“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.