How could I, alas, confess the weakness of a sense which in me ought to be more refined than in other men, and which once reached in me the highest degree of perfection—a degree of perfection that few in my profession surely possess or have ever possessed? No, I cannot do so; forgive me, therefore, if at times you see me stand apart from your company, which once it was dear to me to seek. My misfortune makes me suffer doubly, for it causes me to be misunderstood. For me there can be no solace in the company of men, no elevated conversations nor mutual confidences. Forced to live entirely alone, I can slip into society only when the most pressing necessities demand it; I must live like a proscribed man.

If I am among others, I am overcome by a burning anxiety, by the fear of running the risk that my condition be noticed—and so it has been even during these six months I have spent in the countryside. Urging me to spare my hearing as much as possible, that sensible man, my physician, has more or less encouraged my present natural disposition, although at times, seduced by the desire for company, I have allowed myself to be tempted to seek it. But what humiliation I felt when someone near me heard the sound of a flute in the distance and I heard nothing, or heard the song of a shepherd and again I heard nothing.

Such experiences brought me to the brink of despair, and little was lacking for me to put an end to my life. My art—only it has held me back. Ah, it seemed impossible to me to leave this world before having created all those works which I felt the imperious need to compose; and thus I have dragged on this wretched existence—truly wretched, since my body, so sensitive, can at any moment hurl me from the best state of mind into the most anguishing despair.

Patience—they tell me that this is the virtue I must now choose as my guide; and now I possess it.

May my resolve to endure until the end be lasting, I hope, until the inexorable Fates shall choose to sever the thread; perhaps my condition will improve, perhaps not—at any rate, I am now resigned. Almighty God, who lookest into the depths of my soul, who seest my heart and knowest that it is filled with love for humanity and with the desire to do good. O men, if one day you read these words of mine, remember that you have wronged me; and let the unhappy man take comfort in the thought of having found another unhappy one who, despite all the obstacles imposed by nature, has done all that lay in his power to raise himself to the rank of noble artists and worthy men.

And you, my brothers Carl and [Johann], after my death, if Professor Schmidt is still alive, ask him in my name to give an account of my infirmity, and attach this writing of mine to his document, so that, at least after my death, the world and I may be reconciled, as far as possible. At the same time I hereby declare you both heirs of my small property (if I may call it such). Divide it justly, live in harmony, and help one another. The wrong you have done me, you know, has long since been forgiven. I thank you once more, especially you, brother Carl, for the affection you have shown me in these last years. My wish is that your life may be more serene and less burdened with cares than mine.

Recommend virtue to your children; for only virtue can make one happy, not money. I speak from experience. It was virtue that sustained me in suffering. To it, as well as to my art, I owe the fact that I did not end my life by suicide. Farewell, and love one another. I thank all my friends, especially Prince Lichnowsky and Professor Schmidt. I should like the instruments of Prince L[ichnowsky] to be kept by one of you, provided this does not lead to quarrels between you. Should they serve a more useful purpose, then sell them; how glad I shall be if I can still be of use to you even in the grave.

Well, this is all. With joy I go to meet Death—if it should come before I have had the opportunity to develop all my artistic capacities, then, despite the harshness of my fate, it would come too soon; and undoubtedly I should wish to delay its arrival. Yet I should be content even so; would it not free me from a state of endless suffering? Come then, Death, whenever thou wilt, I shall meet thee courageously.

Farewell; do not wholly forget me after my death. I deserve to be remembered by you, for in my life I have often thought of you and sought to make you happy. Be happy.

Ludwig van Beethoven For my brothers Carl and [Johann] To be read after my death.

Heiligenstadt, 10 October 1802

Thus I take leave of you—and with such sadness besides. Yes, the hope I cherished—the hope I brought with me here, of being cured at least in part—that hope I must now wholly abandon. As in autumn the leaves fall and wither, so has that hope now withered entirely for me. I leave this place almost in the same condition in which I arrived. Even the great courage that so often inspired me in the beautiful days of summer has now vanished.

O Providence, grant me yet one day of pure joy. For so long now I have not known the inner echo of true joy. O when—when, Almighty God—shall I feel again that echo in the temple of Nature and in communion with humanity? Never? No! That would be too cruel.

As M. Cooper observes, Beethoven was proud and felt self‑sufficient, superior to the things of the world; yet this pride of his, this certainty that he could face all of life’s adversities alone, was broken by the onset of deafness. It was this—many have pointed it out, and M. Cooper writes it explicitly—“that slowly and painfully transformed the tempestuous, highly extroverted composer of the youthful and middle‑period works into the introspective and contemplative visionary of the final decade.” Deafness was, in essence, not an obstacle to his creativity but one of the forces that enabled him to reach the outer boundaries of his art.

The first signs of deafness can be traced back to 1798; Beethoven sees it looming and becomes certain of his fate, with all the consequences that such a condition entails for a musician, around 1801, when he speaks of it to Wegeler in a confidential letter. In the letter of 29 June 1801 [E.65] he wrote: “Often I have cursed the Creator and my existence; Plutarch has brought me to resignation; if otherwise possible I wish to defy my destiny, yet there will be moments in life when I shall be the most unhappy of God’s creatures. … I beg you to say nothing to anyone … I confide this to you only as a secret. … Resignation, what a wretched refuge, and yet it is the only one left to me.”

His despair would erupt in the Heiligenstadt Testament of 1802. This document has been read in different ways by various scholars. There are those who, especially in earlier times, overwhelmed by admiration for the musician, emphasized only its deeply human aspect; and those who, while acknowledging a core of sincerity, have wished to detect in it notes of self‑pity and even of self‑indulgence [!?], casting doubt on the suicidal thoughts reported there. But I believe that sincerity is the fundamental quality of this letter, as revealed by the clarity with which he perceives his impending fate: “Year after year my hopes of recovery have been gradually frustrated … Though endowed with an ardent, lively temperament, indeed sensitive to the attractions of society, I was soon compelled to withdraw, to spend my life in solitude. … How could I, alas, confess the weakness of a sense which in me ought to be more refined than in other men. … To be forced to become a philosopher at barely twenty‑eight is truly no easy thing, and for an artist it is harder than for anyone else. … Patience—they tell me that this is the virtue I must now choose as my guide; and now I possess it—May my resolve to endure until the end be lasting, I hope, until the inexorable Fates shall choose to sever the thread.”

And from now on Beethoven would be called to give continual proof of resignation. Ten years after the Heiligenstadt Testament, when his deafness was by then fully manifest, two notes from 1812 in his persönliche Aufzeichnungen allow us to understand what his psychological state had become, now that his youthful amorous illusions had faded: “Submission, the deepest submission to your destiny. Only this can sacrifices grant you—towards professional duty. — Oh, hard struggle! …” “Endurance. Resignation. Resignation. Thus we overcome even the blackest misery and make ourselves worthy, so that God [may redeem] our sins.”

Despite certain difficulties, Beethoven’s letters are an extremely important source of information about various events in his life. For example, it has been possible to reconstruct many of his continual changes of residence, his summer retreats, and his (few) journeys on the basis of the addresses or locations indicated on the letters. But above all, the letters offer a cross‑section of Beethoven’s character. Written often on impulse after an unpleasant event, they show the Master flaring up in anger and showering harsh words upon the supposed culprits and the unfortunate recipient. Likewise, they are at times filled with insults and accusations of incompetence and asinine stupidity directed at copyists, printers, and publishers. Those aspects of Beethoven’s personality that manifested themselves in coarse humour (which Bekker defined as “boar‑like humour”) or in gestures of contempt, those difficulties in self‑control that sometimes erupted into moments of verbal violence and offensive intolerance, have been mercilessly transmitted to posterity for eternity in his letters.

Many of these outbursts coincide with difficult moments in his life—the onset of deafness, the crises surrounding the guardianship of his nephew, sentimental disillusionments, and the (supposed?) financial constraints; yet at times they surface even in moments of apparent calm. Victims of these explosions were also those who, historically, can only appear as true friends, such as Zmeskall, the devoted companion who often helped him solve countless daily problems, and Schuppanzigh, the faithful champion of his music. These coarse eruptions of verbal intolerance were usually followed by a torrent of apologies or kind words, revealing how fully he himself realized the wrong he had done or the harshness of his words.

Today we justify all this by pointing to his emotional and temperamental instability, his inability to control himself—due certainly to hereditary factors (both constitutional and acquired; alcoholism appears repeatedly among his forebears) and to his upbringing (one need only think of his relationship with his father). On the other hand, many letters are proof of his goodness of heart, his friendly devotion, and his undeniable desire to do good, as he wrote, “for poor suffering humanity.”

The few love letters reflect quite faithfully the emotional state of a man for whom love—deep and faithful as he conceived it—was a goal that receded with each new experience and remained forever unattainable. Among these letters one must recall those to the Immortal Beloved and some of those addressed to Josephine Deym Brunsvik. Other letters clearly reveal the humorous side of Beethoven’s character: full of wordplay, nicknames, and double meanings, they also show his playful yet at the same time authoritarian way of treating friends or the unfortunate souls who willingly helped him and with whom he sometimes maintained relations and tolerated, in his own words, “for what they do for me.”

A great many letters, naturally, have to do with his music. Most concern problems of copying and printing, and negotiations with publishers. And from some of them one immediately realizes how, at times, Beethoven was not always entirely transparent in his dealings, when he attempted to sell the same work to several publishers simultaneously. Or how, on many occasions, he boasted of works as already completed when they were barely sketched or existed only “in his head.” Other letters refer to performances of his works, both public and in private palaces: the search for performers, the renting of halls, the approval of the authorities, estimates of expenses and revenue.

What perhaps strikes one most is that from Beethoven’s correspondence practically no information can be gleaned about his poetics. There are no aesthetic or musical reflections; nothing transpires of Beethoven’s artistic personality, of his way of composing, save for rare exceptions. For example, in a letter to Schlesinger of 13 November 1821 [E.1446] he writes that in composing he was accustomed to “note down certain ideas and, when I have the whole work in my head, I put everything into writing, but only once.” Otherwise, on composition and on art everything is limited to brief phrases or statements from which one must attempt to draw deductions.

A recurring topic is that of benefit concerts and the gift of works to be performed for charitable purposes, with repeated affirmations of his desire to serve the weak and the suffering.

The letters are also a veritable medical bulletin of Beethoven’s ailments: in certain periods they refer, almost obsessively, to health problems.

Not least are the domestic problems. Changes of residence and, above all, issues with the servants occupy much space. There emerges that way of considering servants as inferior and despicable beings, the truly uncivil manner in which Beethoven treated them, even resorting to force, as when he threw a pile of books at the housekeeper’s head. And all these problems find confirmation in the Conversation Books and in certain notes written on calendars that were copied after his death. Finally, much is learned about Beethoven’s culinary tastes and the wines he preferred.

The text of the letters reproduced here is that found in the volumes Le lettere di Beethoven by Emily Anderson, ILTE, Turin 1968; in the Epistolario published by Skira under the auspices of the Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia, 1999–2003; but there are also translations from the collection Ludwig van Beethovens sämtliche Briefe. Herausgegeben von Emerich Kastner (Hesse & Becker Verlag, Leipzig 1923). The number, usually in square brackets after the date, corresponds to the number of the letter in the consulted edition. If preceded by A., it refers to Anderson’s edition; if by E., to the Skira Epistolario; if by K., to Kastner’s edition. If a letter is cited in a book or essay, the date and number of the letter are given, followed by the name of the author of the book or essay. The words of the letter quoted in the text are placed in quotation marks. The space devoted here to the letters is relatively small because many of them—those relating to the genesis and first performances of the works, to relations with copyists, publishers, singers, friends, patrons, or to various events in the Master’s life—are presented in the other chapters.

In the letter in which he confesses his deafness to Amenda he also writes: “How sadly must I now live, to leave everything I love and hold dear … and then with such miserable, selfish men as [Zmeskall, Schuppanzigh] etc. I must say that among the others the most trustworthy is Lichnowsky; he has allotted me 600 florins … Now, for my consolation, a man has returned with whom I can share the pleasure of company and disinterested friendship; he is one of my friends of youth [Stephan von Breuning, with whom, however, years later he would fall into conflict, to the point of not seeing him for years!]. … he too cannot like Zmeskall; he is and remains too feeble for friendship. I consider him and Schuppanzigh only as instruments on which, when it pleases me, I play, but they can never become things for my inner or outer activity, nor will they ever truly participate in my life; I value them only according to what they do for me.”

L

Letter of 10 June 1801, to Karl Amenda [K.50]

(Nota: i nomi Zmeskall e Schuppanzigh compaiono solo nell’edizione Skira, E.67)

“Dearest Baron Sanitation Department … yesterday, with your Zmeskall‑Domanoveczian chatter, you made me utterly miserable. Go to the devil, I want to hear nothing of all your morality; strength is the morality of men who distinguish themselves from others, and it is mine as well. And if you begin again today in the same tone, I shall torment you so thoroughly that you will end by finding everything I do good and praiseworthy. Adieu Baron, Ba…ron, ron/nor/orn/rno/onr. Voilà quelque chose from the old Monte di Pietà.”

Letter to N. Zmeskall von Domanovecz, 1798 [K.24]

A. “Do not come to me again! You are a false dog, and may the hangman come and take false dogs.”

B. “Nazerl of my heart! You are an honest lad and you are right, which I acknowledge. Come to me this afternoon, then. You will also find Schuppanzigh, and we two want to scold you, torment you, shake you so that you may have your joy from it. Your Beethoven kisses you, also called the heap of flour.”

Notes to Johann Nepomuk Hummel, written on two successive days in Vienna, probably 1799 [K.36, K.37]

(Poiché manca il manoscritto originale e “Nazerl” è diminutivo di Ignaz, alcuni suppongono che i biglietti fossero per Ignaz von Gleichenstein — Anderson.)

“I told you already yesterday that I would not accept your ticket. You should know me well enough not to believe me capable of depriving a friend of a pleasure in order to offer that pleasure to someone else. I stand by what I said, and herewith I return the ticket to you. I am glad not to be so inconstant as to change my opinion every moment, but rather to adhere strictly to what I say.”

Letter to N. Zmeskall von Domanovecz, 24 March 1799 [A.31]

“Most beloved Count of Music! [in Italian] Yes, dearest Count [in Italian], my trusted friend [in Italian], times are bad, our treasury is empty, revenues come in poorly, and we, most gracious Sir, are compelled to deign to ask you for a loan of 5 gulden.”

Letter to N. Zmeskall von Domanovecz, 1799? [K.38]

“I would have liked to answer your questions several times already, but when it comes to writing I am frightfully lazy, and it takes a great deal before I write the dry letters of the alphabet instead of notes.”

Letter to F. A. Hoffmeister, 15 December 1800 [K.42]

“There ought to exist in the world a market of art (Magazin der Kunst) where the artist should bring only his works and take the money he needs. But as things now stand, an artist is forced to be, in a certain sense, a businessman as well.”**

Letter to F. A. Hoffmeister, [15] January 1801 [E.54]

“Recommend to your reviewers greater intelligence and prudence, especially regarding the productions of young authors; someone who might otherwise go far could be discouraged by them. As for myself, I am far from considering myself near that perfection which admits no blame; yet the clamour of your reviewer was at first so disheartening that, beginning to compare myself with other composers, I could scarcely dwell upon it. I remained entirely calm and thought: they understand nothing; and all the more tranquil could I remain when I considered how men are exalted who here, locally, count for little among the best—and here almost disappear, however good they may be. But now pax vobiscum; peace to them and to me; I would not have said a syllable about this had it not been done by you.”

This time, being awake, I held it fast as once Menelaus did with Proteus, and allowed it only to transform itself into a canon for three voices: [and here the three‑voice canon is written]. Farewell. We always hope that you will never have to justify the title of publisher and never find yourself embarrassed, but that you may continue to be a publisher without embarrassment [wordplay between Verleger – publisher and verlegen – embarrassed]. Sing every day the Epistles of Saint Paul, go every Sunday to Father Werner [a very fashionable preacher at the time], who will point out to you the little book suitable to make you go straight to Heaven. You see how much I care for your spiritual well‑being. In short, I shall remain always, with the greatest pleasure, from eternity to eternity, your most faithful debtor,

Beethoven.

1. Letter to Bernhard Schotte Söhne (22 January 1825) and Tobias Haslinger (10 september 1821)

“This time, being awake, I held it fast as once Menelaus did with Proteus, and allowed it only to transform itself into a canon for three voices: [here the three‑voice canon is written]. Farewell. We always hope that you will never have to justify the title of publisher and never find yourself embarrassed, but that you may continue to be a publisher without embarrassment [wordplay between Verleger = publisher and verlegen = embarrassed]. Sing every day the Epistles of Saint Paul, go every Sunday to Father Werner [a very fashionable preacher at the time], who will point out to you the little book suitable to make you go straight to Heaven. You see how much I care for your spiritual well‑being. In short, I shall remain always, with the greatest pleasure, from eternity to eternity, your most faithful debtor, Beethoven.”

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2. Letter to Breitkopf & Härtel, 22 April 1801 [K.47]

“A friend has told me the amount that has been collected for the daughter of the immortal god of Harmony [Regina Susanna, last daughter of Johann Sebastian Bach, who later died on 14 December 1809]; I was astonished at the small sum that Germany—indeed her own Germany—has gathered for this venerable person, for the merits of her father. This suggests to me the idea: what if I were to publish something by subscription for the benefit of this person, and make known to the public the sum and the income of the whole year, so as to protect myself from any attack? You could do more for this than anyone. Write to me quickly how this can best be arranged, lest this Bach die before we act—before this little stream [Bach in German means “brook”] dries up and we can no longer drink from it.”**

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3. Letter to Karl Amenda, 1 July 1801 [A.53]

“Your Beethoven has a very unhappy life, in struggle with Nature and the Creator. More than once I have cursed the latter, because He has arranged His creatures in such a way that even the most beautiful flower may be destroyed and cut down. Know that the noblest part of me, my hearing, has greatly diminished. Already when you were still with me I noticed some symptoms, but I kept silent; now it has grown steadily worse. I do not know whether I shall ever recover. Oh, how happy I would be if I had my hearing perfect! Thus I must keep myself apart from everything; for playing and composing my affliction counts less—the worst is in dealings with people. What I have told you about my hearing I beg you to guard as a great secret and not to confide it to anyone.”

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4. Letter to J. Varena, 19 July 1812 [K.339]

(Beethoven was thanking the Ursuline Ladies for the sweets they had sent him and was refusing any honorarium)

“If, moreover, the Reverend Ladies wish to be sure of doing something good for me, let them, together with their pupils, include my name in their prayers.”

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5. Letter to F. A. Hoffmeister, June 1801 [K.51]

“I am somewhat astonished at what your agent here has made you say; and what disgusts me is that you should consider me capable of such a base trick. It would be another matter if I had negotiated my things with greedy little merchants and then secretly made a good speculation. But artist against artist—it is rather strong to expect such a thing of me. It seems to me that all this is either contrived, or meant to test me, or merely a supposition. In any case, know that before you received my Septet I had sent it to Mr. Solomon in London (so that it might be performed at his concert, and this was done only out of friendship), but with the recommendation that he take care it not fall into foreign hands, for I am determined to have it printed in Germany. If you find it necessary, you may inquire of him directly. But to give you further proof of my uprightness, I here assure you that the Septet [Op. 20], the Concerto [Op. 19], the Symphony [Op. 21], and the Sonata [Op. 22] I have sold to no one else in the world but you, Messrs. Hofmeister and Kühnel, and that you may consider these works your exclusive property; I answer for this on my honour. You may use this assurance of mine in any case you wish.”

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Whatever the case, Schindler’s position with regard to the Conversation Books appears very much that of a wrongdoer, for another reason as well. It is certain that he introduced, after the Master’s death, conversations between himself and Beethoven—some of them concerning Beethoven’s manner of composing and the meaning of his music, and others intended to make his own familiarity with Beethoven appear even greater. Today these spurious conversations have been clearly identified, but in the past they were considered authentic, and certain scholars even drew from them important critical conclusions about Beethoven’s art.

The greatest merit of the Conversation Books is that they allow us to penetrate, “in real time,” as we would say today, into the Master’s daily life, and thus they possess great biographical interest. Most of the conversations, however, concern simple matters: problems of everyday life, gossip and slander, news about excellent restaurants; licentious or witty remarks are not lacking. But they also deal with poetry, history, and politics.

Totally absent, instead—except for the spurious material introduced by Schindler—are any pieces of information relating to Beethoven’s poetics or his compositional problems. There is much talk of music, but chiefly of the organization of concerts, performances and sales of the Master’s works, Viennese musical life and the composers active there, and Liszt and Weber make their appearance.

The last conversation is dated 5 March 1827, exactly three weeks before the Master’s death.

Magnani: The Conversation Books will reveal to us secret aspects of his soul; they will document the breadth of his spiritual and human interests, his political passion, his love for history, poetry, and philosophy, and they will show how he constantly aspired to reconnect music with something higher.

Hiller: Conversation with Beethoven had to be conducted partly in writing; he spoke, and his interlocutors were obliged to write their questions and their replies. For this purpose he always had at hand large notebooks of ordinary paper, quarto format, and pencils. He followed with avid eyes the hand that was writing and grasped at a glance—more than he read—what was written there.

von Breuning: One day I read, in the Conversation Book he was using at the time: “Your quartet performed yesterday by Schuppanzigh was not liked.” I showed him the note and asked what he thought of it. “It will please another time,” he replied. “I write as I believe right; I do not let myself be guided by the judgment of contemporaries. I know that I am an artist … a second, a third generation will repay me doubly for the wrongs I have had to endure from my contemporaries.”

From the Conversation Books:

On Mozart: “Mozart’s masterpiece is The Magic Flute; it is there that he revealed himself as a German master. Don Giovanni still has the Italian form; moreover, art should never allow itself to be dishonoured by the madness of such a scandalous subject.”

On his own artistic identity (January 1820, VI): “I do not belong, through my activity [as an artist], to this plebeian mass … [Beethoven probably meant nobles rather than common people]. Socrates and Jesus were my models.”

On social class (January–February 1820, VII): “The bourgeois—and I have happened to be one of them—is destined to remain excluded from the higher classes of society.”

On food and wine (January–February 1820): In the notebooks from the early months of 1820 there are frequent references to his favourite foods—herrings, oysters, game such as pheasants and hares—and to the wines he preferred: the Hungarian Tokay, Ofner, Ruster, but also Bordeaux, and where they might be found. There is also talk of dreadful wines. It was probably these adulterated wines that contributed to the ruin of his liver: the most significant finding of Beethoven’s autopsy was indeed a picture of hepatic cirrhosis.

 [Beethoven, who appears to have been very orderly in his working habits, was otherwise extremely untidy, and at times—caught up in new musical ideas or absorbed by them—let his food grow cold, then judged it inedible and took it out on the servants. Toward the end of Conversation Book XVI, relating to August–September 1820, there are clear allusions to this disorderly way of living and to his outbursts of ill‑humour, in several notes written by Schindler:]

**“It seems that recently you have again stormed terribly during the night, is it true? in the Cum Sancto Spiritu

but do not lock yourself in at night, for no stranger will come into your room, and the housekeeper must sometimes enter.

Then you must resign yourself to all dishes being cooked and overcooked and inedible; and do not thunder (hear! hear!)”** From the Conversation Books, August–September 1820, XVI

**“The error has already been corrected. I asked Bernard whether it had still not been corrected. The error in the Conversations Lexicon according to which you appear as the natural son of the King of Prussia.

In the Conversations Lexicon it is written that you are a natural son of the great Frederick.

Peters: Mr. Janitschek says that you love Frederick the Great so much precisely because he is said to be your father.

Such errors must, however, be corrected. You have no need to receive lustre from Frederick.”** From the Conversation Books, 12–25 December 1819, V; January–February 1820, VII.

[These conversations relate to the rumour that Beethoven was the son of Frederick the Great. The report had appeared in the Encyclopedisches Handwörterbuch für gebildete Stände

7. 1812 Submission, the deepest submission to your destiny. Only this can sacrifices grant you — to professional duty. Oh, hard struggle! Use everything that still remains to be done for what is necessary in order to plan the long journey.

Leitzmann believes that “the long journey” may refer to the projected but never realized trip to London with Mälzel.

8. You had no right to be a man, not for yourself but only for others: for you there is no more happiness, except in yourself, in your art. O God! Give me the strength to conquer myself; nothing must bind me to life any longer. In this way everything goes to ruin with A.

According to Leitzmann, if the copyists transcribed the letter “A” correctly, it might refer to Amalia Sebald, with whom Beethoven was involved in August 1811 and 1812 at Teplitz. But, as Leitzmann notes, the famous letter to the Immortal Beloved belongs to this same period, and the addressee is unknown. Solomon believes this note alludes precisely to the 1812 affair with the Immortal Beloved, in which case the name might be Antonie Brentano. (Letter to the Immortal Beloved, K.55; Kastner already wrote “presumably 1812.”)

10. 13 May 1813 A great action, such as it may be, to renounce and remain thus. What a difference compared with a life without activity, which I had often imagined for myself. O terrible circumstances that do not suppress my love for a domestic life but [prevent] its realization. O God, God, look down upon the unhappy B., let it not last any longer.

As Leitzmann notes, Beethoven here alludes to the problems of marriage and the obstacles to it, perhaps in relation to the Immortal Beloved episode.

12. Learn to be silent, my friend. Speech resembles silver, but silence at the right moment is pure gold.

This is the first poem by Johann Gottfried Herder copied into the Aufzeichnungen, “Das Schweigen” (“Silence”), published, as Leitzmann recalls, in Blumen aus morgenländischen Dichtern gesammelt (Fourth collection of “Zerstreute Blätter,” in Sämtliche Werke, vol. 26, p. 374). Beethoven set this text to music. It is the first of the two “enigmatic canons” WoO 168, written, as Fanny Giannattasio del Rio recounts (Beethovens Persönlichkeit, p. 222), on 16 January 1816 in the album of the pianist Charles Neate.

13. Even if the clouds were to rain down streams of life, never will the willow bear dates. Do not waste time with evil people. Any reed whatsoever will never give you sugar. Can you forge a good blade from soft clay? Does the wolf change its nature, even if raised by man? Is it not the same rain that on salty ground makes thistles and brambles grow, and that gives flowers to gardens? Therefore do not waste seed and costly care: doing harm to the good and good to the bad is the same thing.

Another quotation from Herder, “Verschwendete Mühe” (“Wasted Effort”), again from Sämtliche Werke, vol. 26, p. 380. As Solomon notes, these are free adaptations of aphoristic and didactic poems by the Persian poet Saʿdī (c. 1213–1292).

14. The best system for not thinking about your troubles is activity.

Here Beethoven is likely alluding to his deafness.

35. There is much to do on earth; do it quickly!

36. Do not continue my (sic) present everyday life. Art demands this sacrifice as well. Rest with diversions in order to work for art more energetically.

This note reveals the conflict—always alive in Beethoven—between his longing for human contact, social life, marriage, and his devotion to art. See also nos. 52, 75, 100, 131, 178.

37. For why has Destiny given man the courage to endure?

The first Homeric quotation in the Notes. From the Iliad, Book XXIV, line 49.

42. Hatred falls back upon those who nourish it.

Its source is uncertain; probably a proverb.

45. Do not let people outwardly notice the contempt they deserve, for one never knows whether one may need them.

1815

52. Let everything that is called life be sacrificed to the sublime and [become] a sanctuary of art. Let me live, even by expedients, if any are still to be found.

53. Perfect the acoustic devices as far as possible, then travel. This you owe to yourself, to mankind, and to Him, the Almighty. Only thus can you once more develop everything that is forced to remain locked within you. And a small court — a small chapel — in it the hymn written by me, performed for the Glory of the Almighty — the Eternal, Infinite.

Leitzmann thinks Beethoven is alluding here to Olmütz, where his pupil Archduke Rudolph was to become Archbishop, as if Beethoven aspired to become his Kapellmeister.

55. The portraits of Händel, Bach, Gluck, Mozart, Haydn in my room; they may help to support me in suffering.

59. Iliad, Book 22, p. 356. But now fate seizes me! Let me not fall into the dust without toil and without glory; no, first let me accomplish great deeds of which even posterity shall hear.

Iliad, Book XXII, vv. 303–305. Leitzmann notes that the verses were marked with long and short syllables, as if in preparation for being set to music.

64. Under the tiger’s tooth I hear the sufferer pray: “Thanks to you, Most High, I die in pain, but not in guilt.”

From Herder, “Dank der Sterbenden” (“The Dying One’s Thanks”), in Blumen aus morgenländischen Dichtern gesammelt, in the fourth collection of his Zerstreute Blätter.

65. Do you wish to taste honey without suffering the bee’s sting? Do you desire the crowns of Victory without the danger of battle? Will the diver win the pearl from the depths if, fearing the crocodile, he lingers on the shore? Therefore dare! What God destined for you no one will tear from you; surely He destined it for you, for you, the bravest of men.

Johann Gottfried Herder, “Müh’ und Belohnung” (“Toil and Reward”), in Zerstreute Blätter.

66. He who loves God does not esteem the world more than it deserves, for he knows that the world offers no safe harbour. Cultivate knowledge; no path is safer for a man than that traced long ago by the wisest of men. Avoid the pain of having offended a friend, but above all the friend to whom no other is equal.

J. G. Herder, “Das Leben der Menschen” (“The Life of Man”).

67. Consolation of life. In adversity do not despair of seeing the day that brings you joy rather than sorrow, and pleasure rather than affliction. How often a pestilential wind has risen, yet soon after the air was filled with the most pleasant fragrance. Often a dark cloud threatened you and was swept away before the storm burst from its dark womb. How often smoke rose without fire! Therefore be of good cheer even in misfortune. Time brings miracles to light; innumerable are the graces you may expect from the great God.

J. G. Herder, same source as no. 66.

70. Do not ask questions, but act; sacrifice yourself without glory or reward.

71. He taught me renunciation and privation in the holy sense of duty, leaving me his heaven.

73. *Struggle for justice and for the daughter of justice, eternal freedom, transfigured through the law; resignation to the inflexible will of iron destiny; obedience and renunciation and unchanging faith even into the grave! Stout‑hearted Robert! Will you practise resignation and renunciation? …

You are a hero — you are, which is worth ten times more, a true man! Only the side of the weak is torn by the iron finger of Destiny … Yet there are moments! …

Yes, certainly they exist, but thanks be to God, they are only moments in which man, forced by mighty nature, imagines the best part of himself at the mercy of the waves … You too will rise again, stout‑hearted Robert!

What can I do?

Be superior to your destiny, love the enemy, and seek the highest good of your own perfection in creation!*

From Zacharias Werner, Die Söhne des Thals (“The Sons of the Valley”).

74. God is immaterial, therefore He is beyond all comprehension; since He is invisible He can have no form. But from His works we are aware that He is eternal, omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent. He who is free from all desire, that one is the [All‑]powerful. He alone. No one is greater than He. Brahma: His spirit is wrapped within itself. He, the Almighty, is present in every place of space. … O God … You are the true, eternally blessed, immutable light of all times and all places. …

These extracts of Indian‑inspired philosophy were copied from Johann Friedrich Kleuker, Das brahmanische Religionssystem im Zusammenhänge dargestellt (“The Brahmanical Religious System Presented in Its Entirety”), Riga 1795–1797.

75. Everything flows clear and pure from God. If afterwards I was darkened by the passion for evil, I returned, after repeated penances and purifications, to the first, sublime and pure source, to the Divinity — and to your art.

76. Blessed is the man who has tamed all his passions and then, through his activity, has carried out all the tasks of life without worrying about success. Let the motive lie in the action and not in the result. Do not be one of those whose impulse to act lies in the hope of a reward. Do not let your life pass in inactivity. Be diligent, fulfil your duty, abandon every thought of consequences and of the result, which may be good or bad, for such indifference means attention to what is spiritual.

See note 74. According to Leitzmann, the first part derives from Śakuntalā by Kālidāsa, in Förster’s German translation; the final sentences are certainly Beethoven’s own addition.

90. Endurance. Resignation. Resignation. Thus we overcome even the darkest misery and make ourselves worthy, so that God our sins … [may redeem].

As Leitzmann notes, the final words are missing, but the meaning is clear.

91. Unfortunately mediocre geniuses are condemned to imitate the defects of the great masters without appreciating their beauty; hence the harm that Michelangelo has done to painting, Shakespeare to dramatic art, and Beethoven, in our day, to music.

Written in French; probably taken from a contemporary newspaper.

99. Just as the state must have a constitution, so must the individual have one of his own.

A sentence characteristic of Beethoven’s thinking about the rectitude of conduct required of a man.

100. Live only in your art! You are now so limited in your spirit that this is certainly the only existence for you.

As Magnani observes, Beethoven’s goal lies in the most intense spiritual concentration, in mastering his emotional impulses, in sovereign command of technique.

105. The principal characteristic of an excellent man: perseverance in adverse or unpleasant circumstances.

Again, a quotation.

110. Follow the advice of others only in the most exceptional cases; in a matter on which one has already reflected, who can know all the present circumstances as well as oneself?!

111. These Lacedaemonians died without reckoning, for honour, either death or life …

An ancient quotation, according to Leitzmann; but it may also be Beethoven’s comment on his classical reading, praising the Spartans’ devotion to the common good.

116. When from the order of the world order and beauty emerge, there is a God.

Leitzmann did not know the source; Solomon identifies it as a sentence from Immanuel Kant’s Allgemeine Naturgeschichte und Theorie des Himmels, printed in bold in the 1798 reprint.

112. Death swoops upon man as a predator; To him it is not given to know the appointed day; It strikes him down on the road, it seizes him in his vigour, It lays him low amid the whirlpools of mad pleasure. And the man who is impious and the man who is pious Suddenly find themselves before their God.

From Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, Act IV (“Gesang der Mönche”). Beethoven set these verses on 3 May 1817 (WoO 104) in memory of Wenzel Krumpholz.

126. Yet what greater gift can be given to a man than fame and praise for eternity?

From Pliny’s Epistles (Latin: Tametsi quid homini potest dari majus quam gloria et laus et aeternitas?).

129. God help me! You see me abandoned by all mankind, for I do not wish to do harm. Hear my prayer, to remain with my Karl, certainly only for the future, since now there seems no possibility. O hard fate, O cruel destiny! No, no, my unhappy situation has no end!

Written shortly after Beethoven took Karl into his home in January 1818.

130. This alone I feel and perceive clearly: life is not the supreme good, but the greatest evil is guilt.

Final verses of Schiller’s Die Braut von Messina.

131. To save yourself there is no other means than [to depart] from here. Only thus will you be able to rise again to the summit of your art, whereas here you sink into baseness. Only one symphony — and then away, away, away!

Likely an outburst from a Beethoven emotionally shaken by the legal battle over Karl.

135. The gratification of the senses without union of souls is and remains bestial: afterwards no trace of a noble feeling remains, but rather remorse.

Often cited by those who wished to portray Beethoven as a model of chastity; more plausibly a reflection of his own ethical aspirations and transgressions.

140. Peace and freedom are the most precious goods.

149. Solitude is like poison for you, in your condition of deafness; you are always suspicious of a person of lower rank who is around you.

Beethoven’s distrust of servants is well documented in letters and testimonies.

150. The weaknesses of nature are given by nature itself, and sovereign reason must seek to guide and diminish them with its strength.

Uncertain whether this is Beethoven’s own reflection or a quotation.

164. How stupidity and squalor always remain paired.

171. It would have been possible, without offending the widow’s feelings, but it was not so. Only you, Almighty, see into my heart; you know that I have set aside my own well‑being for the sake of my dear Karl; bless my work, bless the widow! For what reason can I not follow my heart entirely, and defy the widow? God, God, my refuge, my rock, my all, you see into my innermost being and know how it pains me to make someone suffer because of the good things I do for my Karl!!! O hear, eternal ineffable One, hear me, your unhappy one, the most unhappy of all mortals!

The widow is Johanna van Beethoven.

177. To write true religious music, examine all the ecclesiastical chorales of the monks, etc. Seek also the strophes in the most faithful translations and in the most correct prosody of all Christian‑Catholic psalms and hymns.

A clear anticipation of the Missa solemnis.

178. Sacrifice, once and for all, the trivialities of social life to your art! O God above all! For eternal Providence, in its omniscience and wisdom, determines the happiness and unhappiness of mortals.

The second sentence is from the Odyssey.

179. Now for him who is cruel in thoughts and deeds All wish misfortune upon him throughout his life, And even after death his memory is accursed. But for him who is noble in thoughts and performs noble deeds Worthy fame is spread by strangers To all mankind, and everyone blesses the just man.

Odyssey, Book XIX.

180. I shall submit serenely to all changes and place all my trust in You, immutable Good, O God! In You, immutable, my soul shall rejoice. Be my rock, God, be my light, my eternal certainty!

From Christoph Christian Sturm, Betrachtungen über die Werke Gottes…, meditation for 29 December.

The Sketchbooks

Two types of documents are peculiar to Beethoven: his Conversation Books and his sketchbooks. The Conversation Books were a social necessity (because of his deafness). The sketchbooks were a necessity of a different kind: they were, or became, indispensable to his creative process. Few composers have failed to make use of sketches when preparing or drafting a composition. What is striking in Beethoven, and distinguishes him from his colleagues, is the extent of his dependence on sketches, which he preserved throughout his life and which allow us to follow the laborious elaboration of ideas up to the moment when he felt he had reached the finished expression of his musical thought.

What did the sketchbooks mean to Beethoven? There is no doubt that they were personal and private documents. Beethoven occasionally gave an autograph to a visitor, but he does not seem ever to have given away any of his sketchbooks; they remained with him, in an ever‑growing and substantial collection, and accompanied him through his many changes of residence. When he died he possessed sketchbooks from every period of his life, and more than fifty of them were included in the auction of his belongings (and fetched some of the lowest prices of the sale). And, ironically, today the sketchbooks are scattered among libraries all over the world.

The careful preservation, over a lifetime, of these arcane volumes suggests that they had a special function for him, sustaining him morally as well as facilitating his creative process, and that he guarded them so jealously, as Kerman suggests, “to examine them in moments of need or doubt.” He could not be separated from them for long; they were in fact part of his daily life, as his contemporaries noticed: “He was never seen in the street without a small notebook, on which he rapidly jotted down whatever came to his mind at the moment. Whenever conversation turned to this, he mischievously quoted the words of Schiller’s Joan of Arc: ‘Without my banner I would not dare to come.’”

Contemporaries were puzzled and amused by this seemingly bizarre way of seeking inspiration and by the great variety of material he appeared to jot down. Even Schindler makes him seem more capricious than purposeful: “It was Beethoven’s habit, in summer and winter, to rise at dawn and go straight to his desk. There he worked until two or three, the hour of his midday meal. During the morning he went out once or twice, during which he ‘worked and walked’; he returned home after half an hour or an hour with new ideas and wrote them down.”

The systematic study of the sketchbooks began with the pioneering work of Gustav Nottebohm, who more than a century ago began to describe many of them in detail. Many features to which Nottebohm drew attention have now become common observations: the constant repetition of passages in slightly different forms until the final, fully satisfactory version was “found” (a word of Nottebohm’s); the linear sketch of an entire section of a movement; the simultaneous work on different movements or different compositions; the sketches of works never realized. Naturally, it was the more immediately accessible parts of Nottebohm’s work that captured the popular imagination; thus, although he devoted much attention to the sketches of the overall plan of a movement, one may be forgiven for concluding that the principal function of the sketches was the refinement of melody, the raising of a theme from the banal to the sublime.

The sketchbooks are of more than one type. Some were too large to be carried about: they remained on the table and were used for the main groundwork of the compositions of the moment; most of these are written in ink. The portable ones were of different formats and could fit into a coat pocket. Most of these pocket sketchbooks are written in pencil. It is likely that the content of these pocket books differs from that of the more elaborate table sketchbooks: the brief, isolated, embryonic ideas were then systematically developed after returning home.

Usually, in these [table “” not found /]
sketchbooks the sketches belong to the same period. But there are sketchbooks that contain sketches from different periods of Beethoven’s life. In such cases the paper is not uniform, and the leaves were not bound together before use. It is likely that such collections were not assembled by Beethoven, but that the various pages were brought together after his death by some collector or librarian. Likewise, many loose leaves exist that contain sketches of a similar nature; most of these are pages from sketchbooks that were wholly or partly dismantled.

In reality the sketchbooks contain more than simple jottings of musical annotations relating to works in progress. One often finds brief verbal memoranda that Beethoven made for himself concerning the nature or architecture of a movement. Those for the Pastoral Symphony are perhaps the best known: “all painting in instrumental music fails if pushed too far”; “people do not need titles to understand the whole more as a matter of feeling than of painting in sounds,” etc. There are also rough drafts of difficult letters or of titles for dedications; lists of errors; fair copies of short passages, perhaps intended for copying by scribes; sums, calculations; pianistic figurations and exercises that were probably reminders for his famous improvisations.

Work for Beethoven was so closely connected with the immediate jotting down of ideas, of the plan or revision of the structure of a movement, and the progressive refinement of thematic material, that he seems to have been unable to confine the process of annotation to the sketchbooks he had reserved for this purpose. Copies of musical ideas, thematic fragments, and other traces of the reworking of passages spilled onto every other piece of paper on Beethoven’s desk: the backs of letters, certain pages of the Conversation Books. They also appear in the margins or on the empty staves of scores of completed works.

Naturally, the passage from a sketch to a score represents the passage from a private to a public act. The sketchbooks are intimate and personal documents. This personal character is reflected in the obscurity of the handwriting and in the absence of normal conventions of musical notation. The various writings were not meant to be intelligible to anyone but Beethoven; thus clefs and rhythmic indications are often missing. So much so that at times deciphering the script, reading the exact notes and abbreviations, can be an impossible task.

Tyson