“I thank you for your kindness, Father,” he gently replied, “but you praise me too highly. I am not yet worthy of it, but I hope and shall strive to deserve it sometime. But now, what can I do to show my gratitude for your gracious words?”
“Repeat what you have just played, my son,” said the father. “Your playing has touched my old heart powerfully. Those were not earthly tones; they were the harmonies and melodies of heaven.”
“No, no; that was only a free Fantasie of my own,” said Ludwig. “To repeat it would be somewhat of a task, but I will gladly play something else for you, if you will wait a moment.”
The father nodded assent and retired to a dark corner, where he could abandon himself to his anticipated enjoyment without any danger of being disturbed. Beethoven ran his fingers over the keys several times, as if searching for a theme, until he found a soft old melody, which he played through in simple, noble style, and then varied with marvellous skill and ingenuity. As the ravishing tones powerfully and ever more powerfully rang out, the church gradually filled up. The monks slipped in in groups. The Father Head Cook left his kitchen and the Father Doorkeeper his door to listen to the young man’s playing, reports of which had quickly spread through the abbey. The Abbot and the Father Lector also came, in Wegeler’s company, went up into the organ-loft, and seated themselves just behind Beethoven, who, lost in inspiration, was not aware of their presence. He continued playing variations until the theme was completely exhausted, and then, weary and exhausted himself, bowed his head upon his breast.
A unanimous “Brava, brava,” resounded through the church. The Abbot stepped forward, tapped him gently on the shoulder, and said with emotion: “Those were indeed sounds from another world, and they have penetrated my very soul. Accept my thanks, my young friend. You are truly a master, and a great future lies before you if God preserve your life and health, which I doubt not He will do.”
The Lector also spoke words of praise to the young man. The Father Organist bowed low before him. The organ-blower emerged from his closet and with astonishment regarded the young man who had accomplished such prodigies and unprecedented feats in his art. “Truly,” said the homely old man, “if he played the organ here I would never get tired. My old arms would work the bellows from morning to night.”
Beethoven in the meantime accepted these praises somewhat coolly and indifferently, and contented himself by expressing his thanks with an awkward bow.
“He is always thus, your reverence,” said Wegeler, as he seated himself again with the Abbot and the Father Lector at the wine in the cool refectory—“a sound kernel in a rough shell; a jewel of the purest water, which needs only a little polish to glisten at its real value. He is not to blame for it so much as his unhappy domestic conditions. How can he have politeness and ease of manner when there is not even daily bread in the house? I beg you therefore to treat him with gracious indulgence.”
“It is entirely unnecessary to intercede for this young genius,” replied the Abbot. “His magnificent playing has impressed me so deeply that I can overlook his lack of courtesy, though really his deportment is a little awkward. One must bear with everything in a great genius,—and such he is, for, after what we have heard, there cannot be the slightest doubt of it. I should greatly like to talk with him a little while.”
“I should not be surprised if he had already slipped out of the church and were again roving about the wood,” said Wegeler smiling. “I know his ways. He does not crave praise like many other musicians. It is absolutely painful to him to be commended to his face. He prefers to escape from it and bury himself in solitude. He is always that way, and one must take him as one finds him. The rich treasures of his soul make thousandfold compensation for his external roughness.”
“Well, we shall have to acquiesce in his absence,” replied the Abbot; “but promise me, dear Wegeler, that you will soon bring this wonderful artist here again.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” answered Wegeler. “Ludwig can do his best in the company of cultivated and sympathetic persons only, and I hope I shall succeed in introducing him into a circle of dear friends in Bonn where he will surely find a second home. But now, your reverence, it is time for me to take my departure and hunt up my young runaway friend, so that we may get back to Bonn in good season.”
Once again the glasses were filled, and they were clinked for the last time with the wish for an early and happy “Wiedersehen,”[16]and Wegeler begged to be kept in affectionate remembrance. He then hastened in the direction of Bonn, and had been gone hardly a quarter of an hour when he found his friend Beethoven sitting upon a stump on the side of the road, lost in deep thought.
“Well, my fine fellow,” said Wegeler to him, “what induced you to run away from the abbey so secretly and without saying good-bye?”
Beethoven turned about with an abrupt motion of resentment and shook his thick, curly hair, which fell about his neck like the mane of a lion. “I could not stay any longer and indulge in empty chattering after the Genius of Art in the church had struggled with me and bidden me to soar. I had to get away from it and out into the open air, into the solitude, where, as I know by experience, I can most easily find my way back to the common places of life.”
“But the Abbot regretted that he could not speak with you again,” said Wegeler.
“Some other time,” replied Beethoven. “He is a kind, friendly man, whom I appreciate and esteem; but he must let me go my way, undisturbed, if I am to visit him again.”
“And he will do that, stubborn-headed one,” replied Wegeler, laughingly. “Only play for him a little from time to time and he will always be a benevolent patron and have all possible patience with your caprices. We do not always know how, when, or where such a man may be of service to us. A visit with him is always a genuine recreation and a comfort to the heart. We will soon revisit Heisterbach, will we not, Ludwig?”
Beethoven nodded assent. “But it is time now to go home. The sun is already low, and I have a presentiment that things are not as they should be at home. Let us hasten, Wegeler.”
They quickened their pace. Soon they reached the Rhine, crossed it, and went on to Bonn, which was already growing dim in the gathering twilight. When their ways separated they parted from one another, but Wegeler promised he would certainly visit Beethoven the next evening, and hoped that he would bring him some good and cheering news. With a last cordial shake of the hand they separated, and Beethoven flew rather than walked through the streets, that he might reach his dwelling in the narrow and gloomy Bonn Gasse as quickly as possible; for it was already late, and the house door might be closed with the coming of darkness.
Wegeler kept his word. With a beaming countenance he appeared at Beethoven’s house the next evening and exultantly said: “I have succeeded. Congratulate yourself, friend Ludwig! I shall introduce you this evening to a family with whom you will feel perfectly at home.”
“And what kind of a family might that be?” said Beethoven, distrustfully. “You know I am not adapted to all the world, and that all the world is not adapted to me.”
“But this family is in no way of the character which you so sweepingly apply to the world,” replied Wegeler. “You will find it a model of the noblest sociality and a place where art and science are most zealously cherished. It is the family of the widow, Frau Hofrathin von Breuning,[17]to which I have permission to introduce you.”
“Ah! the Frau Hofrathin von Breuning,” cried Ludwig, with a perceptibly brighter countenance. “Truly that is something different from what I mean by ‘all the world.’ I have heard of this family. They are lovely people.”
“The best in the world, Ludwig,” eagerly protested Wegeler. “So hasten. Get yourself in readiness. They are expecting us immediately.”
“I am already dressed,” replied Beethoven, haughtily. “I have no other coat than this threadbare one. If they won’t have me in this, they shall not have me at all.”
“Unruly, stubborn, cross-grained fellow that you are!” exclaimed Wegeler, with a laugh. “Will you never learn to master your capricious nature? Come along even in your threadbare coat. These dear people into whose circle I shall take you care only for your heart and disposition, not for your clothes. You are, like all geniuses, a most ridiculous fellow. But that does not signify. You already know them, and consequently you will learn to appreciate them. Frankly, you should not appear wilful and capricious, but behave like a polite youth, and occasionally perform something on the piano in your own style. They are very fond of music and have much of it at their home. The Elector’s chapelmaster Ries,[18]whom you know, and other members of the chapel, often enjoy pleasant intercourse in this hospitable home, and we certainly shall meet some of them there this evening.”
“Now, that is a splendid suggestion,” said Beethoven, with gleaming eyes. “Then I can appear as I am. Yes, they shall learn to know me! I have composed to-day a trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello. We will take it with us. If a violin and violoncello can be had I will play the piano, and they will open their eyes, these people, when they hear my composition.”
“Oho! you have plenty of confidence that you have made something particularly good and beautiful,” said Wegeler in gentle banter.
“Certainly I have,” replied Beethoven, with self-assurance. “I tell you I have created something entirely new, which will please every one of good musical taste and will be widely imitated.”
“But consider, Ludwig; you will be judged not by dilettanti, but by genuine connoisseurs,” said Wegeler, earnestly.
“All the better,” proudly replied Ludwig. “I never intend to compose for ignorance and stupidity.”
“Well, then, take your trio. We will make a trial of it,” said Wegeler. “Or, what is better, give it to me. I will say that it is a composition by one of my acquaintances. If it does not please, we need not mention your name; but if it pleases, as I wish and hope it may, then, at least, you may be sure they will not flatter or over-praise you.”
“That is all right,” answered Ludwig, as he handed the manuscript to his friend, who placed it in his pocket. “Now I am ready.”
“Then we will start, for they will be waiting for us at the Breunings’,” replied Wegeler.
Arm in arm they went through the already silent and dark streets until they came to a handsome house, before the door of which hung a lighted lantern. Wegeler was no stranger there. He conducted Ludwig up a broad, easy flight of steps, opened the door, and led his somewhat timid young friend into a spacious and brilliantly lighted apartment, in which a company of twelve persons was assembled. An elderly lady, whose face still revealed traces of beauty, and with an unusually noble and gracious expression of goodness and benevolence, advanced a few steps and received them with a kindly smile.
“Welcome, dear Wegeler,” she said in a soft, gentle voice which came straight from the heart; “I think I make no mistake in welcoming in your companion my future young friend, Ludwig van Beethoven.”
“You are right, gracious lady,” replied Wegeler. “This is my friend Ludwig, and this, Ludwig, is the Frau Hofrathin von Breuning.”
“Welcome, cordially welcome, dear Beethoven,” said the Frau Hofrathin, extending her hand with friendly and very motherly good wishes.
Beethoven was by nature a strong, proud character, who did not easily bow before any one, and least of all was inclined to waste much civility in social intercourse. The amiability of Frau von Breuning, however, made such a deep impression upon him that he took the hand offered him, bowed low, and kissed it.
In the meantime the others present came forward. The sons of Frau von Breuning—Stephen, Christopher, and Lenz—shook the young man’s hand cordially, and then the sister, Eleonora, welcomed him with a cordial inclination of the head and bright, friendly eyes. Some of the guests already knew Ludwig, particularly the chapelmaster Ries, and some members of the Elector’s chapel. He exchanged a few friendly words with them and was then presented to a handsome, distinguished looking man, the Count von Waldstein,[19]who, notwithstanding his high rank and standing, greeted him with genuine cordiality. In a short time Beethoven felt as much at home in this circle as if he had been in it for years, and Wegeler therefore quietly indulged the hope that his young protégé would bring no discredit upon his urgent recommendations of him. He was in no way disappointed in this hope. Beethoven appeared more cheerful, companionable, frank, and affable than ever before, and when the talk turned upon music he seated himself at the piano without being urged, much to Wegeler’s astonishment and delight, and played a long time with such a splendid technique and depth of feeling that all conversation at once stopped and every one paid the closest attention to his beautiful melodies.
“Brava, brava!” cried every one when the young artist finished his performance. Count Waldstein stepped up to him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “You have indeed done splendidly,” he cordially said. “I fancy that I also understand music a little, and therefore speak so positively.”
Chapelmaster Ries complimented Ludwig so enthusiastically that he felt extremely comfortable as well as happy. Wegeler thought it an opportune time to try the new trio, and took it from his pocket. “As we are engaged with music,” he said, “and as we have professional artists right at hand, I would beg you to play an entirely new composition, which by a happy chance has come into my possession.”
“What is it?” said chapelmaster Ries, “and who is the composer?”
“The composer wishes temporarily to remain unknown,” replied Wegeler, “but the work is a trio for piano, violin, and violoncello.”
“That can be arranged without any difficulty,” said Ries. “Our Beethoven will play the pianoforte, friend Muller the violoncello, and I will undertake the violin. The instruments are here, so let us get to work at once.”
In a few minutes the necessary arrangements were made and the trio began. The three accomplished artists easily played it at sight, and the audience paid close attention to the entirely original harmonies and melodies. The trio was played to its close smoothly and with precision, but instead of loud applause after the last tones there was a very painful silence. The good Wegeler turned pale with anxiety, but Beethoven sat as proud as Jupiter at the piano and seemed to have forgotten where or in whose company he was.
Chapelmaster Ries was the first to break the uncomfortable silence and, turning quickly to Wegeler, said: “This is truly a charming composition, full of originality, and developed with true genius. Who is the composer? I am really eager to know, for I never before have heard such music.”
“In fact, very strong but characteristic,” Count Waldstein added.
“I have never heard anything more beautiful,” said Christopher Breuning, enthusiastically and excitedly. “It must be an entirely distinctive art-work by Mozart, or perhaps something of Haydn’s.”
Wegeler, who had regained his natural color, smiled and shook his head. “Neither Mozart nor Haydn,” said he. “The composer is a new man, and is in our midst.”
“Ah! Count Waldstein,” said Frau von Breuning with a light, graceful bow. “Do not deny it, Count. You have prepared a most pleasant surprise for us.”
“On the contrary, dear lady, I should consider myself most fortunate if I could accept your compliment,” replied Count Waldstein, “but I must reluctantly decline it. Probably we have to thank our chapelmaster for the great surprise.”
“No, no,” said the chapelmaster, “I will not adorn myself with borrowed feathers however beautiful they may be. But really, if I could accomplish such a work as this trio, I should regard myself as a pretty good artist.”
“But who can the composer be if he is neither our dear Count nor the chapelmaster?” said Frau von Breuning. “Surely you are just teasing us a little, dear Wegeler. Anyway, the composer of the trio is known by name.”
“Yes, he has a name,” said Wegeler, smiling, “but his name is not yet famous, though I have no doubt it will become so one day. The composer’s name is—Ludwig van Beethoven, and he has the honor to sit before your ladyship, at the piano.”
If a bomb had fallen into the company it could not have caused greater astonishment than Wegeler’s simple announcement. All present evidently were surprised in the highest degree. Beethoven alone sat entirely unmoved and at ease, and looked about him smilingly and unembarrassed.
“What is there to be astonished at?” he said. “I composed the entire trio to-day.”
It is hard to describe the effect these few words produced. All crowded around Beethoven, and each had his word of admiration for him. He was quietly pleased when they shook his hand and overwhelmed him with compliments; but at last he became uneasy, and sprang up from his seat.
“This is too much,” he said. “I do not deserve it. Later, years hence, perhaps,—but now? no! There are still those who can construct better things than I.”
“But there are very few of them,” said Count Waldstein, earnestly. “Anyway, I feel impelled to exercise all my influence for the advancement of a talent such as yours, dear Beethoven. I beg you to consider me as your fatherly friend and patron.”
Beethoven bowed, and stammered a few words of thanks. A moment later he had forgotten the assurances of the Count and was chatting in the most intimate manner with the sons of Frau von Breuning, who welcomed this talented new acquaintance with genuine enthusiasm. The mother also graciously conversed with the young man, and at last asked him if he would at some future time give piano lessons to her daughter Eleonora, which Beethoven naturally was glad to promise.
As it was getting rather late, the company left one after another. Beethoven withdrew with Wegeler, and warmly thanked his friend on the street for introducing him into this pleasant family circle.
“I did it with all my heart,” said Wegeler, “and with the hope that it will be for the pleasure and advantage of both parties.”
All of Wegeler’s hopes were realized. Beethoven soon found himself at home among his new friends. This was not strange, for the Hofrathin entertained a true motherly affection for him, and her children regarded him as a brother. Beethoven himself, at a later period, often declared that his happiest years were spent in the Breuning home.
Thus weeks and months passed. Beethoven’s outward circumstances gradually improved, for the Hofrathin Breuning was assiduous in procuring pupils for him among her acquaintances, which paid well at that time. Ludwig could now furnish a part of the support for his brave mother, so that matters gradually became more pleasant in the household life. Everything contributed to keep him in good humor, so that he commended himself more and more to the affection and good-will of his new friends.
Ludwig had heard nothing for a long time from Count Waldstein about the patronage he had promised. In reality he had hardly given it a thought. But the Hofrathin Breuning many a time quietly wondered that the Count should have forgotten his protégé so quickly and completely, “especially when there is so much he might do for his advantage,” she said to herself. “He is a favorite with the Elector, and hardly needs do more than drop a word occasionally to interest him in our Beethoven. If he would do so but once, everything else would take care of itself, and I should no longer have any anxiety about the young man’s future.”
But none of the Hofrathin’s wishes or hopes seemed likely to be realized. Count Waldstein appeared now and then in the Hofrathin’s social circle, but seldom remained there long, and seemed to concern himself little about Beethoven, though at times he gave him a friendly word. One evening, however, he asked for the trio which Beethoven composed, and requested permission to keep it a few days. The permission naturally was granted promptly and willingly, although Beethoven did not appear to attach the slightest importance to the Count’s request. Frau von Breuning, however, smiled to herself in silent satisfaction. She anticipated and conjectured more than Ludwig, and this simple, unimportant act aroused the hope that something would come of it, and that his interests would be promoted.
Nothing in the least occurred in the next few days to confirm these hopes, and Frau von Breuning, though she still clung to her hope, had to admit to herself there was little foundation for it, when one evening Count Waldstein appeared entirely unexpectedly in the circle of friends who were entertaining themselves with music. Besides the Breuning family, Beethoven, Wegeler, and chapelmaster Ries were present. All extended a respectful and friendly greeting to the Count. He smiled contentedly, roguishly looked at Beethoven, and pressed his right hand upon his left breast-pocket, in which something light rustled.
“Young man,” he said good-humoredly, “what do you imagine I am carrying here in my coat-pocket? Guess!”
“How can I guess, Count?” replied Ludwig. “It must be something of considerable importance, since Your Grace is so mysterious about it.”
“Why, yes, important enough for certain people, though to me simply pleasant and agreeable. But I already perceive you are not gifted with the faculty of guessing, dear Ludwig, so I must help you a little. This mysterious thing in my pocket is a document from the electoral court. I got sight of the address there, and incidentally, as I intended to visit my worthy friend here, I took the document with the intention of handing it to the person addressed. He is a certain Ludwig van Beethoven, and I was sure I should find him here.”
“A document from the electoral court to me! Impossible!” exclaimed Beethoven, at first astonished and then delighted, while the kindly face of Frau von Breuning was lit up with joy.
“Yes, yes, to you, my young friend,” said the Count, as he removed the document from his pocket. “Here, take it. Open it, and see what the Elector has done for you.”
Beethoven slowly took the large envelope, looked at the address and seal, and shook his head. “The Count doubtless is only making sport of me,” he said. “If I break the seal I shall only be heartily laughed at.”
“Oh, you most distrustful of all distrustful men and musicians!” the Count replied. “How can you entertain such a foolish supposition? Open it! Open it! Quick!”
“I will not,” replied Beethoven, firmly, as he placed the envelope on the table.
“You foolish fellow, you can do as you please, of course,” said the Count, a little impatiently. “This much I know, however, that our most gracious lord, the Elector, has not done this for a fool, but for his court organist, and this highest of all honors he has bestowed upon you in this document.”[20]
“Impossible!” exclaimed Beethoven.
“I thought so,” joyfully said the Hofrathin.
“Fine! splendid!” cried all the others.
Beethoven was so overcome with astonishment that he seemed as rigid as a statue, but at a sign from the Count, chapelmaster Ries opened the envelope, showed the signature of the Elector, and the appointment of Ludwig van Beethoven as court organist, carefully drawn up in due form.
“Hearty congratulations, Ludwig,” said he, handing the document to him. “I call this good fortune, even if it does come to the one most deserving of it.”
All present surrounded Beethoven and congratulated him. He received their good wishes with a radiant smile and beaming eyes. Then he suddenly rushed to Count Waldstein, pressed his lips to his hand, and exclaimed to him from the fulness of his heart, “Thanks! thanks! my benefactor!” Thereupon he seized his hat, crying joyously, “To my mother, to my good mother! Good-night to all!”—and was out of the house as quick as a flash.
No one wondered at his somewhat strange behavior. All knew him and his ways and manners, and all were his friends, which signified for him all that was sincerely true and good.
Good fortune often arouses jealousies and enmities, for while there are many good men in the world, there are also many base and evil-minded ones. Beethoven was destined to make this discovery at once. His appointment as court organist was received by most of the members of the electoral chapel with expressions of great discontent, and some of them did not conceal their resentment that such a green young student should have been selected as their colleague. Of course it never occurred to these narrow-minded persons that there was more creative skill in this “green student” than in the whitening heads of all these old musical pedants.
Beethoven was one who troubled himself very little about such displays of petty hatred and jealousy. As he was exempt from the pressing anxieties of everyday life by his position and teaching, and had found in Count Waldstein a truly good and fatherly patron, he carried his head high, and looked down with proud self-assurance upon his enemies. Not that he had grown supercilious,—nothing was farther from him than that,—but he could clearly discriminate between himself and these malicious ones. He knew that he surpassed them as far as the heavens are above the earth.
It happened one day that Count Waldstein called upon his young protégé and found him deeply absorbed in a book.
“How is this, Ludwig?” said the Count. “I expected to find you busy at the piano, or with the violin, and now I catch you reading an insipid novel! Shame on you, my young friend! In your difficult art there is but one road to success—‘forward, always forward.’ You should not waste time on trifles if you expect to accomplish great and important things.”
At the first words of his patron Beethoven had arisen, and greeted him in the most cordial manner. His manner did not change, however, when the Count reproached him; on the contrary, he handed him the book he was reading, and smilingly said: “Excuse me, this is not a trifle, Count; it is ‘Plutarch’s Lives,’ but unfortunately only a good translation, for I cannot read it in the original.”
The Count’s frown began to disappear. “Of course I cannot disapprove of good reading. But I see you have more books. Are they all Plutarch?”
“No, worthy sir,” replied Beethoven, excitedly, as he took his books and quickly opened them one after another. “This is Homer’s Odyssey, these are Plato’s writings, this the Odes of Horace, and these a few volumes of Shakespeare—all classical literature.”[21]
“Yes, yes, I see; but of what use are they to you?” said the Count, wonderingly. “Do you learn anything about music in them?”
“Certainly not, Herr Count,” replied Beethoven, “but I am acquiring the general information which all composers and musicians should have. You perhaps are not aware that in consequence of my parents’ poverty I could not attend a good school. The natural result was that I learned very little, and now, if I am not to be an ignoramus, I must make up by my own exertions what I lost in childhood.”
“Ah, that is really quite another thing,” said the Count, approvingly, “and instead of censuring you, I ought to have praised you for your zeal and industry. In reality I have called to-day neither to blame nor to praise you, but for an entirely different purpose.”
“Tell me what it is, Herr Count. I am entirely at your pleasure,” said Beethoven, eagerly. “You will make me very happy by assigning me to any position where I can be of the slightest service to you.”
“Good, good, dear Ludwig! I knew as much when I applied to you,” said the Count. “And now to the point. A Ritter ballet is to be given at the forthcoming carnival for the pleasure of His Highness, the Elector. Those who are to participate in it are already engaged, and the sketch and text are prepared and contained in this roll. The music alone is lacking. Will you do me the favor to compose it?”
“I shall be a thousand times delighted,” said Beethoven. He took the roll as if it had been a precious treasure. “I will take the utmost pains to meet your expectations, so that I may not only show my gratitude to you, my most esteemed patron, but also to my most gracious lord and Prince. At what time must the music be ready, Herr Count?”
“You can have at least four weeks,” replied the Count. “Therefore do not be in too much haste. When you are ready let me know. Adieu, and good luck, my young friend.”
Beethoven applied himself with enthusiastic zeal to the composition of the different parts which were necessary for the performance of the ballet, and was able to give the work to Count Waldstein before the expiration of the allotted four weeks. The Count, himself a clever musician, or at least a well-schooled amateur, glanced over the score with experienced eyes, nodded several times in a satisfied way, and smiled to himself.
“Thanks, my friend,” he said at last. “I hope the music will please. You are to conduct. I have this further suggestion to make. I know the prejudices of many of your colleagues against you. If they know that you composed the ballet music, then the envious ones will seize the opportunity to play badly, and thereby intentionally spoil the pretty music. Keep it secret until after the first performance that you are the composer. I will privately have the report circulated that I was the artist who wrote the music. When it comes to the knowledge of the gentlemen of the chapel for whom they are taking so much pains, they certainly will do their utmost to please. So, secrecy and silence. I will make the necessary explanation to the Elector, and after the first, and as I hope successful, performance of the ballet, I will let all the world know who the real composer is. Are you satisfied with this arrangement?”
“I am extremely grateful to you for it, Herr Count,” replied Beethoven. “You have rightly remarked that many of my associates are maliciously disposed toward me, and caution therefore will do no harm. On my part, I accept all your arrangements with pleasure.”
“Then I am convinced we may hope for the best results,” replied the Count.
Everything turned out as Count Waldstein had expected. The report that he had composed the music of a Ritter ballet in honor of the Elector was circulated all over the city, and particularly among the artists and musicians. Hence when the first rehearsal of the ballet took place the chapel orchestra played excellently and correctly. After the rehearsal the members were of the unanimous opinion that the music was thoroughly graceful, charming, and masterly. All were loud in their praises, and many a one cast a malicious side glance at Beethoven, as much as to say, “Now you see what certain people can learn from a mere amateur.”
Rehearsals were repeated several times, and then followed the performance of the ballet in the presence of the Elector and all his court. Everything passed off well, and the music in particular received enthusiastic applause. Count Waldstein smilingly accepted the compliments which were tendered him on all sides, but no one concerned himself about Beethoven. He was not in the least troubled on that score, but smiled to himself at the fawning of his associates, who bowed low to the Count and extolled to heaven the music of the ballet. “They will be astonished sometime, when they hear that the music is mine,” he said to himself, rubbing his hands.
When it was announced a few days afterwards that Beethoven was the composer of the much-praised ballet, his associates were not only astonished, but many of them openly acknowledged they had been deceived in taking him for a fool. Of course this was said only behind his back, but he heard of it, and discovered that one of the electoral singers, named Heller, had been particularly busy in attacking him.
Some days later Beethoven went, either accidentally or purposely, to a popular wine-shop where there were a number of his chapel associates, among them the aforesaid singer, Heller. After a hasty greeting Beethoven seated himself at a side table and overheard them making sport of him. Heller, in particular, gave the young composer many palpable side-thrusts, and boasted that there were plenty of musicians who could compose better things than a certain conceited young person ever dreamed of.
Beethoven listened calmly for a little while without taking personal notice of the abuse or the boasting. Suddenly, however, he arose, went to the table where his colleagues were sitting, and looked the singer Heller sharply in the eye. “Tell me,” he said quietly but firmly, “do you not perform ‘The Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah’ in church in the morning?”
“Certainly,” replied Heller. “Why do you ask?”
“Because, perhaps I can make a wager with you,” said Beethoven. “I will play the accompaniment on the piano, and will bet that I will break your time, or, as they say, ‘put you out.’”
“I take the bet. What shall it be?” cried Heller with malicious glee; for he believed himself so sure of winning that he already regarded his opponent as a loser.
“A keg of wine, which we can empty together after church here in the wine-shop,” replied Beethoven.
“It is agreed. I take the bet,” said Heller.
“It’s agreed,” said all the other musicians, with a malicious look at Beethoven; for not one of them believed that he could “put out” the most correct singer of them all. But Beethoven finished his glass of wine, smiling to himself.
“The Lamentations of the Prophet Jeremiah” are little sentences of four or six lines each, and in performance are chanted like the old chorals in a definite rhythm. The tune consists of four successive tones, several words and sometimes whole sentences being sung upon the third, and coming to a rest which the accompanist fills in with a free harmonic passage. Thereupon the singer returns to the ground tone,—not a difficult accomplishment for a clever musician, if the accompanist does not “put him out.”
On the following morning, confident of winning, Heller began his song. Beethoven accompanied him at first in the old and customary manner. All at once, however, he modulated so freely and independently, while he firmly held the first tone in the treble, that Heller could not find his way back to it, and, in fact, was completely “put out” by the “conceited young person.”
“He played incorrectly,” said Heller, angrily.
“On the contrary, he played correctly and in a masterly way,” retorted Ries, “but all the same in a way that is too much for you. Everything was done fairly and honestly, as all here will concede. So keep quiet. You have lost your bet.”
“Be it so, then. I will pay for the miserable keg of wine,” roared Heller, “but I will also make complaint to our most gracious Elector about an accompaniment out of which the devil himself could not find his way.”
“Complain all you will; you will make nothing by it,” said Lucchesi.[22]“As chapelmaster Ries has already declared, we not only must, but will, testify that everything was done fairly.”
“That does not signify,” replied Heller, still in bad humor. “I will yet disgrace him. Such an accompaniment as his is not proper in church at least.” Seizing his hat, he ran out, and disappeared before any one could stop him.
Beethoven, entirely unconcerned, let him go. Neither he nor the others believed that Heller was in earnest with his threats or that he would really complain to the Elector against his enemy. But when the entire party after the service returned to the wine-shop, where they expected to find Heller, there was no trace of him.
“Well, that is of no consequence,” said Beethoven, good-humoredly. “We will drink the keg of wine regardless of him. I will pay for it out of my own pocket.”
Mine host was ordered to furnish some excellent wine, the glasses clinked, and they gave themselves up to unrestrained conviviality. Beethoven, delighted over the defeat of his obstinate and bitter enemy, overflowed with hilarity, when suddenly a lackey in the electoral livery appeared in their midst and loudly asked whether the court organist, Ludwig van Beethoven, was present.
Deep silence followed the question, and consternation was manifest on every countenance. Had Heller in his wrath really carried out his threat after all? Beethoven, who was the one most closely concerned, understood at once and sprang up. “Here I am,” he said. “What does His Highness, the Elector, wish of me?”
“That you come at once, just as you are, to the castle,” was the reply. “The Elector wishes to speak with you.”
“I will obey at once,” replied Beethoven, as he took his hat. “Do not be disturbed, friends. Perhaps I shall return soon.”
Although he had succeeded tolerably well in concealing his apprehensions while with his companions, he was not altogether easy in his mind on his way to the castle. To be sure, he knew from Count Waldstein’s description of the Elector that he was a very kind and merciful man, but notwithstanding this he neither knew nor could imagine how he might criticise that pleasant little artistic performance in the church. Therefore he prepared himself to receive an appropriately long and sound rebuke. He determined to accept it, humbly and patiently, and at last with tolerable composure entered the apartment of the Elector.
That high personage was sitting with his back to Beethoven, writing at his desk. He did not turn around when Beethoven entered, and apparently did not hear the servant’s announcement. Five minutes, which seemed an eternity to Beethoven, passed in utter silence. At last the Elector suddenly threw down his pen and quickly turned round. “Ah! there you are, dear Beethoven,” he said in a by no means unfriendly manner. “Come a little nearer.”
Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector, the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance
Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector, the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance
Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector and bowed low, the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance, which the delinquent stood bravely.
“My dear Beethoven,” began the Elector, “I have sent for you that I may thank you for the beautiful music which you composed for our Count Waldstein’s Ritter ballet. Accept for your services your appointment as my chamber musician, and this slight compensation of one hundred ducats.” With these words he took a little roll of gold pieces and a signed document from his desk and gave them to Beethoven, whose beaming countenance could not conceal his joyous surprise.
“Gracious master, this is too much, really too much,” he exclaimed.
“Take them, take them,” insisted the Elector. “I am well satisfied with you. Count Waldstein has told me many nice things about you, and I myself have noticed in the court concerts that God has bestowed upon you a beautiful and important talent. It is my duty to promote this,—and besides, do you suppose that I will allow you to give me your compositions? So take this.”
With trembling hands Beethoven took the roll and the document, and, in his extreme confusion, stammered out a few disconnected words of gratitude. The Elector interrupted him.
“Very good,” said he. “But”—and here his face assumed a stern expression—“now that we have finished up this piece of business, a word about a more serious matter. Heller has been to me, and complained of you. Before I make my decision I would like to hear from you what you have really been doing to Heller.”
The flush of joy in Beethoven’s face disappeared, and gave place to the pallor of fear. He courageously composed himself, however, and frankly told, without reserve and with exact truth, the circumstances of the hostile encounter with Heller.
“I understand, and find that you are not as guilty as I feared,” said the Elector, resuming a kindly tone. “But, notwithstanding this, are you not aware that you have made a bad mistake?”