A good painter should paint two things; man, and the thoughts of
man’s soul.
LEONARDO DA VINCI.

Beethoven usually had a definite idea before him when composing. The work progressed rapidly under such conditions. Often, however, on further consideration, a better idea would present itself in certain places on reading the work over, and these portions would have to be rewritten. He stated in this connection that he always had a picture in his mind when composing, which he aimed to reproduce in his work. “Ich habe immer ein Gemaelde in meinen Gedanken wenn ich am componiren bin, und arbeite nach demselben” (Thayer). Sometimes this picture was shadowy and elusive, as his gropings in the sketch-books show. He would then apply himself to the task of fixing the idea, writing and rewriting, until it stood out clearly in accordance with the concept already formed in his mind.

This picture, or idea, or representation, which exists in the brain of the artist, and to which he seeks to give expression in a tangible form so as to communicate it to others, is a miracle which is constantly going on in his inner consciousness. He can at will call up impressions, which immediately become objectified on the canvas of his mind, in the form of pictures. This mental process is the same in every form of creative work whether it be painting, sculpture, or any of the arts. The architect, before putting pencil to paper, will have the splendid cathedral before him as in a vision; the sculptor, the ideal form and facial expression. The mind of the artist is a vast canvas on which pictures appear, remaining a longer or shorter period at his will, and, when no longer required, giving place to others. The idea once recorded seems never to appear again. Nature is never so prodigal as with the man of genius. Of all her children he is the favorite; these pictures are given him in superfluity, out of all proportion to his ability to use them. The harder he works in the effort to catch up with his material, the more plentiful it becomes.

Mr. Chamberlain, in his Life of Wagner, calls attention to the curious fact that Wagner produced his operas in pairs for the most part, up to his fortieth year. This was true of Beethoven with his symphonies, to a great extent. He became so fired with enthusiasm while on a great work, his thoughts became so prolific, that another work must, perforce, come into being to utilize the surplus material.

This prodigality with which the artist is supplied, explains his absorption in his work. Once fairly started on a great work, this type of man carries it through with the force of a torrent. Nothing but physical exhaustion can stop him. Wagner, after completing a great work, usually had to drop all composing or writing for some months in order to recuperate. No slave-driver with a lash ever drove his victim so mercilessly as Wagner did himself when in the stress of composition. Being married he had some one to look after him, and this had an important bearing on the preservation of his health. Beethoven, with the strenuousness that came from his Rhenish ancestry, was more intractable, impatient of interference. His domestics were often afraid to go near him when engaged in composition. Usually when in deep thought he was oblivious of the outer world. He once agreed to sit for an artist, and maintained his pose for five minutes; then he forgot all about it and went to the piano, where he began improvising. This just suited the artist, who got a good position and worked along until he was tired, finally leaving the room without the master’s knowledge.

The Swedish poet, Atterbohm, and Dr. Jeitteles, distinguished literary men of the period, called at Beethoven’s house one hot afternoon. Their knocking met with no response, although they knew the master was in, as they heard him singing and occasionally striking a chord on the piano. Finding the door unlocked, they entered and went in search of him, finally discovering him in an inner room. He was in extreme dishabille, busily noting down his thoughts on the plastered wall. He had probably intended changing his clothes, and, while disrobing, these thoughts came crowding in on him to the exclusion of everything else. Beethoven, facing the wall with his back to the visitors, was unaware of their proximity, and they left without being discovered by him, as they did not wish to interfere with his work. This was probably in the year 1826, as Beethoven remained in Vienna all that summer, actively engaged on the great C sharp minor quartet. It may have been a part of this work which was thus produced.

Friederich Stark relates an incident that illustrates his abstraction. He called on Beethoven early one morning, and, being a friend, was given the privilege of looking him up. He went from room to room, and finally found him in his bedroom. He was just beginning to dress, his face thickly lathered with soap that had been put on the previous evening and had dried there; he had prepared to shave, but in the process had forgotten to go on with it.

His sketch-books are interesting as showing his frame of mind and temperament, while at work. In his abstraction he occasionally scribbled beautiful thoughts on the margin of his manuscripts. Thus, in the sketch-books of the Pastoral Symphony, we find this record of his joy in nature, showing how thoroughly his mind was imbued with his subject.

“Almaechtiger, im Walde ich bin selig, gluecklig im Wald. Jeder Baum spricht durch dich!”

“O Gott! Welche Herrlichkeit in einer solchen Waldgegend.”

In summer he usually resorted to one of the beautiful villages in the environs of Vienna, since absorbed by the city. Thus he repaired to Heiligenstadt to write his first mass. “Oh, the charm of the woods, who can express it!” he writes, and in many of his letters from the country, he expresses his joy at being there. “No man on earth can love the country as I do. Thickets, trees and rocks supply the echo man longs for.” His best ideas came to him while walking through the fields and woods. At such times his mind became serene and he would attain that degree of abstraction from the world which enabled him to develop his musical ideas. He always carried note-books and would jot down a thought as it came to him. When he got home he would elaborate it and work it into shape. He would walk for hours in all sorts of weather. Like Thoreau, he generally preferred to be alone in his walks, the presence of a companion preventing him from working out his thoughts.

Very properly, he occupied himself but little with the music of other composers. To a man of his individuality, inspiration from the outer world was not to be had or desired. His own inner wealth was sufficient. Curiously, he set a high value on Cherubini during the period of writing Fidelio and the Third Symphony. His own creations however, were of paramount interest to him. He was a slow worker, continually polishing and improving his work up to the moment that it reached the engraver’s hands.

“The Andante” said Wagner “is the typical German style.” It was not Beethoven’s best style. Essentially a man of extremes, he delighted in swinging the pendulum to its furthest limit either way. He early in life acquired the irrepressible joyousness in his compositions, which was Haydn’s distinguishing trait. It is the key-note to much of Beethoven’s work up to the time of composing the Grand Mass. It figures to some extent in his subsequent work. It is a feature which Wagner never tires of exploiting in Beethoven’s work. Whenever he mentions Beethoven’s name the word Heiterkeit (joyousness) is sure to follow. The two are almost synonymous with him. Where Beethoven is unapproachable, however, is in his slow movements, the Adagios, solemn and portentous, in which all of world-sorrow finds expression. It is in these scenes of terror that his powers stand out with supernatural clearness.

His infinitude impresses one. It is as if he had penetrated other spheres and could speak in new tongues. He delighted in startling contrasts. The Kyrie of the Mass in D has always presented itself to my consciousness as a series of gigantic tone-pictures, in which the omnipotence of God, and the impotence of humanity is brought into juxtaposition. The Coriolanus overture is another instance among the many at hand illustrating this point. Here we see how the forceful, aggressive, bold, masterful genius, is subdued by the power of conjugal and filial love, a power in this case as irresistible as that of a glacier, which will make its way against any odds. Each side in striving for the mastery, displays its own peculiar characteristics and mode. It is the everlasting struggle between the evil principle and that which is good. He ranges titanic forces in opposition and lets us see the battle. By the magic of his art we are enabled to see these pictures as on a canvas.

It is frequently stated that Beethoven’s music shows a deficiency in counterpoint. His originality, the wealth of his ideas, his versatility, will explain this. The fugue, while it is ingenious and interesting, is artificial and, indeed often arbitrary in musical composition, sometimes introduced merely to stop gaps or for brilliancy of effect. It is not surprising that Beethoven should have neglected it to some extent, although he has used it with excellent effect in some of the sonatas and in his two masses. His fertility of imagination was great and it was hard for him to tie himself down to the formal style in composition, after his powers had reached maturity. The fugue, in one form or another, seems to be almost indispensable in musical composition, but it is always characterized by learning instead of inspiration. It is something which has to be worked out like a problem in mathematics. Beethoven’s thought in music is marked by something higher than the disposition to divert one’s attention to his talent or skill. A definite meaning is there; he has something to reveal.

At the beginning of his career as composer, Beethoven was not above taking advice on the subject of his compositions. He frequently discussed them with Prince Lichnowsky, and adopted his suggestions when it came to alterations. As he advanced in knowledge of his art, however, he became reticent on the subject and would discuss them with no one. He acted on Goethe’s idea that “the greatest art after all is to limit and isolate oneself.” He did not like praise or applause. Knowing intuitively that the character is endangered thereby, he sought by every means to ward it off. His improvising was such that often on leaving the instrument he would find his hearers in tears. This would embarrass him, and he would affect anger, or would laugh at them. This does not imply that he did not care for appreciation, which is quite a different matter.

He was perfectly willing to listen to censure or adverse criticism. Trifles might anger him, but this never did, and, be it said, it never influenced him either. True artist that he was, he seldom wrote down to his public. Like Wagner, he knew what was best in art, and if the public did not, he gave the matter small concern. Not for one generation are great masterpieces born. The artist lives in the future; he is always in advance of his time.

Beethoven’s character was a prism of many facets. Wagner views him always as the mystic, the seer, at odds with the world. Side by side with this characterization he constantly dwells, as just noted, on Beethoven’s uncontrollable tendency to humor, gayety (Heiterkeit) which shows itself not only in his life, but still more in his works. This may have been a device deliberately assumed to enable him to escape mental suffering. At all events it was a prominent trait of his character, but does not seem to have added to his enjoyment of life. No circumstance, however painful, but that he is able to extract some jest or pleasantry from it. The paradox is before us of a man world-weary at the core, outwardly serene, gay. In the same ratio in which those things which serve to make life enjoyable to the average man were diminished or withdrawn, does his tendency to incessant humor increase.

The consciousness of being able to achieve great things, and the joy in accomplishing them, is what gives the artist the exultant mood, the feeling of gayety. To be sensible of such an heritage, to participate in this God-given wealth, to run riot in it, to know that the more of it that is used the more will be given, to be favored of the gods in a way that the possessor of untold wealth cannot aspire to this is what gives the serene and joyous mood, which characterizes the man of genius for the most part. When he comes out of this ideal world into the commonplace every-day life, and realizes his unfitness for it, the other side of the picture is presented to his consciousness, and then is exhibited that strange melancholy, Weltschmerz, which constantly comes to the fore in the journals and letters of men like Wagner, or Beethoven, or Liszt.

The Sunday morning concerts, instituted by Czerny in the winter of 1816, call for more than passing notice. A select company of professional musicians and amateurs had banded themselves into an organization for the purpose of performing and studying the best class of chamber-music with special reference to Beethoven’s compositions. Czerny was the originator and moving spirit, as stated, and the performances were held at his house. Beethoven attended them frequently. Czerny, whose admiration for the master was unbounded, was brought into more intimate relations with him through these concerts, as Beethoven was consulted in regard to the programmes and occasionally rehearsed some of his new compositions with him. Though a brilliant performer, Czerny did not like public life or society, and retired from the concert stage at a time when his powers were at their best, in order to give all his time to composition. His ability in improvising was a marvel even for those times. He was Beethoven’s successor in Prince Lichnowsky’s circle, frequently playing at concerts at his house. He is credited with being able to play from memory all of Beethoven’s works. Like Schubert, his one pleasure was to be with a few chosen spirits, and talk on the subject of his art.

In these assemblages rank was ignored. Art was a leveller, or, rather, the devotees of the art were raised to a common plane, where social distinctions were for the time being obliterated. No special invitations were required. Any one interested in the art was made welcome, and found there a congenial atmosphere. Czerny, modest and retiring, had no thought of making social capital out of these concerts. No one not wholly devoted to the art was wanted, no matter what his social position was, and want of social position was no bar when the artistic qualifications were present. It was a band of chosen spirits, and the attrition engendered by these meetings must have been advantageous to each. They were true Concerts Spirituels, an audience of artists from which the performers were drawn.

Second only to Czerny as a pianist among this company was Beethoven’s friend and pupil, the Baroness Ertmann, who frequently took part in these concerts. Madame Ertmann’s virtuosity has already been commented on in these pages. She won new laurels at the Czerny concerts through her admirable interpretation of Beethoven’s music.

During this winter of 1816 the master composed the fine sonata in A, opus 101, for her. It commemorates the spiritual kinship existing between these two gifted persons. “My dear, valued Dorothea Caecilia,” he writes in his letter of dedication, “receive now what has long been intended for you, and may it serve as a proof of my appreciation of your artistic talents and of yourself; I regret not having heard you recently at Cz (Czerny’s). My absence was owing to illness, which at last appears to be giving way to returning health.” Some years previously, when the Baroness had lost a son by death during her husband’s absence on his military duties, Beethoven asked the stricken woman to call, and comforted her, not with words, but in the language which both best understood. “‘We will talk in music,’ said Beethoven, who remained at the piano over an hour in which he said everything and even gave me consolation.” The incident is obtained from one of Mendelssohn’s letters.

Among the important works produced in this period may be mentioned the Sonata, opus 90, “A struggle between the head and the heart.” It is dedicated to Count M. Lichnowsky on the occasion of his marriage to a singer. There was also the chorus set to Goethe’s words, “A Calm Sea and Prosperous Voyage.” This was written in 1815 and seven years later dedicated to Goethe. The two sonatas, opus 102, for piano and cello, one of which is called the Free Sonata, are interesting, as in them is foreshadowed the trend of Beethoven’s mind toward religious music, which controlled him almost entirely from this time on.

The idea of writing another oratorio seems now to have taken possession of his mind. A preference for this mode appears in his journals and letters and was probably the subject of conversation on his part. At all events, the newly established Society of Friends of Music of Vienna (which Beethoven, with his usual aptitude for punning, used to refer to as the society of Musikfeinde, enemies of music) made him a proposition to write an oratorio for them, which he accepted. No stipulations were made as to subject or treatment, and the society agreed to pay the handsome sum of three hundred gold ducats, merely for the use of the work for one year. So far as known, this work was never begun. The Archduke soon after obtained his appointment as Cardinal-Archbishop, and the work on the mass for the Installation occupied Beethoven to the exclusion of other works.

The loss by death of three of Beethoven’s old friends must have been greatly felt by him in these years. Prince Lichnowsky, who died in 1814, was the first, and was followed two years later by Prince Lobkowitz. Hardest of all, however, for the master was the loss of his friend, Wenzel Krumpholz, who died in 1817. His relations with the latter were more intimate than with the noblemen, and had continued without a break almost from the time of his advent in Vienna. Czerny, in his autobiography, gives an interesting picture of the devotion of Krumpholz, who attached himself to Beethoven much the same as did Boswell to Dr. Johnson. He was somewhat older than Beethoven, and his position as first violinist at the Court Theatre enabled him to be of much practical service to Beethoven, as he was widely known among the professional musicians, as well as the rich amateurs. He sounded Beethoven’s praises far and wide: he encouraged him to begin composition, making propaganda for him among the wealthy dilettante, and spent a good portion of each day in his company. Beethoven, who at a later period said of himself that he was too strong for friendship, did not take kindly to this intimacy at first, but Krumpholz’s persistency was not to be gainsaid. He gave him lessons on the violin, and identified himself in many ways with Beethoven’s advancement. Beethoven finally became so accustomed to him, that the presence of the other did not disturb him, and he would improvise before him as if he were alone. Krumpholz though devoid of genius himself, intuitively recognized its presence in Beethoven, and led the younger man to discuss his musical plans and ideas with him. The compositions as they took form in the young man’s mind, were played to Krumpholz, who advised and encouraged him. The extravagant admiration of the latter sometimes acted on Beethoven’s sense of humor to such an extent that he would make fun of him, and call him his fool, but this did not deter Krumpholz, who seemed to think he had a divinely appointed task set him, in aiding the development of this young genius, and was willing to put up with some vagaries from him.

In truth, Beethoven needed a champion, for, from the first, a certain originality, a strenuousness, showed itself in his work, which put the art on a new and different footing. That the young man was reaching out for higher things his public may have been aware of, but only a few, here and there, kindred spirits, cared for this. The average person was unable to recognize any higher function in music than that of simple enjoyment; anything aside from this was irrelevant, and could but lead to deterioration. Although at the beginning of his career as composer, he made Mozart and Haydn his models, this originality showed itself, and when it was continued in subsequent works, it awoke the strongest opposition in certain quarters. The strong partisanship which Krumpholz brought to bear on the situation, was invaluable to the young man, whose views needed confirmation and indorsement. Krumpholz seems to have had an affinity for discovering talent in others. He brought Czerny, at the age of ten years, to Beethoven, who immediately recognized his genius, and offered to give him lessons. That Beethoven deeply felt the loss of his old friend and teacher is evidenced by his writing music to the Song of the monks,

Rasch tritt der Tod den Menschen an,

from Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, in commemoration of him.