Welcome to author, Howard Jay Smith as he promotes his book, Beethoven in love; Opus 139. Make sure to check out his guest post as well as an excerpt from the book.
Author:
Howard Jay SmithPublisher: SYQ
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.
Beethoven & the Quest for his
Immortal Beloved
“Your love makes me at once both the happiest and the unhappiest of men. .
. Love me today, yesterday . . . . What tearful longings for you, you, you. My
life, my all. Farewell. Never cease to love me. Never misjudge this most
faithful heart of your beloved. Ever yours . . . Ever mine . . . Ever ours. . .
.”
Thus concludes one of the most famous love notes in history; Beethoven’s
“Immortal Beloved,” letter written to a mysterious and as yet unknown woman. Not
only did he fail address her by name, he further baffled music historians by
simply dating the letter, July 7th, leaving off the year. Outside of
Beethoven’s actual music, there is more speculation about the women in his life
than anything else.
So who was this woman, this Immortal Beloved, that has been the focus of
such fevered study in the nearly 190 years since his death in 1827, when a copy
of the letter was found in his apartment by accident alone?
Will we ever know her true identity and give this woman her due? Was she a married aristocrat with whom he had
an affair? Or a childhood sweetheart he longed to see once again? Or was she
even the mother of a child he never knew?
Speculation is rife, even today, when the descendants of over a dozen women,
including the dedicatee of the “Moonlight Sonata,” claim him as their own.
At the moment of his death, in his last seconds of conscious, Beethoven
raised his fist and shook it at his Creator.
Did he demand to know why it is, that he, whose hearing once surpassed
all others in sensitivity and degree had been cast out as history’s cruel joke,
a deaf composer who was also denied the comforts of family and the affections
of his Immortal Beloved?
For all his creative genius, Beethoven was a flawed man who led a troubled
life. In my novel we explore the depths
of that love and pain. In that last tick
of the clock, our Beethoven pleads with Providence to grant him one final wish…
One day, just one day of pure joy in her arms.
Thus begins a spiritual journey to the borders of Elysium, where
Beethoven re-experience each of those precious moments. He struggles to come to
peace not only with all the failings of his life but to also to find solace in
the embrace of his Immortal Beloved.
Will he succeed? As one of the characters Beethoven encounters so on the
road to paradise proudly proclaims, “What is a novel but a collection of lies
we tell to reveal greater truths?”
Enjoy this excerpt:
Prologue:
The Death of Beethoven
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 ...
About the author:
Howard Jay Smith is an
award-winning writer from Santa
Barbara , California Washington , D.C. America "
- and is a member of the American Beethoven Society.
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