How the Moonlight Sonata was Composed.

Evening Star, Issue 6819, 5 February 1886, Page 4

How the Moonlight Sonata was Composed.

The great composer, passing a humble cottage; one evening, heard someone playing his Symphony in F on the piano. He stopped to listen. When the last chord was struck he heard a voice say, “ What would 1 not give to hear that piece played by someone who could do it justice 1 ” Beethoven then pushed the door open and entered. “ Pardon mo,” said the musician, somewhat embarrassed ; “pardon me, I heard music, and was tempted to cuter. lam a musician.” The girl blushed, and the young man assumed a grave, almost severe manner. “ I hoard also some of your words,” continued Beethoven. “ You wish to hear, that is, you would like—-in short, would you like me to play to you 1 ” There was something so strange, so comical in the whole affair, and something so agreeable and eccentric in Beethoven’s manner, that they all involuntarily smiled. “Thank you,” said the young shoemaker, “but our piano is bad, and then wo have no music.” “No music ! ” repeated Beethoven. “ How then, did Mademoiselle ” ! Ho stopped and colored ; for the young girl had just turned towards him, and, by her sad veiled eyes, he saw that she was blind. “ I entreat you to pardon me ! ” stammered he, “ but 1 did not remark at first. You play, then, from memory 1 ” “Entirely!” “And where have you heard this music before 1 ” “ Never excepting the music in the streets.” She seemed frightened: so Beethoven did not add another word, but seated himself at the instrument and began to play. He had not touched many notes when I guessed what would follow, and how sublime ho would bo that evening; I was not deceived. Never, during the many years 1 know him, did I hear him play as on this day for the young blind girl and her brother on that dilapidated piano. ... At last the shoemaker

rose, approached him, and said, in a low voice, “ Wonderful man, who aro you then ?” Beethoven raised his head, as if he had not comprehended. The young man repeated the question. The composer smiled as only ho could smile. “Listen,” said ho, and he played the first movement in the F Symphony. A cry of joy escaped from the lips of the brother and sister. They recognised the player, and cried “ You are, then, Beethoven T He rose to go, but they detained him. “ Play to us once more —just once more,” they said. He allowed himself to be led back to the instrument. The brilliant rays of the moon entered the curtainless window, and lighted his broad expressive forehead. “ I am going to improvise a sonata to the moonlight,” he said playfully. He contemplated for some moments the sky sprinkled with stars, then his fingers rested on the piano, and he began to play in a low, sad, but wondrously sweet strain. The har-

ninny issued from the instrument sweet and even, as the rays of the moon spread over (he shadows on the ground. —‘Pitman’s Musical Monthly.’