An ancient Egyptian inscription found in a temple at Saïs, dedicated to the Goddess Neith, which impressed Beethoven so much that he copied it, as above, and kept it framed under glass on his desk.
But no collection of Beethoviana, no affidavits to the truth of anecdotes and conversations, no photographic, no phonographic record of his daily life can give a just idea of the character of this extraordinary man. Its grandeur, titanic in its aspirations, is best seen or felt in the music that was to him the true organ of speech. To comprehend, to appreciate Beethoven, the full knowledge of his compositions is necessary; and to the temperament of the composer must be added the corresponding temperament of a fit hearer. The Beethoven that has voiced the longings, the joys and the sorrows of humanity was not merely the man who walked in the streets of Vienna, not even the being to whom each tree sang the trisagion. The petty failings and the personal virtues of the individual assume in his music gigantic, supernatural proportions. In his life passion, tenderness, pride, arrogance, despair, tumultuous joy, fancy that was at times grotesque, gayety that often was clowning were strangely mingled; just as in "King Lear" the broken-hearted old man and the faithful fool defy together the raging of the elements. To the easy-going, amour-hunting citizen of Vienna Beethoven no doubt appeared, as to Rochlitz, "a very able man, reared on a desert island and suddenly brought fresh into the world," But to the faithful student of his life and works he seems one of the great high-priests of humanity. To the Beethoven of later years, shut off from the world, lonely and full of sorrow, the conceiver of unearthly music such as was never heard before, the sonorous hymn of the Opium Eater over the mystery known among men as Shakespeare might well be chanted:
"O mighty poet! Thy works are not as those of other men, simply and merely great works of art, but are also like the phenomena of nature, like the sun and the sea, the stars and the flowers, like frost and snow, rain and dew, hailstorm and thunder, which are to be studied with entire submission of our own faculties, and in the perfect faith that in them there can be no too much or too little, nothing useless or inert, but that, the farther we press in our discoveries, the more we shall see proofs of design and self-supporting arrangement where the careless eye had seen nothing but accident!"
BEETHOVEN'S WILL.
"TO MY BROTHERS CARL AND ——. To be read and acted upon after my death."
"TO MY BROTHERS CARL AND —— BEETHOVEN:
"O ye who think or say that I am rancorous, obstinate or misanthropical, what an injustice you do me! You little know the hidden cause of my appearing so. From childhood my heart and mind have been devoted to benevolent feelings, and to thoughts of great deeds to be achieved in the future. But only remember that for six years I have been the victim of a terrible calamity aggravated by incompetent doctors; led on from year to year by hopes of cure, and at last brought face to face with the prospect of a lingering malady, the cure of which may last for years, or may be altogether impossible. Born with an ardent, lively temperament, fond of social pleasures, I was early compelled to withdraw myself, and lead a life of isolation from all men. At times when I made an effort to overcome the difficulty, oh how cruelly was I frustrated by the doubly painful experience of my defective hearing! And yet it was impossible for me to say to people, 'Speak louder; shout, for I am deaf.' Ah, how was it possible I could acknowledge weakness in the very sense which ought to be more acute in my case than in that of others—a sense which at one time I possessed in a perfection to which few others in my profession have attained, or are likely to attain. Oh, this I can never do! Forgive me, then, if you see me turn away when I would gladly mix with you. Doubly painful is my misfortune, seeing that it is the cause of my being misunderstood. For me there can be no recreation in human intercourse, no conversation, no exchange of thoughts with my fellow-men. In solitary exile I am compelled to live. Whenever I approach strangers I am overcome by a feverish dread of betraying my condition. Thus has it been with me throughout the past six months I have just passed in the country. The injunction of my intelligent physician, that I should spare my sense of hearing as much as possible, well accorded with my actual state of mind; although my longing for society has often tempted me into it. But how humbled have I felt when some one near me has heard the distant sounds of a flute, and I have heard nothing; when some one has heard a shepherd singing, and again I have heard nothing! Such occurrences brought me to the border of despair, and I came very near to putting an end to my own life. Art alone restrained me! Ah! it seemed impossible for me to quit this world forever before I had done all I felt I was destined to accomplish. And so I clave to this distressful life; a life so truly miserable that any sudden change is capable of throwing me out of the happiest condition of mind into the worst. Patience! I must now choose her for my guide! This I have done. I hope to remain firm in my resolve, until it shall please the relentless Fates to cut the thread of life. Perhaps I shall get better; perhaps not. I am prepared. To have to turn philosopher in my twenty-eighth year! It is no easy task—harder for the artist than for any one else. O God, Thou lookest down upon my inward soul; Thou knowest, Thou seest that love for my fellow-men, and all kindly feelings have their abode there!