It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter’s evening I called upon
Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterwards to sup with
me. In passing through some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly.
“Hush!” he said--“what sound is that? It is from my Sonata in F!” he
said, eagerly. “Hark! how well it is played!”
[Illustration: BEETHOVEN]
It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The
player went on; but suddenly there was a break, then the voice of
sobbing: “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful; it is utterly
beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the
concert at Cologne!”
“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets, when there is
no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”
“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really
good music. But it is of no use.”
Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.
“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”
“I shall play to her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is
feeling--genius--understanding. I shall play to her, and she will
understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the
door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him,
leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl,
with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were
cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned towards us
as we entered.
“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to
enter. I am a musician.”
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave--somewhat annoyed.
“I--I also overheard something of what you said,” continued my friend.
“You wish to hear--that is, you would like--that is-- Shall I play for
you?”
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so
pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken, and
all smiled involuntarily.
“Thank you!” said the shoemaker; “but our harpsichord is so wretched,
and we have no music.”
“No music!” echoed my friend. “How, then, does the young lady--”
He paused, and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw
that she was blind.
“I--I entreat your pardon!” he stammered. “But I had not perceived
before. Then you play by ear?”
“Entirely.”
“And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?”
“I used to hear a lady practising near us, when we lived at Brühl two
years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I
walked to and fro outside to listen to her.”
She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly
before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first
chord than I knew what would follow--how grand he would be that night.
And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I
hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He
was inspired; and from the instant that his fingers began to wander
along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter
and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former
laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward,
and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the
end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart
should break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we
were all bound in a strange dream, and feared only to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and
went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a
flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before,
and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the
chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head
dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed
absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet
reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone; “who and what are
you?”
The composer smiled as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently,
kindly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata
in F.
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,
“Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
“Play to us once more--only once more!”
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone
brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged head and
massive figure. “I shall improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” looking
up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the
keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which
crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over
the dark earth.
This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time--a sort of
grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came
a swift, breathless, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and
uncertainty, and vague, impulsive terror, which carried us away on its
rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning
towards the door--“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.
He paused and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of
the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said, hurriedly; “I shall come again, and
give the young lady some lessons. Farewell! I shall soon come again!”
They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their
door till we were out of sight and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that
sonata while I can yet remember it.”
We did so, and he sat over it till long past day-dawn. And this was the
origin of that “Moonlight Sonata” with which we are all so fondly
acquainted.--ANONYMOUS.
* * * * *
Go to the ant, thou sluggard;
Consider her ways, and be wise:
Which having no chief, overseer, or ruler,
Provideth her meat in the summer,
And gathereth her food in the harvest.
--_From “The Book of Proverbs.”_