“For my brothers Carl and — —– Beethowen.
O you men who consider, or describe me as quarrelsome,
peevish or misanthropic, how greatly you wrong me!
You do not know the secret reason why I seem to you
to be so. From my childhood onward my heart and soul
have been filled with tender feelings of good will, and
I have always been willing to perform great and
magnanimous deeds. But reflect, for the past 6 years I have
been in an incurable condition made worse by unreasonable
doctors. From year to year I have hoped to be cured,
but in vain, and at last I have been forced to accept the
prospect of a permanent infirmity [whose cure may
perhaps take years, or may prove to be quite impossible].
Although born with a fiery and lively temperament, and
even fond of the distractions of society, I soon had to
cut myself off and live in solitude. When, occasionally,
I decided to ignore my infirmity, ah, how cruelly I was
then driven back by the doubly sad experience of my poor
hearing, yet I could not find it in myself to say to people:
“Speak louder, shout, for I am deaf’. Ah, how could
I possibly have referred to the weakening of a sense which
ought to be more perfectly developed in me than in other
people, a sense which I once possessed in the greatest
perfection, to a degree which certainly few of my
profession possess or have ever possessed. I cannot do it,
so forgive me if you see me withdraw from your company,
greatly though I should like to mix with you. My mis-
fortune afflicts me doubly as I am bound to be misunder-
stood. For me there can be no relaxation in human society,
refined conversations and mutual confidences. I must be
entirely alone, and except when the utmost necessity takes
me to the threshold of society I must live like an outcast.
If I appear in company I am overcome by acute anxiety,
for fear I am in danger of revealing my condition. Such
has been the case this last half year, spent in the country,,
instructed by my sensible doctor to spare my hearing as
much as possible, which is indeed my present inclination.
Sometimes I have been driven by my desire to seek the
company of other human beings, but what humiliation
when someone, standing beside me, heard a flute from afar
off while I heard nothing, or when someone heard a
shepherd singing, and again I heard nothing! Such
experiences have brought me close to despair, and I came
near to ending my life–only my art held me back, as it
seemed to me impossible to leave this world until have
produced everything I feel it has been granted to me to
achieve”.
To be continued, Islander. PS. Beethowen is not a typo.