The scene of the entire first act was laid in an open court; the positions of Nos. 1 and 2, were exchanged; later the guard entered to a newly composed march; ~Leonore’s~ Air received a new introduction, and only the last movement, “O du, für den ich alles trug,” was retained. The succeeding scene and duet--according to Seyfried’s description “a charming duettino for soprano voices with concertante parts for violin and violoncello, C major, 6/8 time”--which was in the old book, Beethoven tore out of the score; the former (he said) was unnecessary, the latter a concert-piece; I was compelled to agree with him; the purpose in view was to save the opera as a whole. A little terzetto for ~Rocco~, ~Marcelline~ and ~Jacquino~ which followed (“a most melodious terzetto in E-flat” as Seyfried says) fared no better. There had been a want of action and the music did not warm the hearers. A new dialogue was desired to give more occasion for the first finale. My friend was again right in demanding a different ending. I made many plans; at length we came to an agreement: to bring together the return of the prisoners at the command of ~Pizarro~ and their lamentation. The second act offered a great difficulty at the very outset. Beethoven at first wanted to distinguish poor ~Florestan~ with an aria, but I offered the objection that it would not be possible to allow a man nearly dead of hunger to sing bravura. We composed one thing and another; at last, in my opinion, I hit the nail on the head. I wrote words which describe the last blazing up of life before its extinguishment: “Und spür’ ich nicht linde, sanft säuselnde Luft, Und ist nicht mein Grab mir erhellet? Ich seh’, wie ein Engel, in rosigem Duft, Sich tröstend zur Seite mir stellet. Ein Engel, Leonoren, der Gattin so gleich! Der führt mich zur Freiheit,--ins himmlische Reich!” What I am now relating will live forever in my memory. Beethoven came to me about seven o’clock in the evening. After we had discussed other things, he asked how matters stood with the aria? It was just finished, I handed it to him. He read, ran up and down the room, muttered, growled, as was his habit instead of singing--and tore open the pianoforte. My wife had often vainly begged him to play; to-day he placed the text in front of him and began to improvise marvellously--music which no magic could hold fast. Out of it he seemed to conjure the motive of the aria. The hours went by, but Beethoven improvised on. Supper, which he had purposed to eat with us, was served, but--he would not permit himself to be disturbed. It was late when he embraced me, and declining the meal, he hurried home. The next day the admirable composition was finished. Concerning this air, Röckel writes: