And so he wrote: "Forgive me then if you see me turn away when I would
gladly mix with you. For me there is no recreation in human intercourse,
no conversation, no sweet interchange of thought. In solitary exile I am
compelled to live. When I approach strangers a feverish fear takes
possession of me, for I know that I will be misunderstood. * * * But O
God, Thou lookest down upon my inward soul! Thou knowest, and Thou seest
that love for my fellowmen, and all kindly feeling have their abode
here. Patience! I may get better--I may not--but I will endure all until
Death shall claim me, and then joyously will I go!"

The man who could so express himself at twenty-eight years of age must
have been a right brave and manly man. But art was his solace, as it
should be to every soul that aspires to become.

Great genius and great love can never be separated--in fact I am not
sure but that they are one and the same thing. But the object of his
love separated herself from Beethoven when calamity lowered. What woman,
young, bright, vigorous and fresh, with her face to the sunrising, would
care to link her fair fate with that of a man sore-stricken by the hand
of God!

And then there is always a doubt about the genius--isn't he only a fool
after all!

Art was Beethoven's solace. Art is harmony, beauty and excellence. The
province of art is to impart a sublime emotion. Beethoven's heart was
filled with divine love--and all love is divine--and through his art he
sought to express his love to others.

But his physical calamity made him the butt and byword of the heedless
wherever he went. Within the sealed-up casements of his soul Beethoven
heard the Heavenly Choir; and as he walked, bareheaded, upon the street,
oblivious to all, centered in his own silent world, he would sometimes
suddenly burst into song. At other times he would beat time, talk to
himself and laugh aloud. His strange actions would often attract a
crowd, and rude persons, ignorant of the man they mocked, would imitate
him or make mirth for the bystanders, as they sought to engage him in
conversation. At such times the Master might be dragged back to earth,
and seeing the coarse faces and knowing the hopelessness of trying to
make himself understood, he would retreat in terror.

Six months or more of each year were spent in the country in some
obscure village about Vienna. There he could walk the woods and traverse
the fields alone and unnoticed, and there,