And yet there were people
like Mozart and Schumann and Weber who were happy in spite of
everything, because they had been able to keep their soul's health and
the joy of creation until the end; and though their bodies were worn out
with fatigue and privation, a light was kept burning which sent its rays
far into the darkness of their night. There are worse destinies; and
Beethoven, though he was poor, shut up within himself, and deceived in
his affections, was far from being the most unhappy of men. In his case,
he possessed nothing but himself; but he possessed himself truly, and
reigned over the world that was within him; and no other empire could
ever be compared with that of his vast imagination, which stretched like
a great expanse of sky, where tempests raged. Until his last day the old
Prometheus in him, though fettered by a miserable body, preserved his
iron force unbroken. When dying during a storm, his last gesture was one
of revolt; and in his agony he raised himself on his bed and shook his
fist at the sky. And so he fell, struck down by a single blow in the
thick of the fight.
But what shall be said of those who die little by little, who outlive
themselves, and watch the slow decay of their souls?
Such was the fate of Hugo Wolf, whose tragic destiny has assured him a
place apart in the hell of great musicians.
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