Conversations with Beethoven Page 11
Bravissimo! I can’t tell you how much that pleases me—the more, since it signifies your willingness to travel with my wife.
You are forgetting that there were three of us when we came here.
In that case I’ll send my wife by coach and you and Karl may have the carriage.
I simply can’t afford to send it back and forth twice—Come now, reconsider.
But since you needn’t speak to my wife along the way and needn’t take your meals with her, and since, moreover, our nephew’s future hinges on his leaving Monday, I beg you to swallow your distaste and travel with the woman.
Believe me, it’s imperative!
Oh, thank you, Brother—I embrace you.
• • •
Uncle, if you wish to leave this Monday, fine.
If not, fine again; Wednesday will serve equally well.
Why do your eyes bore into me so?
Monday or Friday, it’s all the same to me.
Indeed I had no idea that Fat Stuff was going to Vienna this Monday. In that case let us leave the following week.
But if you’ve already made up your mind to leave on Monday, it’s useless to dwell on the subject.
Rest assured that I’ll be ready first thing Monday morning.
• • •
Master Brother, Michael not see Vienna.
Father forbid.
Michael sorry too, also sorry Master Brother leave Monday.
Not leave Monday?
Pack bag but not leave? Michael not understand.
Never see play in Krems.
Not truly pack bag?
Truly pack bag but not truly leave.
Pretend?
Only pretend Master Brother leave, Michael understand.
Not tell Son.
Not tell Mistress.
Michael not tell no one.
• • •
Brother, it’s much too cold to stand out here—do get into the carriage.
It’s Amalie—my wife is taking the girl with her.
It was decided only last night.
There is no difference between three and four—Now do get in.
Make haste! If Josef is to reach St. Polten by nightfall, he must
Say no more—I’ll have the women climb out—they can travel by coach.
Hold on! Don’t have Karl climb out—My wife’s business can wait, Karl’s cannot.
I told him to get back in.
I implore you not to undo the entire plan.
Then have Karl get back in.
For God’s sake, tell him to get in!
So be it—It’s on your own head!
I ordered Josef to set out with the women as soon as Michael takes down your bags.
Tant pis! You’ll just have to wait now until I’m good and ready.
• • •
Uncle, perhaps it would be better to let your brother cool down for a while; there will be ample time this evening to raise the subject.
It’s you who are cold; he is piping hot.
In that case shall I tell him he’ll find you in the sitting room?
If your feet are frozen, don’t mount the stairs. I’ll say that you are in the salon.
• • •
Brother, the fact that you meddled with our brother’s will gives you no license to meddle with mine. Surely I made myself clear on this last week—Let’s say no more about it.
That is none of your affair—Still, you are wrong to assume that Therese is my sole beneficiary—she has her share and will get no more.
When our brother signed that codicil appointing you Karl’s guardian he was on his deathbed, whereas I am in the best of health, thank God! Besides, it was executed at your insistence and in return for helping our brother during his illness—Well, fortunately I have no need of your financial help—Indeed the opposite has been the case for twenty years.
Since the first loan I made you was in 1807—Very well, it’s nineteen years—Don’t let’s quibble.
Seeing that I didn’t purchase the apothecary shop in Linz until 1808, Therese was not even in the picture.
Frankly I don’t see what bearing any of this has on my wife.
Don’t imagine that by defaming Therese you’ll persuade me to make my estate over to Karl—certainly not! On that I am adamant.
If you insist on discussing the matter, be so good as to send our nephew out of the room.
As soon as you send him out, I’ll tell you.
His presence hinders my speaking freely.
Suit yourself—It’s not with my wife that the young man has been debauching himself but with her daughter.
My wife discovered them a week ago.
In the linen press.
Suffice it to say that they were en déshabillé.
If you don’t believe me, you have only to question Karl.
No, Uncle, I cannot deny it.
It happened in drunkenness.
Of course I see how incensed you are.
I have nothing more to say.
Because nothing but silence can follow such a tirade.
On the contrary I remember perfectly what you said about the pestilence of whores.
But I heeded your advice.
Between you and me, I never entered there; in fact I never ventured anywhere near the “swampy place.”
Believe me, Uncle, we did not make the beast with two backs.
So, Brother, you see now why the girl was sent packing, to say nothing of why I won’t cut off my wife.
Be reasonable—my wife is utterly blameless.
Rubbish! she initiated no such thing.
You disgrace us both with this kind of talk.
After being told that my wife is the mother of her daughter’s lust and that both are whores, I’m asked once more to alter my will—Go to the devil!
Karl will have more than enough with your bank shares.
Away with that shit—he’ll get nothing from me.
Being head of the family doesn’t make you head of this estate. It’s mine—my property, acquired by the sweat of my brow and the ingenuity of my business dealings. So I’ll thank you not to dictate my heirs to me.
I grant you that he is our flesh and blood—on the other hand she is my wife.
Be careful, Ludwig—scum is what you called her fourteen years ago when she was still my housekeeper.
Well and good, housekeeper-cum-paramour—which, needless to say, is what prompted you to besiege us in Linz—By God! but you were treacherous.
Not treacherous to disgrace the girl publicly! Why, you stopped at nothing to make me break with her—indeed you brought me to the brink of desperation! And when I came to your room to give you a piece of my mind, you flew into a rage and took me by the throat—Was that not treachery! Well, no matter—in return you received a thrashing the likes of which you’ll never forget!
Frankly you have no one but yourself to thank, since it was you who provoked, nay, drove me—you drove me to marry her.
If you hadn’t gone to the Bishop and railed against the girl—worse still, if you hadn’t obtained a police order banishing her from Linz—Who knows, perhaps I would never have married Therese; I did so only to revenge myself on you.
I warn you, Ludwig
Don’t persist in saying
On the contrary it’s you who are lacking in manhood!
Capon!
Worm!
I’ll thrash you again!
Enough, I say!!!
Uncle, I had no choice but to intervene.
To prevent bloodshed.
Please sit down.
It does no good to keep calling him Cain.
What he just said is immaterial.
I beg of you to sit down.
Brother, now that you’ve left the field I’ll tell you what I said. For thirty years I’ve had to stomach your calling me Cain, in spite of the fact—which everyone in Christendom but you knows—that Cain was the older brother. Thus I merely remarked that for once you happ
ened to be right—for surely I would have finished you off, had you not cried out for mercy.
Come now, don’t let’s start again.
You did indeed cry out.
“Don’t hit me!” were your words.
If you don’t believe me, ask our nephew.
Uncle, unfortunately I failed to hear what was said.
Brother, clearly our nephew is dissimulating, but let it pass—As for my will, it stands—I’ll not alter a word.
That’s enough! If I were you and found myself in such miserable health, I would depart posthaste and not look back until I reached Vienna.
Well and good, but there is no postchaise from here.
If you hadn’t undone the plan, you would be halfway there by now.
You’ll have to take the coach from St. Polten.
Do as you please—I must make my rounds.
• • •
Uncle, your brother spoke the truth: one must travel by stagecoach from St. Polten.
Everything you say about the tortures of the rack, your swollen feet and belly, the riffraff and pigsty is true; yet there is no other possibility, one must travel by coach.
Most likely your brother’s carriage will return Thursday.
I doubt that he’ll agree to send it back so soon.
Under those circumstances he might, providing that the sum is large enough.
Since you refuse to travel by coach, his carriage is the only alternative.
Do try your best to reach an accommodation.
• • •
Brother, I expect the carriage Thursday afternoon.
You’ve forgotten that Friday is December 1st—taxes! Doubtless that hellhound is already sharpening his claws for me.
I can’t possibly send it back that soon—not in fact for many weeks.
Because I can’t afford it.
Well, that’s a different story—What sum have you in mind?
You must be jesting.
Is that your best offer?
Then let us drop the subject.
I said let it be.
Enough of your filthy aspersions!
Not if you offered me 500!
I kiss my hand to you!
You’ll simply have to travel by coach as others do.
• • •
But, Uncle, we are going around in circles—there is no other possibility.
Be reasonable, you cannot travel by farm wagon.
I don’t doubt that there are wagons for hire, yet it’s out of the question; one cannot travel by open wagon in December.
Whether or not it’s rigged with canvas, the sides will still be open.
Before you send for Michael, please let me speak to your brother.
Let me try at least to persuade him.
• • •
Money aside, Uncle; firstly, your brother dwelled on the wear and tear to the carriage and horses; secondly, he spoke of Breuning and the Field-Marshal, thirdly
In short he flatly refused and entreated you to take the coach.
I beg of you to listen to reason.
Unfortunately you are spiting no one but yourself.
The wagon is secondary; the trick will be to find a farmer ready to leave at once.
Alas, your resolve is unmistakable; I’ll tell Michael to make inquiries.
• • •
Master Brother, farmer say ready Friday.
Cannot leave Gneixendorf Friday arrive Vienna Friday, must stop for night.
Not St. Polten, farmer say Mitterndorf better.
What time you wish farmer fetch?
Still too dark, not see road so early.
Crack of dawn, Michael understand.
• • •
Brother, even if you are wedded to the wagon, at least travel to St. Polten by postchaise. From there you can easily
Mitterndorf—why on earth would the man go by way of Mitterndorf?
Never mind shorter—the road is simply wretched.
Why will you never heed my advice!
In that case I’ll say no more.
• • •
Master Brother, Michael understand. Tomorrow hot water with breakfast, take bag down, load bag on wagon, come back, help Son help Master Brother down.
Take blanket please.
Coat for September not December, wear blanket over coat please.
Blanket from bed not horse blanket.
Farmer say wagon reach Vienna Saturday.
Late afternoon.
Michael not smile because not see Palace or St Stephen church or Prater park, and not hear new quartet.
But Master Brother make quartet, not need hear.
God forgive—Michael stupid!
Please forgive—Michael stupid ass!
Master Brother very kind but not true. Father forbid Vienna not because Michael smart, father need Michael help.
If Michael disobey and go with Master Brother, father beat.
Michael never say not hit me.
Father of Master Brother say not hit me? Master Brother hit father!
Master Brother honor father, son always honor father.
Son not always honor Master Brother?
Michael not understand fil—cannot write.
Filial piety, Michael, is duty to one’s father.
Son not show duty?
Not good Michael show more duty than Son?
Michael too wish to be Master Brother son.
Michael leave room because of tears.
Not in pocket?
Maybe sleeve.
Why reward? Michael not find handkerchief, Master Brother find.
Thank you Master Brother.
Michael too never forget Master Brother.
Take tray now?
Good night Master Brother, thank you so much for gold ducat.
• • •
Brother, I beseech you to reconsider.
Not another word about the carriage—it’s you who must come to your senses.
Pigheaded! Pigheaded! Pigheaded!
My wife has come to bid you adieu.
Can you not be civil even in parting!
I merely told our nephew and Michael to help you downstairs. However, first you must pay me for that blanket.
Do calm yourself!
Evidently our nephew agrees with you.
My apologies—the two blankets are all but indistinguishable. Doubtless you’ll need it in your humble conveyance.
Blankets aside, I hope you have a comfortable, I mean swift journey—utterly prestissimo!
Farewell, Brother.
4
THE GRAND piano, Uncle. You are in your own apartment, your own bed in Schwarzpanier House.
It’s Sunday morning, December 3rd; we arrived here last night.
Don’t try to move, the pain is worse when you lie on your back. I’ll hold the cup for you.
Only hot water, it relieves the cough.
You’ve been in this misery since Friday night.
I’ll tell you everything as soon as we send for a doctor.
That is what you said last night, yet neither the fever nor the pain has subsided. Do let me send for a doctor.
But earlier you spat blood—you can’t be left to languish.
In my opinion Dr. Braunhofer would be the best of the three.
Then let us send for him at once.
It needn’t be in your own hand; I’ll take it down.
My honored friend,
I am in severe pain and hope that I may count on you once more for help. I earnestly beg you to come to me at your earliest convenience, if possible even as early as this morning. A thousand thanks in advance for your unfailing care.
Your most devoted and grateful
BEETHOVEN
• • •
Uncle, in the time that I wasted finding a carriage the maid could have walked to Braunhofer’s.
I told her to wait for an answer.
Sali said that you took a cup of tea while I was out. Did it soothe y
our throat?
The cough, as well as the other complaints, began on Friday night.
Even before we reached Mitterndorf you were chilled to the bone.
Now that the doctor is sent for I’ll write out a brief account of what happened at The Golden Stag.
From the moment that we crossed the bridge at Mautern and traveled along the riverside road there was no shelter from the freezing wind, let alone the damp; moreover the sun failed to break through all day. At Traismauer you ate a steaming plate of soup, but to no avail since we had to travel another six hours before reaching The Golden Stag.—The Dying Stag would better describe an inn with a ruined front, broken floorboards and slanting tables; in short, with everything in such disrepair that one would not think of stopping there overnight. On the other hand you were shivering and utterly miserable. Thus when the proprietor said he could accommodate us, it seemed a stroke of fortune, the more so since the room was on the ground floor which spared you the stairs. Of course the scoundrel failed to mention that it was equipped with neither a stove nor shutters. In point of fact one could see one’s breath indoors! Looking back, I suspect that the room is let solely in summer, save to dupes like us.