The Detroit times. [volume] (Detroit, Mich.) 1903-1920, 1916-07-03
Beethoven.
6Y Or. FRANK CRANE
Copyright. 1916. ny Frank Crane)

life, Anushka, was Beethoven.
Certain words lie deep in us, like
buried treasure. They dominate our
memory, as mountain peaks. They tinge
our youth, as lavender and thyme give
fragrance to all the contents of an old
chest.
In me, Beethoven connotes whole
swarm of dreams, whole lost life Of my
boyhood, a career l saw, and longed for,
and missed.
My youth was hard. My environment
was banal. My world was narrow, pro-
vincial. There was no art around me,
no enthusiasm of mighty ideas, no ex-
uberant radicalism. 1t was full Of corn
and hogs and religious crises and getting
on and menacing morality.
i found two avenues OF escape. One
was in the library. The city library Of
our town was up over grocery. But it
was my world of books. There / rev.
eled. | read everything greedily-
science and poetry, theology and magic.
law, medicine, chess. travel, history. The
place closed at ten. and | would walk
home with my head in the clouds.
But l was pathetically solitary. No
body around me cared for books. They
called me strange. | was. Nobody knows
the craving loneliness of child smitten
with the love of that majestic royal world
of the classics, which hangs above our
ordinary world as the stars hang over
the barnyard.
My other outlet was music. Some
time when was about sixteen bought
a thick book of music, entitled Beet
hoven's Sonatas" From it taught my
self music | toiled over it with the ter
rife concentration of youthful passion.
actually learned to play number of
them entire. and parts of them all. Of
course had to skip the portions where
high technical ability was required; but
found an infinite number of melodies.
and great, SCATTERING, haunting har-
monies. And am sure the Master. from
his seat where he directs the celestial
orchestra. appreciates not little that
boyiSh tribute to his genius.
Slowly | succumbed TO hostile environ
ment. Beethoven was neglected. One
must make living and get on; and the
children must have shoes and stockings,
and the dull grey Of things closed in.
Yet in my youth Was Beethoven.
This is why it is that the first evening
/ met you. and a party Of US went up to
your room, and you were asked to play
something" and you played not rag-time,
nor Madame Butterfly, or Chaminade, or
MacDowel or anything affected by mod
ernity good or bad, but Beethoven, and,
of all things, that sonorous Sonata Quasi
Una Fantasia, and all the people sat
about and looked queer-this is why you
| lifted years from my life, the old dead
enthusiasm Of youth started up as soul
on resurrection morning, the tears
smudged my face, and the beauty, pathos
and halo of the world swept back to me
and broke my heart.
You unlocked my prisoned dreams.
! Anushka. and they flew forth and filled
again my sky.
1t was not that loved you then. 1t
was little boy, dead, dead these many
years, though buried not under the sod,
but under dull practcalities.
! SO if were to set words to that Moon
light Sonata | would write those of De-
Musset:
"Ah, ST la reverie etait toujours possible.
TT que lie sonnambue. etendant la main.
Ne trouyait pas toujours In nature infexible
Qul lul heurtait le front CONNIE piliGR
d'arain,'
! (Ah' IL the dream were always possible,
And IL the sleep walker. reaching out his hand,
Did not find nature always infexible
And bump his forehead as against pillar or
BRASS