by Suchet, John
By 10 November the French army had reached, and occupied, villages just a few miles west of Vienna. Three days later the vanguard of the army entered the city in battle order, flags flying, to the sound of martial music. Napoleon, to add insult to injury, made his headquarters in the Austrian Emperor’s summer palace, Schönbrunn. The French had taken the capital of the Austrian Empire, with barely a shot fired.
Five days later Beethoven’s new opera, Leonore, opened at the Theater an der Wien.4 The timing was disastrous. The first act of the occupying French army was to close the gates of the city wall and put armed guards in place to prevent movement. This meant people from inside the city wall could not venture into the suburbs. The sort of people who lived outside the city wall were not, on the whole, enthusiastic opera-goers, nor did they like the idea of going out after dark with French soldiers on patrol, and so Beethoven’s opera opened on 20 November to a handful of his friends and an otherwise empty house.
The following night there were a few French soldiers in the audience, and on the third night a few more. It is hardly a surprise that the plot of the opera – which, as well as being a love story, extols the triumph of freedom over oppression – did not exactly appeal to the soldiers of an occupying army, and after just three performances the opera was shut down.
Given the difficult gestation period, the problems with rehearsals, the intervention of the censor, the delay of opening night, Beethoven was already drained. Three unsuccessful performances put the seal on a dreadful experience. And unsuccessful the opera was musically, too, and that will have hurt Beethoven all the more.
The Freymüthige critic wrote:
A new Beethoven opera has not pleased. It was performed only a few times, and after the first performance [the theatre] remained completely empty. Also the music was certainly way below the expectations of amateur and professional alike, the melodies, as well as the general character, much of which is somewhat false, lack that joyful, clear, magical impression of emotion which grips us so irresistibly in the works of Mozart and Cherubini. The music has some beautiful passages, but it is very far from being a perfect, or indeed even successful, work.
The Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung was just as unforgiving:
Beethoven has sacrificed beauty so many times for the new and strange, and so this characteristic of newness and originality in creative ideas was expected from this first theatrical production of his – and it is exactly these qualities that are the least in evidence. Judged dispassionately and with an open mind, the whole piece is marked neither by invention nor execution.
Beethoven had experienced his first unquestionable flop and, easy though it might be to blame the French, there was more to it than that. His opera had been judged to have failed artistically.
Now this was something that was not entirely new to Beethoven. His cantatas, back in his Bonn days, had been judged unplayable by the court orchestra, and earlier in the same year as Leonore was staged, 1805, the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung had this to say about his Symphony No. 3, the ‘Eroica’:
This long composition, which is extremely difficult to perform, is in reality an enormously expanded, daring and wild fantasia. It lacks nothing in the way of startling and beautiful passages, in which we recognise the energetic and talented composer. But often it loses itself in lawlessness ... The reviewer belongs to Herr van Beethoven’s sincerest admirers, but in this composition he must confess that he finds too much that is glaring and bizarre, which hinders greatly one’s grasp of the whole, and a sense of unity is almost completely lost.
Did Beethoven take criticism to heart? He most certainly did not. A reviewer’s criticism or a musician’s complaint was not enough to cause him to alter a single note. Which makes the next step in the difficult journey of his opera all the more remarkable.
Beethoven agreed to attend a meeting at the home of his patron Prince Lichnowsky, with singers who had taken part in the opera, and friends, to discuss ways of improving the score. This is unprecedented. The only possible explanation is that deep in his heart Beethoven knew the opera was not right. But it is still remarkable that he was prepared to discuss this with other people, some of them non-musicians, rather than repair to the privacy of his own apartment and work on it alone. This can be only because he did not feel comfortable with the operatic form, that he understood that opera, above all musical forms, was a collaborative enterprise. In short, he needed advice.
The Prince and the others must have been surprised that Beethoven agreed to the meeting, and if they expected it to be difficult, and Beethoven to be obstructive, they were not proved wrong. They obviously agreed in advance on the single most important improvement that needed to be made. The opera was in three acts, and the first act in particular was lengthy and failed to take the plot forward. The three acts needed to be fused into two. On top of that, several pieces needed to be cut entirely, and others reduced.
Lichnowsky’s masterstroke was to have his wife, an extremely accomplished pianist, provide musical accompaniment, as every number in the opera was run through. The Princess, although only five years older than Beethoven, had taken a motherly interest in him when he first settled in Vienna, looking after him, making sure he was well housed and provided for. Beethoven knew he owed her an enormous debt. In recent years she had fallen into poor health, and had had both breasts removed. Although only forty years of age in 1805, she was extremely frail. In the last resort, Lichnowsky knew Beethoven would listen to his wife, even if to nobody else, and she, fine musician that she was, was as aware as everybody of the need for major alterations to be made to the opera.
If they expected it to be difficult, and Beethoven to be obstructive, they were not proved wrong
That is, in essence, what happened, but not without considerable struggle. ‘Not a note will I cut!’ Beethoven kept shouting, as proposals for improvement were made. The entire opera was gone through, piece by piece, note by note, with frequent repetition. The group pleaded and cajoled; Beethoven resisted at every point.
It was well past midnight before the end was reached. Finally Lichnowsky, who had taken the lead throughout, said to Beethoven, ‘And the revision? The cuts? Do you agree?’ Everybody held their breath. Beethoven’s voice was sombre. ‘Do not make these demands,’ he said. ‘Not a single note will I cut.’
But there was no resistance in his voice, the fight had gone out of him, and those present could sense it. Lichnowsky said in a joyful voice that the meeting was over, the work done, there would be no more talk of it, and they would celebrate. He gave a signal, servants flung open the folding doors to the dining room, and everybody gratefully ate and drank.
As a nice coda to the evening, Joseph Röckel, the young tenor who was to take over the lead role of Florestan – and to whom we owe the eyewitness account of the whole proceedings – sat opposite Beethoven at the dining table. He was so ravenously hungry that he devoured his plate without pausing for breath. Beethoven pointed to the empty plate, smiled and said, ‘You gulped that down like a wolf – what have you eaten?’
Röckel replied that he was so famished he had not noticed what was on his plate.
‘Hah!’ said Beethoven. ‘That is why you sang the part of Florestan, who is starving in the dungeon, so well tonight. It wasn’t your voice or your head that was on fine form, but your stomach. So, just make sure you are starving before you go out on stage, and we can be sure of a successful performance!’
There was laughter, and relief, around the table. Beethoven’s unusually jovial mood was evidence, to those who knew him, not only that he had not taken offence at the evening’s proceedings, but that he would comply.
The net result was a reworked opera in two acts, with practically every piece shortened and an entire aria dropped. One other major change. Beethoven’s oldest friend, Stephan von Breuning (with whom he was reconciled eighteen months after their falling out over accommodation) revised the libretto. This was a somewhat surprising decision, given that
Stephan had no track record in such matters, and in a letter to Sonnleithner Beethoven disguised the fact that the inexperienced Stephan was now involved. The suggestion of involving Stephan might well have been made to soften Beethoven’s opposition to the rewrite. If so, it worked.
‘I do not write for the multitude – I write for the cultured!’
The new version complete, it needed only the irascible and uncooperative Baron von Braun, director of the imperial court theatres, to be brought on side and offer a performance date. This was achieved, but Beethoven soon raised the Baron’s ire by insisting on composing a new overture, and then repeatedly missing the deadline for its completion. January and February passed and they were into early March.
Braun finally lost patience. He offered Beethoven the night of Saturday, 29 March, in the Theater an der Wien, which he said was the best night of the season since it was the final night before the theatre closed for Holy Week. If the opera were not performed on that night, Braun threatened, it would not be performed at all. There was also the promise of one night (possibly two) after Holy Week. But there was a catch. Given the failure of the previous performances, Braun was prepared to offer Beethoven only a share of receipts, not a guaranteed fee. This could, of course, work to Beethoven’s advantage if the theatre was full. Beethoven was in no position to argue.
Still Beethoven was late in delivering the final score, so that there was time for only two or three rehearsals with piano and only one with orchestra. Beethoven, possibly under instructions, stayed away. The rehearsals were directed by Ignaz ‘Egyptian hieroglyphics’ Seyfried, who also conducted at the performances.
The first performance on the 29th was not a complete success, the theatre again being almost empty. Beethoven complained that the chorus was ‘full of blunders’, and that the orchestra – particularly the wind (shades of the cantata problems) – ignored all the dynamic markings. ‘Any pleasure one might get in composing departs when one hears one’s music played like that!’ he wrote.
The second performance, after Holy Week, on Thursday, 10 April, fared rather better. There was a larger audience, though the theatre was still not full. But it seems Baron Braun was prepared to make the theatre available for more performances. Beethoven, though, had other matters on his mind. He was convinced that his due receipts, based on the number of tickets sold, were larger than the Baron was prepared to pay him.
Young Röckel is again our witness to one of the most extraordinary episodes in Beethoven’s life. It is as if all the resentment towards the Baron came pouring out in one tempestuous encounter.
On the day following the second performance, Beethoven stormed into the Baron’s office and openly accused him of withholding his just receipts, of underpaying him. There was a violent row between the two men. Braun told Beethoven he was the only composer to whom he had ever offered a share of the profits, and if there had been a larger audience, he would have received more money. Beethoven accused Braun again of swindling him out of what he was owed. Braun pointed out that although the boxes and front-row seats had all been taken, the bulk of the cheaper seats remained empty.
As a coup de grâce, calculated to offend, Braun said that Mozart was always able to fill these cheaper seats with ordinary people, whereas Beethoven’s music seemed to appeal only to the more cultured classes.
Beethoven, stunned and shocked at Braun’s words, stormed up and down the office, then shouted, ‘I do not write for the multitude – I write for the cultured!’
Braun, knowing he now had the upper hand, calmly replied, ‘But the cultured alone do not fill our theatre. We need the multitude to bring in money, and since your music makes no concessions to the ordinary people, you only have yourself to blame for the fact that your takings are less than you hoped.’
Beethoven saw red. The unfavourable comparison with Mozart, then the insult to his music, was too much. ‘Give me back my score!’ he shouted. It was the Baron’s turn to be stunned. Beethoven shouted again, ‘I want my score. My score. Now!’
The Baron, possibly deciding to call Beethoven’s bluff, pulled a bell-rope and a servant entered. ‘Bring the score of yesterday’s opera for this gentleman.’
The two men stood staring at each other until the servant returned with the score. Braun tried to calm matters. ‘Look, I am sorry about all this, but I believe that on calmer reflection –’
Beethoven did not listen. He snatched the score from the servant’s hand and stormed out of the office, down the stairs, and away.
Röckel entered a few moments later and Braun looked visibly shocked at what had happened. He had, in effect, lost the opera. ‘Beethoven got over-excited,’ he said to Röckel. ‘You know him, he respects you, go after him, and see if you can get him to agree to give the score back. I want to put it on the stage again.’
Röckel concludes predictably, ‘I hastened to follow the angry Master ... but all was in vain.’
It certainly was. Beethoven’s opera did not see the light of day for another eight years, and then it was in a form substantially different yet again – a third version. Which does lead one to wonder whether the whole fracas over underpayment of box-office receipts was an elaborate charade engineered by Beethoven because deep down he knew, consciously or subconsciously, that his opera was still not right.
If that were so, he certainly did not regard it as a pressing matter that needed to be resolved. Or if he did, it was about to be supplanted by a crisis of a very different, and much more personal, kind.
1 All thirteen letters, with one exception, are undated, but I am following the accepted dates attributed by modern scholarship.
2 The German word Josephine uses is sinnlich, which translates as either ‘sensual’ or ‘sensuous’.
3 Like Lichnowsky, Lobkowitz was a great supporter of Beethoven; he received the dedication of the ‘Eroica’ after Beethoven decided against Napoleon.
4 There are conflicting reports as to whether the opera opened as Leonore or Fidelio. Certainly it was to become Fidelio, and it is generally accepted that at this stage it was called Leonore.
Chapter
TEN
A Deeply Immoral Woman
REMARKABLY LITTLE IS known about Beethoven’s two brothers, other than information that links them directly to their famous brother. For one thing, we have practically no idea what they looked like. I can find no contemporary portrait of Carl, and the only physical description of him that I am aware of is terse and uncomplimentary, which is hardly surprising since it came from Carl Czerny, who hated him: ‘Carl van Beethoven is small of stature, red-haired, ugly.’
There is, as far as I am aware, just one portrait of Johann, done when he was in his mid-sixties. It shows an extremely wide thin-lipped mouth, long prominent nose, and a right eye with severely drooping eyelid. There is no resemblance to his elder brother. Johann had at least one quality that Carl lacked. He had qualifications. He had trained and qualified as a pharmacist, and was later to buy a pharmacy in Linz and make a considerable amount of money. Not that this earned him his elder brother’s respect. When Johann wrote a letter to him and signed it, ‘From your brother Johann, Landowner’, Beethoven signed his reply, ‘From your brother Ludwig, Brain Owner’.
Carl, on the other hand, had nothing but his mediocre musical talent. On arrival in Vienna he managed to get a job as clerk in the Department of Finance, which left him time to handle his elder brother’s business affairs. This he did aggressively, and Nikolaus Simrock was not the only publisher who regretted having to deal with him. Ferdinand Ries, who like Czerny couldn’t stand Carl, wrote to Simrock that Carl ‘for the sake of a single ducat breaks fifty promises, and as a result makes bitter enemies for his brother ... All the publishers here [in Vienna] fear him more than fire, for he is a terribly coarse man.’
When Breitkopf und Härtel, concerned that they might lose exclusive rights to a composition to rival publisher Artaria & Co., wrote blaming Beethoven for not respecting the exclusivity, Carl replied
on his brother’s behalf, ‘You have written my brother a letter which might possibly be appropriate for a schoolboy, but not for an artist such as Beethoven.’ Similarly, when the highly respected Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung criticised the oratorio Christus am Ölberge, Carl wrote to them that he found it ‘remarkable that you should print such garbage in your journal’.
Beethoven himself, at least to begin with, appeared none too concerned about this. If anything he had some contempt himself for publishers and critics, and if his brother was upsetting them, maybe it was no more than they deserved. But the case against Carl was building, with publishers threatening to end relationships, and friends and colleagues warning Beethoven that Carl was seriously compromising his reputation.
Beethoven’s relationship with his sister-in-law began badly
If Beethoven was unsure what to do next, Carl solved it for him in the most dramatic way. He announced to his brother that he intended getting married, and that the object of his affections was a certain Johanna Reiss. If he had set out to upset his brother, he could not have chosen to do it in a more effective way.
Johanna Reiss was the daughter of a well-to-do Viennese upholsterer and his wife, who, it is fair to say, had something of a reputation, even in her youth. As a teenager she accused the family’s housekeeper of stealing something she had herself taken. The case actually went to court before she was forced to admit her dishonesty, and she was fortunate no action was taken against her. A curious anecdote from her childhood might go some way towards explaining her behaviour. She apparently told her son in later years that every time she had wanted money her father had said, ‘I won’t give you any, but if you can take it without my knowledge you can keep it.’ This tendency to dishonesty did not leave her after she married, as we shall see.