Now, listeners on either side of a door—in or out—were, as it has been said, Beethoven's chief aversion. Pianoforte virtuoso as he was, fine performer on the organ, violin, and viola—anything that savoured of professional display was nauseous to him. "Music the art was for him the breath of life: music the profession, as generally understood," he relegated to the depths of distaste.
He sat down with a shrug of his square shoulders, and, crooking his fingers to such a degree that his hands almost hid them, continued for a moment his tirade against the prevalent methods of playing.
"How did the old composers who were pianists, play?" he asked of his audience. "They did not run up and down the keyboard with their carefully-practised passages—putsch, putsch, putsch!"—and he worked the runs in a caricatured passage on the pianoforte.
"When true virtuosi played, it was comprehensive, complete.... Good, thorough work one could look into and examine.... But I pronounce judgment on no one," he added hastily, and forthwith burst into the full splendour of the Waldstein sonata.
His passion, his prodigious strength, amazed the Viennese, accustomed as they were to hear him, no less than the young Englishman, to whom he appeared a very prodigy of execution, as his broad, hairy, spatulate fingers, so unlike those of the typical pianist, flung themselves hither and thither upon the keys. He produced tones and effects which were hitherto undreamed of in the philosophy of the pianists of that period; and it was evident that this was no mere display of virtuosity, but that Beethoven had lost consciousness of all around him, and was simply giving vent to his own inspiration, as one possessed might do. And among the impressionable hearers, moved beyond self-control, soon not a dry eye was to be seen. Many broke into sobs; but when they would have crowded round the master, with the ultimate chord, to express in vehement gestures their boundless admiration, he rose with an almost shamefaced air, as though he had debased himself by this semi-poetic performance, and shuffled away, beckoning Neate to follow him.
The two dined alone in Beethoven's apartment in the Sailer-stätte, at his wonted time of two o'clock. The composer was not superior to creature comforts, and was very particular to have certain dishes on certain days. On Thursdays he invariably indulged in his favourite bread-soup, made with ten eggs. On Fridays he had a large haddock, with potatoes. A little Hungarian wine, or a glass of beer, sufficed him; but his favourite beverage was plenty of cold water. Water, in fact, was a necessity to him, and he rejoiced ecstatically in bathing, washing, splashing about in water; in pouring it recklessly over his hands and arms; water, internally or externally, may be said to have been his chief necessity of life.
Upon this especial occasion, the table—still littered with MSS.—was graced by Beethoven's favourite dish of macaroni and cheese, and a small dish of fish. Somewhat Spartan fare this for an Englishman; but Charles Neate was much too excited to care what he was eating.
Beethoven never composed in the afternoon, and very seldom in the evening. He had hardly sat still after dinner, smoking his long clay pipe, when—"Let us go out into the country," said he, suddenly springing up. Neate's possible piano lesson had vanished from his mind. He stuffed one or two extra note-books into his capacious pockets, and they started off—this time in a different direction.
This habit of suddenly rushing out into the open air he practised at all seasons, as the fancy took him: cold or heat, rain or sunshine, made no difference to him whatever. He had found that only among the silent solitudes of the hills and valleys could he fully release that throng of insurgent ideas which for ever clamoured in his brain for an outlet. Melodies, subjects, suggestions for their development and execution, flocked continuously through his mind; and to set them down in feverish haste—to imprison their "first fine careless rapture" in his note-book, for subsequent improvement and enlargement, was the occupation of all these country walks. But, consciously or unconsciously, his restless mind was soothed, and his sensitive nerves strengthened by the tranquil influences of the winds and skies.
Beethoven pursued his usual course on the present occasion, pulling out his note-book every few minutes, his lips moving rapidly, his eyes riveted on some mysterious distance. But he made an obvious effort at entertaining his young companion; and presently, Neate, encouraged by an unwonted stretch of conversation, or rather monologue, ventured to remark upon the master's great power in creating tone-pictures, and of the landscape-drawing, so to speak, of the Pastoral Symphony, wherein the green fields of Paradise seem to expand before earth's weary eyes, and there is