ain, he contrives to make the fact
understood. If he is at peace with himself and his surroundings, he
leaves no doubt on the subject. To precisely this degree of
intelligibility has the Heavenly Maid attained among us. When
Beethoven sat down to the composition of one of his grand harmonies,
there was undoubtedly in his mind as distinct a conception of that
which he wished to express, of that within him which clamored for
expression, as ever rises before a painter's eye, or sings in a poet's
brain. Thought, emotion, passion, hope, fear, joy, sorrow, each had
its life and law. The painter paints you this. This the poet sings
you. You stand before a picture, and to your loving, searching gaze
its truths unfold. You read the poem with the understanding, and catch
its concealed meanings. But what do you know of what was in
Beethoven's soul? Who grasps his conception? Who faithfully renders,
who even thoroughly knows his idea? Here and there to some patient
night-watcher the lofty gates are unbarred, "on golden hinges turning."
But, for the greater part, the musician who would tell so much speaks
to unheeding ears. We comprehend him but infinitesimally. It is the
Battle of Prague. Adrianus sits down to the piano, and Dion stands by
his side, music-sheet in hand, acting as showman. "The cannon," says
Dion, at the proper place, and you imagine you recognize reverberation.
"Charge," continues Dion, and with a violent effort you fancy the
ground trembles. "Groans of the wounded," and you are partly
horror-struck and partly incredulous. But what lame representation is
this! As if one should tie a paper around the ankle of the Belvedere
Apollo, with the inscription, "This is the ankle." A collar declares,
"This is the neck." A bandeau locates his "forehead." A bracelet
indicates the "arm." Is the sculpture thus significant? Hardly more
does our music yet signify to us. You hear an unfamiliar air. You
like it or dislike it, or are indifferent. You can tell that it is
slow and plaintive, or brisk and lively, or perhaps even that it is
defiant or stirring; but how insensible you are to the delicate shades
of its meaning! How hidden is the song in the heart of the composer
till he gives you the key! You hear as though you heard not. You hear
the thunder, and the cataract, and the crash of the avalanche; but the
song of the nightingale, the chirp of the katydid, the murmur of the
waterfall never reach you.