Life Without and Life Within; or, Reviews, Narratives, Essays, and Poems.
them! all that had appeared hard I soon found indispensable. The
gnome-like pleasantries, which at first appeared too distorted, the
stormy masses of sound which I found too chaotic, I have in after times
learned to love. But while retracting my early critical exceptions, I
must still maintain as my creed that eccentricities like those of
Beethoven are reconcilable with his works alone, and are dangerous
models to other composers, many of whom have been wrecked in their
attempts at imitation."
No doubt the peculiarities of Beethoven are inimitable, though as great
would be as welcome in a mind of equal greatness. The natural office of
such a genius is to rouse others to a use and knowledge of their own
faculties; never to induce imitation of its own individuality.
As an instance of the justice and undoubting clearness of such a mind,
as to its own methods, take the following anecdote from Beethoven's
"Pupil Ries":--
"All the initiated must be interested in the striking fact which
occurred respecting one of Beethoven's last solo sonatas, (in B major,
with the great fugue, Op. 106,) a sonata which has _forty-one pages of
print_. Beethoven had sent it to me, to London, for sale, that it might
appear there at the same time as in Germany. The engraving was
completed, and I in daily expectation of the letter naming the day of
publication. This arrived at last, but with this extraordinary request:
'Prefix the following two notes, as a first bar, to the beginning of the
adagio.' This adagio has from nine to ten pages of print. I own the
thought struck me involuntarily that all might not be right with my dear
old master, a rumor to that effect having often been spread. What! add
two notes to a composition already worked out and out, and completed
months ago? But my astonishment was yet to be heightened by the
_effect_ of these two notes. Never could such be found again--so
striking--so important; no, not even if contemplated at the very
beginning of the composition. I would advise every true lover of the art
to play this adagio first _without_, and then with these two notes which
now form the first bar, and I have no doubt he will share in my
opinion."
No instance could more forcibly show how in the case of Beethoven, as in
that of other transcendent geniuses, the cry of insanity is raised by
vulgar minds on witnessing extraordinary manifestations of power. Such
geniuses perceive results so remote, are alive to combinations so
subtle, that common men cannot rise high enough to see why they think or
do as they do, and settle the matter easily to their own satisfaction,
crying, "He is mad"--"He hath a devil." Genius perceives the efficacy of
slight signs of thought, and loves best the simplest symbols; coarser
minds demand coarse work, long preparations, long explanations.
But genius heeds them not, but fills the atmosphere with irresistible
purity, till they also are pervaded by the delicate influence, which,
too subtile for their ears and eyes, enters with the air they breathe,
or through the pores of the skin.
The life of a Beethoven is written in his works; and all that can be
told of his life beside, is but as marginal notes on that broad page.
Yet since we have these notes, it is pleasant to have them in harmony
with the page. The acts and words of Beethoven are what we should
expect,--noble, leonine, impetuous,--yet tender. His faults are the
faults of one so great that he found few paths wide enough for his
tread, and knew not how to moderate it. They are not faults in
themselves, but only in relation to the men who surrounded him. Among
his peers he would not have had faults. As it is, they hardly deserve
the name. His acts were generally great and benignant; only in
transports of sudden passion at what he thought base did he ever injure
any one. If he found himself mistaken, he could not humble himself
enough,--but far outwent, in his contrition, what was due to those whom
he had offended. So it is apt to be with magnanimous and tender natures;
they will humble themselves in a way that those of a coarser or colder
make think shows weakness or want of pride. But they do so because a
little discord and a little wrong is as painful to them as a great deal
to others.
In one of his letters to a young friend, Beethoven thus magnanimously
confesses his errors:--
"I could not converse with you and yours with that peace of mind which I
could have desired, for the late wretched altercation was hovering
before me, showing me my own despicable conduct. But so it was; and what
would I not give could I obliterate from the page of my life this last
action, so degrading to my character, and so unlike my usual
proceedings!"
It seems this action of his was not of importance in the eyes of others.
Of the causes which acted upon him at such times he gives intimations in
another letter.
"I had been wrought into this burst of passion by many an unpleasant
circumstance of an earlier date. I have the gift of concealing and
restraining my irritability on many subjects; but if I happen to be
touched at any time when I am more than usually susceptible of anger, I
burst forth more violently than any one else. B. has doubtless most
excellent qualities, but he thinks himself utterly without faults, and
yet is most open to blame for those for which he censures others. He has
a littleness of mind which I have held in contempt since my infancy."
As a correspondent example of the manner in which true greatness
apologizes for its errors, we must quote a letter, lately made public,
from Sir Isaac Newton to Mr. Locke.
"Sir: Being of opinion that you endeavored to embroil me with
women, and by other means, I was so much affected with it as that,
when one told me you were sickly, and would not live, I answered,
''Twere better if you were dead.' I desire you to forgive me this
uncharitableness, for I am now satisfied that what you have done is
just, and I beg your pardon for having had hard thoughts of you for
it, and for representing that you struck at the root of morality in
a principle you laid down in your book of ideas, and designed to
pursue in another book, and that I took you for a Hobbist. I beg
your pardon also for saying or thinking that there was a design to
sell me an office, or to embroil me.
"I am your most humble and unfortunate servant,
"ISAAC NEWTON."
And this letter, observe, was quoted as proof of insanity in Newton.
Locke, however, shows by his reply that _he_ did not think the power of
full sincerity and elevation above self-love proved a man to be insane.
At a happy period Beethoven thus unveils the generous sympathies of his
heart.
"My compositions are well paid, and I may say I have more orders than I
can well execute; six or seven publishers, and more, being ready to take
any of my works. I need no longer submit to being bargained with; I ask
my terms, and am paid. You see this is an excellent thing; as, for
instance, I see a friend in want, and my purse does not at the moment
permit me to assist him; I have but to sit down and write, and my friend
is no longer in need."
Some additional particulars are given, in the letters collected by
Moscheles, of the struggles of his mind during the coming on of
deafness. This calamity, falling upon the greatest genius of his time,
in the prime of manhood,--a calamity which threatened to destroy not
only all enjoyment of life, but the power of using the vast treasure
with which he had been endowed for the use of all men,--casts common
ills so into the shade that they can scarcely be seen. Who dares
complain, since Beethoven could resign himself, to such an ill at such a
time as this?
"This beautiful country of mine, what was my lot in it? The hope of a
happy futurity. This might now be realized if I were freed from my
affliction. O, freed from that, I should compass the world! I feel
it--my youth is but beginning; have I not been hitherto but a sickly
creature? My physical powers have for some time been materially
increasing--those of my mind likewise. I feel myself nearer and nearer
the mark; I feel but cannot describe it; this alone is the vital
principle of your Beethoven. No rest for me: I know of none but in
sleep, and I grieve at having to sacrifice to that more time than I have
hitherto deemed necessary. Take but one half of my disease from me, and
I will return to you a matured and accomplished man, renewing the ties
of our friendship; for you shall see me as happy as I may be in this
sublunary world; not as a sufferer; no, that would be more than I could
bear; I will blunt the sword of fate; it shall not utterly destroy me.
How beautiful it is to live a thousand lives in one! No; I am not made
for a retired life--I feel it."
He _did_ blunt the sword of fate; he _did_ live a thousand lives in one;
but that sword had power to inflict a deep and poisoned wound; those
thousand lives cost him the pangs of a thousand deaths. He, born for
perpetual conquest, was condemned through life to "resignation." Let any
man, disposed to complain of his own ills, read the "Will" of Beethoven;
and see if he dares speak of himself above a whisper, after.
The matter of interest new to us in this English book is in notes and
appendix. Schindler's biography, whose plain and _naive_ style is fit
for the subject, is ironed out and plaited afresh to suit the "genteel"
English, in this translation. Elsewhere we have given in brief the
strong lineaments and piquant anecdotes from this biography;[7] here
there is not room: smooth and shorn as it is, we wish the translation
might be reprinted here.
We may give, at parting, two directions for the study of Beethoven's
genius and the perusal of his biography in two sayings of his own. For
the biography, "The limits have never yet been discovered which genius
and industry could not transcend." For the music, "From the depths of
the soul brought forth, she (Poesy) can only by the depths of the soul
be received or understood."
BROWN'S NOVELS.[8]
We rejoice to see these reprints of Brown's novels, as we have long been
ashamed that one who ought to be the pride of the country, and who is,
in the higher qualities of the mind, so far in advance of our other
novelists, should have become almost inaccessible to the public.
It has been the custom to liken Brown to Godwin. But there was no
imitation, no second hand in the matter. They were congenial natures,
and whichever had come first might have lent an impulse to the other.
Either mind might have been conscious of the possession of that peculiar
vein of ore, without thinking of working it for the mint of the world,
till the other, led by accident, or overflow of feeling, showed him how
easy it was to put the reveries of his solitary hours into words, and
upon paper, for the benefit of his fellow-men.
"My mind to me a kingdom is."
Such a man as Brown or Godwin has a right to say that. Their mind is no
scanty, turbid rill, rejoicing to be daily fed from a thousand others,
or from the clouds. Its plenteous source rushes from a high mountain
between bulwarks of stone. Its course, even and full, keeps ever green
its banks, and affords the means of life and joy to a million gliding
shapes, that fill its deep waters, and twinkle above its golden sands.
Life and Joy! Yes, Joy! These two have been called the dark Masters,
because they disclose the twilight recesses of the human heart. Yet the
gravest page in the history of such men is joy, compared with the mixed,
shallow, uncertain pleasures of vulgar minds. Joy! because they were all
alive, and fulfilled the purposes of being. No sham, no imitation, no