Beethoven, Then and Now

By Fred Gaertner

I have often heard people express their wish that someone who has died would return to us and relate what the life-death-rebirth experience is really like. Well, someone has! This is exactly what Beethoven does in my third novel, Beethoven, Then and Now.

Like Beethoven, each one of us is the proud possessor of a human soul. This clearly defined object is none other than our very own spiritual subelectron. Our physical hulk is only a pile of ashes; but our soul (spiritual subelectron) is unique, eternal, indestructible. Because of its high vibrations, Beethovens soul is immediately attracted to the third subelectronic ring of our First-Second-Order universe. Here it awaits rebirth via fusion with the spiritual subelectron of a Major-Order being within our Second-Order-Major universe. Paul Rezler (age seventeen) is the fortunate recipient of this unbelievable prize. He had awakened to the day at hand with his usual zero interest in music. Now (1827 Earth-time) he is the greatest Earth- musician yet to live.

Try as Beethoven does, he cannot adjust to the Second-Order reality of corporate composers, not even to being the absolute leader of the Beethoven Corporation. He must be entirely on his own-- a single man vs. the world!

Counselor Robinson does his best in selecting a Subsidiary culture which contains a Vienna as close as possible to the one which Beethoven had left behind upon his Earthly death. Within a month, our hero makes his translation and enjoys living where theres not the trace of anything resembling a musical corporation. Sketches for new third-period works begin to flow:
a piano sonata, a string quartet, a piano trio, a violin concerto, even some encouraging vibrations of Symphony 10. A handful of piano and violin students emerges, including an exceptional young lady named Anna Rosecranz, who is already a master of these instruments. Her musicianship is so strong that they soon fall in love and are married. How they enjoy performing concerts together! In time, as Beethoven works at his composers desk, she starts peering over his shoulder. She begs him for lessons in composition. He replies, I compose, and AM NOT a teacher of composition! This declaration does not frighten her away.

As Beethoven fumbles and bumbles his way from sketchbook to finished score, Anna carefully watches each step of the process. Her comments are invaluable:

Use a pedal-point here.
Not so dissonant a chord..
Pure melody would fit here.
Please, not so sustained.
Too many notes in the melody.
Avoid more of this rhythm.
Two-voice counterpoint would do.
Too much for the brass here.
This use of strings is perfect.

Thanks to Anna, Beethoven accomplishes the impossible. He realizes that he works far better with her help than without it. He now loves to share the very process which only yesterday had demanded his total aloofness. As if by magic, he is now prepared to return to Major-Order life as managing partner in charge of the Beethoven Corporation. But considering all that Anna has done for him, he cannot now simply go his own way. As a Subsidiary being, her lifespan is a mere 100 years, compared to his Second-Order-Major span of 1000 years. Being happily married, he plans to share life for the balance of her days. But Fate has his own plan for their lives. After all their years of loving and sharing, Anna is killed in an automobile accident.

When Beethoven returns to the Major Order, a super surprise awaits him. There stands Anna Rosecranz, a full Major-Second-Order being, with whom he can share the rest of their 1000 years in joyful creative activity. His first question: On Earth, who were you, my dear? Her reply causes our hero to faint for the second time in his entire Second-Order life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499068207

Fred Gaertner

Fred and Marie Gaertner are a husband-wife team of composers and music dramatists. Fred also writes the novels upon which their music dramas are based. Their goal is to inspire, entertain, inform and uplift readers. They view eternal life and the brotherhood of man in such a way that cultural and spiritual differences among human subgroups are so cherished that pitiable acts of hatred, terror and murder could never be based upon these differences. Those who embrace the Gaertnerian message should enjoy personal upliftment that only an expanded view of the meaning and purpose of human life can provide. Aaron the Wayshower is the author’s spokesman who appears in each of a series of novels to combat some forms of subhuman behavior. Most readers should easily become interested in what Aaron says and does. He’s not just another great teacher (like Moses, Jesus, Buddha, and Mohammed). He is the procreator of a Life-Stream which includes Earthlings as a tiny fraction of his total Progeny. Even more important, the totality of his responsibilities is similar in scope to that which each of us must one day assume! www.BeyondAnyDoubt.com FredGaertner.WordPress.com

Book preview

Beethoven, Then and Now

Fred Gaertner

Copyright © 2014 by Fred Gaertner.

Cover Illustrations By: Earlene Gayle Escalona.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Part 1 is autobiographical with historical characters and events.

Part 2 is fictional and the names of characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination.

Rev. date: 09/27/2014

Xlibris LLC

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Part I    BEETHOVEN THEN (1770–1827)

The Final Earthly Years

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Part 2    BEETHOVEN NOW (1827–1950)

The Beginning of Second-Order Life

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Synopsis

To those

individuals who are uncertain as to

whether life continues after death.

May this story reassure them that

their present life proceeds

meaningfully throughout eternity.

Part I

BEETHOVEN THEN

(1770–1827)

The Final Earthly Years

Total of 16 Earthly lives, culminating in Beethoven’s 57 years on Earth:

Years for each life:

63

74

55 w

72

60

53

87 w

61

59 w

66

72

18 w

69

60 w

65

______

934*

5 lives as women: 279 years

10 lives as men: 655 years

Total years prior to Beethoven: 934 years*

Beethoven’s span 1770–1827: 57 years

Total First-Order time: 991 years

Chapter 1

Part 1 of my narrative flows from the stream of total recall, and is not the feeble attempt of an aged mariner to plot the misty origin of his life’s voyage. Beethoven’s first day on Earth comes as vividly to mind as does my last hour of consciousness in Vienna.

Attraction toward music was natural, for I was planted in a musical garden. Grandfather and Father were both court musicians, and the Bonn of my youth did little to discourage a musical career.

Grandfather came to Bonn at the invitation of Elector Clemens August, by whose official decree he became a court musician in 1733. This same year he married Maria Josepha Poll, a girl of nineteen, two years his junior. Their first children died in infancy. In 1740 came Johann, my father, the only child to survive. I never knew Grandmother, though Father would speak of her occasionally, blaming her addiction to alcohol on the loss of her children and on her husband’s preoccupation with music, court life, and matters outside their home.

Grandfather’s musical abilities flourished, and in 1761, he became Herr Kapellmeister. His main talent was his voice, though he was also proficient in piano and violin. He personally supervised the training of my father and prepared him for service in the court chapel as a boy soprano. Father remained a court musician and developed sufficiently as a singer and violinist to be granted a salary in 1764. Private teaching augmented his flimsy hundred thalers per year, until the resulting financial prowess encouraged him to propose marriage to my mother in 1767. She was Maria Magdalena Kewerich, twenty-year-old daughter of the head cook at the Ehrenbreitstein castle and widow of Johann Laym, whom she had married in 1763. My parents’ first child was Ludwig Maria, who lived less than a week of April 1769. I arrived twenty months later and, according to custom, inherited my little brother’s name.

Since I am to relate only those incidents from Beethoven’s Earthly life that have directly influenced later years, there is little to mention about my first few months—little, except perhaps a word of warning to parents, grandparents, and babysitters who aren’t too careful about their verbal assaults upon tiny infants. It’s true, such babies do not understand your words, nor will they remember them during their Earthly pilgrimages. With complete indifference, they respond to a heartless insult with smiles, unintelligible cooings, even slobbered kisses. But what about the subsequent miracle of total recall? Since March 26, 1827, I have been intimately conscious of my total of sixteen Earthly incarnations, including that final one as Beethoven. In the fifty-seventh day of that span, I was awakened by Grandfather’s huge forefinger tucked under my chin. My eyes adjusted as his boundless countenance moved closer and closer. At last, in resonantly muted baritone, came the fatal words:

BG.   God in heaven, what an ugly bastard!

Since Grandfather died one week after my third birthday, it was not possible for me to remember much about him during my Earthly years. Although I held him in great esteem, such worshipful feelings were not based upon personal recollections. I took pride in Grandfather because his career seemed to succeed at each point where my father’s failed. Grandfather became chapelmaster; Father did not. Grandfather’s salary approximated a living wage; Father’s did not. Grandfather was a connoisseur and merchant of wine; Father became its obedient servant. Grandfather was endowed with a healthy measure of pride and self-confidence. He seized upon his musical abilities and through their development won at least the admiration and respect of his fellows. Father was an impotent dreamer. From his bottle, he would pour pure pessimism to inspire long periods of helpless inactivity.

Fifteen months later, it was this same loving Grandfather who held me on his knee at the piano. He struck a chord, the first musical sound to reach my ears. A look of disappointment shaded his face as my attention concentrated upon his nose. He countered with a second triad. A third … crescendo! A fourth … to no avail! My glance remained upward, toward the moistness that twinkled in his eyes. Then from my elbow down, my right arm disappeared into his huge hand, and we played my first scale. Grandfather sang along with our instrumental accompaniment:

BG.   C-D-E-F-G-A-B-C …

Three years later, I would have realized that there was a relation between his lyrics and the ivory-edged workbench at which we sat.

Shortly after Grandfather’s death, Father petitioned the Electoral Grace for an increase in his allowance. He contended that his salary was not sufficient to provide for his own family and at the same time meet the expenses of cloistering his hopelessly alcoholic mother. Father tactfully hinted that he was fully capable of assuming Grandfather’s position and that his increase in pay would be simply a matter of reallocating a portion of the allowance vacated by the former chapelmaster. Father was optimistic regarding the outcome of his petition, so much so that our family moved from the humble place of my birth into a much better dwelling in the Dreieckplatz. While living here, another son was born in April 1774, his name Casper Anton Carl.

Life in the Dreieckplatz was pleasant and musical. We had inherited Grandfather’s piano, violin, music books and tasteful furnishings. It was here that my formal training began as Father taught me the rudiments of piano and violin. He seemed quite impressed by my musical memory and attempted to develop it by playing a little game. I would stand across the room with my back to the piano. Father would play a melody two or three times, depending on its length. I would then jump to my position on a little footstool in front of the clavier and attempt to reproduce his tune. Even this harmless game made some interesting disclosures about my native ability. I did not have absolute pitch; usually the first tone of the theme had to be spelled out. I did have a good sense of relative pitch; once on the right track, I rarely lost a melody. Soon the game gave way to a serious program of ear training. Father would play two, three, sometimes four tunes at once, and I was expected to play back any one of them. Two years later, when my piano technique caught up with my ears, it was easy for me to reproduce entire pieces (of modest length) simply by hearing them played once or twice and being told the proper key.

At long last my father’s courageous optimism was met head-on by the storm of reality, a tempest from which he never fully recovered. His petition was not granted. His hopes and dreams of greater responsibility and higher pay did not materialize. It’s difficult to believe that a single disappointment in a father’s plans could directly influence the life of his son, permanently. But such has been the case. I often wonder what would have happened to me if Father had received the promotion he sought. No doubt our family would have settled back in quiet comfort and I would have continued to be the little boy who played musical games at home and at court. But there was no calm resolution of Father’s problem. His personal plans remained frustrated to the end of his present days, and such intolerable frustration defined the image I was to occupy in his mind. This image developed swiftly—almost overnight. Rather than see himself as the chapelmaster’s son who could never become chapelmaster, he preferred the role of father to a little musician who, with proper paternal guidance, could be made to outperform Mozart. And once he viewed himself as father of a Mozart, the vision became fixed and immovable.

While still living in the Dreieckplatz, I noticed that the strictness of Father’s tutelage was increasing. My violin lessons, and especially my piano lessons, seemed endless to a boy of five; neither had the slightest resemblance to a game. In one mighty grasp, my teacher had squeezed all the fun out of music.

Early in 1776, Father had a clear vision of the permanent impairment of our family finances. Consequently, we moved from the Dreieckplatz to the Fischer house in the Rheingasse, a much cheaper place down by the river and the same spot formerly occupied by Grandfather. Following this move, my daily life became a rigid schedule with music as the chief attraction. In addition to lessons and ear training, something new was added—hours and hours of practice! When I grew tired of the drudgery and complained to Father about it, his stock reply was something like:

BF.   Good little boys do what they are told! When you are older, you will be glad that you learned how to work.

Father’s inflexible severity would often send me running and weeping to my mother’s knee. I would bury my head in her lap and absorb every word of comfort that fell from her lips. Even as our tears mingled, she would never side with me against my father’s demands. She felt that his requirements were just, and yet in some beautiful way, she sensed my urgent need for sympathy and understanding.

As the sixth year rolled by, my questions became more insistent:

B.   Why, Mother? Why must I spend so much time at the clavier? Why is Father so determined? Why do other boys my age seem to come and go as they please?

In response to these questions, Mother mentioned for the first time the name of Mozart.

BM.   In the city of Salzburg, there is a great musician whose name is Mozart. In all the world there is no greater pianist. As a composer, he holds the same high rank. Your father believes that Mozart’s musical ascent was due partly to his inborn genius, but mainly to his ability for demonstrating remarkable musicianship at a very early age! Father senses that you too show promise as a pianist, and that if you work hard and can make your debut while still a boy, you will come to enjoy the honor and good fortune that are now Mozart’s.

And thus, quite innocently, was planted the seed of my personality, the root of my character, the force that patterned Beethoven’s life on Earth. I was not an ordinary boy; I was a young Mozart patiently waiting and working for his birthright to fame, fortune, and world renown. Mother’s explanation of Father’s demands was good in that I was now able to accept my daily schedule with greater confidence and fewer questions. However, such reasoning led me to a profound hero worship of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart! Not that it’s bad for a boy to have a hero, but the more I learned about my prototype, the greater opinion I came to have of myself. Thus, indirectly, I built up such dreams of fame, success, power and glory, that the world of reality never proved large enough to contain them!

Chapter 2

On the first of October 1776, another brother was born—Nicholas Johann. Little effect the blessed event had upon my routine! I continued to practice the clavier ten hours a day until the spring of ’77, when I was enrolled in the Tirocinium, a Latin school whose curriculum was designed to prepare students for the gymnasium. Besides elementary studies, my main subject was Latin. Arithmetic was considered of such slight importance that I was taught addition, but never the intricacies of multiplication.

My days in the Tirocinium lasted only until 1781, at which time all other studies were abandoned for music. These days in school were not happy ones. Perhaps they would have been, if my practicing schedule had been suitably modified. But how could this be? Interrupt the career of a Mozart? Of course not! I was expected to attend school daily and to devote all free time to an undiminished load of musical responsibilities.

Father’s determination rewarded me with such proficiency upon the clavier that by the spring of ’78, he was ready to present his gift to the musical world. I played in three concerts: two at court and one in the Sternengasse concert room. Father understated my age, advertising me as his little son of six years. In spite of this two-year deception, my offerings of rococo trios and concertos were received with little more than polite applause. There were head pats for me and handshakes for Father, but no improvement in our financial position. Nor did the heavens emit the slightest ray of soft gentle light to come down and settle about my head and shoulders. I remained a tiny musician who had practiced the piano, who had played in public, and who was destined to return immediately to his practice.

During the winter that preceded this uneventful debut, I began to balk under the combined weight of schoolwork and piano practice. Was there not some way I could restore the spirit of play to my boyhood? How could I escape the arid wasteland of my traditional repertoire? Father was beyond musical games; it was now up to me. I began to experiment with the gentle art of improvisation. What fun! The simple tunes that hummed themselves in my head could now be shared with others. Did Father appreciate them? I’ll say he did! He threatened me with ear boxing and confinement in the cellar if I didn’t play according to the notes!

But my concert in the Sternengasse modified his attitude toward musical daydreaming. No longer was improvising a mortal sin and total waste of time, but perhaps a necessary prerequisite to original composition. And Father assured me that my debut of March 26 would have been as successful as Mozart’s—if only there had been some compositions of my own to perform.

Since Father knew little of composition, he set out to find me a teacher. His first choice was Gilles van den Eeden, the old court organist who had been in the electoral service for fifty years and had been a good friend of Grandfather. These lessons began in June ’78. Although Van Den Eeden promised to teach me thorough bass, his instruction was chiefly in piano playing and organ. He told Father that he was preparing me to be his successor as court organist. Since Father was mainly interested in some original compositions to go with my next recital, these lessons were terminated the following October. Paternal supervision resumed as before—no lessons in composition!

Several biographers have preserved a rumor that my mother never smiled. One naturally suspects never to be an absurd exaggeration. However, the belief is absolutely correct when related to her days on Earth that followed February 1779. On the twenty-third of this month, she gave birth to her first daughter, Anna Maria Franciska; in less than five days, the little girl was dead. Of the entire chain of sorrows shouldering my dear mother, this cruel link went the farthest to convince her that married life was nothing but a veil of tears. All subsequent attempts on my part to penetrate her cheer-defeating gloom ended in more tears—never a smile!

My next teacher was the talented comedian, Tobias Friedrich Pfeiffer, who came to Bonn as a member of the Grossmann Theatrical Company in the summer of ’79 and found lodgings in our home. Like Van Den Eeden, Pfeiffer taught piano—very little composition. But he had a profound love for the art of music and a sincere appreciation for composers. His interesting and humorous stories about creative musicians kindled my imagination. For the first time, I came to see something in a musical career besides endless hours of drearisome practice. In the years that followed, I had more knowledgeable instructors than Pfeiffer, but none could equal his ability in teaching the beautiful, simple, mystical love that exists between a musician and his art.

It was during the Pfeiffer days that Father began to drink excessively. Perhaps the increase in his libation was brought about by the disappointment of my debut, or by the unfriendly realities of his own professional life, or by his failing eyesight—a peculiar condition in which his vision constantly improved its focus on the world’s ugliness and injustice, but became progressively blind to its countless images of hope and beauty. At any rate, Father approached the bottle with a determination and gusto that would have made his mother proud.

Prior to Father’s intemperance, his drab severity was punctuated by welcome reliefs: a pun, a joke, a laugh, some horseplay. But these bright and cherished high spots were swiftly washed away by the wave of wine that crested over his life. What remained was dark, cold, sad, unreal, unloving. Could such a distorted residue respond to the open arms of a child? No! But Mother was there, ready and waiting. Had she not been, I doubt if my emotions could have survived their first decade. I loved Mother; I respected Father. My respect for him sprang from a sense of duty, not from love. Such regimented devotion to Father was always accompanied by companion feelings that ranged from fear to hatred. How could I love a father who heaped mountains of inexcusable suffering upon my poor mother? How could I love a father who carefully groomed me as a Mozart while preparing himself for the role of superb teacher, proud parent, concert manager, and custodian of all funds? How could I love a father who subjected me to the cruel lessons of the Pfeiffer period? Several times each week, Father would come stomping into my midnight dreams with the bark of a dog and the breath of a bottle. He’d grab me from my bed and drag me to the clavier. There, he and Pfeiffer would keep me busy until five or six in the morning. Then followed several hours of what seemed more like recovery than sleep, after which I was awakened and sent to school. Is it any wonder that I sat in class absolutely dazed? What Krengel called my stubborn resistance to learn and my contented stupor were not due to obstinacy. I was simply reacting to the severe piano lesson that had been pounded into me the night before.

Try as Father did, he was unable to find me an instructor in composition. His plans for my Mozartian debut were pushed farther into the future, but not abandoned. He permitted a temporary compromise. If I were not to become a royal prodigy, then perhaps at least I could inherit Van Den Eeden’s post as court organist. Even an organist’s wages were better than none at all. Father hesitated to send me back to the ancient Van Den Eeden; instead we visited the Franciscan Cloister in Bonn, hoping to obtain some sort of instruction in organ. Father found just the man he was looking for in Friar Willibald Koch. I became Koch’s pupil in the Fall of ’79 and, thanks to my piano technique, made sufficient progress to be named his assistant the following Christmas. In this capacity, I was subsequently introduced to the nearby Cloister of Minorites, who offered me the post of regular organist for their six o’clock morning mass. My pay was the usual zero thalers, but I was happy to take the job since the Minorite instrument was far superior to that of the Franciscans.

Three months later, on a beautiful spring morning in 1780, I was bouncing my way to school. I was able to bounce because there had been no piano lesson the night before. As I passed by the Zehrgarten, I bumped squarely into Friar Koch:

K.   Ludwig, you must come with me. I have a great surprise for you!

I tried to study the expression in his face, but the early May sun blinded my efforts into a helpless squint.

B.   You mean . . . ?

K.   Yes! Skip school today. This is far more important!

B.   But my father?

Koch anticipated my doubts.

K.   Your father will understand. And so will Herr Krengel.

I needed no further encouragement. In spite of my springy readiness for a day in class, I would much prefer spending a morning with dear Koch. To my astonishment, we did not join the Franciscans, but found our way to a quiet spot near the Minorite organ.

B.   What’s the surprise, Friar Koch?

K.   In a few moments, Ludwig, through that door will enter Bonn’s newest and greatest musician! For several months he has wanted to try this organ. He comes this morning and you must hear him!

B.   Why?

K.   Because I have no doubt that he will soon become your master!

We waited about five minutes, and there entered a small stooped man with a burning brightness in his eyes. He passed by us as though we weren’t there. I noticed a spring in his step, just like the one I was feeling myself.

The next forty-five minutes were filled—running over—with the greatest inspiration I had yet heard. He played as ten men. The colors of the rainbow sang in my ears. The god of harmony spoke to me for the first time. How could the organ that I had played for three months suddenly sound so different? I wanted to laugh, to cry, to run, to sit immovable. My spine vibrated like a sixteen-foot diapason. I could no longer cope with the mixture of my emotions. When I cried audibly, Friar Koch took me by the hand and led me into the garden.

K.   Why are you crying, Ludwig?

B.   Because … because it’s too beautiful!

K.   Wouldn’t you like to meet such a fine Maestro?

I responded with a silent downward glance, which Koch correctly interpreted.

K.   Very well, Ludwig. You will meet him later. Your father will see to that.

As we walked from the chapel, the entire edifice vibrated with beautiful music—a transfigured structure, touched by the hand of J. S. Bach. When I was again able to speak, I turned to Friar Koch.

B.   Who was that man?

K.   His name is Christian Gottlob Neefe!

Chapter 3

Koch’s words were prophetic; in September 1780, I became a student of Neefe. Although Father still talked and dreamed of a Mozartian debut with compositions of my own, he gave Neefe specific instructions that I was to be trained exclusively in organ. How convenient! I would succeed Van Den Eeden as court organist and evolve into a much-needed income-producing member of our little family. I was proud to study organ with Neefe. How different he was from my other teachers. Instead of telling me how to play a passage, he would show me how. Instead of words, music, played with a fearsome organ technique that I was never able to equal.

On February 15, 1781, Neefe was officially appointed court organist in the elector’s service. This unhoped-for replacement of Van Den Eeden dashed our careful plans to the ground. The financial loss was especially hard-felt since a new little brother, August Franz Georg, had arrived one month before. Naturally, there came drinks for Father and tears for Mother. A short-lived sequence since Neefe paid a redeeming visit to our home on the twentieth. Sensing my parents’ disappointment, he described the ever-increasing weight of his musical responsibilities, his potential need for an assistant, and his willingness to train me for the job. Father was totally appeased when Neefe explained how my services would be accepted as full payment for his tutoring and that the post would eventually carry a salary. He also agreed to include some lessons in composition, and back into the works went Father’s plan for Mozart II!

Regardless of how fully absorbed I had become in musical training during the first decade of my life, I still managed to find a little time for games, hikes, and daydreaming. Under the new arrangement with Herr Neefe, all except music was vanquished from my remaining days in Bonn. Even my career at the Tirocinium quickly withered and died. How did Neefe inspire such unreserved devotion to duty? Not by threats, browbeating, or fits of temper. He simply set a good example himself, being literally wedded to music and the arts. He had a fine talent and was driven from one day’s achievement to the next by an unlimited aspiration. What a contrast to Pfeiffer and my father. They talked constantly of great achievements, but attempted nothing themselves. Neefe taught the joy of total sacrifice to the Divine Art––he taught it by the way he lived his own life. Each day seemed for him a new adventure; each new project, a creative challenge. Oh, to live my life on such a plane! I wondered if Mozart himself could have been as great an inspiration as my man, Neefe. I was determined to accept each responsibility he placed upon my shoulders—to accept it and come back for more.

My instruction in piano was centered about Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavichord. There were sonatas, rondos, and a concerto, but for the most part, preludes and fugues by Bach. Father’s patient training of my musical memory was here put to use, and within a year, I could play much of the Clavichord by heart. My lifelong preference for instrumental forms sprang chiefly from this early acquaintance with Bach’s great work.

Neefe’s course in composition was likewise Bachian, being founded upon the theoretical studies of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach. Again, how different from my studies with Pfeiffer. Only now did I come to realize the importance of form, structure, and continuity. My biggest adjustment was to a new type of criticism. Pfeiffer was always complimentary and encouraging; Neefe was merciless and cruel, but honest!

Toward the end of June 1782, Neefe journeyed to Münster with the Grossmann Theatrical Company. During his absence, I substituted as court organist and absolutely thrived on the added responsibilities. But I had yet to earn my first florin. I had yet to be of any help to my struggling parents in their brutal fight for economic survival.

For Neefe’s return, I planned a little surprise; finishing touches were added to a set of nine pianoforte variations on a march by Dressler. Instead of me surprising my teacher, I was the one to be surprised. He read through the entire score, thoughtfully stroking his chin. Of course, there was no praise, but neither was there the usual tirade of constructive criticism. He made a few suggestions as to voice leadings, then laid the opus on his desk. We concentrated on a Bach fugue, and I soon forgot about my masterpiece. The last repercussion of my boomerang-like surprise occurred nearly a year later. Out of the clear blue, Neefe placed in my hands an engraved copy of the little variations. Imagine my pride, the first work of Ludwig van Beethoven—in print! Surely I was now but a single step behind Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart!

After Neefe’s return, my duties as assistant were light. I had time for theory and composition and began to think in terms of more elaborate variations, some chamber music, perhaps even a piano concerto of my own. How close to Father’s dream!

The relative leisure of this period engendered my first clear consciousness of the social order. On one hand, I saw the wealth and glitter of the Court of Cologne; on the other, I saw the poverty and suffering of my parental home. Enrollment in either class was simply an accident of birth. Because of my birth, I was excluded from the nobility; my only approach to them was as a servant. Because of my birth, I was shackled to a poverty that seemed impossible to rise above. I rejected membership in either class. There must be some middle ground. There must exist a nobility to which I could aspire, a true nobility that is earned, not inherited!

My suspicions of a sacred in-between plateau were confirmed by a young friend who came my way in the fall of ’82, his name Franz Gerhard Wegeler. I was immediately attracted to this lad of seventeen. Not only was he interested in music and science, but (through birth) shared with me a common poverty. He was determined to rise above his lowly state—to reach the lasting nobility of intellectual achievement. What more perfect encouragement could there be for my own resolution? I had found a true brother-in-arms!

In the spring of 1783, Electoral Chapelmaster Lucchesi was granted a leave of absence. For the balance of the theatrical season, poor Neefe was in charge of all church music and court music. Needless to say, he called upon me for increased assistance. Before I realized what happened, I was seated in the theater orchestra conducting rehearsals from the pianoforte. Is it any wonder that I developed sight-reading capabilities? I had to guide entire performances by playing from the score. It was here that I first made practical use of my training—an opportunity to savor the possibilities of applied music. By June ’83, I had been exposed to a considerable cross section of the light and superficial music of Bonn’s stage. Its contrast to my studies in Bach, Handel, and Mozart established for me a permanent sense of values. From this experience grew my lifelong abhorrence of cheap music—music of the hour. I thanked sweet fate that Mozart was still my goal and Neefe was still my teacher.

In spite of what some artists and sculptors pretend to see, I was not handsome. I had a very dark complexion that encouraged unflattering nicknames. My chest was well developed for a thirteen-year-old. My arms were strong, could easily lift my weight. But my legs were short and kept me well below average height. They grew round as a linden tree, but unfortunately not as tall. A siege of smallpox two years earlier sprinkled my face with unsightly craters of the moon. To top off this lack of beauty came a growth of hair, which in five years transformed me into the typical hairy ape. I had more hair on my shoulders and hands than many a poor Earthling could boast on his scalp. And yet in spite of this ominous inventory of physical hindrances, I knew that deep within dwelt the desire and ability for intellectual achievement. Hopefully, the light of my efforts would someday shine from my eyes and lead me into the arms of a beautiful girl!

The end of the 1782–83 season brought welcome leisure to unleash a new inspiration for study and composition. I do believe that I could have achieved Father’s dream this summer had it not been for the sadness and gloom that surrounded me at home. In the middle of August, my youngest brother died, and conditions became absolutely paralytic.

For the coming season (1783–84), Max Friedrich assumed financial responsibilities of the theater. Consequently, Director Mme Grossmann went all-out to please the elector’s dramatic tastes, which were decidedly operatic. This provided Neefe with an even busier season than before. He had daily rehearsals of opera and was still substituting for Chapelmaster Lucchesi. My duties became correspondingly heavier, so much so that Father encouraged me to petition for an appointment as assistant court organist. Until I received such official status, there would be no hope for compensation. On the last day of February 1784, my petition was granted, thanks no doubt to the kind interventions of Neefe and Salm-Reifferscheid. I was now a regular member of the court chapel, but still without pay! The question of my salary had not been decided when, on April 15, Elector Max Friedrich died. His death brought abrupt changes in Bonn’s music circles. The theatrical company was dismissed with a month’s pay. Lucchesi returned as chapelmaster. Neefe was reduced to the position of organist/teacher. And I became, once again, a full-time student, but a student who had had a taste of professional musicianship.0 I had glimpsed my future. And I was now listed in the official register as assistant court organist, even though Neefe had no need for an assistant.

Had Max Friedrich continued to live, Lucchesi would not have hurried home in fear of his job, Neefe would have remained overloaded, and I would have continued as cembalist in the theater orchestra. Perhaps I would have blossomed into an operatic composer. However, under the new scheme of things, I resumed the serious study of piano and composition, fragments of the E-flat Piano Concerto took shape, and the Mozartian goal loomed once more into imminence. Apparently Father had gotten to Neefe; for now, even my teacher thought of me as an aspiring Mozart. He encouraged me to be as much like my prototype as possible. His main reason appeared to be the profoundly worshipful feelings held for Mozart by the new elector, Max Franz. The closer I approached Mozart, the greater would be my promotional opportunities at court. At any rate, starting with July, I was under an annual salary of one hundred thalers—just half the amount my father received after twenty-eight years of service! All I did for my pay was share the chapel organ with Neefe. Thus began a sequence of three years in which most of my time was spent composing, practicing and studying.

Chapter 4

In addition to the musical developments of this period, there were important social contacts––friendships made that lasted across the decades until the closing scenes in Vienna. First came Franz Ries, leader of the court orchestra and a good friend of Father’s. He condescended to give me violin lessons, and how he managed to put up with my scrapings and scratchings, I’ll never know. But at the close of the three-year period of which I now speak, it is this loving Ries who helps our family through its greatest financial crisis and proves himself to be far more than a mere teacher of violin.

By the end of 1784, I had gotten to know most of Ries’s students; and three of them became my own first piano pupils, providing a welcome supplement to the annual one hundred thalers. It was a long time between quarterly payments!

Among my fellow violin students was a young chap of ten named Stephan von Breuning. I hadn’t seriously considered him as a pupil until Wegeler struck up an acquaintance with the boy, getting to know not only Stephan but also the rest of his family, which was of highest social rank. He described a wonderful mother whose husband had died in the palace fire of ’77. Besides Stephan, there were three other children: Christoph, who was thirteen; Eleonore, twelve; and a younger brother, Lenz, who was seven. Wegeler assured me that as assistant court organist to the elector of Cologne, I would be welcomed into their family circle and gain four new students of piano.

On February 9, 1785, accompanied by Wegeler, I took the fatal step and there opened for me a view of family relations that to date had existed only in my dreams. Here in the Münsterplatz were people who occupied the precise social plateau to which I aspired. They had comfortable wealth and yet none of the aloof snobbishness of court nobility. My welcome as Wegeler’s friend was warm and sincere. It would have been the same were I a prince, a priest, a king, or a pauper. At first, my dark complexion, short stature, and square-edged manners seemed to amuse the children. They kept their distance. But soon our conversation turned to music and led me to the piano and a half hour’s improvisation. My playing, not my words, won me the full acceptance of the family; and I was engaged as a teacher for Eleonore and Lenz.

With three hundred thalers per year, three measures of grain, and income from fourteen private students, Father concluded that our family was far too wealthy to continue living in the Rheingasse. On the first of May, we moved to No. 462 Wenzelgasse, a more cheerful home near the Minorite Church. This continued to be our family dwelling place for the remaining years in Bonn.

One year later, almost to the day, Mother gave birth to her last child, Maria Margaretha Josepha. I hoped my darling new sister would compensate Mom for the loss of little Anna Maria. But not even a baby girl angel could penetrate the dark clouds of Mother’s pessimism. Pitiable sadness had become her permanent way of life.

The next year had much in common with its two predecessors. A small proportion of it was spent as organist and piano teacher. For the most, I continued to be cast in the role of student—a student of piano, violin, theory and composition. Neefe continued as he had begun, every inch a taskmaster. The first noticeable change in routine was due to father. With the arrival of 1787, he realized that I had turned sixteen (which meant fourteen, according to his calendar) and would soon be too old for the scant clothing of a child prodigy. It was now or never! But how could he present me to the world? Another local debut? No! Although my technique for playing and improvising had improved and the E-flat Concerto was approaching its final form, there were still no creative masterpieces in my name. I had failed to grow like a Mozart. What could be done?

Father and Neefe had many talks about my next step and always came to the same conclusion. I must journey to Vienna and become a student of Mozart. What better way to descend from a Master than as his pupil? Some plan! Its mere contemplation brought me weak knees, a fluttery stomach and dangerously loose bowels. Though my first intestinal disorders occurred at this time, I refuse to blame the next forty years of diarrheic disturbances entirely on the might of Herr Mozart’s musical personality. However, if the great Maestro could thus affect me from faraway Vienna, I wondered what would be the result of meeting him face-to-face!

Back in 1787, a journey from Bonn to Vienna was no easy undertaking, especially for a member of a family in our financial condition. I had saved my entire first-quarter salary and, in reply to a petition for leave of absence, had received the second-quarter payment in advance. Father and I scraped together fifteen florins from our private teaching, and good old Neefe managed a gold ducat for my going-away present.

The journey was made in a public post coach, which square-wheeled its way along the Rhine as far as Ehrenbreitstein, then through Frankfurt, Nuremberg and Linz to Vienna. As I jolted along, my hopes hit an indeterminate sequence of highs and lows. I tried to imagine what it would be like to finally behold the man whose example had become my justification for existence. Would he embrace my talent with words of praise and encouragement? Would he take me under the wing of his personal guidance? Or would he tower above me as a mighty Thor, casting perfected thunderbolts on the naked strivings of a poor boy from Bonn? Would I return victoriously to my mother’s arms? Or would her terrible cough continue to worsen (as it had since Maria’s birth) and call her from me before I had a chance to offer anything but dreams and promises? Not even the sunny confidence of Father Rhine could interrupt this alternating current of my thoughts.

The seventeenth of April welcomed me to Vienna, and I spent the entire day trying to squeeze suitable lodging into the restricted dimensions of my budget. Not until the following Sunday morning did I first go Mozart hunting; this seemed to me the best time in the week for a busy Master. Under my arm, I proudly carried the E-flat Concerto, three Bagatelles and Neefe’s engraving of my baby variations. My memory was stuffed to the fingertips with Bach fugues and two sets of teenage Beethoven variations, still in a semi-improvisatory state. As I crossed into the Schulerstrasse, the sound of beautiful quartet music convinced me that 1846 was the correct address. I climbed the dark flights of stone steps that led to Mozart’s rooms and stood before the one remaining door that separated me from the living inspiration of my entire youth. My first inclination was to run, the next was to proudly announce my arrival with a bold fortissimo knock; but then, how could I interrupt such inspired goings-on, perfect music which I later came to know and love as the Master’s "Hunting Quartet?" For a while, I stood in an opposite doorway, soaking up the tones. Suddenly, the very walls of the deep stairwell seemed to develop huge unfriendly eyes that stared me into self-consciousness. I descended to the street and walked toward St. Stephen’s Church, planning to reappear after the quartet. My return was not greeted by encouraging silence, but by pianoforte accompaniment to a soprano voice of operatic stature. Then came clapping, laughing and dancing to a minuet. This was not a home. It was a music center! I would return the next day.

Monday’s knock was answered by a slight but splendid man. He dazzled like a king in a bright red dress coat, which had jewels for buttons. His point lace ruffles and silver buckles made me think that I had inadvertently aroused His Imperial Majesty. All that was missing was the powdered wig; instead there was a mound of natural blond hair that was drawn straight back into a stringy tail held neatly in place by a tight black ribbon. I managed to pry a question from the dryness in my throat.

B.   Herr Mozart?

M.   Yes, indeed. And what young devil have we here?

B.   Not a devil, Sir! I am Beethoven. I have come from Bonn to see you.

M.   Oh yes! Just last week I received a post from your elector. He introduced you and included some fine commendations from Herr Neefe and my friend Waldstein. Come in! I must hear you.

We entered a large room that seemed small because of its crowded contents. Stuffed into the corners were a piano, a full quartet of strings, some woodwinds, two writing desks (one so tall that you would have to stand in front of it to employ its use), two sofas, three chairs, a billiard table, and a miniature stage. Unbelievably, the center of the room was an open space. This explained where the quartet playing and dancing of the preceding day had taken place. Mozart offered me a chair and explained that he had guests in an adjoining room and would return as soon as he had excused himself. His polished manners, his graceful walk, his entire physical body possessed a rhythm and charm that made me feel clumsy and awkward. I was surprised at his smallness. Not the giant I had feared—just a thin little man with a very large nose. He returned, offered me the piano, and pulled up a chair for himself.

M.   What have you brought with you?

B.   Bach fugues … two sets of variations which Herr Neefe—

M.   What?! (He interrupted before I could mention my concerto.) You come to me without any Mozart? You are a scamp!

He jumped to his writing table, fidgeted through a topsy-turvy stack of manuscripts, then handed me a bulky score. Its cover sheet contained the words: "Concerto in C, Written to Please Herr Mozart by Wolfgang Amade’ Mozart." While I pondered over this strange title, he opened the score and thumped a nervous finger at the piano part.

M.   Here … try this!

I had never seen such perfect manuscript—a pleasure to read at sight. No challenge at all, compared to my mortal struggles at Grossmann’s. At first I was kept busy trying to apply all of Neefe’s pedantries to the music before me. But in the slow section, I could turn several times and observe Mozart. The nervous rhythms of his hands and feet were quieted by a deep abstraction that had come upon him. His bony chin rested in the chubby fingers of his right hand while the pupils of his eyes moved upward and disappeared beneath half-closed lids. Whatever he was contemplating was deep, and sad and mystical. I could see it was not my playing that held his attention. This bothered me. My sole purpose was to make a favorable first impression. As gracefully as possible, I terminated my Mozart reading and asked the Maestro for a theme upon which I could improvise. A pink concentration replaced the white abstraction in his face; I knew he was composing! In less than a minute, he stood beside me at the piano and played the newborn text. It contained an interesting melody, a pregnant rhythm and a trick. The trick was a subtly hidden countertheme that wove its way between the alto and tenor parts. I knew he thought I would never discover it, but thanks to Father’s hearing game, it sang to me clearly and enticingly with handfuls of tempting possibilities. Now I became the one who was fully abstracted; the music at hand crowded all else from my mind. There was no room for doubt or fear. No thoughts of time or place, of an anxious father, of a sickly mother, or of the great Maestro who listened nearby. Only the music remained, and it poured from my fingers with a determined variety of patterns.

I was brought back to consciousness by two hands placed on my shoulders—hands of the greatest musician in the world. I looked up into Mozart’s face, and had he not spoken a single word, the approval in his eyes would have sufficed. But he turned to the doorway that was now filled with staring guests.

M.   Watch this young chap. He’ll make a noise in the world. And we’ll all sit up and listen!

(His quiet smile beamed down at me.) And now, young man, I must return to my company. Stanzi will be away this Friday. If you come in the afternoon, I should like to discuss what you’ve done and your future plans. I might even challenge your respect for billiards.

I had descended a dozen steps when he called me back to hand me some staff paper.

M.   Here, take this. I’m anxious to see how much of your improvisation can find its way to paper.

I bounded into the Schulerstrasse. The happiest boy in Vienna wanted to sing, to dance, to clap his heels in the air, to hug the first stranger who came along and shout in his ear,

B.   I am Beethoven, pupil of Mozart!

After the novelty of my new title had had its effect, I found myself sitting quietly in my little room, staring at empty music paper. How much I had grown to depend upon a keyboard! I scratched down the Master’s theme, but could not go on without a piano. For two days I tried to recall the inspiration that had flashed through my mind at Mozart’s; pitiable fragments were all that returned. And yet Friday was approaching, and I had to have something to take with me. I decided to forget my cursed improvisation and spend the remaining time in writing a set of variations on Mozart’s theme. When Friday afternoon called time on my frantic efforts, I realized that I could have used another week to patch up deficiencies. But such is life! When hoping for time to pass, it caterpillars along like a sleepy cecropia, but try to hold it back an hour, it flexes new-sprouted moth wings and flies away. I arrived at No. 1846 with great misgivings.

This time, Herr Mozart was not dressed for a party, but relaxed in the loose-fitting comfort of what must have been an old and favorite dressing gown. His eyes spotted my score.

M.   Ah, you brought me your improvisation.

B.   No, Herr Mozart.

M.   Something else then. Good! Let me see it.

B.   I am ashamed of it.

M.   A composer ashamed of his own score? You are a knave, but an honest one. Very well. If it is a bad score, it must be punished, and the only way to punish a bad score is to ignore it. Sit down, I have a surprise for you.

He seated himself at the piano, and his playing of the next thirty-five minutes shook my self-confidence until it blushed at the very thought of a musical career. How humiliating! For nearly a week, I had tried without any success to recall Monday’s improvisation. And here was Mozart, with the technique of liquid sunshine and the sensitivity of moonlight, recreating the entire piece exactly as I had dreamed it five days earlier. Was there any hope for me at all?

When he finished playing, he took down a friendly bottle of Rüdesheimer wine and poured us each a glass. Looking me straight in the eyes, he winked.

M.   Let’s talk now and save the billiards for another time. (He pulled his chair closer and continued.) I’m glad you’ve come to Vienna. This is the best place in the world for young musicians. Paris sings of her revolution; London holds out her enticing gold. But Vienna offers you her love—the love of a beautiful woman. She is not always expedient and proper, but always a woman, always beautiful. Breaking away from Bonn won’t be easy. Your parents will plead for your return, you’ll be homesick. When you least expect it, Max Franz will cut off your salary, and you’ll wonder where on earth the next florin is coming from. But courage! Remember that poor Mozart suffered identical pangs when he left Salzburg and came here to woo the lovely lady. To this day, my beloved emperor has never offered me the dignity of a court position. He respects me as a pianist, but thinks my compositions are too modern to be taken seriously. He stands in his imperial box and shouts Bravo, Mozart! at the conclusion of my Figaro, but offers me no appointment. His musical court is ruled by a clique of bloodthirsty Italians who think nothing of cutting out my heart to get at my reputation. They convince Joseph that Figaro is a novelty and should be quickly shelved in favor of more proper operas by Martini, Righini, and Salieri. I had to journey clear to Prague to find a suitable home for my dear Figaro.

B.   How can you love such a lady? (I interrupted.) She slaps your face!

M.   Ah, but she’s beautiful! She offers you pride and a feeling of independence and social status. Within her loving arms are to be found the best musicians in Europe. Haydn comes to play quartets with me in this very room. She’s happy to share with you the finest musical instruments, the best orchestras, perfect theater, the promise of a national opera born and bred on German soil. She embraces the best-educated musical public in the world and sends to your door a host of wealthy patrons who are eager to sponsor private concerts and to pay for lessons. Now can you love her a little?

I managed a weak affirmative, and then Mozart asked for a more detailed description of my musical background than was provided in the letters of introduction. I dwelt long and lovingly on Grandfather’s career, but carefully understated the frustrated efforts of Father and the poverty-ridden conditions of our home life. The Maestro was pleased to hear of Neefe’s strong pedagogical preference for Bach, but seemed most interested in my applied musical experiences at Grossmann’s. He then pressed me for a precise statement of my musical goals, and it was impossible to behold the pale penetration of childlike kindness in his face without being perfectly honest.

B.   It is my dream, Herr Mozart, to become as great a musician as yourself. And it is my parents’ dream that my career may begin as yours began.

M.   (From the Maestro, with penetrating eyes.) For monetary reasons?

B.   Not entirely … one must make a strong beginning.

Mozart filled our glasses from the halfway mark.

M.   Good! I hope your career will never become enslaved to a bag of ducats. Of course, a musician must be paid for his work, but he daren’t confuse compensation with inspiration. I must admit … financially, my own career has been a disappointment. Stanzi and I never seem to have enough money for the simple pleasures we enjoy. But there is still hope; after all, Gluck is an old man. Perhaps I shall receive his appointment, and think how happy we could be on such a fine salary. But an artist should not be concerned with finances. After all, things will be some way. If I must give music lessons to survive, so be it! If I’m to enjoy a beautiful home and garden, good. If not, well … the career of a musician has its own rewards. Now let’s talk about your future. You come to Vienna to study with Mozart. Very well, I accept you as a student. I accept you as you are, not as you and your parents dream yourself to be. I cannot make a child prodigy out of you because you are not a child prodigy. I cannot make you a precocious young soloist because you are not a precocious young soloist. Next week, when my little Hans Hummel returns, you must hear him play. He is only eleven, and yet his delicate and sensitive piano makes yours sound like all fists and thumbs!

Temper boiled its way from my soul to the tip of my nose. If I had remained silent, the thumping in my ears and the pounding of my heart would have spoken for me. Putting down the wine, I stood by my chair, practically at attention.

B.   Herr Mozart! I come to you for help and encouragement. At the thought of being your pupil, I am as proud as any mortal has ever been. But you take everything from me. You must understand how I feel. I can put up with almost anything except insurmountable competition. When Herr Neefe displays his masterful organ technique, I can feel my career running to an opposite path. And now, you outshine me in every respect. I can’t recall my own improvisation, you play it back note for note. Your piano technique is greater than mine. A little boy’s technique is greater than mine. Your gift as a composer—

M.   Is greater than yours. So what? Does this mean that you have no right to a musical career? Sit down, boy. Your sensitivity is showing, and I’m proud of you.

We traded chairs, and Mozart continued.

M.   I pass judgment on you as your teacher, and I reserve the right to be perfectly frank with my students. If you can’t stand my sharp tongue, you won’t survive as my pupil.

B.   It’s not your tongue I fear, Herr Mozart. It’s your talent. You are heavens above me!

M.   Must you be above everyone else to feel comfortable?

B   To me, a career is like a competitive race. If I cannot carry the torch a few steps farther than my contemporaries, what purpose do I serve?

M   Very well, Ludwig. Run your race! Carry your torch! But must you lead all contestants from the start? I dangle little Hummel before your ears to discourage your dreams of prodigy, not to demoralize your musical ambitions. What counts in a man is his achievement, not his native endowment. My talent is enormous, but without strenuous application, I would achieve little. Perhaps your talents are less than Hummel’s and mine, but through work, self-discipline, and sacrifice, your final achievement could well leave us both behind! Concentrate on the race, and don’t worry so much about who’s winning. Let me see that bad little score you brought.

Mozart nervously bit his lips and made sour grimaces as he read through the pages.

M.   This is very poor. You would never become my student on the basis of such a piece. But how frail it is compared to the personality of your improvisation. As soon as that bold and independent spirit of yours reaches paper, Beethoven the composer will emerge. I want you to write me a minuet, a fugue, and a rondo. And mind you, they must sound like the Beethoven I respect—not like exercises in thoroughbass.

B.   How about Beethoven, the pianist?

M.   Don’t worry about him! With a little patience, we’ll polish off his rough edges and he’ll do all right as a young man—not as a boy wonder.

B.   When should I return?

M.   Hmm … this is a very bad time for me. I’m up to my neck in a new opera, and my dear father’s health is precarious. Suppose we don’t make a definite appointment. Stick with your assignment until the pieces represent your best work … until they sound like last Monday. Then come back and we’ll set up a definite schedule.

Walking from the Schulerstrasse, I felt as though I had left my own weight in golden dreams standing on Mozart’s doorstep. I hurried back to my little room near the Hofburg and settled down to a week’s work that took thirty-seven days for completion. Only three pieces, but I was determined to achieve perfection!

First, a minuet. I decided to write a half dozen and then select the best one for Mozart. The writing was easy enough, but when the time came to choose my favorite, I could find none. All six were average compositions—products of a schoolboy. None contained the slightest bolt of improvisatory splendor.

Forget the minuet! I turned to the problem of writing a good fugue. Three attempts led to the careful application of Neefe’s rules, but not to inspired music. A sickening fear