It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused outside and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. “I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!”
“Ah, my sister,” said her companion, “why create regrets when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent.”
“You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use.”
Beethoven looked at me. “Let us go in,” he said.
“Go in!” I exclaimed. “What can we go in for?”
“I will play for her,” he said, in an excited tone. “Here is feeling—genius—understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it.” And, before I could prevent him, his hand was upon the door.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling about her face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.
“Pardon me,” said Beethoven, “but I heard music, and was tempted to enter. I am a musician.”
The girl blushed and the young man looked grave—somewhat annoyed.