//------------------------------// // Chapter 22: The Master and the Pianist in A minor // Story: Beethoven's Tenth // by CrackedInkWell //------------------------------// By Beethoven’s instructions, Horseshoepin was summoned down to Ponyville for him to listen to what he’d practiced. In all honesty, Frederic felt unprepared as he trotted up to the house of Octavia Melody, the place where he was told to come. After knocking on the door, he was greeted by a white unicorn. “Good afternoon,” he nodded, “is Ms. Melody or Mr. Beethoven here?” “I am,” a voice from the door said. “Come right in Frederic,” as he stepped in, he noticed the familiar gray mare getting up from the couch. “Here for the torture session?” The pianist laughed, “Yes, as ready as I will ever be,” he unhitched his saddlebag and pulled out the concerto out. “I tell you, Octavia, this has to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever played, and says a lot.” “Tell me about it,” she rolled her eyes, “you ought to have been here when we rehearsed that duet to introduce his music. Honestly, I’ve never met anypony that was this touchy about his own work before.” “Oh that’s comforting,” he said as he went over to the piano. “Where is the giant anyway? I thought he was going to be here.” It was then that a sticky note levitated in his face in a blue aura, quickly deducing it was from the unicorn. “‘Give him time,’” he read aloud. “Hopefully he does come; there are some parts in this thing that are just so overly complicated.” “Which reminds me,” Octavia inquired, “how much of it have you gotten it down?” As he set up the music sheets, taking notice of the microphone on the piano, he gave his reply. “So far? I think I got most of it down, but there are some passages that fly by so fast that it always throws me off. However, the most difficult part is the slow movement where I’m not exactly sure what mood he’s trying to convey here if there’s any mood at all.” He grudgingly sighed, “At times I’m wondering if he chose for me to play this just to torment me.” “Well, you did try to call him bluff when he auditioned his music,” the Cellist pointed out. “Don’t remind me.” Just then, they heard the familiar, heavy footsteps approaching the door, the gray mare looked out the window. “Here we go everypony. Vinyl, turn on the machine.” As the DJ flipped on the microphone and earphones, the door opened up to which Ludwig let himself in. “Ah, there’s the doubting Frederic,” he said with a smirk. He went over and picked up the headphones, “How was practicing my concerto?” Beethoven asked as he put the device to his jaw. “Not fun,” the Pianist said into the microphone. He narrowed his gaze, “You chose this particular music to get back at me for calling you fake several months ago, isn’t it?” “Ja.” Horseshoepin frowned, “I really hate you.” Ludwig laughed, “Well now, enough sulking! Let’s hear what you have so far.” He sighed, “Okay, fine. I’m only doing this because I have some questions for you.” Frederic turned to the piano and open up the keyboard. Meanwhile, Beethoven sat on the couch, both hands on the headphones, looking at the pianist. Horseshoepin played out the parts he had, and pause in between bars that had nothing for him to play with. For a minute, there was nothing from the composer before he went to a passage that he fumbled. As soon as he realized this mistake, he turned around, “Okay, how in Equestria is anypony able to stretch his hoof at this passage here? I mean look, the notes on the bass clef are eight notes apart while on the treble clef their quarter, eighth and sixteenth notes all at the same time! The only way this is playable is if you have two ponies playing this. Otherwise, they’re way too high!” “They are not too high,” Ludwig told him. “They are perfect! It’s your hooves that are not perfect!” “Do you want me to play this or not!” Horseshoepin shouted back. Beethoven folded his arms, “Play it again, exactly as I have written it.” He did, Frederic played his part from the very beginning, pausing at the places where the orchestra was supposed to play before resuming. This time, when he got one of the difficult parts, he hit the right notes at the right time as he performed on. Ludwig listened into the headphones intensely, “That’s it,” he nodded, “Give it some oomph.” For the next several hours, although getting exhausted, his hooves were cramping up, and Mr. Beethoven stopped him to point out what he got wrong – Horseshoepin practically collapsed on the instrument. “Sweet Celestia, make it stop,” he moaned. The giant, on the other hand, took off his headphones, “That was better than I expected.” Frederic’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull, “What! Did you even hear that catastrophe back there?” “What?” Ludwig put the earphones back on, “Did you spoke just now?” “Yes I spoke!” he said into the microphone. “How could you say that was good? I kept messing up the whole time!” “Let me ask you this doubting Frederic,” Beethoven told him. “Explain to me, what is music? What does it do?” The pianist looked at him perplexed. “It… I don’t know, it uplifts the soul I guess?” “Complete nonsense. If you hear a marching band, what do you do?” “March?” “If you hear a Gavotte, then what?” He shrugged, “Dance?” “And if you hear fanfare that announces the arrival of some important person like your Princesses, does your soul uplift itself?” “No. You pay attention. But what does this have to do with anything?” “That is the power of music,” Beethoven explained. “Once you hear a melody played just so, the listener is immediately transfixed like being under the spell of hypnotism. For those who hear it, have no choice but to transport themselves into the mind of the composer. So let me ask you, Herr Horseshoepin, what was in my mind when I wrote this? Really think about.” Frederic blinked. He looked over at the other two mares in the room. “You’ve got me,” Octavia said while Vinyl shrugged. He turned back to the giant, “Alright, I have no clue. What was in your head when you wrote all of that?” Ludwig took off his headphones and placed them on one of the arms of it. “It’s a story. The whole concerto was written during a very difficult time. When I was young, oh… probably about your ages I suppose, that I moved to Vienna for good for fame and fortune in the music capital of the world. Back then, I was more known as a virtuoso pianist than a composer.” He laughed, as he recalled something nostalgic, “My patrons were always aristocrats that, for fun, would have me outplay, and out improvise another virtuoso to see which was more creative. I’ve always won. “As the years went by, and my works become better known when I was… what was it? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Was when I started to notice a humming in my ears. It started softly at first, just a mere annoyance over the sound of my performance. But as time went by, I couldn’t hear high notes, even when played loudly. Then I couldn’t hear soft-spoken voices, yet, shouting was intolerable for some reason it was too sensitive. “Then one day…” Ludwig paused for a moment, “One day I was out walking in the countryside with a pupil of mine when he stopped me to have me listen to a shepherd playing the flute… But no matter how hard I tried to listen, I didn’t hear it. Very slowly, but unmistakably, I was going deaf. I ask you, Herr Horseshoepin, how could you play with other musicians when the buzzing is louder than your piano, or the orchestra? Do you know what it’s like to say to people: ‘Face me; speak louder; shout; write it down; I am deaf,’ do you?” Frederic didn’t reply. “No. Of course, you don’t. How can you know when you have perfect hearing? Here I was, a famous pianist that all of Vienna wanted to hear… and my own hearing was leaving me. Do you know what kind of humiliation I face every day because of this? I have a neighbor downstairs, who has a young daughter, that can hear bells in the morning telling her that school is about to begin… and I hear nothing.” He sighed, “Absolutely nothing.” The room was quiet; Frederic and Octavia looked over to Vinyl that was writing something down on a small chalkboard. Dang! That sucks! The others silently agreed. “There’s a reason why I’m telling you this,” Beethoven continued. “This concerto was written ten years after I realized I was going deaf. The first movement illustrates what I was like as a pianist, young and full of life. The second is my illness making itself present while my soul tried to reason what to do with itself. However, the third movement is that answer. Even with my hearing going and now gone, nothing in heaven, earth or hell is going to stop me from creating great art. This is what I liked your performance, especially in the last movement: it is a song of defiance. It is a statement. ‘I am an artist. Misfortune, you are nothing. Fate, come and get me.’” Horseshoepin looked at Beethoven, waving a hoof to put the headphones on. “Wow,” he said into the microphone. “When you put it like that, suddenly this incredibly difficult music has more meaning in it now. I had no idea what it was trying to convey, but now hearing your story… Mr. Beethoven, I think I can do this. I think it might be possible for me to play it.” Ludwig looked over at the clock on the wall, “I’m going to eat out for my dinner. I know some good places in town; could I interest any of you in coming? I have plenty of money.” Frederic shook his head, “No thank you, Mr. Beethoven, I want to go home to rest, and maybe practice the concerto again before I go to bed.” “I’ll tell you what,” Ludwig added, “If you do get good at it in time for the premiere, I’ll have you play on my favorite piano for the entire world to hear.” The Pianist tilted his head, “That’s an interesting idea,” he said into the microphone. “I’ll think it over. But I suppose the same time tomorrow?” _*_ Later that night, Frederic Horseshoepin was at his piano looking at the giant’s score. This time, it wasn’t out of frustration, or loathing the fact that he’s the one that’s going to be the soloist in Manehatten. Rather, he looked at the notes in the second movement with fresh eyes. Now the bars of ink took on a different meaning for his piano part, for the notes weren’t dots anymore. It was a portrait of the giant’s soul, his mentality of living with his disability. Looking at it again, and playing it out on his piano, emotions like loneliness bleed from the cords that stack on another. He shook his head as he stopped, “He knows what I’m going through.” Horseshoepin looked over to where his portfolio was. After going over to it and taking out his unfinished piano score, he gazed at the blank bars of his Nocturne in C-sharp minor. “I know what to do now,” he nodded. Taking out a pen, the pianist sketched a developing passage of his own music. He realized what was missing from his own puzzle: the sense of isolation. It was so obvious! This personal memory of leaving his rebel torn country was leaving out that isolated element of being in a new land. And that the only comfort he could get from being so far away – was music itself. He worked so hard at it that he didn’t take notice of the rain that was hitting against the windowpanes, by the time he looked up; all he could think was how perfect the setting was at this moment. Horseshoepin paused for an instant as he looked at what he’s created. Even though he knows that such work probably won’t see the light of day, there was a sense of pride at what he has in front of him. So, placing his hooves on the keyboard once more, Frederic took a breath, and played out his memory.