“You shall see me in Vienna,” whispered the stranger in his ear.
“Yet a word with you. You shall not escape me thus.”
“Auf wiedersehen!” And shaking off the grasp, the stranger disappeared.
No one had observed his entrance: the host knew him not, and though most of the company remarked the composer’s singular emotion, none could inform him whither the unbidden guest had gone. Beethoven remained abstracted during the rest of the evening.
The opera of “Leonore” was represented at Prague; it met with but indifferent success. At Vienna, however, it commanded unbounded applause. Several alterations had been made in it; the composer had written a new overture, and the finale of the first act; he had suppressed a duo and trio of some importance, and made other improvements and retrenchments. Not small was his triumph at the favorable decision of the Viennese public. A new turn seemed to be given to his mind; he revolved thoughts of future conquests over the same portion of the realm of art; he no longer questioned his own spirit. It was a crisis in the artist’s life, and might have resulted in his choice of a different career from that in which he has won undying fame.
Beethoven sat alone in his study; there was a light knock at the door. He replied with a careless “come in,” without looking up from his work. He was engaged in revising the last scenes of his opera.
The visitor walked to the table, and stood there a few minutes unobserved. Probably the artist mistook him for one of his brothers; but on looking up, he started with indescribable surprise. The unknown friend of his youth stood beside him.
“So, you have kept your word,” said the composer, when he had recovered from his first astonishment; “and now, I pray you, sit down, and tell me with whom I have the honor of having formed acquaintance in so remarkable a manner.”
“My name is of no importance, as it may or may not prove known to you,” replied the stranger. “I am your good genius, if my counsel does you good; if not, I would prefer to take an obscure place among your disappointed friends.”
There was a tone of grave rebuke in what his visitor said, that perplexed and annoyed the artist. It struck him that there was affectation in this assumption of mystery; and he observed coldly—