Sep - 1828, Death

THE story of Schubert's life has now been almost told. There remains but to record the incidents of his last days.

In August, 1827, the master, who had been lodging for some time with his old friend, Schober, went to live with his brother, Ferdinand, in a new house, now known 6, Kettenbrücken Gasse. Sir George Grove describes it as a "long house, with three rows of nine windows in front, a brown sloping tiled roof, an entry in the middle to a quadrangle behind; a quiet, clean, inoffensive place." Kreissle appears to think that the removal was injudicious, and says, "The house which the brothers occupied had, unfortunately, been recently built," but beyond this vague intimation of mischief, there is no evidence that Schubert suffered in health through the dampness of a just-finished dwelling. On the other hand, we know that the change of quarters was approved by the composer's physician, who anticipated good effects from nearness to the country, and consequent facilities for obtaining fresh air and exercise. But the change worked no benefit. Schubert's liability to cerebral congestion and attacks of giddiness rather increased than diminished; and, indeed, his condition was such as caused serious uneasiness. By October he had improved somewhat; the result, perhaps, of greater personal carefulness. There are some men who never give their constitution a chance till frightened into it, and Schubert, now that he felt his health gravely threatened, began to take the precautions which should have been put in force long before. He dieted himself, both as to eating and drinking, and actually consented to accompany his brother and a few friends on a short walking tour as far as Eisenstadt, where Haydn lived, and where he then lay buried. Thus living in some conformity to the long outraged laws of health, Schubert grew stronger. He regained his old cheerfulness, it is said, and was often very gay. But, alas! the improvement was delusive. Dieting, exercise, all came too late - the old story - and shortly after the return to Vienna a relapse took place. "One evening at the end of October," writes Kreissle, "he was dining at an hotel, and had hardly swallowed the first morsel of fish when he suddenly threw down the knife and fork on his plate, declaring that the food was absolutely odious to him, and tasted like poison." This was the beginning of nature's final revolt against the treatment to which she had been subjected, and, thenceforward, it might have been said of Schubert, in the words of a quaint old epitaph: "Pain was his portion; physic was his food." But he made a brave fight for life, if, indeed the probability of a speedy death ever occured to him. His mind remained full of thoughts of work, especially with ideas for the completion of his opera "Graf von Gleichen," and he lived in music as much as ever, even contemplating a course of study in counterpoint under Sechter. He had been reading some of the compositions of Handel - like Beethoven in the same crisis - and had come to the conclusion that there was yet much to be done. His words were: "I see now how much I have still to learn, but I am going to work hard with Sechter and make up for lost time." "So earnestly was he bent on this," adds one of his biographers, "that on the day after his walk to Hernals - i.e., on November 4 - notwithstanding his weakness, he went into Vienna, and, with another musician named Lanz, called on Sechter to consult him on the matter, and they actually decided on Marpurg as the text book, and on the number and dates of the lessons." But all this time his nervous system was in a terrible state. On hearing Beethoven's C sharp minor Quartet, he broke down so completely, and gave way so much to excitement, that all his friends were alarmed at his condition. He heard other music in this sad state, and there was no one to take him away from the city, into some quiet, reposeful place, where his agitation might have calmed down and given a chance to nature's recuperative forces. The mischief went on, the patient grew weaker and weaker, till, on November 11, there came from him words which had the accent of despair. He was apparently alarmed at the nature of his own forebodings, and sought to divert his thoughts; no longer with music but by means of fiction. Hence he wrote to Schober - using a pen for the last time:-

"Dear Schober,- I am ill. I have eaten and drunk nothing for eleven days, and am so tired and shaky that I can only get from the bed to the chair and back. Rinna is attending me. If I taste anything I bring it up again directly. In this distressing condition be so kind as to help me to some reading. Of Cooper's, I have read the "Last of the Mohicans," the "Pilot," and the "Pioneers." If you have anything else of his I entreat you to leave it with Frau von Bognor, at the coffee-house. My brother, who is conscientiousness itself, will bring it to me in the most conscientious way. Or anything else. - Your friend, Schubert.

We will assume that Schober answered this piteous letter, but there is no proof that he did so, nor do we find evidence strong enough to remove a suspicion that many of Schubert's friends, in his great emergency, "forsook him and fled." Kreissle declares that Spaun, Randhartinger, Baumfeld, and Hüttenbrenner all visited their former boon companion and convive, but, on the other hand, Ferdinand Schubert's wife, who lived in the same house as the patient, asserts that Randhartinger was the only one who called. There was dread of infection, forsooth, and the dying composer's residence was in an out of the way quarter! "'Tis pitiful, 'tis wondrous pitiful" - this desertion of our fellows when most the voice and hand of a friend are needed. We may excuse Mozart's mourners for dropping away from his funeral train as it passed through storm and tempest to St. Marx, but there can be no pardon for poor Schubert's intimates in their paltry fear and cruel neglect. They were glad enough to eat and drink at his expense, but when it was a question of soothing his last moments they had business elsewhere.

By November 14 the disease had progressed so far that the patient could no longer sit up save for a few moments, which he spent in looking over proofs of the most melancholy of all his songs. "He appears to have had no pain," says Sir George Grove in a fine passsage, "only increasing weakness, want of sleep, and great depression. Poor fellow! no wonder he was depressed! Everything was against him - his weakness, his poverty, the dreary house, the long lonely hours, the cheerless future - all concentrated and embodied in the hopeless images of Müller's poems, and the sad gloomy strains in which he has clothed them for ever and ever - the Letzte Hoffnung, the Krähe, the Wegweiser, the Wirthshaus, the Nebensonnen, the Leiermann - all breathing of solitude, strange omens, poverty, death, the grave. As he went through the pages, they must have seemed like pictures of his own life, and such passages as the following, from the Wegweiser (or Signpost) can hardly have failed to strike the dying man as aimed at himself:-

  Straight before me stands a signpost
Steadfast in my very gaze,
'Tis the road none e'er retraces,
'Tis the road that I must tread.

Alas! he was indeed going the road which none ever retraces." On the 16th there was a consultation of medical men, who, although they dreaded a nervous fever, still had hope of the sufferer's recovery. But the next day typhus declared itself, delirium supervened, and hope disappeared. Death then became only a matter of a few days, since the weakened frame could not possibly sustain the attack of such an exhausting disease. On the 18th Schubert's mind wandered frequently. He fancied himself in a strange room which he was anxious to leave, and often tried to get out of bed for that purpose. Evidently the poor brain pictured him to himself as amongst strangers who had some mysterious design. Hence the whispered query to Ferdinand, "What are they doing with me? "His brother answered: "Dear Franz they are doing all they can to get you well again, and the doctor assures us you will soon be right, only you must do your best to stay in bed." Then came a period of quiet, but the disordered mind soon returned to its delusion: "I implore you to put me in my own room, and not to leave me in this corner under the earth. Do I not deserve a place above ground?" The reply was: "Be calm. Trust your brother, Ferdinand, whom you have always trusted, and who loves you so dearly. You are in the room which you always had, and lying in your own bed." "No, no," retorted the sufferer, "that's not true; Beethoven is not here." It is easy to see how the wandering thoughts of the moribund composer slipped from the hallucination that strangers had got possession of him for some mysterious purpose to the matter of his final resting place, which, no doubt, had filled his mind before. He had probably indulged a secret aspiration to lie near his great exemplar; and, though a natural modesty would have prevented any expression of it when in full control of his faculties, it found words in a moment of delirium. A few hours later the doctor called and sought to rally his patient by reassuring talk. "But," says Kreissle, "Schubert looked earnestly at him, clutched at the wall with his poor weak hand, and said slowly, in earnest tones, 'Here, here is my end!'"

The next day (November 19), Schubert's gifted spirit passed away from "the miseries of this troublesome world" - the world he had blessed with undying strains, paid for with immortal, but, as usual, post mortem honours.

With what pious resignation the dead man's father endured his heavy bereavement may be gathered from a letter, written by him to Ferdinand Schubert on the morning of the fatal day:-

"Dear Son Ferdinand,- The days of trouble and heaviness are lowering heavily upon us. The dangerous illness of our beloved Franz weighs much upon our souls. All that we can do in this sad time is to seek comfort from our Heavenly Father, and bear every sorrow appointed us by a wise Providence with firm submission to His holy will. The result will convince us of the wisdom and goodness of God. Be of courage, then, and put your trust in Him. He will strengthen you, that you sink not under this sorrow; His blessing will keep a yet happy future in store for you. Take every possible precaution that our dear Franz have administered to him at once the holy Sacraments given to the dying, and I live in a cheerful hope that the Almighty will strengthen and preserve him. Thy father, afflicted and yet strengthened by trust in God - Franz."

On the morrow after writing this letter, so full of simple piety and unquestioning faith, the bereaved parent issued a notification of his son's death in the following terms:-

"Yesterday afternoon (Wednesday), at three o'clock, my beloved son, Franz Schubert, artist and composer, died after a short illness, and having received the Holy Sacraments of the Church. He died at the age of thirty-two. ^[3] We beg to announce to our dear friends and neighbours that the body of the deceased will be taken, on the 21st of this month, at half-past two in the afternoon, from the house standing No. 694 in the new street on the NeuenWieden, to be buried near the Bishop's stall in the parish church of St. Josef in Margarethen, where the holy rites will be administered.

"FRANZ SCHUBERT,

"School Teacher in the Rossau.

"Vienna, Nov. 20, 1828."

The elder Schubert appears to have fixed the place of burial without consulting Ferdinand, who, at six o'clock the following morning addressed a letter to his father, urging a different disposition of the remains:-

"Dearest Father, - A great number of people are anxious that the body of our dear Franz should be buried in the churchyard at Währing. I certainly am one of that number, and am particularly anxious this should be so, as I believe Franz himself induced me to think of Währing for his resting place."

The letter narrates the death bed conversation already referred to, and proceeds:-

"Is not this an index, so to speak, of his heartfelt wish to rest by the side of Beethoven, whom he so deeply reverenced? I have therefore spoken to Rieder, and ascertained the cost of removing the Body - it will amount to about seventy florins - a large sum, a very large sum, but very little for the honour of Franz's resting place. For my part, I can spare temporarily the sum of forty florins, for yesterday fifty were paid to me. For the rest, I believe we may expect that all the expenses incidental to his illness and burial will be met by what has been left. If you, my dear Father, agree with me in these sentiments, I can assure you my mind will be relieved of a heavy load. But you must at once make up your mind, and let me know by the bearer of this letter, so that I can make arrangements for the arrival of the hearse. You must also take care to give notice to-day to the clergyman at Währing. Your afflicted son - FERDINAND."

P.S - Should not the ladies all appear in mourning? The manager of the funeral thinks he need not provide crape, as it is not usually worn at the funerals of unmarried people, and because the pall-bearers have red cloaks and flowers."

Ferdinand's suggestion met with his father's approval, and the funeral took place on November 21 - in bad weather, like that of Mozart. But Schubert's friends did not run home out of the rain as did those of his illustrious predecessor. After viewing the body, which lay in its coffin dressed as a hermit and crowned with laurel, they accompanied the procession to St. Joseph's Church, where a funeral service was celebrated, the music being a Motett by Gansbacher, and the dead composer's own "Pax vobiscum," set to words specially written by Schober. From the church the procession took its way towards the village of Währing, along the road traversed by Beethoven's funeral train in 1827. On reaching the little cemetery the remains were laid to rest only three places from those of the great composer, by whose side Schubert desired to sleep. The spot was soon marked by a monument, erected by sorrowing friends, and consisting of a bust, with an inscription written by Grillparzer:-

"Music has here entombed a rich treasure, but still fairer hopes. Franz Schubert lies here. Born January 31, 1797. Died November 19, 1828. 31 years old."

An official inventory of the dead man's goods was taken in due course. It involved no great labour and will take up small space here:- "Three dress coats, three walking coats, ten pairs of trousers, nine waistcoats - worth thirty-seven florins. One hat, five pairs of shoes, and two pairs of boots - valued at two florins. Four shirts, nine cravats and pocket handkerchiefs, thirteen pairs of socks, one towel, one sheet, two bed cases - eight florins. One mattress, one bolster, one quilt - six florins. A quantity of old music valued at ten florins - 63 florins (about £2 10s.) in all.

Schubert assuredly had not laid up for himself treasures upon earth, but it is suggestive to contrast this beggarly account with the honours soon laid upon his tomb, and since heaped upon his memory. Looking at the large space now filled in the world by the man who died worth fifty shillings, and with a fame that scarcely extended beyond the walls of Vienna, we see how small and insignificant a part of the real life of genius is that which we call life.

    We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most; feels the noblest; acts the best.

Notes