Beethoven’s darkening countenance quickly lightened up as he recognized in the venerable monk not an officious, inquisitive person, but a colleague, and he warmly returned the grasp of his hand.
“I thank you for your kindness, Father,” he gently replied, “but you praise me too highly. I am not yet worthy of it, but I hope and shall strive to deserve it sometime. But now, what can I do to show my gratitude for your gracious words?”
“Repeat what you have just played, my son,” said the father. “Your playing has touched my old heart powerfully. Those were not earthly tones; they were the harmonies and melodies of heaven.”
“No, no; that was only a free Fantasie of my own,” said Ludwig. “To repeat it would be somewhat of a task, but I will gladly play something else for you, if you will wait a moment.”
The father nodded assent and retired to a dark corner, where he could abandon himself to his anticipated enjoyment without any danger of being disturbed. Beethoven ran his fingers over the keys several times, as if searching for a theme, until he found a soft old melody, which he played through in simple, noble style, and then varied with marvellous skill and ingenuity. As the ravishing tones powerfully and ever more powerfully rang out, the church gradually filled up. The monks slipped in in groups. The Father Head Cook left his kitchen and the Father Doorkeeper his door to listen to the young man’s playing, reports of which had quickly spread through the abbey. The Abbot and the Father Lector also came, in Wegeler’s company, went up into the organ-loft, and seated themselves just behind Beethoven, who, lost in inspiration, was not aware of their presence. He continued playing variations until the theme was completely exhausted, and then, weary and exhausted himself, bowed his head upon his breast.
A unanimous “Brava, brava,” resounded through the church. The Abbot stepped forward, tapped him gently on the shoulder, and said with emotion: “Those were indeed sounds from another world, and they have penetrated my very soul. Accept my thanks, my young friend. You are truly a master, and a great future lies before you if God preserve your life and health, which I doubt not He will do.”
The Lector also spoke words of praise to the young man. The Father Organist bowed low before him. The organ-blower emerged from his closet and with astonishment regarded the young man who had accomplished such prodigies and unprecedented feats in his art. “Truly,” said the homely old man, “if he played the organ here I would never get tired. My old arms would work the bellows from morning to night.”
Beethoven in the meantime accepted these praises somewhat coolly and indifferently, and contented himself by expressing his thanks with an awkward bow.
“He is always thus, your reverence,” said Wegeler, as he seated himself again with the Abbot and the Father Lector at the wine in the cool refectory—“a sound kernel in a rough shell; a jewel of the purest water, which needs only a little polish to glisten at its real value. He is not to blame for it so much as his unhappy domestic conditions. How can he have politeness and ease of manner when there is not even daily bread in the house? I beg you therefore to treat him with gracious indulgence.”
“It is entirely unnecessary to intercede for this young genius,” replied the Abbot. “His magnificent playing has impressed me so deeply that I can overlook his lack of courtesy, though really his deportment is a little awkward. One must bear with everything in a great genius,—and such he is, for, after what we have heard, there cannot be the slightest doubt of it. I should greatly like to talk with him a little while.”