by Suchet, John
In fact some years ago I was approached by a young Frenchwoman who said just that – that her mother, who lived outside Paris, had a letter written by Beethoven which she kept in a shoebox in her attic. She said the handwriting had been authenticated as belonging to Beethoven, and the letter proved beyond doubt that Josephine Brunsvik was the Immortal Beloved. I arranged to meet her, but the meeting was cancelled by a family member.
It is quite possible that the woman who was Beethoven’s Immortal Beloved is a woman as yet unknown to history. One day new evidence will emerge. It might be in my lifetime, though I rather doubt it.
BUT EVEN IN the calm of Bohemia, taking the waters and musing over a lost love, the outside world intruded on Beethoven, in the shape of his own family. It sent him into a spiral of despair. His youngest brother Johann, it seemed, had succeeded where he had failed. He had found himself a woman, and he intended marrying her.
Beethoven sent Johann an urgent message, saying in effect ‘over my dead body’, abandoned his stay in Bohemia, packed his things, and headed as fast as he could for Linz to confront his brother. He only hoped he wasn’t too late.
1 Today Bad Teplice in the Czech Republic.
2 My translation.
3 Today Karlovy Vary, in the Czech Republic.
4 Maynard Solomon, Beethoven (Schirmer Books, New York, 1977; rev. edn, 1998).
5 Edward Walden, Beethoven’s Immortal Beloved: Solving the Mystery (Scarecrow Press, 2011). In a forensic examination appropriate for a trained lawyer, Walden argues the case for Bettina Brentano, whose half-brother Franz was Antonie’s husband. John Klapproth,Beethoven’s Only Beloved, Josephine! (private publication, 2011). Klapproth, a German-born government official living in New Zealand, rehearses well-worn, albeit powerful, arguments in favour of Josephine Brunsvik.
Chapter
THIRTEEN
An Utterly Untamed Personality
BEFORE WE ACCOMPANY Beethoven on his mercy mission to Linz, something else happened in Teplitz that merits attention. In this small spa town in north-west Bohemia, the two greatest artists of the age met – and didn’t like each other very much.
Beethoven had revered Johann Wolfgang von Goethe from his teenage years in Bonn, when he set some of Goethe’s poems to music. More followed after the move to Vienna, and in 1810 he composed incidental music to Goethe’s play Egmont. This was a commission from the Burgtheater, which wished to revive the play, and it appealed to Beethoven on two levels. The first was his admiration for Goethe; the second the subject matter of the play, which depicted the revolt of the Flemish hero Count Egmont against the Spanish occupier – thus appealing not just to Beethoven’s innate belief in the triumph of freedom over oppression, but to his fondness for a true story that happened in the land of his fathers.
So pleased was he with his work, that he wrote to his publishers, Breitkopf und Härtel, in January 1812, asking them to forward the score to Goethe himself. Six months later Beethoven was in Teplitz, and found that Goethe was there too.
The two great artists met for the first time on 19 July, and what a contrasting pair they were. Goethe, elegant, sophisticated, at ease with aristocracy even royalty, at the height of his fame just a few years after the sensational success of the first part of his epic drama Faust; he was indisputably Germany’s leading figure in poetry, drama, philosophy and science. Tutored privately from an early age, he was proficient in Latin, Greek, French, Italian, English and Hebrew, and had also been taught to dance, ride and fence. He was, in essence, Enlightenment man.
Well might Beethoven, albeit twenty-one years Goethe’s junior, feel somewhat inadequate in the great man’s company. He had his music, most certainly, but it was the only area in which he could claim any kind of ascendancy over Goethe.
At the time of their meeting, Goethe was sixty-three years of age, Beethoven forty-one. If opposites attract, they should have got on very well indeed, particularly since their different disciplines, combined with a substantial age difference, should have precluded any rivalry. And it seems, at first, there was indeed a mutual admiration.
After the first meeting, Goethe wrote to his wife, ‘Never have I seen a more intensely focused, dynamic, or fervent artist.’ Some days later Goethe called on Beethoven, and reported that he played the piano ‘delightfully’.
But a famous anecdote shows an underlying tension. The two men were walking together, and the renowned Goethe attracted considerable attention. He found this irritating, and said so. Beethoven drily commented, ‘Don’t let it trouble Your Excellency; perhaps the greetings are intended for me.’
Then something really did go wrong between them. We do not know for certain what it was, but an incident occurred – highly embarrassing for Goethe – that might explain it.
Goethe and Beethoven were walking in the park behind the castle in the centre of Teplitz, when Goethe spotted the imperial royal family walking towards them. Goethe caught Beethoven’s arm and said they must pay their respects. Goethe took his position to the side of the path, and as the Emperor and Empress passed, arm in arm, Goethe removed his hat, swept his arm to the side, and executed a deep bow.
Beethoven, appalled at Goethe’s act of sycophancy, slammed his top hat down on the back of his head, held his hands tightly behind his back, and strode defiantly in the opposite direction.
Admittedly the source for this is Bettina Arnim, née Brentano, sister-in-law of Antonie, who is widely judged to have fabricated elements of her contacts with Beethoven, but it is highly unlikely she would have invented the whole episode – even if we allow her points of exaggeration – and the two protagonists seem to confirm in letters they wrote soon afterwards that something of the kind happened.1
Goethe wrote to a friend:
I made the acquaintance of Beethoven in Teplitz. His talent amazed me. However, unfortunately, he is an utterly untamed personality, not necessarily in the wrong if he regards the world as detestable, but certainly not making it any more pleasant either for himself or others by thinking so. On the other hand one certainly has to make allowances, indeed pity him, as he is losing his hearing, which perhaps has a less harmful effect on the musical part of his nature than the social. By nature rather reserved, he becomes doubly so because of this deficiency.
Beethoven, by contrast, saw it – unsurprisingly – rather differently. He wrote to his publisher:
Goethe delights far too much in the atmosphere of the court, far more than is seemly for a poet. How can one really say very much about the ridiculous behaviour of virtuosi in this respect, when poets, who should be regarded as the leading teachers of the nation, can forget everything else when confronted by that glitter.
If the two men were not unhappy to take leave of each other, it seems Beethoven’s admiration for Goethe might have outweighed the playwright’s for him. Some years later he set Goethe’s poems ‘Meeresstille’ (‘Calm Sea’) and ‘Glückliche Fahrt’ (‘Prosperous Voyage’) to music, and sent the settings to Goethe. Receiving no acknowledgement, he wrote to Goethe almost a year later, referring first to ‘the happy hours spent in your company’ which he would never forget (!), then saying rather pointedly, ‘I am now faced with the fact that I must remind you of my existence – I trust that you received the dedication to Your Excellency of Meeresstille und glückliche Fahrt.’
There is again no record of Goethe replying. But if his frustration with Goethe was causing him any anxiety, word from brother Johann of his impending marriage was more than enough to distract him. Beethoven decided to leave for Linz straight away; it was the worst decision he could have made.
BEETHOVEN HAD been in Teplitz for more than two months, and it had been a difficult time for him. There was the emotional aftermath of the Immortal Beloved affair, as well as the obvious tensions surrounding his relationship with Goethe. He had not stayed still, travelling between Teplitz, Karlsbad and Franzensbad, to take different waters on doctors’ orders. When he first arrived in Karlsbad, he had forgotten his passport,
and the police made him return to Teplitz for it. He had also performed at a public concert.
In August the weather turned and autumn came early. It all caught up with him. Already in poor enough health to have contacted his doctor, in September he fell ill and was confined to bed. The presence of a pretty woman did much to raise his spirits. Amalie Sebald, a singer from Berlin, seventeen years Beethoven’s junior, was in Teplitz with her mother. She took it upon herself to look after Beethoven, well aware that she was tending to the needs of Europe’s foremost musician.
She brought him cooked chicken and hot soup. He was flattered by her attention, and wrote her several flirtatious notes. But there was no suggestion that things went any further, and Amalie and her mother left after less than a fortnight.
Tired, unwell, and without doubt depressed – ‘I am writing to you from my bed. I must tell you that people in Austria no longer trust me completely, and no doubt they are right too,’ he wrote to his publisher – he should have packed his things and returned to Vienna, where he could sleep in his own bed and be tended by his doctor.
Instead, spurred on by the news of Johann’s intended marriage, he threw his things together and rushed south to the central Austrian town of Linz, via Prague and Budweis, to confront his brother. And confront him he did.
First he tried the straightforward approach of attempting to talk his brother out of marriage. Foremost in his mind was the fact that the object of his brother’s affection was a woman by the name of Therese Obermeyer, whom Johann had taken on as his housekeeper. A housekeeper to be given the name of Beethoven? It was, to the head of the family, simply unthinkable. The other brother, Carl, had married an immoral woman, now Johann was intending to marry a domestic servant.
There was an oblique, and to Beethoven appalling, similarity in the circumstances of his two brothers. Whereas Johanna was already pregnant with Carl’s child months before their marriage, Therese had an illegitimate daughter from a previous relationship.
Something else had happened in the Beethoven family that was an embarrassment by any standards. To Beethoven it was much, much more than that. Carl’s wife Johanna had committed an act of extreme folly, which was to come back years later to haunt her.
A friend had asked her to look after a pearl necklace, valued at 20,000 florins, possibly because she was about to travel and wanted to ensure the necklace was safe. Johanna, it appears, hid the necklace and reported it stolen. It took the police five minutes to put two and two together. Johanna was arrested and put on trial for theft. She was found guilty and sentenced to the extraordinarily harsh punishment of a year’s imprisonment. This was reduced to two months, then to one month, and finally to the relatively lenient sentence of one month’s house arrest. But the damage was done. Johanna had a criminal record, and Beethoven was not to forget it.
His fire was up; he knew he had to take drastic action, but even Johann can hardly have been prepared for what happened next. Beethoven went to see the local bishop. We have no record of the conversation, but we can assume he told the bishop that since Therese had an illegitimate child, she was an immoral woman who could not be allowed to marry. The bishop no doubt asked whether either Therese or Johann had been married before, and on hearing that they had not, told Beethoven there was nothing to prevent the marriage.
We know Beethoven received no satisfaction from the bishop, because he then went to the local magistrates to ask for a ruling against the intended marriage. That must have failed too, because in what can only be described as an act of extreme desperation, he went to the police and demanded that they set a deadline for Therese to leave Linz, or face arrest. On what grounds is not clear, nor is the response of the police. But certainly no order was issued against Therese.
Johann, hardly surprisingly, was not simply shocked at his brother’s behaviour, he was insulted and humiliated. Given Beethoven’s actions, the whole town now knew of the family dispute. More than that, his intended wife saw her name being dragged through the mud. Illegitimate daughter she might have, but this she did not deserve.
According to Thayer, Johann decided to confront his brother. In the large room he had given him in his own house, he remonstrated with him, ordering him to keep his nose out of his affairs, to mind his own business. Instead of contrition over the extreme action he had taken, Beethoven argued back. Tempers flared and ... ‘A scene ensued on which – let the curtain be drawn,’ Thayer diplomatically writes.
There can be no doubt that the two brothers came to blows. Europe’s most renowned musical genius scrapping with a leading citizen of Linz, his younger brother. It is not an edifying spectacle.
If anything, Beethoven’s actions not only misfired, they were counter-productive. To retain any kind of dignity at all for either of them, Johann had no choice but to marry Therese, which he did on 8 November 1812.
IT WOULD BE wrong to give the impression that this was a swift visit by Beethoven to Linz, during which he took frantic measures to try to prevent his brother marrying, then left having failed. Such was Beethoven’s fame by now that he was unable to move entirely as he wished.
There was huge excitement in Linz at the arrival of such a famous figure. It is quite possible that Johann let it be known that his famous brother was on his way to come and stay with him, basking in the reflected glory he knew that would bring. Even if he had misgivings about the purpose of the visit, he would most likely not have let that stop him spreading the news.
Linz Cathedral2 had its own Kapellmeister, a certain Franz Xaver Glöggl, who announced in his music journal, the Linzer Musik-Zeitung, the arrival of Beethoven on 5 October. He did not disguise his elation: ‘We now have the long-desired pleasure of welcoming to our city the Orpheus and greatest composer of our time, Herr L. Van Beethoven, who arrived here a few days ago. If Apollo is favorably disposed towards us, we shall also have an opportunity to admire his art.’
Glöggl in fact got less than he wanted, but was not entirely disappointed. Beethoven evidently took a liking to Glöggl, perhaps welcoming the company of another musician, and ate at Glöggl’s house almost every day. Indeed relations between them must have been very warm indeed, for Glöggl dared to ask Beethoven to compose some funeral music, known as Equale, for trombones, and Beethoven agreed.3
Inevitably the nobility of Linz vied among themselves to hold soirées in Beethoven’s honour. At one such occasion Beethoven’s behaviour caused a mixture of consternation and amusement.
Beethoven, as guest of honour, was entertained to music by local musicians, and then some of his song settings were sung. After that his host, no doubt hoping the music had put him in benign mood, asked him if he would entertain the gathering to one of his famed improvisations on the piano. Beethoven refused.
There was some polite conversation, another attempt to cajole Beethoven into playing, then a general invitation for everyone to repair to the adjoining room where a table had been spread with food. The guests picked up a plate from the table by the door, and moved into the next room. Beethoven did not come with them. In fact he was nowhere to be seen. Some of the guests offered to go and look for him, but returned shaking their heads. Finally it was decided to sit at the table and eat.
Once the meal was firmly under way, sounds of the piano being played drifted in from the adjoining room. It was obviously Beethoven, but the guests were not quite sure what to do. They knew that if they all rushed in, he was likely to stop. At the same time, they could hardly continue eating and talking.
So, one by one, with extreme caution, they stepped quietly into the music room, aware they were witnessing something rare, which was to be savoured and treasured. Beethoven continued to play for the best part of an hour, exactly the sort of improvisation for which he was famous, but which he was by now so reluctant to provide.
Then, as suddenly as he had started, he stopped, realising that he had been invited to eat. He leapt up from the piano and, barely seeing anyone else in the room, dashed to the door, where he c
ollided with the table and sent the china crashing to the floor.
There was nervous laughter, which quickly turned to relief, as the host smilingly escorted Beethoven to the dinner table.
UNBELIEVABLY, incredibly – but this is Beethoven, so maybe it is neither unbelievable nor incredible – while he was in Linz doing battle with his brother, his emotions in tatters, his health even if improved still fragile, his mood despondent, he completed his Eighth Symphony, his wittiest and most humorous symphony to date, replete with twists and turns, unconventional key changes and unexpected dynamics.
If this might be expected to lift his mood, it did not do so. He returned to Vienna in November after an absence of four months in a state bordering on despair. He wrote to Archduke Rudolph that he was ‘ailing, although mentally, it is true, more than physically’. He began to keep a diary (Tagebuch), and the first entry, although undated, was probably written in November or December of 1812, and it indicates a tortured soul:
Submission, absolute submission to your fate, only this can give you the sacrifices – – – for the servitude – Oh hard struggle! – Do everything that still needs to be done to plan for the long journey. You must – – yourself find everything that your dearest wish can offer, yet you must bend it to your will – Keep always of the same mind –
You may no longer be a man, not for yourself, only for others, for you there is no longer any happiness except in yourself, in your art – Oh God, give me strength to conquer myself, nothing at all must chain me to life –
Whatever internal traumas he was suffering, external events could only worsen them. It was just days after returning to Vienna that he heard that his benefactor Prince Kinsky, one of the three signatories to the annuity contract, had fallen off his horse and died. The payments were stopped and he began a protracted, and draining, fight with the Kinsky estate to get the payments reinstated.