Beethoven: Anguish and Triumph

by Swafford, Jan

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Introduction

  Bonn, Electorate of Cologne

  Father, Mother, Son

  Reason and Revolution

  Loved in Turn

  Golden Age

  A Journey and a Death

  Bildung

  Stem and Book

  Unreal City

  Chains of Craftsmanship

  Generalissimo

  Virtuoso

  Fate’s Hammer

  The Good, the Beautiful, and the Melancholy

  The New Path

  Oh, Fellow Men

  Heaven and Earth Will Tremble

  Geschrieben auf Bonaparte

  Our Hearts Were Stirred

  That Haughty Beauty

  Schemes

  Darkness to Light

  Thus Be Enabled to Create

  Myths and Men

  My Angel, My Self

  We Finite Beings

  The Queen of the Night

  What Is Difficult

  The Sky Above, the Law Within

  Qui Venit in Nomine Domini

  You Millions

  Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

  Plaudite, Amici

  Appendix

  Works Cited

  Notes

  Index

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2014 by Jan Swafford

  All rights reserved

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Swafford, Jan.

  Beethoven : anguish and triumph : a biography / Jan Swafford.

  pages cm

  Includes bibliographical references and index.

  ISBN 978-0-618-05474-9

  1. Beethoven, Ludwig van, 1770–1827.

  2. Composers—Germany—Biography. I. Title.

  ML410.B4S94 2014

  780.92—dc23

  [B]

  2014011681

  eISBN 978-0-544-24558-7

  v1.0714

  IN MEMORIAM

  Frances Cohen Gillespie

  Painter

  1939–1998

  Could a historiographer drive on his history, as a muleteer drives on his mule,—straight forward;—for instance, from Rome all the way to Loretto, without ever once turning his head aside either to the right hand or to the left,—he might venture to foretell you an hour when he should get to his journey’s end;—but the thing is, morally speaking, impossible: For, if he is a man of the least spirit, he will have fifty deviations from a straight line to make with this or that party as he goes along, which he can no ways avoid. He will have views and prospects to himself perpetually soliciting his eye, which he can no more help standing still to look at than he can fly.

  —LAURENCE STERNE, Tristram Shandy

  Fame is a form of incomprehension, perhaps the worst.

  —JORGE LUIS BORGES

  My custom even when I am composing instrumental music is always to keep the whole in view.

  —BEETHOVEN

  Introduction

  There has always been a steady trickle of Beethoven biographies and always will be, as long as the fascination of the music and the man endures. That bids to be a long time. Like Shakespeare, Rembrandt, and a few other figures in our creative history, Beethoven has long since been a cultural artifact, woven into our worldview and into our mythologies from popular to esoteric.

  A few miles from where I write, his is the only name inscribed on a plaque over the proscenium of Boston Symphony Hall, built at the end of the nineteenth century. In our time, a performance of the Ninth Symphony celebrated the fall of the Berlin Wall. In Japan, important occasions such as the opening of a sumo arena are marked by a performance of Daiku, the Big Nine. Around the world, the Fifth is seen as the definition of a Classical symphony. When I taught in a conservatory, there were few days when we didn’t hear Beethoven drifting down the hall. My Beethoven seminars were full of young musicians whose professional lives were going to be steadily involved with the composer.

  There is, of course, great danger in that kind of ubiquity. To become more of an icon than a man and artist is to be heard less intimately. Unlike others of his status, Beethoven has been relatively immune to the usual historical ebbs and flows of artistic reputations. That has happened partly because in the decades after his death the concert hall evolved into more of a museum of the past than an explorer of the present. That situation too has its dangers. Instrumental music is in many ways a mysterious and abstract art. With Shakespeare and Rembrandt, we can be anchored in the manifest passions in their works, their racy jokes, their immediacy. It is that immediacy that is all too easy to lose when confronting iconic musicians like Beethoven, Bach, and Brahms.

  In the two-century course of Beethoven’s fame, he has inevitably been batted about by biographers and other writers. He was born during the Aufklärung, the German embodiment of the Enlightenment, and came of age during the revolutionary 1780s. Many in his time saw him as a musical revolutionary and connected him to the spirit of the French Revolution. By the time he died in 1827, he was already a Romantic myth, and that is what he stayed through the nineteenth century: Beethoven the demigod, a combination of suffering Christ figure and demonic icon. In his person rough, crude, and fractious, in his music everything from crude to transcendent, he became the quintessential Romantic genius in an age that established a cult of genius that lingers on, for well and ill.

  Critical reframings and reinterpretings are inevitable, and like everything in the arts they reflect the temper of their times. After the lingering decay of Romantic myths in the twentieth century, writing on Beethoven during the past decades has largely risen from the academy, so it reflects the parade of fashions and shibboleths of that industry. Many present-day books concern ideas about Beethoven rather than Beethoven himself. The assorted theoretical postures of late twentieth-century academe took some heavy shots at him, but do not seem to have dislodged him from his unfortunate pedestal, which I believe lodges him too far from us.

  I suspect many people still feel that in some ways the most effective Beethoven biography remains the massive late nineteenth-century one by Alexander Wheelock Thayer. That American writer set out with the goal of assembling every available fact about Beethoven and putting it down as clearly as possible. “I fight for no theories and cherish no prejudices,” Thayer wrote. “[M]y sole point of view is the truth.” In the 1960s, the book was corrected and updated, with a similarly direct agenda, by Elliot Forbes. For me it is within Thayer’s Victorian language that Beethoven casts the strongest shadow as a person, where I catch glimpses of him walking down the street, joking with friends, thumping the table as he composes, tearing into his fish ­dinner.

  Without aspiring to the voluminousness of Thayer, the book you are reading was written in his spirit. Now and then in the course of an artist’s biographical history, it comes time to strip away the decades of accumulated theories and postures and look at the subject as clearly and plainly as possible, without prejudices and preconceptions. That as biographers we all have agendas, both known and unknown to us, does not change the value and necessity of getting back to the human reality of a towering figure. This book is a biography of Beethoven the man and musician, not the myth. To that end I have relegated all later commentary to the endnotes. I want the book to stay on the ground, in his time, looking at
him as directly as possible as he walks, talks, writes, rages, composes.

  We will see that Beethoven was in some ways a hard man. The troubling parts of his personality, the squalor he lived in, his growing paranoia and delusions of persecution, his misanthropy, and later his double-dealings in business will be on display here roughly in the proportion that they were on display in his life. Likewise the plaintive history of his deafness and illness and his failed love affairs. Still, I believe that in the end there was no real meanness in Beethoven. He aspired to be a good, noble, honorable person who served humanity. At times he could be entirely lovable and delightful in his quirks and puns and metaphors and notions, even in his lusty sociopolitical rants. There was something exalted about him that was noted first in his teens and often thereafter. He was utterly sure of himself and his gift, but no less self-critical and without sentimentality concerning his work.

  To the degree that I have a conscious agenda, it is this: I am myself a composer, both before and after being a biographer, so this is a composer’s-eye view of a composer, written for the general public. When I look at Beethoven I see a man sitting at a table, playing the piano, walking in fields and woods doing what I and a great many others have done: crafting music one note, one phrase, one section at a time. I hear the scratch of a quill pen on lined music paper. I see a work coming into focus in page after tumultuous page of sketches. I see a man in the creative trance all of us work in—but Beethoven’s trance deeper than most, and the results incomparably fine and far-ranging.

  In Beethoven I see, in other words, a person leading what is to me the familiar life of musician and composer, and so he will be viewed here. Like many composers of his time and later, he cobbled together a living from this and that, and he was deeply involved in the skills and traditions of his trade. The main difference is how thoroughly he mastered those skills, on the foundation of a gigantic inborn talent. In the course of my work I came to realize that Beethoven was in every respect a consummate musician, whether he was writing notes, playing them, or selling them. The often shocking incompetence of the rest of his life was familiar to history, to his friends, and to himself. That too was the incompetence of a man, not a myth.

  I had drafted a good part of this book before I realized that in the text proper I was shying away from two words that are all too familiar in biographies of artists: genius and masterpiece. The first word I use only in quotations from Beethoven’s time. The latter word I don’t use at all. In regard to genius, this was not because I don’t believe in its existence, but rather that I simply didn’t need the word. This book is a portrait of a consummate musician creating his work, playing the piano, finding his voice, finding his niche, selling his wares, courting patrons and champions and publishers, falling in love, pleasing his audience here and provoking them there; and in his art pushing every envelope with incomparable courage and integrity.

  My problem with the word genius is not with the concept but with the way it has been slung around over the last two centuries. It is one of those words like spiritual, profound, incredible, amazing, masterpiece, and so on that tend to be wielded vaguely and carelessly. I use some of those words now and then, I hope not carelessly. Even though I never use the word genius, however, the book assumes Beethoven’s genius and constitutes an ongoing examination of what that might mean.

  To begin, I’ll attempt a nutshell definition. For me genius is something that lies on the other side of talent. In my life I’ve encountered a good deal of talent but no genius, because it is a rare quality. Talent is largely inborn, and in a given field some people have it to a far higher degree than others. Still, in the end talent is not enough to push you to the highest achievements. Genius has to be founded on major talent, but it adds a freshness and wildness of imagination, a raging ambition, an unusual gift for learning and growing, a depth and breadth of thought and spirit, an ability to make use of not only your strengths but also your weaknesses, an ability to astonish not only your audience but yourself. Those kinds of traits that lie on the other side of talent. The sense of the word genius underwent a change between the Classical eighteenth century and the Romantic nineteenth. The age of Haydn and Mozart defined genius as something one possessed. The Romantics defined genius as something you innately were, which possessed you and made you something on the order of a demigod. My sense of the idea is closer to that of the eighteenth century: I believe in genius, but not in demigods.

  By the postmodern end of the twentieth century, the word genius had evolved again, the concept becoming a sociopolitical outrage to be pulled from its pedestal and smashed. I am not a postmodernist any more than a modernist or a neoromantic; I am neither conservative nor liberal. I try to look at things with as few preconceptions as possible and see what is actually there (without holding any illusion that this is ultimately achievable). That truth and fact and objectivity are all unreachable is no reason not to struggle toward them—to the death, if necessary.

  So when it comes to history and biography, I believe, submission to objective fact is, for all its limitations, what the discipline is about. “Interpretation” comes in second to that, and for me a distant second. A biography is mainly a narrative of a life, not an interpretation of it. Nor do I pick and choose from my subject’s life to make a tidy literary form. Our lives are not like a book; real lives drift, and my books drift along with them. Anyway, I usually find facts more interesting than interpretations, also more dramatic and unexpected and funny. I believe that most of the time, interpretation in a biography is best left up to you, dear reader. I supply the material for you to work with.

  All my biographies have been written on the basis of that philosophy. I look for fact, however impossible the quest. For me, the idea of spending one’s life chasing something impossible is simply normal, necessary, even a touch heroic. It is what artists do all the time. In one of his rare poetic moments in words, Beethoven put it in a nutshell: “The true artist has no pride. He . . . has a vague awareness of how far he is from reaching his goal; and while others may perhaps admire him, he laments the fact that he has not yet reached the point whither his better genius only lights the way for him like a distant sun.” To me, art is when you make things up, so I call biography a craft rather than an art. But in both endeavors the impossibilities are alike.

  The preceding thoughts are said in relation to my subject’s life, not his music. I don’t believe any person’s life is lived to be “interpreted,” by strangers, for money. Every person’s life is ultimately a mystery, even to him- or herself. That is the moral source of the humility with which I write biography. But art is created to be enjoyed, to move, to excite, to soothe and provoke, to teach, to be discussed, indeed to be interpreted. While I will submit judgments and interpretations of Beethoven’s life only when they seem to me obvious, in the book there will be a good deal of interpretation of the music. Composers hear music one way, performers another way, listeners another, scholars another. I hear mainly as a composer. In the conservatory where I taught, the focus was not on our art as an abstract theoretical study but on making music. I have taught musical composition and theory and history in hopes of helping my students become better performers and composers. That is the angle of view in this book: Beethoven as a maker of music.

  As a composer, I like to see how a thing was made, and I hope to convey that fascination to my readers. I ask for a bit of patience from nonmusicians for technical moments here and there. I have tried to keep these to a minimum, placing a lot of the technical matters in the endnotes (which are designed to be browsed and are largely directed to musicians and scholars). Beethoven’s pieces will be treated as they come up in the course of his story. This is not so much a “life and works” as a “works as part of a life.” Still, I will by no means try to cover every piece he wrote but rather the important ones and minor ones of particular interest.

  I will be steadily interested in what my subject seems to have intended in his music; at the same time, m
y analyses are ultimately my own. I know that most of the labor in creating a work of art is unconscious and instinctive. Art is too complex to be done any other way. All the same, though Beethoven’s creative trances were deep, I have found him to be an unusually conscious craftsman. By the time sketches for a work were well under way, what we see in the sketchbooks is not as much the creation of a work as the realization of a fundamental conception that was already in place, with a firm sense of the leading ideas and of what the whole was “about.” Beethoven kept at a piece as long as it took, but until the late music he usually composed quite fast. Still, the details were mutable, and he considered everything provisional to the end. A fine conception for a work is not enough; one has to make it happen, note by note. That is an exacting and sometimes excruciating process, and it cannot be done without a steady supply of inspiration.

  In Beethoven’s day, most music was put together with reference to existing models. The period he grew up in, what we call the Classical era in music, established formal outlines for composition that he largely adhered to—freely and creatively. The book will therefore be much involved with traditional forms such as sonata and sonata-rondo and variations and how he interacted with them. Because this issue is important, the appendix explains those musical models. I suggest reading the appendix before the book proper. Those not interested are welcome to skip it—but the book will make more sense if you read it.

  It is clear that Beethoven considered music a language conveying emotion and character, and he expected sensitive listeners to understand it in those terms. His favorite critics of his work were notably flowery and imaginative to our ears. In fact, I find the feelings and “narratives” in his instrumental music more transparent than in, say, Mozart or Brahms.