Victor Rerick
Artist Letters

Dearest Anselm Hüttenbrenner,

I am sorry to trouble you at such a time dear Anselm. I know you are madly dedicated to your requiem in C Minor as of late, but I must interrupt your workings if only for a moment. A hope, that perchance it will be a welcome reprieve from your hours of banging wildly on your wine-stained piano. You know of course I jest. But now to the matter!
You know me, I suppose as well as any man, so you most recollect what others consider my peculiarities. My obsessions. My intricacies of character, shall we call them? But no I speak not of my trouble of the ear of even that of my abdomen. This time my struggles have transcended the physical. They are of an entirely different nature. It is society dear Anselm that drives me to the edge of madness. Society! And you had thought I had been troubled enough with my ears to put a knife to my own throat. Why as of late I consider myself blessed that I am spared of hearing what this world has to offer. From the highest kings to the lowest beggars on the streets of Bonn, the whole city has gone to ruin!
What is this talk I hear of grand plans by our Little General, or our Little Emperor should I call him, to conquer the whole of Europe. I thought I was alone in my madness, but it appears that even royalty has joined me. What has the man to gain? In his eyes I suppose he sees the world before him open for conquest. But are these lands not filled with humans like us. Maybe they do not march under the French flag, but who is to say which race is superior. Can Napoleon take their lands from under their feet as if they are animals? Will he try to conquer us as well? The Holy Roman Empire already stands on the brink of collapse, and now we have a madman roaming our lands, seeking whom he may devour. It would not surprise me if he brings destruction on this entire continent. And perhaps he shall travel further. Is he mad enough to venture into the bitter Russian cold (Although I don’t believe such a climate would trouble his already numbed brain).
This is what troubles me dear Anselm. A man I once admired for his leadership, now seems aimed to take the civilized world by its throat. All in the name of country! Of conquest! I think you will remember my Third Symphony. I should hope you would, as you were indeed the editor! As such I trust you remember to whom it was dedicated. It pains me to say it but yes! It was to the very same Napoleon Bonaparte that now seems poised to undue all of humanities progress in the last century. He treats the world like his sandbox, as if life is a game to be one by consumption of land and dominance of the masses. What makes him so different from us? Is it his swords? His uniformed men who relieve themselves only at his command? They are like finger puppets on his child-sized hands. Is mastery over another truly the path to satisfaction? No, I prefer a different kind. Mastery of the bow is to be envied. Of the piano keys. Of the harps cords. Of the quill which composes. Of the rod which conducts. These are the objects we must display mastery over. Not our fellow humans.
As a man of Enlightenment thinking you know I cannot help but hate what this grave man has become. When I heard of his imperial ambitions, I spent the week furiously clawing his name from my symphony. I suppose I shall rededicate it to a man more worthy of my composition, that is, if can find one on the depraved streets of Bonn. You know I jest again of course dear Anselm. But of this I make no sly remarks: write soon. You must settle me my Anselm, I can stand my current company no longer. I must hear your voice of reason through these dark times. As a blind man I assure you the world can no longer hear the warnings of napoleons coming destruction. Will they really let this tyrant come to power? The thought sickens me. They are deaf to wise words. I hope my music shall shake them to action. Again, write soon!

Regards,

L.V. Beethoven