BEETHOVEN 200 YEARS AGO: Monday, April 25, 1825

There appear to be a number of pages missing from the conversation books that would cover the first portion of today; Dr. Braunhofer’s visit is not reflected in the surviving pages, nor is the prospective housekeeper’s trial cooking. Karl also goes to the Bürgerspital to see whether old housekeeper Barbara Holzmann can be released to work for Beethoven temporarily, and that is not discussed in the surviving pages either.

On his return to the apartment, Karl mentions a copyist they have retained, Franz Baptist, who lives in the old Wieden on Schleifmühlgasse at no.548. He wants to take the copying work with him.

Karl lets his uncle know that the shoemaker has arrived at the apartment again. Karl needs to go, and he will reserve the maid.

Berlin music critic Ludwig Rellstab makes another (possibly his fourth) visit to Beethoven today. The conversation begins on a slate with chalk, and then moves to the conversation book, where they discuss possible opera subjects for which Rellstab might write the libretto and Beethoven could set to music. One of them is Shakespeare’s Henry VIII. Or perhaps another rescue opera like Fidelio, in the nature of Cherubini’s Lodoïska. Rellstab would be happy to have a setting in old Scotland, using Sir Walter Scott’s characters. In such subjects, the comic is best united with the serious, Rellstab thinks. But those kinds of subjects don’t lend themselves well to recitative.

They discuss Rellstab’s poetic adaptation of the Oresteia, which he had sent Beethoven. Rellstab notes Orestes has recitative throughout, but the ear tires of that too easily. It would require extensive alterations to be made into an opera. Cassandra could be omitted, and instead of that, there could be contrasting scenes with the more high-spirited joy of Aegisthus, giving the opera more variety. As it stands, the scenes of terror are too frequent.

Johann had also given Rellstab three other opera subjects as possibilities. [These were noted on Rellstab’s letter forwarding Orestes: The Women’s Island by Heinrich Clauren 1771-1854), The Alpine Rose, based on another story by Clauren; and Kenilworth, by Sir Walter Scott.] “I would most like to choose for you a subject that could be presented on many stages, and it should be better than Orestes.”

Conversation Book 87, 1r-1v, 44r. The conversation continues directly into Conversation Book 88. That volume today contains 51 leaves, all of which contain writing. The pages unfortunately are now bound out of order, and we for the most part follow Theodore Albrecht’s revised ordering of the leaves. The book covers the period through May 7.

Rellstab asks when Beethoven will be moving to the country. Beethoven hopes to do so soon, but first he needs to move out of his Johannesgasse apartment, the lease of which was up yesterday.

Rellstab is taking a journey to Pressburg on Wednesday the 27th, but will return to Vienna. He asks Beethoven to send him his wishes for an opera, and let him know whether some of his lieder might be pleasing. He suggests that if he would like to set some of them, he could enter into a business relationship with the Laue music dealership in Berlin. “Please keep my texts for the present as a remembrance; I’ll write more extensively later with further details about everything.”

Rellstab leaves, and there appear to be no more entries that survive until April 28th.

Conversation Book 88, 25r-25v.

Rellstab wrote about this visit in his not always reliable memoirs, taken here from Sonneck, Beethoven: Impressions of his Contemporaries (New York: G. Schirmer 1926) at 185-189. “At last, after an interval of more than two weeks, I determined to attempt another visit. With my heart beating in the old familiar way I rang at the well-known door; it opened–and Beethoven himself confronted me, a surprise which found me so totally unprepared that, in fact, no turn of phrase with which I might skillfully meet the situation presented itself to me. But then who would have thought that Beethoven might open his door himself, like any other simple Vienna burgher, when a stranger rang the bell or knocked.” [Beethoven may have seen the bell ringing, since he probably could not hear the bell or knocking.]

“His amiable, friendly nature, however, guided me over all the rocks of embarrassment. For, though at first, the unwelcome disturber had made him look out of sorts, he said in a very friendly manner: ‘Ah, it is you! You have not visited me for a good long while. I even thought you already had left the city!’ His words were calculated to surprise me, yet since one could only answer him in writing, I contented myself with accompanying a negative shake of my head with a movement of one hand intended to convey that it would have been impossible for me to depart without having taken leave of him. Nothing in the world would have prevented me from doing so in writing, at the very least!”

“Beethoven led me into his room and, as he handed me the writing-slate which lay ever at hand, invited me to sit down. I wrote: ‘Your illness prevented me from coming to you!’ ‘Ah,’ he cried, ‘that should not have kept you! In winter I always am in the same state in which I recently have been. I do not feel well until I move out into the country in summer. Who told you that I had been ill?’ I explained briefly in writing what happened to me. He once more shook his head. ‘I often have my hours of gloom,’ he went on, ‘when I tell those about me to admit no one! But they do not know how to make distinctions. I have so many wearisome, irksome visitors! Aristocratic folk! I am useless for that sort of thing!”

“‘Have you received my poems?’ I wrote, seeing that he had paused.”

“He nodded and pointed to the table where some sheets of my verse lay scattered about among many other papers: ‘I like them very much,’ he said, ‘and when I am well I expect to set some of them to music.’ I seized his hand and pressed it with all heartiness. This, I thought, spoke more clearly than if I had taken the pencil and set down in formal words: That would be my greatest joy. And Beethoven understood how I meant it; as his glance and answering pressure of the hand informed me.” [Beethoven never set any of Rellstab’s poems, though Franz Schubert did so not long after Beethoven’s death.]

“‘In the winter,’ he began after a few moments, ‘I do but little. I only elaborate and score what I have written during the summer. Yet even that consumes a great deal of time. At present I still have to work on a Mass. When I once get out into the country again, then I shall be in the right mood for everything.'”

“Since he fell silent and seemed to be waiting for me to resume, I wrote down: ‘I made the acquaintance of your brother last week.’ These words did not make a favorable impression. A half-annoyed, half-melancholy expression passed over Beethoven’s features. ‘Ah, my brother,’ he finally said, ‘he chatters a great deal. He must have bored you greatly.'”

[An additional paragraph appears here in Rellstab’s memoirs, omitted from Sonneck: “It was obvious that with this remark, touching on a minor quality, Beethoven wanted to divert the bitter feelings that he did not wish to speak aloud. Later, I was told that he was on very bad terms with this brother. Whether rightly or wrongly, we shall leave that entirely open to debate, but when I spoke of his statement that he had promised 10,000 gulden to the doctor who would restore Beethoven’s hearing, no one wanted to give any real credence to this generous zeal. But as I said, I am only relating the facts, strictly according to the truth, however faithfully they have been preserved in my notes and my memory, especially since, given Beethoven’s character, it was difficult to maintain a permanently untroubled relationship with him.” Rellstab, Beethoven. Ein Bild der Erinnerung aus meinem Leben in Garten und Wald. Novellen und vermischte Schriften, vol.4, Leipzig: Brockhaus 1854, p.95.]

“In order to erase the disagreeable impression my remark had made, I wrote down that I had heard his Quartet in E-flat major played at the affair described [the April 9 benefit performed by Joseph Böhm and his quartet]. A happy smile vivified his languid glance when he read the words; yet it was but momentary; then he spoke, as though in self-reproof: ‘It is so difficult that they probably played it badly! Did it go at all?'”

“My written answer, expressed with greatest brevity was: ‘It had been carefully practiced and was played twice in immediate succession.’ ‘That is well. It must be heard several times. How did you like it?’ To reply to this question caused me no little embarrassment. How was I to explain to him the impression the work had made on me? To this day I have my own scruples anent expressing my conviction that in this last, enigmatic work by Beethoven are to be found only the ruins of the erstwhile youthful and virile exaltation of his genius; that it often is buried beneath the most disordered rubble and wreckage. Yet I still have my compunctions, and often doubts overtake me as to whether, perhaps, it is not my own lack of comprehension which calls forth my impression. What was I to say at that time? Yet I still might express without qualification one truth which, if it did not glorify the work, at least would reveal to the Master the mood into which the composition as a whole had transported me. So I wrote: ‘I was devoutly and profoundly moved to the depths of my soul!'” [These opinions about the quartet largely match those in Rellstab’s review in the May 25 Berliner AMZ, in which he is bewildered by much, but nevertheless says Beethoven spoke to him “in a wonderful and deeply moving way.”]

“And at that very moment such was again the case. Beethoven read and kept silence; we looked at each other and said not a word, yet a world of sensations flooded my breast. Beethoven, too, was unmistakably touched. He rose and went to the window, where he remained standing beside the piano. To see him so near the instrument called up a thought in me which I never before had dared entertain. If he–ah! He would but need to make a half-turn to bring him directly before the keys–if he would only seat himself, pour out his emotions in tone! Filled with a timidly blissful hope I followed him, stepped up to him, and laid my hand on the instrument, an English grand of Broadwood’s make. With my left hand I softly sounded a chord, in order to induce Beethoven to turn around; yet he did not seem to have heard it. A few moments later, however, he did turn to me since he saw that my eyes were fixed on the instrument and said: ‘It is a fine piano! I received it from London as a gift. These are the names of the donors!'”

“He pointed with his finger to the crossbeam over the keyboard. And there, in fact, I saw the names: Moscheles, Kalkbrenner, Cramer, Clementi and Broadwood himself [actually the names read: Kalkbrenner, Ries, Ferrari, Cramer, Knyvett]. The incident was touching. The wealthy artistic builder had been able to find no better destination for his instrument, which seems to have been an exceptionally successful example of his skill, than to present it to Beethoven as a gift. The great artists named, as godfathers of this thought, so to say, had reverently signed their names, and thus the curious albumleaf had crossed the sea, in order to lay at the feet of the most exalted, the most celebrated of all the homages of the famous. ‘It is a handsome gift,’ he continued, stretching his hands out toward the keys, yet without ceasing to hold my eye. He gently struck a chord. Never again will one penetrate my soul with such a wealth of woe, with so heart-rending an accent! He had struck the C-major chord with his right hand, and played a B to it in the bass, his eyes never leaving mine; and in order that it might make the soft tone of the instrument sound at its best, he repeated the false chord several times and–the greatest musician on earth did not hear its dissonance!”

“Whether Beethoven had noticed his error I do not know. Yet when he turned his head from me and toward the instrument, he struck several chord sequences with absolute correctness, as they might lie convenient to an accustomed hand, but then at once ceased playing. That was all I heard him play myself.”

[From Rellstab’s memoirs, at 98-101, omitted from Sonneck: “It was often claimed, both earlier and later, that Beethoven’s hearing was so completely destroyed that, although he couldn’t understand a shout or even hear a loud noise, he was nevertheless able to distinguish musical tones very well. His condition was also said to be subject to very noticeable fluctuations, and at times he could hear surprisingly well, which continually reawakened in him the hope of a complete recovery someday. This may be so, and I can neither confirm nor deny it. But the fact I have related is completely true. Whether his illness, moodiness, or distraction further impaired his hearing, or whether his environment had similar experiences—I don’t know. For a great pianist like Beethoven once was, the whole case of a mistake in the simplest chord position must be extremely rare and can only occur under circumstances other than those described. Perhaps I would be one of the few who have witnessed such a stark testimony of the immeasurable misfortune that befell him! The feeling I experienced during this experience will remain unforgettable for my entire life.”]

[“As I write this, another circumstance occurs to me, as was told to me by Ferdinand Ries, Beethoven’s long-time student and friend. I cannot refrain from sharing it here, since it partly confirms my perception to some extent, and partly is of great interest in itself, especially because it is connected with the genesis of one of the most wonderful creations of the great genius.”]

[“‘I came,’ Ries recounts, ‘one summer morning when Beethoven was living in Baden, to take lessons. As I entered the house, I heard him fantasizing in his room. In order not to disturb him, I remained listening at the door and noticed that he really was not fantasizing, but was rhapsodically throwing out individual passages, and seemed to be trying them out now in this way, now in that. After a few moments, he got up from the instrument and opened the window. Now I entered. He greeted me in a very cheerful mood, but said, “We don’t want to have lessons today. We’d rather go for a walk together, the morning is so wonderful.’ It was Beethoven’s great pleasure to roam lonely, often untrodden paths through forest, valley, and mountain. Joyfully, we went out together and soon found ourselves in the middle of a lonely forest on the beautiful mountain slopes of Baden. I noticed that Beethoven was very preoccupied and was humming to himself. From experience, I knew that at such moments he was most powerfully excited to create, and therefore I was careful not to disturb him, but walked silently beside him. In the individual phrases he hummed to himself, I thought I recognized a similarity to what he had previously played in his room. It was certain that he was working on a larger work.'”]

[“‘After walking for about an hour, we sat down on the lawn. Suddenly, from the mountains across the valley, a shawm sounded, the unexpected sound of which, under the bright blue spring sky, in the deepest solitude of the forest, had a wonderful effect on me. I could not refrain from drawing the attention of Beethoven, who was sitting next to me, lost in thought, and seemed to hear nothing of it. He listened, but from his expression I noticed that he did not hear the notes, although they continued. Then, for the first time, I became convinced that his hearing was severely affected; it had sometimes seemed that way to me before, but since the illness, as it later turned out, came and went periodically at first, I thought I was mistaken. But here I was irrefutably convinced. For the notes continued so brightly and clearly that not a single one was lost, and Beethoven heard nothing! In order not to upset him, I pretended that I too could not hear it any more. We set out after some time, and the sounds accompanied us for a long time on our lonely forest path, without Beethoven having the slightest perception. Thus, the sweet charm they had initially exerted on me turned into a deeply painful one, and I now walked almost without meaning to, silently and lost in thought beside my great teacher, who, as before, continued, completely absorbed in his own thoughts, humming individual incomprehensible phrases and notes, and occasionally singing aloud. When we returned after a few hours, he sat down impatiently at the piano and called out: ‘Now I want to play something for you.’ And with captivating fire and tremendous power, he played the Allegro of the great F minor Sonata [‘Appassionata,’ op.57.] That day will remain unforgettable for me.”]

[Rellstab here conflates part of his account of this conversation with his final visit to Beethoven; that final visit and the confusion around Rellstab’s account of it will be addressed on May 5. We have here rearranged portions of Rellstab’s recollections to fit with the chronology as reflected in the documentary evidence of the conversation books.]

“I then wrote down on the tablet: ‘To-morrow I am travelling to Pressburg and Eisenstadt for a few days; yet we will return by the first of May and, perhaps, will once more spend a few days in Vienna.” [Rellstab will go with Wilhelm von Ludolff to Pressburg for several days to visit Carl Ludolph, probably a relative of Rellstab’s traveling companion, an actor and poet at the Theater there. They will return to Vienna about May 1.]

[From Rellstab’s memoirs at 105-107: “‘You want to leave already? ‘he exclaimed in astonishment. Given the difficulty of giving him any information, I had limited myself to the most immediate essentials or necessary details, and had therefore not yet told him anything about the end of my stay in Vienna. ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he continued. ‘The weather will be fine. I’m already thinking about moving to the country. By the time you come back, I might already be back in Mödling. [Baden is meant.] I’ll feel better there. You must come visit me there.'”]

[“My hope for this reunion was slim. For my traveling companion from whom I could not part for many reasons, had already become impatient with the delayed business in Vienna, and our entire escape to Hungary was merely an interlude to allow the date for a decision in his business affairs to approach, which he necessarily had to wait for. If there was no delay, then I knew that our departure would also be as quick as possible. Moreover, everything was already arranged as if we were to leave Vienna definitively.”]

[“I expressed my concern that we might see each other for the last time until I returned to Vienna for a longer period, which I certainly intended to do next year. But how long is a year, how uncertain what lies beyond! I would have liked to have taken a souvenir from Beethoven’s room with me, perhaps one of those wildly, barely legible sheets of music–how would I have dared to ask him for such a thing!”]

[“‘I certainly think we will see one another,’ he said after a short pause in such a warm, heartfelt tone that I felt he indeed would like to see me again. The moment of separation because all the more melancholy for me. But there he was as I prepared to set off. As always, I wanted to give him my hand in farewell; then he took both my hands, drew me to him, and kissed me so warmly, German-style, without any artificial heightening of feelings, but only because he really meant it, that my whole heart, glowing with enthusiasm, likewise opened up and I held my dear, highly esteemed one in my arms with an inexpressibly blissful feeling. Yes, I felt that my love had awakened something similar in his breast, that he returned my warm thanks for the heart I had so fully and wholeheartedly given him. And should that have been something so rare for him? Had the holy feeling with which I had approached him not really been offered to him often, among the many, many thousands who thanked him with the deepest emotions, the most uplifting tremors of their souls? – I shall not ask! But to me it was like a dream, and yet so real, so warm, so humanly true and so divinely uplifting at the same time. The great, immortal Ludwig van Beethoven at my breast! I felt his lips on mine, and he must have felt moistened by my warm, blissful, unstoppably welling tears!”]

[“And so I left him; I had no thought, only a glowing feeling surging through my innermost breast: ‘Beethoven has embraced me!’ And I will be proud of this happiness until the last day of my life.”]

The London Philharmonic Society gives its fifth concert of the season this evening, with the “venerable, but still vigorous” Muzio Clementi conducting. The second half of the program opens with Beethoven’s Second Symphony in D, op.36. The Harmonicon of June, 1825, Nr.XXX at 111 observed, “Beethoven’s symphony, the first in Cianschettini’s edition, one of his earlier works, is full of spirit and meaning, and was written when his mind was rich in new ideas, when he had not to seek for novelty in the regions of grotesque melody and harshly-combined harmony. We have here a larghetto in A, that speaks a language infinitely more intelligible than the majority of what are called vocal compositions have the power to express: the great elegance and beauty of this movement obtained a very general encore.” [The firm of Cianchettini & Sperati, London, had published editions of the first three of Beethoven’s symphonies as part of their series of full scores of the symphonies of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. In the process, they somehow reversed the numbers of the first two of Beethoven’s symphonies, presenting this as “Symphony I” and the First as “Symphony II.” Their edition of the Second Symphony first appeared in 1808. The firm folded in 1812.]