_Dem Muthigen hilft
Gott!_ said Schiller. Beethoven seemed to have some prevision that only
a few more years would be allotted him for work; when he began on the
mass his inspiration was like a river that had broken its bounds. Every
nerve and fibre of his being called him to his work. He was like a
war-horse that scents the battle. He now abandoned himself more than
ever to the impulse for creating. For the next few years he lived the
abstracted life of the enthusiast to whom every-day concerns are but
incidental and unimportant things, and his art the one great matter. The
gigantic tone-pictures which were constantly forming themselves in his
inner consciousness were of so much greater importance than the events
of his external life, that the latter were dwarfed by comparison and
lost their significance. He now made a greater surrender of the ties
connecting him with every-day life than ever before. His industry was
phenomenal, but it soon became apparent that the work would not be ready
for the Installation, the date of which was set for March 20, 1820.
Pages:
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226