One of our country excursions led us on so far that we did not return to Döbling (Beethoven's residence) till eight o'clock. He had been humming to himself the whole way, and keeping up a kind of howling, up and down, without articulating any distinct sounds. Upon asking him what he meant, by this, he said "I have just thought of a subject for the last movement of the Sonata (in F minor, Op. 57). On entering the room, he ran up to the piano without taking off his hat. I sat down in a corner, where he soon forgot me, and for the next hour he went on storming over the keys until the Finale, such as we now admire it, was struck out. At length he got up, and, surprised at still finding me there, said, "I cannot give you a lesson to-day, I must work."
Beethoven once laid down a serious plan for a joint and very extensive tour, where I was to have arranged the concerts and played all his Concertos and other works. He himself would have conducted and extemporised only. The latter was in fact the most extraordinary performance that could be witnessed, especially when he was in good spirits, or otherwise excited. I never heard any one come near the height which Beethoven had attained in this branch of execution. The stores of thought which crowded upon him, the caprice by which he was led on, the variety of treatment, and the difficulties, whether accidental or called forth by himself, were inexhaustible.
As we were one day talking of subjects for Fugues at the conclusion of a lesson, I sitting at the piano and he next to me, I began to play the subject of the first Fugue of Graun's "Death of Jesus." Beethoven soon played it after me, first with the left hand, and then bringing in the right, he worked it up for more than half an hour without the slightest interruption. I am still at a loss to think how he could bear his uncomfortable position; but his inspiration made him insensible to external impressions.
On Clementi's coming to Vienna, Beethoven was going to call upon him; but his brother persuaded him that Clementi ought to pay him the first visit; this he would probably have done, although much the older of the two, had there been no gossip about it. As it was, Clementi had been at Vienna for some time, before he knew Beethoven even by sight. At one time we used often to dine at the "Swan," at one and the same table—Clementi with his pupil Klengel, Beethoven with me: we knew each other, but did not speak or even bow, as by so doing we might either of us have forfeited our lessons; for my own part, I know this must have been the case, as Beethoven never held a middle course.
The Sonata in C major (Op. 53), dedicated to his first patron, Count Waldstein, had originally a long Andante. A friend of Beethoven's pronounced this Sonata to be too long, which brought him a volley of abuse in return; upon quietly weighing the matter, however, my master convinced himself of the truth of his assertion. He then published the grand Andante in F major, 3/8 time, separately, and afterwards composed the highly interesting introduction to the Rondo, such as it now stands. This Andante will ever bring a sad recollection to my mind. When Beethoven played it for the first time to his friend Krumpholz and me, we were so delighted with it, that, by dint of begging, we got him to play it over again. On my return home, as I passed Prince Lichnowsky's door, I went in, to tell him of Beethoven's beautiful new composition, and was now compelled to play the piece as far as I could remember it. As I went on, I remembered more and more of it, so that the Prince made me try the whole over again: by this means he too learnt part of it, and, thinking to afford Beethoven a surprise, he walked into his room the next day, saying, "I too have composed something which is not bad." Beethoven firmly declared he would not hear it; but in spite of this the Prince sat down and played the greater part of the Andante, to the amazement of the composer. He was so incensed at this that he vowed he never would play to me again; no, nor even in my presence, and often required of me to leave the room on that account. One day, as a small party were breakfasting with the Prince after the concert at the "Augarten" (at eight in the morning), Beethoven and I being present, it was proposed that we should drive to Beethoven's house to hear his new opera "Leonora," which had never been performed. Upon our arrival, Beethoven desired me to leave, and as the earnest solicitations of all present were of no avail, I did go, but with tears in my eyes. The whole party noticed it, and, Prince Lichnowsky following my steps, desired I would remain in the ante-room, and he would make up the matter, of which he considered himself to have been the cause. Of this, however, my wounded pride would not hear. I learnt afterwards that Lichnowsky had reproached Beethoven with great violence, as after all it was only the Prince's love for the great composer's works which brought about the whole occurrence, and consequently Beethoven's wrath too; but all this tended only to make matters worse, as he now declined playing to the company assembled.
The third of his Violin-Quartetts in D major (Op. 18) was first composed, and the one in F, now the first, had originally been the third.
Beethoven had scarcely travelled at all; he had in his younger years, towards the close of the century, been to Presburgh, Pesth, and once to Berlin. Although his manner was alike to men, whether of the highest or the lowest conditions, yet he was by no means insensible to the civilities of the former. Whilst at Berlin he played several times at court (in the reign of King Frederick William II.), and there composed the two Sonatas with violoncello obligato (Op. 5) for himself and Duport, first violoncello to the king. Beethoven was presented, on his departure, with a gold snuff-box filled with louis-d'ors, and he used to relate with much complacency, that it was no common box, but such as is usually given to ambassadors.
He used to see a good deal of Himmel, whom he set down as having a pleasing talent, but nothing more; his piano-forte playing he called elegant and agreeable, but said he must not be compared to Prince Louis Ferdinand. He paid the latter, as he thought, a great compliment, by telling him he did not consider him anything like a royal or princely performer, but a famous piano-forte player.
During Prince Ferdinand's stay at Vienna, the old Countess —— gave a musical soirée to a few friends,—Beethoven amongst the number; but at supper there was a table laid for the Prince and the highest nobility alone, and no cover for Beethoven. He took fire, uttered some coarse expressions, and took his hat and left the house. A few days later Prince Louis gave a dinner-party, to which the old Countess had been invited. On sitting down, places were assigned to the Countess on one, to Beethoven on the other side of the Prince, a distinction which he always talked of with great pleasure.
My father's letter of introduction to Beethoven contained at the same time a credit to a small amount, should I stand in need of it. I never made use of it, but whenever he found my cash running low he sent me money unsolicited, and never would allow me to refund it to him; he really loved me, and in one of his absent fits gave me a singular proof of it. On my return to Silesia, where I had been as pianist to Prince Lichnowsky, upon Beethoven's recommendation, he was in the act of shaving just as I entered his room, soaped up to his very eyes, to which his excessively strong beard extended. On perceiving me, he started up and embraced me with so much cordiality, that he effectually transferred every particle of the soapy substance from his left cheek to my right. How we did laugh at this!