In 500... (or less)

Eine Letzte Freude

It had been more than a decade since the old composer had appeared in person to direct. Many were shocked at his frail appearance.

Upon gathering at the first rehearsal, it was clear the old maestro was in far worse condition than many had been told. His faculties and senses were but a shadow of what they once had been, only his acumen for composing music remained.

An agreement was struck to humor the old man.

"Watch me," said the stagemaster. "The maestro will be conducting, but under no circumstances should you rely on his baton."

"But sir," protested the oboe player, "isn't it disrespectful to ignore him?"

"On the contrary, it shows the utmost respect that we should attempt to make this piece his crowning triumph," he answered. "For it seems likely this performance will be his last."

The rehearsals did not go smoothly, as the composer was not in on the plan, and griped at the musicians. He tapped the conductor's baton on his stand impatiently, barking out instructions. The violins were too fast, the violas out of tune. Nevermind that he could barely hear them if at all.

The preparation was rushed, only a scant few rehearsals were held before the premiere.

"Look at that crowd," one of the cellists said, peeking from behind the curtain just before the start of the show. "It's huge!"

The musicians looked at each other nervously as the conductor took a bow to the crowd and readied his score. 

All of the rough edges from the rehearsal seemed to smooth themselves at the concert. The music soared and thundered, the audience was awe-struck. 

The conductor flipped to the pages of the final movement, he felt the nervous anticipation of a much younger composer. How would it be received?

The crowd was mesmerized as the perfect marriage of instruments and voices came together, the melodies sweeping down from the heavens to grace their ears before ascending once more.

For his part, the conductor bounced and flailed wildly as if possessed. He would leap with each crescendo and crouch low when the music went soft, blissfully unaware that the orchestra was several full measures in front of him under the capable direction of the stagemaster.

The musicians exchanged a knowing look as the notes on the sheet were rapidly approaching their end. The music would be exhausted before the old conductor was done.

The end was met with thunderous applause, and yet the director continued on, stabbing frantically in the direction of different sections to play accents, his head buried in the score.

"Do something," one of the musicians said. "He's making a fool of himself."

Finally, a young woman came forth from the choir and walked over to the old composer. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gently motioned for him to turn and face the audience, which was roaring with adulation.

"Herr Beethoven," she yelled into his ear. "They love it!"

The crowd waved their handkerchief and raised their hands in approval, as small tears of joy streamed down his face.