Life of Beethoven Part 10

Dearest Bettine,

Never was a fairer spring than this year's; this I say, and feel too, as in it I made your acquaintance. You must indeed have yourself seen, that in society I was like a fish cast on the sand, that writhes and struggles and cannot escape, until some benevolent Galatea helps it back again into the mighty sea; in very truth I was fairly aground. Dearest Bettine, unexpectedly I met you, and at a moment when chagrin had completely overcome me; but truly your aspect put it to flight; I was aware in an instant that you belong to a totally different world from this absurd one, to which, even with the best wish to be tolerant, it is impossible to open one's ears. I am myself a poor creature, and yet complain of others! this you will however forgive, with the kindly heart that looks out from your eyes, and with the intelligence that dwells in your ears;--at least your ears know how to flatter when they listen.

Mine, alas! are a barrier through which I can have hardly any friendly intercourse with mankind, else, perhaps, I might have acquired a still more entire confidence in you. As it was, I could only comprehend the full expressive glance of your eyes, and this has so moved me that I shall never forget it. Divine Bettine, dearest girl!--Art! who comprehends the meaning of this word? with whom may I speak of this great divinity? how I love the recollections of the few days when we used to chat with each other, or rather correspond. I have preserved every one of the little sc.r.a.ps of paper on which your intelligent, precious, most precious, replies were given--thus, at least, may I thank my worthless ears that the best portion of our fugitive discourse is retained in writing.

Since you went I have had many uncomfortable hours, in which the power to do anything is lost. After you had gone away, I rambled about for some three hours in the Museum at Schonbrunn; but no good angel met me there, to chide me into good humour, as an angel like you might have done. Forgive, sweetest Bettine, this transition from the fundamental key;--but I must have such intervals, to vent my feelings. And you have written of me to Gothe, have you not? saying that I would fain pack up my head in a cask, where I should see nothing, and hear nothing, of what pa.s.ses in the world; since you, dearest angel, meet me here no longer.

But surely I shall at least have a letter from you. Hope supports me; she is indeed the nursing mother of half the world, and she has been my close friend all my life long;--what would have become of me else? I send, with this, written in my own hand, "_Kennst du das Land?_" as a memorial of the time when I first became acquainted with you; also I send another, which I have composed since I took leave of you, dear, dearest heart!

"Heart, my heart, what change comes o'er thee?

What wrings thee thus with pain?

What a strange sour world's before thee!

I know thee scarce again!"

Yes, dearest Bettine, answer me this question; write, and tell me what shall become of me since my heart has become such a rebel. Write to your truest friend,

BEETHOVEN.

2.

Vienna, Feb. 10, 1811.

My dear beloved Bettine!

I have now had two letters from you, and learn from your letter to Antonia that you continue to think, and indeed far too favourably, of me. Your first letter I carried about with me all the summer through, and it has often made me happy. Although I do not often write to you, and you may hear nothing from me, yet, in thought, I write to you a thousand thousands of letters. How you feel yourself in the presence of all this world's rubbish I could have fancied, even had I not read it in your letters--this haranguing and gossiping about art, without anything done! The best delineation of this that I know, is found in Schiller's poem "_Die Flusse_," where the Spree[78] is made to speak. You are going to be married, dear Bettine, or are married already, and I have not been able to see you once more before this. May every blessing which marriage can bestow flow upon you and your husband! What can I say to you of myself? "Pity my fate!" I exclaim with poor Johanna[79]--if I can but obtain a few more years of life, I will still thank for this, as for all other weal and woe, the most High, the all-embracing Power. Whenever you write of me to Gothe, select any expression that you can use, so as to convey to him the most fully my profound respect and admiration. I am, however, purposing to write to him myself, concerning _Egmont_, which I have set to music; and this solely from love for his poetry, which makes me happy; but, indeed, who can be sufficiently grateful to a great poet, the most precious jewel that a nation can possess? And now I must end, dear, good Bettine. I returned this morning as late as four o'clock from a Baccha.n.a.lian revel, at which I was even made to laugh heartily, and for which I am now tempted to weep nearly as much.

Uproarious mirth often has the effect of casting me violently back upon myself. I owe Clemens[80] many thanks for his attention; as respects the Cantata, the subject is not of sufficient importance for us here; in Berlin it is a different matter: as regards our affection, his sister has so much of mine, that not much will remain for the brother's portion; will he be contented with this? And now farewell, my dear Bettine; I kiss you on the forehead, and therewith impress on it as with a seal all my thoughts for you! Write soon, write often, to your friend,

BEETHOVEN.

3.

Toplitz,--1812.

Dearest, good Bettine,

Kings and princes can indeed create professors and privy councillors, and bedeck them with t.i.tles and orders; but they cannot make great men--spirits that rise above the world's rubbish--these they must not attempt to create; and therefore must these be held in honour. When two such come together as I and Gothe, these great lords must note what it is that pa.s.ses for greatness with such as we. Yesterday, as we were returning homewards, we met the whole Imperial family; we saw them coming at some distance, whereupon Gothe disengaged himself from my arm, in order that he might stand aside; in spite of all I could say, I could not bring him a step forwards. I crushed my hat more furiously on my head, b.u.t.toned up my top coat, and walked with my arms folded behind me, right through the thickest of the crowd. Princes and officials made a lane for me: Archduke Rudolph took off his hat, the Empress saluted me the first:--_these great people know me!_ It was the greatest fun in the world to me, to see the procession file past Gothe. He stood aside, with his hat off, bending his head down as low as possible. For this I afterwards called him over the coals properly and without mercy, and brought up against him all his sins, especially those against you, dearest Bettine! We had just been speaking of you. Good G.o.d! could I have lived with you for so long a time as _he_ did, believe me I should have produced far, far more great works than I have! A musician is also a poet; a pair of eyes more suddenly transport him too into a fairer world, where mighty spirits meet and play with him, and give him weighty tasks to fulfil. What a variety of things came into my imagination when I first became acquainted with you, during that delicious May-shower in the Usser Observatory, and which to me also was a fertilising one! The most delightful themes stole from your image into my heart, and they shall survive and still delight the world long after Beethoven has ceased to _direct_. If G.o.d bestows on me a year or two more of life. I must again see you, dearest, dear Bettine, for the voice within me, which always will be obeyed, says that I must. Love can exist between mind and mind, and I shall now be a wooer of yours. Your praise is dearer to me than all other in this world. I expressed to Gothe my opinion as to the manner in which praise affects those like us; and that by those that resemble us we desire to be heard with _understanding_; emotion belongs to women only (pardon me for saying it!): the effect of music on a man should be to strike fire from his soul. Oh, my dearest girl, how long have I known that we are of one mind in all things! the only good is to have near us some fair, pure spirit, which we can at all times rely upon, and before which no concealment is needed. _He who will_ SEEM _to be somewhat must really be what he would seem._ The world must acknowledge him--it is not for ever unjust; although this concerns me in nowise, for I have a higher aim than this. I hope to find at Vienna a letter from you; write to me soon, very soon, and very fully. I shall be there in a week from hence. The court departs to-morrow; there is another performance to-day. The Empress has thoroughly learned her part; the Archduke and the Emperor wished me to perform again some of my own music. I refused them both; they have both fallen in love with _Chinese porcelain_. This is a case for compa.s.sion only, as reason has lost its control; but I will not be piper to such absurd dancing--I will not be comrade in such absurd performances with the fine folks, who are ever sinning in that fas.h.i.+on. Adieu! adieu! dearest; your last letter lay all night on my heart and refreshed me. Musicians take all sorts of liberties! _Good Heaven! how I love you!_

Your truest friend, and deaf brother,

BEETHOVEN.

No. IV.

LETTER OF MADAME BETTINE VON ARNIM TO GoTHE.[81]

Vienna, May 28, 1810.

* * * * And now I am going to speak to you of one who made me forget all the world besides. The world vanishes when recollections spring up--indeed it vanishes. It is Beethoven who made it vanish before me, and of whom I would fain speak to you. It is true I am not of age, yet I would boldly a.s.sert that he has far outstepped our generation--too far perhaps to be come up with: (shall I be understood or believed in this a.s.sertion?) No matter. May he but live until the great and mighty problem of his mind has ripened into maturity; may he but attain his own n.o.ble aim, and he will carry us on to loftier regions, to bliss more perfect than is yet known to us. Let me own it to you, dear Gothe, I do believe in a spell--not of this world, the element of our spiritual nature; and it is this that Beethoven calls around us by his art. If you would understand him, you must enter into his own magic circle; you must follow him to his exalted position, and occupy with him that high station which he alone can claim for a basis in this sublunary world.

You will, I know, guess at my meaning, and extract truth from it. When could such a mind be reproduced?--when equalled? As to other men, their doings are but mechanical clock-work compared to his: he alone freely creates, and his creations are unthought of! What indeed could the intercourse with this world be to him, who before sunrise is at his holy work, who after sunset scarcely looks up from it, who forgets his bodily food, and, carried past the shallow banks of every-day life, is borne along the current of enthusiasm? He said himself, "When I lift up mine eyes I must sigh, for that which I behold is against my creed; and I must despise the world, because it knows not that music is a higher revelation than science or philosophy. Music is like wine, inflaming men's minds to new achievements, and I am the Bacchus serving it out to them, even unto intoxication. When they are sobered down again, they shall find themselves possessed of a spiritual draught such as shall remain with them even on dry land. I have no friend--I must live all to myself; yet I know that G.o.d is nearer to me than to my brothers in the art. I hold converse with him, and fear not, for I have always known and understood him. Nor do I fear for my works: no evil can befal them; and whosoever shall understand them, he shall be freed from all such misery as burthens mankind."

All this did Beethoven say to me the first time I saw him. A feeling of reverence came over me as I heard him speak his mind with such unbounded frankness, and that to me, who must have been wholly insignificant to him; and I was perhaps the more struck with his openness, having often heard of his extreme reserve, and of his utter dislike to converse with any one. Thus it was that I could not get any one to introduce me to him, but I found him out alone. He has three sets of apartments in which he alternately secretes himself: one in the country, one in town, and a third on the ramparts (Bastei). It was there I found him in the third floor. I entered unannounced; he was seated at the piano; I gave my name; he was most friendly, and asked me if I would hear a song which he had just been composing; and sang, with a shrill and piercing voice that made the hearer thrill with woefulness, "Know'st thou the land?" "Is it not beautiful?" said he, enthusiastically; "exquisitely beautiful! I will sing it again." He was pleased with my cheerful praise. "Most people are _moved_ on hearing music, but these have not musicians'

souls: true musicians are too _fiery_ to weep." He then sang another song of yours, which he had lately been composing: "Dry not, ye tears of eternal love." He accompanied me home, and it was during our walk that he said all these fine things on the art--talking so loud all the while, and standing still so often, that it required some courage to listen to him in the street. He however spoke so pa.s.sionately, and all that he uttered startled me to such a degree, as made me forget even the street.

They were all not a little surprised at home on seeing me enter the room with him, in the midst of a large dinner-party. After dinner he sat down to the instrument and played, unasked, wonderfully, and at great length.

His pride and his genius were working _that_ out together which to any mind but his would have been inconceivable--to any fingers but his, impossible of execution.

He comes daily ever since--if not, I go to him; and thus I miss all sorts of gaieties, theatres, picture-galleries, and even the mounting of St. Stephen's church-steeple. Beethoven says, "Never mind seeing these things: I shall call for you, and towards evening we shall walk together in the _Schonbrunn_ avenues." Yesterday, as we were walking in a lovely garden, everything in full bloom, and the open hot-houses almost intoxicating one's senses with their perfumes, he suddenly stopped in the oppressive heat of the sun, saying, "Gothe's poems exercise a great sway over me, not only by their meaning, but by their rhythm also. It is a language that urges me on to composition, that builds up its own lofty standard, containing in itself all the mysteries of harmony, so that I have but to follow up the radiations of that centre from which melodies evolve spontaneously. I pursue them eagerly, overtake them, then again see them flying before me, vanish in the mult.i.tude of my impressions, until I seize them anew with increased vigour, no more to be parted from them. It is then that my transports give them every diversity of modulation; it is I who triumph over the first of these musical thoughts, and the shape I give it, I call symphony. Yes, Bettina, music is the link between intellectual and sensual life. Would I could speak to Gothe on this subject, to see whether he could understand me! Melody gives a sensible existence to poetry; for does not the meaning of a poem become embodied in melody?

Does not Mignon's song breathe all her feelings through its melody, and must not these very feelings be reproductive in their turn? The mind would embrace all thoughts, both high and low, and embody them into one stream of sensations, all sprung from simple melody, and without the aid of its charms doomed to die in oblivion. This is the unity which lives in my Symphonies--numberless streamlets meandering on, in endless variety of shape, but all diverging into one common bed. Thus it is I feel that there is an indefinite something, an eternal, an infinite, to be attained; and although I look upon my works with a foretaste of success, yet I cannot help wis.h.i.+ng, like a child, to begin my task anew, at the very moment that my thundering appeal to my hearers seems to have forced my musical creed upon them, and thus to have exhausted the insatiable cravings of my soul after my 'beau ideal!'

"Speak of me to Gothe: tell him to hear my Symphonies, and he will agree with me that music alone ushers man into the portal of an intellectual world, ready to encompa.s.s _him_, but which _he_ may never encompa.s.s.

_That_ mind alone whose every thought is rhythm can embody music, can comprehend its mysteries, its divine inspirations, and can alone speak to the senses of its intellectual revelations. Although spirits may feed upon it as we do upon air, yet it may not nourish all mortal men; and those privileged few alone, who have drawn from its heavenly source, may aspire to hold spiritual converse with it. How few are these! for, like the thousands who marry for love, and who profess love, whilst Love will single out but one amongst them, so also will thousands court Music, whilst she turns a deaf ear to all, but the chosen few. She too, like her sister-arts, is based upon morality--that fountain-head of genuine invention! And would you know the true principle on which the arts _may_ be won?--It is to bow to their immutable terms, to lay all pa.s.sion and vexation of spirit prostrate at their feet, and to approach their divine presence with a mind so calm and so void of littleness as to be ready to receive the dictates of Fantasy and the revelations of Truth. Thus the art becomes a divinity, man approaches her with religious feelings, his inspirations are G.o.d's divine gifts, and his aim fixed by the same hand from above, which helps him to attain it.

"We know not whence our knowledge is derived. The seeds which lie dormant in us require the dew, the warmth, and the electricity of the soil, to spring up, to ripen into thought, and to break forth. Music is the electrical soil in which the mind thrives, thinks, and invents, whilst philosophy damps its ardour in an attempt to reduce it to a fixed principle.

"Although the mind can scarcely call its own that, which it produces through inspiration, yet it feasts upon these productions, and feels that in them alone lies its independence, its power, its approximation to the Deity, its intercourse with man, and that these, more than all, bear witness of a beneficent Providence.

"Music herself teaches us harmony; for _one_ musical thought bears upon the whole kindred of ideas, and each is linked to the other, closely and indissolubly, by the ties of harmony.

"The mind creates more readily when touched by the electrical spark: my whole nature is electric. But let me cease with my unfathomable wisdom, or I might miss the rehearsal. Write of me to Gothe--that is, if you have understood me; but mark me, I am not answerable for anything, although ready to be taught by him."

I promised to write to you as best I could. He took me to a grand rehearsal with full orchestra. There I sat quite alone in a box, in the vast unlit s.p.a.ce: single gleams of light stole through crevices and knot-holes in the walls, dancing like a stream of glittering sparks.

There I saw this great genius exercise his sovereignty. Oh! Gothe, no Emperor or King feels so entirely his power, and that all might proceeds from himself, as this Beethoven, who but just now in the garden was at a loss to find from whom it _did_ come. He stood there with such firm decision; his gestures, his countenance, expressed the completion of his creation; he prevented every error, every misconception--not a breath but was under command--all were set in the most sedulous activity by the majestic presence of his mind. One might prophesy that a spirit like this might, in a future state of perfection, reappear as the ruler of a world.

I put all this down last night, and this morning read it to him. He said, "Did I say this?--Well then I have had my _raptus_." He read it again most attentively, erased the above, and wrote between the lines; for he wishes above all that you should understand him.

BETTINE.

GoTHE TO BETTINE.

Say everything that is kind for me to Beethoven, and that I would willingly bring a sacrifice to make his acquaintance, when a mutual interchange of ideas would certainly lead to the most beneficial results. May be, you could persuade him to visit Karlsbad and meet me there on my annual tour, for then I should have leisure to hear and be tutored by him. As to his being taught by me, that would be a sacrilege indeed, even in those more competent than I am; for surely his genius enlightens him, and will often dart flashes of brightness around him, whilst we are groping in the dark, scarcely sensible of the approaching dawn. I should be delighted if Beethoven would send me my two Songs which he has composed, but clearly written. I am most anxious to hear them, since nothing gives me greater pleasure and lays a firmer hold on my grat.i.tude than the finding such poems of a former period embodied and sensualised anew by music, as Beethoven justly calls it.

GoTHE.

BETTINE TO GoTHE.

Dearest Friend,