"But, Louis," said he one day, "if you would become a great musician, you must not neglect everything besides music. You must acquire foreign languages, particularly Latin, Italian, and French. Would you leave your name to posterity as a true artist, make your own all that bears relation to your art."
Louis promised, and kept his word. In the midst of his playing he would leave off, however much it cost him, when the hour struck for his lessons in the languages. So closely he applied himself, that in a year's time he was tolerably well acquainted not only with Latin, French, and Italian, but also with the English. His father marvelled at his progress not a little; for years he had labored in vain, with starvation and blows, to make the boy learn the first principles of those languages. He had never, indeed, taken the trouble to explain to him their use in the acquisition of the science of music.
In 1785, appeared Louis' first sonatas. They displayed uncommon talent and gave promise that the youthful artist would, in future, accomplish something great, though scarcely yet could be found in them a trace of that gigantic genius whose death forty years afterward filled all Europe with sorrow.
"We were both mistaken in the lad," Simrock would say to old Beethoven. "He abounds in wit and odd fancies, but I do not altogether like his mixing up in his music all sorts of strange conceits; the best way, to my notion, is a plain one. Let him follow the great Mozart, step by step; after all, he is the only one, and there is none to come up to him—none!" And Louis' father, who also idolized Mozart, always agreed with his neighbor in his judgment, and echoed, "None!"
It was a lovely summer afternoon about 1787; numerous boats with parties of pleasure on board were passing up and down the Rhine; numerous companies of old and young were assembled under the trees in the public gardens, or along the banks of the river, enjoying the scene and each other's conversation, or partaking of the rural banquet.
At some distance from the city, a wood bordered the river; this wood was threaded by a small and sparkling stream, that flung itself over a ledge of rocks, and tumbled into the most romantic and quiet dell imaginable, for it was too narrow to be called a valley. The trees overhung it so closely that at noonday this sweet nook was dark as twilight, and the profound silence was only broken by the monotonous murmur of the stream.
Close by the stream half sat, half reclined, a youth just emerging from childhood. In fact, he could hardly be called more than a boy; for his frame showed but little development of strength, and his regular features, combined with an excessive paleness, the result of confinement, gave the impression that he was even of tender years. His eyes would alone have given him the credit of uncommon beauty; they were large, dark, and so bright that it seemed the effect of disease, especially in a face that rarely or never smiled.
A most unusual thing was a holiday for the melancholy lad. His whole soul was given up to one passion—the love of music. Oh! how precious to him were the moments of solitude. He had loved, for this, even his poor garret room, meanly furnished, but rich in the possession of one or two musical instruments, whither he would retire at night, when released from irksome labor, and spend hours of delight stolen from slumber. But to be alone with nature, in her grand woods, under the blue sky, with no human voice to mar the infinite harmony—how did his heart pant for this communion! His breast seemed to expand and fill with the grandeur, the beauty, of all around him. The light breeze rustling in the leaves came to his ear laden with a thousand melodies; the very grass and flowers under his feet had a language for him. His spirits, long depressed and saddened, sprang into new life, and rejoiced with unutterable joy.
The hours wore on, a dusky shadow fell over foliage and stream, and the solitary lad rose to leave his chosen retreat. As he ascended the narrow winding path, he was startled by hearing his own name; and presently a man, apparently middle-aged and dressed plainly, stood just in front of him. "Come back, Louis," said the stranger, "it is not so dark as it seems here; you have time enough this hour to return to the city." The stranger's voice had a thrilling though melancholy sweetness; and Louis suffered him to take his hand and lead him back. They seated themselves in the shade beside the water.