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By Lori T. Strongin
This is an original work, please do not steal. On a dark night in 1827, a maestro pens the final note on what he knows will be his greatest masterpiece. The clock ticks away his time, and Ludwig van Beethoven rises from the piano in pain. He shudders when a particularly bright flash of lightning splits the sky. His Tenth Symphony sits completed upon the music stand, ready for whoever happens to find it. It is his finest work. It is his final legacy. The revolver lays upon the lid of the piano like a midnight sentinel, watching his every movement. Beethoven reaches for it, yearning for it, craving it like a drug. It whispers in his ear, but he must read between the lines because silence is all he hears. The first bell of the witching hour chimes. For more than two decades, he has failed in this endeavor. Twenty years he has lived with the silence; a score shared only with the poison in his blood. Too many times he rejected suicide as a real option for a man such as himself. But here, at the end of all things, he is too tired to fight any longer. With each successive crack of lightning, the candlelight shadows move closer. Beethoven finds their distraction unbearable. They look on as he lifts his regrets and cocks the barrel. “That is entirely unnecessary. I am here now.” He is startled by the voice; the first he has heard in years. He drops the weapon to the ground, turns, and sees her. She glows like the Vienna moon, her skin is so pale. Dark hair trails down a bare back, her body barely covered by the skin-like dress and thigh high boots. Her blind eyes never break their empty stare as she flexes midnight colored wings. “You come at last,” Beethoven says to the Muse, not at all surprised to see her. “What kept you?” “I have always been here.” Her melodic voice stirs him like no music ever has. “You lie. You betrayed me, leaving me alone in the silence. You allowed this blight to run through my veins and slowly murder me. And now you come to collect my soul. Tell me, are all your kind muse, guardian, and grim reaper in one?” She does not answer his sarcasm. “Your connection to the world is through your music. Every note was my voice. The gift of your music is mine.” “You call it a gift? I can no longer remember the sounds of the notes I have written, yet you dare to lay claim. I would give it all up for a chance to live my life without the darkness; without the silence.” As the last chime of time’s soldier sounds, another figure enters the room. The shadows creep backwards at his approach. His clothes are from a future the dying man knows he will never see- a shining white seersucker suit, equipped with an ivory-tipped walking stick and fedora hat. He is tall, much taller than the composer ever was, and is wearing such a beatific smile that Beethoven feels at ease. “I can grant that wish,” the newcomer says. Beethoven looks at the blind angel. He thinks he can see a trace of sadness in her empty eyes. He turns back to the man he knows comes from the Seventh Circle. “Tell me.” “I will give you that second chance. Take you back to your earliest happy memory and let you live your life again.” Beethoven cannot believe his good fortune and reaches his hand forward in agreement. The Muse stops him. Her hand is cold against his fevered skin. “Ask his price.” Mephistopheles smiles. “Very smart, Muse. But your concern is unnecessary. I ask for little payment.” He straightens his lapels and turns to face the frightened composer. “Just your music.” “What?” “You will have the chance to live again. You can always recreate your masterpieces, or pen new ones that surpass the old. I only ask for your music to be wiped from people’s minds in the here and now.” The Muse speaks again. “Is that so?” “I swear it on my dark throne.” “Not much of a promise from one such as yourself,” she says. “Either this, or I claim his soul now.” The Muse’s voice seethes with anger. “Give me an hour. One hour to show him that your promises will claim his soul either way.” Beethoven is torn. Moments ago, he was willing to take his own life. Now, he would do almost anything to keep it. If he agrees, he gets a second chance, but the devil will own his music. If he refuses, an eternity in the flames awaits. He feels sick. The Muse reaches for Mephistopheles’ hand and shakes it in agreement. “One hour. Then I shall return.” He points to the grandfather clock. To Beethoven’s horror, the hands are moving much too fast. “Be grateful,” Mephistopheles says, reading the composer’s mind. “Where I live, the hands never turn at all.” In a flash of flame, the Prince of Darkness is gone. The shadows re-emerge from the corners of the room. The overwhelming silence is broken by Beethoven’s rage. “This is your fault, Muse! Had you not dealt me such a cruel hand in life, I would not be damned now!” “Is that so?” “Of course.” “Then prove it. Show me what you would wish to change, and I shall make it so.” The walls of Beethoven’s small apartment blow away like smoke on the wind, whirling in patterns and colors the composer has never before imagined. Suddenly, the spinning stops, and they stand in the music room of his childhood home. Just as the dying man remembers, tomes of music theory and parchment scores line the cherry wood bookshelves that line the room. The thick Berber rug covers the marble floor and is missing the pipe-sized hole he burned when eleven. He looks towards the grand piano and sees his younger self sitting ramrod straight upon the bench, struggling his way through a Mozart concerto. “I remember this.” “I know.” The boy continues to play, his stubby fingers hitting stray keys and causing discord to fill the room. In front of the instrument paces his childhood music instructor. “No, you idiot boy!” the ghost of the past spits. “Are you incompetent, or just inept? We will never get to the Hapsburg Court with such failure.” The man hits the young Beethoven with his baton, leaving angry red welts across the child’s face and hands. The boy falls to the ground, sobbing and the instructor stalks out of the house. Beethoven watches his younger self crawl back onto the bench. He remembers the shame both his tutor and his father so graciously heaped upon him. “He wanted me to be the next Mozart. But I was never good enough.” The child had calmed himself, and began playing a tune that Beethoven recognized would one day become his Pastoral Symphony. At the time, he’d only played it because it comforted him. It reminded him of his mother’s lullabyes. “I did not need this childhood. I did not need my mother to die when I was a babe. I did not need an alcoholic father or a sadistic bastard beating me.” “No child deserves such pain.” “So do something about it! You are the Muse. Make my hands play as they should.” “I can do that.” She pauses, and the child’s melody wafts through the air like a summer’s breeze. “But know that if I do, you will lose this.” “What do you mean?” “I gave you this melody for comfort. If you do not need it, I will not give it to you.” “But this tune gave me inspiration for one of my greatest pieces.” “And you will lose it.” He shakes his head. “No. I cannot give it up. You cannot take this from me. Choose something else.” “So be it.” In another swirl of smoke and breeze, Beethoven and the Muse are standing in the middle of a busy street, and a twenty year old Beethoven hops down from a coal-black steam engine with a large leather valise clutched in his arms. A grin as wide as all of Austria crosses his face. He has finally attained the height and grace he never thought he’d achieve as a child. He has a fair face, and wild hair that the girls back home loved to run their hands through. Oh yes, he enjoyed the company women, drinking them like fine wine. Often he would compose concertos in his head while sharing the comfort of a wanton’s matress. “I had just left home for the first time. I planned to rent a small apartment, perform in the Emperor’s Court, fall in love and marry, and become the most famous musician of the time.” “It is a nice dream.” “Dreams change.” A girl crosses the young Beethoven’s path, her golden hair only outshone by the light in her blue eyes. Her skin is milky and flawless, and the bloom of life blossoms upon her cheeks like a spring flower. She is the most splendid creature Beethoven has ever seen. The young man’s eyes follow her, hungry for more. She walks past, tilting her parasol and glancing coyly over her shoulder. He follows her, besotted. “A year later, we were engaged.” “And then you broke off your engagement and never saw her again.” The scene changes. They are transported to the parlor of his first apartment in Vienna Square. The room is small and cluttered with the tools of a muscian. Half written sheets of music are pinned to the walls like patchwork wallpaper. Half eaten meals and stained caraffes decorate the sparce furniture. In the far corner, the twenty-eight year old composer sits slumped over the piano, convinced his life is over. “I had to break our engagement,” the old man croaks. “Why?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “My hearing loss was irreversible. How on earth could a high-born woman like her ever love a deaf musician?” “Did you ever ask her?” “How could I? I would never survive seeing loathing in her eyes. I had to leave her before she could leave me.” “Look over there.” He follows the point of the Muse’s hand. His love is standing there, peering in through the side window, worry etched on her fair face. She shakes her head, covering her mouth as a few tears leak from her blue eyes. “Oh, my love,” Beethoven hears her whisper. “What is it you believe no one else can know? What secrets keep you from me?” She goes to the front door of the apartment and tries the knob. It is locked. She pounds on the door. Hours pass, and still she knocks. Her fist is raw and bruised, but she does not cease. Beethoven watches in horror. “I never heard her. I never knew.” “You were never meant to.” The realization that she would not have cared about his infirmity nearly breaks him. He is desperate to touch his beloved once more. “Take this back. Restore my hearing. Give us a second chance to be together.” “Is this truly what you want?” “Of course! Remove the plague of deafness from my life, and all shall be well.” “What were you doing before you lost your hearing?” He is taken aback by the sudden change in topic. “Performing. Which I also had to stop because of this cursed disease.” “And what did you do after your hearing was gone?” “Composed music.” “Do you not see?” the Muse asks, placing a cold hand upon his arm. “I have always spoken to you, but you were too focused on your showmanship. Only once you became deaf could you hear my voice.” “So I shall be a performer instead of a composer. I was hailed as one of the most brilliant musicians of the time by the Emperor himself.” A fleeting look of sadness passes through the angel’s sightless eyes. “Your performances would be remembered only a short time, then fade like the dreams of candlelight. But your compositions will echo forever. In this way, you will be immortal.” “You are making me choose between my music and my love. It is not fair.” In his misery, the young man at the piano begins to pluck out a tune. He follows the keyboard like a dying man to an oasis. The tune leads, and he follows. The elder Beethoven recognizes the notes as the beginnings of Für Elise. The elder composer sighs, knowing that, regardless of how much he loved his golden beauty, he could not give up his compositions for her. “She will always be immortal to me. My beloved.” “Is your music not also your love? “My music does not keep me warm at night, no.” “But it does others.” The world around them whirls away again. Fleeting glimpses of other realities are made known to him. He sees hundreds of musicians- young and old, seasoned and green, all playing his music. “Your music will inspire generations. Your notes will give birth to millions more.” More flashes, and Beethoven understands he is seeing the future. He sees a widow find solace in his Moonlight Sonata. A terminally ill child escapes his infirmity playing the melody of the Ode de Joy. A mother-to-be introduces her child to his Flute Serenade. And finally he begins to understand. Life is like a composition. It has rests; it has beats. It keeps time. Each note is unique in its place within the measure. It cannot be altered. Change one note, change one line- everything is rearranged. And like his masterpieces, the painful memories of his past gave him the staff upon which to write the symphony of his life. The clock chimes One. The past and future melt away to reveal Beethoven’s little apartment. An hour has passed, and a lifetime has been lived this night. “Now you understand.” A plume of flame lights the room, and Mephistopheles appears. He calmly straightens his white fedora and brushes soot from his lapel. “Enjoy your trip to the past?” “I will not give up my music,” the composer says with courage he does not feel. Mephistopheles grins. “Before you lies endless death or timeless glory. Either way, you shall lose your soul tonight. Have you chosen wisely, musician? Is this your final answer?" Beethoven looks towards the Muse. She is impassive as always. No emotion crosses her pale face. No helpful advice or words of comfort escape her blood red lips. The dying man bows his head in submission. Mephistopheles frowns. “Very brave of you, Ludwig. Most men would beg and plead for the opportunity you’re throwing away.” He drapes a casual arm over Beethoven’s shoulder. “I like you. And I like your music. Which is why I’ll make you one last bargain. Give me your Tenth Symphony. No one has ever heard it, so it’s not like the world will change without it. Give me this one piece of music, and your soul is yours to keep.” Beethoven felt like he would lose what little lunch he had eaten. “The Tenth is my finest work. I cannot give it up.” “Even to save your soul?” He swallows. He looks again to the angel for guidance, but she gives none. “No.” Mephistopheles drops the arm around the composer’s shoulders and looks as if he could flay the man where he stands. “I will have your music,” he sneers. “It will be mine.” He stalks to the window and points into the cold, wet night. Beethoven follows the trail of the finger to see a small street urchin, curled up on his front stoop to hide from the rain. She cannot be more than seven or eight. “I own this child’s life. Every step of her life, I shall dog her. I will pick at her scabs, claw at her stomach, and laugh when she is placed in a potter’s grave. Give me your symphony, and I will remove my claim upon her life. Refuse, and you condemn her to hell on earth and an afterlife in the flames.” Beethoven scoffs. “What is this child to me? She’s no blood of mine. I’ve never even seen her before today.” As much as he wants to turn away, he cannot. She is too small to live such a harsh life. What tragic story lives inside the child’s memories that bring her to this sad conclusion? He shakes his head. There were hundreds of pauper children living on the streets of Vienna. Why should this little foundling be any different? Surely, she’d be gone from his stoop, and life, come morning? Besides, there were other guttersnipes to take her place. There always would be. Surely some of those nameless children would survive. Why should this one mean anything to him? Because she does. He collapses onto the piano bench. He truly has no choice. He cannot condemn this child to a loveless life and early death. “I agree.” Mephistopheles reaches for his prize like an excited child. “Wait.” The Muse leaves the shadows. “You must give your word, in writing, that this child shall be spared by you and your minions, both in this life and the next.” The Great Betrayer grins. “As you wish.” He conjures a sheet of lined paper and a strange writing utensil, and hands them to the Muse. “Write up your own contract.” The Muse’s scratches remind Beethoven of his own frantic scribbles whenever she would whisper notes upon his deaf ears. He stares out the window. The freezing rain has turned to sleet. The cobblestone street is coated in the white substance. For one moment, if he closes his eyes, he can remember the feel of cold air upon his skin and the thrill of winter’s flower. He holds on to the sensation. Moments later, the Muse produces the finished contract. Beethoven reads through the loopy curves, the Evil One reading over his shoulder. It is agreed upon this night, March 26, 1827, between the undersigned, that the music of the Tenth Symphony, composed by Ludwig van Beethoven, first born son of his parents, shall henceforth be the property of Mephistopheles, Lord of Darkness. In exchange for the destruction of the aforementioned music, it is agreed that Mephistopheles and his disciples will remove themselves from the life of the child presently sleeping upon the stoop of Ludwig van Beethoven’s primary abode. This removal of influence is to be commenced immediately upon the signing of this contract, and to be enforced for all eternity. In addition, with the signing of this contract, the composer Ludwig van Beethoven retains his soul in this life, and the one after. Mephistopheles reads the paper, signs it and pushes it in front of Beethoven. He cannot bear to look at it. He closes his eyes and signs. Immediately, Mephistopheles reaches over the piano, seizes the Tenth, and thrusts it over a lit candle. The parchment papers are engulfed in a wall of flames. But when the smoke clears, the manuscript still exists. It is not even singed. Mephistopheles thrusts it over the candle again. Once more it ignites, only to emerge unscathed. “What trickery is this? Explain!” Beethoven is as surprised by this twist as Mephistopheles. “I cannot.” “The contract is void. There is a lie in here. There must be!” For the first time, the blind angel smiles. “Oh no, Dark One. There is no lie upon that page. You have purchased the Tenth Symphony of Ludwig van Beethoven, first born son of his parents.” She turns to look at the stunned composer. “Your parents birthed a child before you. A son. He did not live through his first year, so your parents gave you his name in his memory. “You have purchased the Tenth Symphony of the deceased Ludwig van Beethoven. If he ever writes one.” Mephistopheles throws the manuscript upon the floor and departs in a mushroom cloud of smoke. When the air clears, the manuscript sits upon the floor, marred only by an ink streak on the cover. Beethoven picks it up and holds it close to his chest as if it were a precious child. “You tricked him.” “I wrote the truth. It is his fault if he does not fully understand a contract before he signs it.” The clock strikes Two. The Muse folds her wings and sits upon the leather chaise, and beckons Beethoven to join her. He sits, still cradling his masterpiece. “Do you still wish to end your days with cold steel in your mouth?” He shakes his head. “No, Muse. I no longer fear death, as this night has shown me life beyond the eternal sleep. Although there was much adversity, I no longer wish to change the path of my life.” He smiles. “I hear within me the sounds of a great orchestra.” “Then lay your head down,” she whispers, guiding his salt-and-pepper head towards her lap. “Sleep now.” “Will I awaken?” “For tonight, your moment is over. It is time to start a new dream.” As his eyes close, the storm clears. All is still. The clock chimes the hour. And the greatest composer of all time breathes his last. The Muse rises and removes the manuscript from the dead man’s hands. She flips through the pages, sightlessly seeing the music. “When it is time.” She removes a floorboard, and places the symphony into the dry little hole. She replaces the plank and moves away. Here it remains hidden, the world blissfully unaware of its existence, until the day when it will be discovered and Beethoven’s last illusion will live once again. Fin |