The last movement is a song of anguish and despair. The proud spirit “defies its fate,” but there are moments in which we recognise “the wretchedest of men.” Thus ended Beethoven’s first love-story. There was no tender parting between him and Julie; the “Fantasie-Sonate,” dedicated to her, was his last love-letter, and with it he dismissed her from his mind. “Strength,” he said proudly, “is the characteristic of men who distinguish themselves above others, and it is mine!” It was his. [Illustration: BEETHOVEN.] All Europe was now ringing with the fame of Napoleon, the only person on earth—except Goethe—whom Beethoven regarded as his equal, while of him, even, he said, when, in 1806, news of Napoleon’s victory at Jena was brought, “What a pity that I don’t understand war as I understand music. _I_ would conquer him!” In this mood the Eroica Symphony was written. It is a chapter of history. But I have not space to follow the great Romanticist through all his moods and their outpourings. I must confine myself to a few of them. In October 1802 Beethoven was sent by his doctors to Heiligenstadt, a quiet village not far from Vienna. He was in a state of the deepest despondency. The shadows were closing round him, and the voices of the world reached him but faintly. In the stillness of the country he found peace, the exquisite Sonate in D minor, op. 31, no. 2, was written there. Let us take it to the piano too, and listen to its tragic story. The long drawn out arpeggios with which it opens are the longings of his heart. (He was still only thirty-two!) Joy dances fantastically round him and vanishes. Another sigh, another vision of joy, and then heaven opens and he looks in. [Illustration: COUNTESS THERESE.] I do not think that even Beethoven ever wrote anything more wonderful, more full of the ecstasy of being, than that glorious first movement. [Illustration: ROOM IN BEETHOVEN’S HOUSE.]