She gave no reason, nor did I press her for one.
Not a word was said about your legal battle.
Even though it ended seven years ago, her wounds may not as yet have healed.
It goes without saying that you were wounded too.
Perhaps she is less forgiving than you are.
Frankly I don’t know what would sway her. Unless—yes! You might frame the request as a deathbed wish.
No need to wait for Schindler; surely I can pen it just as well as Mr. Shitting—better! I’ll wager.
My dear Sister-in-law,
Now that the doctors have given up hope, the possibility that we might never again see each other does not sit well with me. To forestall that event I entreat you to come to Schwarzpanier House tomorrow morning at about ten o’clock. Do find it in your heart to grant me this final wish.
In haste, your devoted brother-in-law
LUDWIG
• • •
Ludwig, clearly you are not ready for me; you should have said 10:30.
She went to fetch a glass of frozen punch.
Yes, she apologized and blamed the disorder on the delivery of a chair.
The one I’m sitting in?
Have you yourself not sat in it?
It’s perfectly comfortable.
If I averted my eyes—Well, you’ll have to excuse me but nothing prepared me for how thin you are.—Here is the punch.
Let me help you, it’s dribbling all over your night shirt.
Whether or not you feel like a baby, rest assured that you don’t resemble one.—Besides, mothers don’t feed babies punch.
It’s not a bib but my handkerchief; she failed to bring you a napkin.
It’s perfumed because—Who knows? Because I like perfume—Do stop interrupting.
No more—it’s finished, I set the glass aside.
gardenia
I’m glad the scent pleases you—you who are so unaccustomed to women’s things, to women at all.
Certainly you may hold the handkerchief for a moment—providing that it doesn’t turn you into Othello.
If I had a kronen for every time you called me a whore—But never mind, that isn’t why you sent for me. Well now, why did you?
I was taught not to answer a question by asking one.
For my part I came here—Duty! pure and simple, I considered it my duty to respect your wishes. Needless to say that you are still the head of the family. But to come back to you, why did
Another? Surely it’s forbidden to have more than one glass.
I don’t care what the doctor says—all those ices cannot be good for your stomach.
No need to make a fuss, I’ll go and fetch another.
Don’t speak with your mouth full—I cannot understand a word you say.
Don’t gulp so. I’ll still be here when it’s finished.
If you expect me to feed you, I’ll thank you to do it at my pace.
There now, so much for the second serving.
Indeed I am surprised; I was sure that your eyes were bigger than your stomach. Still, it’s a good sign—at least you haven’t lost your appetite completely.
Before you go on, do answer my question—Why in fact did you send for me?
Don’t be bashful—out with it.
I know that Karl is your sole heir, if that is your meaning.
Naturally, never for a moment did I assume that you wished to harm him; throughout the whole ordeal I realized that your malevolence was aimed at me.
Come now, was it not malevolent to allege in a court of law that I had poisoned your brother!
That may be, but you believed it at the time. You also believed that I tried to poison my son. And added to that, you asserted that I was depraved, plague-ridden and pestilential—in short, that I was the scum of the earth!
The words are yours, all of them, to say nothing of the aforementioned whore—or, as you minced it in your mendacious Appeal, I was unfit to be a mother because I was “a woman of easy virtue.”
If my councilor asserted that you were unfit to be a father—well, at least his object was not to defame you; he did so for practical reasons.
Not only your deafness, but your utter lack of experience; after all, you hadn’t the slightest idea of how to care for a child. Why, the first time Karl ran away from you his hands and feet were frostbitten, his linen hadn’t been changed in a week.
Let’s not rehearse the charges; admittedly there were faults on both sides. Still, I would have suffered all in silence, had you but permitted me to spend some time with him.
Once a month is hardly adequate for a mother, let alone a child.—You said in your note that the prospect of never seeing me again did not sit well with you. Imagine how it sits with a mother.
Rubbish! On one occasion you made certain that I was barred from seeing him for eight months. You can’t possibly imagine the grievousness, nay, cruelty of such a prohibition.
I don’t mean you alone, no man can imagine it—least of all a woman-hater like yourself.
I beg your pardon but you are a woman-hater. In your eyes a woman is either a madonna or a whore who will give you the clap.
Spare me! When it comes to women your ignorance, indeed the ignorance of all the Beethoven men, is dumfounding—Oh, how I wish your brother had heeded your advice not to marry me! But by then, of course, the whore was carrying his child.
If I took a lover during his final months, your brother brought it on himself—his brutality had long since finished off fidelity.
Come now, surely you remember how vicious he could be; surely you haven’t forgotten, say, the time he drove a knife through the back of my hand.
My object was to show you the scar, not—What prompted you to kiss my hand?
That was kind of you, but I’m no longer the least bit aware of the scar.
You need hardly apologize for kissing my hand, nor for your tears.
At last!
Oh Ludwig, thank you, thank you—I never expected to hear those words pass your lips.
I realize, naturally, how difficult it was to speak them—Well, at least I understand now why you sent for me.
If only you had asked my forgiveness seven years ago—not even my forgiveness, if only you had found a way, I mean had made the smallest gesture—But no matter, it’s water under the bridge.
A gesture of kindness, simply that—if instead of enmity you had found a way to show your heart
Were it in my power, I would gladly forgive you, but only God can forgive our trespasses.
Which of the Gospels?
To be sure, I had forgotten.
No, no, what it says more or less is this: if you don’t forgive others and do so from the heart, you yourself won’t be forgiven by God.
Then let me do so now—I forgive you, Ludwig—for everything—I forgive you.
Rest assured that it comes from my heart.
There now, that’s enough, you have cried enough for one day—indeed we both have. Do let me dry your tears.
I can’t imagine what we would have done without my handkerchief.
Drying your tears is hardly an act of charity.
In what way a turnabout?
Ludwig, the dying woman that you succored was your mother.
But I am Johanna, your sister-in-law.
Listen to me, Ludwig, I am not your mother.
Surely you mean Karl
Don’t be preposterous—I most certainly
Childbearing may be holy but
Let me assure you
In neither this nor any other bed did I give birth to you!
Ludwig, look at me—take a hard look
There now, don’t you see—I am no one but your
Nimbus—what are you saying?
Nonsense! there is no such thing—the curtains are drawn. That may be but there is no light. It is just your fancy. Goddess?
Clearly the punch
Of course I recognize the words, but why
&n
bsp; Why are you singing Ode to Joy?
You are utterly confused—the Daughter of Elysium is Mother Nature—I am quite mortal.
Believe me, I am merely mortal.
Well then, if it makes you happy—yes! I am indeed the Daughter of Elysium.
Yes indeed I have descended.
I was not speaking but singing—I, too, am singing!
Joy! Joy!
Praise to joy the God descended—
Now, now, no more for today—you will strain yourself. But I am not ill, whereas you
Very well, but only one more time.
Joy! Joy!
Praise to joy the God descended—
Now that’s enough.
No! Enough is enough—now you must rest!
By all means keep the handkerchief, providing that you rest.
Here’s a joyous kiss for all!
May God preserve you, Ludwig.
• • •
Great Maestro, since Dr. Bach is still indisposed, Councilor Breuning has drafted the codicil.
My nephew Karl shall be my sole legatee, but the capital of my estate shall fall to his legitimate or testamentary heirs.
Vienna, March 23, 1827
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN
Great Maestro, it is intentionally brief so that the transcription will not overtax you.
The copy must be in your own hand.
I find nothing to question about legitimate.
With what word would you replace it?
Presumably Breuning is now at the War Department; he will come here midday to witness the signing.
Your brother is already here.
It goes without saying what he is up to.
I’ll fetch him.
• • •
Brother, clearly Breuning’s object is to keep Johanna from acquiring the capital—I must say that for once I agree with His Highness.
But that happens to be your object too—legitimate simply connotes your own wishes.
Have you some other word in mind?
To substitute for legitimate?
If none has yet occurred to you, none most likely will—We had better let it stand. Don’t you agree?
I’m waiting to hear that you agree.
Why, to sign the codicil as it’s written.
D’accord! Now we have only to wait for His Highness—By the by, am I not right in assuming that he is the all-knowing one?
Breuning
A simple yes or no will suffice.
Stubborn to the last!
• • •
Ludwig, have you read the codicil?
Are you in agreement with what is written there?
Have you the strength to copy it?
Dearest friend, forever dauntless! But take your time, there is no hurry.
Do not concern yourself, I shall ink the pen.
My nephew Karl shall be my sole legatee but the capital of my state shall fall to his natural or testamentary heirs.
Vienna, March 23, 1827
LUWIG VAN BEETHOEN
Ludwig, unfortunately there is a mistake.
For “legitimate” you have written “natural.”
On no account do they mean the same thing. If you allow “natural” to stand, your sister-in-law
You need only write
I am not asking you to write more words but only
Kindly restore legitimate
If you cannot, you cannot—So be it then.
• • •
Brother, presumably you haven’t forgotten your willingness to receive the Holy Sacrament.
What is the matter—don’t you recognize me?
But only yesterday you knew me—I am your brother, Nikolaus Johann.
You sometimes called me Cain.
Be so good as to look again!
One moment please—Johanna wishes to have a word with you.
Ludwig, do you remember these lines?
Above the star-filled heavens
A loving Father surely dwells.
Yes exactly, from Ode to Joy! Have you forgotten what follows?
Dost thou sense thy Maker near?
Above the star-filled heavens seek Him!
Granted He has always been near—still, it behooves you
Ludwig, Dr. Wawruch urges us to send for the parish priest.
I’ll let him speak for himself.
Esteemed Patient, it falls to me to repeat once more and, I may say, for the last time the words of the great Hippocrates: ars longa, vita brevis. Since, however, your art is eternal, it is now incumbent upon you to attend to your eternal soul.
In the name of those assembled here, nay, of those everywhere who revere your music, I entreat you to receive the Holy Sacrament.
Added to that, it will show the whole world that Beethoven is a true Christian.
God be thanked, I will send for the priest.
• • •
Great Maestro, do not spend yourself in speech. The priest departed long since; you are now truly reconciled with Heaven.
In spite of untold interruptions the letter to Moscheles is indeed finished. I myself have been trying to write him, but to no avail. Nevertheless, you may rest assured that both letters will be posted this afternoon, visitors permitting, or tomorrow at the latest.
• • •
VIENNA, MARCH 24, 1827
My dear Moscheles,
When you read these lines our friend will no longer be among the living. His death is fast approaching, and all of us have but one wish: to see him released from his terrible suffering. There is nothing else left to hope for. For a week he has lain as though half dead, but has mustered his remaining strength now and then to put a question or to ask for something. His condition is appalling, indeed exactly like the Duke of York’s, about which we read recently. He is in a constant state of dull brooding; his head hangs down onto his chest and he stares at one spot for hours at a time. Seldom does he recognize even his closest acquaintances save when he is told who they are. In short, it is dreadful to see. This state of affairs can last but a few days more, for all bodily functions have ceased since yesterday. So, God willing, he shall soon be released, and us with him. People have begun to come in droves to have a last look, although no one is admitted excepting those brazen enough to torment a dying man in his final hours.
His letter to you, which except for a handful of words at the beginning he dictated verbatim, will probably be his last; on the other hand today he whispered to me albeit brokenly: “Smart—Stumpff—write them!” If he can still write as much as his name, I will make sure that it is done.—He knows the end is near, for yesterday he said to me and Councilor v. Breuning: “Plaudite, amici, comoedia finita est!” Also we were fortunate enough yesterday to put his will in order, even though there is nothing here but a few old pieces of furniture and
• • •
MARCH 26, 1827
Dearest Karli,
Your uncle died this afternoon. If possible, please come at once.
Your loving mother
6
MARCH 31, 1827
DEAREST KARLI,
At three o’clock when the coffin was closed and carried downstairs and there was still no sign of you, I assumed that your captain had refused to grant you a furlough; it did not occur to me that snow had delayed the coach—here Monday’s snow had completely melted making way for a lovely spring day. As soon as your Aunt Therese saw the throng assembled outside, she was prompted to fancy what certain busybodies, not unlike herself, to be sure, would make of your absence and Amalie’s. Imagine! Well, I told her plainly that you as a Beethoven, let alone your uncle’s sole heir, were hardly to be lumped together with her daughter. (Had she had the wit to speak of my Ludovica instead of you, she would have made her point, but reasoning has never been Fat Stuff’s strong suit.) In any case it was a pity that you arrived too late to attend the funeral and, still worse, that you had to turn right around and take the night coach back. It would have been no skin off you
r captain’s nose had he permitted you to stay the night. Hail Caesar!
This week’s events swirl in my mind like wind-blown snow; so, you see, we both have had to brave a snowstorm. Nevertheless I will do my best to sort them out, not only for your sake but mine.—Not long after your Uncle received the Holy Sacrament he lapsed into a coma. For those of us present at the time—in addition to myself there were your Uncle Johann and Aunt Therese, Schindler, Sali, Breuning and, needless to say, that irritating son of his; however bright and well-mannered the boy may be, he is utterly spoiled. But Gerhard aside, not one of those assembled on Monday afternoon expected your Uncle to survive the night. Well, we could not have been more mistaken. The following morning found him still alive—unconscious, to be sure, and in the throes of the death rattle, but all the same alive. (To give you some idea of how noisy his breathing was, it assaulted one’s ears as far away as the coat rack in the entrance hall.) Indeed it struck me as ironical that a composer who created such sublime music in life, should in death create such pig-like noises. All in all the death rattle lasted two days. Just imagine! a man who, as I mentioned in my last letter, had scarcely strength enough to hold the pen with which he copied the codicil, managed nonetheless to hold death at bay for two whole days! But to return to the living, some among those keeping vigil began to grow unnerved—Schindler for one (he is such an old maid), so too your Uncle Johann, albeit with your uncle one never quite knows what is genuine and what is for show; yet worst of all was Breuning who behaved throughout like an overbred bitch. (Considering not only his pallor but the fire in his eyes, I suspect that he himself is not long for this world.)
Conversations with Beethoven Page 20
