She wanted to make certain that your doctors were familiar with the remedy.
Some sort of steam bath decocted from a head of cabbage, two handfuls of caraway seeds and three handfuls of hayseed.
Granted that it smacks of Macbeth, yet it proved effective in her husband’s case. Besides, the remedy was prescribed by a Royal Physician.
Let us leave no stone unturned. I’ll go to Malfatti at once and sound him out on the matter.
• • •
Great Maestro, Malfatti was quick to recognize the prescription. Apparently it was used by a certain Dr. Harz who was indeed the Royal Physician to the late King of Bavaria.
Seeing that the internal medicine has proved ineffectual, Malfatti is willing to try the prescription. However, he would vary some of the ingredients—or, as he put it, he is “quite ready to perform variations on a theme by Dr. Harz.”
He’ll come to you tomorrow morning.
• • •
Brother, of course the remedy is known to me—why, I have known of it since my apothecary days in Linz.
Who is Harz?
I must confess that I am unfamiliar with his music.
Harz aside, the treatment has been employed for years as a kind of home remedy—the dry hayseed is supposed to make you perspire and have a beneficial effect. My only doubt in your case is whether your system is ready for a steam bath so close on the heels of the operation.
Malfatti’s assistant has already put in place the hayseed and hot water jugs.
At present the man is spreading birch leaves over the jugs. When that is done you will step into the bath-tub, be covered with a bed sheet (but for your head, naturally) sit down on the birch leaves and—voilà the treatment!
The first bath is to last no longer than half an hour.
You have every reason to be hopeful—Malfatti himself is most hopeful.
Naturally, all of us are hopeful and pray for a good result.
That was the assistant to say that everything is now ready.
• • •
Great Maestro, the girl will put a wooden bowl under the bed so that the fluid won’t run all over the floor.
Unfortunately there is no more straw in the house to fill the other mattress; all the straw is fouled. The other one will be filled this evening and you may use it tonight.
The stove could not be hotter. When she comes with the bowl I’ll tell—But here she is.
I told her to bring you another blanket.
In truth Malfatti failed to return. However, the assistant did; also your brother looked in again while you slept. He insists that he forewarned you of the bloating.
As I understand it, the steam bath did not work because you had just been tapped two days ago and were completely drained of fluid. Thus instead of making you perspire, it had the opposite effect: your body soaked up the steam like a block of salt.
No need to fret, the treatment has been cancelled.
Since nothing was said to the contrary, I assume that the frozen punch is still prescribed.
Apropos of the punch, Moselle costs money, especially when visitors such as Holz help themselves freely. Fuel costs money, the more so because of the heavy snowfall; why, even little things such as straw and hayseed cost money. Above all else, doctors cost money.
Unfortunately when the assistant returned he minced no words about Malfatti’s fee. Moreover no opportunity passes without Wawruch mentioning his “honorarium”; and Seibert did the same on Friday.
One moment please while she spreads the blanket.
Is that not better?
I have been thinking that perhaps you should consider selling a bank share, I mean only until such time as you are able to work again.
Needless to say that they will go to your nephew eventually, but for the moment they still belong to you.
In that case how do you propose to pay for your expenses?
Well and good, but who? Have you someone in mind?
Frankly I can’t think of anyone you might approach for funds.
Gerhard just came in—perhaps the boy’s father will be able to suggest someone.
I must take my leave now. I’ll come again tomorrow at the usual time.
Prospero, was the steam bath a success?
I’m sorry to hear that. Still, you mustn’t lose confidence in Malfatti. He is your best doctor.
If they had had the sense to cover the mattress with oil cloth, it wouldn’t be soiled.
I’ll bring you some oil cloth tomorrow.
Don’t concern yourself, I’ll trust you for the money. Meanwhile what can be done to cheer you? Would you like to read Plutarch?
Would you like to study a volume of Handel’s works?
I’m flattered, but what did I say that was smart?
Sir smart?
I thought that the Englishman who sent you the books is named Stumpff.
Then what has Sir Smart to do with Handel?
I don’t see the connection between my being smart and Sir Smart being a member of the Filharmonic Society.
Oh how I hate words that begin with ph!
Well, at least I’ve cheered you. Now I have to leave.
Have you forgotten that today is Sunday? Father is at home.
I’m sure that he’ll find time. I’ll go and ask him.
• • •
Ludwig, it’s hard to believe that you would even entertain such a thought.
To represent yourself as wanting to either Stumpff or Smart—why, it would be a bold-faced lie, to say nothing of immoral.
For the simple reason that you own seven bank shares.
In that case why not approach your brother? Surely he is in a position to assist you.
Frankly I never thought you would stoop so low as to ask for a handout.
Call it what you like, it comes to the same thing.
Vienna may not have always appreciated your music, but she has always supported you and, better still, with no strings attached. For you to turn now to London strikes me as—well, unseemly.
Consult with Dr. Bach or Wolfmayer, consult with your brother or Holz or even Schindler; I doubt that you will find anyone who disagrees with me.
True enough, yet my sole object in being harsh is to persuade you to reconsider.
Do weigh it carefully.
• • •
Great Maestro, seldom have I seen you so gloomy.
Of course your bills must be paid, there is no gainsaying that. And as for your friends, among whom I am proud to count myself, surely this won’t be the first time, nor doubtless the last, that you go against their wishes.
If writing Stumpff will lift your spirits, by all means let us get on with the letter.
VIENNA, FEBRUARY 8, 1827
My very dear Friend!
My pen is quite unable to describe the great pleasure afforded me by the volumes of Handel’s works which you have sent me as a gift—to me, a royal gift!—This present has even been mentioned in the Viennese papers, and I am sending you the notice. Unfortunately since December 3rd I have been confined to bed with dropsy. You can imagine the situation to which this illness has reduced me. Usually I live entirely on the profits of my intellectual work and manage to earn everything for the support of myself and my Karl. But unfortunately for the last two and a half months I have not been able to write a single note.
My income suffices only to pay my half-yearly rent, leaving me a few hundred gulden. Bear in mind too that the end of my illness is not by any means in sight. Nor do I know when it will be possible for me to soar again through the air on Pegasus in full flight! Physician, surgeon, everything has to be paid for—
I well remember that several years ago the Philharmonic Society wanted to give a concert for my benefit. It would be helpful for me if they would decide to do so now. Perhaps I might still be rescued from the poverty with which I am now faced. I am writing to Sir Smart about this. And if you, dear friend, can contribute something to this object, do please come to
an agreement with Sir S. A letter about this is being written to my old friend Moscheles as well. And if all my friends combine, I believe it will be possible to do something for me in this matter.
In regard to supplying Handel’s works to His Imperial Highness the Archduke Rudolph, I cannot say anything definite yet. But I will write to him in a few days and draw his attention to this suggestion.
I thank you again for your splendid gift. Please make use of me, and if I can serve you in any way in Vienna I shall be delighted to do so—Once more I appeal to your philanthropic feelings in regard to my situation which I have described to you in this letter. I send you my best and most cordial wishes and my warmest compliments.
With kindest regards, your
BEETHOVEN
Great Maestro, as for the letter to Sir Smart, I’ll simply copy this one and replace the parts about Handel with some niceties about Smart’s visit here the summer before last. That done, I’ll send it to your nephew to translate into English.
If I post the letter today it will reach Iglau by Saturday.
Allowing a week for the job, he should have it back to you by the 20th.
I’ll copy it now.
• • •
Prospero, you seem in better spirits today.
A present from whom?
May I see it?
It’s very nice. But why would an artist bother to make a lithograph of such a humble house?
I don’t assume anything of the kind. You, for instance, are a great man, yet I happen to know that you were not born in a palace.
Is the great man a composer?
Then the house must be Handel’s birthplace.
I didn’t realize that Haydn’s family was so poor.
I’m sure that Father will know of a framer. Shall I take it home with me?
Don’t concern yourself, I’ll be very careful with it.
• • •
Great Maestro, do try to apply your mind to something other than your nephew. As you know, I’m not his staunchest advocate; still, even if he set to work the moment your letter arrived, he could not have returned the translation—today is only the 15th.
You mustn’t assume that you are out of his heart, if for no other reason than that he is still entirely dependent upon your pocketbook.
Don’t fret about it, he surely has not forgotten you.
Nonsense! No one has forgotten you.
That is absurd! You are anything but a forgotten man. Why, just yesterday Diabelli brought you a lithograph, and the previous day Haslinger was here. All sorts of people are eager to visit you; if they hesitate it’s only because they don’t wish to intrude.
Wolfmayer for one, Hüttenbrenner for another. I don’t know how many times Hütten. has asked me if he might bring Schubert.
But I myself have often told you how much Schubert reveres your work and worships you.
Indeed I just happen to have a collection of his songs with me today.
approximately 60
By no means all, thus far he has written well over 500.
Never mind the number, wait until you discover their wonder.
More or less my age, he just turned 30 last month.
Pay no attention to such drivel; you are forgetting that critics of that stamp also knock down your work.
Trust me, you’ll admire the songs. What is more, I’ll wager that they will even take your mind off your nephew.
Gladly, I’ll leave them with you.
There is no rush, keep them as long as you like.
• • •
Prospero, Father will be pleased that you like the frame. It was his idea to use black wood and make it very simple.
I don’t quite know, only that the shop is in the Graben. My piano teacher took it there.
Are you completely satisfied?
You don’t find anything amiss?
Are you absolutely sure?
Even I, who spell like a guttersnipe, was quick to notice: “Jos. Hayden’s Birthplace in Rohrau.”
Unfortunately my piano teacher wrote it.
It’s unfair to judge him by his spelling.
But he is not an ignoramus.
On the contrary he is a very good teacher.
I must object to your calling him that.
Please don’t be so angry. In truth it’s all my fault.
Because I’m the one who wrote the inscription.
I lied a moment ago.
I’m not lying now.
I beg you to believe me.
Very well, I am lying. But it’s still my fault.
Because Father forbade me to mention the mistake.
He thought that you wouldn’t notice it.
For heaven’s sake please don’t turn against Father too.
I can’t take the picture back home until I stop crying.
I should never have disobeyed him. Not only am I now in hot water with Father, but with you and my teacher and the framer and
everyone!
If the mistake is corrected, will you change your mind and not demand that my teacher be discharged?
And will I still be welcome here?
Then I’ll take it back home and swallow my medicine.
• • •
Great Maestro, without knowing what Wegeler said in his letter, I can hardly help you frame a reply.
No, I never saw it. Most likely you received it in December before I came back to look after your affairs.
If the letter was here last week it must still be here. Perhaps it’s in your portable writing desk.
You will not guess where it was: between the pages of Plutarch.
From what Wegeler says I gather that you planned to send him a portrait of yourself but clean forgot.
There is one in the writing desk.
I’ll fetch it as soon as we finish.
VIENNA, FEBRUARY 17, 1827
My worthy old Friend!
It was fortunate that I received from Breuning your second letter at any rate. I am still too weak to reply to it. But you can imagine how welcome and delightful to me are all your remarks. My recovery, if I may call it so, is still very slow. Presumably I must expect a fourth operation, although the doctors have not yet said anything about this. I cultivate patience and think: well, sometimes some good comes from all this evil.—But indeed I was surprised to read in your last letter that you had not yet received anything.
Great Maestro, excuse me but there is someone in the entrance hall.
It’s Wolfmayer, he is taking off his things. He says that the snow is now quite deep.
The letter can wait until I come back tomorrow.
If you wish to sit up let me adjust the pillows.
An armchair would surely be more comfortable, not only for your guests but for you, yet a decent one is costly.
I’ll send him in to you.
Dear Friend, it has been much too long.
By no means bearing gifts, the wine is solely for medicinal purposes; there is but one small trifle.
Allow me to put it around your shoulders.
camel’s hair
Not at all extravagant, it’s a perfectly ordinary shawl. Still, I’m glad that I brought it—your hands are cold.
Don’t say such things. Admittedly you were heavier when I saw you last, but even so you are far from skin and bones, thank God. We must fatten you up.
No appetite even for fish?
Unfortunately there is no way around that, the fluid has to be tapped.
A fourth operation!
But you mustn’t lose heart. Only with patience will you recover and be able to work again.
You still have many works to compose—I trust that you’ve not forgotten my Requiem.
Come now, I was joking. Even if you fail to write a note of it, I don’t expect you to repay the commission.
Doctors are a different matter, naturally.
Supposing that Malfatti refuses to forego his fee, how much is he owed?
And the others?<
br />
In short, a goodly sum.
That was smart of you—please disregard the pun. And have you heard from him as yet or from Stumpff?
The Philhar. Soc. will likely stand by its offer; however, it might take a month or more before you hear from them. In the meantime what will you do for funds?
Believe me, I wasn’t thinking of the bank shares. Not only do I understand but thoroughly respect your wish not to touch them.
Please calm yourself, anxiety is harmful.
Rest assured that as long as I live you will not want for wine or fuel or candles, nay, for anything; nor will you have to do without your Sali.
I’m sorry it has that appearance; in no sense am I moved by charity. Indeed let me invert what you said earlier: it is I who will never be able to repay you.
For what! Why, for your music.
Please don’t be so modest. More than anything that I can think of, your music has transformed my life.
But there will be new works—you must not lose hope! As Schubert has it in his Faith in Spring:
The world grows fairer every day,
We cannot know what is still to come,
Unending is the flowering.
It’s from a poem by Uhland.
Conversations with Beethoven Page 17
