The national bankruptcy of Austria did not leave Beethoven unaffected. It compelled him, besides, to come to the assistance of his sick brother, Karl. The first thing, therefore, that he felt called upon to undertake, in order to provide himself with the mere means of subsistence, was the public representation of his new compositions. It was not long before an occasion of an extraordinary kind offered, an occasion which lifted Beethoven’s creations to the dignity of one of the motive powers of the national life of the period. The star of Napoleon’s destiny was declining; and the gigantic struggle begun to bring about the overthrow of the tyrant of Europe, enlisted the sympathy and active participation of our artist.
“To abandon a great undertaking and to remain as I am! O, what a difference between the un-industrious life I pictured to myself so often! O, horrible circumstances which do not suppress my desire to be thrifty, but which keep one from being so. O, God! O, God! look down on thy unhappy Beethoven. Let this last no longer as it is.” Thus did he write in May, 1813, in his diary. Madame Streicher, interested herself in him in his pecuniary embarrassment, which was so great that at one time, he did not have so much as a pair of boots to leave the house in. He writes: “I do not deserve to be in the condition I am—the most unfortunate of my life.” The payments due him from Kinsky did not come, because of his sad death, and Prince Lobkowitz’s love of music and the theater had greatly embarrassed him financially. Even the giving of a concert which he contemplated had to be abandoned in consequence of the bad times.
The idea of a journey to London now took possession of him all the more strongly because of the straits to which he was reduced. This journey was, doubtless, the “great undertaking” referred to above. It is deserving of special mention here, because to it we are indebted for the ninth symphony.
Maelzl, the inventor of the metronome, had built a panharmonicum, and was anxious to make the journey to London in company with Beethoven. He had had the burning of Moscow set for his instrument; and he now wanted a musical representation of the next great event of the time—Wellington’s victory at Vittoria. He suggested the idea to Beethoven. Beethoven’s hatred of Napoleon and love of England induced him to adopt it, and this was the origin of the Schlachtsymphonie (battle-symphony) op. 91. For, in accordance with Maelzl’s proposition, he elaborated what was at first a trumpeter’s piece into an instrumental composition. It was performed before a large audience “for the benefit of the warriors made invalids in the battle of Hanau.” And—, irony of fate!—a work which Beethoven himself declared to be a “piece of stupidity,” took the Viennese by storm, and at a bound, made him very popular in Vienna.
It was performed on the 12th of December, 1813. The applause was unbounded. All the best artists of the city were with him. Salieri, Hummel, Moscheles, Schuppanzigh, Mayseder, and even strangers like Meyerbeer, assisted him. The Seventh Symphony was the ideal foundation of the entire production, for that symphony was the expression of the awakening of the heroic spirit of the nation. Anton Schindler, of whom we have already spoken more than once, and of whom we shall have more to say in the sequel, as Beethoven’s companion, writes: “All hitherto dissenting voices, with the exception of a few professors of music, finally agreed that he was worthy of the laurel crown.” He rightly calls the production of this piece one of the most important events in Beethoven’s life; for now the portals of the temple of fame were opened wide to receive him; and if he had had nothing “nobler or better” than this to do in life, he certainly would never again feel the want of the good things of this world.
His next concern was to turn the occasion of the moment to advantage, to give some concerts with Wellington’s Victory, and thus obtain leisure to work. Pieces from the “Ruins of Athens” also were played at these concerts. The success of one aria in particular from that composition suggested to one of the singers of the court-opera the idea of reviving the Fidelio. It then received the form in which we have it to-day. And what a hold the character of Leonore still had on our artist’s soul, we learn from the account of the dramatic poet, Treitschke, who again tried to abridge the text. He had given expression to the last flash of life in the scene in Florestein’s dungeon, in the words:
“Und spür’ ich nicht linde, sanft säuselnde Luft?
Und ist nicht mein Grab mir erhellet?
Und seh’, wie ein Engel im rosigen Duft
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