Affairs were for a time in a very bad condition in Vienna and all Austria. The burthen of taxation was severely felt. Everything was at a standstill. When his beloved pupil, the Archduke Rudolph retreated from Vienna he wrote the Lebewohl of the sonata op. 81a; but its finale (die Ankunft) was not written until the 30th of January, 1810. The summer was a dreary one to Beethoven, and there was no demand for the exercise of his genius. Following Ph. E. Bach, Kirnberger, Fux and Albrechtsberger he prepared the Materiellen zum Generalbass (materials for thorough-bass) for his noble pupil. This work was subsequently but wrongly published under the name of Beethoven’s Studien. On the 8th of September, a charity concert was given at which—to the disgrace of the period, be it said, for Napoleon had only just left Schoenbrunn—the Eroica was performed, Beethoven himself holding the baton. The rest of the summer he hoped to spend in some quiet corner in the country. He sojourned sometime with the Brunswicks in Hungary, and composed those works of his genius, op. 77 and 78. His genius, indeed, seems to have awakened to a new life during this fall of 1809. For the sketch-book of the seventh symphony (op. 92) contains sketches of the 8th (op. 93) also; and Beethoven contemplated giving another concert at Christmas, at which, of course, only new works could be performed. These sketches are followed by drafts for a new concerto. On these drafts we find the words: Polonaise fuer Clavier allein, also Freude schoener Goetterfunken—“finish the overture” and “detached periods like princes are beggars, not the whole.” He here takes up once more those ideas of his youth, but with a grander conception of their meaning. They constitute the intellectual germ of the finale of the ninth symphony. But the melody which he actually noted down was elaborated in 1814 into the overture op. 115 (Zur Namensfeier).
During this period of Germany’s national awakening, the theaters had again turned their attention to Schiller’s dramas. The effect of this was to revive Beethoven’s youthful ideas. He now desired to give Tell a musical dress. He had already received a commission of this kind for the Egmont, and, on the occasion of his receiving it, he gave expression to a remarkable opinion. Said he to Czerny: “Schiller’s poems are exceedingly difficult to set to music. The composer must be able to rise high above the poet. But who can rise higher than Schiller? Goethe is much easier.” And, indeed, his Egmont overture breathes a higher spirit and takes a loftier flight than Goethe’s beautiful tragedy. The composition of this music led to his more intimate acquaintance with the poet. To this same year, 1810, belong the incomparable songs Kennst du das Land, and Herz mein Herz, in op. 75.
This year, 1810, brings us to a somewhat mysterious point in Beethoven’s life, to his Heirathspartie (marriage speculation).
In the spring, he writes to his friend Zmeskall: “Do you recollect the condition I am in—the condition of Hercules before Queen Omphale? Farewell, and never again speak of me as the great man, for I never felt either the weakness or the strength of human nature as I do now.” But writing to Wegeler on the second of May, he says: “For a couple of years I have ceased to lead a quiet and peaceful life. I was carried by force into the world’s life. Yet I would be happy, perhaps one of the very happiest of men, were it not that the demon has taken up his abode in my ears. Had I not read somewhere that man should not voluntarily take leave of life while he is still able to do one good deed, I should long have departed hence, and by my own act. Life is very beautiful, but, in my case, it is poisoned forever.” He asked for the certificate of his baptism, and this in a manner so urgent that it creates surprise. It was three months before the answer to the enigma was found, and Breuning wrote that he believed that Beethoven’s engagement was broken off. But it continues a mystery, even to this day, who his choice was. It has been surmised that it was his “immortal loved one,” or Theresa Brunswick. But we know nothing certain on this point. True, he had now acquired both fame and a position which raised him above all fear of want. But she was thirty-two years old, and he hard of hearing. In addition to this, there was, on his side, a relationship of the nature of which we shall yet have something to say. Her passion, if such there was on her part, must have been prudently concealed; and it is certainly remarkable that, from this time forward, her name is not mentioned by Beethoven. However, her niece, Countess Marie Brunswick, who is still living, expressly writes: “I never heard of any intimate relation nor of any love between them, while Beethoven’s profound love for my father’s cousin, Countess Guicciardi, was a matter of frequent mention.” But Giulietta had at this time long been Countess Gallenberg. The solution of this mystery, accordingly, belongs to the future.
On the other hand, we have a few notes to Gleichenstein, who married the younger Malfatti, the following year. In one of them we read: “You live on still, calm waters—in a safe harbor. You do not feel or should not feel the distress of the friend who is caught in the storm. What will people think of me in the planet Venus Urania? How can one judge of me who has never seen me? My pride is so humbled, that even without being ordered to do so, I would travel thither with thee.” And, in the other: “The news I received from you cast me down again out of the regions of happiness. What is the use of saying that you would send me word when there was to be music again? Am I nothing more than a musician to you and to others? Nowhere but in my own bosom can I find a resting-place. Externally, to myself there is none. No, friendship and feelings like it have only pain for me. Be it so, then. Poor Beethoven, there is no external happiness for you. You must create your own happiness. Only in the ideal world do you find friends.” The sketch of that and Klaerchen’s song Freudvoll und leidvoll were found in the possession of Theresa Malfatti. When Gleichenstein was engaged, the feelings of the man who had been so bitterly deceived overflowed. But how could the young girl of eighteen dare to do what the grave Countess would not venture? Theresa Brunswick died unmarried. Theresa Malfatti married, in 1817, one Herr von Drossdick. Nevertheless, Beethoven’s intercourse with the family continued.
We next hear of his acquaintance with Bettina Brentano which led to his meeting Goethe in person.
Her brother Francis had married a Miss Birkenstock, of Vienna. Beethoven had been long and well acquainted with the Birkenstock family. Bettina Brentano herself was betrothed to Achim von Arnim, and her deep love of music had inspired her with a genuine affection for Beethoven. One beautiful day in May, she, in the utmost simplicity of heart, went, in company with her married sister, Mrs. Savigny, to Beethoven and met with the very best reception. He sang for her Kennst du das Land, with a sharp and unpleasant voice. Her eyes sparkled. “Aha!” said Beethoven, “most men are touched by something good. But such men have not the artist’s nature. Artists are fiery and do not weep.” He escorted her home to Brentano’s, and after this they met every day.
Bettina at this time sent Goethe an account of the impression made on her by Beethoven’s appearance and conversation. Her charming letters are to be found in the Cotta Beethovenbuch. They show how exalted an idea Beethoven had of his own high calling. She writes: “He feels himself to be the founder of a new sensuous basis of the intellectual life of man. He begets the undreamt-of and the uncreated. What can such a man have to do with the world? Sunrise finds him at his blessed day’s work, and at sunset he is as busy as at early morning. He forgets even his daily food. O! Goethe, no Emperor or King is as conscious of his power and of the fact that all power proceeds from him, as is this man Beethoven.” And Goethe, who “loved to contemplate and fix in memory the picture of real genius,” who well knew “that his intellect was even greater than his genius, and who frequently throws from himself a luminousness like that of lightning, so that we can scarcely tell, as we sit in the darkness, from what side the day may break,” invited him to Carlsbad, whither he was wont to go every year.
The two remarkable letters to Bettina of the 11th of August, 1810, and the 10th of February, 1811, the autographs of which have since been found, show us how deeply the heart of our artist was stirred by love at this time. They are to be found in “Beethoven Letters.” A work of his composed about this time, the Quartetto serioso, op. 95, of October, 1810, throws some light on this love, and yet it rises far above the pain and the sorrow of the situation in which he found himself. Heavy thunders announce Vulcan at work; but in the finale, how Beethoven’s giant mind frees itself from itself! The noble, powerful soaring Trio op. 97 dates from the spring of 1811, and, especially in the adagio, gives evidence of wonderful heartfelt bliss. But the fact that in this period no other compositions were written would go to show the influence of bitter experience. It may be, however, that the commission he received for the plays “The Ruins of Athens” and “King Stephen,” took up the best portion of his time; and, besides, the two symphonies had to be finished. The song An die Geliebte also belongs to this year 1811, as well as the principal draft of op. 96, the charmingly coquettish sonata for the violin which was finished in 1812, on the occasion of the visit of the then celebrated violin player Rode to Vienna.
Beethoven’s work on these two plays took up the summer of 1811, but they were not put upon the stage until the spring of 1812. At the same time, an opera was wanted for Vienna. It was the “Ruins of Babylon.” He also received an invitation to Naples, where Count Gallenberg was director of the theater. We next find him traveling to Teplitz, a bathing place, where he formed a more intimate acquaintance with Varnhagen, Tiedge and Elise von der Recke. Amalie Sebald, a nut-brown maid of Berlin, twenty-five years of age, was stopping with Elise. Amalie had a charming voice, and was as remarkable for her intellectual endowments as for her beauty of physique. Beethoven, spite of his many disappointments, was greatly taken with her. Her picture is before us. Her eye betokens intellect and nobility of soul, and her mouth extreme loveliness. Beethoven subsequently wrote to Tiedge: “Press the Countess’s hand for me very tenderly, but very respectfully. Give Amalie a right loving kiss, when no one is looking.” He did not see Goethe on this occasion. He was at Teplitz again the following year, when his meeting—of which so much has been said and written—“with the most precious jewel of the German nation,” as he called Goethe, when writing to Bettina, occurred. We can here give only the principal incidents of that event.