see Mozart again, nor could he even find the grave of his deceased friend. But the spirit of the illustrious master was with him; and the world knows well, how Father Haydn honored the last request of his friend.
And thus I close this brief account of the early years of the greatest master of modern times. His boyhood was not free from care and suffering; his youth was troubled; and we who are familiar with the events of his life, know how much he endured as a man, even while his hours were passed in preparing “joy, pure, spiritual joy” for us all. But he was a true artist; he fulfilled his noble mission; and that consciousness, and his earnest longings after the pure and the good, gave him strength to bear the woes of life, strength to pass through the dark valley of death, whither he went down rejoicing, as a conqueror to victory.
His first disappointment is immortalized in his song of “Adelaide.” In his opera “Leonore,” he has loved to remember Truth, while forgetting the deserts of Faithlessness; and while his great symphonies paint the strifes of humanity, does not his “Egmont” proclaim the victory of the falling hero? But to still deeper and higher feelings has he appealed—exalted devotion, joy heaven-born; hope eternal; faith in Infinite Love. Never shall his sacred compositions cease to awaken the purest and loftiest emotions that can sway the human heart.