iods of evolving into a fad,
and at this time the fashion was musical entertainments in aid of this
or that. Slight suspicions exist that these numerous entertainments were
devised by fledgling musicians for their own aggrandizement, and
possibly patrons fanned the philanthropic flame to help on their
proteges. Beethoven was of too simple and guileless a nature to aid his
fortunes with the help of any social jimmy, but we see he was soon in
the full tide of local popularity. His ability as a composer, his virile
presence, and his skill as a player, made his company desired. From
playing first for charity, then at the houses of nobility, and next as a
professional musician, he gradually mounted to the place to which his
genius entitled him.

Then we find his brothers, Carl and Johann, appearing on the scene, with
a fussy yet earnest intent to take care of the business affairs of their
eccentric and absent-minded brother. Ludwig let himself fall into their
way of thinking--it was easier than to oppose them--and they began to
drive bargains with publishers and managers. Their intent was to sell
for cash and in the highest market; and their strenuous effort after the
Main Chance put their gifted brother in a bad plight before the world of
art. Beethoven's brothers seized his very early and immature
compositions and sold them without his consent or knowledge. So
humiliated was Beethoven by seeing these productions of his childhood
hawked about that he even instituted lawsuits to get them back that he
might destroy them. To boom a genius and cash his spiritual assets is a
grave and delicate task--perhaps it is one of those things that should
be left undone. Much anguish did these rapacious brothers cause the
divinely gifted brown thrush, and when they began to quarrel over the
receipts between themselves, he begged them to go away and leave him in
peace. He finally had to adopt the ruse of going back to Bonn with
them, where he got them established in the apothecary business, before
he dared manage his own affairs. But they were bad angels, and the wind
of their wings withered the great man as they hovered around him down to
the day of his death.

* * * * *

Then silence settled down upon Beethoven, and every piano was for him
mute, and he, the maker of sweet sounds, could not hear his own voice,
or catch the words that fell from the lips of those he loved, Fate
seemed to have done her worst.