One moonlight winter's evening I ca

One moonlight winter's evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward sup with me.

In passing through some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said- "what sound is that? It is from my sonata in F!" he said eagerly. "Hark! how well it is played!"

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused out­side and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. "I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!" "Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets, when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent." "You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said. "Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?" "I will play to her," he said in an excited tone. "Here is feeling-genius-understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it."

And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. A pale young man was sitting by the table making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music, and was tempted to enter! I am a musician." The girl blushed and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed. "I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear-that is, you would like - that is - Shall I play for you?"

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily. "Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the Fraulein-" He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind. "I entreat your pardon!" he stammered. "But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?"

"Entirely."

"And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"

"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her." She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play.

He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow - how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal. The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture.

The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange, dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano-and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

"Listen!" the composer said, and he played the opening bars of the sonata in F. At length the young shoemaker rose and approached him eagerly, yet reverently.

"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. "Play to us once more-only once more!' He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure.

"I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time-a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale a breathless, hurr

Результаты (русский) 1:

Один Лунный свет зимний вечер я призвал Бетховена, ибо я хотел, чтобы совершить прогулку, а потом sup со мной. При прохождении через некоторые темные, узкие улицы, он внезапно остановился. «Хуш!» он сказал,-«это то, что звук? Это от моей Соната фа!» сказал он с нетерпением. «Hark! насколько хорошо он играл!» Это было мало, означает жилище, и мы остановился снаружи и слушал. Игрок пошел дальше; но самый разгар финала был внезапный перерыв, то голос рыдания. «Я не могу играть больше. Это так красиво, это совершенно выходит за рамки моих силах, чтобы сделать это справедливость. Ох что бы я не дать пойти на концерт в Кёльне!» «Ай, моя сестра,» сказал ее компаньон, «зачем создавать сожалений, когда нет лекарства? Мы можем вряд ли платить нашу арендную плату». «Вы правы; и еще я хотел бы раз в моей жизни, чтобы услышать действительно хорошую музыку. Но это не.» Бетховен посмотрел на меня. «Давайте пойдем,»,-сказал он. «Идут в»! Я воскликнул. «Что может пойти?» «Я буду играть с ней»,-сказал он в возбужденных тон. «Вот чувство гений понимание. Я буду играть с ней, и она поймет это.» И прежде чем я может помешать ему руку на дверь. Бледный молодой человек сидел за столом делать обувь; и рядом с ним, опираясь скорбно на старомодный клавесин, молодая девушка, с обилием света волос над ее гнутое лицо. Оба они были чисто, но очень плохо одет, и оба начали и повернулся к нам, как мы вошли. «Простите меня,» сказал Бетховена, «но я услышал музыку и был соблазн ввести! Я музыкант». Девушка покраснела, и молодой человек посмотрел серьезные и несколько раздражен. «Я также услышал что-то что вы сказали,» продолжил мой друг. «Вы хотите слышать-то есть, вы хотите - то есть - будет играть для вас?» Там было что-то так странно в целом дело и что-то так комиксов и приятным в манере оратора, что заклинание было нарушено в момент и все невольно улыбнулся. «Спасибо!»-сказал башмачник; «но наша клавесин так несчастен, и у нас нет музыки.» «Никакой музыки!» повторил мой друг. «Как, тогда делает фрейлейн-» он остановился и цветного, ибо девушка смотрела полный на него, и он увидел, что она была слепой. «Я прошу прощения!»,-выдавил он. «Но я не рассматривали раньше. Затем вы играете на слух?» «Полностью.» «И где вы слышите музыку, поскольку вы часто не концерты?» «Я привык слышать леди, практикующих рядом с нами, когда мы жили в Брюль два года. В летние вечера ее окна были обычно открыты, и я ходил взад и вперед за прислушаться к ней.» Она, казалось, застенчивая(ый); так Бетховен больше не сказал, сам тихо сидит перед пианино и начал играть. Он не успел ударил первый аккорд, чем я знал, что будет дальше - как grand он будет ночью. И я не ошибся. Никогда за все годы, я знал его, я слышал его играть, как он потом играл, что слепая девочка и ее брат. Он был вдохновлен; и с момента когда его пальцы начали бродить вдоль ключей, сам тон инструмента начал расти слаще и более равны. Брат и сестра были молчать с удивлением и восторгом. Бывший лежал в сторону его работы; Последний, с головой наклонился немного вперед, и ее руки нажата плотно над ее грудь, согнутое ближе к концу клавесина, словно опасаясь, чтобы даже биение ее сердца должно прерывать поток тех магических, сладкие звуки. Это было, как если бы мы были все связаны в странный, сон и только боялись будить. Вдруг пламя одной свечи отказывалась, утонуло, мелькали и вышел. Бетховен остановился, и я бросил открыть ставни, допускающих поток блестящих лунного света. Комната была почти как свет, как и раньше, и освещение упал сильнейших на пианино- и игрок. Однако цепь его идеи, как представляется, были нарушены в результате аварии. Его голова упала на грудь; его руки отдохнуло на колени; казалось, он всасывается в медитации. Именно таким образом какое-то время. «Слушай» композитор сказал, и он сыграл открытие баров Соната в ф Молодой сапожник поднялся и подошел к нему с нетерпением, но благоговейно. «Замечательный человек!» сказал он, низкий тон, «кто и что ты?» Крик восторга и признание лопнуть от них обоих, и воскликнул, «вы Бетховен!» Он встал, чтобы идти, но мы держали его обратно с мольбы. «Игра для нас еще больше только еще раз!» Он страдал себя, чтобы быть водить назад к инструменту. Луна ярко светило в окно и закурил его славный, надежная голова и массивные фигуры. «Я будет импровизировать Соната лунного света!» глядя вверх задумчиво на небо и звезды. Затем его руки упала на ключи, и он начал играть грустно и бесконечно милые движения мягко ползли над инструментом, как спокойный поток лунного света над темной землей. После этого был дикий, эльфийский проход в тройной времени-рода гротесковой антракт, как танец спрайтов на дерново. Потом пришел стремительный agitato финал затаив дыхание, hurr

Результаты (русский) 2:

Вечерний что я хотел его погулять One moonlight winter's evening I called upon Beethoven, for I wanted him to take a walk, and afterward sup with me.

In passing through some dark, narrow street, he paused suddenly. "Hush!" he said- "what sound is that? It is from my sonata in F!" he said eagerly. "Hark! how well it is played!"

It was a little, mean dwelling, and we paused out­side and listened. The player went on; but in the midst of the finale there was a sudden break, then the voice of sobbing. "I cannot play any more. It is so beautiful, it is utterly beyond my power to do it justice. Oh, what would I not give to go to the concert at Cologne!" "Ah, my sister," said her companion, "why create regrets, when there is no remedy? We can scarcely pay our rent." "You are right; and yet I wish for once in my life to hear some really good music. But it is of no use."

Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said. "Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?" "I will play to her," he said in an excited tone. "Here is feeling-genius-understanding. I will play to her, and she will understand it."

And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. A pale young man was sitting by the table making shoes; and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned harpsichord, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her bent face. Both were cleanly but very poorly dressed, and both started and turned toward us as we entered.

"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music, and was tempted to enter! I am a musician." The girl blushed and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed. "I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear-that is, you would like - that is - Shall I play for you?"

There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comic and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment, and all smiled involuntarily. "Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our harpsichord is so wretched, and we have no music."

"No music!" echoed my friend. "How, then, does the Fraulein-" He paused and colored up, for the girl looked full at him, and he saw that she was blind. "I entreat your pardon!" he stammered. "But I had not perceived before. Then you play by ear?"

"Entirely."

"And where do you hear the music, since you frequent no concerts?"

"I used to hear a lady practicing near us, when we lived at Bruhl two years. During the summer evenings her windows were generally open, and I walked to and fro outside to listen to her." She seemed shy; so Beethoven said no more, seated himself quietly before the piano, and began to play.

He had no sooner struck the first chord than I knew what would follow - how grand he would be that night. And I was not mistaken. Never, during all the years I knew him, did I hear him play as he then played to that blind girl and her brother. He was inspired; and from the instant when his fingers began to wander along the keys, the very tone of the instrument began to grow sweeter and more equal. The brother and sister were silent with wonder and rapture.

The former laid aside his work; the latter, with her head bent slightly forward, and her hands pressed tightly over her breast, crouched down near the end of the harpsichord, as if fearful lest even the beating of her heart should break the flow of those magical, sweet sounds. It was as if we were all bound in a strange, dream, and only feared to wake.

Suddenly the flame of the single candle wavered, sank, flickered, and went out. Beethoven paused, and I threw open the shutters, admitting a flood of brilliant moonlight. The room was almost as light as before, and the illumination fell strongest upon the piano-and player. But the chain of his ideas seemed to have been broken by the accident. His head dropped upon his breast; his hands rested upon his knees; he seemed absorbed in meditation. It was thus for some time.

"Listen!" the composer said, and he played the opening bars of the sonata in F. At length the young shoemaker rose and approached him eagerly, yet reverently.

"Wonderful man!" he said, in a low tone, "who and what are you?"

A cry of delight and recognition burst from them both, and exclaiming, "Then you are Beethoven!" He rose to go, but we held him back with entreaties. "Play to us once more-only once more!' He suffered himself to be led back to the instrument. The moon shone brightly in through the window and lit up his glorious, rugged head and massive figure.

"I will improvise a sonata to the moonlight!" looking up thoughtfully to the sky and stars. Then his hands dropped on the keys, and he began playing a sad and infinitely lovely movement, which crept gently over the instrument like the calm flow of moonlight over the dark earth. This was followed by a wild, elfin passage in triple time-a sort of grotesque interlude, like the dance of sprites upon the sward. Then came a swift agitato finale a breathless, hurr