In nothing was the want of a wife so apparent as in Beethoven's domestic ménage, which certainly was the non plus ultra of discomfort. One great cause of this was his habit of frequently changing his abode. He had long since left the Lichnowski Palace, his infirmity rendering it desirable that he should have a home of his own, but he was extremely difficult to please in the choice of a residence. One house he would leave because the sun did not shine into his apartment; another because the supply of water was deficient (a serious drawback to him, as he was accustomed to lave his head and face profusely while composing), and for even less cogent reasons he would pack up and leave at an hour's notice, so that it soon became a difficult matter to find a suitable abode for him. It may easily be imagined that this constant removal was not effected without considerable outlay, and so badly did he manage that at one time he had no less than four houses on his hands. When all other resources failed, he would take refuge in the fourth story of his friend Baron Pasqualati's house, which was constantly reserved for him. The summer he always spent in the country, generally in a hired lodging. On one occasion a suite of apartments in the villa of Baron Pronay had been placed at his disposal, and as the house stood in the midst of a superb park, it was thought that Beethoven would be fully satisfied. In a few days, however, the bird had flown, alleging as his reason that he could not endure to listen to the ceremonious salutation with which his host accosted him every morning in his ramble—much less to return it!
Oulibischeff's amusing description of our composer's surroundings is worth repeating:—
"In his room reigned a confusion, an organized chaos, such as can hardly be imagined. Books and music lay on every article of furniture, or were heaped up like pyramids in the four corners. A multitude of letters which he had received during the week or the month covered the floor like a white carpet with red spots. On the window-sill were displayed the remains of a succulent breakfast, by the side or on the top of proof sheets awaiting correction. There a row of bottles, partly sealed, partly empty; further on an escritoire, and on it the sketch of a quartet; on the pianoforte a flying sheet of note-paper with the embryo of a symphony; while to bring so many directly opposite things into harmony, everything was united by a thick layer of dust.
"It may easily be imagined that amidst such a well-arranged whole, the artist had often no small trouble to find what he required. He used to complain bitterly about this, and always put the blame on other people's shoulders, for he fancied that he was extremely systematic in the way in which he kept his things, and used to declare that in the darkest night he could find even a pin belonging to him, if people 'would but put things back in their proper places'!
"On one occasion an important paper was missing—neither a sketch nor a loose sheet, but a thick, clearly copied score from the Mass in D. At last it was found; but where, think you? In the kitchen, where it had been used to wrap up eatables! More than one Donnerwetter! and more than one bad egg must have flown at the head of the devoted cook, when this was discovered; for Beethoven liked fresh eggs too well to use them as missiles.... Once, when he had dismissed his housekeeper, a very good orderly person (and soon received into favour again), he resolved to make himself independent, and to keep no more servants, since they only 'worked mischief in the house.' And why should he not wait upon himself, and look after the kitchen himself? Could it be more difficult to prepare a dinner than to compose a C minor symphony? Charmed with this glorious idea, Beethoven hastens to put it into execution. He invites some friends to dinner, buys the necessary provisions in the market, and carries them home himself; ties on the business-like white apron; adjusts the indispensable nightcap on his head; grasps the cook's knife, and sets to work. The guests arrive, and find him before the fire, whose scorching flame seems to act like the fire of inspiration upon him. The patience of the Viennese appetites was put to an unwonted trial. At length the dishes were placed on the table, and the host proved that it was worth while waiting for him. The soup might have challenged the soupe maigre given in charity; the boiled meat, scarcely cooked, presupposed in individuals of the human race the digestion of an ostrich; the vegetables swam in a sea of fat and water; the roast meat, splendidly burned to a cinder, looked as though it had found its way down the chimney; in short, nothing was fit to eat. And nobody did eat anything except the host, who by word and example encouraged his guests to fall to. In vain; Beethoven's chefs-d'œuvre of cookery were not appreciated, and the guests made their dinner on bread, fruit, and sweetmeats, adding plenty of wine to prevent any bad effects from their enforced abstinence. This remarkable feast convinced even the great Maestro that composing and cooking are two very different things, and the unjustly deposed cook was speedily re-established in her rights."
It was very fortunate for Beethoven that after some years passed in this erratic way, a sensible lady-friend at length came to the rescue, and by her feminine tact and adroitness, succeeded in persuading him to abandon his nomadic habits to some extent, and to mingle a little more in society. This was Frau Nanette Streicher, the amiable wife of the celebrated instrument maker, and early friend of Schiller. She began by putting the wardrobe of the composer to rights (as might be imagined, it was in a deplorable plight), and afterwards, in conjunction with her husband, hired a respectable house for Beethoven, furnished it suitably, and engaged a man (a tailor by trade) and his wife to wait upon him. In this quiet haven our tempest-tossed Beethoven came to anchor for a while, and might have been seen busy over his pianoforte, or among his papers, while his cross-legged knight of the Goose stitched away comfortably in the adjoining anteroom.
When fairly domiciled, Beethoven's mode of life was very regular. His habit was to rise every morning, winter and summer, at daybreak, when he at once proceeded to his desk, where he wrote till about two o'clock without any interruption, except the necessary interval for breakfast, and—if his ideas did not flow rapidly enough—an occasional run of half an hour or longer into the open air. Between two and three he dined, after which it was his invariable custom to make the circuit of the town twice or three times; and no weather could keep him within doors—summer heat or winter frost, thunder, hail, rain, sleet,—nothing prevented this afternoon ramble. It was, in fact, his time for composition; he never ventured out without his note-book to preserve any fugitive thoughts that might flit across his mind, and used laughingly to apply to himself Johanna's words, "I dare not come without my banner!" Necessarily, therefore, he was a very silent companion, but in one sense only, as the whole way he continued humming (or rather growling) in a manner peculiar to himself any thema on which he was mentally at work. Ries relates that on one occasion when they were walking together, Beethoven suddenly exclaimed, "A theme has occurred to me!" They hurried onwards in silence, and on arriving at home the master went at once to the pianoforte (without even removing his hat), where he thundered like an inspired giant for more than an hour, during which the beautiful finale to the Sonata Op. 54 (in F major) struggled into existence.
Beethoven generally returned from his promenade only when warned by the shadows that evening was coming on; then alone in the darkening twilight he loved to breathe to his best, his only friend, his Clavier,[31] the thoughts which met with no response in human sympathy. During the evening he very seldom worked, but would smoke his pipe, and play occasionally on his viola or violin, both of which must always be placed ready for him on the pianoforte.
Our poor deaf Beethoven had, too, his little coterie of sincere and attached friends, among whom his real nature could show itself without restraint or distrust, and who clung to him through life in spite of the unceasing efforts of the two brothers to dislodge them. These were—naturally Prince Lichnowski and his brother Count Moritz, who cherished a love and admiration for Beethoven which the latter warmly reciprocated, dedicating to the Count his Variations, Op. 35, and the beautiful Idyl, Op. 90. To these must be added the worthy Baron von Zmeskall, a Hungarian State Secretary, to whom the composer addressed many a humorous epistle; his old friend Stephan Breuning; the Baron von Gleichenstein; his secretary Schindler; and last, but not least, Franz, Count von Brunswick, to whom he dedicated the Sonata Appassionata, and who had more influence over him than anybody else.
One proceeding Beethoven never omitted, viz., the reading of the evening paper. In these stirring times the newspaper was an absolute necessity, and our musician would never retire to rest without previously ascertaining the state of the political horizon. He used to frequent a coffee-house which boasted another means of exit besides the general one, and taking up his position in the background, he would steadily peruse the Gazette (not a very long task in those days, when "our own" correspondents were as yet undreamt of), and as soon as the last word of the last page had been scanned, beat a hasty retreat through the private door, and wend his solitary way homewards. Ten o'clock rarely found him out of bed. Such was his simple, innocent day! It was no mere phrase, that declaration of his, "I live only in my art,"—it was indeed the one connecting link between him and others.