Beethoven now produced the small bottle. It contained the precious wine of Tokay with which he filled the two glasses to the brim. “Now, my good German-Englishman, to your good health.” We drained the glasses, then, extending his hand, “A good journey to you and to a meeting again in London.” I beckoned to him to fill the glasses again and hurriedly wrote in his notebook: “Now for a pledge to the welfare of the greatest living composer, Beethoven.”—I arose from my chair, he followed my example, emptied his glass and seizing my hand said: “To-day I am just what I am and what I ought to be,—all unbuttoned.” And now he unbosomed himself on the subject of music which had been degraded and made a plaything of vulgar and impudent passions. “True music,” he said, “found little recognition in this age of Rossini and his consorts.” Thereupon I took up the pencil and wrote in very distinct letters:
“Whom do you consider the greatest composer that ever lived?”
“Handel,” was his instantaneous reply; “to him I bow the knee,” and he bent one knee to the floor.
“Mozart,” I wrote.
“Mozart,” he continued, “is good and admirable.”
“Yes,” wrote I, “who was able to glorify even Handel with his additional accompaniments to ‘The Messiah’.”
“It would have lived without them,” was his answer.
I continued writing. “Seb. Bach.”
“Why is he dead?”
I answered immediately “He will return to life again.”