Here, at the end, let those measures of the Ninth Symphony sound: no
dirge; but a paean of joy. For in that choral ecstasy of Beethoven's
hymn to human brotherhood speaks the whole meaning and purpose of the
life that was.
Why have I detained you for a tale so plain? What was he but an
obscure young painter, thirty years old, with his way to make? Why
should I point him out to you among the millions? Because he was my
friend? No. Because he is yours. Because I thought I saw in him the
seeds of greatness? No. Because the seeds of greatness which were in
him are in you; and he shall make you see them.
I give him to you young men to be your friend, loyal and high-minded.
I give him to you young women to be your lover, clean of body and of
soul. He will be worthy of your friendship and of your love, and you
shall be worthy of his in return.
I give him to you in all the beauty of his youth and he shall never
grow old, but he shall himself become one of the heroic friends, one
of the great companions. I give you his soul to carry in your own, a
life within a life. Through his eyes you may see the wonder and glory
of the beautiful world which he saw so joyously. Let his generous
heart beat through yours his passion for an ideal society and a better
time than ours.
He is to be immortal. And it is you who must make him so. Let him
kindle in your hearts a fire which will not go out. He that would have
made great canvases glow with the might of his spirit and the splendor
of his imagination shall not now live by art alone, but by the living
deeds of you. You shall be his masterpieces. You, immortal youth,
shall be his immortality.
Away from the dust and heat of the day, when the loud world crowds and
clamors, he shall make for you, all in a dim, cool chamber of your
souls, a sanctuary--a little space of sacred friendship--where you may
enter and, closing the door, renew your vows.
You may have him to stand beside you in hours of triumph, and in hours
of disaster; steadier of your aim, sustainer of your courage.
Sit in the twilight with folded hands and he shall speak to you. When
moonbeams pour their silent music into your chamber at dead of night
and your sight rejoices in them, it is he. Hearken to the beat of surf
along a lonely shore; to the song of the hermit thrush in dense
thickets; to the whisper of the night wind among the leaves: "It is
he!" Kindle to the charm and mystery of a face in the crowd, and "It
is he!" Thrill at the return of many-blossomed spring, at the strength
of men, at the grace of women, and your joy shall be his joy. In every
visitation to you of the truth that not by hate, not by blows, but
only by the love of the human heart can the world be won from its
evil, he shall live, he shall live again. And the color and rhythm of
life, the joy of begetting which he never knew, the joy of creating
which he knew so abundantly, when it is yours shall be his also. And
so all that is highest and best in you, all that inspired him and that
he inspired, shall be the works of art by which he is remembered.
Immortal youth, let him be comrade and friend to you as he was to me;
let him live forever in your young hearts, himself forever young,
bathed in the glory of eternal dawn.