“I shall not attempt, of course, to deprive you of your incognito: but if you assume it for the sake of effect, I would merely give you to understand that I am not prone to listen to anonymous advice.”
“Oh that you would listen,” said the stranger, sorrowfully shaking his head, “to the pleadings of your better nature!”
“What do you mean?” demanded Beethoven, starting up.
“Ask your own heart. If that acquit you, I have nothing to say. I leave you then, to the glories of your new career; to the popular applause—to your triumphs—to your remorse.”
The composer was silent a few moments, and appeared agitated. At last he said: “I know not your reasons for this mystery; but whatever they may be, I will honor them. I entreat you to speak frankly. You do not approve my present undertaking?”
“Frankly, I do not. Your genius lies not this way;” and he raised some of the leaves of the opera music.
“How know you that?” asked the artist, a little mortified. “You, perhaps, despise the opera?”
“I do not. I love it; I honor it; I honor the noble creations of those great masters who have excelled in it. But you, my friend, are beckoned to a higher, a holier path.”
“How know you that?” repeated Beethoven; and this time his voice faltered.
“Because I know you; because I know the aspirations of your genius; because I know the misgivings that pursue you in the midst of success; the self-reproach that you suffer to be stifled in the clamor of popular praise. Even now, in the midst of your triumph, you are haunted by the consciousness that you are not fulfilling the true mission of the artist.”