How like this
must have been that night on which the famous master was stirred
with emotion.
"One moonlight evening, while out walking with a friend, through
one of the dark, narrow streets of his native city, as they were
passing a humble dwelling, the sweet tones of a piano floated
out on the evening air, that throbbed with the sweet notes of
the nightingale.
"Hush!" said Beethoven, "what sound is that? It is from my
Sonata in F. Hark! How well it is played!"
There was a sudden break in the finale, when a sobbing voice
exclaimed:
"I cannot play it any more. It is so beautiful; it is beyond my
power to do it justice. O, what would I not give to go to the
Concert at Cologne!"
This appeal, coming out into the stillness of the night, was too
much for the kind-hearted musician. He resolved to gratify her
desire. As he gently opened the door, he said to his friend: "I
will play for her. Here is feeling, genius, understanding! I
will play for her and she will understand it."
It was only the humble home of a shoemaker and his blind sister.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted
to enter. I am a musician. I also overheard something of what
you said. You wish to hear - that is - shall I play for you?"
The young girl blushed while the young man apologized for the
wretched condition of the piano, which was out of tune, and said
they had no music.
"No music!" exclaimed Beethoven.
Then he discovered for the first time that the young lady was
blind. With profuse apologies, for seeming to have spoken so
abruptly, he desired to know how she had learned to play so well
by ear. When he heard that she had gained it by walking before
the open window while others practiced, he was so touched that
he sat down and played to the most interested audience that he
had ever entertained. Enraptured they listened.
"Who are you?" exclaimed the young man.
"Listen," said Beethoven, and as the sublime strains of the
"Sonata in F" filled the air their joy was unbounded. Seldom is
it given to man to have such appreciation. The flame of the
candle wavered, flickered, and went out. His friend opened the
shutters and let in a flood of moonlight. Under the influence of
the spell, the great composer began to improvise. Such a hold
did his own music create upon him that he hastened to his room
and worked till after the dawn of morning, reducing the great
composition to writing.
