CHAPTER IV
LEHRJAHRE.
Arrival in Vienna—Studies with Haydn—Timely Assistance of Schenk—Albrechtsberger—Beethoven as a Student—His Studies in Counterpoint—Letters to Eleanore v. Breuning.
ehold, then, our young musician at the long-desired goal—free from all depressing, pecuniary cares, with his pension secure from the Elector, and a little fund of his own to boot. He reached the capital about the middle of November, alone and friendless; nor is there any proof that the advent of the insignificant, clumsily built provincial youth made the slightest sensation, or roused the interest of one individual among the many thousands who thronged the busy streets.
His first care, as shown from a little pocket-book still preserved, was to seek out a lodging suitable to his slender purse; his next, to procure a pianoforte. The first requirement he at length met with in a small room on "a sunk floor," which commended itself by the low rent asked for it. Here Beethoven contentedly located himself until fortune's smiles had begun to beam so brightly on him that he felt entitled to remove to more airy lodgings.
We may be sure that he lost no time in setting about the purpose which he had most at heart, and enrolling himself among Haydn's pupils, for he could not have been more than eight weeks in Vienna when the master wrote to Bonn, "I must now give up all great works to him [Beethoven], and soon cease composing."
The harmony, however, which at first existed between Haydn and his pupil was soon disturbed. The former seems to have been always pleased with the work executed by Beethoven, who, on the contrary, was very much dissatisfied with the instruction given by the master. He was obliged, in this instance, to make the same experience that he had formerly confided to Junker, at Mergentheim, regarding pianoforte players, viz., that he had seldom found what he believed himself entitled to expect. Distance lends enchantment to the view; and the keen, striving worker soon discovered that Haydn was not the profound, earnest thinker that his longing fancy had painted in Bonn.
But an unexpected help was at hand. One day as he was returning from his lesson at Haydn's house, his portfolio under his arm, he met a friend whose acquaintance he had only recently made, but with whom he was already on intimate terms—Johann Schenk, a thorough and scholarly musician, afterwards well known as the composer of the "Dorfbarbier," and one of the most amiable of men. To him Beethoven confided his troubles, bitterly lamenting the slow progress his knowledge of counterpoint made under Haydn's guidance. Somewhat astounded, Schenk examined the compositions in Beethoven's portfolio, and discovered many faults which had been passed over without correction.
Haydn's conduct in this instance has never been explained. Generally conscientious in the discharge of his duties as an instructor, this carelessness must have arisen either from a pressure of work, or from some undefined feeling with regard to Beethoven, which prompted him to give him as little assistance as possible. The latter supposition is hardly compatible with the terms in which he wrote of his pupil to Bonn, but Beethoven could never shake off the idea that Haydn did not mean well by him—a suspicion which was strengthened by what afterwards occurred.
Excessively irritated by Schenk's discovery, Beethoven would have gone on the impulse of the moment to reproach Haydn and break off all connection with him. Schenk, however, who had early perceived Beethoven's worth, succeeded in calming him, promising him all the assistance in his power, and pointing out the folly of a course which would inevitably have led to the withdrawal of the pension from Max Franz, who would naturally have disbelieved any complaint against the greatest master of the day, and have attributed Beethoven's conduct to wrong motives. The young man had the sense to perceive the justice of these remarks, and continued to bring his work to Haydn (Schenk always giving it a strict revisal) until the latter's journey to England in 1794 afforded a feasible opportunity of providing himself with a better teacher.
Thus, although neither cordially liked the other, a tolerable appearance of friendship was maintained. It was, perhaps, impossible that, between two such totally different natures the connection could have been otherwise. Haydn was genial and affable; from his long contest with poverty, rather obsequious; not apt to take offence or to imagine slights; ready to render unto Cæsar his due; in short, a courtier.
What greater contrast to all this can be imagined than our proud, reserved, brusque Beethoven? He pay court to princes, or wait with "bated breath" upon their whims! He, the stormy republican, who regarded all men as on the same level, and would bow to nothing less than the Divine in man!
Haydn, who had laughingly bestowed on him the title of the "Great Mogul," probably felt that there was no real sympathy, or possibility of such a feeling, between them. Nevertheless, as we have said, they continued to outward seeming friends, though Beethoven's suspicions would not allow him to accept Haydn's offer of taking him to London. He accompanied him, however, in the summer to Eisenstadt, the residence of Prince Esterhazy, Haydn's patron, and on this occasion left the following note for Schenk, which shows the friendly feeling existing between them:—
"Dear Schenk,—I did not know that I should set off to-day for Eisenstadt. I should like much to have spoken once more to you. Meanwhile, depend upon my gratitude for the kindnesses you have shown me. I shall endeavour, so far as is in my power, to requite you.
"I hope to see you soon again, and to enjoy the pleasure of your society. Farewell, and don't quite forget
"Your Beethoven."
One of Beethoven's peculiarities may as well be referred to here in passing. Although living in the same town with many of his friends—nay, within a few minutes walk of them,—years would elapse without their coming in contact, unless they continually presented themselves to his notice, and so would not let themselves be forgotten. Absorbed in his creations, the master lived in a world of his own; consequently, many little circumstances in his career, in reality proceeding from this abstraction, were at the time attributed to very different motives.
His connection with Schenk is an instance of this. Though both inhabited Vienna, they had not met for many years, when in 1824 Beethoven and his friend Schindler encountered Schenk—then almost seventy years of age—in the street. If his old teacher had spent the intervening years in another world, and suddenly alighted from the clouds, Beethoven could not have been more surprised and delighted. To drag him into the quietest corner of the "Jägerhorn" (a tavern close at hand) was the work of a moment, and there for hours the old friends mutually compared notes, and reviewed the ups and downs of fortune that had befallen them since the days when the Great Mogul used to storm Schenk's lodgings and abuse his master. When they parted it was in tears, never to meet again.
The opportune departure of Haydn allowed Beethoven to place himself under the instruction of Albrechtsberger, the cathedral organist. This man, who counted among his pupils not only Beethoven, but Hummel and Seyfried, was a walking treatise on counterpoint; but far from investing the science with any life or brightness, it was his delight to render it, if possible, more austere and stringent than he had found it, and to lay down rules which to a fiery, impulsive nature were positively unbearable. Nevertheless, Pegasus can go in harness if need be. Beethoven, who, like every true genius, was essentially modest in his estimate of himself, and had already felt the want of a thoroughly grounded knowledge, submitted to Albrechtsberger's routine for a period of about fifteen months—beginning almost at the elements of the science, and working out the dry-as-dust themes in his master's Gradus ad Parnassum, until he had gained for himself an insight into the mysteries of fugue and canon.
This is not the commonly received notion of Beethoven's student-days. Ries in his "Notices" has the following:—
"I knew them all well [i.e., Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and Salieri, who gave Beethoven instruction in writing for the voice]; all three appreciated Beethoven highly, but were all of one opinion regarding his studies. Each said Beethoven was always so obstinate and self-willed that he had afterwards much to learn through his own hard experience, which he would not accept in earlier days as the subject of instruction. Albrechtsberger and Salieri especially were of this opinion."
But this testimony ought not to be accepted for more than it is worth. Haydn, absorbed in his own pursuits, and utterly unable to fathom Beethoven's nature—the very reverse of his own; Albrechtsberger, the formal contrapuntist, far more concerned about the outside of the cup, the form of a composition, than about its contents; Salieri, the superficial composer of a few trashy operas long since forgotten,—how were these men competent to pass judgment on a Feuerkopf like Beethoven?
A little further examination of the question in the light of recent researches will enable the reader to judge for himself whether the master was an earnest, willing student, or not.
Until very lately, the main source whence biographers drew their accounts of the Lehrjahre was the work published by the Chevalier von Seyfried, which purported to be a correct transcription of Beethoven's "Studies in Thorough-bass." This volume, as given to the world, was garnished with a number of sarcastic annotations, professedly emanating from Beethoven himself, wherein the theoretical rule under consideration at the moment is held up to ridicule. It is this circumstance, coupled with the assertion of Ries above alluded to, which has chiefly produced the prevalent impression regarding Beethoven as a student. We suppose that nine readers out of ten will have pictured to themselves the master receiving instruction in much the same spirit as that in which he was wont to give it in Bonn, namely, like the rebellious colt described by Wegeler!—Now what are the real facts of the case?—Thanks to the unwearied exertions of Gustav Nottebohm, we are in a position to answer the question. In his admirable book, "Beethoven's Studien," the actual work done by Beethoven under Haydn and Albrechtsberger is at length laid before the public, and the falsity of Seyfried's compilation fully proved.[6] Nottebohm has no hesitation in affirming that Beethoven was a willing rather than a mutinous scholar, and that he was always intent on his subject, and strove hard to obtain a clear conception of it.
As for the "sarcastic" marginal remarks which for nearly half a century have been treasured up and smiled over by every admirer of the master as eminently "characteristic" of him, will the reader believe that they turn out to be characteristic of—nothing but the unblushing impudence of Kapellmeister Ritter von Seyfried? They have no existence except in his imagination. The running commentary which accompanies the exercises is of a very different description from that supplied by him; it contains one instance, and one only, of an ironical tendency, and this is amusing enough in its simplicity to have extorted a smile from Albrechtsberger himself. One of the text-books employed appears to have been that of Türk, who makes use of the term "galant" to designate the free as opposed to the strict style of composition. Now what Beethoven saw lurking beneath the title galant, or what stumblingblock it presented to him, is hard to discover; but we find the expression, as often as it occurs, invariably altered to one that suits his notions better; and once he breaks out with, "Laugh, friends, at this galanterie!" Perhaps we may arrive at an appreciation of his distaste to the phrase, if we translate it by the word genteel,—imagine Beethoven writing in a genteel style!!
But in addition to thus clearing away the haze of misapprehension that had settled round our master's character as a learner, the efforts of Thayer and Nottebohm have also thrown much light on two questions which have proved more or less perplexing to all students, and to the brief consideration of which we would now ask the reader's attention.
First, then, how is it that Beethoven's genius as a composer was so late, comparatively speaking, in developing? At the time of his arrival in Vienna he was in his twenty-second year, and before that age Mozart, as we know, had produced no less than 293 works. Yet our master passed his boyhood in an atmosphere where every influence tended to quicken the musical life, and to hasten, rather than retard, its growth. Are we to take the handful of works—the little sonatas, the crude preludes, and other trifles generally recognised as composed in Bonn, to be the sole outcome of that period? Impossible! Alexander Thayer may fairly be said to have solved the problem by a single reference to chronology. He finds that between the years 1795-1802 (that is, a period commencing immediately after the conclusion of his studies) Beethoven published no fewer than ninety-two works, many of them of the first magnitude, including two symphonies, an oratorio, three concertos, nine trios, thirty-two sonatas, with and without accompaniment—and this during a time when his leisure for composition must have been scant indeed. We find him in these years incessantly occupied in more mechanical work, teaching, perfecting his style as a pianoforte virtuoso, travelling, continuing his studies with Salieri, and, in addition, enjoying life as he went along, not burying himself hermit-wise in his works, as was the case at a later date. Moreover, in Thayer's words: "Precisely at the time when he began to devote himself exclusively to composition, this wondrous fertility suddenly ceased. The solution lies on the surface" viz., that many, if not most, of these works were actually composed in Bonn, and deliberately kept back by the author for a certain time. "Why?" we ask; "on what account?" "Until he had attained, by study and observation, to the certainty that he stood on the firm basis of a thoroughly-grounded knowledge," replies Thayer, Beethoven would give nothing to the world. That goal reached, the creations of his youthful fancy are taken in hand again one by one; the critical file, guided by the "dictates of an enlightened judgment," is faithfully applied, and the composition, bearing the final imprimatur of its author's satisfaction, launched to meet its fate. Well might Beethoven laugh securely at his critics!—he had been beforehand with them—he had sat in judgment on himself.
This view receives ample confirmation in the newly published version of the "Studies." The reader may reasonably take objection to the foregoing, and may inquire: "Was not Beethoven, then, master of the mere technicalities of composition by the time he reached Vienna? He had been engaged in studying the theory as well as the practice of music for over ten years, under a master, himself well known as a composer."—Let us hear Nottebohm on the point. The instruction imparted by Neefe, although calculated to be eminently helpful as regards "the formation of taste and the development of musical feeling," was yet "from a technical standpoint unsatisfactory," being based, not on the strict contrapuntal system of the early ecclesiastical writers (the system which alone offers the necessary discipline for the composer), but rather on the lighter and more superficial method of the new Leipzig school, of which Johann Adam Hiller, Neefe's master and model, was one of the leading exponents.
Beethoven seems to have divined intuitively where his weakness lay. For the radical defect which he recognised in his training there was but one remedy, viz., to lay aside preconceived opinion; to go back in all humility to the very Urquelle, the Fountain-head, of Harmony, and trace out thence for himself, slowly and painfully, the eternal channel of LAW, within which the mighty sound-flood may roll and toss at will, but beyond whose bounds, immutable and fixed, no mortal power may send it with impunity.
Turning to the "Studies," we find no trace of a disposition to claim exemption from toil on the score of genius. On the contrary!—commencing at the very foundation (the names of the different intervals), every branch of composition is taken up in its turn—simple, double, and triple counterpoint in all detail—and worked at with a will (several of the exercises, being written and rewritten two or three times), until we arrive at Fugue, where, for a reason shortly to be noted, there is a halt.
What shall we say to the picture thus presented to us?—A young man self-willed and impatient by nature, at an age when submission to direct instruction is, to say the least, unpalatable, voluntarily placing himself under the yoke—a poet, within whose soul divine melodies plead for freedom, and thoughts of fire press hard for utterance, resolutely keeping inspiration under, until he shall have penetrated into the structure of language—a painter, in whose desk lie sketches, marvellous in freshness, vigour, and originality, occupying himself for weary months in the study of anatomy! Truly our Beethoven at this period, as at a later, comes well within the practical definition of Genius; his "capacity for painstaking" was "infinite." Not so, however, his patience, as we shall presently see.
Now for the second difficulty to which Nottebohm has found a clue: how is it that in Beethoven's earlier works we have so few instances of fugue-writing—at the time one of the most favoured styles of composition; and that these, when they do occur, should from the irregularity of their construction invariably be disappointing? Here again the scholarship of our critic has done good service. His minute examination of the exercises done under Albrechtsberger has led him to the conclusion, that to the faulty teaching of the master is due the faulty workmanship of the pupil—a somewhat astounding discovery when we remember the high estimation in which the contrapuntist was held by his contemporaries. The fact remains, however, that the instruction given by Albrechtsberger, "in several important details of fugue building, was deficient and not grounded;" hence, in all probability, the rarity of fugue during the first ten years of Beethoven's creative activity. He had not entire mastery over its resources, and therefore hesitated to introduce it, save in a subordinate and fitful way. We may be surprised that the indoctrination in the works of J.S. Bach, which we noted in the Bonn days, should not of itself have been powerful enough imperceptibly to mould his style. There is, however, no trace of this at the period we are considering. That the influence of the Urvater[7] of harmony (a title applied by Beethoven himself to John Sebastian) worked deeply into his inner life, there can be no doubt; but its effects were not apparent till a very much later date—a phenomenon, to our thinking, only to be explained on psychological grounds.
To return. Beethoven's patience, which had held out over two years, comes to a sudden halt on this very question. Clear-sighted and tolerant of no incompetence, our young "Thorough!" seems to have detected Albrechtsberger's weak point, and there and then to have cast off allegiance to him. The exercises up to fugue are, generally speaking, most carefully executed. No sooner, however, does the scholar perceive that the master is almost as much "at sea" as himself, and steering vaguely without a chart, than docility is at an end; he conceives an intense disgust for the theoretical tread-mill; growls to a friend that he has "had enough of making musical skeletons!" and absolves himself, without permission, from the remainder of Albrechtsberger's course.
We hear the old Theoretiker long after this grimly warning one of his pupils against his ci-devant scholar: "Have nothing to do with him. He never learned anything!" "Nay," Beethoven might have replied, had he thought it worth his while, "I learned all that you had to teach. Would you have had me walk with my eyes shut?" As Nottebohm remarks "the one could not" teach, "the other would not" learn, and so the instruction came to a close, and Beethoven fell back upon his own resources.
He had, however, by this time achieved his purpose in the main. He had probed and examined the received theoretical axioms, and was in a position to decide for himself as to their actual importance. Henceforth none were accepted by him as imperative, simply out of deference to current ideas, and thus we find instances again and again of an inflexible determination to shake off all restraints, the utility of which was not recognised by his inner consciousness. He was wont in after years, when told of any perplexity of the critics, to rub his hands together in glee, saying; "Yes, yes! they are all astonished, and put their heads together, because—they don't find it in any thorough-bass book!"
That independence may easily be merged in self-will, however, he sometimes proved to demonstration, to the delight of those who were on the watch for flaws. Ries tells us, for instance, that on one occasion he discovered and pointed out (in the C minor quartet, Op. 18) two perfect fifths in succession. "Well?" asks the master, testily, "and who has forbidden them?" Somewhat taken aback, the scholar keeps silence. Again the question is repeated. "But it is a first principle!" hesitates Ries in astonishment. "Who has forbidden them?" thunders out the master again. "Marpurg, Kirnberger. Fux,—all the theorists." "And I allow them!" is the conclusion. But the obstinacy displayed in this and similar anecdotes is more an expression of petulance, than of preconsidered judgment. Beethoven, as we know, enjoyed nothing better than an opportunity of mystifying certain individuals as to his real thoughts and intentions. Occasionally we hear his true voice in the matter. A friend had remarked, regarding the second and third "Leonora" overtures, "The artist must create in freedom, only giving in to the spirit of his age, and be monarch over his own materials; under such conditions alone will true art-works come to light." "Granted," replied Beethoven; "but he must not give in to the spirit of his age, otherwise it is all over with originality.... Had I written them [the two overtures] in the spirit that prevailed at the time, they would certainly have been understood at once, as, for example, the 'Storm of Kotzeluch.' But I cannot cut and carve out my works according to the fashion, as they would fain have me do. Freshness and originality create themselves, without thinking about it."
After all, let us remember that it is vain to measure the strides of a giant with the footsteps of ordinary men. Epoch-Makers are necessarily Law-Breakers to the eyes of their contemporaries. Years must pass before the import of their work is fully discerned. Reverting to our former simile, we can see that while Beethoven's critics believed him to be rebelliously diverting the current of Harmony from the pure course directed by a Palestrina, a Bach, a Handel, a Haydn, a Mozart, he was in reality simply engaged in deepening and widening its channel, that the Stream might flow on in grander and nobler proportions to meet the ever-growing necessities of Humanity.
Beethoven continued a diligent student through life; from those who had devoted special attention to any particular subject he was always eager to learn, although, as we have seen, without pledging himself to follow their views. Thus we find him in 1799 studying the art of quartet-writing more closely with Förster, who excelled in that branch of composition; and as late as 1809 he styles himself the "pupil" of Salieri, from whom, as the friend of Metastasio, and versed in the requirements of the Italian school, he often sought advice in his vocal compositions.
But in addition to more purely theoretic studies, Beethoven was indefatigable in his practical investigations into the nature and capabilities of the instruments for which he wrote, and which his creative genius roused to unheard-of achievements. From Herren Kraft and Linke he learned the mechanism of the violoncello; Punto taught him that of the horn, and Friedlowsky that of the clarionet. He often consulted these artists in after life regarding the suitability of certain passages for their respective instruments, and allowed himself to be guided by their suggestions.
Far otherwise was it, however, with singers; for them Beethoven composed as he liked, without humouring any little predilection of the most fascinating prima donna, or introducing a single piece for display (one reason why Rossini was able for so long to play the part of the successful rival). On the other hand, the singers had their revenge, and sang his music precisely as they listed, interpolating embellishments and cadenze a piacere without the slightest regard to his wishes.
The following letters to Eleanore van Breuning belong to this epoch:—
"Vienna, Nov. 2nd, '93.
"Most esteemed Eleanore! my dearest Friend!—A whole year of my residence in the capital has nearly elapsed without your having received a letter from me, notwithstanding you have been continually with me in the liveliest remembrance. I have often entertained myself with the thought of you and your dear family, but oftener still I have not enjoyed the peace in doing so which I could have wished.[8]
"At such times that fatal dispute hovered before me, and my conduct in the matter appeared to me detestable. But it was past and gone. How much would I give to be able to obliterate entirely from my life the way in which I then acted! so dishonouring to me, so opposed to my general character. At the same time there were many circumstances which tended to keep us apart, and I suspect that what specially hindered a reconciliation was the manner in which the remarks of each were repeated to the other. We both believed that what we said was the result of honest conviction, when in reality it proceeded from anger inflamed by others, and so we were both deceived. Your good and noble character, my dear friend, warrants me in believing that you have long since forgiven me; but they say that the truest repentance is that in which we confess our own faults, and this is what I desire to do. And let us now draw the curtain over the whole affair, only extracting the lesson from it that when a dispute happens between friends, it is always better that no mediator should be employed, but that friend should address himself direct to friend.
"You will receive along with this a dedication,[9] and I can only wish that it were greater and more worthy of you. They teased me here into publishing this little work, and I avail myself of the opportunity to give you, my esteemed Eleanore, a proof of my regard and friendship for yourself, and a token of my lasting remembrance of your house. Accept this trifle, and think of it as coming from a devoted friend. Oh! if it only gives you pleasure, my wishes will be quite satisfied. May it be a little reawakening of the time when I passed so many happy hours in your house! perhaps it may keep you in remembrance of me until I return again, which certainly will not happen soon. Oh! my dear friend, how we shall rejoice then! You will find your friend a more cheerful man, with all the former furrows of adversity chased away through time and a happier lot.
"If you should see B. Koch, I beg you to tell her that it is unkind of her not to have written me even once. I have written to her twice, and to Malchus[10] three times—but no answer. Tell her that if she will not write herself, she might, at least, urge Malchus to do so.
"In concluding my letter, I venture one more request, namely, that it would make me very happy to possess an Angola vest knitted by your hands, my dear friend. Forgive this not very modest demand! It arises out of my great predilection for everything made by you; but I must tell you confidentially that there is also a little vanity connected with it. I want to be able to say that I possess something of one of the best and most admired girls in Bonn. I have, it is true, still the first which you kindly gave me in Bonn, but it has become so old-fashioned that I can only treasure it up in my wardrobe as something of yours, very dear to me. You would delight me much by favouring me soon with one of your kind letters. Should mine give you any pleasure, I promise you certainly, so far as lies in my power, to continue them; since everything is welcome to me whereby I may prove to you how much I am,
"With all esteem,
"Your true Friend,
"L. v. Beethoven.
"P.S.—You will find the v. [variations] somewhat difficult to play, especially the shake in the coda; but don't let this alarm you, since it is so arranged that you have nothing to do but the shake; the other notes you may leave out, as they occur in the violin part. I would never have written in this manner had I not had occasion to remark that there are several people here in V., who, after I have extemporized of an evening, write down many of my peculiarities next day, and pass them off as their own.[11] As I foresaw that such things would soon be published, it occurred to me to anticipate their movements. Another reason was also—to perplex the pianoforte teachers here. Many of them are my mortal enemies, and I wished to revenge myself on them in this way; knowing that they would occasionally be asked to play the variations, when these gentlemen would come out in rather an unfavourable light."
The following fragment is without date:—
"The beautiful cravat, worked by your own hands, has caused me the greatest possible surprise. Although in itself so pleasing, it awakened within me feelings of melancholy. Its effect was to recall the past, and to shame me by your generous behaviour. In truth, I did not think that you still considered me worthy of remembrance.
"Oh! could you have been a witness of my emotions yesterday when it arrived, you would not think I exaggerate in saying that the recollection of you brings the tears to my eyes, and makes me very sad. However little I may deserve credit in your eyes, I beg you to believe, my friend (allow me still to call you so), that I have suffered and still suffer through the loss of your friendship. You and your dear mother I shall never forget. Your goodness to me was such that the loss of you neither can nor will be easily replaced. I know what I lost and what you were to me, but——if I attempt to fill up this blank, I must refer to scenes which are as unpleasant for you to hear as for me to describe.
"As a slight return for your kind remembrance of me, I take the liberty of sending you some variations, and the rondo with violin accompaniment. I have a great deal to do, or I would have copied the long-promised sonata for you. In my manuscript it is little better than a sketch, and it would be very difficult for Paraquin himself,[12] clever as he is, to transcribe it. You can have the rondo copied, and then return the score to me. It is the only one of all my compositions suitable for you, and as you are shortly going to Kerpen,[13] I thought it might afford you some pleasure.
"Farewell, my friend. It is impossible for me to call you by any other name, however indifferent I may be to you. Pray believe that I reverence you and your mother as highly as formerly.
"If it is in my power to contribute anything to your happiness, pray do not fail to let me know, since it is the only means left to me of proving my gratitude for past friendship.
"May you have a pleasant journey, and bring your dear mother back in perfect health!
"Think sometimes of
"Your admiring Friend,
"Beethoven."