Conversations with Beethoven

by Sanford Friedman

  Your nephew made a good impression on the Lieutenant Field-Marshal.

  He assured me that if the boy shapes up well, he’ll keep a place for him as an officer. Thus the chief hurdle has been surmounted, the rest is routine. Tomorrow Karl will be given his physical examination and the following day

  I doubt that the scar will even be noticed.

  Under no circumstances can his departure be postponed, neither for the holidays nor for any other reason.

  You must not say such things—of course you’ll see him again. In all likelihood he’ll be granted a furlough in June.

  Please try not to brood about it. All that matters now is for you to feel better, well enough to resume composing.

  You might turn your attention to the Requiem that Wolfmayer commissioned or perhaps to the Saul and David oratorio.

  That is for you to decide. But now I must leave lest I am late for dinner. Shall I send in your brother?

  • • •

  Brother, I’m greatly relieved to find you sitting up. Quite frankly you seem in better health than Breuning.

  His face is so drawn and sallow.

  Don’t berate yourself for failing to speak of his health—Illness turns the attention inward.

  I was glad to hear from Breuning that Karl acquitted himself favorably with the Field-Marshal—Thank Heaven, the boy is on his way at last.

  Don’t be concerned. Since you are indisposed I’ll gladly go with him to the regimental tailor and the bootmaker, etc. Rest assured that I’ll keep an eye—that is to say, my good one—on your pocketbook.

  It’s not a matter of stinting, yet one needn’t always buy the very best cloth. Even if the difference amounts to only a gulden per ell—well, that comes to a tidy sum for two or three uniforms.

  Nevertheless you have too many expenses at the moment to buy him the best.

  A diamond ring!

  In that case I bow to your better judgment.

  Have no fear in that regard—my wife’s daughter returned long since to Gneixendorf.

  Of course I understand, I’m not dim-witted—He is to have the best that money can buy.

  • • •

  But Uncle, I’ve been combing it forward for weeks; your failure to remark on it sooner suggests that the scar is unnoticeable.

  Although my appointment with the Field-Marshal is for 11 o’clock, I’m obliged to present myself to his adjutant at 10:45.

  So that he can take me to the barracks and introduce me to the regimental doctor who executes the health certificate.

  I believe the doctor’s name is von Gulay.

  I’ll report the outcome this evening.

  Because I have too many other things to do this afternoon.—When Wawruch comes please show him how well you walk your first day out of bed.

  Damnation! Why did you do that?

  Surely the regimental doctor is not going to lift up my locks to peer underneath. Now I must comb it again, and I’ll be late.

  • • •

  Esteemed Patient, not only am I surprised but extremely pleased and, I may say, proud to find you up and about again. Success in the medical art, like success in composing, is never unwelcome. As you doubtless know, it was Hippocrates who coined the phrase, albeit in Greek to be sure, ars longa, vita brevis

  If you were dying, I would have to agree with you that the remark is in poor taste. Since, however, you are so much better today I can only conclude that an exception has been made in Beethoven’s case: et ars et vita longae

  Seeing that I do not know the man, not even by reputation, I cannot express an opinion. Does this von Gutlay assert that he is at the General Hospital?

  Well, that explains the matter; I count no military men among my acquaintance. Nevertheless since a physical examination requires neither diagnostic skills nor treatment, I have little doubt that von Gutlay will perform the task as competently as the next man. But why do you ask?

  In progress at this moment?

  Kindly do not open the window!

  Because it’s bitter cold outside—you will bring on a relapse!

  I realize that your windows face the Alsergrund. Yet even if the glass were not steamed over and you could see the barracks, you could not possibly descry your nephew at this distance.

  Let me assure you that the young man will have no difficulty in obtaining the certificate. And let me further assure you that if you continue to take the medicines which I have prescribed, distasteful though you find them, I warrant that you will fully recover. Vincit qui patitur

  Your pun does me an injustice.

  I shall look in tomorrow at the usual hour.

  • • •

  Uncle, von Gulay granted me the certificate; I’ll be inducted to-morrow.

  But it’s too late to change my mind.

  It’s not a matter of “if” but of when you’ll recover. You just finished telling me what Wawruch said.

  He may be an asinus but everything points toward full recovery.

  It’s utterly insupportable to insist that you are dying.

  I’m silent because you make it impossible to speak.

  If I take the oath of service, I’ll seem heartless or, worse, homicidal since you assure me that it will hasten your demise; if I don’t go through with it, I’ll have to choose another career and start all over from scratch. I simply cannot keep postponing my life in this fashion, repeating the overture without a first act.

  I haven’t touched them.

  Because your keys are not on the bedside table doesn’t mean they are stolen.

  They were in the pocket of your dressing gown. Shall I fetch the cashbox?

  You needn’t get up; just tell me what you want and I’ll fetch it.

  You are speaking in riddles.

  Shall I accompany you to the entrance hall or wait here?

  Please don’t hurry, it’s still your first day out of bed.

  Had you but said that what you sought was in the credenza, I would have understood at once.

  You know perfectly well I have no idea how to open the secret drawer.

  If I start searching for the hidden latch, I’ll be late for supper. My mother expects

  A most ingenious mechanism; I would never have discovered it. But what prompts you to reveal it to me now?

  Obviously they are bank shares.

  Seven.

  This is foolish; it goes without saying what purpose they serve and how they will be disposed of.

  Well then, if you insist: they are the shares which constitute the bulk of your estate and which, presumably, I shall inherit someday.

  I do indeed. From the time I was old enough to understand such things I saw how tenaciously you retained them for me; what is more, you did so despite the advice to the contrary of Dr. Bach, Breuning and your brother. I also saw how often you put my welfare ahead of your own, sacrificed your own comfort in order

  True enough, the things you sacrificed were not merely comforts but necessities.

  Certainly I’m appreciative. Have I not shown it many times over?

  It’s not a case of deserting you but of honoring my word to the Field-Marshal.

  Of course I don’t put him ahead of you.

  Since I have no designs of any sort there is nothing for you to see through.

  What object could I possibly have?

  I don’t see the connection between the bank shares and my entering the army.

  Why do you keep saying that it will finish you off?

  Premonitions aside, I still don’t see the connection.

  I don’t deserve what you just said.

  For you to characterize me as a schemer, I mean as someone who cannot wait—You malign me.

  I’m in no hurry whatever to lay my hands on them. Nor do I harbor any secret hopes that

  If in fact you believe that I’m acting with malice aforethought, you should cut me off here and now.

  Untrue! I do not wish to finish you off! On the contrary I would do anything in my p
ower

  No, that is the one thing I cannot do.

  But I simply cannot postpone the induction.

  What do you mean, what will be on my head?

  Have you taken leave of your senses! Please close it at once!

  Never mind the barracks, you cannot stand before an open window in your night shirt.

  Kindly let me close it!

  I refuse to struggle with you. If you don’t close it

  Will you not close it!

  Well and good, but it will be on your head!

  May God preserve you, Uncle—Good night.

  • • •

  Esteemed Patient, I am terribly sorry to find you in this state. I instructed the housekeeper to fetch another quilt; it will soon allay the shivering and trembling.

  She tells me that you vomited repeatedly during the night and also that you had to use the bedpan repeatedly.

  Does the urinal contain all that was passed?

  From your doubled-up posture I can see where the pain is most severe.

  Unfortunately you are jaundiced from head to foot.

  Have you had jaundice before?

  How long did it persist?

  The feet were not nearly this swollen yesterday; in fact you moved about with ease. How then do you account—Here is the quilt; you will soon be warmer.

  Seeing that you had all but recovered yesterday, how do you account for this violent upheaval?

  As a rule quarrels, however hot-tempered, do not endanger one’s life.

  In that case the sooner the young man departs the better; another such fit of anger will finish you off. As Horace rightly cautions us: ira furor breva est

  I am not suggesting that you deserved the insults, nor that your anger was unwarranted; on the contrary your nephew’s ingratitude is clear as crystal. Nevertheless you cannot put your life at risk.

  In view of the jaundice and the massive swelling of the feet it is especially important to keep a close watch on the urine. Thus let me remind you again to preserve every drop.

  Rest assured that no one will mistake it for Moselle. Indeed at this moment the urine is more precious than Moselle.

  I shall look in again before nightfall.

  • • •

  Uncle, after what happened last night I’m not in the least surprised that you are confined to bed today.

  The discoloration is unmistakable.

  How unjust of you to blame me.

  Was I to blame for the jaundice you suffered five years ago?

  I told you last night that I would not, nay, could not postpone it.

  I was inducted at noon.

  If the uniforms are ready, I’ll leave this coming Saturday.

  By coach.

  The postchaise is too expensive.

  From this day on I’ll be paid by the regiment. Hence all that remains to be settled is my monthly allowance from you.

  It’s useless to review the matter; you simply cannot accompany me to Iglau.

  Since you cannot bear the sight of me, perhaps the sight of this parcel will please you. It’s from the Prussian Embassy.

  In all likelihood. If so, may it prove more precious than Shylock’s ring. Shall I break the seal?

  Alas, the fault lies not with your spectacles but with the stone; it has a decidedly reddish cast.

  Who knows, it may not even be a diamond. After all, H.M. merely specified a brilliant ring.

  I suspect that it’s worth far less than Shylock paid for his. In any case you should have it appraised.

  I could leave it with the court jeweler after my fitting—Unless you are afraid that I’ll take a page from Jessica’s book and steal it.

  My impudence aside, you accused me of worse things than lying last night.

  I haven’t time to review what was said; I’ll be late to the tailor. Do you want me to take the ring?

  Suit yourself; doubtless Holz is more trustworthy than your nephew.

  • • •

  Prospero, how are you today?

  Father, too, is ill. He asked me to act as his ambass envoy.

  The doctor fears it’s his liver.

  You are more cheerful than I expected.

  Has another ring been sent?

  Goodness! I didn’t notice them on the piano. I’ve never seen such a set of books. How many are there?

  Are all forty volumes by Handel?

  May I glance at one?

  What a generous gift. Is it from the Prussian King?

  But that’s impossible; a harpmaker can’t be more generous than a King.

  Even so, I doubt that the books are more costly than the diamond ring.

  That’s easy enough to say, but where will I find someone who plays the harp “cunningly”?

  Had you but mentioned the Old Testament, I would have understood.

  If the speaker is Saul and he loves the youth greatly, then the harpist must be David.

  I don’t follow; am I to fetch the Old Testament or Handel’s score of Saul?

  I agree with you that the volume is beautiful, but I don’t agree that the leather smells good.

  I have a little English; shall I try to translate the lines for you?

  Saul’s first words—Well, I’m not really sure. However, they are not the words which you just spoke, of that I am sure.

  Has an idea come for your own Saul and David oratorio?

  Here is your sketchbook. Please don’t let me interrupt; I’ll go and report to Father.

  • • •

  Esteemed Patient, I am surprised to learn that you consider Handel the greatest composer that ever lived, superior even to J.S. Bach. When it comes to poets, spare me having to choose between Horace and Virgil.

  It goes without saying that the volumes are handsome; would that I could examine them at length. However, if I am to examine the patient, I must needs remove them from the bed: they keep me at bay.

  Well now, I can see that the jaundice has worsened.

  Those hard knots of which you speak are nodules on the liver; the organ is distinctly swollen. Moreover, dropsy has developed: there is water in the abdomen.

  As for the urine, the housekeeper tells me that you refuse to take the diuretic.

  If you find it distasteful, I will have some sugar added, but you must not disregard my orders.

  Because you are passing too little. When I see your nephew I shall tell him to keep a sharp eye on it—Ah! I am forgetting that he leaves tomorrow.

  Postponed for how long?

  Seeing that New Year’s Day is still two weeks hence, I urge you not to quarrel with him; it is extremely harmful to your health—I recommend instead that you be in communion with Handel.

  To that end, before I bid you adieu I will restore the volumes to the bed.

  • • •

  Uncle, is the syringe in place?

  Certainly it’s greased.

  Then try again.

  Breathe in as you insert it.

  Well done—During the enema you must hold your breath, otherwise the water runs out.

  Breathe naturally.

  Now take a deep breath and hold it in.

  Hold it fast.

  Keep on holding it so that the enema works.

  Now let it out.

  Of course the bedpan is there—let it out

  Voilà!

  • • •

  Brother, I fully agree with you—sell it! The most tight-fisted merchant in Krems would be ashamed to bestow such a miserable ring. If the court jeweler values it at no more than 160 gulden, so be it—let him have it at that price.

  Maestro, I strongly urge you to keep it.

  Brother, with all due respect to Holz, the ring is an affront.

  Maestro, with all due respect to your brother, keep the ring, it is from a King.

  I don’t deny that you too are a king, yet not the King of Prussia.

  Kings aside, Brother, it may be that we are gulled—Just think, there is no certainty that this is the ring the Prussian Ambassa
dor received from Berlin. It’s perfectly possible that Hatzfeld substituted an inferior one. In fact there is no other explanation for H.M.’s niggardliness.

  Maestro, your brother’s suspicion is absurd.

  But you must not return it to Hatzfeld; that would be a worse affront to him, not to mention H.M., than the ring is to you.

  Uncle, I agree with Holz. Since you cannot realize enough from the sale to make it worthwhile, keep the ring.

  Maestro, it need not be decided now—sleep on it.

  I don’t quite follow.

  Why, I sleep as you do, on a mattress.

  Certainly not, my wife sleeps peacefully beside me.

  As I’ve said before, it’s customary for these things to take nine months.

  • • •

  Prospero, Father asked me to bring you this letter; it’s from his brother-in-law Wegeler, in answer to yours.

  How are you feeling today?

  I’m sorry to hear that. Father, too, is not much better; but at least he didn’t almost suffocate last night like you.

  The two of you should spend the summer at a spa.

  Father will probably go to Baden.