His piercing words were winged with truth itself. Beethoven buried his face in his hands.
“Wo to you,” cried the unknown, “if you suppress, till they are wholly dead, your once earnest longings after the pure and the good! Wo to you, if, charmed by the siren song of vanity, you close your ears against the cry of a despairing world! Wo to you, if you resign unfulfilled the trust God committed to your hands; to sustain the weak and faltering soul, to give it strength to bear the ills of life, strength to battle against evil, to face the last enemy!”
“You are right—you are right?” exclaimed Beethoven, clasping his hands.
“I once predicted your elevation, your world-wide fame,” continued the stranger, “for I saw you sunk in despondency, and knew that your spirit must be aroused—to bear up against trial. You stand now on the verge of a more dreadful abyss. You are in danger of making the gratification of your own pride, instead of the fulfilment of Heaven’s will, the aim—the goal of your life’s efforts.”
“Oh, never!” cried the artist; “with you to guide me——”
“We shall meet no more. I watched over you in boyhood; I have now come from retirement to give you my last warning; henceforth I shall observe your course in silence. And I shall not go unrewarded. I know too well the noble spirit that burns in your breast! You will—yes—you will fulfil your mission; your glory from this time shall rest on a basis of immortality. You shall be hailed the benefactor of humanity; and the spiritual joy you prepare for others shall return to you in full measure, pressed down, and running over!”
The artist’s kindling features showed that he responded to the enthusiasm of his visitor; but he answered not.
“And now farewell. But remember, before you can accomplish this lofty mission, you must be baptised with a baptism of fire. The tones that are to agitate and stir up to revolution the powers of the human soul, come not forth from an unruffled breast, but from the depths of a sorely wrung and tried spirit. You must steal the triple flame from heaven; and it will first consume the peace of your own being. Remember this—and droop not when the hour of trial comes! Farewell!”
The stranger crossed his hands over Beethoven’s head, as if mentally invoking a blessing—folded him in his embrace, and departed. The artist made no effort to follow him. Deep and bitter were the thoughts that moved within him; and he remained leaning his head on the table in silent revery, or walking the room with rapid and irregular steps, for many hours. At length the struggle was over; pale, but composed, he took up the sheets of his opera and threw them carelessly into his desk. His next work, “Christ in the Mount of Olives,” attested the high and firm resolve of his mind, sustained by its self-reliance, and independent of popular applause or disapprobation. His great symphonies, which carried the fame of the composer to its highest point, displayed the same triumph of religious principle.