In the pause that followed, the Music-Lover let himself drift quietly
with the thoughts of peace and concord awakened by this loveliest of
andantes.
The beginning of the _Scherzo_ found him, somehow or other, in a new
relation to the visible image of the orchestra. The weird, almost
supernatural music, murmured at first by the 'cellos and
double-basses, then proclaimed by the horns as if by the trumpet of
Fate itself; the repetition of the same struggle of emotions which had
marked the first movement, but now more tense, more passionate, more
human, the strange, fantastic mingling of comedy and tragedy in the
_Trio_ and the _Fugue_ with its abrupt questions and answers; all this
seemed to him like a moving picture of the inner life of man.
And while he followed it, the other half of his mind was watching the
players, no longer as a group, a unit of disciplined action, but as
individuals, persons for each of whom life had a distinct colour, and
tone, and meaning.
His eyes rested unconsciously on the pale, dreamy face of the second
violinist; the black, rugged brows of the trumpeter; the long, gentle
countenance of the flute-player with its flexible lips and blond
beard.
The grizzled head of the 'cellist bent over his instrument with an air
of quiet devotion. The burly form of the player of the double-bassoon,
behind his rare and awkward instrument, waiting for his time to come
in, had the look of a man who could not be surprised or troubled by
anything. One of the bass-violinists had the rough-hewn figure and the
divinely chiseled, sorrow-lighted face of Lincoln, the others were
children of the everyday. The clarionettist, with his dark beard and
high temples, might have sat for Rembrandt's picture of "The
Philosopher." The rotund kettle-drummer, with his smooth head and
sparkling eyes, restlessly turning his little keys and bending down to
listen to the tuning of his grotesque music-pots, seemed impatient for
the part in the score when he was to build the magical bridge, on
which the symphony passes, without a break, from the third to the last
movement.
"All these persons," said the inner voice of the Music-Lover (he
listening all the while to the entangling and unfolding, dismissing
and recalling of the various motives)--"all these persons have their
own lives and characters. They have known joys and sorrows, failures
and successes. They have hoped and feared. All that Beethoven poured
into this music from his experience of poverty, of conflict with
physical weakness and the cruel limitations of Fate, of baffled
desire, of loneliness, of strong resolution, of immortal courage and
faith, these players in their measure and degree have known.
"Even now they may be in love, in hatred, in friendship, in jealousy,
in gloom, in resignation, in courage, or in happiness. What strange
paths lie behind them; what laughter and what tears have they shared;
what secret ties unite them, one with another, and what hidden
barriers rise between those who do not understand and those who do not
care! There are many stories running along underneath this music, some
of them just begun, some long since ended, some never to find a true
completion: little stories of many lands, humourous and pathetic,
droll and capricious legends, merry jests, vivid romances, serious
tales of patience and devotion.
"And out of these stories, because they are human, has come the
humanity of the players: the thing which makes it possible for them to
feel this music, and to play it, not as a machine would play, grinding
it out with dead monotony, but with all the colour and passion of life
itself.
"Why should we not know something of this hidden background of the
orchestra? Why should not somebody tell one of the stories that is
waiting here? Not I, but some one familiar with this region, who has
trodden its paths and shared in its labours; not a mere lover of
music, but a musician."
Here the inner voice which had been running along through the
_Scherzo_ and the _Trio_ and the _Recapitulation_, died away quietly
with the _pianissimo_ passage in which the double-basses and the drum
carry one through the very heart of mystery; and the Music-Lover found
himself intensely waiting for the great _Finale_.
Now it comes, long-expected, surprising, victorious, sweeping all the
instruments into its mighty current, pausing for a moment to take up
the most delicate and mysterious melody of the _Scherzo_ (changed as
if by magic into something new and strange), and then moving on again,
with hurrying, swelling tide, until it breaks in the swift-rolling,
thunderous billows of immeasurable jubilation.
The Music-Lover drew a long breath. He sat motionless in his seat. The
storm of applause did not disturb him. He did not notice that the
audience had risen. He was looking at the orchestra, already
beginning to melt away; but he did not really see them.
Presently a hand was stretched out from the second row behind him, and
touched him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw the face of his
friend the Dreamer, the Brushwood Boy, with his bright eyes and
disheveled hair. And beside him was the radiant presence of the Girl
Who Understood.
"_Lieber Meister,_" said the Boy, "you are coming now with us. There
is a bite and a sup, and a pipe and an open fire, waiting for you in
our room--and I have a story to read you. _Bitte komm!_"