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The Last Lesson
Stories:: Original:: Drama/Romance - Rating: Everyone - Submit comments here

A young woman, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four in age swept her bangs from her face. The rest of her long blond hair was held back in a rather loose bun, with quite a few stray hairs sprouting from it. Overall, she looked rather harried. Her dress was quite simple, compared to what she was usually wearing – today it was just a plain blue dress that fell to her ankles. There seemed to be very little effort in her general appearance, except, perhaps, the crimson on her lips and a bit of black framing her gray eyes. And save for the simple silver necklace around her neck, she wore no accessories.

Currently, she was standing outside of a door. She took a deep breath and held her hand up, as if about to knock, but decided against it. Her hand once again returned to her chest, to which she was clutching a few pieces of paper.

“Anna, pull yourself together,” she scolded herself quietly. “You have done this a number of times! It should not bother you now!”

But it still seemed that every time she approached this door, nervousness began eating away at the pit of her stomach, and she – once again – found herself unable to knock. And yet the sole occupant of the room heard her, as he always had.

“Enter,” he called when she had shifted uncomfortably, her boots clacking on the floor. It was not so much that he had heard the boots. He had felt them move – felt the vibrations. After all, he was nearly deaf.

With a last deep breath, Anna nudged the door opened and walked into the room. “Master Beethoven, I apologize for my lateness,” she said quietly, forgetting for a moment that he could barely hear her.

“Come. Sit,” he said, rather ignoring her, and motioning to the piano. It was a most curious of pianos, because the legs had been cut off, resting it flat on the floor.

Anna opened her mouth to try to apologize again, but the man looked up at her, his eyes searching her. She said nothing, closing her mouth, and sat down on the floor at the keyboard.

Beethoven moved behind her, as he always had, his legs on either side of her, and his cheek resting against the side of her head, so that when she talked, he could feel the vibrations of her voice.

“Master Beethoven, I have been practicing – this piece here, it is a bit of – well, I thought you would like to see it,” Anna stumbled over her words, sifting through the papers she had been carrying and pulling out a few sheets. She set them up on the piano and paused, unsure of what to do.

“Play,” he told her simply. Little was usually said between them, as he did know limited English.

Anna nodded slightly and put her hands up on the keys. For a moment, her fingertips caressed the cool ivory keys and her eyes looked lovingly over the keyboard. With only a small deep breath, she began playing.

Beautiful music filled the room, music that went up and down, high and low, loud and soft. It flowed from the piano, a sweet melody that seemed to tell a story of nature and life.

Beethoven closed his eyes and listened. Questions that he had had for Anna seemed to fall now, as he heard her play. Carefully practiced English seemed meaningless when he could feel what she had to say through the songs she played.

And yet, slowly, a question came forth as Anna continued to play.

“Why did you want lessons?” he asked her. His voice was quiet, as if coming from deep inside him. His eyes were still closed, and he was lost in the music.

“I love the piano,” she answered with equal softness, the music not faltering for a second. “I love the sound, the music it can make.”

“Why from me?” Beethoven asked. “From all the composers, from all the pianists. Why me?”

Anna was silent for a bit as she played her way through a particularly difficult measure or two. “Because I love the way your music sounds,” she said eventually. “It’s filled with feelings and emotions; sadness, bitterness, anger….”

Beethoven said nothing more until she had finished her song.

“You composed it,” he said when the final chord was struck.

“I never said I – ” Anna seemed suddenly flustered. She lifted her hands from the piano abruptly, and the music was gone.

“You could talk during it. You composed it.”

Anna floundered for a bit, her mouth opening and closing, unsure how to respond.

Beethoven leaned away from her and watched her. She was blushing lightly.

“Why did you come from Britain to study piano?” he asked her, putting his cheek once more to her head.

She got a hold of herself. “My parents had business here in Austria,” she said. “I had come along. When I heard you play one night at a concert…” she trailed off. The rest of the story, he knew.

Beethoven looked over the keyboard. A few weeks ago, when he had found out that this would be their last lesson together, he had started composing a piece of music especially for her. But now…. But now he was almost embarrassed about it. He did not want to play it for her.

But she was very talented. She had little practice before coming to Austria, but with their short time together she had improved dramatically and even composed numerous pieces.

He put his hands up on the keyboard. He would play it. The ending was not done, but he would think of something. He would improvise if he had to.

With only a hint of a sigh, he began playing.

Anna was immediately lost in it. The song was a sad one, in a minor key, she noted. It was slow, and deliberate. It told a story of a lost love; of a goodbye. She could feel possibly what Beethoven was feeling. She would miss him terribly.

She listened. She closed her eyes and stopped listening – she felt. She felt the music in her. She saw the music – deep shades of blue and purple; palest grays swirled through the dark colors, like a giant brush on a giant canvas.

And then it stopped.

She opened her eyes. His hands were on the piano, but no music was coming.

She put her hands up, under his, and continued the song by ear, what she thought it should sound like. How it should end.

She closed her eyes again and let her hands play. The music continued, and the brush made its last swipe through the blues and violets, whirling everything together.

And then it ended.

Slowly, quietly, and sadly, the song ended.

“You play beautifully,” Beethoven whispered.

Anna was quiet. “Why did you write it?” she asked him.

“For you,” he said with little hesitation. “It is for you.”

Anna smiled a little. “What is it called? It is beautiful.”

Beethoven said nothing for a bit. “It is a sonata,” he said finally. “Moonlight. Moonlight Sonata.”

Anna smiled and closed her eyes and put her hands on the keyboard. “Show me how to play it,” she said as he put his hands over hers. “I want to learn it. Then I will play it all the time. I will never forget it.”



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