He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties.
“Play to us once more—only once more!”
He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged, and massive figure. “I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!” he said, looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth.
This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time—a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale—a breathless, hurrying, trembling movement, descriptive of flight and uncertainty, and vague, impulsive, terror, which carried us away on its rustling wings, and left us all in emotion and wonder.
“Farewell to you!” said Beethoven, pushing back his chair and turning toward the door—“farewell to you!”
“You will come again?” asked they, in one breath.
He paused, and looked compassionately, almost tenderly, at the face of the blind girl. “Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly; “I will come again, and give the Fraulein some lessons. Farewell! I will soon come again!” They followed us in silence more eloquent than words, and stood at their door till we were out of sight and hearing.
“Let us make haste back,” said Beethoven, “that I may write out that sonata while I can yet remember it.”