[Illustration: _When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid
his face in his mother’s dress_ (Page 17)]
_Life Stories for Young People_
LUDWIG VAN
BEETHOVEN
_Translated from the German of
Franz Hoffmann_
BY
GEORGE P. UPTON
_Translator of “Memories,” etc._
THIRD PRINTING
[Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1910
Copyright
A. C. McClurg & Co.
1904
Published October 1, 1904
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
Preface
The life-story of Beethoven, contained in these pages, is a _résumé_ of
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.
Contents
In Childhood 11
The Walk 26
New Friends 49
A Merciful Punishment 65
In Vienna 83
The End 108
Appendix 117
List of Illustrations
When the child saw him he shrank back afraid, and hid his face
in his mother’s dress _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
With an exclamation of joy he embraced Wegeler 34
Beethoven approached within a couple of steps of the Elector,
the latter scrutinizing him with a sharp glance 77
He had lost his hearing. Ries tried to console and calm him 109
{lyre} Beethoven {lyre}
_In Childhood_
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.
_The Walk_
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.”
[Illustration: _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.
“I thank you for your kindness, Father,” he gently replied, “but you
praise me too highly. I am not yet worthy of it, but I hope and shall
strive to deserve it sometime. But now, what can I do to show my
gratitude for your gracious words?”
“Repeat what you have just played, my son,” said the father. “Your
playing has touched my old heart powerfully. Those were not earthly
tones; they were the harmonies and melodies of heaven.”
“No, no; that was only a free Fantasie of my own,” said Ludwig. “To
repeat it would be somewhat of a task, but I will gladly play something
else for you, if you will wait a moment.”
The father nodded assent and retired to a dark corner, where he could
abandon himself to his anticipated enjoyment without any danger of being
disturbed. Beethoven ran his fingers over the keys several times, as if
searching for a theme, until he found a soft old melody, which he played
through in simple, noble style, and then varied with marvellous skill
and ingenuity. As the ravishing tones powerfully and ever more
powerfully rang out, the church gradually filled up. The monks slipped
in in groups. The Father Head Cook left his kitchen and the Father
Doorkeeper his door to listen to the young man’s playing, reports of
which had quickly spread through the abbey. The Abbot and the Father
Lector also came, in Wegeler’s company, went up into the organ-loft, and
seated themselves just behind Beethoven, who, lost in inspiration, was
not aware of their presence. He continued playing variations until the
theme was completely exhausted, and then, weary and exhausted himself,
bowed his head upon his breast.
A unanimous “Brava, brava,” resounded through the church. The Abbot
stepped forward, tapped him gently on the shoulder, and said with
emotion: “Those were indeed sounds from another world, and they have
penetrated my very soul. Accept my thanks, my young friend. You are
truly a master, and a great future lies before you if God preserve your
life and health, which I doubt not He will do.”
The Lector also spoke words of praise to the young man. The Father
Organist bowed low before him. The organ-blower emerged from his closet
and with astonishment regarded the young man who had accomplished such
prodigies and unprecedented feats in his art. “Truly,” said the homely
old man, “if he played the organ here I would never get tired. My old
arms would work the bellows from morning to night.”
Beethoven in the meantime accepted these praises somewhat coolly and
indifferently, and contented himself by expressing his thanks with an
awkward bow.
“He is always thus, your reverence,” said Wegeler, as he seated himself
again with the Abbot and the Father Lector at the wine in the cool
refectory—“a sound kernel in a rough shell; a jewel of the purest water,
which needs only a little polish to glisten at its real value. He is not
to blame for it so much as his unhappy domestic conditions. How can he
have politeness and ease of manner when there is not even daily bread in
the house? I beg you therefore to treat him with gracious indulgence.”
“It is entirely unnecessary to intercede for this young genius,” replied
the Abbot. “His magnificent playing has impressed me so deeply that I
can overlook his lack of courtesy, though really his deportment is a
little awkward. One must bear with everything in a great genius,—and
such he is, for, after what we have heard, there cannot be the slightest
doubt of it. I should greatly like to talk with him a little while.”
“I should not be surprised if he had already slipped out of the church
and were again roving about the wood,” said Wegeler smiling. “I know his
ways. He does not crave praise like many other musicians. It is
absolutely painful to him to be commended to his face. He prefers to
escape from it and bury himself in solitude. He is always that way, and
one must take him as one finds him. The rich treasures of his soul make
thousandfold compensation for his external roughness.”
“Well, we shall have to acquiesce in his absence,” replied the Abbot;
“but promise me, dear Wegeler, that you will soon bring this wonderful
artist here again.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” answered Wegeler. “Ludwig can do his best
in the company of cultivated and sympathetic persons only, and I hope I
shall succeed in introducing him into a circle of dear friends in Bonn
where he will surely find a second home. But now, your reverence, it is
time for me to take my departure and hunt up my young runaway friend, so
that we may get back to Bonn in good season.”
Once again the glasses were filled, and they were clinked for the last
time with the wish for an early and happy “Wiedersehen,”[16] and Wegeler
begged to be kept in affectionate remembrance. He then hastened in the
direction of Bonn, and had been gone hardly a quarter of an hour when he
found his friend Beethoven sitting upon a stump on the side of the road,
lost in deep thought.
“Well, my fine fellow,” said Wegeler to him, “what induced you to run
away from the abbey so secretly and without saying good-bye?”
Beethoven turned about with an abrupt motion of resentment and shook his
thick, curly hair, which fell about his neck like the mane of a lion. “I
could not stay any longer and indulge in empty chattering after the
Genius of Art in the church had struggled with me and bidden me to soar.
I had to get away from it and out into the open air, into the solitude,
where, as I know by experience, I can most easily find my way back to
the common places of life.”
“But the Abbot regretted that he could not speak with you again,” said
Wegeler.
“Some other time,” replied Beethoven. “He is a kind, friendly man, whom
I appreciate and esteem; but he must let me go my way, undisturbed, if I
am to visit him again.”
“And he will do that, stubborn-headed one,” replied Wegeler, laughingly.
“Only play for him a little from time to time and he will always be a
benevolent patron and have all possible patience with your caprices. We
do not always know how, when, or where such a man may be of service to
us. A visit with him is always a genuine recreation and a comfort to the
heart. We will soon revisit Heisterbach, will we not, Ludwig?”
Beethoven nodded assent. “But it is time now to go home. The sun is
already low, and I have a presentiment that things are not as they
should be at home. Let us hasten, Wegeler.”
They quickened their pace. Soon they reached the Rhine, crossed it, and
went on to Bonn, which was already growing dim in the gathering
twilight. When their ways separated they parted from one another, but
Wegeler promised he would certainly visit Beethoven the next evening,
and hoped that he would bring him some good and cheering news. With a
last cordial shake of the hand they separated, and Beethoven flew rather
than walked through the streets, that he might reach his dwelling in the
narrow and gloomy Bonn Gasse as quickly as possible; for it was already
late, and the house door might be closed with the coming of darkness.
_New Friends_
Wegeler kept his word. With a beaming countenance he appeared at
Beethoven’s house the next evening and exultantly said: “I have
succeeded. Congratulate yourself, friend Ludwig! I shall introduce you
this evening to a family with whom you will feel perfectly at home.”
“And what kind of a family might that be?” said Beethoven,
distrustfully. “You know I am not adapted to all the world, and that all
the world is not adapted to me.”
“But this family is in no way of the character which you so sweepingly
apply to the world,” replied Wegeler. “You will find it a model of the
noblest sociality and a place where art and science are most zealously
cherished. It is the family of the widow, Frau Hofrathin von
Breuning,[17] to which I have permission to introduce you.”
“Ah! the Frau Hofrathin von Breuning,” cried Ludwig, with a perceptibly
brighter countenance. “Truly that is something different from what I
mean by ‘all the world.’ I have heard of this family. They are lovely
people.”
“The best in the world, Ludwig,” eagerly protested Wegeler. “So hasten.
Get yourself in readiness. They are expecting us immediately.”
“I am already dressed,” replied Beethoven, haughtily. “I have no other
coat than this threadbare one. If they won’t have me in this, they shall
not have me at all.”
“Unruly, stubborn, cross-grained fellow that you are!” exclaimed
Wegeler, with a laugh. “Will you never learn to master your capricious
nature? Come along even in your threadbare coat. These dear people into
whose circle I shall take you care only for your heart and disposition,
not for your clothes. You are, like all geniuses, a most ridiculous
fellow. But that does not signify. You already know them, and
consequently you will learn to appreciate them. Frankly, you should not
appear wilful and capricious, but behave like a polite youth, and
occasionally perform something on the piano in your own style. They are
very fond of music and have much of it at their home. The Elector’s
chapelmaster Ries,[18] whom you know, and other members of the chapel,
often enjoy pleasant intercourse in this hospitable home, and we
certainly shall meet some of them there this evening.”
“Now, that is a splendid suggestion,” said Beethoven, with gleaming
eyes. “Then I can appear as I am. Yes, they shall learn to know me! I
have composed to-day a trio for pianoforte, violin, and violoncello. We
will take it with us. If a violin and violoncello can be had I will play
the piano, and they will open their eyes, these people, when they hear
my composition.”
“Oho! you have plenty of confidence that you have made something
particularly good and beautiful,” said Wegeler in gentle banter.
“Certainly I have,” replied Beethoven, with self-assurance. “I tell you
I have created something entirely new, which will please every one of
good musical taste and will be widely imitated.”
“But consider, Ludwig; you will be judged not by dilettanti, but by
genuine connoisseurs,” said Wegeler, earnestly.
“All the better,” proudly replied Ludwig. “I never intend to compose for
ignorance and stupidity.”
“Well, then, take your trio. We will make a trial of it,” said Wegeler.
“Or, what is better, give it to me. I will say that it is a composition
by one of my acquaintances. If it does not please, we need not mention
your name; but if it pleases, as I wish and hope it may, then, at least,
you may be sure they will not flatter or over-praise you.”
“That is all right,” answered Ludwig, as he handed the manuscript to his
friend, who placed it in his pocket. “Now I am ready.”
“Then we will start, for they will be waiting for us at the Breunings’,”
replied Wegeler.