Baden;
while there is still cherished in the royal garden of Schoenbrunn a
favourite spot, between two ash-trees, where the master is reputed to
have composed some of the music of "Fidelio."

A French artist, Paul Leyendecker, has painted the master thus at work
amid nature's peace. Beethoven is sitting on the outskirts of a wood
near his native city of Bonn, absorbed in composition. A funeral
procession is coming up the road, with the coffin borne upon the
shoulders of the mourners, and preceded by the priest, who recognises
the composer and bids the choristers cease chanting for a while in
order not to disturb his labours. Turning from the master at work in
the open air to him at home, we find that Carl Schloesser, a German
painter long settled in London, exhibited at the Royal Academy, a few
years ago, a striking picture showing Beethoven at the piano absorbed
in composition, amid a litter of manuscripts and music-sheets. It was
thus he must have looked when Weber called upon him in 1823.

[Illustration: Beethoven at Bonn. From painting by Paul Leyendecker.]

"All lay in the wildest disorder--music, money, clothing, on the
floor--linen from the wash upon the dirty bed--broken coffee-cups upon
the table. The open pianoforte was covered thickly with dust.
Beethoven entered to greet his visitors. Benedict has thus described
him: 'Just so must have looked Lear, or one of Ossian's bards. His
thick gray hair was flung upwards, and disclosed the sanctuary of his
lofty vaulted forehead. His nose was square, like that of a lion; his
chin broad, with those remarkable folds which all his portraits show;
his jaws formed as if purposely to crack the hardest nuts; his mouth
noble and soft. Over the broad face, seamed with scars from the
smallpox, was spread a dark redness. From under the thick, closely
compressed eyebrows gleamed a pair of small flashing eyes. The square,
broad form of a Cyclops was wrapped in a shabby dressing-gown, much
torn about the sleeves.' Beethoven recognised Weber without a word,
embraced him energetically, shouting out, 'There you are, my boy; you
are a devil of a fellow! God bless you!' handed him at once his famous
tablets, then pushed a heap of music from the old sofa, threw himself
upon it, and, during a flow of conversation, commenced dressing himself
to go out. Beethoven began with a string of complaints about his own
position; about the theatres, the public, the Italians, the tal