(Translated from La Menestrel for Watson’s Art Journal)

BEETHOVEN’S WILL.
To my brothers Charles and *** Beethoven:

O YOU who believe me rancorous, intractable, or misanthropic, and who have represented me as such, you do
me injustice. You are not aware of the secret causes which color my existence thus. From my childhood I was influenced
by sentiments the most benevolent, and felt the value of good works; but only fancy, for six years I have suffered from a
dreadful malady, aggravated through the ignorance of my doctors, lured on from year to year by the hope of
amelioration, but now reduced to the apprehension of having my disease augmented, and my recovery delayed, if not
rendered impossible. Fancy that, born with an ardent and impetuous temperament, susceptible of enjoying all the refined
pleasures of society, I have been obliged to fly the happiness and to lead a life of solitude. Sometimes I wish to forget my
infirmity, but I am soon punished by the lamentable proof of its existence. And how can I say to the people: “Speak up!
Scream! I am deaf?” How disclose the weakness of a sense which should be more perfect in me than any other—a sense
which I possessed in a state of perfection met with but among a few men of my art? No! I cannot do it!
Forgive me, then, if you see me step aside and bury myself in seclusion when I would willingly enter into
companionship with you. I suffer doubly from my ailment, for I see that people do not comprehend me really. There is
for me no more relaxation in the society of men, in their cordial conversations in the midst of their confidences; living
alone, I am reduced under an imperious necessity to the condition of an exile as it were. When I approach society I am
seized with dread. I am in momentary apprehension that people will discover my condition. During the past few months
which I spent in the country, my doctor recommended me to spare my hearing as much as possible. His advice
coincided with my convictions at the moment. Nevertheless, in spite of the motives which induced me to shun society,
attracting me there, with what despair I was seized when some one at my side heard a flute in the distance when I heard
nothing, or heard a Pater sung and I heard nothing, I was in such utter despair that it is a wonder I had not attempted my
life. Art only restrained me. It appeared impossible that I should leave the world before I had produced that which I felt
it my duty to produce. It is in this manner that I continue my wretched existence, with an organization so nervous that
the slightest thing causes me to fall from the happiest to the most painful condition.
Patience is the name of the guide that I should take, and that I am desirous of taking. I shall persevere to the
point where the implacable Fates shall snap the thread of my life. Perhaps it shall prove best for me—perhaps not; no
matter, I am resigned. To become a philosopher at the age of twenty-eight is no easy matter, and more difficult for an
artist than any other. Divinity, thou seest from on high into the depths of my heart, and knowest and feelest that I
breathe but the love of men and the desire of good. O my fellow-mortals, when you read this, think that you have done
me injustice, that the unhappy may take courage on finding one of their number who, notwithstanding the obstacles
nature had thrown in his way, had done all in his power to gain a name among distinguished men and artists.
You, my brothers Charles and ***, as soon as I am no more, beg Dr. Schmidt, if he still lives, to explain my
malady, and annex the description to the writing I trace, in order that the world may reconcile itself to me, if such can
be. Let you both be the heirs to my little fortune, if, indeed, I can call it by that name. Divide it fairly, love each other,
and be equally benefited. It is long since I have forgiven the injury you have done me. I thank my brother Charles
warmly for the attachment he has evinced towards me of late days. I wish you a life less unhappy than mine. Teach your
children virtue; it is that alone which gives happiness, not wealth. I speak from experience. It has sustained me in my
misfortunes. It is to it, as well as to my art, that I owe the circumstance of not ending my days by suicide. Live happy and
lovingly. I thank all my friends, and especially Prince Lichnowski and Dr. Schmidt. I wish the instruments of the Prince
to be kept by one of you, and that there be no misunderstanding between you on this head. If, however, they
incommode you in any way, sell them. I shall be glad if I can serve you even in the grave. Let my hour come. I shall
embrace death with joy; but if it come before all my artistic faculties are developed, it will have come too soon; I desire
that it come a little later even. In the meantime, will it not be a source of happiness to be released from this interminable
suffering? Let it come when it may, I await it with courage.
Farewell. Do not forget me altogether after I am gone. I deserve a place in your memory, for I have devoted all
my life to make you happy. Be so.
Heiligenstadt, 8th October, 1802
Louis von Beethoven, M.P.

(Upon the envelope.) Heiligenstadt, 10th October, 1802—I bid you a sad adieu. The sweet dream I had cherished of my
recovery, at least partially, has fled altogether. Hope has fallen from me, as falls the withered leaf. So have I entered the
world; thus I leave it. Even the courage which animated the happy time has disappeared. O Providence, for one single
day of joy! For a long time the interior echo of true happiness has been a stranger to me. Can I ever again commune
with thee in the Temple of Nature? Never!—Oh! no. That would be too cruel.
To my brothers Charles and ***, to read and act upon after my death.