Stories of Great Musicians Part 8

Shall I give you a concert?"

Beethoven's manner was so friendly and his voice so kindly that a smile took the place of the frown on the young man's face. The four, who but a moment ago were strangers, became friends at once.

"Thank you," said the shoemaker, "but our harpsichord is so poor and we have no music."

"No music," echoed Beethoven. "How then does the young lady play so--"

He stopped suddenly, for the girl turned her face toward him, and for the first time he saw that she was blind.

"I beg your pardon," he stammered, "but I had not noticed before. Then you play by ear?"

"Yes, entirely," the girl answered.

"And where do you hear music, since you attend no concerts?" asked Beethoven.

"I used to hear a lady practicing near us. During the summer evenings her windows were often open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen."

The girl seemed shy, so Beethoven said no more. He seated himself quietly before the harpsichord and began to play. Never before had Beethoven played as he played that night for the blind girl and her brother. From the moment that his fingers began to wander over the keys, the very tone of the instrument seemed to grow sweeter.

The brother and sister were silent with wonder. The young man laid aside his work, and the girl sat perfectly quiet. She leaned forward a little as if afraid lest she might miss a single note of the sweet music.

Suddenly the flame of the one candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused. His friend rose quietly and threw open the shutters. A flood of soft moonlight filled the room, so that it was almost as light as before. The moonbeams fell brightest upon the piano and the player.

But the music had stopped. The master's head dropped upon his breast, and his hands rested upon his knees. He seemed lost in thought, and sat thus for some time.

At length the young shoemaker arose. Eagerly, yet timidly, he approached the musician. "Wonderful man!" he said in a low tone, "who art thou?"

One of the composer's rare smiles flitted across his face. "Listen!" he said, and with a master's touch he gave the opening bars of his own sonata in F.

The girl seemed to know that no one but the composer of the music could have played it so well. "Then you are Beethoven," she exclaimed.

Beethoven rose to go, but they begged him to stay. "Play to us once more--only once more."

He again seated himself at the piano. The moon shone brightly through the window. Looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars, he said, "I will compose a sonata to the moonlight." Touching the keys lightly, he began to play a sad and lovely melody. The music filled the room as gently as the soft moonlight creeps over the dark earth.

Then the time changed. The music became brighter and more rapid. One no longer seemed to see the moon gliding through fleecy clouds. Instead, one thought of sprites and fairies dancing merrily together.

Once again the music changed. The notes were as rapid as before, but they seemed fraught with sadness. It was such music as fills the heart with wonder.

"Farewell to you," said Beethoven, pus.h.i.+ng back his chair and turning toward the door. "Farewell to you."

"You will come again?" said the brother and sister in one breath.

He paused and looked tenderly at the face of the blind girl. "Yes, yes,"

he said, "I will come again and give you some lessons. Farewell! I will come soon again." His new friends followed him in silence and stood at the door until he was out of sight and hearing.

"Let us hasten home," said Beethoven to his friend. "I must write out that sonata while the music is still in my mind." When they reached home, Beethoven seated himself at once and began to write. He worked until daybreak. When he had finished, he had written the _Moonlight Sonata_.

FELIX MENDELSSOHN

(1809-1847)

If you were to go into the woods and hear the rustling of the leaves, the singing of the birds, and the babbling of the brook over the stones, could you come home and describe these things by playing on the piano?

Without saying anything, could you tell your mother what you heard?

Could you make the piano talk for you? Could you make it babble as the brook did? Could you make it sing the songs of the birds?

[Ill.u.s.tration: FELIX MENDELSSOHN]

There once lived a child in Germany who could do all this. His name was Felix Mendelssohn. He loved to go into the woods. When he returned, he would go straight to the piano. At such times his sister f.a.n.n.y loved to hear him play. When he had finished, she would say, "Oh, Felix, did a bird sing like that to-day?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Poetzelberger_

SONGS WITHOUT WORDS]

This brother and sister lived in a beautiful home. Their father was a rich banker. He liked to buy things that he thought would please his children. Their mother was a gentle woman, who enjoyed music and could play the piano well. She could speak many languages.

Felix had a dear old grandfather. The child used to climb on his grandfather's knee and beg for a story. The one he liked best told how he got the name _Mendelssohn_. "Long, long ago," the grandfather would say, "I lived in a small town in Germany. My father was a schoolmaster, whose name was Mendel. Every one in the village knew Mendel, the school-teacher. I used to go about a great deal with my father. When people saw us coming, they would say, 'Here is Mendel and here is Mendel's _sohn_, too.' So as I grew up, I was not called Moses Mendel, but Moses Mendelssohn."

The child Felix understood then that his last name meant, "the son of Mendel." His first name means "happy," and he was well named. There never lived a brighter, sunnier-tempered little lad.

Felix's mother was his first teacher. She began to give her children music lessons when Felix was only three years of age and f.a.n.n.y was seven. At first the lesson lasted for five minutes; but as time went on, the lessons were made longer.

Soon they had other studies. They rose every morning at five o'clock and began their work. Besides their music and drawing, they had all the studies that you have and foreign languages besides. Do you not think they were busy little people? When Felix was eleven years old, he could speak French, German, and English.

Though he studied hard, he was a jolly boy. After being hard at work writing his music, he would run into the garden, clearing high hedges with a leap. He could climb a tree as nimbly as a squirrel. Felix and his little friends played all sorts of games in the big garden.

Of all his playmates Felix had none so dear to him as his sister f.a.n.n.y.

The two children were always together, and told each other all their secrets. Felix thought there was no one so kind and patient as f.a.n.n.y.

f.a.n.n.y thought Felix was the dearest little brother in the world. She often helped her brother with his music.

A composer is one who writes music. Felix became a composer while he was still a small child. When he was eleven, he had composed sixty pieces of music. He had a teacher who helped him with his compositions. This man's name was Zelter. He was very proud of Felix, for he had no other pupil who made such progress.

All of the Mendelssohn children liked music. They had a concert every fortnight at home. At these concerts, f.a.n.n.y played the piano, Paul the violin, and a younger sister sang. Some of their friends often helped by playing other instruments. When several instruments are played together, there must be a leader to beat the time. This task fell to Felix, and he liked it, too.

Let us imagine that we are at one of the concerts. See, Felix is so much smaller than the others that he mounts a stool, so that the players can see him more plainly. Now they are ready to begin. See how the eyes of the little leader s.h.i.+ne! He tosses back the waving black hair from his shoulders. When he raises his arm, the playing begins. How beautiful it is! Can it be that the little Felix has composed this music? Yes, for when the music has stopped and the clapping has died away, his mother says, "Never before, my son, have you written such beautiful music."

The father, too, was pleased with these concerts. He often invited his friends to come in and listen. Mr. Zelter was always there, and encouraged the children to play what Felix had composed.

Although Felix was born in Hamburg, he spent most of his life in Berlin.

In 1825 his father bought a beautiful home in that city. There was a garden of seven acres. Fine old trees shaded the lawn. The house had many beautiful rooms. The one Felix liked the best was his mother's sitting room, which had three arches opening into another. The hall thus formed would seat many people. What a fine place for the family concerts!

Felix was a wonderful performer on the piano. When he was eight years old, he played better than many people who had studied for years. If his hands had not been so small, he could have done even better. When the lad was nine, he played at a concert given in a large hall.

In his thirteenth and fourteenth years, Felix was very busy with his studies. He liked to play without his notes. He memorized selections from the works of the greatest musicians. He was especially fond of Bach's and Beethoven's music.

In many of their studies f.a.n.n.y did as well as Felix. How they enjoyed working together! They loved each other more and more as the years went on. Felix cared for no other praise so much as f.a.n.n.y's.