ONE of the most instantly recognisable paintings of Ludwig van Beethoven (by the Austrian artist Julius Schmid, 1854–1935) depicts the German composer looking deeply troubled —pained, even—as he strolls, lost in thought, through the Vienna Woods ( facing page).
Despite having created the jubilant Ninth Symphony, concluding with, 200 years ago in 1823 (having planned from youth to set Schiller’s poem to music), joy was something woefully lacking in Beethoven’s world. Deafness was an almost unbearably cruel and ironic blight upon the life of someone who was, arguably, the greatest musical genius who ever lived. Although it did not prevent him creating some of the finest works in the Western cultural canon, it did, combined with his overfondness for alcohol, hinder his ability to form lasting, successful relationships. Yet there was one constant companion during his 56 years on earth (besides music) that provided Beethoven with solace, salvation and both the inspiration and environment in which to compose some
