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by Anton Schindler (Author), Ignaz Moscheles (Editor)
INTRODUCTION.
DURING the painful illness of full four months which terminated in the death of Ludwig van Beethoven, he was one day conversing with Hofrath von Breuning and myself on the subject of Plutarch's Lives. Breuning took advantage of the long-wished-for opportunity to ask Beethoven, apparently without any particular object, which of his contemporaries he should prefer for his biographer. Without the least hesitation, he replied, "Rochlitz, if he should survive me." He went on to say that it might be anticipated with certainty, that after his decease many officious pens would hasten to amuse the world with stories and anecdotes concerning him, utterly destitute of truth—for such is the usual lot of those who have had any influence upon their times. It was, therefore, his sincere wish that whatever might hereafter be said concerning him "should be in every respect strictly consonant with truth, no matter how hard it might bear upon this or the other person, or even upon himself."
This sentiment of Beethoven's, uttered at a moment when his dissolution appeared to us to be near at hand—though his physicians still held out to him some hopes of recovery, while at the same time they felt thoroughly convinced of its impossibility—this sentiment was too important for us to neglect following it up. In so doing, however, we were obliged to proceed with the utmost caution; as indeed we were in everything which, in his state of severe suffering, had any reference, however remote, to death: for his imagination, more excited than when in health, ranged through the universe, formed projects of tours, of prodigious compositions, and other enterprises. In short, he had no idea that death was so near, neither would he take any warning of its approach. In fact, all his desire was to live; for he still intended to do much, that none but himself, perhaps, was capable of accomplishing.
Prudence, therefore, enjoined us to refrain from touching upon that point, which he himself avoided, and to watch for a suitable opportunity when we should find him again disposed to speak further upon it. This opportunity occurred but too soon, as his end was evidently approaching. Sensible of the rapid decline of his physical powers, he now himself declared that all hope of his recovery was vain, and began to look death in the face with stoic fortitude.
Plutarch and other favourite Greek authors lay around him, and thus one day—it might be the seventh or eighth before his decease—he made some observations on Lucius Brutus, whose character he highly admired. This was a signal to Breuning and myself to resume the conversation, which we had dropped, with respect to his biographer, and to direct it according to our wishes. Resigned already to his fate, Beethoven read with great attention a paper on this subject, drawn up by his older friend Breuning, and then very calmly said, "There lies such a paper, there such another—take them, and make the best use you can of them; but let the truth be strictly adhered to in every point. For this I hold both of you responsible, and write on the subject to Rochlitz." Our object was now accomplished, for he gave us himself the necessary explanations respecting the papers. This memorable scene by the sick-bed of our beloved friend terminated in his desiring me to take charge of all the letters that were there, and Breuning of all his other papers, among which was the first version of the opera of "Fidelio," in score—an injunction with which we punctually complied.
DURING the painful illness of full four months which terminated in the death of Ludwig van Beethoven, he was one day conversing with Hofrath von Breuning and myself on the subject of Plutarch's Lives. Breuning took advantage of the long-wished-for opportunity to ask Beethoven, apparently without any particular object, which of his contemporaries he should prefer for his biographer. Without the least hesitation, he replied, "Rochlitz, if he should survive me." He went on to say that it might be anticipated with certainty, that after his decease many officious pens would hasten to amuse the world with stories and anecdotes concerning him, utterly destitute of truth—for such is the usual lot of those who have had any influence upon their times. It was, therefore, his sincere wish that whatever might hereafter be said concerning him "should be in every respect strictly consonant with truth, no matter how hard it might bear upon this or the other person, or even upon himself."
This sentiment of Beethoven's, uttered at a moment when his dissolution appeared to us to be near at hand—though his physicians still held out to him some hopes of recovery, while at the same time they felt thoroughly convinced of its impossibility—this sentiment was too important for us to neglect following it up. In so doing, however, we were obliged to proceed with the utmost caution; as indeed we were in everything which, in his state of severe suffering, had any reference, however remote, to death: for his imagination, more excited than when in health, ranged through the universe, formed projects of tours, of prodigious compositions, and other enterprises. In short, he had no idea that death was so near, neither would he take any warning of its approach. In fact, all his desire was to live; for he still intended to do much, that none but himself, perhaps, was capable of accomplishing.
Prudence, therefore, enjoined us to refrain from touching upon that point, which he himself avoided, and to watch for a suitable opportunity when we should find him again disposed to speak further upon it. This opportunity occurred but too soon, as his end was evidently approaching. Sensible of the rapid decline of his physical powers, he now himself declared that all hope of his recovery was vain, and began to look death in the face with stoic fortitude.
Plutarch and other favourite Greek authors lay around him, and thus one day—it might be the seventh or eighth before his decease—he made some observations on Lucius Brutus, whose character he highly admired. This was a signal to Breuning and myself to resume the conversation, which we had dropped, with respect to his biographer, and to direct it according to our wishes. Resigned already to his fate, Beethoven read with great attention a paper on this subject, drawn up by his older friend Breuning, and then very calmly said, "There lies such a paper, there such another—take them, and make the best use you can of them; but let the truth be strictly adhered to in every point. For this I hold both of you responsible, and write on the subject to Rochlitz." Our object was now accomplished, for he gave us himself the necessary explanations respecting the papers. This memorable scene by the sick-bed of our beloved friend terminated in his desiring me to take charge of all the letters that were there, and Breuning of all his other papers, among which was the first version of the opera of "Fidelio," in score—an injunction with which we punctually complied.
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