//------------------------------// // Chapter 34: Visiting Hours in F Major. // Story: Beethoven's Tenth // by CrackedInkWell //------------------------------// The next day, Ludwig van Beethoven woke up to even more cards, flowers, and gifts that filled his room. A quarter of the cards that wished him a speedy recovery came from the Canterlot Philharmonic while the rest came from fans that hoped for the same thing. After “breakfast,” Ludwig tried to get back to work, yet the pills he was given still tired him out after a while as he wrote and rewrote bars of the third movement. He wrote in the first theme to single the beginning of the end of the piece, where violins and winds make variations while trying to find momentum when the composer's mind wasn't all there. But after stopping for a few moments to review what he had then he crossed out some of the unfavorable moments. By noon, visiting hours were now open. He was a little surprised when it was Sweetie Belle that was the first to enter. “What are you here for?” Ludwig asked. The filly fetched for the scroll for him to read, “Aren’t we going to continue on that quartet?” Beethoven looked at her confused, “Why would want to still work on it?” “Because I want to learn,” she said as she opened up a drawer by the nightstand to which she pulled out the sketch. “I’m serious about learning from you.” “And you think you’ll do so by me dictating the quartet?” Ludwig questioned. “I don’t see how you’ll be learning from me.” “When it comes to music, I already know how to sing all the key signatures, do all the tricks and all. The reason why I want to learn from you is that you’re the only one I know besides Pinkie and maybe Fluttershy that can come up with music from the top of their heads. So if I’m going to write music by myself, I don’t just want to know how it works, but more importantly why. If you dictate to me what notes to write, I also wanted to know why you put them there.” After Ludwig adjusted his bed, he looked at her in the eye and said, “Little one, can I ask you a serious question?” “I guess so.” “Have you composed any music, all by yourself?” “Well… no.” “And why not?” Ludwig took notice that the young unicorn hesitated, “Well… what if it’s bad?” “How do you know your music is bad if you never write it down? You are an artist, are you not?” Sweetie tilted her head, “What do you mean by that, artist?” “An artist is one who has learned to trust himself. If you cannot do that, you are doomed to fail.” “Well, yeah, I get that,” Sweetie said, “But with something like this quartet here, how does it work?” “You are not seeing it,” Ludwig shook his head. “Music, like all art, it never ‘works,’ it never did. All art is a living thing that is connected to the artist. The mistake that my past teachers used to teach was that all music has a set of instructions for anyone to follow like building a lifeless bridge. But I’ve learned that all art grows with the one that’s creating them. This quartet, this music is a living thing, one that grows and develops, and as one idea dies, another grows from it like trees.” “But how do I create?” Beethoven thought for a moment and said, “Fräulein Sweetie Belle, I’m going to give you the same advice that one of my teachers had given to me. Although, despite how short of a time I’ve spent learning from Herr Mozart, before I left him, he gave me something that I never fully understood until I went deaf. He said that ‘The music is not in the notes, but in the silence between.’ If you’re serious about creating art, then you have to learn how to be patient with the small voice that’s speaking inside of you. Because inspiration cannot come to the slothful when they don’t seek it out and listen carefully from it.” “Huh,” the young Unicorn looked down at the quartet, looking at the pages. “I’ve never thought it like that way before. So you’re saying if I’m going to write music, that silence is the key?” “Yes. Silence is the key, but listening is the lock. Once you unlock this, suddenly music becomes a higher revelation than all of wisdom and philosophy. Music is the electrical soil in which the spirit lives, thinks and invents.” Sweetie flipped over to the last page of the sketch in which they’ve left off. “Okay. I think I have an idea what you’re saying. So, can we focus on working on this quartet?” _*_ When Sweetie Belle got tired, she excused herself before the next visitors came in. This time it was Applejack and Pinkie Pie. “Howdy there Mr. Beethoven, how’ve you been?” Ludwig looked down at his bed, “How do you think I’ve been?” While the farmer ears folded back in embarrassment, Pinkie, however, hopped over to the bed. “I know we haven’t talked, or seen each other, or gone to parties in a while, but I think that since you’re in the hospital that maybe it might be the perfect time to get to know us better!” She then placed on his bed a box that was as pink as she was. After looking up from the scroll, Ludwig turned his attention towards the present. Upon opening it, the box erupted in a puff of confetti. “What is this?” Beethoven demanded. Pinkie held up the scroll to him. “This is my ‘Kit-to-survive-a-week-of-boredom-while-waiting-to-walk-out-of-the-hospital-because-of-your-appendix.’ I don’t give these away very often but when word came out that you’ve just had surgery, I had to put this baby together.” “What’s in here other than exploding paper?” Ludwig tilted the box over to where he could see in it. There he found a clear bag of oatmeal cookies; something called a “joke book;” a mini chess set; a flask of what he hoped to be wine stuffed with a cork; hard candies; a couple of “emergency chocolate” bars; a crudely sketched and put together book entitled “Twilight and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day;” and what really caught the composer’s eye, was a collection of sheet music stitched together. He pulled it out of the box to which he held it up to Pinkie. She grinned, “Since I know you won’t be able to hear my songs, especially the welcoming song that I sing to everypony that moves into town, I’ve decided to write it down for you, along with all my other stuff.” As Pinkie shifted the scroll to her other hoof, she added, “Do you like them?” Ludwig scanned the sheet music in which it was a simple duet between the voice and piano. He flipped through the few other songs. Pinkie nearly vibrated in anticipation to hear what Beethoven thought of them, “I like your songs,” he finally said. The baker smiled widely before Ludwig picked up a pencil and added, “I think I’ll set them to music.” “Now hold on there,” Applejack said, but Ludwig’s attention turned to the sheet music as he started to write over it. The farm went up to him and put a hoof over it to get his attention. “What?” The orange mare picked up the scroll, “That ain’t a school assignment; Pinkie worked hard on that as a gift fer ya.” “I never said that they were bad,” Beethoven said, “I’m making new arrangements from them. Besides, the mare gave these as a gift, as such; I may do as I please with them.” “He does have a point,” Pinkie said as she looked over his shoulder, “Besides; it looks like he’s not really changing the melody of the Welcome Song. Huh… never thought of that before.” The party mare watched as her song was rewritten, notes were added, crescendos and decrescendos were placed into the piano part while the voice section was given a new rhythm and trills. Taking the scroll into her own hooves, Pinkie inquired after she tapped on Ludwig’s arm: “Mr. Beethoven, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a really, really long time.” “What?” “I know that I’ve sent you invitations to come to my parties, so how come I’ve never seen you at any of them?” “Never liked them,” Ludwig simply answered. Pinkie had to do a double take, then a quadruple, before she started giggling. “That’s a really funny joke.” “It isn’t.” Then the pink mare’s jaw hit the floor, “But… But that’s impossible. Everypony likes parties.” “May I kindly remind you Fräulein that I’m not a pony?” “So? There’s so much to enjoy!” Ludwig looked up from the scroll, raising an eyebrow, “Like what?” “There are friends, and sweets, and streamers, and dancing, and music, and catching up with everypony, and jokes, and you get to see so many ponies smile as they have a good time – lots of things!” “And how many of those things you’ve just listed require hearing?” Pinkie then closed her mouth, “W-Well… you don’t need to hear to have a good time.” “I don’t know how parties are like here in Equestria,” Beethoven said, “But in Vienna, I get invited by the rich for their parties to talk about things that have next to nothing to do with what I’m interested, and I’ve always been expected to play their background music for them. Sure, the food may be excellent each time I went, but when you can’t hear what the person next to you is saying, I might as well spend it alone. I may not know about you, but that has never been my idea of a ‘good time.’” “Oh c’mon!” Pinkie throws her forelegs, taking the scroll with her as Ludwig could almost read. “Give me a break here! I’m trying to get you to be happy in the best way I know how! I’ve done it well with other ponies to brighten up their day.” “Is that so?” “She sure is,” Applejack pipped up. “She’s the best here party mare in this here town. Ludwig then turned to Pinkie, “Then off with you! You’re a happy mare, for you’ll give happiness and joy to many of your fellow ponies. There is nothing better or greater than that! Besides, you’ve already given me something to be amused over,” he gestured over to the sheet music the party pony has given him. “There are several variations and arrangements I can make out from them. It’s good to have a challenge to the mind when one is stuck in a place like this.” The apple farmer turned to her friend, “Ah think Ah can take care of things from here. You can go right along now.” After Pinkie hopped away, now leaving the composer and the farmer behind. “So Ah reckon that the apartment yer stayin’ is more tolerant of ya?” Applejack asked. “At least I have a maid that knows what she’s doing,” Ludwig replied as he moved the scroll around. “Considerin’ how you were when you’d stayed in the barn, Ah can only imagine what those girls are puttin’ up with.” The mare chuckled, “Look, Ah wanna come by to say somethin’ to ya. Ah’ve been workin’ rather hard ta make sure the farm is ready fer the winter that Ah hadn’t had time to listen to yer music. However, Ah have recently given a listen to yer third symphony recently.” “From an orchestra or a record?” Beethoven inquired. “It’s from a record that Rarity let me borrow. Ah took a listen to one night after all the chores were done and we’ve eaten dinner. Ta be honest, Ah didn’t really know what to expect, but fer one, Ah was really surprised that you wrote all of that. It was the complete opposite of what we’ve heard when you were playin’ in the barn. But to tell ya the truth… Ah didn’t finish listenin’ to it.” Ludwig raised an eyebrow, “And why not?” Applejack sighed, “When the second movement started, the one with the funeral march… It… It brought something back and made me something that Ah haven’t done in a real long time. Ah cried. Somethin' that no music has ever made me do. Now, mind you, when it comes to feelings, Ah’ve learned how to control them and to show it when it’s needed. If you’d ask somepony like Pinkie Pie if Ah ever gets sad, she’ll tell ya that Ah cry on the inside. While that’s mostly true, there’s a little more to it. Ah’ve learned pretty early that there are some emotions that nopony wants ta see. “But when the funeral march started…” she shook her head, “Ah had to use mah pillow to keep me quiet so that nopony else in the family would hear it.” “I fail to see why you would cry over a funeral march,” Ludwig pointed out. There was a pause before Applejack told him, “It reminded me of Ma and Pa… That music dragged me back to the day when we’ve carried them to bury them… Ah tell ya, even back then, Ah didn’t cry once, but… when it was playin’, the saddest day of mah whole life came back that… Ah couldn’t control it anymore. Ah missed them.” Ludwig took a moment before replying, “As well as you should. I take that your memories of them are happy.” To this comment, the orange mare tilted her head, “Why? Aren’t yours?” Beethoven let out another sigh, “I guess you weren’t told about my father, have you?” she shook her head. “My father, he was not what you might call a happy man. While he taught me about the piano, he was never really satisfied. He wanted to me to be as great as my grandfather was, but when I so much as missed the wrong note, especially during a concert, he would beat me. In fact, the only time I get to hear praise from him as if he was drunk… which was frequent back then. He comes home far after midnight; drag me out of bed to practice, all night until dawn when my mother would come to put me to bed, to the sound of the morning bells.” He looked over to where Applejack was, who seemed horrified, “You might say that I don’t miss him as much as you miss your parents.” “Oh gosh… Mr. Beethoven, Ah honestly didn’t know. Havin’ a life like that would make anypony cry.” Ludwig chuckled at what he read, “Composers don’t cry. Composers are made of fire.” “Do ya really believe in that nonsense?” “I do. Yes I have struggled, and so has my music, but I have gotten so far is because I’m honest about my pain through my art. You can hear it in my symphonies, the concertos, quartets, trios, duets, sonatas, my great joys, and unhappiness is all right there if anyone is willing to listen.” He turned his attention to the composition book on the bed, “Now if you excuse me, Fräulein, I have plenty of work to do.” For a while, even when Beethoven started to sketch again, Applejack hesitated. On the one hoof, the last comment was rudely dismissive. However, a part of her was sympathetic. To her, family was everything, is not as sacred as the earth she harvest from. Yet, she just heard that this old man had every reason to be bitter on top of his hearing problems. Made up her mind, she marched over to the composer’s bed, and without warning, jumped up, and enveloped her hooves around his neck in a hug. “Was machen Sie?” Beethoven asked in confusion. Letting go, Applejack grabbed the scroll again and said: “We can help you be happy if you’d let us.” With that, she dropped the scroll on the bed and left the room.