When Schubert met Beethoven

Friedrich Rochlitz to Gottfried H?rtel, Summer 1822

  I was just about to begin my dinner, when I met Franz Schubert, an enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven, who had spoken to him about me. “If you wish to see him less constrained and in a cheerful mood,” Schubert said, “you have only to dine at this moment at the inn where he has just gone with the same intention.” He took me there. Most of the seats were occupied: Beethoven was surrounded by several of his acquaintances, all of them strangers to me. He really seemed to be cheerful. Thus he returned my salutation: but I did not join him, intentionally. Yet I found a place from which I could observe him and, as he was talking loudly enough, understand most of what he said. It was not really a conversation that took place at his table, for he spoke while the others listened, most of the time rather lengthily and, it seemed, into the blue. Those who surrounded him contributed very little, only laughed or nodded their approval. He was philosophizing, politicizing, too, in his fashion. He spoke of England and the English, to whom he attributed incomparable splendor, which made some of his utterances somewhat bizarre. Then he told several stories about Frenchmen, dating from the time of the two occupations of Vienna: he was not at all well disposed toward these. All his conversation flowed quite spontaneously and he seemed to hold nothing back, and all of it, too, was spiced with highly original, but ingenuous and somewhat naive, opinions and charming conceits… Now he had finished his meal, got up and joined me. “Well, how does old Vienna agree with you?” he said cordially. I intimated by signs that I was well, drank to his health and invited him to reciprocate. He accepted, but directed me to a small adjoining room. This suited me very well. I took the bottle and followed him. Here we were alone, except for an occasional intruder, who gaped at us but soon trundled off again. He offered me a little slate on which I was to write down whatever my signs did not convey. He began by praising Leipzig and its music, that is, of the music chosen to be played in churches, concert-rooms and theaters: apart from this, he does not know Leipzig and only passed through it in his youth, on his way to Vienna. “And even if nothing appeared about it in print apart from those dry registers, I should read them with pleasure,” he said, “for one can see even from these that there’s judgment in them, and good will toward all. Here, on the other hand…” Now he was off, and he did not mince his words, nor was there any stopping him. He mentioned himself: “You’ll hear nothing of mine.” “Now in summer!” I wrote. “No,” he exclaimed, “not in the winter either. What should you hear? ‘Fidelio’? This they can’t perform, nor have they any wish to hear it. The symphonies? For these they haven’t time. The concertos? You’ll only hear every man grinding away at what he’s produced himself. The solo stuff? All this went out of fashion here long ago, and fashion is all. At the very most, Schuppanzigh digs up a quartet from time to time,” etc.

   At last he had finished unburdening himself and reverted to the subject of Leipzig. “But,” he said, “I suppose you really live in Weimar?” He may have got this idea from seeing my address. I shook my head. “In that case, you don’t know the great Goethe either?” I nodded, and vehemently. “I know him too,” he continued, drawing himself up and with an expression of radiant joy in all his features. “I made his acquaintance at Karlsbad–God knows how long ago. At that time I wasn’t as deaf as I am now: but I was already hard of hearing. What patience the great man had with me! How much he has done for me!” He told me many little anecdotes and some most entertaining details. “How happy our meeting made me at that time! I would willingly have died for him, ten times if necessary! At that time, too, when I was truly kindled, I thought out my music for his 'Egmont,’ and it’s successful, isn’t it?” I now made whatever gestures, expressive of joy, I could muster. Then I wrote down for him that we perform this music not only with every performance of 'Egmont,’ but at concerts almost regularly once a year together with a kind of commentary, usually consisting of extracts from those scenes of the drama to which the music refers. “I know, I know,” he exclaimed. “Since that summer at Karlsbad, I have been reading Goethe every day–that is, when I read at all. He has killed Klopstock for me. That astonishes you? And now you’re laughing? Oh, I see, it’s because I read Klopstock at all! For years I was preoccupied with him, while walking and at other times. True enough, I didn’t always understand him! He jumps about so, and he always begins right up at the top–always maestoso! D flat! Isn’t that so? Yet he’s great in spite of it and elevates the soul. Where I didn’t understand him, I guessed his meaning all the same–just about. If only he were not always just on the point of dying. I should have said that death comes soon enough in any case. Still, at least it always sounds well enough, etc. But as for Goethe, he’s alive, and he wants all of us to be alive along with him! That’s why he can be set to music. No one is so suitable for composition. Only, I am not keen on writing songs.” At this point, dear H?rtel, I had the finest opportunity to mention your idea and your message. I wrote down the proposition and your acceptance, while I put on as grave an expression as I could. He read. “Ha,” he exclaimed, and thrust out one of his arms. “That would be a fine piece of work! This is worth talking about!” He continued in this vein for a while, at once examined every aspect of the idea, very soundly, I think, and gazed fixedly at the ceiling, his head tossed back. Then he began: “But for some time I have been thinking about three other big works. Much of it has already been sketched out, in my head, that is. First of all I must get these off my chest: two big symphonies and each of them different, different, too, from my others, and an oratorio. And these will take long; for, you see, lately it hasn’t been easy for me to write. I sit and think and think: I’ve had it for a long time, but it refuses to be put down on paper. I am terrified of beginning such huge works. Once I’ve started, it goes well enough…” And so he continued for a long time.