She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, but seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play. He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow—how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal.
The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture. The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart would break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange dream, and only feared to wake.
Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonshine. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.
At length the young shoemaker rose, and approached him eagerly, yet reverently. “Wonderful man!” he said, in a low tone, “who and what are you?”
The composer smiled, as only he could smile, benevolently, indulgently, kingly. “Listen!” he said, and he played the opening bars of the Sonata in F.
The Moonlight Sonata
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, “Then you are Beethoven!” they covered his hand with tears and kisses.