by Howard Jay Smith
At the moment of his death, Ludwig van Beethoven pleads with Providence to grant him a final wish—one day, just a single day of pure joy. But first he must confront the many failings in his life, so the great composer and exceedingly complex man begins an odyssey into the netherworld of his past life led by a spirit guide who certainly seems to be Napoleon, who died six years before. This ghost of the former emperor, whom the historical Beethoven both revered and despised, struggles to compel the composer to confront the ugliness as well as the beauty and accomplishments of his past. As Beethoven ultimately faces the realities of his just-ended life, we encounter the women who loved and inspired him. In their own voices, we discover their Beethoven—a lover with whom they savor the profound beauty and passion of his creations. And it’s in the arms of his beloveds that he comes to terms with the meaning of his life and experiences the moment of true joy he has always sought.
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Prologue:
The Death of Beethoven
Vienna, 5:00 pm,
March
26, 1827
Outside Beethoven’s rooms at the
Schwarzspanierhaus, a fresh measure of snow from a late season thunderstorm
muffles the chimes of St. Stephens Cathedral as they ring out the hours for the
old city.
Ein, Zwei, Drei, Vier…
Funf Uhr. Five O’clock.
Beethoven, three months
past his fifty-sixth birthday, lies in a coma, as he has now for two nights,
his body bound by the betrayal of an illness whose only virtue was that it
proved incurable and would, thankfully, be his last. Though his chest muscles
and his lungs wrestle like giants against the approaching blackness, his
breathing is so labored that the death rattle can be heard over the grumblings
of the heavens throughout his apartment.
Muss es sein? Must
it be? Ja, es muss sein. Beethoven is dying. From on high, the Gods vent their
grief at his imminent passing and hurl a spear of lightening at Vienna.
Their jagged bolt
of electricity explodes outside the frost covered windows of the
Schwarzspanierhaus with a clap of thunder so violent it startles the composer
to consciousness.
Beethoven’s eyes
open, glassy, unfocused. He looks upward – only the Gods know what he sees, if
anything. He raises his right hand, a hand that has graced a thousand sonatas,
and clenches his fist for perhaps the last time. His arm trembles as if railing
against the heavens. Tears flood his eyes.
His arm falls back
to the bed… His eyelids close… And then he is gone ...
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