Beethoven’s deafness went on steadily increasing. That is a pathetic picture his friend Schindler gives of him, improvising with all the enthusiasm of his inner inspiration on the violin or the viola, which, because of his inability to tune them, gave out the most distressing, discordant sounds. On the piano it was but little better; he had to guide himself largely by sight, and his touch became harsh and heavy. The effect of this malady on his character, already mentioned in Chapter VII, and recognized by himself in his “Will,”[47] grew as time went on more profound. He became morbidly suspicious, withdrew himself entirely from casual social intercourse, and distrusted even his best friends. Friendly consultations in his behalf he interpreted as collusions against him, and resented with all the violent anger of his intense, willful, and frank nature. When Lichnowsky, Schuppanzigh, and Schindler met at his room, as if by chance, to discuss a concert they were planning for the presentation of the Missa Solemnis and the Ninth Symphony, his suspicions were so aroused that he wrote the three faithful disciples as follows: To Lichnowsky: “Insincerity I despise; visit me no more; my concert is not to take place. “Beethoven.” To Schuppanzigh: “Come no more to see me. I give no concert. “Beethoven.” To Schindler: “Do not come to me till I summon you. No concert. “Beethoven.” The dogmatic, domineering habit of mind here illustrated, the obverse side of Beethoven’s strong will and high self-reliance, doubtless did much to intensify the loneliness and the difficulties of his old age. Yet even here there is something noble, something that commands as much admiration as pity, about this wounded hero, this lion at bay.