Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his playing he would leave off, however much it cost him, if the hour struck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied himself, that in a year’s time he was tolerably well acquainted, not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the English. His father marvelled at his progress not a little; for years he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make the boy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acquisition of the science of music.
In 1785 appeared Louis’s first sonatas. They displayed uncommon talent, and gave promise that the youthful artist would in future accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius, whose death forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow.
The best understanding was now established between father and son; and the lad’s natural generosity and warmth of heart being unchecked by undue severity, his kindly feelings overflowed upon all around him. This disposition to love his friends, and to enjoy life, remained with the artist to the end of his days. The benevolent Master Simrock was much pleased at his good fortune, and withal somewhat surprised, for spite of his compassionate espousal of the boy’s cause, he looked upon Louis rather as a dull fellow. Now, his opinion was quite changed; and to show his good will he sent him several presents, and insisted on his coming frequently to his lodgings, to drink a glass of Rhenish in company with his old friend.
“We were both mistaken in the lad,” he would say to old Beethoven; “he abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not altogether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits; the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the great Mozart, step by step; after all, he is the only one, and there is none to come up to him—none!” And Louis’s father, who also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judgment, and echoed—“None!”
Thus the summer flew by; the foliage grew yellow and began to fall. Our young hero delighted—as what poetical soul does not?—in communion with nature. He wandered often in the woods, and welcomed the autumn breezes that scattered the yellow leaves at his feet. I have always found a pleasant melancholy in my walks at this season, when the slant rays of the sun gleam upon dismantled trees, and the wealth of summer lies on the ground; when the winds sigh through the desolate branches, or the ear is startled by the woodman’s stroke, or perhaps the winding of the hunter’s horn.
Let none despair of himself to whom Heaven has granted the power of enjoying the beauty of Nature! In her maternal bosom is consolation for every wo! He is her favored child. Doth he weep over blighted hopes or crushed affections—unreproved his tears flow, and amid silence and solitude, in the calm wood, he hears angel voices that mourn with him, while from the stars far up in heaven comes down a whisper of consolation; “Life is brief, and frail and changeful is the heart of man; but Love is infinite—eternal; thou hast friends that know no change; look above, and hope!” And with the coming sun that wakes to life such myriads of happy creatures, shall new strength and hope visit his soul. But alas for thee! child of sorrow, if thou hearest not that kind healing voice; if night is starless to thine eyes—ere ceases thy heart to beat! Could life arise for thee from the dead, thou wouldst still be wretched, wouldst still stand alone and uncared for—kept but by Divine compassion from despair.
Enjoy while thou canst, oh, youthful enthusiast! the luxury of thy being—the beauty around thee! Think’st thou ’tis but after all a lovely dream? No—’tis a fair reality, still more fleeting than a dream! Dreams may return to enchant us; realities that are past, never!
The first lasting sorrow that befel Louis was the loss of his father. Beethoven’s health failed at the beginning of winter. Ere long his physician pronounced him beyond hope. By his own request his family were informed that his end was near. Helen and her two sons, Carl and Johann, received the intelligence with loud lamentations; Louis said not a word, but his grief was no less acute.