Ludwig van Beethoven
1810
Nobody knows who Elise was. The manuscript, discovered forty years after Beethoven's death in a pile of papers owned by a woman named Therese Malfatti, was so badly handwritten that the dedicatee's name could read 'Elise' or 'Therese' depending on how optimistic you are about Beethoven's penmanship. Therese Malfatti was a woman Beethoven proposed to in 1810 — the same year the piece was composed. She turned him down. This was, to put it gently, a pattern.
The manuscript was never published during Beethoven's lifetime. He apparently considered it a trifle — a bagatelle, literally a small thing, the musical equivalent of a napkin sketch. Ludwig Nohl published it in 1867, and within decades it had become the single most recognized piano piece on earth. Every beginner pianist learns it. Every ice cream truck in the Western hemisphere plays it. Beethoven's napkin sketch became wallpaper for modern civilization.
What kills me is that the piece is genuinely beautiful if you can hear it fresh — which is almost impossible now. Strip away the familiarity and the first theme is haunting: that descending half-step figure, E to D-sharp and back, is the musical equivalent of someone calling your name and then pretending they didn't. It's longing compressed into two notes. The middle section erupts into something more forceful, almost angry, before retreating back to that opening whisper. The whole piece is a conversation between desire and resignation, and it lasts about three minutes, which is approximately how long Beethoven's romantic relationships lasted before the other person came to their senses.
Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, thirty-two piano sonatas, one opera, sixteen string quartets, and five piano concertos. He is remembered by the general public primarily for a piece he didn't bother to publish, dedicated to a woman who didn't want him, with a title that might be wrong. He would be furious. He was always furious. That was sort of his thing.