The Project Gutenberg eBook ofLudwig Van BeethovenThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Ludwig Van BeethovenAuthor: Franz HoffmannTranslator: George P. UptonRelease date: July 23, 2020 [eBook #62742]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by D A Alexander, Stephen Hutcheson, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Ludwig Van BeethovenAuthor: Franz HoffmannTranslator: George P. UptonRelease date: July 23, 2020 [eBook #62742]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by D A Alexander, Stephen Hutcheson, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive)
Title: Ludwig Van Beethoven
Author: Franz HoffmannTranslator: George P. Upton
Author: Franz Hoffmann
Translator: George P. Upton
Release date: July 23, 2020 [eBook #62742]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by D A Alexander, Stephen Hutcheson, and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net(This file was produced from images generously madeavailable by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN ***
When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid his face in his mother’s dress(Page 17)
When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid his face in his mother’s dress(Page 17)
Life Stories for Young PeopleLUDWIG VANBEETHOVENTranslated from the German ofFranz HoffmannBYGEORGE P. UPTONTranslator of “Memories,” etc.THIRD PRINTINGA. C. McCLURG & CO.CHICAGOA. C. McCLURG & CO.1910
Life Stories for Young People
Translated from the German ofFranz Hoffmann
BYGEORGE P. UPTONTranslator of “Memories,” etc.
THIRD PRINTING
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
CHICAGOA. C. McCLURG & CO.1910
CopyrightA. C. McClurg & Co.1904Published October 1, 1904
THE UNIVERSITY PRESSCAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
The life-story of Beethoven, contained in these pages, is arésuméof the events of his childhood and youth, those of his maturer years being merely indicated in order to give symmetry to the narrative. It covers just that period of his life in which young readers are likely to be interested. Those who have the leisure and inclination to study the details of his entire career will find them in the biographies of Schindler, Ries, Marx, Thayer, and others, but it is questionable whether any of these will bring the reader as closely to the actual man and musician as this little story. And this is so not only because it is a story, but because it is a story true to life, with actual, not imaginary, personages, set in a social, domestic, and musical environment which is accurately reproduced, and dealing with historical events which are correctly stated. In a strict sense, therefore, it is not fiction, far less is it rhapsody; and to this extent it is valuable not alone for facts charmingly set forth, but for effects which are realistic and which seem to bring the actual Beethoven before the reader. It is the story of a sad struggle against obstacles which sometimes appeared almost insuperable; but its lesson for youth is the reward of world-wide fame which followed the exercise of industry, courage, honesty, self-respect, and self-devotion to his calling. The translator has endeavored to reproduce the story in an English setting without sacrificing its charming German characteristics.
G. P. U.
Chicago, September 1, 1904.
December days are not usually considered the most agreeable or most comfortable days of the year, but no December day could have been more disagreeable or uncomfortable than the seventeenth of that month in 1774. A dense, almost impenetrable fog enveloped that afternoon the city of Bonn on the Rhine, and the country for miles around, in a cold, gray veil of mist, through which hardly a ray of sunshine could find its way. A fine rain, mingled with occasional flakes of snow, drizzled through the fog and made the pavements slippery and filthy. Everything one looked upon, whether animate or inanimate, seemed disagreeable. The sky was disagreeable. Disagreeably the trees and shrubs in avenues and gardens shook their leafless branches to free them from the frozen raindrops which weighed them down. The houses in the street were disagreeable, and their usually attractive and brightly lighted windows appeared that day most inhospitable. Disagreeably and sullenly the rooks sat upon the roof-tops, and the sparrows themselves, usually the sauciest and jolliest companions among the feathered folk, fluttered about anxiously, deserted each other, and sought the warmest and driest little nooks in the cornices, or near a warm chimney, without any concern for the rest of the world. If two acquaintances met on the street, the one greeted the other with a woe-begone countenance. Everything seemed depressed and disagreeable—the huckster women in the market, the sentries at their posts, the few pedestrians on the promenade, and the few faces which appeared here and there at the darkened windows and looked with lonesome gaze into the tedious, gray, dense, cold fog.
No person or object, however, appeared more irritable, morose, and disagreeable than the court musician and singer, Herr Johann van Beethoven,[1]who hurried through the unfriendly streets of Bonn, on the third hour of that afternoon, frequently muttering to himself imprecations and other exclamations to relieve his feelings.
“What weather!” he growled, as he wrapped his threadbare cloak around him more closely, when, in turning a street corner, a sharp gust of wind smote him fiercely. “Everything goes wrong in these ill-fated days. It is enough to drive one mad. Two hours lost already this morning. Now I am sent for again to make music because my lady is not in good humor! Do these distinguished people think that a musician of His Most Serene Highness, Max Franz,[2]Elector of Cologne, is a bootblack? I am tired of it all! And this weather, too! Nothing but fog and rain, and not a kreuzer in one’s pocket! There may be those who can bear such things patiently. I can’t. Pah! The innkeeper will trust me once more. I will go to him, and better thoughts will come with something to strengthen the heart and some lively company.”
Muttering these words, he turned into a side street, and after a few hundred paces entered a house, over the door of which hung a green wreath, signifying that wine was sold there. It was not until twilight fell, and the streets, already darkened by the fog, became doubly dark, that he came out. Another person followed, escorting him with a light, evidently so that he might not stumble upon the door-sill.
“Good-night, Herr van Beethoven,” this person said. “I must look after my own interests. I must have the money in eight days, or credit stops. I also am the father of a family, Herr van Beethoven, and must take care of my own.”
“Don’t make so many words, gossip,” replied the musician with some bitterness. “I give you my word of honor. You know me. Can you not act generously with me?”
The musician went on his way. The other, evidently the keeper of the wine-shop, looked after him, shaking his head.
“What a pity,” he said to himself. “He well deserves better fortune. He is a pleasant, good-natured companion, but certainly his position as a member of the court chapel pays him but little, and it costs money to feed a wife and two little children. But he is past help. I cannot give him credit longer than eight days at the most. He already owes me too much.”
While the wine-shop keeper was making these reflections, his guest found his way with difficulty through the dark streets. Had it been lighter, one would have noticed by his actions that his craving for a “heart strengthener” had in no way bettered his condition. On the contrary, he appeared even more sullen and morose than when he found it. His brow was wrinkled. His lips, tightly closed by his bitter feelings, opened only to utter imprecations and words of discontent, as they had done a little while before.
After walking around for about five minutes he reached the Bonn Gasse. Here he lived in a small, narrow, dark part of the “Graus Haus.”[3]He entered boisterously, and with great difficulty climbed the dark, narrow staircase.
“Is it you, Johann?” asked a gentle voice on the floor above, while at the same time a gleam of light illumined the darkness.
“It is I,” replied the musician sullenly. “Have I come home a little too early, Marie?”
“Never too early, and you are always welcome, Johann,” replied the first voice, with the same gentleness as before. A pretty but somewhat faded woman stepped forward and cordially gave her hand to her husband to assist him up the last steps.[4]“What is the matter, Johann? You seem so gloomy! Think of it, this is the birthday of our little Ludwig.”[5]
The husband was visibly surprised, and pressed his hand to his brow.
“That I should have forgotten it!” he exclaimed. “But,” he added bitterly, “how would it have helped matters, anyway? I have not a kreuzer with which to make the little one happy.”
“Oh! do not let that trouble you, dear husband,” replied his wife, smiling. “Ludwig is happy enough, and cares nothing for presents and the like. If you would sing a little bit to him and play the piano a little he would be perfectly contented.”
“Certainly he can have that much, and at least it costs nothing,” replied Johann Beethoven in a somewhat more cheerful manner, as he returned the cordial handshake of his wife. “Yes, I will sing and play, and thereby drive the bad spirit of discontent out of my soul.”
The two stepped into a small, narrow, meanly furnished apartment, where they were welcomed with a loud cry of joy by a little four-year-old boy, who stretched out both his little hands to his mother. He may have been somewhat timid in the dark room, and the sight of his mother returning with the light elicited from him the outcry. It had little consolation for the father, however, for when the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid his face in the folds of his mother’s dress.
“Be polite, Ludwig, dear child,” she said kindly to him. “It is your father. Give him a pat of the hand.”
The boy timidly stretched out his hand, but his father did not take it. It was evident the child’s conduct had displeased him, for his eyes were again gloomy and his brows wrinkled.
“It’s of no use,” he said, repulsing the mother, who sought to conciliate her husband. “I know already what you will say, ‘Children are children, and I’—well, certainly I am not always the tenderest of fathers to his own. But how can one be so when there is nothing for him but poverty, wretchedness, and thirstiness?”
Ill-humoredly he threw off his cloak, and with a gloomy countenance paced to and fro in the narrow chamber. Ludwig and his mother quietly withdrew to a corner. She could scarcely keep back the tears. Her little son clung to her anxiously and tenderly.
Some minutes passed in gloomy, oppressive stillness. At last Johann Beethoven, without saying a word, seated himself at the piano and touched the keys. The tender tones which he drew from the instrument seemed gradually to allay his agitation and brighten his darkened countenance. He played on, and finally began the pleasant melody of a folk-song, gently humming it at first, and then singing it with the full power of his voice.
Upon hearing the first tones of the song, the little Ludwig raised his head and fixed his gaze with rapt attention and glistening eyes upon his father. As he began to sing aloud, the boy got down from his mother’s lap and, step by step, unheard by his father, approached him, until he stood close by his side, and clung to him as tenderly as he had clung to his mother a moment before. All his fears were dispelled by the soothing, gentle tones of the music. He listened only to them. All else was buried and forgotten. His eyes were raised to heaven, he stood transfixed, and his young soul fluttered, as if on wings, among the soft modulations of the simple yet heart-stirring, beautiful melody of the song.
His father stopped abruptly, turned round, and saw the child standing near him, as it were, in a kind of ecstasy.
“Ha! Ludwig, are you dreaming?” he asked, not harshly as before, but with an entirely changed and softer tone.
“No, father, I was only listening to you,” replied the child, “and it seemed to me that I heard an angel singing in heaven. It was beautiful. Oh, if I could only play something too!”
“Try it,” said his father encouragingly, as he placed the boy’s fingers upon the keys. “Keep your fingers firm and let them follow as I guide them.”
The little Ludwig was greatly pleased. His father repeated the melody which had so much delighted him. After he had played it a few times, the boy said:
“It is all right now, father. Now I can play it all alone.”
“Oho!” said his father. “You can hardly do that yet. You are venturing a little too far.”
“Only let me try,” persisted the boy.
His father let him do as he wished. He seated himself at the piano; at first he ran his fingers over the keys and then accurately began the folk melody, which he played smoothly to the end without hesitation or mistake.
His father, who had not expected any kind of excellence in the performance, sat as if spell-bound and regarded the boy with wide-open eyes.
“Youngster, truly there is more in you than I have expected or thought of until to-day,” he exclaimed, and, taking him upon his knee, he kissed his fresh, young lips. “You will yet become a finished musician, and a support for your father and mother.”
“I wish for nothing better than to be able to make music correctly,” said the boy, as he joyfully clapped his hands.
“Good! No one shall prevent you, and I myself will be your teacher,” said his father. “If you are truly industrious, you will get ahead wonderfully, provided you do not go too fast and will practise regularly.”
No sooner said than done. The father began at once to teach his son the piano and the violin. At first it seemed as if both father and son would enjoy the work. But it was only at first. It was soon apparent that the little Ludwig was possessed of the most extraordinary obstinacy. The continual finger and other dry exercises soon disgusted him, and he played them with unconcealed and extreme reluctance. He was willing to be faithful in his piano practice, but only in his own, not in his father’s way. Owing to the latter’s temper, this sometimes occasioned violent scenes. Johann Beethoven was easily excited to anger, and once irritated he lost all control of himself. He hurled taunts and reproaches at the boy, and boxed his ears; but Ludwig bore it all with unyielding firmness, and confronted his father defiantly in these outbreaks. Then his mother would weep and earnestly beseech her husband to have patience with the boy, who was too little and childish to understand. She usually appeased his anger, for, in reality, he was kind and tender-hearted. The stubborn little fellow likewise could not long withstand the piteous appeals of his mother. His defiant heart at last would yield to her caresses, and for a while he would good-naturedly submit to his father’s directions.
But of course it was only for a little while. His old obstinacy would continually block the way, and sometimes the situation would become so intolerable that the boy would declare he would have nothing more to do with music. The violent outbreaks would occur afresh. Reproaches, threats, and punishment were not spared, but they served only to make the boy still more obstinate and completely to harden him against his father. In fact, the danger that the little Beethoven might abandon music altogether could not have been averted had not the happy influence of his mother’s loving appeals continually drawn him back to its sweet diversion.
There was still another thing that kept the sacred flame alive in the breast of the boy, and that was the frequent absence of his father, which permitted him to follow the inclinations of his own caprice and pleasure, and to draw beautiful accords and melodies, now from the piano, now from the violin.
Upon one occasion, when his father had treated him with unusual severity and had looked at him threateningly, the boy fled with his violin to his little bed-chamber, and there, shut out from all the world, gave vent to his anger and his sorrow in mournful tones. As this did not help to allay his inward tumults his mother, as a last expedient, adopted a course which always had the happiest result; namely, she told him of his dead grandfather,[6]of whom the boy had preserved active and loving memories, and whose life-sized portrait hung in his chamber, thus keeping him freshly in remembrance.
This grandfather in his lifetime was a highly esteemed and distinguished man, and had served as chapelmaster for Max Frederick of Cologne. The little Ludwig looked up to him as an exemplar for his future life. When his mother told him how beautifully he sang in the opera, what a fine, stately man he was, and how high he stood in the favor of his electoral patron, the boy listened with the most eager attention to every word, and not infrequently exclamations would escape from him, such as, “I shall have as great success,” or, “I shall become a famous man also, mother.”
Then the patient woman smiled, kissed the boy’s red cheeks, and all that had happened before between father and son was buried in the sea of forgetfulness.
Some years passed in this way, ending as unsatisfactorily for the father as for the son. The former, when the little Ludwig was seven years old, at last realized that his method of teaching was not adapted to him and that they must look about for another and more suitable teacher. Fortunately they found such a one, first in the person of chapelmaster Pfeiffer,[7]later in court organist Van den Eeden,[8]and then in court organist Neefe,[9]all of whom instructed him in piano, violin, and organ playing; also in composition.
Ludwig now made rapid and truly astonishing progress in his art. The applause of his teachers was accorded to him in most plentiful measure. He developed into a capable and thorough musician. Every one who knew him esteemed and loved him; and yet the already mature boy was not inwardly happy. There was a secret sorrow in his breast, which embittered his life and dispelled all his joyousness. He never had a glowing face and laughing eyes, like other young men of his age. Silent, reserved, and absorbed in himself, he went his way, and many a one who saw him walking sadly through the streets of Bonn looked wonderingly after him, and probably said, “That is a strange expression of countenance for such a young fellow to wear.”
Indeed, people knew not what oppressed the young Beethoven and what had prematurely given him such a serious and melancholy disposition. Fortunately, however, the time was not far distant which would bring him a friend in whom he could fully confide, and to whom he could unreservedly pour out all the cares and troubles of his heart.
A divine spring day filled the beautiful Rhine valley with radiance and light. The surface of the river glistened as if strewn with thousands of diamonds. On the not far away “Sieben Gebirge”[10]hung a blue haze, like a fine transparent veil, not concealing, but only beautifying and softening the rugged outlines of the peaks. The island of Nonnenwerth, with its bright green foliage, was set in the river like an emerald, and high above it on the left bank gleamed the red ruins of the old castle of Rolandseck[11]—a suggestion of the flight of time in the midst of the peaceful, restful, perfect beauty of the present.
It was Sunday. Near and far sounded the peal of bells. The crisp tones from the little chapels and village churches mingled harmoniously with the deep diapason of the great church bells in Bonn, and with their trembling vibrations filled the beautiful landscape, which seemed listening in prostrate devotion. Hardly any other sound than that of the bells could be distinguished. Even the little song-birds, which a short time before had chirped and twittered loudly and joyously, were now quiet. Sunday peace and Sunday silence rested upon city and plain.
A young man slowly walked along a path which leads from Bonn down to the Rhine, threading its way through fields and meadows. He was simply and somewhat shabbily but neatly clad. One forgot, however, his modest attire as one looked into the face of the wanderer and saw those eyes in which ever and anon bright gleams sparkled and revealed the holy fire in his spirit. For the moment he had no regard for the beauty of surrounding nature. He only listened. His soul was floating, as it were, in a sea of tones, which, now loudly, now softly, like the breaking of ocean waves on the shore, forced themselves upon his tensely strained nerves and filled him with emotion. For a time he gazed up into the bright blue sky with gleaming eyes, and folded his hands upon his breast, like one in ecstasy, as if thereby he could relieve this flood of rapture. Then he advanced a few steps, but again paused, and, muttering to himself some unintelligible exclamations, flung both hands suddenly and wildly about in the air.
He continued for a moment this strange action, which not only would have caused a quiet passerby to smile, but might have amazed him. His amazement, however, would have lasted only until he had seen the piercing eyes of the young man and the lofty expression upon his brow, around which hung thick, bushy hair like a lion’s mane. His eyes and forehead saved him from the ridicule which his otherwise insignificant appearance might have excited, and made it, if not exalted, at least entitled to respect.
Softly the bells pealed on. Only a gentle and gradually dying away murmur trembled in the almost motionless air. The young man remained immovable, his head bowed upon his breast, until the last vibrations had died away. Then, like one awakening from a dream, he raised his head and looked around with a quiet, gentle glance. He was already within a few hundred steps of the Rhine, and on the opposite shore gleamed brightly and hospitably the houses of Königswinter,[12]above which rose the lofty, huge, and majestic peaks of the Seven Mountains.
“I will go over there,” he said to himself. “The day is so beautiful, one should improve it.”
With quick steps he went down to the bank of the river and sprang into one of the boats lying there, saying to the boatman the single word, “Across.”
Arrived on the other side, he threw the boatman a little silver piece and then took the first, best road he came to and went on at random. Soon he found himself in a shadowy beech wood, whose light green leaves rustled high above him. In one lighter spot he could see the blue sky through the foliage, and here and there a sunbeam found its way through the dense leaves and glistened at the young wanderer’s feet like a sparkling jewel or a bright silver shield.
There were no people in the wood. The bustle of the world did not penetrate its dusky recesses, but, notwithstanding this, there was joyousness and liveliness in its broad, dark halls. Numberless songbirds swung on the slender branches or flew lightly from bough to bough. The finches warbled their lively, rollicking songs. The blackbirds and song thrushes sang their soft and yet full-toned strophes. In the distance the cuckoo intoned its name. The young wanderer heard and watched it all, and, filled with happy feelings, his face wore a more cheerful aspect. No sound in this beautiful solitude escaped his acute ears,—not the rustle of the leaves when a gentle breeze stirred them; not the light gurgling and splashing of the little brook along the bank of which his course led him; not the rush of the water when it plunged over rocks and made pretty little waterfalls; not the tapping of the woodpecker, whose strong bill pierced the bark of the tree that concealed insects and larvæ; not the sharp scream of a large bird of prey, high overhead; and, least of all, the ravishing song of a nightingale, which suddenly rose from a thicket close by the side of the lonely wanderer, so full, so tender, so pensive and heart-stirring, that he remained motionless and forgot all else that he might listen only to this wonderful, inspiring song.
“Brava, bravissima,” he involuntarily exclaimed, as the lovely singer shook its pretty feathers, and then, following a gently alluring call, probably the cry of its mate, flew as swiftly as an arrow through the bushes. “The utmost that can be accomplished in a bird’s throat is in thy song, charming Philomel; but the artist still must create the higher things,—so high that they bring him near to the divine. And this height I will and shall attain, with God’s help.”
The young man uttered these last words loudly in the wood, but hardly had he done so when a merry and mocking laugh came back in reply. For an instant he felt a little frightened, but immediately recovered himself, and angrily answered:
“Who laughs there? I hope no one here is making sport of me.”
“I have taken the liberty to do so,” said a young man, stepping forward from behind the trunk of a beech-tree and making a low bow with a slightly ironical smile. “If you wish to resent it, honorable sir, I herewith surrender myself to your merciful judgment.”
The angry frown which his words had caused disappeared, and Beethoven good-naturedly extended his hand, which the stranger cordially shook.
“Very learned Franz Gerhard Wegeler,[13]worthy student of medicine,” he said, “what chance brought you into this solitude, where I fancied I was all alone and far from the human rabble?”
“Doubtless the same chance which brought my melodious friend here,” replied the other. “Yes, my excellent master of tone, my Ludwig van Beethoven, it was the blue sky and golden sun which enticed me out of the dull study-room into God’s glorious world, where at least one can get a breath of fresh air and enjoy the wonderful works of the Almighty. Was not that your object also, worthy pupil of Mistress Musica?”
Ludwig nodded assent. “For all that, it is a strange and remarkable chance that we should have met each other in this solitary wood,” he said.
“Not altogether strange and not very wonderful, my dear fellow,” replied Wegeler, “for in crossing the Rhine I engaged the same boatman who took you over. Knowing that we were old acquaintances, he told me that you had crossed scarcely half an hour before, and were roving about in this wood. As I would rather have company than walk alone, I followed your trail, found you lost in ecstasy over a nightingale, and finally learned, for you announced it in an exceedingly loud tone of voice, that you intended shortly to soar to the very Deity. That made me laugh; but you will excuse me when you reflect that the ascent to the Deity is a somewhat difficult performance for one of your years, unless you make what they call a ‘salto mortale’ (deadly leap). It is the easiest way in the world to break one’s neck or bones.”
Ludwig again frowned a little, but quickly smoothed his brow with his hand, as if wiping away all troubles and gloomy thoughts. “You are right,” said he. “I was a fool to entertain such bold fancies and daring hopes. And this, too, in my melancholy circumstances and wretched plight! It is not possible. I was mad, that I was.” With these last words such deep dejection manifested itself in his countenance that Wegeler suddenly felt the warmest sympathy for the young man.
“What is the matter? Why do you speak of wretchedness and melancholy, Ludwig?” he cordially said, as he threw his arm around his much younger friend and drew him affectionately toward him.
“Ah! you know not—no one knows—what it is that depresses and weighs me down,” answered Ludwig. “Poverty is such a heavy burden. It rests like a load upon the pinions of the soul. Oh, it is awful to feel here, here in one’s inmost soul, that one could accomplish the great and the beautiful, and yet not be able to do it because he lacks a few miserable gulden and kreuzers. It is hard, Wegeler.”
Tears stood in young Beethoven’s eyes, and his lips quivered in the effort to repress his emotions. Wegeler’s eyes rested with an expression of deep sympathy upon the dejected figure which he had seen only a short time before exulting in the joyousness of hope.
“Ludwig,” he said,—and his voice had an unusually tender tone,—“I pray you, open your heart to me, and do not conceal what troubles and oppresses you. I feel for you as for a true and sincere friend. Take me for your friend and then speak, for you know between true heart-friends there should be no restraint, no secrets.”
“Friend!” said Ludwig. “Would you actually be my true friend?”
“To the last hour of my life. I swear it,” said Wegeler, in such an honest manner that his sincerity could not be doubted.
Ludwig understood him and was comforted. With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler and kissed him. “So we are friends, always friends,” he cried. “Oh, how I have longed for a soul that could and would understand me, and lo, at last I have found one. Now you shall learn, dear, good Wegeler, what has disturbed my soul and checked its flights. I am not happy, and the cause of my unhappiness, alas, is my father’s conduct. I have kept this melancholy secret deeply hidden in my breast, but here, where no one but the dear God and the little birds can hear, I will disclose it.”
With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler
With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler
He told in passionate words how his father’s temper had made him suffer from the days of his childhood, of that father’s insatiable craving for drink, and how, on that account, the family often had to go without the necessaries of life.
“Though my father naturally is good-natured,” he went on, “this craving makes him exceedingly irritable and sometimes violent. His habits drive him to extremes. At one moment he is a tender father, at the next a cruel tyrant. The despair of it all is that when necessity and trouble press hardest he has no patience to bear, but seeks consolation and forgetfulness in wine. This is my heaviest burden, for, so long as he cannot resist drinking, there is no hope of better conditions for our family. My mother, my good, true, tender mother, secretly weeps, and bears her hard lot with Christian calmness. But I and my two younger brothers[14]suffer unspeakably, and many a time I have been tempted to throw myself into the Rhine and end all my miseries.”
“Calm yourself, dear boy,” said Wegeler soothingly. “Don’t be so vehement. I am free to acknowledge that your situation is bad and gloomy enough, but bad as it is, some relief will be found. Let me think it over. For the present banish your sad thoughts, and let us enjoy the delicious atmosphere, the blue sky, the green woods, and the sparkling sunshine. This is not a day for melancholy. Cheer up! Let us go farther into the wood and visit my good friends, the monks of the Heisterbach cloister. We shall be well received there, and in any case find a good breakfast, which doubtless we shall greatly relish after the morning tramp.”
Ludwig was ready to accept his friend’s guidance. They sprang up from the mossy bank upon which they had been sitting during their conversation, and followed a small, scarcely perceptible footpath that led through the wood. Wegeler chattered about everything possible, told his new friend many humorous and pleasant stories, and quickly succeeded in cheering him up. When they reached the Heisterbach cloister, shortly before noon, Ludwig’s melancholy had given place to a somewhat defiant but still good humor.
At the entrance to the grounds sat the Father Doorkeeper, apparently basking in the sunshine. He regarded the new-comers with a pleasant smile on his broad, rosy face. “Welcome, Herr Studiosus,” he said to Wegeler,—for he had made his acquaintance in previous visits. “Have you been here long? The Abbot and the others also will be glad to see you again. Enter without any ceremony—that way—but you already know the way to the refectory.”
“God’s greeting for your friendly reception, Father Doorkeeper,” replied Wegeler. “We come hungry and thirsty, and kindly ask you for a cordial.”
“Apply to the chief cook. You may be certain he knows no greater pleasure than feeding the hungry and providing a strengthening cordial.”
Wegeler bowed and proceeded with Ludwig through the forecourt, which, with its flower-beds, fountains, and cleanly kept gravel walks, looked like a garden. Arrived at the abbey, they were cordially greeted anew and escorted to the refectory,—a cool hall, with great Gothic window recesses, in which, so roomy were they, tables with stone slabs were standing. The monk cordially invited them to be seated at one of these tables and then left to announce in kitchen and cellar that two beloved guests laid claim to hospitality. In reply to the Father Chief Cook he gave the name of the student Wegeler, and at once several ministering spirits actively began to prepare food and drink in abundance for the welcome strangers. Hardly ten minutes after the arrival of Wegeler and Ludwig a hearty breakfast was served upon the side table, which was covered with a neat cloth, and then came the Father Cellar-Master striding along, under each arm a carafe of costly, sparkling golden wine, from which he filled the glasses of his guests.
Wegeler and Ludwig thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of this large-hearted hospitality, and paid it due honor by partaking abundantly of the food and emptying more than one glass of the delicious wine. The monks asked for the latest news in Bonn, the cream of which Wegeler was giving them, when the Abbot himself, with his friend the Father Lector,[15]appeared, and greeted his guests with the same friendliness the other inmates of the abbey had shown. Naturally he was somewhat reserved with Ludwig, as he did not yet know him, and only recognized him with a nod of the head; but he was soon engaged in a lively conversation with Wegeler about the affairs of the new university at Bonn, in which the venerable man showed a special interest.
As Ludwig could take no part in this conversation, and as the attention of all the other cloister brothers was also devoted to the Abbot and Wegeler, he found time hanging heavily. He arose, slipped out of the refectory unnoticed, and enjoyed himself strolling around the abbey and the grounds, observing and admiring notable and interesting objects. While thus wandering about at pleasure, he came to the beautiful church of the abbey, and at once noticed its large handsome organ, which naturally had a greater attraction for him as a musician than anything else. He went up into the choir, scrutinized the organ closely, and admired its beautiful construction.
“It is too bad the organ-blower is not here,” he said aloud, for he did not suppose there was any one else in the church. “It would be the greatest pleasure to me to try such a splendid organ.”
“Ho! ho! who is talking there?” said an entirely unexpected voice, and out of the organ-blower’s closet stepped a serving brother, who regarded Ludwig with astonishment. “How is this?” he went on. “Did I not hear something about Monsieur wishing he could play the organ? Are you the Monsieur who wanted an organ-blower?”
“Certainly, it must have been I, since no one else but ourselves is at present in the church,” replied Ludwig.
“But,” said the man in amazement, and looking somewhat doubtfully at the short, thick-set figure of Beethoven, “does Monsieur say that he can play the organ?”
“Certainly,” replied Ludwig; “I could easily convince you if only there were a blower at hand who was willing to serve me.”
“I am the organ-blower,” said the man, shaking his head and still somewhat doubtful. “If you are really in earnest about playing the organ I will right gladly offer my service.”
“That is fine, perfectly splendid,” cried Ludwig exultantly. “To your post, worthy colleague. We will both take the utmost pains and each one of us do his best.”
Still dubiously and suspiciously shaking his head, the organ-blower took his place, but left the door ajar so that no tone of the young man’s playing should escape him. Ludwig seated himself, struck the keys with his strong hands, and evoked from the splendid instrument a stream, a full volume of tones, such as had never been heard in the church before. Majestically they rang through the church like the thunder of the Lord. Then suddenly there were soft and gentle tones like the vibrations of the harp, a heavenly melody, sung as it were by the voices of angels, anon pealing out grandly in a majestic hymn, like a song of praise from the heavens and the earth, glorifying the Eternal, the only God, the Almighty Creator of heaven and earth. Powerful as the solemn tones had been, they died away again to a soft and lovely piano, until at the close the last sound exhaled itself like a breath and seemed softly to disappear among the lofty columns of the choir.
Beethoven, who had sat like one entranced during his wonderful playing, and had looked upwards with fixed, wide-open eyes, now came to himself, wiped the perspiration from his heated brow, and drew a deep sigh.
“Young man, who taught you to play like that?” said a man in the dress of the order, advancing out of the dusk of the organ-loft. “Truly, you play magnificently. I have never heard such execution before. Who taught you this?”
“I taught myself,” Beethoven replied curtly and somewhat aggressively.
“Then be doubly greeted and doubly welcome, noble disciple of the art, who sometime will make a high and mighty eagle’s flight,” said the monk with deep earnestness as he grasped the young man’s hand. “Turn not away from me. I am also a member of the great guild which has devoted its lifework to Mistress Musica. I am the Father Organist of the abbey, and hence I am qualified to appreciate and admire your wonderful art.”
Beethoven’s darkening countenance quickly lightened up as he recognized in the venerable monk not an officious, inquisitive person, but a colleague, and he warmly returned the grasp of his hand.