nd exchanged his lodgings
for others situated in a more retired spot, rather than discontinue
the practice. His explosive temper has furnished many amusing
anecdotes. One day his cook, who, in consideration of her master's
incurable unpunctuality, must be regarded as an aggrieved personage,
served up some eggs which were not to his taste, and he emphasised his
displeasure by throwing the entire batch at the head of the
unfortunate domestic. On another occasion a waiter who mistook his
order was rewarded by having the contents of a dish of stew poured
over his head. Even where his temper was not concerned his manners
were directly opposed to those prevailing in polite society--though,
in a large measure, this may have been due to his perfect simplicity
and his ignorance of what was expected of him. Thus, it is told that,
returning from one of his long walks in the pouring rain, he would
make straight for the sitting-room of the house in which he happened
to be staying and calmly proceed to shake the water from his hat over
the carpet and chairs, after the fashion of a retriever just emerged
from a pond, humming to himself the while some theme which had been
occupying his thoughts during his walk. One of his pleasanter habits,
to which he was greatly attached, was washing. He would pour the water
backwards and forwards over his hands with childish delight, and if,
as frequently happened, a musical idea suggested itself to him during
the operation, he became oblivious to everything else, and would
continue to send the water to and fro, spilling it in huge quantities,
until the floor resembled a miniature lake.

Beethoven would never allow that his disorderliness was anything more
than personal, always contending that he had a love of order and
neatness with regard to his surroundings and arrangements. Yet here is
a sketch of the condition of his living-room, as seen by one of his
friends: 'The most exquisite confusion reigned in his house. Books and
music were scattered in all directions; here the residue of a cold
luncheon, there some full, some half-emptied, bottles. On the desk the
hasty sketch of a new quartet; in another corner the remains of a
breakfast. On the pianoforte the scribbled hints for a noble symphony,
yet little more than in embryo; hard by a proof-sheet, waiting to be
returned; letters from friends, and on business, spread all over the
floor. Between the windows a goodly Stracchino cheese, and on one sid