Nouvellettes of the musicians

by E. F. Ellet

Once more we find Beethoven, in the extreme decline of life. In one of the most obscure and narrow streets of Vienna, on the third floor of a gloomy-looking house, was now the abode of the gifted artist. For many weary and wasting years he had been the prey of a cruel malady, that defied the power of medicine for its cure, and had reduced him to a state of utter helplessness. His ears had been long closed to the music that owed its birth to his genius; it was long since he had heard the sound of a human voice.

In the melancholy solitude to which he now condemned himself, he received visits from but few of his friends, and those at rare intervals. Society seemed a burthen to him. Yet he persisted in his labors, and continued to compose, notwithstanding his deafness, those undying works which commanded for him the homage of Europe.

Proofs of this feeling, and of the unforgotten affection of those who knew his worth, reached him in his retreat from time to time. Now it was a medal struck at Paris, and bearing his features; now it was a new piano, the gift of some amateurs in London; at another time, some honorary title decreed him by the authorities of Vienna, or a diploma of membership of some distinguished musical society. All these moved him not, for he had quite outlived his taste for the honors of man’s bestowing. What could they—what could even the certainty that he had won immortal fame, do to soften the anguish of his malady, from which he looked alone to death as a relief?

“They wrong me who call me stern or misanthropic,” said he to his brother, who came in March, 1827, to pay him a visit. “God knoweth how I love my fellow-men! Has not my life been theirs? Have I not struggled with temptation, trial and suffering from my boyhood till now, for their sakes? and now, if I no longer mingle among them, is it not because my cruel infirmity unfits me for their companionship? When my fearful doom of separation from the rest of the human race is forced on my heart, do I not writhe with terrible agony, and wish that my end were come? And why, brother, have I lived, to drag out so wretched an existence? Why have I not succumbed ere now?

“I will tell you, brother. A soft and gentle hand—it was that of Art—held me back from the abyss. I could not quit the world before I had produced all—had done all that I was appointed to do! When my mission is accomplished, then thrice welcome death! I have been guided through life by Patience, the handmaid of Truth; I will go with her even to the footstool of the Eternal.”

The servant of the house entered, and gave Beethoven a large sealed package directed to himself. He opened it; it contained a magnificent collection of the works of Händel, with a few lines stating that it was a dying bequest to the composer, from the Count di N——. He it was who had been the unknown counsellor of Beethoven’s youth and manhood; and the arrival of this posthumous present seemed to assure the artist that his own close of life was crowned with the approval of his friend. It was as if a seal had been set on that approbation, and the friendship of two noble spirits. It seemed like the dismissal of Beethoven from all further toil. Could it be that nothing more remained for him to accomplish on earth?

The old man stooped his face over the papers; tears fell upon them, and he breathed a silent prayer. After a few moments he arose, and said, somewhat wildly, “We have not walked to-day, Carl. Let us go forth. This confined air suffocates me.”

The wind was howling violently without; the rain beat in gusts against the windows; it was a bitter night. The brother wrote on a slip of paper, and handed it to Beethoven.

“A storm?—well—I have walked in many a storm, and I like it better than the biting melancholy that preys upon me here in my solitary room. Oh, how I loved the storm once; my spirit danced with joy when the winds blew fiercely, and the tall trees rocked, and the sea lashed itself into fury. It was all music to me. Alas! there is no music now so loud that I can hear it.

“Do you remember the last time I led the orchestra in the concert at Von——’s? Ah! you were not there; but I heard—yes—by leaning my breast against the instrument. When some one asked me how I heard, I replied, ‘J’entends avec mes entrailles.’”[10]