From the letter from his “immortal beloved” kept by Beethoven to the veiled figures in the poetry of Dante, Petrarch, and modern poets, the story of hidden loves that shine in secret, protected by silence, transformed into symbols, and consigned to the eternity of art precisely because of the mystery that surrounds them.
The enigma of the “immortal beloved,” revealed in a secret letter
There are loves that shine in the sun for all to see. Others, however, are best kept secret, carefully guarded and protected. This is what Ludwig van Beethoven did with the purest and most important love story of his life. We only learn about this relationship after his death, when an autographed letter is found among his papers, a letter that Beethoven may never have sent, or perhaps sent and had returned, but which he certainly never destroyed, keeping it with him at all times because it was something precious. It was written at three different times over two days, between the “morning of July 6,” the “afternoon of Monday, July 6,” and the morning of the following day.
From the mystery of Beethoven to the veiled beloved of poetry
It is for a woman, of course, the only one to whom Beethoven addresses as “you” in writing in a letter, and not only that, he calls her “my angel,” “my immortal beloved,” “my faithful, my only treasure, my everything, as I am to you.” He loves her, and one senses that the feeling is reciprocated, but her name is not mentioned. This secrecy was necessary if he wanted to keep a “dangerous” relationship safe from gossip, or worse. But the mystery of the immortal beloved, which only the meticulous research of musicologist Maynard Solomon managed to solve by connecting the few clues, brings to mind other “unnamed” beloveds who appear, sublime and allegorical, like flowers in the flowerbeds of our literature.
Take Dante, for example: yes, she is Beatrice, but in Vita Nova her name does not always appear. Sometimes she is called ‘the glorious woman of the mind’, sometimes ‘the most gracious’, or more simply ‘my lady’. Petrarch does the same with Laura, and in the Canzoniere her name is transformed, sometimes becoming “lauro,” the laurel that is the very symbol of poetic glory; sometimes “l’aura,” the light breeze; and sometimes “l’auro,” that is, gold: “The gentle breeze in the sun unfurls and vibrates / the gold that Love spins and weaves with his hands” (CXCVIII).
Veiled love, from courtly poetry to Beethoven
This technique of concealing the identity of the real character behind symbolic names is typical of courtly poetry of troubadour origin. We are in Occitania between the 10th and 11th centuries, and the songs often describe impossible love, which nevertheless allows the lover to be ennobled, transforming him into a poet. However, there are also examples in more modern times: Cesare Pavese, in his last collection of poems, never mentions Constance Dowling, the American actress who came to Rome to try her luck in Italian cinema. The two had a brief romance, too brief, then she left, and he ended up in a room at the Hotel Roma in Turin, with too many sleeping pill packets scattered on the bedside table. In Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi (Death will come and it will have your eyes), the eyes are those of Connie, left unsaid.
Michele Mari does the same in Cento poesie d’amore a Ladyhawke (One Hundred Love Poems to Ladyhawke), a contemporary songbook full of quotations, but also ironic and moving, about the impossible and tormented love for the woman he met in class III A at school: “Death will come and it will have my eyes / but inside / it will find yours.” Ladyhawke is the name that conceals the identity of the beloved, and refers to the cult film, with the replicant Rutger Hauer, a night wolf knight, and the daytime hawk Michelle Pfeiffer. To return to the beginning, here is the mystery revealed: the woman who transformed Beethoven into a passionate lover was Antonie von Birkenstock, married to the merchant Franz Brentano. He dedicated the Diabelli Variations to her.
