L. Stanton._
* * * * *
BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA.
It happened at Bonn. One moonlight winter's evening I called on Beethoven,
for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward to sup with me. In passing
through some dark narrow street he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said, "what
sound is that? It is from my symphony in F," he said eagerly. "Hark, how
well it is played!"
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 sobbing: "I can not play any more--it is so beautiful, it is
so 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.
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