I was right tired but had to get up yesterday at 6 o’clock because the excursion to Baden had been appointed for half-past 7 o’clock. This took place with Hasslinger, Piringer and Benedict; but unfortunately the weather was atrocious. The main purpose was to see Beethoven. He received me with an affection which was touching; he embraced me most heartily at least six or seven times and finally exclaimed enthusiastically: “Indeed, you’re a devil of a fellow!—a good fellow!” We spent the afternoon very merrily and contentedly. This rough, repellant man actually paid court to me, served me at table as if I had been his lady. In short, this day will always remain remarkable in my memory as well as of those present. It was uplifting for me to be overwhelmed with such loving attention by this great genius. How saddening is his deafness! Everything must be written down for him. We inspected the baths, drank the waters, and at 5 o’clock drove back to Vienna.
Max Maria von Weber in his account of the incident says that Beethoven, in the conversation which followed his greeting of the “devil of a fellow,” railed at the management of the theatre, the concert impresarios, the public, the Italians, the taste of the people, and particularly at the ingratitude of his nephew. Weber, who was deeply moved, advised him to tear himself away from his discouraging environment and make an artistic tour through Germany, which would show him what the world thought of him. “Too late!” exclaimed Beethoven, shaking his head and going through the motions of playing the pianoforte. “Then go to England, where you are admired,” wrote Weber. “Too late!” cried Beethoven, drew Weber’s arm into his and dragged him along to the Sauerhof, where they dined. At parting, Beethoven embraced and kissed him several times and cried: “Good luck to the new opera; if I can I’ll come to the first performance.”
Sir Julius Benedict’s Record
A generation later Sir Julius Benedict, who had also put his memory of those Vienna days at the service of Weber’s son, wrote down his recollections for his work in these words:
I endeavor, as I promised you, to recall the impressions I received of Beethoven when I first met him in Vienna in October, 1823. He then lived at Baden; but regularly, once a week, he came to the city and he never failed to call on his old friends Steiner and Haslinger, whose music-store was then in the Paternostergässchen, a little street, no longer in existence, between the Graben and the Kohlmarkt.
If I am not mistaken, on the morning that I saw Beethoven for the first time, Blahetka, the father of the pianist, directed my attention to a stout, short man with a very red face, small, piercing eyes, and bushy eyebrows, dressed in a very long overcoat which reached nearly to his ankles, who entered the shop about 12 o’clock. Blahetka asked me: “Who do you think that is?” and I at once exclaimed: “It must be Beethoven!” because, notwithstanding the high color of his cheeks and his general untidiness, there was in those small piercing eyes an expression which no painter could render. It was a feeling of sublimity and melancholy combined. I watched, as you can well imagine, every word that he spoke when he took out his little book and began a conversation which to me, of course, was almost incomprehensible, inasmuch as he only answered questions pencilled to him by Messrs. Steiner and Haslinger. I was not introduced to him on that occasion; but the second time, about a week after, Mr. Steiner presented me to the great man as a pupil of Weber. The other persons present were the old Abbé Stadler and Seyfried. Beethoven said to Steiner: “I rejoice to hear that you publish once more a German work. I have heard much in praise of Weber’s opera and hope it will bring both you and him a great deal of glory.” Upon this Steiner seized the opportunity to say: “Here is a pupil of Weber’s”; when Beethoven most kindly offered me his hand, saying: “Pray tell M. de Weber how happy I shall be to see him at Baden, as I shall not come to Vienna before next month.” I was so confused at having the great man speak to me that I hadn’t the courage to ask any questions or continue the conversation with him.
A few days afterwards I had the pleasure of accompanying Weber and Haslinger with another friend to Baden, when they allowed me the great privilege of going with them to Beethoven’s residence. Nothing could be more cordial than his reception of my master. He wanted to take us to the Helenenthal and to all the neighborhood; but the weather was unfavorable, and we were obliged to renounce this excursion. They all dined together at one table at an inn, and I, seated at another close to them, had the pleasure of listening to their conversation.
In the month of November, when Beethoven came to town and paid his daily visit to the Paternostergässchen, I seldom missed the opportunity of being one of the circle of young admirers, eager to show their reverence to the greatest musical genius as well as hoping to be honored by his notice. Among those whom I met upon this errand were Carl Maria von Bocklet, his pupil, Worzischek, Léon de St. Louvain, Mayseder, Holz, Böhm, Linke, Schuppanzigh, Franz Schubert and Kanne.
On the morning after the first performance of “Euryanthe,” when Steiner and Haslinger’s shop was filled with the musical and literary authorities, Beethoven made his appearance and asked Haslinger: “Well, how did the opera go last night?” The reply was: “A great triumph.” “Das freut mich, das freut mich,” he exclaimed, and perceiving me he said: “I should so much have liked to go to the theatre, but,” pointing to his ears, “I go no more to those places.” Then he asked Gottdank, the régisseur; “How did little Sontag get on? I take a great interest in her; and how is the book—good or bad?” Gottdank answered the first question affirmatively, but as to the other he shrugged his shoulders and made a negative sign, to which Beethoven replied: “Always the same story; the Germans cannot write a good libretto.” Upon which I took his little conversation book and wrote in it: “And ‘Fidelio’?” to which he answered: “That is a French and Italian book.” I asked him afterwards: “Which do you consider the best librettos?”; he replied “‘Wasserträger’ and ‘Vestalin.’”