IN THE EARLY AFTERNOON OF 29 MARCH 1827, thousands of people flocked towards the Altes Schwarzspanierhaus, as word spread across Vienna that Beethoven had died. Their numbers grew, and soon they thronged the courtyard of the building to such an extent that the gates had to be closed. They crowded along the Alsergasse and spilled onto the green Glacis that sloped up to the Bastei, the city wall. Soon there was barely space between Beethoven's residence and the Votivkirche, where the funeral mass was to be held.
On the second floor of the Schwarzspanierhaus, inside Beethoven's apartment, a small group of men made final adjustments to the polished oak coffin and the corpse it contained. Beethoven's head, adorned with a wreath of white roses, lay on a white silk pillow. It was a grotesque sight, belying the identity of Europe's most revered composer. The temporal bones, along with the auditory nerves, had been removed at post-mortem for further investigation, leaving the joint of the lower jaw with no support. The famously leonine face, with strongly defined jawbone, was distorted almost beyond recognition.
Into the folded hands a wax cross and a large lily were placed. Two more large lilies lay on either side of the body. Eight candles burned alongside the coffin. On the table at the foot of the coffin stood a crucifix, holy water for sprinkling, and ears of corn. At 3 p.m. the coffin was closed, and the group prepared to move it down the staircase and out into the courtyard.
By this time the crowd had grown restless. Soldiers from the nearby barracks were drafted in to keep order. There was a fear that the horses could be frightened or, worse, that the coffin could be disturbed. The soldiers cleared the courtyard and the gates were again closed. As the coffin was brought out of the building, the crowd surged forward, but the gates, soldiers on the inner side, held firm. As nine priests offered blessings and the Italian court singers intoned a funeral song, a heavy pall was spread over the coffin and a large wreath laid on the embroidered cross.
When everything was ready, the gates were opened, but the crowd surged forward again, overwhelming the soldiers. They pushed against the bier, dislodging the pallbearers and chief mourners. It took several minutes to restore order. Eight Kapellmeister, four on each side, took hold of the pall with one hand, a candle wrapped in crepe in the other. On both sides of them stood around forty torchbearers. Behind the coffin were the chief mourners, close friends and family; in front of it musicians, civic dignitaries, and the clergy.
The order was given, the four horses took the strain, and amid a clatter of chains and a cacophony of hooves, the procession moved off. Vienna, for so many centuries capital of the Holy Roman Empire, seat of the Holy Roman Emperor, had never seen scenes like it, nor had so many thousands of people ever thronged its streets. [1]
It was an appropriate tribute to a man whose music had touched people in a way that no composer's had before, who had changed the course of music, and whose compositions would speak to people down the generations and for all time. But it was also somewhat unfitting, given that Beethoven's music was not unanimously applauded in his lifetime, that his circle of friends and supporters was really quite small, that no great effort had been made in his difficult and painful final years to make his living conditions more palatable, and that on the whole there was no great stir in Vienna when it became clear their most famous resident was terminally ill.
In fact, the extraordinary homage he was accorded in death was simply the final inexplicable act in a lifetime of paradox and contradiction.
