From: avjohn@iiasa.ac.at (Aviott  JOHN)
Subject: being with beethoven
Organization: IIASA, Laxenburg, Austria
X-Newsreader: TIN [version 1.1 PL6]
Date: Thu, 5 Nov 1992 14:46:02 GMT

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e-mail: avjohn@iiasa.iiasa.ac.at
Aviott JOHN, Library, International Inst. for Appl.
Systems Analysis, Laxenburg, Austria

Aviott JOHN
BEING WITH BEETHOVEN

Before he actually came to Austria and visited the city, he had not
believed in its existence.  To him it was not a real place but a
literary device, invented by writers of spy thrillers and musical
fantasies as a background for their plots.  He came to Vienna in
search of Ludwig van, as though hoping that some of the composer's
immortality would rub off on him.  He found he was a century and a
half too late; but still clung on, trembling a little in every
passing breeze, like an autumn leaf caught in an abandoned spider's
web.  He looked frail and infirm, but in reality was a sprightly old
man; an iconoclast in his old age, wandering around the town looking
for adventure, finding it sometimes unexpectedly; in the Volksgarten
for instance, where a knotted gardener advanced on him like a house-
proud hostess with a threatening shout: 'Hey you, don't walk on the
grass!'  His helpless shrug and hands splayed in expiation did not
appease that zealous keeper of the green.  'I never could levitate,'
he said by way of added apology.  'Ich hab's nie gelernt, frei zu
schweben.'

Or it might be the ubiquitous little old lady (like him, a dying
species, he dispassionately observed), who objected to his nocturnal
ramblings, his insomniac prowling around deserted city streets when
all self-respecting citizens were in bed.  And his reply: 'Ah, but
who with?' was met by a stare of unamused indignance and a slammed
window.

There were many compensations.   He enjoyed quiet moments in his
favourite cafe, where the smell of roasting beans clung to the faded
velvet curtains with the tenacity of tradition; the welcoming smile
as the waiter brought unbidden a cup of hot chocolate and his
newspaper.  He was known here, and therefore he had a station in
society; retired as he was, a distinction he did not take lightly. 
He still clearly remembered the first time the waiter had addressed
him as Herr Doktor, a smile of flattering complicity, not the least
subservient, on his lips.  The complimentary epithet bound him to the
coffee house for ever.  He knew from now on he would never patronize
another.  To his tired old heart, it was as though he had found a
second home.

In his first years here, finding his feet in this strange city soon
after retirement, he had wandered around like a homeless waif,
clutching a fistful of Reisefuehrers, Polyglotts, Baedekers,
Fodor'ses, Harvard Guides, Berlitz Books, city maps.  He sought
traces of his favorite genius in the dozens, scores, of buildings
where he had once lived, for however short a time.  He sniffed the
air around these buildings as eagerly as a young puppy, hoping to
find some lingering traces of Beethoven's presence in the air.  He
wandered through the Stadtpark in the summer where the strains that
waltzed through the crowds were of Strauss rather than Beethoven, and
could hardly hide his bitterness and anger, the wounded sense of
sacrilege, when the magnificent opening bars of the Ninth Symphony
were used to advertise the efficacy of a brand of detergent.

Still he lingered in the city, buying a ticket to a concert here,
listening to a new rendering of the piano sonatas there, spreading
his arms out wide to clasp the elusive bars of sound to him.  In the
old Gasthaus with its sooty, wood-panelled walls, chequered
tablecloths and white-tiled ceiling, he imagined the hairy, barrel-
chested owner's ancestor serving the great man a schnitzel, together
with a limp, pickled salad and a carafe of the strong, dry red wine
that the penurious composer always downed with great enjoyment.

But time did not stop and exchange rates continued to fluctuate. 
The value of the schilling rose.  When it rose it seemed to him as
threatening as an advancing tide, cutting off his retreat to safety;
and when it fell, he walked with pleasure and impunity by the edge of
the sea, collecting the treasures revealed by the retreating tide. 
His pension was adequate, but he had to to be careful.  In the summer
now there were hordes of tourists, many groups of young people.  They
swarmed and chattered in clusters, following the paths he had traced
years ago; all hoping, like him, to encounter a wisp of genius,
however brief the encounter; to inhale a trace of an ancient
ambience, however musty the air.  'Sit still,' he wanted to tell them
with his hard earned wisdom.  'Sit very quietly and listen hard, or
you won't hear it.'  But still they thronged and chattered, and still
they came, walking by the old man with hardly a glance at him.  'He's
a bit ga-ga,' they said to each other, for he sat and stared at the
empty sky with a smile on his lips.  They thought he was mad and
avoided him, because they couldn't hear the strains of the music.