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In the 1970s, during a stay in Vienna for concerts, I made the acquaintance of Miraben Madeleine-Slade, the daughter of an admiral of the British Navy who had spent long years in India helping Gandhi. The luminous personality of this elderly “grand dame” had greatly impressed me. The synthesis of inner peace and a very youthful enthusiasm apparent in her demeanor was quite extraordinary. At the time she was writing a book on Beethoven, which was why she was living in Vienna, where she was attending most of the concerts. I remember that once Miraben became quite ill. It was autumn, and the weather was quite humid. Miraben had gone to the woods near Vienna, Wienerwald, several days in succession, to experience what Beethoven probably did while he was in the process of creation: taking long walks and lying down on the grass when he felt tired. Miraben had done the same and had naturally caught a cold. I was surprised by her reaction as she seemed delighted by this result. When I enquired about her health, she told me triumphantly, “This illness is the very proof that Beethoven did not have one of these ‘shameful’ diseases. All the symptoms he had were the result of getting sick from lying on humid soil. I am experiencing exactly the same thing.” She might have been right or totally wrong, but her determination was admirable.
I last saw Miraben some years later at Richard Drasche’s chateau in the outskirts of Vienna, where she was temporarily residing in a guest house.
I thought about her when I read the reference to Mira in the Harper’s post about Romain Rolland, where by chance a recording of my performance of the Andante of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony is played (as transcribed by Liszt). “What a coincidence,” I thought, and I wondered what happened to the Beethoven biography Miraben was writing.
More from Scott Horton:
Conversation — March 30, 2016, 3:44 pm
Joseph Hickman discusses his new book, The Burn Pits, which tells the story of thousands of U.S. soldiers who, after returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, have developed rare cancers and respiratory diseases.
Freddie Gray’s relatives arrived for the trial in the afternoon, after the prep-school kids had left. By their dress, they seemed to have just gotten off work in the medical and clerical fields. The family did not appear at ease in the courtroom. They winced and dropped their heads as William Porter and his fellow officer Zachary Novak testified to opening the doors of their police van last April and finding Freddie paralyzed, unresponsive, with mucus pooling at his mouth and nose. Four women and one man mournfully listened as the officers described needing to get gloves before they could touch him.
The first of six Baltimore police officers to be brought before the court for their treatment of Freddie Gray, a black twenty-five-year-old whose death in their custody was the immediate cause of the city’s uprising last spring, William Porter is young, black, and on trial. Here in this courtroom, in this city, in this nation, race and the future seem so intertwined as to be the same thing.
Percentage of British citizens who say that Northern Ireland should remain part of the United Kingdom:
In the United Kingdom, a penis-shaped Kentish strawberry was not made by snails.
The Playboy mansion in California was bought by the heir to the Twinkie fortune, and a New Mexico man set fire to his apartment to protest his neighbors’ loud lovemaking.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”