At least, so it was with me—and often so—when a youth. I have listened to that music, heard it from beginning to end, then rushed down from the choir, to throw myself prostrate on the marble pavement, and weep tears of joy! Were not heaven and earth my own? Did I not see them in their holiest loveliness? Heard I not enraptured, their thousand thousand voices—from the sweet murmuring of the flowers, to the awe-inspiring thunder-peal? Understood I not the mysterious harmony of all I saw and heard?
Alas! those years of enthusiasm are flown; the harmony is broken! The flowers that mark the coming of spring, have no longer a voice for me; the startling thunder, that once spoke of the sunshine and beauty about to succeed the short-lived storm—has no significance; even the tones of that magnificent music fail to lift my soul to the height of devotion, inspiring her to mingle her adoration with the world-wide hymn of praise! My heart is hard and cold; but seldom roused, and relapsing into deadness when the brief excitement is over. I am older even in feeling than in years. I shun the merry company of men; I shudder at their jests—their careless hearts—their jovial faces; for they seem to me like shadows—gibbering forms—that mockingly repeat the tones of life. Enough of myself; how prone are we to run into egotism! Let me rather amuse the reader by some reminiscences of a gifted individual, whose fame is linked with the scenes I have spoken of.
THE BOY.
It was a mild October afternoon, in the year 1784. A boat was coming down the Rhine, close to that point where the fair city of Bonn sits on its left shore. The company on board consisted of old and young persons of both sexes, returning from an excursion of pleasure.
The sun was sinking in the west, and touched the mountain summits, castle-crowned, with gold and purple, as the boat came to the shore not far from the city. The company landed, full of gaiety and mirth, the young people walking on before, while their seniors followed, as happy as they, though more thoughtful and less noisy. They adjourned to a public garden, close on the river side, to finish the day of social enjoyment by partaking of a collation. Old and young were seated, ere long, around the stone table set under the large trees. The crimson faded in the west; the moon poured her soft light, glimmering through the leafy canopy above them, and was reflected in full beauty in the waters of the Rhine.
The merriment of the guests was at its height; the wine sparkled, and lively toasts were drunk, in which the youngsters joined as gleefully as their elders.
“Your boys are right merry fellows,” said a benevolent-looking old gentleman, addressing Herr von Beethoven, a tenor singer in the Electoral chapel; pointing, at the same time, to his two sons—lads of ten and fourteen years of age. “They will certainly turn out something clever,” he continued, laughing, as he watched their pranks; “but tell me, Beethoven, why do you not take Louis with you, when you indulge the children with a party of pleasure?”
“Because,” answered the person he addressed, “because Louis is a stubborn, dogged, stupid boy, whose troublesome behavior would only spoil our mirth.”
“Ah!” returned the old gentleman, “you are always finding fault with the poor lad, and perhaps impose too hard tasks upon him! I see you are more indulgent to the others. It is no wonder he becomes dull and obstinate; nay, I am only surprised that he has not, ere this, broken loose from your sharp control.”
“My dear Simrock,” replied Beethoven, laughing, “I have a remedy at hand for such humors—my good Spanish cane, which, you see, is of the toughest! Louis is well acquainted with its excellent properties, and stands in wholesome awe thereof! And trust me, neighbor, I know best what is for the boy’s good. He has talent, and must be taught to cultivate it; but he will never go to work properly, unless I drive out some of his capricious notions, and set his head right.”