has the inward echo of true joy been unknown to me. When, when, O God, can I feel it again in the temple of nature and of man?—Never? No! that would be too cruel!”
The deep love shown in these words, love such as only proud
and strong natures know, was not only destined to be wounded
in its general relations with mankind through this calamity.
The woman he loved, the inspiring muse of some of his divinest
compositions, to whom he writes, “Is not our love a true heavenly
palace, also as firm as the fortress of heaven,” was unworthy.
In a world where millions of souls are pining and perishing for
want of an inexhaustible fountain of love and grandeur, this soul,
which was indeed such an one, could love in vain. This eldest
son, this rightful heir of nature, in some secret hour, writes at
this period, “Only love, that alone could give thee a happier
life. O my God, let me only find at last that which may strengthen
me in virtue, which to me is lawful. A love which is
permitted, (erlaubt).”
The prayer was unheard. He was left lonely, unsustained, unsolaced, to wrestle with, to conquer his fate. Pierced here in the very centre of his life, exposed both by his misfortune and a nature which could neither anticipate nor contend with the designs of base men, to the anguish of meeting ingratitude on every side, abandoned to the guardianship of his wicked brothers, Beethoven walked in night, as regards the world, but within, the heavenly light ever overflowed him more and more.
Shall lesser beings repine that they do not receive their dues in this short life with such an example before them, how large the scope of eternal justice must be? Who can repine that thinks of Beethoven? His was indeed the best consolation of life. “To him a God gave to tell what he suffered,” as also the deep joys of knowledge that spring from suffering. As he descends to “the divine deeps of sorrow,” and calls up, with spells known only to those so initiated, forms so far more holy, radiant, and
