left him a prey to
melancholy. It was whilst in this state of mental and physical
depression that he penned from his village retreat the touchingly
eloquent letter which has since been called his 'will.' In this
epistle, which is addressed to 'My brothers Carl and Johann
Beethoven,' and which they are admonished to 'read and execute after
my demise,' Beethoven pleads for consideration both on account of his
irritability and his apparent lack of affection. To his misfortunes,
not to his faults, must be attributed the obstinacy, the hostility, or
the misanthropic attitude which he has shown towards those whom he
loves, and by whom he is loved in return. 'My heart and my mind,' he
says, as if in extenuation of this fancied ill-feeling, 'were from
childhood prone to the tender feelings of affection.' It is a pathetic
appeal to natures which, unfortunately for the writer, were the least
likely to echo its tenderness in their own hearts; for neither of the
brothers had ever shown him true affection. They had followed him to
Vienna to found a livelihood for themselves, and thenceforward, with
selfish zeal for their own interests, they had simply served to clog
his progress. Blinded by the nobility of his own character, however,
Beethoven now takes upon himself the entire blame for what he imagines
to be a lessening of the affection between them, and, sunk in health,
and viewing his future through the darkest of glasses, he reproaches
himself for what he could never have helped. Though his brothers are
the only persons who are actually named in this remarkable letter, no
one who reads it can doubt that Beethoven is addressing the world at
large, who will judge both himself and his works.

Towards the end of this year his health had improved, but the deafness
remained constant, and he was at length compelled to desist from
conducting his works. Shortly after this an incident occurred which
must have served to convince him of the sympathy which the public felt
for him in his affliction. His great work, the 'Choral Symphony,' was
being performed, and the composer was standing on the platform with
his back to the audience, intently following the music. As the
concluding chords died away the whole house broke out into
enthusiastic applause. Again and again the shouts rent the air, but
Beethoven stood motionless, unmoved--a pathetic figure amidst the
storm. Possibly at this moment those whose ears he had charmed by his
music realis