FullReads

“No,” said the girl, “I cannot leave my father–the land of my birth–home of my childhood. I that have given you liberty, may point out a way to deliver you from further restraint. How I learned the nature of your crime, ask not; I know your secret.”

“Ah! what mean you?”

“In a foolish hour,” continued the lovely Bertha, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, “you impaled your generous self to save a friend–the friend fled–you were arrested–“

“Good God!” exclaimed the poet, “Herr Beethoven—-“

“Gave you possession of—-” she continued.

“No! no! no!” interposed the affrighted poet, daring not to breathe “yes,” even to the ear of his fair preserver.

“Sir,” calmly continued the girl, “I have risked my own life and liberty to preserve yours, I have—-“

“I–I know it all, dear–dearest angel, but—-“

“Those manuscripts,” she continued, fixing her keen but melting gaze upon the poor victim.

“Ha! manuscripts? How learned you this? No, no, it cannot be—-“

“It is known–I know it–I learned it from your captors; but for my love,” said the girl, “mad–guilty love–your life would have been forfeited–your house pillaged by the emissaries of the Emperor, in quest of those manuscripts. While they exist, Bertha cannot be happy–Bertha’s love must die with her–Bertha be ever miserable!”

“I-a–I will–but no! no! I have no manuscripts! It is false–false!” exclaimed the almost distracted poet.

“Herr Shaubert,” said the girl, clasping the hand of the poet, and throwing herself at his feet, “am I unworthy your love?”

“Dear, dear Bertha, do not torture me! do not, for God’s sake! Rise; let me at your feet swear, in answer– No! “

“Then, within four-and-twenty hours, let me grasp that hated, damned viper, that would gnaw the heart’s core of Bertha. Give me the key of your misery; O! bless me–bless your Bertha; give me those accursed manuscripts, daggers bequeathed you by a false friend, that I may at once, in your presence, give them to the flames; and Bertha, the idol of your soul, be ever more blessed and happy!”

This appeal settled the business of the poet; he walked the room, sighed, tore his mouchoir, oscillated between honor and temptation–the angel form and syren tongue of the woman triumphed. In course of a dozen hours, Bertha, the lovely, enchanting spy, opened the secret drawers of the poet’s secretary, and amid carefully-packed literary rubbish, the dreaded memorial was found–clutched with the eagerness of a death-reprieve to a poor felon upon the verge of eternity, and with the despatch of an hundred swift relays, the poor author’s manuscripts were placed in the hands of the mighty Emperor, and while he read their fearful purport, and flashed with rage or grew livid with each scathing word of the memorial, he hurriedly issued his orders–gain to this one, sacrifice to that one; while he made the spy a countess, he ordered hideous death to the poor poet and despair and misery to his children.

“Fly!” the monarch shouted, “search every one suspected of a hand in this; let them be dealt with instantly–trouble me not with detail, but give me sure returns. Stop not, until this viper is exterminated; egg and tooth; fang and scale; see it done and claim my bounty– fly! “

That snake was scotched and killed–the few brief pages of an obscure author that drove sleep, appetite and peace from the mighty Emperor, for days and nights–made busy work for his thousands of emissaries–scattered his gold in weighty streams–was read, cursed and destroyed, and all suspected as having the slightest voice or opinion in the secret memorial, met a secret fate–death or prolonged wretchedness.

Herr Beethoven, the poor author, alone escaped; being overlooked in the hot pursuit of his production, and by the blunder of those having charge of himself and hundreds of other state prisoners–guilty or suspected opponents to the vaulting ambition and power of him that at last ended his own eventful career as a helpless prisoner upon an ocean isle–was liberated and lost no time in making his way beyond the reach of monarchs, tyranny and bondage. Beethoven came to America and settled in Philadelphia, where, in the humble capacity of an e-razer of beards and pruner of human mops, he eked out a reasonable existence for the residue of his earthly existence; few, perhaps, dreaming in their profoundest philosophy, that the little, eccentric-attired, grotesque-looking barber, who tweaked their plebeian noses and combed their caputs, once rejoiced in grand heraldic escutcheons upon his carriage panels as a veritable Count, and still later made the throne tremble beneath the feet of a second Alexander!

But God is great, and the ways of our every-day life, full of change and mystery.