The last scene of Beethoven’s troublous life opens in October, 1826, when, already aged and broken, though but fifty-six years old, he was obliged to seek, in the house of his “pseudo-brother” Johann, at Krems, fifty miles from Vienna, a refuge for Carl, who had been ordered out of Vienna by the civil authorities after his attempt at suicide. Sir George Grove gives a picture of the oddly-assorted group of actors: “The pompous money-loving land-proprietor; his wife, a common frivolous woman of questionable character; the ne’er-do-well nephew, intensely selfish and ready to make game of his uncle or to make love to his aunt; and in the midst of them all the great composer--deaf, untidy, unpresentable, setting every household rule at defiance, by turns entirely absorbed and pertinaciously boisterous, exploding in rough jokes and hoarse laughter, or bursting into sudden fury at some absolute misconception.” Beethoven, whose health was already seriously undermined, was obliged to sit in a cold room at his work, his brother being unwilling to go to the expense of a fire, and to eat unwholesome, ill-cooked food, for which however board-money was rigorously exacted. By early December there was an open rupture between the two brothers, and the composer and Carl, resolved to leave the place, yet denied the closed carriage of the niggardly Johann, risked the fifty-mile journey, in winter weather, in a hired open wagon. It was Beethoven’s death blow. Reaching home after two days’ exposure, he took to his bed, with his digestive troubles much aggravated, and an inflammation of the lungs. A little later dropsy set in, and four operations had to be undergone. As the doctors drew out the water Beethoven said grimly: “Better from my belly than from my pen.” Early in the new year he rallied, and planned fresh compositions. He amused himself with the romances of Scott, but at last threw them down, exclaiming angrily: “The man writes for money.” Soon he began to fail again. On March 24th, rapidly sinking, he just found strength to whisper to the friends at his bedside: “Plaudite, amici, commèdia finita est.” After a desperate struggle of two days, his vigorous constitution at last succumbed, and he died on the evening of March 26th, 1827.