Chapter IX: Preface (9)

“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 went to 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] It may be interesting to the readers of the above sketch to know something of this remarkable individual. Peter Pirad was born in Hamburg; his father was a dealer in grain and distiller; his business, though coarse, was lucrative, and Peter, his youngest son, was destined to follow the same. The son had, however, little inclination thereto; his whole heart and mind were bent to the science of music; and his father resolved, when he was but eight years old, to bind him apprentice to a town musician, since he was firmly persuaded that “nothing better could be done with the young rascal.”

His master soon discovered Peter was not so dull as seemed at first; and after a course of instruction, when Telemann, a director of music in the city, heard him play on the viol and horn, and beat the kettle-drum, he became so much interested in the boy that he devoted several hours to giving him lessons, in recompense for which kindness Peter assisted whenever Telemann’s compositions were performed, playing the kettle-drum in a manner that astonished all who heard him.

When Telemann died, Peter was about twenty-four. He remained a year longer in Hamburg, and prosecuted his higher studies under Philip Emanuel Bach. His father died in 1768; he had buried his mother a year before. He now left Hamburg for the first time in his life, to obtain a knowledge of the world. After some adventures he turned his course to Vienna, thence to Saltzburg, where he became acquainted with the court trumpeter, an intimate friend of Mozart’s family. Schachtner was master not only of the trumpet, but also of the _viola di gamba_, a now forgotten instrument. Pirad became warmly attached to him; without doubt the excellence of Schachtner stimulated him to higher proficiency as a kettle-drummer, for he ascribed his enthusiasm on that instrument to the impressions received during his stay in Saltzburg. From Saltzburg he went to Vienna; from Vienna to Prague, Dresden, and Berlin, where he made himself personally acquainted with all the great masters then living. The year 1788 found him at Bonn, where he beat the kettle-drum in the electoral chapel. He always looked upon Bonn as his home, till the outbreak of the French Revolution, when he became alarmed, and then there was no rest for the sole of his foot. In the later years of his life he used to speak with great emphasis of a bedstead, painted red, in which he had been often frightened from sleep for the space of half a year, because it reminded him of the guillotine.

In Copenhagen, where he drew breath quietly after his terror, he applied himself to his favorite science. Naumann’s Orpheus so moved him that he was obliged to keep his bed several days. Except Hoffmann, and the excellent violin player, Rolla, in Dresden, I know of no artist on whose physical constitution the hearing of delightful music produced such violent, even pernicious effects, as on that of Peter Pirad.

Till this time Peter had known little or nothing of love; here he became enamored of his landlady, the widow of a Danish ship lieutenant, a dame of goodly proportions, being about as tall and twice as thick as himself. He married this colossal fair one. His first son, even in his sixteenth year, was taller than his father. If I am not mistaken, he is yet living, a painter, in Riga.

In the last years of his life Pirad settled at Hamburg, whence he made frequent and long excursions. At length his journeyings ceased at Flensburg, where, in 1822, he died, peaceful, happy, and full of years. As a performer on the kettle-drum, he has seldom or never been surpassed. He had also the most thorough knowledge of counterpoint; played on many instruments with skill and precision; and was perfect on the organ and double bass. But his kettle-drum was everything to him. He was incessantly occupied with it. He kept it in as perfect tune as the most devoted violin virtuoso ever kept his instrument. Not an indent was to be seen in it; the parchment was so fine and transparent it looked as though it would burst at every stroke, and yet Pirad would play without injuring it from the highest pianissimo to the deepest forte. He suffered none else, however, to meddle with it; and I verily believe, notwithstanding his characteristic timidity and gentleness, would have murdered any body outright, who should have spoiled his instrument.

It may readily be conceived that his peculiarities caused him many vexations. He lived continually in disputes with his landlord and neighbors; for it was not unusual with him when, in the middle of the night, a new idea came into his head, to spring out of bed and beat his kettle-drum till the whole neighborhood was in an uproar.

His language was a mangled mixture of almost all the different German dialects, varied with broken phrases of Italian, French, and Latin. With his wife he murdered Danish, which he understood as imperfectly as she did German; so that each seldom comprehended all that the other meant to say; yet they always agreed.

Many amusing anecdotes might be related of Pirad, but the space allotted to a note is already filled up with this brief account of the leading incidents of his life.

THE MISSION OF GENIUS.

It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; one of those days late in the season, when the luxuriant beauty of summer is the more precious, because it must soon depart. The serenity of the skies, the blandness of the atmosphere, deepening to a refreshing coolness as the day drew near its close, the bright green of the foliage, and the clear blue of the waters, added joyousness to the wonted cheerfulness of a holiday in the fair city of Bonn and its neighborhood. Numerous boats, with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other’s conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet. But we have nought to do with any of these.

At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The sides, almost precipitous, were richly lined with verdure; the trees overhung it so closely that at noon-day this sweet nook was dark as twilight; and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream. A winding path led down to the secluded spot.

Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.

A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His home was an unhappy one. He had been treated from infancy with harshness by his father. His brothers received hourly indulgences; Louis had none. They were praised for their application to study, or pardoned when they played truant; Louis was called a dunce, and punished severely for the slightest neglect. His brothers jeered and rallied him continually; he responded by sullen silence. The father boasted of them as his pride, and denounced Louis as an ungrateful blockhead, who had no aptitude nor taste for learning.

Besides that this cruel partiality sank deep into the boy’s heart, and nourished a feeling of jealousy and discontent, Louis felt within himself that he in some degree deserved the charge of neglecting his lessons. His general studies were utterly distasteful and disgusting to him: and he found application to them impossible. His whole soul was given up to one passion--the love of music.

Oh, how precious to him were the moments of solitude! He lived for this--even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber, till nature yielded to exhaustion. But to be alone with nature--in her grand woods--under the blue sky--with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony! how did his heart pant for this communion! Welcome, thrice welcome, the permission given to spend this holiday as he pleased; and while others of his age joined lively parties of their friends, he stole forth from the busy city, and wandered far as he dared, in search of solitude.--His breast seemed to expand, and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light breeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirit, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy. Yes--the lonely--friendless boy, to whom no father’s heart was open, was happy--beyond measure happy!

Blessed is the poet; for him there is an inner life, more glowing, more radiant, more intense than the life of other men! For him there is a voice in nature, mute to others, that whispers of peace and love, and immortal joy. To him the visible enshrines the invisible: the earthly is but the shell of the god-like, with which his spirit claims kindred. Wo to him, if he, the appointed interpreter of Heaven, do not reveal to men less favored the utterings of that mysterious voice; if he suffer not the light within him to radiate a glory, that it may enlighten the earth!

The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man apparently middle-aged, and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him.

“Come back, Louis,” said the stranger; “it is not so dark as it seems here: you have time enough this hour, to return to the city.”

The stranger’s voice had a thrilling, though melancholy sweetness; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water.

“I have watched you for a long while,” said the stranger.

“You might have done better,” returned the lad, reddening at the thought of having been subjected to espionage.

“Peace--boy,” said his companion: “I love you, and have done all for your good.”

“You love me?” repeated Louis, surprised. “I have never met you before.”

“Yet I know you well. Does that surprise you? I know your thoughts also. You love music better than aught else in the world; but you despair of excellence--because you cannot follow the rules prescribed.”

Louis looked at the speaker with open eyes.

“Your masters, also, despair of you. The court organist accuses you of conceit and obstinacy; your father reproaches you; and all your acquaintance pronounce you a boy of tolerable abilities, spoiled by an ill disposition.”

The lad sighed.

“The gloom of your condition increases your distaste to all studies not directly connected with music, for you feel the need of her consolations. Your compositions, wild, melancholy as they are, embody your own feelings, and are understood by none of the connoisseurs.”

“Who are you?” cried Louis--in deep emotion.

“No matter who I am; I come to give you a little advice, my boy. I compassionate, yet I revere you. I revere your heaven-imparted genius; I commisserate the woes those very gifts must bring upon you through life!”

The boy lifted his eyes again; those of the speaker seemed so bright, yet withal so melancholy, that he was possessed with a strange fear. “I see you,” continued the unknown solemnly, “exalted above homage, but lonely and unblessed in your elevation. Yet the lot of such is fixed by fate; and ’tis better, perhaps, that one should consume in the sacred fire, than that the many should lack illumination.”

“I do not understand you;” said Louis--wishing to put an end to the interview.

“That is not strange, since you do not understand yourself,” said the stranger. “As for me--I pay homage to a future sovereign!” and he suddenly snatched up the boy’s hand and kissed it. Louis was convinced of his insanity.

“A sovereign in art”--continued the unknown. “The sceptre that Haydn and Mozart have held, shall pass without interregnum to your hands. When you are acknowledged in all Germany for the worthy successor of these great masters--when all Europe wonders at the name of BEETHOVEN--remember me.”

What a prediction to the obscure lad, whom his father, a tenor singer in the Elector’s chapel, almost daily called a blockhead!

“But you have much ground to pass over,” resumed the stranger, “ere you reach that glorious summit. Reject not the aid of science; of literature; there are studies now disagreeable, that still may prove serious helps to you in the cultivation of music. Contemn not _any_ learning; for Art is a coy damsel, and would have her votaries all-accomplished! Above all--_trust yourself_. Whatever may happen, give no place to despondency. They blame you for your disregard of rules; make for yourself higher and vaster rules! You will not be appreciated here; but there are other places in the world: in Vienna”--

“Oh, if I could only go to Vienna;” sighed the lad.

“You _shall_ go there, and remain;” said the stranger, “and there too you shall see me, or hear from me. Adieu now--_auf wiedersehen_.” (“To meet again.”)

And before the boy could recover from his astonishment, the stranger was gone. It was nearly dark, and he could see nothing of him as he walked through the wood. He could not, however, spend much time in search; for he dreaded the reproaches of his father for having stayed out so late.

All the way home he was trying to remember where he had seen the unknown, whose features, though he could not say to whom they belonged, were not unfamiliar to him. It occurred to him at last, that while playing before the Elector one day, a countenance similar in benevolent expression, had looked upon him from the circle surrounding the sovereign. But known or unknown, the “auf wiedersehen” of his late companion rang in his ears, while the friendly counsel sank deep in his heart.

Traversing rapidly the streets of Bonn, young Beethoven was soon at his own door. An unusual bustle within attracted his attention. To his eager questions the servants replied that their master was dying. Louis had ever loved his father, notwithstanding his harshness; and shocked to hear of his danger, he flew to his apartment. His brothers were there, also his mother, weeping; and the physician supported his father, who seemed in great pain.

The elder Beethoven lingered long enough to know, and to be touched by, the filial attentions of his son; when he died, it was with affectionate regret that Louis closed his eyes.

* * * * *

Much needed, and of incalculable use, were the counsel and comfort of the unknown friend. They sustained the youthful composer amid the railleries, the reproaches, the anger of all who knew him in his native city, excited by what they termed his scorn of the laws of harmony; they sustained him against discouragement and self-distrust, nourished by continual censure in a character naturally gloomy and eccentric; against temptations to gain popularity by humoring the prevalent taste; against the desire of triumphing at once over his enemies by showing them that he could be great, even on their own ground. Still more--they sustained him amidst the anguish of a first and unhappy love; the only passion that ever divided with Art the empire over his soul. Most of all, they sustained him under the want of appreciation where he had confidently looked for it. When the Elector, having promised him after Neefe the place of court organist, sent him to Vienna to complete his studies under the direction of Haydn, that great man failed to perceive how fine a genius had been entrusted to him. Nature had endowed them with opposite qualities; the inspiration of Haydn was under the dominion of order and method; that of Beethoven sported with both, and set both at defiance. When Haydn was questioned of the merits of his pupil he would answer with a shrug of the shoulders--“He executes extremely well.” If his early productions were cited as giving evidence of talent and fire, he would reply--“He touches the instrument admirably.” To Mozart belonged the praise of having recognized at once, and proclaimed to his friends, the wonderful powers of the young composer.

Years passed on, and Beethoven continued to reside at Vienna with his two brothers, who had followed him thither, and took the charge of his domestic establishment, so as to leave him entirely at leisure for composition. His reputation had advanced gradually but surely, and he now stood high, if not highest, among living masters. The prediction was beginning to be accomplished.

* * * * *

It was a mild evening in the latter part of September, and a large company was assembled at the charming villa of the Baron Raimond von Wetzlar, situated near Schœnbrunn. They had been invited to be present at a musical contest between the celebrated Wolff and Beethoven. The part of Wolff was espoused with great enthusiasm by the Baron; that of Beethoven by the Prince de Lichnowsky; and, as in all such matters, partisans swarmed on either side. The popular talk among the music-loving Viennese was everywhere discussion of the merits of the rival candidates for fame.

Our hero was walking in one of the avenues of the illuminated garden, accompanied by his pupil, Ferdinand Ries. The melancholy that marked the composer’s temperament, seemed more than ever to have the ascendency over him.

“I confess to you, Ferdinand,” said he--apparently in continuation of some previous conversation, “I regret my engagement with Sonnleithner.”

“And yet you have written the opera?”

“I have completed it, but not to my own satisfaction. And I shall object to its being produced first at Vienna.”

“Why so? The Viennese are your friends.”

“For that very reason I will not appeal to their judgment; I want an impartial one. I distrust my genius for the opera.”

“How can that be possible?”

“It is my intimacy with Salieri that has inclined me that way; nature did not suggest it; I can never feel at home there. Ferdinand, I am self-upbraided, and should be, were the applause of a thousand spectators sounding in my ears.”

“Nay,” said the student, “the artist assumes too much who judges himself.”

“But I have not judged myself.”

“Who then has dared insinuate a doubt of your success?”

Beethoven hesitated; his impressions, his convictions, would seem superstition to his companion, and he was not prepared to encounter either raillery or ridicule. Just then, the host with a party of the guests met them, exclaiming that they had been everywhere sought; that the company was all assembled in the saloon, and everything ready for the exhibition.

“You are bent on making a gladiator of me, dear Baron,” cried the composer, “in order that I may be mangled and torn to pieces for the popular amusement by your favorite Wolff.”

“Heaven forbid that I should prejudge either combatant,” cried von Wetzlar. “The lists are open; the prize is to be awarded not by me.”

“But your good wishes--your hopes--”

“Oh, as to that, I must frankly own, I prefer the good old school to your new-fangled conceits and innovations. But come--the audience waits.”

Each in turn the two rivals played a piece composed by himself, accompanied by select performers. Then each improvised a short piece. The delight of the spectators was called forth in different ways. In the production of Wolff, a sustained elevation, clearness and brilliancy recalled the glories of Mozart’s school, and moved the audience to repeated bursts of admiration. In that of Beethoven there was a startling boldness, an impetuous rush of emotion, a frequency of abrupt contrasts--and withal a certain wildness and mystery--that irresistibly enthralled the feelings, while it outraged at the same time their sense of musical propriety. There was little applause, but the deep silence, prolonged even after the notes had ceased, told how intensely all had been interested.

The victory remained undecided. There was a clamor of eager voices among the spectators, but no one could collect the suffrages, nor determine which was the successful champion in the contest. The Prince Lichnowsky, however, stood up, and boldly claimed it for his favorite.

“Nay,” interrupted Beethoven, advancing, “my dear Prince, there has been no contest.” He offered his hand to his opponent. “We may still esteem each other, Wolff, for we are not rivals. Our style is essentially different; I yield to you the palm of excellence in the qualities that distinguish you.”

“You are right, my friend!” cried Wolff; “henceforth let there be no more talk of championship between us. I will hold him for my enemy who ventures to compare me with you; you, so superior in the path you have chosen. It is a higher path than mine, an original one; I follow contentedly in the course marked out by others.”

“But our paths lead to the same goal,” said Beethoven. “We will speed each other with good wishes; and embrace cordially when we meet THERE at last.”

There was unusual solemnity in the composer’s last words, and it put an end at once to the discussion. All responded warmly to his sentiment. But amidst the general murmur of approbation one voice was heard, that seemed strangely to startle Beethoven. His face grew pale, then flushed deeply; and the next moment he pressed his way hastily through the crowd, and seized by the arm a retreating figure.

“You shall see me in Vienna,” whispered the stranger in his ear.

“Yet a word with you. You shall not escape me thus.”

“_Auf wiedersehen!_” And shaking off the grasp, the stranger disappeared.

No one had observed his entrance: the host knew him not, and though most of the company remarked the composer’s singular emotion, none could inform him whither the unbidden guest had gone. Beethoven remained abstracted during the rest of the evening.

The opera of “_Leonore_” was represented at Prague; it met with but indifferent success. At Vienna, however, it commanded unbounded applause. Several alterations had been made in it; the composer had written a new overture, and the finale of the first act; he had suppressed a duo and trio of some importance, and made other improvements and retrenchments. Not small was his triumph at the favorable decision of the Viennese public. A new turn seemed to be given to his mind; he revolved thoughts of future conquests over the same portion of the realm of art; he no longer questioned his own spirit. It was a crisis in the artist’s life, and might have resulted in his choice of a different career from that in which he has won undying fame.

Beethoven sat alone in his study; there was a light knock at the door. He replied with a careless “come in,” without looking up from his work. He was engaged in revising the last scenes of his opera.

The visitor walked to the table, and stood there a few minutes unobserved. Probably the artist mistook him for one of his brothers; but on looking up, he started with indescribable surprise. The unknown friend of his youth stood beside him.

“So, you have kept your word,” said the composer, when he had recovered from his first astonishment; “and now, I pray you, sit down, and tell me with whom I have the honor of having formed acquaintance in so remarkable a manner.”

“My name is of no importance, as it may or may not prove known to you,” replied the stranger. “I am your good genius, if my counsel does you good; if not, I would prefer to take an obscure place among your disappointed friends.”

There was a tone of grave rebuke in what his visitor said, that perplexed and annoyed the artist. It struck him that there was affectation in this assumption of mystery; and he observed coldly--

“I shall not attempt, of course, to deprive you of your incognito: but if you assume it for the sake of effect, I would merely give you to understand that I am not prone to listen to anonymous advice.”

“Oh that you would listen,” said the stranger, sorrowfully shaking his head, “to the pleadings of your better nature!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Beethoven, starting up.

“Ask your own heart. If that acquit you, I have nothing to say. I leave you then, to the glories of your new career; to the popular applause--to your triumphs--to your remorse.”

The composer was silent a few moments, and appeared agitated. At last he said: “I know not your reasons for this mystery; but whatever they may be, I will honor them. I entreat you to speak frankly. You do not approve my present undertaking?”

“Frankly, I do not. Your genius lies not this way;” and he raised some of the leaves of the opera music.

“How know you that?” asked the artist, a little mortified. “You, perhaps, despise the opera?”

“I do not. I love it; I honor it; I honor the noble creations of those great masters who have excelled in it. But you, my friend, are beckoned to a higher, a holier path.”

“How know you that?” repeated Beethoven; and this time his voice faltered.

“Because I know you; because I know the aspirations of your genius; because I know the misgivings that pursue you in the midst of success; the self-reproach that you suffer to be stifled in the clamor of popular praise. Even now, in the midst of your triumph, you are haunted by the consciousness that you are not fulfilling the true mission of the artist.”

His piercing words were winged with truth itself. Beethoven buried his face in his hands.

“Wo to you,” cried the unknown, “if you suppress, till they are wholly dead, your once earnest longings after the pure and the good! Wo to you, if, charmed by the siren song of vanity, you close your ears against the cry of a despairing world! Wo to you, if you resign unfulfilled the trust God committed to your hands; to sustain the weak and faltering soul, to give it strength to bear the ills of life, strength to battle against evil, to face the last enemy!”

“You are right--you are right?” exclaimed Beethoven, clasping his hands.

“I once predicted your elevation, your world-wide fame,” continued the stranger, “for I saw you sunk in despondency, and knew that your spirit must be aroused--to bear up against trial. You stand now on the verge of a more dreadful abyss. You are in danger of making the gratification of your own pride, instead of the fulfilment of Heaven’s will, the aim--the goal of your life’s efforts.”

“Oh, never!” cried the artist; “with you to guide me----”

“We shall meet no more. I watched over you in boyhood; I have now come from retirement to give you my last warning; henceforth I shall observe your course in silence. And I shall not go unrewarded. I know too well the noble spirit that burns in your breast! You will--yes--you will fulfil your mission; your glory from this time shall rest on a basis of immortality. You shall be hailed the benefactor of humanity; and the spiritual joy you prepare for others shall return to you in full measure, pressed down, and running over!”

The artist’s kindling features showed that he responded to the enthusiasm of his visitor; but he answered not.

“And now farewell. But remember, before you can accomplish this lofty mission, you must be baptised with a baptism of fire. The tones that are to agitate and stir up to revolution the powers of the human soul, come not forth from an unruffled breast, but from the depths of a sorely wrung and tried spirit. You must steal the triple flame from heaven; and it will first consume the peace of your own being. Remember this--and droop not when the hour of trial comes! Farewell!”

The stranger crossed his hands over Beethoven’s head, as if mentally invoking a blessing--folded him in his embrace, and departed. The artist made no effort to follow him. Deep and bitter were the thoughts that moved within him; and he remained leaning his head on the table in silent revery, or walking the room with rapid and irregular steps, for many hours. At length the struggle was over; pale, but composed, he took up the sheets of his opera and threw them carelessly into his desk. His next work, “_Christ in the Mount of Olives_,” attested the high and firm resolve of his mind, sustained by its self-reliance, and independent of popular applause or disapprobation. His great symphonies, which carried the fame of the composer to its highest point, displayed the same triumph of religious principle.

* * * * *

Once more we find Beethoven, in the extreme decline of life. In one of the most obscure and narrow streets of Vienna, on the third floor of a gloomy-looking house, was now the abode of the gifted artist. For many weary and wasting years he had been the prey of a cruel malady, that defied the power of medicine for its cure, and had reduced him to a state of utter helplessness. His ears had been long closed to the music that owed its birth to his genius; it was long since he had heard the sound of a human voice.

In the melancholy solitude to which he now condemned himself, he received visits from but few of his friends, and those at rare intervals. Society seemed a burthen to him. Yet he persisted in his labors, and continued to compose, notwithstanding his deafness, those undying works which commanded for him the homage of Europe.

Proofs of this feeling, and of the unforgotten affection of those who knew his worth, reached him in his retreat from time to time. Now it was a medal struck at Paris, and bearing his features; now it was a new piano, the gift of some amateurs in London; at another time, some honorary title decreed him by the authorities of Vienna, or a diploma of membership of some distinguished musical society. All these moved him not, for he had quite outlived his taste for the honors of man’s bestowing. What could they--what could even the certainty that he had won immortal fame, do to soften the anguish of his malady, from which he looked alone to death as a relief?

“They wrong me who call me stern or misanthropic,” said he to his brother, who came in March, 1827, to pay him a visit. “God knoweth how I love my fellow-men! Has not my life been theirs? Have I not struggled with temptation, trial and suffering from my boyhood till now, for their sakes? and now, if I no longer mingle among them, is it not because my cruel infirmity unfits me for their companionship? When my fearful doom of separation from the rest of the human race is forced on my heart, do I not writhe with terrible agony, and wish that my end were come? And why, brother, have I lived, to drag out so wretched an existence? Why have I not succumbed ere now?

“I will tell you, brother. A soft and gentle hand--it was that of Art--held me back from the abyss. I could not quit the world before I had produced all--_had done all that I was appointed to do!_ When my mission is accomplished, then thrice welcome death! I have been guided through life by Patience, the handmaid of Truth; I will go with her even to the footstool of the Eternal.”

The servant of the house entered, and gave Beethoven a large sealed package directed to himself. He opened it; it contained a magnificent collection of the works of Händel, with a few lines stating that it was a dying bequest to the composer, from the Count di N----. He it was who had been the unknown counsellor of Beethoven’s youth and manhood; and the arrival of this posthumous present seemed to assure the artist that his own close of life was crowned with the approval of his friend. It was as if a seal had been set on that approbation, and the friendship of two noble spirits. It seemed like the dismissal of Beethoven from all further toil. Could it be that nothing more remained for him to accomplish on earth?

The old man stooped his face over the papers; tears fell upon them, and he breathed a silent prayer. After a few moments he arose, and said, somewhat wildly, “We have not walked to-day, Carl. Let us go forth. This confined air suffocates me.”

The wind was howling violently without; the rain beat in gusts against the windows; it was a bitter night. The brother wrote on a slip of paper, and handed it to Beethoven.

“A storm?--well--I have walked in many a storm, and I like it better than the biting melancholy that preys upon me here in my solitary room. Oh, how I loved the storm once; my spirit danced with joy when the winds blew fiercely, and the tall trees rocked, and the sea lashed itself into fury. It was all music to me. Alas! there is no music now so loud that I can hear it.

“Do you remember the last time I led the orchestra in the concert at Von----’s? Ah! you were not there; but I heard--yes--by leaning my breast against the instrument. When some one asked me how I heard, I replied, ‘_J’entends avec mes entrailles_.’”[10]

Disturbed by his nervous restlessness, the aged composer went to the window, and opened it with trembling hands. The wind blew aside his white locks, and cooled his feverish forehead.

“I have one fear,” he said, turning to his brother, and slightly shuddering, “that haunts me at times. It is the fear of poverty. Look at this meanly-furnished room, that single lamp, my meager fare; and yet, all these cost money, and my little wealth is daily consumed. Think of the misery of an old man, helpless and deaf, without the means of subsistence!”

“Have you not your pension secure?”

“It depends on the bounty of those who bestowed it; and the favor of princes is capricious. Then, again, it was given on condition I remained in the territory of Austria, at the time the King of Westphalia offered me the place of chapel-master at Cassel. Alas! I cannot bear the restriction. I must travel, brother; I must leave this city.”

“You--leave Vienna?” exclaimed his brother in utter amazement, looking at the feeble old man whose limbs could scarcely bear him from one street to another. Then recollecting himself, he wrote down his question.

“Why? Because I am restless and unhappy. I have no peace, Carl! is it not the chafing of the unchained spirit, that pants to be free, and to wander through God’s limitless universe? Alas! she is built up in a wall of clay, and not a sound can penetrate her gloomy dungeon!”

Overcome by his feelings, the old man bowed his head on his brother’s shoulder, and wept bitterly. Carl saw that the delirium which sometimes accompanied his paroxysms of illness had clouded his faculties.

The malady increased. The sufferer’s eyes were glazed; he grasped his brother’s hand with a tremulous pressure.

“Carl! Carl! I pardon you the evil you did me in childhood; I have pardoned all. Pray for me, brother!” cried the failing voice of the artist.

His brother supported him to the sofa, and called for assistance. In an hour the room was filled with the neighbors and friends of the dying man. He seemed gradually sinking into insensibility.

Suddenly he revived; a bright smile illumined his whole face; his sunken eyes sparkled. “I shall _hear_ in heaven!” he murmured softly, and then sang in a low but distinct voice the lines from a hymn of his own:--

“Brüder!--über ’m Sternenzelt,
Muss ein lieber VATER wohnen.”

In the last faint tone of the music his gentle spirit passed away.

Thus died Beethoven, a true artist, a good and generous man. Simple, frank, loyal to his principles, his life was spent in working out what he conceived his duty; and though his task was wrought in privation, in solitude and distress, though happiness was not his lot in this world, doth there not remain for him an eternal reward?

The Viennese gave him a magnificent funeral. More than thirty thousand persons attended; the first musicians of the city executed the celebrated funeral march composed by him, and placed in his heroic symphony; the most famous poets and artists were pall-bearers, or carried the torches; Hummel, who had come from Weimar expressly to see him, placed a laurel crown upon his tomb. Prague, Berlin, and all the principal cities of Germany paid honors to his memory, and solemnized with pomp the anniversary of his death. Such was the distinction heaped on the dust of him whose life had been one of suffering, and whose last years had been solitary, because he felt that his infirmities excluded him from human brotherhood.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Fact.

PALESTRINA.

“Ha!” cried Alexander, as he entered the apartment of his friend Johann, and found him in a melancholy mood, sitting at his table, “ha, my dear fellow! what is the matter? Depending on your promise, if the weather was fair, to walk with me in the country, I have been sitting all the morning in best dandy trim--in my new-fashioned uncomfortable coat, waiting for you! but in vain; so I got up, at last, and came in search of you; and lo! find you undressed, or, at least, not in holiday trim as I am--at your desk, studying old yellow music, and not, as it seems, in humor exactly _couleur de rose_!”

“Yes, I am out of tune!” replied Johann, “and all I do to get the better of my humor, goes ill with me. So, at last, as always when all other means fail, I betake me to some good old master in music. To-day, however, my study has only made me more melancholy, instead of bettering my spirits. The excellence of old times serves but to remind me of the present low state of our art, and the mediocrity of our artists!”

“Hold, friend; go not too far! Think upon the old proverb--‘All is not gold that glitters.’ All are not artists who please to call themselves such.”

“Sound advice!” exclaimed Johann, “as if it occurred not of itself to every reasonable man who visited Leipzig after a few years’ absence! _One_ I sought here--Mendelsohn Bartholdy! He is absent. The others, with their insufferable pretension, and their worthlessness, only disgust me.”

“Yet I know one, who could do well, if he would only endeavor earnestly--our little fat friend, Stegmayer; a nature truly Mozartesque! Pity only he is not really enthusiastic in his art--but on the contrary, too much devoted to gay living!”

“Truly, a pity! he is the only one I can think on with satisfaction, for his really noble talents! all the rest, I repeat it, disgust me with their labored ingeniousness--their extraordinary self-complacency--their current coin of praise--paid from hand to hand.”

“You should not take it so tragically! It is too much the case now, from the highest to the lowest, that art is shockingly abused.”

“My friend, it would be melancholy, indeed, if better spirits could look on _calmly_; it is my firm conviction, that indifference towards the good and the beautiful, is more worthy of condemnation than open hostility. I should be ashamed to be ignorant of bad authors, and bad works; because I hold it my duty to battle for the good, against the common and the mean, with all the weapons at my command. Chide me for a Don Quixotte--I care not! I fight, like him, not alone against windmills! and spite of his craziness, I esteem the Knight of the Rueful Countenance an honest, worthy--yea, an admirable character.”

Alexander laughed at his friend’s singular notion; but said, good-humoredly--“No, my dear fellow, I do not compare you to the Knight of the Rueful Countenance; though sooth, as I observed a while ago, you show little, to-day, of your wonted cheerfulness. For the rest, I entirely agree with you as to the arrogance of our composers. I read, for example, some time ago, in the Mitternachtsblatt, an essay of a Mr. T., in Berlin. Mr. T., himself a composer, liberally plasters his friend, C.B., and forgets not himself at the end. This might pass, and his praise--for somewhat is allowed to friendship--and as a composer of songs, C.B. has real merit, even though he cannot equal, much less rival a Schubert, a B. Klein, a Spohr, or a Löwe! But Mr. T. repeats some very silly remark of B’s upon Peter von Winter, and particularly his ‘Opferfest,’ and calls it a just, solid, spirited judgment! Now neither T. nor B. have ever written any thing which could come nigh that cavatina of Myrrha, ‘Ich war, wenn ich erwachte,’ or the duet, ‘Wenn mir dein Auge strahlet.’ To a quartette like the droll, pathetic one, ‘Kind, willst du ruhig schlafen,’ neither of the two gentlemen can aspire. But they believe they can do better. I would give them simply this advice; to write off the dramatic text of the opera, and then compose it. All Germany will thank them if they make it better than good old departed Winter.”

“Of such vanity _my_ old master knows nothing,” observed Johann, as he showed his friend the title-page of the music lying before him; “the good _Giovanni Pierluigi_ was as simple and excellent a man as a great and admirable artist. He confirmed the old truth, that to be a worthy artist, one must first be a worthy man. This saying has been oft repeated; but, to my mind, can never be repeated often enough! If it cannot help the ordinary and the mean to self-knowledge and improvement, it will sustain the good, when outward circumstances threaten to overpower them; for he who means most honestly with art, has ever the most opposition from without to struggle against.

“It was not easy for Giovanni Pierluigi to come forth as the creator of a new style in church music. Born in Palestrina, 1524, he found no contemporary exemplar in his art, who could have guided him in the right way. Music--I mean church music--was near utter extinction! Soft tinklings--not unfrequently pieces from operas, and amorous canzonets joined together, were heard in the sanctuaries. Consequently, it was music the most remote from sacred, which, from his childhood Palestrina not only heard, but helped to produce, for he had been sent to Rome as chorister, to study music.

“But in his youthful breast glowed a spark of the god-like, which soon rose to a flame that illumined the night around him! Palestrina discovered what, in a time of universal degeneration, may not be taught; he discovered what was wanting--what must be done; and yet more--the means to remove the evil! In himself he bore from the beginning, the good and the beautiful, which he was to set up in place of the corrupt and the repulsive. Thus equipped, courageous, but without presumption, conscious, but void of self-complacent vanity--he entered the arena of contest; thus he ventured to gainsay Pope Marcellus II. and his cardinals, who wished all music banished from the church; and through his _Missa Papae Marcelli_, he not only reformed music, but gave the first inducement to make it a substantial part of the Romish service.

“His efforts, his work found appreciation; yet for a long and melancholy time, the reward seemed uncertain. Palestrina had been singer in the Popish chapel; he lost this place; for, following his human, honorable heart--he married. His marriage, as appears from his letters, was so displeasing to the Holy Father, that Palestrina was on the point of quitting Rome, having lost, with his place, the means of subsistence. Fortunately, some true friends of art espoused his cause; he obtained another situation in Saint John Lateran; at a later period he was chapel-master at Santa Maria Maggiore. He founded an excellent school, produced immortal works, and ended the fair labor of a useful life as chapel-master at Saint Peter’s, the second of February, 1594.

“The simple, quiet life of this great man, has always possessed deep interest for me; and it has often occurred to me to represent to the public, in the form of a Tale of Art, that important period in which he saved Music from the ban which hung over her. But I have relinquished the idea; for in Palestrina’s life, as in his works, there seems nothing _made up_. All lies before us so simple, so noble, so sun-like clear, that it would be quite impossible by aid of the most ingenious fiction, to paint it more lovely and elevated than is the plain reality. The greatest poets, Goëthe particularly, have felt this at times powerfully; and have often given unadorned, the simple relation of facts, touching enough, indeed, to dispute the pre-eminence with all their fictions.

“In Palestrina’s works, reigns the purest church-style; no other master has come nigh him, in this respect. Loftiness, strength, and wildness, form the character of his music, which fills the heart with devotion, and bears it upward to God, free from the chains of earth, and all that claims earthly emotion.

“It is undeniable that all church-music should have this only aim--to lift the spirit to devotion--to God; according to the word of holy writ--which commands all those who come into the presence of the Lord, to come with a pure heart and holy thoughts.

“The more recent church-composers have not followed this noble aim! Latterly, even in Italy, the pure style has declined, and how much may be shown by the circumstance that the Italians, even towards the close of the last century, admired Jomelli as a _great_ church-composer! The German style was never so pure as Palestrina’s, because it was not so natural and unconstrained. Palestrina’s simplicity was harshness with Sebastian Bach; the strict German rules point out, now and then, by far more what is prohibited, than what is permitted, and even demanded. Händel, in his Messiah, Mozart, in his Requiem, broke the fetters, and soared upward, powerful eagles, towards the sun; yet without losing sight of the laws they acknowledged as just and necessary. Haydn, in his _Messen_, is less conscientious; his _creation_ belongs, beyond dispute, only to the concert hall. But in the most recent times, what appears written for the church, can only fulfil the smallest part of those claims justly advanced by the restorer of church music. And in this point of view, I regard as quite objectionable, those oratorios of Friedrich Schneider, in which the ‘God be with us,’ has the principal part, and is accompanied by flageolet, kettle-drum, trumpet, and bass trumpet.”

“They will cry out against this judgment of yours, my dear Johann,” said Alexander, “but you are right! and it is abominable, that in our most stirring, grand, spiritual music, Satan has the word! But that is the mischief of imitation among the Germans! I am sure Friedrich Schneider would, in every respect, have done something excellent, as he has really done in so many respects, had not his first appearance been at the time when the people were all enthusiasm about Weber’s ‘_Volks Oper_.’ As highly as I honor Schneider’s great talent, much as I esteem him for a worthy man, I must blame him severely, that he has suffered himself to be carried away by the intoxication of a theatrical public, and led to produce works which, in spite of splendid things in them, can yet be regarded on the whole, (as well in an artistical view, as if we look upon their tendency,) only as _changelings_! Nay, I scarce suppress the wish--unkind enough! that Schneider might be, for once, condemned to hear, from beginning to end, the oratorio of a certain Mr. H----, ‘Christus der Erlöser.’ This H----, inspired by the laudable wish of becoming, in the shortest possible time, a rich man and a famous composer, set himself to work and patched together this affair; in which he not only pilfered to his heart’s content from poor Schneider, but imitated and twisted him so after his fashion, that his oratorio seems a horrible caricature of all Schneider’s oratorios. Where Schneider employed one bass trumpet, master H---- would have _three_! Satan tunes up--the flageolets fall screeching in, and the tutti of the infernal chorus follows with frightful clamor. In 1833 the composer brought his astonishing work to Leipzig to be represented, to the great delight of the assembled auditory!”