HIS ANSWER.

Gisborne Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2097, 25 January 1908, Page 1 (Supplement)

HIS ANSWER.

HOW BEETHOVEN'S MOONLIGHT SONATA WAS COMPOSED (By -Mrs Hermann Ivotzschmar.) “Mother. Mother! how run 1 bear it-, never to soo, never again to read tlio music he has written?—blind, blind forevermore!'' With n cry the girl fell upon her knees, ami buried her face m her mother's' lap. “My baby; my little one!" were the only words the mother breathed, but in her heirt. with David oi old, she criid in anguish: “Would God 1 could die lor thee!” Little by I:tile the child —die was •scarcely seventeen—grew calmer. Exhausted by the vehemence of her grief the robbing cries became fainter, until she lay motionless, save for an occasional tremulous, qttick-caidl-ing bieath. The dayl’ght faded into early twilight, and still mother and daughter diet not move. In those crucial moments they were facing the new problem of their lives, and drawing irom nn unseen power strength to meet and master a- seemingly overwhelm-

ing sorrow. Eor many weeks this dark cloud had overshadowed them, but to-day all they had feared had come upon them.

“Do you remember,” came in low tones, “it was this very week you were to see the master, niul ask if he would take me for his pupil?” A pressure of the hand was the reply. “Now that can never be.” Then, as a tear dropped from her mother’s cheek upon her hand, the girl- started, crying almost joyously, “Ilut 1 have seen him—nothing can overtake that from me. Think what that will always mean, even if I have not spoken to him. Why, I can see him now” —and excitedly the girl stood up —“see him just as lie looked the day he directed the last concert. That splendid head, those deep-set eyes, one instant filled with fury, the next with tenderness. Can you not hear it—that immortal symphony which he has never heard with outward ears? •‘Ah! little did T*think that day how soon Fate would knock at my door, and match all my plans, ambition .—lundv-Lt hopes—” and the goldcrowned head drooped sadly. “No, no, I am not crying, niv tears have all been shed; I feel through this affliction \ can better comprehend what lie his borne these many years—understand beyond others what deafness means t-o a musician. Oil, dearest comforter,” and the girl threw her arms about her mother, drawing her closer, “now 1 can tell you all, tell you what Ids music lias meant to me since I have known what music meant, how it draws- my very soul to his There is no shame,•Any mother, in my telling this to you, for .beingblind I never cun be just like other girls, and you must bo to me husband, children, mother —all.”

When Grief, the terrible one, enters the door the strongest are shaken, the bravest quail—all shrink from the unwelcome guest. Days and weeks go bv, and still ho stays, and slowly the .lesson in • learned, that the intruder can never be driven away, and only by the readjustment of one’s life can power be gained to bear his nresenco. The blow which had fallen upon her child struck to the mother’s heart, -and pierced it as with a thousand arrows. Only by mothers can this mother’s grief be measured. Every phase of passionate rebellion was hers, fought and conquered only in the midnight loneliness of her sleepless hours. Over and over the woman lived the years of her child’s fife, murmuring: “She was sent to save me from despair the time her father died, -and through poverty and struggle she was my joy.” Then a

faint smile would come and she would * whisper: “It was the summer Ehe was seven that she could play from memory the ‘Bagatelles.’ Each year how tall and fair she grew, always loving, but her one desire to widen she gave everything—time, thought, her very self—was to be worthy to interpret the master’s music.” 'Then bitterly this poor human heart would cry: “Now all 1 is ended. Why could dt not have been my faded, useless eyes that closed, and not hers, with all life’s promises before them?” As the weeks went by the cxaltus'tion of sorrow, as it might be called, faded, and left the blind girl listless, weary, struggling when with her mother for a cheerfulness which did not for one instant deceive the eyes of Love. They know no-t Jove who say that “Love is blind” —nay, nothing makes the eyes so keen as love. By its power virtues shine with a resplendent light, and faults, while aoent’-are hidden from unfriendly criticism, till love so changes them that they become the very gold of character. ■With sinking heart, day by day the woman marked the increased pallor of the girl’s face: the feebleness with which she groped her way. The one hour of the day in which she seemed her former self was at dusk, when, seated at her loved instrument, all her despairing longings were voiced in exquisite harmonies. “She cannot live and bear this long,” the mother would whisper, as she listened outside the door. It was one glorious evening, when the unusually long pause which followed this most beautiful of adagios told of the struggle being waged within. Suddenly the woman stood erect, the tears not dried upon her cheek, but a new light in her eyes, and a Jinn resolve irradiating her face — j**'‘“Yes, that will help, and that only; to-morrow I will go to him.” It was nearly tho close of the following day when, in answer to a low knock, an elderly woman opened i lie door of ono of the seemingly endless apartments which lined each- side of the narrow, dark street. “The master is out, but you enn wait; ho will soon come,” said' the housekeeper as she disappeared. Almost timidly the visitor sat down in the cheerless room, near a table, dustv and disordered, strewn A\ith manuscript, on top of which lay a slate and pencil. As the woman’s eyes fell upon this she exclaimed- inaudiblv, taking up the pencil: This is the better way—-I will write it all and go; he will not need my presence; it will be easier for us both if ho reads it by himself. Ho has known grief and disappointment,-and as heart -answereth to heart, so will j Vr, . .ran ncunjluM 1-.-, —-IS.-C af-.T—a.air.- 1 •- -

“Revered Master; “1 am unknown lo you, ami so my name would count for nothing. 1 come to you out of of my .great need, as one stricken human soul cries to the one on earth who can comprehend and help, and yet- 1 plead not for myself, but for one dearer than life—my child, “blow can 1 make you understand that you ami your music have been through all the years of her young girlhood almost as the breath of -her life? The consummation of all her tireless work was to become your pupil. This star ol hope which guided her for years lists sunk in blackest- night, for now she is blind —hopelessly blind. Daily I see her grow weaker, the spring of action, of ties ire, broken, and 1 know unless some stimulus is given she will slip forever from my arms. “You, 'ami you only, can mako her feel there is something still for her to do for music. Each night at twilight she sits for hours ami plays what you have written. “Would it be asking too great a gift if on one of your nightly wanderings you should pass a little house, but three doors from where your nephew Carl lias lived, and should hear your own familiar music, you would stop and enter, speak and give to my blind, griefstricken child, from out of your deep experience, courage to bear her lot? “She knows nothing ol my visit to your room, nor of this letter, written by her mother.” Again and again by the fast-fading daylight the master read this mother’s cry for help, and the written words seemed to bring before him every harsh, untoward circumstance of his own life. He saw himself a tittle boy, dragged from his bed after midnight- by a drunken father, and forced to practice for hours. •T can forgive and forget that,” the man muttered-, “but this is harder to forgive, and forgetfulness is denied me,” and he lifted a- clumsy car-trumpet which hung by his side, regarding it with a melancholy smile. “What demon guided my father’s kind that he should always strike my ears whenever I came into his presence, and destroy the keenest sense a musician craves?” And restlessly he paced up and down the room. “Oh, this ceaseless, unavailing questioning!” And the clenched hands showed the struggle within. “The world calls me morose, irritable. What does the world know of the tortures I endure in silence? Deaf from my early boyhood, cut off from my kind; denied love, wife, children’ home. O Eternal One, Thou alone knowest all, Thou alone canst read my heart!’

And the master stood motionless., covering his face with his haiK.s. With a mighty effort the man roused himself. “This will never do. I must go to her with clieor and comfort. I must show her that these and these,” and he touched eyes and ears, “are not what make life worth living. I must prove to her that it is the divine within each one whichmakes for life, and only -as we manifest that life do we really live. ’ As the master closed his door and stepped into the -street a sight of such transcendent beauty met liis gaze that' he stood motionless, lost in contemplation of Nature’s loveliness. The leaves of the trees in the neighboring park swayed gently to and fro in the soft summer breeze. The sky was studded with stars, but these paled and faded before tlie light of the glorious full moon, which seemed to ride the heavens as a queen, and scut a shaft of glittering moonbeams before tlie master as ho walked slowly along, his head bent and his hands clasped behind his back. On and on he walked, apparently without thought of definite direction, and yet -as though the way were known and had been often traversed. After many turnings, and just as be had passed a little house set somewhat -set back from the street, some impulse made him lift his ear-trum-pet, and, as he did, soft and clear ho heard the strains of music. “All!” he exclaimed, “60 it is here,” and motionless he listened until the movement was completed. Then ho whispered: “She lias tcelin g, comprehension ; she will understand. I will go in.” Somewhat hesitatingly bo entered and tapped gently at the door of the room from which the sounds of music had come.

Almost instantly the door was opened, and in tho moonlighted room the girl stood before him, saying in low tones: “Please tell me who it is, for I am blind.” In equally low tones bo answered: ■»Ynd 1 am deaf. I also am a musician, and hearing music played as only one can play who loves it, I ventured to enter. Will you pardon my intrusion?” Tho color flamed in the girl’s cheeks, as she faltered, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands: “It is a pleasure to welcome you, sir. You are a musician. Will you enter and play to me ?” “Willingly,” he replied. Seating himself at the worn piano the man drew forth tones of such sweetness, such power, that tho blind girl, greatly agitated, her band pressed over her heart: to stil'l its beating, drew nearer and nearer, crying involuntarily, “Who are you? You told mo you were deaf, and a musician. There is but one who can play like this —you arc—tho master!” and with fast-falling tears the girl bent and kissed his hand. “It is li'ko some beautiful dream,” the child murmured, “ and if I stir I shall awake.”

She knew not how it was tiiat soon sbo had unburdened her heart of all its aspirations and lost joys. “Mv child,” and tenderly the master laid bis hand on the bowed head. ‘I have lived long and suffered much, au'd Ihi.s I know, there is a compensation for every trial. Our weak and finite sense too often fails to grasp fife’s meaning, but the deepest, most heartrending experiences should yield the fullest, richest harvest. Too mnnv times with childish folly have I railed at my deafness. llow do I know that without it I could have shut out the world’s allurements, and have attained? From your blindness ray blossom some marvellous flower that may live forever.” At this moment the moon, which had been clouded up to this time, came out in full splendor, and sent a flood of light into every corner of

■“llow womlrously bountiful, how heavenly the moonlight is,” the man murmured, then turning to tlio girl and regarding her compassionately, ho continued: “1 wilt mako you seo the mooonlight with your -inward sense—the spiritual. 1 will improvise lor you a Moonlight Sonata. You shall be .its inspiration, its motive power.” There was a deep and pregnant silence in the room, ns the master’s rugged head sank down upon his breast, then softly bis lingers pressed the keys and there flowed forth an infinitely tender melody, which crept gently on, even as the moonbeam’s tight creeps over the earth. Filled with the sadness of all tlio ages, there was yet tlio calm, tlio dignity, which speaks ol love mid conquered sorrow. “Oh, I can bear all things now!” the girl whispered, leaning forward, fearful to loso one single strain. Seeing the wrought tension in the child’s faco the player said: “Now L will show you how the moon sprites dance.” And quick to answer to his ehango of thought the girl cried gleefully : “Oh I can see them twining their arms about each other, their pale moonbeam tresses waving as they float hither and thither, now singly, now in groups.” Then a darker mood seized Die man, and the keys under his fingers rang out in bitter protest, in fiery rebellion:

Agitated, trembling, the girl crouched by his side, but he was oblivious to all—the little room, the blind ginl—only the genius, the Titan was there, battling with Destiny. Then the waves of sound surged about him as the roar of the mighty ocean, proclaiming in triumph, “All thy storms have gone over me, but have not quenched me. I rise above time and circumstance, for I am deathless —immortal.” As, pale and exhausted with emotion, he rose to go, the girl cried tremulously: “What have you not done for me—what have you not given me?” And gently the master said: “I have given you love, courage, faith, for I have given you the ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ ”