Otto Jahn’s notes of a conversation with Grillparzer state that Beethoven made a contract with Barbaja, who was the de facto manager of the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, for 6,000 florins, W. W. (2,500 C. M.). Shortly afterward Barbaja abandoned the contract, saying to Beethoven that he knew that though he was bound by it he could not use the opera. Thereupon Beethoven tore up the document. On April 20, 1824, Duport wrote to Beethoven that Barbaja had sent word from Naples that he would like to have an opera by Beethoven and would give time and terms as soon as he received assurance that his contract for the theatre would be extended from December 1. The extension was not granted. Schindler denied that a contract between manager and composer ever existed.

Grillparzer kept his promise to visit Beethoven at Hetzendorf, going thither with Schindler. Part of his account may best be given in his own words:

In a Conversation Book used during the visit to Hetzendorf may be read one side of a conversation about “Melusine” which permits us to observe the poet’s capacity to look into the future:

Grillparzer speaks of “Dragomira,” promises to send the plot to Beethoven in writing and makes many observations concerning music and musicians which must have interested Beethoven even when he did not agree with him. He asserts that on the whole the North Germans know little of music—they will never produce anything higher than “Der Freischütz.” Also he has a good word for Italian opera:

There are many others with whom Beethoven discussed the opera and who came to him to tell him of their desire to see it written. Duport is greatly interested, wants to read the book with care and asks Beethoven’s terms; Lichnowsky is willing to risk the financial outcome; “I will go security,” he says in October, “for the money which you want for the opera. After selling the opera to the director you can still reserve the right of disposing of it at home and abroad.” And again: “If you do not compose the opera it will be all day with German opera—everybody says that. After the failure of Weber’s opera ‘Euryanthe’ many sent the books back. ‘Freischütz’ is not a genuine opera. If you can use me in any way, you know me and how sincere I am”; and still again, towards the end of November: “You will get incomparably more without a contract; if you want one, the director will make a contract with pleasure at once. Talk it over with Grillparzer; it will also be all one to him. Duport already asked about the opera several days ago.” From other quarters Beethoven is urged to write to Duport after the latter had written to him. In a letter which must have been written late in the year, since Beethoven is back in his town lodgings, he writes to Grillparzer telling him that the management had asked for his (Grillparzer’s) terms and suggesting that he write directly to the management and he would do the same.[88] A later conversation which must have taken place toward the close of the year (and may have been the result of this letter) begins with a complaint by Grillparzer against the censorship for having forbidden his “Ottokar.” Beethoven’s part in the dialogue may easily be supplied by the imagination, and it will be seen that he is still unreconciled to the opening chorus.

For a space there is talk about oratorio texts (“Judith”) and the possibility of musical expression in the case of Christ. Then the text of “Dragomira” is referred to, concerning which Beethoven seems to have asked. Grillparzer says:

There is much more talk in the Conversation Book about the opera, but neither sequence nor date can always be determined. Lichnowsky tells him that the management of the theatre is willing to do anything asked of it and is negotiating with Grillparzer. Brother Johann says: “Grillparzer is coming to-morrow—that is no affair of yours.—You wrote to the management to make arrangements with the poet, and to this it was agreed; hence Grillparzer must make terms.” In the same book Schikh, the editor, writes: “Why don’t you compose Grillparzer’s opera? Write the opera first and then we shall be in a position to wish you also to write a Requiem.”

Grillparzer says that Beethoven told him in Hetzendorf that his opera was ready (whether he meant in his head or in its essential elements in the numerous sketchbooks, the poet could not say), but after the composer’s death not a single note was found which could indubitably be assigned to their common work. The poet had faithfully adhered to his resolve not to remind the composer of the work in any way and “was never near him again until, clad in black and carrying a burning torch in my [his] hand,” he walked behind his coffin. Grillparzer’s memory is faulty in a few details. He says that he never met Beethoven after the visit to Hetzendorf except once; but the two men were together again in 1824. This, however, is inconsequential; the fact remains that Beethoven did not compose “Melusine.”—Why not? Many reasons must be obvious to those who have followed this narrative closely: illness; vexation of spirit; loss of initiative; a waning of the old capacity to assimilate conceptions and ideas which did not originate in his own consciousness and were not in harmony with his own predilections. Moreover, it was the period of his greatest introspection; he was communing more and more with his own soul, and separating himself more and more from all agencies of utterance except the one which spoke most truthfully and directly within him, and to which he entrusted his last revelations—the string quartet. “Melusine” was not composed, but the opera continued to occupy his attention at intervals until deep into the next year, and unless Holz is in error, some of his last labors were devoted to it. Too literal an acceptance must not, therefore, be given to Schindler’s statement that he “suddenly” abandoned the plan of writing a German opera because he learned that the similarity between the subjects of “Melusine” and “Undine” would embarrass the production of the former in Berlin.

A project which cropped out intermittently during 1823 was the writing of an overture on the musical motive suggested by the letters composing the name of Bach. The thought seems to have become fixed in his mind in 1822, though the device of using as a motive in composition was at least as old as the Leipsic master’s “Art of Fugue,” and no doubt familiar to Beethoven. However, he was deeply engrossed in fugal writing at this period and it is very likely, as Nottebohm suggests, that he conceived an overture on the motive as a tribute to Bach’s genius. Several sketches showing different forms of the theme appear in the books of 1823; and a collateral memorandum, “This overture with the new symphony, and we shall have a concert (Akademie) in the Kärnthnerthor Theatre,” amongst sketches for the last quartets in 1825, shows that he clung to the idea almost to the end. Had Beethoven carried out all the plans for utilizing the theme which presented themselves to him between 1822 and 1825, there would have been several Bach overtures; unfortunately, he carried out none.

On April 13, 1823, the boy Franz Liszt, who was studying with Carl Czerny and had made his first public appearance on the first day of the year, gave a concert in the small Ridotto room. Together with his father he had been presented to Beethoven by Schindler, but had not been received with any special marks of friendliness. The precocious boy gave expression to the hope that Beethoven would attend his approaching concert.[89] Later in the Conversation Book:

Did Beethoven attend the concert, and did he afterwards go upon the stage, lift up the prodigy and kiss him? So the world has long believed on the authority of Nohl,[90] who got the story from Liszt himself. Schindler ought to be a good witness in this case, since he pleaded the cause of the little lad before his great friend; but unfortunately Schindler in this instance gives testimony at one time which he impeaches at another. In the second edition of his “Biography of Beethoven” (Münster, 1845, second appendix, page 71, note) he says:

In the third edition of his book (1860, Part II, p. 178) he says:

The visit of Louis Schloesser, afterwards chapelmaster in Darmstadt, who delivered the message from the Grand Duke of Hesse-Darmstadt, took place in the spring of the year. His description of the visit was printed in the journal “Hallelujah” in 1885 (Nos. 20 and 21). Schloesser revisited him later and met him afterwards in town, walking with him to Steiner, whom he said he was about to take to task for a remissness. “When it comes to the publication of a new work,” Beethoven said, “they would like to postpone it as long as possible, even till after my death, thinking thus to do a better business with it; but I shall checkmate them.” Schloesser was surprised on this occasion to find Beethoven dressed with unwonted elegance and remarked the fact to Mayseder, who explained, with a smile, that it was not the first time that his friends had stolen his old clothes at night and left new ones in their place. Mayseder added that the substitution was never noticed by Beethoven, who donned the garments with perfect calmness. Schloesser observes that he never detected the least sign of absentmindedness in Beethoven.

At the last meeting between the men Schloesser showed Beethoven one of his compositions, a somewhat complicated work. Beethoven looked through it and observed: “You write too much; less would have been better. That’s the way of our young heaven-stormers who think that they can never do enough. But that will change with riper age, and I prefer a superabundance to a paucity of ideas.” To the question how this might be attained Schloesser says Beethoven replied “literally”:

At parting, Beethoven gave Schloesser a sheet containing a canon for six voices on the words, “Edel sei der Mensch, hülfreich und gut,” with the inscription: “Words by Goethe, tones by Beethoven. Vienna, May, 1823.” On the back he wrote: “A happy journey, my dear Herr Schloesser, may all things which seem desirable come to meet you. Your devoted Beethoven.”[92] Judging by the position of the canon in the Rudolphinian Collection, Nottebohm was of the opinion that it was composed at an earlier date, say 1819-20. Beethoven also gave Schloesser, who was going to Paris, a letter of introduction to Cherubini which accomplished his acceptance as a pupil of the Conservatoire.

Our old friend Schuppanzigh, after an absence of seven years, returned to Vienna in 1823. On May 4 he gave a concert at which Piringer conducted the orchestra, and on June 14 the quartet meetings were resumed, with Holz, Weiss and Linke as his associates.

Schindler places the incident which gave the incentive to the creation of the last of Beethoven’s characteristic works for the pianoforte, the “Variations on a Waltz by Diabelli,” Op. 120, in the winter of 1822-’23. In this, as will appear presently, he was in error, as he was also touching the date of the completion of the composition, but otherwise his story is no doubt correct. Anton Diabelli, head of the music-publishing house of Diabelli and Co., having composed a waltz, conceived the idea of having variations written on its melody by a large group of the popular composers of the day. Beethoven was among those who received the invitation, but, mindful of his experiences in 1808, when he contributed a setting of “In questa tomba” to a similar conglomeration, he declared that he would never do so again. Moreover, so Schindler says, he did not like the tune, which he called a Schusterfleck.[93] He declined Diabelli’s request, but not long afterward asked Schindler to inquire of Diabelli if he were disposed to take from him a set of variations on the waltz, and if so, what he would pay. Diabelli received the proposition with delight and offered 80 ducats, requiring not more than six or seven variations. The contract was formally closed and Beethoven remarked to Schindler: “Good; he shall have variations on his cobble!” This the story as told by Schindler. Lenz, who claimed to have the authority of Holz for his version, says that after receiving thirty-two variations from other composers, Diabelli went to Beethoven and asked him for the one which he had promised. Beethoven inquired how many variations he already had and when Diabelli replied “Thirty-two” he said: “Well, go and publish them and I alone will write you thirty-three.” This story, however, lacks probability. Lenz himself says that Diabelli told him that Beethoven had not agreed to write for him; hence he could not have asked for the “promised” variation. But Schindler is also wrong in saying that the variations were the first work taken up by Beethoven after his removal to Hetzendorf in the summer of 1823 and that they were published in July. They were advertised as published by Diabelli in the “Wiener Zeitung” on June 16, 1823, and there are other dates to corroborate the evidence that they were finished when Beethoven removed to Hetzendorf on May 17. On May 7 Beethoven offered them for publication to Lissner in St. Petersburg; on April 25 he wrote to Ries: “You will also receive in a few weeks 33 variations on a theme, dedicated to your wife,” and on July 16: “By this time the variations must be with you.” The date of Diabelli’s conception of the plan was probably a whole year, even two years earlier than the date given by Schindler. In a letter dated June 5, 1822, Beethoven offered to Peters “Variations on a Waltz for pianoforte solo (there are many)” for 30 ducats; they must therefore have been far advanced in composition and fully planned at that time. Nottebohm says that Schubert’s contribution to the collection of variations bears on the autograph the date “March, 1821.” The Variations appeared from the press of Diabelli and Co. in June, with a dedication to Mme. Antonia von Brentano; not, it will be observed, to the wife of Ries. Had there been an English edition there would have been such a dedication, but it is another case in which an English publisher was disappointed in the conduct of the composer. Ries had complied with Beethoven’s solicitations and secured a publisher. He closed an agreement with Boosey; but when the manuscript reached London, Boosey was already in possession of a copy of the Vienna edition and the work had also been printed in Paris. The copy made for London bore a dedication written in large letters by Beethoven to Madame Ries; but the printed copies were inscribed to Madame Brentano. Beethoven attempted an explanation and defence in a letter to Ries dated Baden September 5:

How much blame in this affair really attached to Schindler is not known; it seems pretty apparent that though Beethoven was also fuming against him at the time at home, he was doing duty in London as a whipping-boy. Beethoven went right on calling in the help of the “biggest wretch on earth and arch-scoundrel.”

After the labors and vexations of town life in the winter, the call of the country in the summer was more than usually imperative, because the work which had long occupied Beethoven’s mind—the Ninth Symphony—was demanding completion. His brother Johann had invited him to visit him on his estate near Gneixendorf, but he had declined. His choice for the summer sojourn fell upon Hetzendorf, a village not far from Vienna, where he hit upon a villa, surrounded by a beautiful park, which belonged to Baron Müller-Pronay. There was some haggling about the rent and some questioning about the post service—an important matter in view of the many negotiations with publishers, in all of which Schindler was depended on—but eventually all was arranged. Ill health marred the Hetzendorf sojourn. Beethoven’s other ailments were augmented by a painful affection of the eyes which called for medical treatment, retarded his work and caused him no small amount of anxiety. Complaints on this score began in April and were continued through July, on the 15th of which month he writes to the Archduke, “My eyes are better, but improvement is slow. It would be more rapid if I were not obliged to use glasses; it is an unfortunate circumstance which delays me in everything”; and later, when on a short visit to Vienna: “I have just heard here that Y. I. H. is coming to-morrow. If I cannot obey the wishes of my heart, please ascribe it to my eyes. They are much better, but I must not breathe the town air for many more days, for it would have ill effects on my eyes.” In August, very shortly before his departure for Baden: “I am feeling really badly, not my eyes alone. I purpose to drag myself to Baden to-morrow to take lodgings and in a few days will have to go there to stay. The town air has an injurious effect on my entire organization and I hurt myself by going twice to my physicians in the city.” From Baden on the 22nd he complains of a catarrhal affection, the misery in his bowels and the trouble with his eyes, but adds: “Thank God, the eyes are so much improved that I can again use them considerably in the daytime. Things are going better also with my other ailments; more could not be asked in this short time.”

Among the cheering incidents of the summer were the reports which reached him of the production of “Fidelio” under the direction of Weber in Dresden. Weber opened a correspondence on January 28 and continued it with letters dated February 18, April 7 and June 5; Beethoven’s answers were dated February 16, April 10 and June 9. Most unfortunately all these letters have disappeared, and the only hints we have as to their contents are from the draft for Weber’s first communication discovered among the papers of the writer:

Weber had received the score of the opera on April 10 from Beethoven, who had to borrow it from the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, whose musical archives were in the care of Count Gallenberg. Through Schindler, Gallenberg sent word to Beethoven that he would send the score, provided two copies were on hand; if not, he would have a copy made. Schindler, reporting the message to Beethoven, adds that Gallenberg had said he thought Beethoven himself had the score: “But when I assured him that you did not have it he said that its loss was a consequence of your irregularity and many changes of lodgings.”[94] Nevertheless, Weber got the score and after fourteen rehearsals the representation took place with great success. Von Könneritz, Director-General of the Royal Chapel, reported the triumph to Beethoven and sent Beethoven a fee of 40 ducats. Beethoven in acknowledging receipt on July 17 is emboldened “by the account which my dear friend Maria Weber gives me of the admirable and noble motives of Your Excellency” to ask his intercession with the Saxon court in behalf of the Mass in D, as has already been recorded in this chapter.

A number of incidents may now hurriedly be marshalled. In 1822 the Royal Academy of Music of Sweden had elected Beethoven to foreign membership. The consent of the Austrian government was necessary to his acceptance of the honor and this seems to have been deferred an unconscionably long time; at least Beethoven’s letters to the Academy and to King Charles XIV (whom as General Bernadotte, then French ambassador at Vienna, he had known 25 years before) are dated March 1, 1823. When permission came he wrote notes to the editors of the newspapers “Beobachter” and “Wiener Zeitschrift,” asking them to announce the fact of his election—a circumstance which shows that he was not always as indifferent to distinctions of all kinds as he professed occasionally. Franz Schoberlechner, a young pianist, appealed to him for letters of recommendation to be used on a concert-tour. The letter reached Beethoven through Schindler, to whom he returned it with the curt indorsement: “A capable fellow has no need of recommendation other than from one good house to another.” Schindler importuned him again, and Beethoven wrote to him somewhat testily: “It must be plain to you that I do not want to have anything to do with this matter. As for ‘being noble’ I think I have shown you sufficiently that I am that on principle; I even think that you must have observed that I have never been otherwise. Sapienti sat.” That ended the matter; but when Chapelmaster Dreschler of the Josephstadt Theatre became a candidate for the post of second court organist, Beethoven recommended him enthusiastically to Archduke Rudolph, whom in a second letter he urged to remain firm notwithstanding that Abbé Stadler had presented another candidate. Archduke Rudolph spoke to the emperor and Count Dietrichstein in favor of Drechsler, but in vain. In his letters Beethoven referred to a canon, “Grossen Dank,” which he said he had written for the Archduke and which he intended to hand him in person. Sketches for it have been found among those for the third movement of the Ninth Symphony, but nothing has yet been heard of the completed work.

Beethoven’s domestic affairs continued to plague him. While at Hetzendorf he had the services of a housekeeper whom he described as “the swift-sailing frigate” Frau Schnaps, in letters to Schindler. He has no end of trouble about his town lodging in the Kothgasse where Schindler was living, and must needs take time to write long letters to his factotum on the subject. Here is one sent from Hetzendorf on July 2:

Schindler obeyed instructions; the police director, Ungermann, sent his compliments to Beethoven, told him that his wishes were all granted in advance but advised him to pay the 6 florins for lighting to prevent a scoundrelly landlord from having any kind of hold upon him—and Schindler got well scolded for his pains! How could he accept something-or-other from such a churl accompanied by a threat? Where was his judgment? Where he always kept it, of course! The bill came down, but Beethoven did not keep the lodging.

Beethoven’s nephew Karl pursued his studies at Blöchlinger’s Institute till in August and then spent his vacation with his uncle in Baden. He made himself useful as amanuensis and otherwise, and his words are occasionally found among the notes of conversation. His mother remains in the background for the time being, which is providential, for Beethoven has trouble enough with his other delectable sister-in-law, the wife of Johann, whose conduct reaches the extreme of reprehensibleness in the summer of 1823, during a spell of sickness which threw her husband on his back. The woman chose this time to receive her lover in her house and to make a shameless public parade of her moral laxness. The step-daughter was no less neglectful of her filial duties. Accounts of his sister-in-law’s misconduct reached Beethoven’s ears from various quarters and he was frank in his denunciation of her to his brother and only a little more plain-spoken than Schindler, who was asked by Beethoven to lay the matter before the police, but managed to postpone that step for the time being.[95]

Meanwhile Beethoven was hard at work on the Ninth Symphony. It was so ever-present with him that there was neither paradox nor hyperbole in his words: “I am never alone when I am alone.” He had much to irritate him while sketches and drafts of the symphony were piling up before him in August, and finally, if Schindler is to be believed, he could no longer endure the obsequious bows with which his landlord, Baron Pronay, always greeted him, and resolved to abandon the pretty villa at Hetzendorf and go to Baden. He may have formed the plan earlier in the year—probably had—but the baron’s excessive politeness helped to turn his departure into something like a bolt. He went to Baden on a house-hunting expedition with Schindler, and returning, sent his “swift-sailing frigate” to Schindler with a billet commanding him to be up and off at 5 o’clock in the morning “presto prestissimo.” He knew only one lodging in Baden suited to his requirements—the one which he had occupied in 1822—but the owner refused to let him have it again. This owner was a locksmith. To him Schindler was sent. In the name of his master he made all manner of humble promises concerning more orderly conduct and consideration for the other tenants, but the plea was rejected. A second appeal was made and now the houseowner relented, but made it a condition that Beethoven replace the window-shutters which had been removed. Beethoven was the more willing to do this, since he thought it necessary for the sake of his eyes. The landlord had not divulged the reason for his demand. Beethoven was in the habit of scrawling all kinds of memoranda on his shutters in leadpencil—accounts, musical themes, etc. A family from North Germany had noticed this in the previous year and on Beethoven’s departure had bought one of the shutters as a curiosity. The thrifty locksmith had an eye for business and disposed of the remaining shutters to other summer visitors.

Beethoven had arrived in Baden on August 13 with the help of Schindler, towards whom he was filled with as much gratitude as can be read in the following remarks from two letters to his nephew dated August 16 and 23:

Beethoven’s unamiable mood, which finds copious expression in abuse of Schindler at this juncture, has some explanation (also extenuation, if that is necessary) in the rage and humiliation with which contemplation of his brother’s domestic affairs filled him. Johann was convalescing and wrote a letter to the composer which occasioned the following outburst under date of August 13:

There were several visitors to Beethoven at Baden in the summer of 1823 who have left accounts of their experiences. One was an Englishman, Edward Schulz, who published his story in the “Harmonicon” in January 1824. This extremely lively letter was reprinted by Moscheles in his translation (or rather, adaptation) of Schindler’s biography of Beethoven and incorporated in the second German edition, where Schindler accompanies it with several illuminative glosses which are less necessary now than they were when the biographer wrote. Schulz visited Beethoven on September 28 in the company of Haslinger. He describes it as a dies faustus for him and, as Schindler shrewdly observes, it must also have been one for Beethoven, since he managed to hear the conversation of his visitors without the aid of an ear-trumpet. He talked with great animation, as was his wont when in good humor, but, says the English visitor, “one unlucky question, one ill-judged piece of advice—for instance, concerning the cure of his deafness—is quite sufficient to estrange him from you forever.” He asked Haslinger about the highest possible note on the trombone, but was dissatisfied with the answer which he received; introduced his nephew and showed his pride in the youth’s attainments by telling his guest that he might put to him “a riddle in Greek” if he liked. At dinner during a visit to the Helenenthal he commented on the profusion of provisions at dinner, saying: “Why such a variety of dishes? Man is but little above other animals if his chief pleasure is confined to a dinner-table.” A few excerpts from the letter will serve to advance the present narrative: