Beethoven: A Memoir Part 1

Beethoven: A Memoir.

by Elliott Graeme.

PREFACE.

The following brief sketch can lay no claim to originality; it is merely a slight _resume_ of the princ.i.p.al events in the master's life (from the works of Schindler, Ries, and Wegeler, and more especially from Marx and Thayer), and is intended for those who, without the leisure to go deeply into the subject, yet desire to know a little more about the great Tone-poet than can be gathered from the pages of a concert programme, however skilfully annotated.

The few letters introduced have been translated as nearly as possible in the manner in which they were written. Beethoven's epistolary style was simple, fervent, original, but certainly not polished.

The author feels convinced that any shortcomings in the "Memoir" will be more than atoned for by Dr. Hiller's eloquent and appreciative "_Festrede_," which seems to have been dictated by that poetic genius, the possession of which he so modestly disclaims.

E.G.

LONDON, _17th December, 1870._

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The first edition of this little book was exhausted within a few months of publication, and I have repeatedly been asked since to reprint it, but have hitherto withheld my consent, trusting to be able to undertake a more comprehensive work on the subject. As, however, the necessary leisure for this is still wanting to me, and the demand for the "Memoir"

continues, it is fated to reappear, and I can but commend it again to the kind indulgence of the reader.

Several rectifications as to dates, &c., have been made throughout, in accordance with the recent researches of ALEXANDER THAYER, and the chapter ent.i.tled _Lehrjahre_ has been partly rewritten on the basis of NOTTEBOHM'S _Beethoven's Studien_ (_Part I., Unterricht bei Haydn und Albrechtsberger_) by far the most important contribution to Beethoven-literature which has appeared for some time. It may, indeed, be considered the first step to the _systematic_ study of the Master, and as such deserves to be better known in England than is at present the case.

E.G.

LONDON.

_August, 1876._

THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF BEETHOVEN'S BIRTH.[1]

"_Quasi Fantasia._"

The year 1749 brought us Goethe; 1756, Mozart; 1759, Schiller; and 1770, Beethoven. Thus, within the short s.p.a.ce of twenty-one years four of the greatest poetic geniuses were born--four men of whom not only the German Fatherland, but all mankind must be proud.

And even more happy than proud, since the most splendid gift which the Divine Being from time to time vouchsafes to poor humanity is that of genius. Through it we receive the highest good in which we are capable of partic.i.p.ating--the forgetfulness of self in a n.o.bler life. Genius it is that gives us, if but for a few short hours, that which the believer awaits with earnest hope in another and a better world.

Has there ever existed a poet who transported our souls into his ideal kingdom with more irresistible force than our Beethoven? Certainly not.

More universal effects have been achieved by others, but none more deep or n.o.ble. Nay, we may say without exaggeration that never did an artist live whose creations were so truly _new_;--his sphere was the unforeseen.

Amidst so much that is trivial and dispiriting in art and life, the widely diffused interest, the delight in the creations of the wondrous man is a bright sign of our times. I do not say the _comprehension_ of them; that is not, and cannot be the case. But there are, perhaps, no poems in the love and admiration of which so many of the highest intellects concur as the tone-poems of our master. To the essential nature of our Art, which bears within itself the all-reconciling element of love, must we attribute the fact that against it the most violent differences in religious, political, and philosophical opinion make no stand--it is the might of Beethoven's genius which subdues the proudest minds, while quickening the pulsations of the simplest hearts.

If in anything the will of man shows itself weak, nay, helpless, it is in the matter of intellectual creation. A very strong will (is not even this beyond the reach of most?) may lead to great learning, to brilliant technical acquirements, to virtue itself--a spontaneous poetic thought in word, tone, or colour, it will never be able to bring forth. Thus, the true relation of genius to us is that of a star, diffusing light and warmth, which we enjoy and admire. Since, however, to the higher man recognition and grat.i.tude are necessities, since he desires to add intelligence and reverence to his admiration, and would willingly offer up love also to the subject of it, he begins to investigate. He asks, what the divine germ, existing even in the lisping child, demanded for its development; what brought it out into blossom--what influences worked upon it beneficially--to what extent he who was so n.o.bly gifted was supported and furthered by moral strength--how he used the talent committed to him--finally, how he fought through the life-struggle from which no mortal is exempt.

And then he inquires again and further; which of his qualities, which of the properties peculiar to himself, affect us most strongly?--in what relation does he stand to the development of his art--in what to that of his nation?--how does he appear with regard to his own century?

A mere attempt at answering these questions, and the many connected with them, would require an enormous apparatus of a biographic and aesthetic nature, including a knowledge of the history of art and culture, and an acquaintance with musical technicalities. It does not fall either within our power or the scope of these pages to make any approach to such a task. A few slight hints may suffice to prevent our forgetting (amid the extraordinary and all-engrossing occurrences of the present time) the day which sent to us a hundred years ago the no less extraordinary man, who, a prophet in the n.o.blest sense of the word, foresaw and declared (though only in tones) the n.o.bleness and greatness which will be revealed by the German people, if friendly stars shine upon their future.

A species of caste seems to have been implanted in man by nature--there are families of statesmen, warriors, theologians, artists. It will nevertheless be admitted that while it is often the case that circ.u.mstances, family traditions, cause the sons to follow in their fathers' footsteps, it frequently happens that the calling lays hold of the man, becomes, in the truest sense of the word, a _calling_.

Several of our first composers have sprung out of families in which the profession of music was chiefly followed--but certainly not many. One thing, however, was common to nearly all--they were marvellous children, prodigies. _Prodigy!_ now-a-days an ominous word, recalling immediately to mind industrious fathers, who force on concerts, and musical attainments which do not refresh by their maturity, but only excite astonishment at the precocity of those from whom they are exacted. The abuse of the phenomenon has brought the latter itself into a bad light.

A musical hothouse plant forced into premature bloom through vanity or the thirst for money may soon become stunted; none the less, however, does the fact remain, that no intellectual gift shows or develops itself earlier than that of music. Bach, Handel, Mozart, Hummel, Rossini, Mendelssohn, Clara Schumann, Liszt, Joachim, were prodigies. Nature knows what she is about. He alone to whom this wondrous tone-language has become a second mother tongue, will be able to express himself with freedom in it; but how soon do we begin to attempt our mother tongue!

And how few succeed in really learning to _speak_ it!

It would be inexplicable had not our Beethoven been also a prodigy. He was one, but after such a sound, healthy sort, that those about him were more struck by the thought of his great future, than enthusiastic about his achievements at the time. The compositions which have been preserved to us from his boyish days bear traces, even then, of the frank, honest mode of expression which remained his to the end of his career.

Naturally, their contents are trifling; what has a boy of twelve years to communicate to the world, if his inner life develop itself according to nature? Borne onwards by his artistic readiness, he attained, however, at a very early age an honourable, independent position with regard to the outer world. He had barely quitted childhood when he was organist at the Elector's Court in Bonn. At a later period he occupied for several years the post of violist in the orchestra. The viola was then one of the most neglected orchestral instruments, and we must form but a slight estimate of Beethoven's achievements upon it. It was, however, invaluable for him, the future Commander of the instrumental tone-world, to have served _in the line_. In fact, every striving young composer ought, as a matter of duty, to act for at least one year as member of an orchestra, were it only at the great drum. It is the surest method of making the individuality of the different sound organs ineffaceably one's own. When the latter are entrusted to capable executants (as was the case in the Electoral orchestra), the idea of a definite personality is added to the peculiarity of the instrument, which is not at all a bad thing. How often in later years may the image of one or other of his former colleagues have presented itself vividly and helpfully to the mind of the master, as he sat meditating over a score! How often may he have heard in spirit an expressive solo performed by one of them!

The stimulus which Beethoven received from singers in those early days at Bonn did not work very deeply. His own father, indeed, was one of the Elector's vocalists, and sang both in church and on the stage. But he was a sorry fellow, who saw in his gifted son only a means of extricating himself from his gloomy pecuniary difficulties, and certainly not the man to inspire him for the wedding of Word to Tone--the n.o.blest union ever contracted.

Even in the most magnificent of Beethoven's vocal works there exists a certain roughness; the words domineer over the melody, or the latter over the poem. That perfect union--that melting in one another of both factors--which is peculiar to Mozart and Handel is found only separately (_vereinzelt_) in him. Would a youth spent in the midst of a great song-world have led our master along other paths?

Certainly not without significance for his development was the fact, that he was born on the lovely banks of our joyous old Rhine. Do we not sometimes hear it surging like a wave of the mighty stream through the Beethoven harmonies? Do we not feel ourselves blown upon by the fresh mountain air? And do not the cordial, true-hearted melodies, which so often escape from the master, breathe the very magic of one of those enchanting evenings which we talk or dream away on the sh.o.r.e of the most truly _German_ stream? The taste for an open-air life (a life _im Freien_, in freeness, as the German language so n.o.bly expresses it) remained faithful to him until the end; and we can scarcely picture him to ourselves better than as wandering in forests and valleys, listening for the springs which sparkled within himself.

Scientific knowledge, even in its most elementary form, was hardly presented to the notice of the young musician, and if at a later period any interest in such pursuits had arisen within him, he would have been obliged to dismiss it. On the other hand, he buried himself with his whole soul in the loftiest works of poetry, that second higher world, and always came back with renewed delight upon the works of Homer, Shakspere, Goethe, and Schiller. Many and varied were the influences which they exerted upon him. They were to him "intellectual wine," as Bettina once named his music. But those are completely mistaken who expect to find, either in them or anywhere else, positive expositions or elucidations of Beethoven's compositions, as some have occasionally attempted to do, building their theory partly on utterances of the master. When the latter refers the constantly inquiring secretary, Schindler (I know not on what occasion), to Shakspere's "Tempest," it was, after all, only an answer--nothing more. The awakening of pure musical imagination is just as inexplicable as are its results. One thing alone stands firm,--that which speaks to the heart, came from the heart,--but the life-blood which pulsates at the heart of the true artist is a thousand times more richly composed than that which flows in our veins. No aesthetic physiologist will ever be able to a.n.a.lyze it completely. And, in life, is it only the deep thoughts, the extraordinary occurrences, which call forth all our sensations, out of which alone our happiness and our misery are formed? Is not a calm, serene autumn day enough to entrance our inmost nature? a single verse to console us? the friendly glance of a maiden to throw us into the sweetest _reverie_? What trifling influences affect the eternally rising and falling quicksilver of our hopes! And thus the smallest occasions may have been sufficient to cause vibration in a soul so highly strung as Beethoven's. Most powerfully, however, in such a genius, worked the pure creative impulse, that eternally glowing fire in the deepest recesses of his nature, with its volcanic--but, in this instance, blissful eruptions.

We know that Beethoven proceeded as a young man to Vienna, which he never afterwards left. He found there (at least in the first half of his residence) enthusiastic admirers, intelligent friends, admission to distinguished circles, and lastly, that most necessary evil--money.

n.o.body will grudge to the lively, good-humoured, imperial city the fame of being able to designate as her own a brilliant line of our greatest tone-poets. But then she ought not to take it amiss that we should wonder how, within her walls, at _that_ time, so magnificent an artistic development as Beethoven's should ever have been accomplished. Shall we say, not _because_, but--_in spite of_ her? or shall we utter the supposition that no agglomeration of men can be sufficient for genius, since it treads a way of its own, which bears no names of streets? When, however, the question comes under discussion, of the relation of a great composer to _that_ public among whom his lot is cast, we cannot deny that it is easier to understand how a Handel created his oratorios in the so-called unmusical London, than how Beethoven composed his symphonies in the musical Vienna of the period. The former found himself in London in the midst of a grand public life,--grand were the powers over which he held sway, like the continually increasing throngs of listeners who streamed to his performances. When, on the other hand, we hear of the difficulty with which Beethoven, during the course of a quarter of a century, succeeded in giving about a dozen concerts in which his t.i.tanic orchestral poems were performed _for the first time_, we become faint at heart. And I cannot do otherwise than express my conviction that, under other conditions, no inconsiderable portion of his works, which are (to use Schumann's expression) _veiled symphonies_, would have revealed their true nature. The world of the musician would hardly have been more enriched thereby, but the musical public would have benefited. For millions would have been edified, where now hundreds torment themselves (with quartets and sonatas) for the most part in vain.

Yes! these symphonies and overtures, with their unpretending designations, are the first poems of our time, and they are _national poems_ in a far truer sense than the songs of the Edda, and all connected with them, ever can or will be for us, despite the efforts of litterateurs and artists. Yes! in the soul of this Rhinelander, who every day inveighed against the town and the state in which he lived, who was zealous for the French Republic, and ready to become Kapellmeister to King Jerome--in this soul was condensed the most ideal Germania ever conceived by the n.o.blest mind. With the poet we may exclaim, "For he was ours!"--_ours_ through what he uttered--_ours_ through the form in which he spoke--_ours_, for we were true to the proverb in the way we ill-treated and misunderstood him.

"Industry and love" Goethe claims for his countrymen. No artist ever exercised these qualities with regard to his art in a higher degree than did Beethoven. _She_ was to him the highest good--no care, no joy of life could separate him from her. Neither riches nor honours estranged him from the ideal which he perceived and strove after so long as he breathed. He never could do enough to satisfy himself either in single works or in his whole career. He spared himself no trouble in order to work out his thoughts to the fullest maturity, to the most transparent clearness. To the smallest tone-picture he brought the fullest power.

His first sketches, like the autographs of his scores, show in the plainest manner that inflexible persistency, that unwearied patience, which we presuppose in the scientific investigator, but which, in the inspired singer, fill us with astonishment and admiration. In all conflicts (and every artistic creation is a conflict) the toughest difficulty is _to persevere_.

Truth was a fundamental part of Beethoven's character. What he sang came from his deepest soul. Never did he allow himself to make concessions either to the mult.i.tude and its frivolity, or to please the vanity of executants. The courage which is bound up with this resembles the modest bravery of the citizen, but it celebrates even fewer triumphs than the latter.

Beethoven was proud, not vain. He had the consciousness of his intellectual power--he rejoiced to see it recognised--but he despised the small change of every-day applause. Suspicious and hasty, he gave his friends occasion for many complaints, but nowhere do we find a trace of any pretension to hero-worship. He stood too high to feel himself honoured by such proceedings; but, at the same time, he had too much regard for the independent manliness of others to be pleased with a homage which clashed against that.

What a fulness of the n.o.blest, the sublimest conceptions must have lived and moved in him to admit of their crystallizing themselves into the melodies which transport us!--softness without weakness, enthusiasm without hollowness, longing without sentimentality, pa.s.sion without madness. He is deep but never turgid, pleasant but never insipid, lofty but never bombastic. In the expression of love, fervent, tender, overflowing with happiness or with melancholy, but never with ign.o.ble sensuality. He can be cordial, cheerful, joyful to extravagance, to excess--never to vulgarity. In the deepest suffering he does not lose himself--he triumphs over it. He has been called humorous--it is a question whether music, viewed in its immediateness and truth, be capable of expressing humour--yet it may be that he sometimes "smiles amid tears." With true majesty does he move in his power, in his loftiness, in the boldness of his action, which may rise to defiance--never to senseless licence. A little self-will shows itself here and there, but it suits him well, for it is not the self-will of obstinacy, but of striving. He can be pious, never hypocritical; his lofty soul rises to the Unspeakable; he falls on his knees with humility, but not with slavish fear, for he feels the divinity within. A trace of heroic freedom pervades all his creations, consequently they work in the cause of freedom. The expression, "_Im Freien_"--liberty!

might serve as the inscription on a temple dedicated to his genius!

Like Nature herself, he is varied in his forms, without ever relinquishing a deep-laid, well-concerted basis; he is rich in the melodies which he produces, but never lavish; he acts in regard to them with a wise economy. In the working out of his thoughts he unites the soundest musical logic to the richest inventive boldness. Seldom only does he forget the words of Schiller,--"In what he leaves _unsaid_, I discover the master of style."

This wise economy does not forsake him either in the selection or the number of the organs which he employs. He avoids every superfluity, but the spirits of sound which he invokes must obey him. Nevertheless, not to slavish servitude does he reduce them; on the contrary, he raises them in their own estimation by that which he exacts from them. What might be urged against him, perhaps, is that he sometimes makes demands upon them to which they are not adequate, that his ideal conception goes beyond their power of execution.

He has spoken almost exclusively in the highest forms of instrumental music, and where, in one way or other, words are added to these, he has always been actuated by high motive. He sings of Love and Freedom with Goethe, of Joy with Schiller, of the heroism of Conjugal Love in "Fidelio;" in his solemn Ma.s.s he gives expression to all those feelings which force their way from man to his Maker.

Enough, enough! we would never have done, were we to say all that could be said about such a mind. Dare we now really claim his creations, which breathe the highest humanity, as specially _German_? I think this will be granted us when we add to it the consideration that our greatest poets and thinkers have, in like manner; struck root firmly in their nationality, whence they have grown up--away, beyond--into those regions from which their glance embraced but _one_ n.o.bly striving human family.