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.”