Conversations with Beethoven

by Sanford Friedman

  Well, by Monday afternoon our number had increased. In addition to those already mentioned, a friend of Franz Schubert’s, an exceptionally handsome young man named Hüttenbrenner was there, as well as a friend of his, an artist who had come to sketch “the dying composer.” Although your Uncle Johann found the artist’s presence unobjectionable, nay more, desirable for posterity’s sake, it deeply affronted Breuning who had words with the man and threw him out. Soon thereafter Breuning and Schindler took up the question of where to bury your Uncle.

  Oddly it was Gerhard, forever on the lookout to please his father, who suggested that Uncle Ludwig be buried at Währing. It so happens that Währing is where Breuning’s first wife (“Father’s Julie, who died at nineteen,” Gerhard informed me) is buried, and where the Councilor himself plans to be laid to rest. At that moment I wondered what the present Mrs. Breuning who, I need hardly remind you, is the mother of his children, makes of her husband’s design, but never mind! Gerhard’s suggestion pleased his father, naturally; thus Breuning and Schindler set out for Währing in search of a suitable burial plot. (In my opinion they would have seized upon any excuse to flee the death-chamber.) Now it was your Uncle Johann’s turn to be affronted. How dared Breuning take the matter on himself! he had no right to select a plot without consulting the composer’s brother! etc. Whereupon he, too, set out for Währing. Well, that left only three of us in the death chamber—Hüttenbrenner, Gerhard and myself.

  Late in the afternoon—it must have been about 5 o’clock—the room grew suddenly dark. From the windows I saw masses of black clouds gathering or, rather, converging as if by prearrangement—for that is how it seemed—on Schwarzpanier House. Presently the most violent storm broke right overhead; not only was there thunder and lightning, but howling wind and snow, to say nothing of hailstones the size of grapes! Indeed one did not know what to make of it, which month we were in, whether in July or December. In the middle of everything, as though for comical relief, Gerhard was summoned home for his piano lesson. Then all at once a flash of lightning filled the room with glaring light. This was accompanied by a loud thunderclap, so loud in fact—You know the saying that something is loud enough to wake the dead; well, that is more or less what happened! I don’t mean that your Uncle did in truth hear the thunderclap, but only that it seemed so to us who were keeping watch, for in the next breath he opened his eyes and came to consciousness. Thereupon he lifted his hand and, reaching out, raised it slowly upward until his arm was fully outstretched and his fingers strained to touch the canopy. Yet almost in the same breath his fingers curled, his eyes half closed and his arm sank back to his side—Afterwards, Hüttenbrenner asserted that your Uncle, having made his peace with God, had raised his fist in defiance of “the powers of evil.” Since, however, Hütten. had kneeled beside the bed in order to slip his arm under your uncle’s head, he viewed him only in profile. Thus he could not see, as I could, your uncle’s countenance which, far from defiant, was utterly grave and beseeching. Just what your Uncle asked for, I have no idea, naturally; but I suspect that it was something for which there are no words, something—Fist indeed! his hand was cupped as though holding a small bird. In my opinion what he asked for, and in fact received, was permission to die. In any case he had breathed his last. Thus Hütten. closed your uncle’s eyes and kissed them, and then kissed his forehead, mouth and hands. He also asked to have a lock of your uncle’s hair. Although I obliged him, I must say that the squeaking sound of the shears cutting through that tough tress made me shudder.

  Well, of one thing you may be certain: the following day found your Uncle Johann, Breuning and Schindler foregathered at Schwarzpanier House to search for the bank shares. According to your Uncle Johann, after they searched in vain for almost two hours, he threw up his hands and demanded that Breuning produce the shares! (As you well know, your Uncle Ludwig often said that there was someone, other than yourself, who knew where they were hidden.) Since, however, Breuning had no idea of their whereabouts, he was quick to take offense again. This provoked a nasty scene fraught with charges and countercharges, naturally. Just what your Uncle Johann thought Breuning had to gain by concealing their whereabouts, I cannot imagine. In any case once peace was restored, it occurred to Breuning that the unnamed person might be Holz. That, of course, did not sit well with Schindler who, needless to say, despises Holz and continues to regard him, even now after your uncle’s death, as his archrival. Notwithstanding Schindler’s objections, Holz was sent for. No sooner did the rival appear than he went to the credenza, released an unseen latch and voilà! a hidden compartment sprang into view. In it were found not only the seven bank shares, but also a love letter (whose tone, I may say, is ardent) and two miniature portraits—one of Countess Guicciardi and the other of an unknown woman whom Schindler takes to be Countess Erdody. Had you any prior knowledge of such a love letter? In all likelihood it was addressed to one of the Countesses—the question is, of course, to which of them? Seeing that the salutation “My angel” tells us nothing and that the letter was never posted, nor for that matter was it dated—Well, you can just imagine what sort of grist this will bring to the gossips’ mills!

  Later that day an autopsy was performed by a certain Dr. Wagner. When your Uncle was lifted from the deathbed the bedsores, about which no one had ever heard him say a word, were so ghastly that Dr. Wawruch, who witnessed the dissection, covered his eyes in dismay. I needn’t remind you how I feel about autopsies; ever since your Uncle took it into his head that I had poisoned your father—well, now it was his turn! Forgive me for saying that, it sounds so pitiless and vengeful. In truth when I saw for myself how horribly Dr. Wagner had disfigured your uncle’s face (to explore the organs of hearing a portion of his skull and jawbone had to be removed) I, too, covered my eyes. Even if I were able to recall everything your Uncle Johann told me about Dr. Wagner’s findings, it would take far too long to report here. Besides, you’ll read the document yourself someday. Suffice it to say that your uncle’s liver had shrunk to half its proper size, had turned a greenish blue color and was beset with knots the size of kidney beans!

  The following day Breuning who, you will remember, took such umbrage at the idea of an artist sketching the dying composer, gave permission nonetheless to another artist not only to sketch the corpse but to fashion a death-mask—God in heaven! You cannot possibly imagine how sunken were your uncle’s cheeks, nor how dreadfully the flesh sagged, hung down like dewlaps! Indeed the face was all but unrecognizable, yet Breuning decided that a death-mask—Enough! As for the sketch, it is simply ghastly; the eyes seem covered with cobwebs and the gaping mouth shows the teeth! In short, it is so gruesome that I swore never to look at it again. Still, there is one thing to be said in its favor: it depicts your Uncle with a full head of hair. Not that he was later shorn like Samson, but somehow or other, despite the constant presence of Sali and two attendants from the church, while your Uncle was lying in state, one mourner after the next helped himself to a lock of hair. Believe me, his hair looked like a cornfield after harvest; and the ill-effect was only somewhat mitigated by the wreath of white roses that adorned his head. With regard to the coffin, I suppose one might characterize it as handsome or, better still, dignified; in any case it was purchased with leftover funds from London. Thus it fulfilled to a T the Philharmonic Society’s stated purpose which, as your Uncle Johann reminded me, was to provide “comforts and necessities.”

  As for the funeral, I neglected to mention that when the coffin was carried downstairs there was such a crush in the courtyard the gates had to be locked. Those who were left outside burst into angry protest.—I will say this much for Breuning, at least he had the foresight to request some troops from the Alser barracks. (Is that not where you received your physical examination? It now seems so long ago.) In the courtyard were assembled a goodly number of priests as well as eight singers from the Italian opera company, including Cramolini! Once the priests had blessed the dead man, the Italians sang a chorus f
rom William Tell. Considering your uncle’s opinion of Rossini, I had to suppress a smile.—In addition to the Italians there were sixteen other singers, the best in Vienna, and four trombonists who played a piece your Uncle wrote in 1812 while visiting (to gloss the matter) your Uncle Johann at Linz. There were, moreover, eight Kapellmeister, including Kreutzer and Hummel, and I don’t know how many torch-bearers. Among the latter were Grillparzer, Schubert and Hüttenbrenner, the cloth merchant Wolfmayer, Schuppanzigh, Linke, Weiss and Holz—Since Schindler served as a pall-bearer, a duty more notable than torch-bearer, doubtless he condescended to tolerate his rival.—Now try to imagine grouping all those people into some sort of orderly line. Well, when it was finally accomplished the Italians shouldered the coffin and the procession set out for the church.—How far would you say that Schwarzpanier House is from Trinity Church? 600 paces? 700? Whatever the distance, venture a guess as to how long it took us to arrive there. Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? It took no less than an hour and a half—so many spectators were there along the way. Why, even the schools were closed! Your Uncle Johann estimated the crowd at 20,000, the newspapers put the figure at 10,000.

  At the church the crush was even worse than it had been in the courtyard. Again the troops were called upon to hold back the crowd; unfortunately they held us back, too! Not until we brought to their attention our black crepe bands and beautiful corsages did they believe that we were members of the family.—Once inside, it was all but impossible to move, let alone breathe; indeed three or four people fainted and had to be taken across to the hospital! I myself felt faint during the blessing; no doubt the closeness of the crowd, the censer and candles—Ah! I almost forgot to mention the candles. Never have I seen so many; there must have been a thousand, and all of them paid for by Wolfmayer. But candles aside, you may be sure that I heaved a sigh of relief when at last the Italians bore the coffin through the nave and out the door. Thank goodness they were spared the strain of having to bear it to Währing; a hearse, drawn by four horses, brought it there.

  At Währing the coffin had to be carried into the parish church and blessed yet again, naturally! Then the procession moved on to the cemetery, yet only as far as the gates. There, to my surprise, the Italians set the coffin down. (Evidently it is forbidden to recite a funeral oration on consecrated ground.) In the next moment Anschutz stepped forward. Well, need I say more? Indeed all his mastery and emotion, nay, inspiration were put at the service of Grillparzer’s words. For my money no actor in Vienna can touch him; there was not a dry eye in the crowd, as the saying goes.

  Only then did I become aware of the hush; for the first time all day there was not a sound to be heard—not a church bell, not a birdcall. As we filed silently into the cemetery I realized that I was drying my eyes with the handkerchief that I had given your Uncle before he died. At the grave I found myself rehearsing a particular statement of Grillparzer’s: “they called him malevolent.” (Make no mistake, he was only speaking of those who didn’t know your Uncle; for his part Grillparzer was altogether laudatory, praising the man as a great artist, a master, immortal, etc.) Since, however, I myself had called him that, malevolent, the week before he died, I felt remorseful.—And yet he was malevolent—Yes, of course he was all those other things as well—a great artist and a master, naturally! And more, much more; things that neither Grillparzer nor Goethe himself could ever put into words—But on the other hand—Dear me, clearly my feelings are mixed with regard to your Uncle.

  When it was my turn to sprinkle the coffin with earth—I don’t know what came over me, but all at once I began to cry—uncontrollably! I, who pride myself on self-control; not only did I cast the earth into the grave but also the handkerchief! Well, you may be sure that that did not escape the notice of Fat Stuff; she was consumed with curiosity.—What exactly did the gesture mean? Did the handkerchief have some personal significance? etc. I said only that by casting the tear-soaked hanky into the grave, I had hoped to put an end to tears—Indeed! Of what world could I have been thinking?

  By the time we left the cemetery it was twilight.

  Your loving mother