BEETHOVEN.
If, dear reader, you have never been so happy as to travel through the beautiful country of the Rhine, I wish from my heart you may speedily have that pleasure; for truly, he who has not seen that unrivalled land, with its pretty villages and its noble cities, its smiling villas and vineyards, and romantic ruined castles—its lordly Rhine, the father of all—nor heard the cheerful songs of its peasants, laboring in the vineyards, cannot know how dear and lovely is our native Germany!
If you have been at Bonn, dear reader, it follows as a matter of course, that you left not unvisited the venerable cathedral. And how solemn and strange the feeling that filled your heart, when entering, for the first time, beneath the shadow of those lofty, twilight arches! An awful stillness prevailed around, and speaking pictures looked forth upon you; then as you advanced, streams of softened light came downward from the arched windows of the gigantic nave! The organ was heard; a low, distant murmur, swelling louder and higher, till, rising into powerful harmony, the “Gloria” burst forth; then, overpowered by emotion, rapt in contemplation of the unspeakable greatness of Deity—conscious of the feebleness of man—you could but kneel and adore!
At least, so it was with me—and often so—when a youth. I have listened to that music, heard it from beginning to end, then rushed down from the choir, to throw myself prostrate on the marble pavement, and weep tears of joy! Were not heaven and earth my own? Did I not see them in their holiest loveliness? Heard I not enraptured, their thousand thousand voices—from the sweetmurmuring of the flowers, to the awe-inspiring thunder-peal? Understood I not the mysterious harmony of all I saw and heard?
Alas! those years of enthusiasm are flown; the harmony is broken! The flowers that mark the coming of spring, have no longer a voice for me; the startling thunder, that once spoke of the sunshine and beauty about to succeed the short-lived storm—has no significance; even the tones of that magnificent music fail to lift my soul to the height of devotion, inspiring her to mingle her adoration with the world-wide hymn of praise! My heart is hard and cold; but seldom roused, and relapsing into deadness when the brief excitement is over. I am older even in feeling than in years. I shun the merry company of men; I shudder at their jests—their careless hearts—their jovial faces; for they seem to me like shadows—gibbering forms—that mockingly repeat the tones of life. Enough of myself; how prone are we to run into egotism! Let me rather amuse the reader by some reminiscences of a gifted individual, whose fame is linked with the scenes I have spoken of.
It was a mild October afternoon, in the year 1784. A boat was coming down the Rhine, close to that point where the fair city of Bonn sits on its left shore. The company on board consisted of old and young persons of both sexes, returning from an excursion of pleasure.
The sun was sinking in the west, and touched the mountain summits, castle-crowned, with gold and purple, as the boat came to the shore not far from the city. The company landed, full of gaiety and mirth, the young people walking on before, while their seniors followed, as happy as they, though more thoughtful and less noisy. They adjourned to a public garden, close on the river side, to finish the day of social enjoyment by partaking of a collation. Old and young were seated, ere long, around the stonetable set under the large trees. The crimson faded in the west; the moon poured her soft light, glimmering through the leafy canopy above them, and was reflected in full beauty in the waters of the Rhine.
The merriment of the guests was at its height; the wine sparkled, and lively toasts were drunk, in which the youngsters joined as gleefully as their elders.
“Your boys are right merry fellows,” said a benevolent-looking old gentleman, addressing Herr von Beethoven, a tenor singer in the Electoral chapel; pointing, at the same time, to his two sons—lads of ten and fourteen years of age. “They will certainly turn out something clever,” he continued, laughing, as he watched their pranks; “but tell me, Beethoven, why do you not take Louis with you, when you indulge the children with a party of pleasure?”
“Because,” answered the person he addressed, “because Louis is a stubborn, dogged, stupid boy, whose troublesome behavior would only spoil our mirth.”
“Ah!” returned the old gentleman, “you are always finding fault with the poor lad, and perhaps impose too hard tasks upon him! I see you are more indulgent to the others. It is no wonder he becomes dull and obstinate; nay, I am only surprised that he has not, ere this, broken loose from your sharp control.”
“My dear Simrock,” replied Beethoven, laughing, “I have a remedy at hand for such humors—my good Spanish cane, which, you see, is of the toughest! Louis is well acquainted with its excellent properties, and stands in wholesome awe thereof! And trust me, neighbor, I know best what is for the boy’s good. He has talent, and must be taught to cultivate it; but he will never go to work properly, unless I drive out some of his capricious notions, and set his head right.”
“Ah, Johann!” interposed Madame von Beethoven, “you do not know the boy! He has the best and most docile of dispositions, if you only manage him in the proper way.”
“The proper way!” repeated the father; “and so I must coaxand cajole him, and ask his leave humbly to give him a word of instruction!”
“No, certainly; only grant him the same indulgences you allow to his brothers.”
“He is not like Carl and Johann,” was the muttered answer; “they ought not to be treated alike.”
“Nay, nay, neighbor,” said Simrock, earnestly.
“Let us talk no more about it,” interrupted Beethoven; “I know well what I am doing; and my reasons are satisfactory to myself.Theseboys are a comfort to me; a couple of fine lads; I need hardly ever speak to them, for they are ready to spring at a glance; they always obey me with alacrity and affection. Louis, on the other hand, has been bearish from his infancy. I have never sought to rule him by fear, but only to drive out a little of his sulkiness now and then; yet nothing avails. When his brothers joke with him, as all boys will sometimes, he usually quits the room murmuring; and it is easy to see he would fain beat them if he were not afraid of me. As to his studies, music is the only thing he will learn—I mean with good will; or if he consents to apply himself to anything else, I must first knock it into him that it has something to do with music.Thenhe will go to work, but it is his humor not to do it otherwise! If I give him a commission to execute for me, the most arrant clodpole could not be more stupid about it.”
“Let him alone, then, to live for his favorite art,” said Herr Simrock. “It is often the case that the true artist is a fool in matters of every-day life.”
“Those are silly fancies,” answered Beethoven, again laughing. “Helen is always talking so. The true artist is as much a man as others, and proves himself so; will thrive like the rest of the world, and take care of his family. I know all about it; money—money’s the thing! I mean Louis to do well; and that he may learn to do well, I spare not trouble—nor the rod either, when it is necessary! The boy will live to thank me for my pains.”
Here the conversation was interrupted, and the subject wasnot resumed. The hours flew lightly by; it struck nine, and the festive company separated, to return to their homes.
Carl and Johann were in high glee as they went home; they sprang up the steps before their father, and pulled the door bell. The door was opened, and a boy about twelve years old stood in the entry, with a lamp in his hand. He was short and stout for his age; but a sickly paleness, more strongly marked by the contrast of his thick black hair, was observable on his face. His small grey eyes were quick and restless in their movement, very piercing when he fixed them on any object, but softened by the shade of his long dark lashes; his mouth was delicately formed, and the compression of the lips betrayed both pride and sorrow. It was Louis Beethoven.
“Where are my father and mother?” asked he.
“Hallo, nightcap!” cried Carl, laughing, “is it you? Cannot you open your eyes? They are just behind us!”
Without answering his brother, Louis came to meet his parents, and bade them “good evening.”
His mother greeted him affectionately; his father said, while the boy busied himself fastening the door—“Well, Louis, I hope you have finished your task?”
“I have, father.”
“Very good; to-morrow I will look and see if you have earned your breakfast.” So saying, the elder Beethoven went into his chamber; his wife followed him, after bidding her sons good night, Louis more tenderly than any of them. Carl and Johann withdrew with their brother to their common sleeping apartment, entertaining him with a description of their day of festivity. “Now, Louis,” said little Johann, as they finished their account, “if you had not been such a dunce, our father would have taken you along; but he says he thinks that you will be little better than a dunce all the days of your life—and self-willed and stubborn besides.”
“Don’t talk about that any more!” answered Louis, “but come to bed!”
“Yes, you are always a sleepy head!” cried they both, laughing; but in a few moments after getting into bed, both were asleep, and snoring heartily.
Louis took the lamp from the table, left the apartment softly, and went up stairs to an attic chamber, where he was wont to retire when he wished to be out of the way of his teasing brothers. He had fitted up the little room for himself as well as his means permitted. A table with three legs, a leathern chair, the bottom partly out, and an old piano, which he had rescued from the possession of rats and mice, made up the furniture; and here, in company with his beloved violin, he was accustomed to pass his happiest hours. He was passionately fond of solitude, and nothing would have better pleased him, than permission to take long walks in the country, where he could hear the murmur of streams and the rustling of foliage, and the surging of the winds on the mountains. But he had not that liberty. His only recreation was to pass a few hours here in his favorite pursuit, indulging his fantasies and reveries, undisturbed by his noisy brothers, or his strict father’s reproof.
The boy felt, young as he was, that he was not understood by one of his family, not even excepting his mother. She loved him tenderly, and always took his part when his father found fault with him; but she never knew what was passing in his mind, because he never uttered it. How could he, shy and inexperienced, clothe in words what was burning in his bosom—what was perpetually striving after a language more intense and expressive than human speech? But his genius was not long to be unappreciated.
The next morning a messenger came from the Elector to Beethoven’s house, bringing an order for him to repair immediately to the palace, and fetch with him his son Louis. The father was surprised; not more so than the boy, whose heart beat with undefined apprehension as they entered the princely mansion. A servant was in waiting, and conducted them without delay, or further announcement, to the presence of the Elector, who was attended by two gentlemen.
The Elector received old Beethoven with great kindness, and said, “We have heard much, recently, of the extraordinary musical talent of your son Louis. Have you brought him along with you?” Beethoven replied in the affirmative, stepped back to the door, and bade the boy come in.
“Come nearer, my little lad!” cried the Elector, graciously; “do not be shy. This gentleman here, is our new court organist—Herr Neefe; the other is the famous composer, Herr Yunker, from Cologne. We promised them both they should hear you play something; and think you may venture upon a tune before them. The late Master von Eden always spoke well of you.”
“Yes, he was pleased with me!” murmured the boy, softly. The Prince smiled, and bade him take his seat and begin. He sat down himself in a large easy chair. Louis went to the piano, and without examining the pile of notes that lay awaiting his selection, played a short piece; then a light and graceful melody, which he executed with such ease and spirit—nay, in so admirable a manner, that his distinguished auditors could not forbear expressing their surprise; and even his father was struck. When he left off playing, the Elector arose, came up to him, laid his hand on his head, and said encouragingly—
“Well done, my boy! we are pleased with you! Now, Master Yunker,” turning to the gentleman on his right hand, “what say you?”
“Your Highness!” answered the composer, “I will venture to say the lad has had considerable practice with that last air, to execute it so well.”
Louis burst into a laugh at this remark; the others looked surprised and grave; his father darted an angry glance at him, and the boy, conscious that he had done something wrong, became instantly silent.
The Elector himself laughed at the comical scene. “And pray what are you laughing at, my little fellow?” asked he.
The boy colored and looked down as he replied, “BecauseHerr Yunker thinks I have learned the air by heart, when it occurred to me but just now while I was playing.”
“Then,” returned the composer, “if you really improvised that piece, you ought to go through at sight a motiv I will give you presently.”
“Let me try,” answered Louis.
“If his Gracious Highness will permit me,” said the composer.
Permission was granted. Yunker wrote down on paper a difficult motiv, and handed it to the boy. Louis read it over carefully, and immediately began to play it according to the rules of counterpoint. The composer listened attentively—his astonishment increasing at every turn in the music; and when at last it was finished in a manner so spirited as to surpass his expectations, his eyes sparkled, and he looked on the lad with keen interest, as the possessor of a genius rarely to be found.
“If he goes on in this way,” said he in a low tone to the Elector, “I can assure your Highness that a very great counterpointist may be made out of him.”
Neefe observed with a smile, “I agree with the master; but it seems to me the boy’s style inclines rather too much to the gloomy and melancholy.”
“It is well,” replied his Highness, smiling, “be it your care that it does not become too much so. Herr von Beethoven,” he continued, addressing the father; “we take an interest in your son; and it is our pleasure that he complete the studies commenced under your tuition, under that of Herr Neefe. He may come to live with him after to-day. We will take care that he wants for nothing; and his further advancement, also, shall be cared for. You are willing, Louis, to come and live with this gentleman?”
The boy’s eyes were fixed on the ground; he raised them, and glanced first at Neefe and then at his father. The offer was a tempting one; he would fare better and have more liberty in his new abode. But there was hisfather!whom he had always loved; who, spite of his severity, had doubtless loved him, andnow stood looking upon him earnestly and sadly. He hesitated no longer, but seizing Beethoven’s hand and pressing it to his heart, he cried, “No! no! I cannot leave my father.”
“You are a good and dutiful lad,” said his Highness. “Well, I will not ask you to leave your father, who must be very fond of you. You shall live with him and come and take your lessons of Herr Neefe; that is our will. Adieu! Herr von Beethoven.”
From this time Louis lived a new life. His father treated him no longer with harshness, and even reproved his brothers when they tried to tease him. Carl and Johann grew shy of him, however, when they saw what a favorite he had become. Louis found himself no longer restrained, but came and went as he pleased; he took frequent excursions in the country, which he enjoyed with more than youthful pleasure, when the lessons were over.
His worthy master was astonished at the rapid progress of his pupil in his beloved art. “But, Louis,” said he, one day, “if you would become a great musician, you must not neglect every thing besides music. You must acquire foreign languages, particularly Latin, Italian, and French. These are all necessary, that you may know what learned men have said and written upon the art. You must not fancy all this knowledge is to come to you of itself; you must be diligent and devote yourself to study, and be sure of being well repaid in the end. For without such cultivation you can never excel in music; nay, even genius, left to itself, is but little better than blind impulse. Would you leave your name to posterity as a true artist, make your own all that bears relation to your art.”
Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his playing he would leave off, however much it cost him, if the hour struck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied himself, that in a year’s time he was tolerably well acquainted, not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the English. His father marvelled at his progress not a little; for years he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make theboy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acquisition of the science of music.
In 1785 appeared Louis’s first sonatas. They displayed uncommon talent, and gave promise that the youthful artist would in future accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius, whose death forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow.
The best understanding was now established between father and son; and the lad’s natural generosity and warmth of heart being unchecked by undue severity, his kindly feelings overflowed upon all around him. This disposition to love his friends, and to enjoy life, remained with the artist to the end of his days. The benevolent Master Simrock was much pleased at his good fortune, and withal somewhat surprised, for spite of his compassionate espousal of the boy’s cause, he looked upon Louis rather as a dull fellow. Now, his opinion was quite changed; and to show his good will he sent him several presents, and insisted on his coming frequently to his lodgings, to drink a glass of Rhenish in company with his old friend.
“We were both mistaken in the lad,” he would say to old Beethoven; “he abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not altogether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits; the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the great Mozart, step by step; after all, he is the only one, and there is none to come up to him—none!” And Louis’s father, who also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judgment, and echoed—“None!”
Thus the summer flew by; the foliage grew yellow and began to fall. Our young hero delighted—as what poetical soul does not?—in communion with nature. He wandered often in the woods, and welcomed the autumn breezes that scattered the yellow leaves at his feet. I have always found a pleasant melancholy inmy walks at this season, when the slant rays of the sun gleam upon dismantled trees, and the wealth of summer lies on the ground; when the winds sigh through the desolate branches, or the ear is startled by the woodman’s stroke, or perhaps the winding of the hunter’s horn.
Let none despair of himself to whom Heaven has granted the power of enjoying the beauty of Nature! In her maternal bosom is consolation for every wo! He is her favored child. Doth he weep over blighted hopes or crushed affections—unreproved his tears flow, and amid silence and solitude, in the calm wood, he hears angel voices that mourn with him, while from the stars far up in heaven comes down a whisper of consolation; “Life is brief, and frail and changeful is the heart of man; but Love is infinite—eternal; thou hast friends that know no change; look above, and hope!” And with the coming sun that wakes to life such myriads of happy creatures, shall new strength and hope visit his soul. But alas for thee! child of sorrow, if thou hearest not that kind healing voice; if night is starless to thine eyes—ere ceases thy heart to beat! Could life arise for thee from the dead, thou wouldst still be wretched, wouldst still stand alone and uncared for—kept but by Divine compassion from despair.
Enjoy while thou canst, oh, youthful enthusiast! the luxury of thy being—the beauty around thee! Think’st thou ’tis but after all a lovely dream? No—’tis a fair reality, still more fleeting than a dream! Dreams may return to enchant us; realities that are past, never!
The first lasting sorrow that befel Louis was the loss of his father. Beethoven’s health failed at the beginning of winter. Ere long his physician pronounced him beyond hope. By his own request his family were informed that his end was near. Helen and her two sons, Carl and Johann, received the intelligence with loud lamentations; Louis said not a word, but his grief was no less acute.
At night the afflicted family gathered round the bed of the dying. “My Louis!” said Beethoven, faintly. The boy was kneeling by the bed, pale as the sick man himself. He clasped his father’s cold hand and pressed it to his lips, but could not speak for tears.
“God’s best blessings be upon you, my son!” said his parent. “Promise me that throughout life you will never forsake your brothers; I know they have not loved you as they ought; that is partly my fault; promise me that whatever may happen, you will continue to regard and cherish them.”
“I will—I will, dear father!” cried Louis, sobbing. Beethoven pressed his hand in token of satisfaction. The same night he expired. The grief of Louis was unbounded. It was a bitter thing thus to lose a parent just as the ties of nature were strengthened by mutual appreciation and confidence; but it was necessary that he should rouse himself to minister support and comfort to his suffering mother.
The first keenness of his sorrow was blunted by time; and he returned with renewed diligence to his studies. His mother often remonstrated against his pursuit of them with such absorbing eagerness. “You will injure your health, my beloved son,” she would say. But he would answer cheerfully, “Be not uneasy, dear mother; the winter will soon be past, and when spring comes I will relax my labors.”
Louis was now in his eighteenth year; and the period was memorable in his life. A young kinswoman of his mother, whose parents lived in Cologne, came on a visit to Bonn. Adelaide was a beautiful, sprightly girl. Louis saw her, and it seemed to him that all his previous existence was but a void, and that his real being had but just begun. He was conscious of a thousand new perceptions, and thought he had never before felt or seen what was in the world. Nature had new charms for him; he had capacities for joy before undreamed of. As for music, till now, it seemed to him the spirit of art had slumbered within him. How magnificent was her awakening! The magic name of Adelaide, her voice, hersmile, called his genius into full life, and he felt that he had power to do as he had never done.
First love! Is it not a misnomer? for butoncecan the heart bow to the all-subduing influence! Once cold can it ever be warmed again to that bright luxuriance of life and feeling? And how soon does the tender flower born of fantasy, wither in the breath of reality—never to bloom again! Memory of the lost paradise alone remains; it is well if there remain not also the saddest fruit of disappointment—a sceptical scorn of all that seems winning and lovely. Happy he whom fate deprives of the object of his love before the sweet illusion is over! No words can paint his heartfelt anguish at the loss. But one bliss is left him; the image of the beloved is still robed in its magic charms; his faith in his ideal is still unshaken. His heart has never proved the bitterest pang.
For a time our youthful hero was the happiest of the happy, for he yielded his soul to the sway of love, and music was its appropriate language. But Adelaide understood him not; how could she? His eyes indeed spoke a passion deeper than words could reveal; his melodies were of a bolder and higher, yet a tenderer cast; but it was only in the silence of his own apartment, when he sat playing alone, that these signs of emotion might have been discovered. In her presence he sought not to paint in language his devoted love; it was enough for him to look upon her, to watch her graceful movements, to listen to her voice. That was inspiration enough; he wished not for more.
The fair sex are not usually pleased with this species of mute homage; all maidens are not Cecilias; most of them prefer a lover bold enough to venture on an open confession of their power to charm. The fair dream Louis indulged was ere long to be rudely broken. I am not going to give the reader a melancholy love tale; suffice it to say the boy’s passion became known to his brother, Carl, and one evening he chanced to overhear a conversationbetween him and Adelaide. Carl was telling his cousin of Louis’s love for her, and laughing at his simplicity in never dreaming of declaring it. Adelaide laughed heartily at her “unsophisticated lover,” as she called him, saying she had never suspected such a thing—that she could not help pitying the poor boy—yet was half inclined to draw him out, it was such a capital joke! Carl joined in her merriment, and the two concerted a scheme for their own amusement at the expense of poor Louis.
Pale and trembling, while he leaned against the window-seat concealed by the folds of a curtain, Louis listened to this colloquy. As his brother and cousin left the room, he rushed past them to his own apartment, locked himself in, and did not come forth that night. Afterwards he took pains to shun the company of the heartless fair one; and was always out alone on his walks, or in his own room, where he worked every night till quite exhausted.
“The lad has found us out,” said Carl to his pretty cousin.
“What a pity!” answered Adelaide; “I should like to have brought him to reason in my own way, I confess. Such an excellent joke! It is really a pity!”
The first emotions of chagrin and mortification soon passed away in the bosom of young Beethoven, but he did not soon recover his vivacity. His warmest feelings had been cruelly outraged; the spring of love was never again to bloom for him; and it seemed, too, that the fair blossoms of genius also were nipped in the bud. His self-confidence, so necessary to the development of the artist, was shaken—nay, had nearly deserted him.
The wings of his spirit had unfolded joyously in the sunshine of love, and were spread for a bold flight into the upper regions of Art, where the every-day world could not follow him. As in after life, he was entirely indifferent to the applause of the multitude,and never sought it. What he thought and felt he expressed in his enthusiastic inspiration; his best reward was the consciousness of having aimed at the best, and deserved the approbation of true artists.
If, however, the cultivated taste of the present day fails fully to appreciate him, it will not be wondered at that the critics of the time, fettered as they were to the established form, should have been shocked at his departure from their rules. Even Mozart, whose fame stood so high, whose name was pronounced with such enthusiastic admiration, what struggles had he not been forced into with those who would not approve his so called innovations!
The youth of nineteen had struck out a bolder path! What marvel, then, that instead of encouragement, nothing but censures awaited him? His master, Neefe, who was accustomed to boast of him as his pride and joy, now said coldly and bitterly, his pupil had not fulfilled his cherished expectations—nay, was so taken up with his new-fangled conceits, that he feared he was forever lost to real art.
“Is it so, indeed?” asked Louis of himself in his moments of misgiving and dejection. “Is all a delusion? have I lived till now in a false dream? Oh! where is truth on earth? I wish I were dead, since my life is worse than useless!”
Young Beethoven sat in his chamber, leaning his head on his hand, looking gloomily out of the vine-shaded window. There was a knock at the door:piano—pianissimo;crescendo,—forte,—fortissimo!Still, wrapped in his deep despondency, he heard it not, nor answered with a “come in.”
The door was opened softly a little way, and in the crevice appeared a long and very red nose, and a pair of small, twinkling eyes, overshadowed by coal-black bushy eye-brows. Gradually became visible the whole withered, sallow, comical, yet good-humored face of Master Peter Pirad.
Peter Pirad was a famous kettle-drummer, and was much ridiculed on account of his partiality for that instrument, though he also excelled on many others. He always insisted that the kettle-drum was the most melodious, grand, and expressive instrument, and he would play it alone in the orchestra,partoutement, as he said. But he was one of the best-hearted persons in the world. It was quite impossible to look upon his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure, which, year in and year out, appeared in the well-worn yellow woolen coat, siskin colored breeches, and dark worsted stockings, with his peculiar fashioned felt cap, without a strong inclination to laugh; yet ludicrous as was his outward man, none remained long unconvinced that spite of his exterior, spite of his numerous eccentricities, Peter Pirad was one of the most amiable of men.[9]
From his childhood, Louis had been attached to Pirad; in later years they had been much together. Pirad, who had been absent several months from Bonn, and had just returned, was surprised beyond measure to find his favorite so changed. He entered the room, and walking up quietly, touched the youth on the shoulder, saying, in a tone as gentle as he could assume, “Why, Louis! what the mischief has got into your head, that you would not hear me?”
Louis started, turned round, and recognising his old friend, reached him his hand.
“You see,” continued Pirad, “you see I have returned safely and happily from my visit to Vienna. Ah! Louis! Louis! that’s a city for you! May I be hanged if ’tis not a noble city! Something new every day; something to please all tastes. Such living! Oh! ’twas admirable! and as for taste in art, you would go mad with the Viennese! As for artists, there are Albrechtsberger and Haydn, Mozart and Salieri,—my dear fellow, youmustgo to Vienna.” With that Pirad threw up his arms as if beating the kettle-drum, (he always did so when excited) and made such comical faces, that his young companion, spite of his sorrow, could not help bursting out a laughing.
“Saker!” cried Pirad, “that is clever; I like to see that you can laugh yet; it is a good sign; and you shall soon give care and trouble to the winds. Ay, ay, where old Peter comes, he banishes despondency; and now, Louis, pluck up like a man, and tell me what all this means. Why do I find you in such a bad humor, as if you had a hole in your skin, or the drums were broken? You know me, lad, for a capital kettle-drummer; there is not another such in the land. I warrant you there are plenty of ninnies who fancy they can beat me; but everybody who is a judge laughs at them. You know, too, I have always wished you well; so out with it, my brave boy, what is the matter with you?”
“Ah!” replied Beethoven, “much more than I can say; I have lost all hope, all trust in myself. You, perhaps, will not understand me, Pirad; you will censure me if I have been doing wrong; yet you have always been a kind friend to me, and I will tell you all my troubles, for indeed, I cannot keep them to myself any longer!” So the melancholy youth told all to his attentive auditor: his unhappy passion for his cousin; his master’s dissatisfaction with him, and his own sad misgivings.
When he had ended, Pirad remained silent awhile, his forefinger laid on his long nose, in an attitude of thoughtfulness. At length, raising his head, he gave his advice as follows:
“This is a sad story, Louis! but it convinces me of the truth of what I used to say: your late excellent father—I say it withall respect for his memory—and your other friends, never knew what was really in you. As for your disappointment in love, that is always a business that brings much trouble and little profit. Women are capricious creatures at best, and no man who has a respect for himself will be a slave to their humors. I was a little touched in that way, myself, when I was something more than your age, but the kettle-drum soon put such nonsense out of my head. My advice is, that you stick to your music, and let her go; my friendship will be a truer accompaniment for you; and that, I need not assure you, will never fail. For what concerns the court-organist, Neefe, I am more vexed; his absurdity is what I did not precisely expect. I will say nothing of Herr Yunker; he forgets music in his zeal for counterpoint; as if he should say, he could not see the wood for the tall trees, or the city for the houses! Have I not heard him assert, ay, with my own living ears, slanderously assert, that the kettle-drum was a superfluous instrument? Only think, Louis, the kettle-drum a superfluous instrument! Donner and —. Did not the great Haydn—bless him for it!—undertake a noble symphony expressly with reference to the kettle-drum? What could you do with “Dies iræ—dies illa,” without the kettle-drum? I played it at Vienna in Don Giovanni, the chapel-master Mozart himself directing. In the spirit scene, Louis, where the statue has ended his first speech, and Don Giovanni in consternation speaks to his attendants, while the anxious heart of the appalled sinner is throbbing, the kettle-drum thundering away—” Here Pirad began to sing with tragical gesticulation. “Yes, Louis, I beat the kettle-drum with a witness, while an icy thrill crept through my bones: and for all that, the kettle-drum is a useless instrument! What blockheads there are in the world! To return to your master,—I wonder at his stupidity, and yet I have no cause to wonder. You are perhaps aware that many wise and sensible people take me for a fool and a ridiculous fellow, because I disagree with them on certain subjects; nevertheless, I know much that wise and sensible people do not know. Now my creed is,that Art is a noble inheritance left us by our ancestors, which it is our duty to enlarge and increase by all honest and honorable means. There are those among the heirs who think the capital already large enough; talk of the impossibility of bettering it—a bird in the hand being worth two in the bush, etc. But such spiritless persons only waste what they know not how to use to advantage. He who has a soul for art will not spare his labor, but consider how he may best do justice to the testator, and render useful the good gift of the Almighty, surely not bestowed for nought! No, my dear boy, I tell you I hold you for an honest heir, who would not waste your substance; who has not only power, but will, to perform his duty. So take courage; be not cast down at trifles; and take my advice and go to Vienna.Himmeltausend!whom have you here above yourself? but there you will find your masters: Mozart, Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and others not so well known, but well worthy your emulation. One year, nay, a few months in Vienna will do more for you than ten years vegetating in this good city. You can soon learn, then, what you are capable of, and what not; only mind what Mozart says, when you are playing in his hearing.”
The young man started up, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing with new enthusiasm, and embraced Pirad warmly. “You are right, my good friend!” he cried, “I will go to Vienna; and shame on any one who despises your counsel! Yes, I will go to Vienna.”
When he told his mother of his resolution she looked grave, and wept when all was ready for his departure. But Pirad, with a sympathizing distortion of countenance, said to her, “Be not disturbed, my good Madame von Beethoven! Louis shall come back to you much livelier than he is now; and even if he does not, why, the lot of the artist is always to suffer some privation, that he may cling more closely to his science. And, madam, you may comfort yourself with the hope that your sonwillbecome a great artist!”
Young Beethoven visited Vienna for the first time in the springof the year 1792. He experienced strange emotions as he entered that great city; perhaps a dim presentiment of what he was in future years to accomplish and to suffer. He was not so fortunate this time as to find Haydn there; that artist had set out for London but a little before. He was disappointed, but the more anxious to make the acquaintance of Mozart.
Albrechtsberger, Haydn’s intimate friend, undertook to introduce him. “But we must not be out of patience, Beethoven,” said he, good humoredly, “if we have to go frequently to the master’s house without finding him. Schickaneder has got him in his clutches at present—for Mozart has written an opera for his company. There are some new and difficult scenes in the piece which the manager wants to arrange, and he gives our friend the master no rest, with his suggestions and contrivances. It is a shame that Mozart has to work for such a man; but he must live, you know, with his wife and children; and I heard Haydn say his place here has only brought him in eight hundred guilders for the last year.”
They went several times, in fact, to Mozart’s house before they found him at home. At last, on a rainy day, one that suited not for an excursion with the Impressario, they were so fortunate as to find him. They heard him from the street, playing; our young hero’s heart beat wildly as they went up the steps, for he looked on that dwelling as the temple of art.
When they were in the hall, they saw through a side door that stood open, Mozart sitting playing the piano; close by him sat a short, fat man, with a shining red face; and at the window Madame Mozart, holding her youngest son, Wolfgang, on her lap, while the eldest was sitting on the floor at her feet.
“Stop, my good sir,” cried the fat man, seizing Mozart’s hand, “I do not altogether like the last! You must alter it, you must indeed! Look you, this is what occurs to me: that slow adagio may stand, if you like; the people do not care about listening to it; they lean back in their seats and gaze at the doors swinging; but that allegro, it does not suit—”
“I believe you are a fool outright, besides having no conscience!” interrupted Mozart, rising angrily from the piano. “I have yielded you far too much, but the overture you have nothing to do with; and I wish I may be hanged if I alter a single note in it for you! I would rather take back the whole opera and throw it into the fire!”
“If you will not write popular music,” grunted the other, “you cannot expect me to have your pieces represented.”
“Very well,” said the master, decidedly, “then we owe each other nothing, and I need plague myself no more about it.”
“Nay, nay,” pursued the fat man, who changed his ground when he saw the composer was really in earnest, “you may leave the overture as it is; it is all the same to me; I only wanted to give you my ideas on the subject.”
“I would not give much for your ideas,” muttered the master; and he turned to receive his new visitors. His face soon brightened up; he greeted Albrechtsberger cordially, and looked inquiringly on his young companion.
“Herr von Beethoven from Bonn,” said Albrechtsberger, presenting his friend; “an excellent composer and skilful musician, who is desirous of making your acquaintance.”
“You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect you to remain and dine with me to day,” said Mozart; and taking Louis by the hand he led him to the window where his wife sat. “This is my Constance,” he continued; “and these are my boys; this little fellow is but three months old”—and throwing his arm round Constance’s neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant.
Louis looked with surprise on the great artist! He had fancied him quite different in his exterior; a tall man, of powerful frame, like Händel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a furred coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season; his pale face showed the evidences of long continued ill health; his large, bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius that had created Idomeneus and Don Giovanni.
“So you, too, are a composer?” asked the fat man, coming upto Beethoven; “Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do; lay yourself out for the opera; the opera is the great thing!”
Louis looked at him in surprise and silence.
“Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous Impressario,” said Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh.
“Yes,” continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, “I tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side of it; if Mozart would only be led by me he could do well! I say, if you will compose me something,—(I have written half-a-dozen operas myself)—by the way, here is a season ticket; I shall be happy if you will visit my theatre; to-morrow night we shall perform the Magic Flute; it is an admirable piece, some of the music is first rate, some not so good, and I myself play the Papageno.”
“You ought to do something in that line,” said Mozart, laughing, “Your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door-hinge.”
The Impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an important air, “I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a secondary thing in the opera, for I know the public; however, I have some good singers; and as for myself, even you, Mozart, will acknowledge my merit one of these days.” And he went on to tell them of an ingenious and comical arrangement he had devised in the dress of the new part.
They were all much amused with it; and the Impressario continued to repeat, “I can tell you, I know the public.”
Here several persons, invited guests of the composer, came in; among them Mozart’s pupils, Sutzmayr and Wolfl, with the Abbe Stadler and the excellent tenorist, Peyerl. After an hour or so spent in agreeable conversation, enlivened by an air from Mozart, they went to the dinner table. Schickaneder here played his part well, doing ample justice to the viands and wine. The dinner was really excellent; and the host, notwithstanding his appearance of feeble health, was in first rate spirits, abounding in gayety, which soon communicated itself to the rest of the company.
After they had dined, and the coffee had been brought in,Mozart took his new acquaintance to the window, apart from the others, and asked, “Did you come through Leipzig?”
Beethoven replied in the affirmative.
“Did you remain long there?”
“I merely passed through.”
“That is a pity! I love Leipzig; I have many dear friends there; the dearest, my good old Doles, is dead some time since; yet I have others, and when you return thither you may stay longer; I will give you letters to them. But now, I beg of you, tell me how it stands with yourself, and what you have learned? If I can be of any service to you, command me.”
Louis pressed the master’s hand, which was cordially extended to him, and without hesitation gave his history, and informed him of his plans; concluding by asking his advice.
Mozart listened with a benevolent smile; and when he had ended, said, “Come, you must let me hear you play.” With that he led him to an admirable instrument in another apartment; opened it, and invited him to select a piece of music.
“Will you give me a thema?” asked Louis.
The master looked surprised; but without reply wrote some lines on a leaf of paper and handed it to the young man. Beethoven looked over it; it was a difficult chromatic fuguetheme, the intricacy of which demanded much skill and experience. But without being discouraged, he collected all his powers and began to execute it.
Mozart did not conceal the surprise and pleasure he felt when Louis first began to play. The youth perceived the impression he had made, and was stimulated to more spirited efforts. As he proceeded the master’s pale cheeks flushed; his eyes sparkled; and stepping on tiptoe to the open door, he whispered to his guests, “Listen, I beg of you! you shall have something worth hearing.”
That moment rewarded all the pains, and banished the apprehensions of the young aspirant after excellence. Louis went through his trial piece with admirable spirit, sprang up, and wentto Mozart; seizing both his hands and pressing them to his throbbing heart, he murmured, “I also am an artist!”
“You are, indeed!” cried Mozart, “and no common one! And what may be wanting, you will not fail to find, and make your own. The grand thing, the living spirit, you bore within you from the beginning, as all do who possess it. Come back soon to Vienna, my young friend—very soon! Father Haydn, Albrechtsberger, friend Stadler and I will receive you with open arms; and if you need advice or assistance, we will give it you to the best of our ability.”
The other guests crowded round Beethoven, and hailed him as a worthy pupil of art! even the silly Impressario looked at him with vastly increased respect, and said, “I can tell you, I know the public,—well, we will talk more of the matter this evening over a glass of wine.”
“I also am an artist!” repeated Louis to himself, when he returned late to his lodgings. Much improved in spirits, and re-inspired with confidence in himself, he returned to Bonn; and ere long put in practice his scheme of paying Vienna a second visit.
This he accomplished at the Elector’s expense, being sent by him. He did not, indeed, see Mozart again, nor could he even find the grave of his deceased friend. But the spirit of the illustrious master was with him; and the world knows well, how Father Haydn honored the last request of his friend.
And thus I close this brief account of the early years of the greatest master of modern times. His boyhood was not free from care and suffering; his youth was troubled; and we who are familiar with the events of his life, know how much he endured as a man, even while his hours were passed in preparing “joy, pure, spiritual joy” for us all. But he was a true artist; he fulfilled his noble mission; and that consciousness, and his earnest longings after the pure and the good, gave him strength to bear the woes of life, strength to pass through the dark valley of death, whither he went down rejoicing, as a conqueror to victory.
His first disappointment is immortalized in his song of “Adelaide.” In his opera “Leonore,” he has loved to remember Truth, while forgetting the deserts of Faithlessness; and while his great symphonies paint the strifes of humanity, does not his “Egmont” proclaim the victory of the falling hero? But to still deeper and higher feelings has he appealed—exalted devotion, joy heaven-born; hope eternal; faith in Infinite Love. Never shall his sacred compositions cease to awaken the purest and loftiest emotions that can sway the human heart.