"Listen," he said, and he played the opening bars of the symphony
in F.
A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming,
"Then, you are Beethoven!" they covered his hands with tears and kisses.
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 head and
massive figure. "I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" 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 emotion and wonder.
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