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The World's Great Men of Music: Story-Lives of Master Musicians

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Title: The World's Great Men of Music: Story-Lives of Master Musicians

Author: Harriette Brower


        
Release date: August 25, 2004 [eBook #13291]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13291

Credits: Produced by Ronald Holder and PG Distributed Proofreaders


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S GREAT MEN OF MUSIC: STORY-LIVES OF MASTER MUSICIANS ***

THE WORLD'S GREAT MEN OF MUSIC

BY

HARRIETTE BROWER

_Author of "Piano Mastery, First and Second Series,"
"Home-Help in Music Study," "Self-Help in
Piano Study," "Vocal Mastery," etc_.


Also Published Under the Title of
"Story-Lives of Master Musicians"




1922

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America




FOREWORD


The preparation of this volume began with a period of delightful
research work in a great musical library. As a honey-bee flutters
from flower to flower, culling sweetness from many blossoms, so
the compiler of such stories as these must gather facts from many
sources--from biography, letters, journals and musical history. Then,
impressed with the personality and individual achievement of each
composer, the author has endeavored to present his life story.

While the aim has been to make the story-sketches interesting to
young people, the author hopes that they may prove valuable to musical
readers of all ages. Students of piano, violin or other instruments
need to know how the great composers lived their lives. In every
musical career described in this book, from the old masters
represented by Bach and Beethoven to the musical prophets of our own
day, there is a wealth of inspiration and practical guidance for the
artist in any field. Through their struggles, sorrows and triumphs,
divine melody and harmony came into being, which will bless the world
for all time to come.




                CONTENTS

CHAPTER
         FOREWORD

      I  PALESTRINA

     II  JOHN SEBASTIAN BACH

    III  GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL

     IV  CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK

      V  JOSEF HAYDN

     VI  WOLFGANG MOZART

    VII  LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

   VIII  CARL MARIA VON WEBER

     IX  FRANZ SCHUBERT

      X  FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY

     XI  ROBERT SCHUMANN

    XII  FREDERIC CHOPIN

   XIII  HECTOR BERLIOZ

    XIV  FRANZ LISZT

     XV  GIUSEPPE VERDI

    XVI  RICHARD WAGNER

   XVII  CÉSAR FRANCK

  XVIII  JOHANNES BRAHMS

    XIX  EDWARD GRIEG

     XX  PETER ILYITCH TSCHAIKOWSKY

    XXI  EDWARD MACDOWELL

   XXII  CLAUDE ACHILLE DEBUSSY

  XXIII  ARTURO TOSCANINI

   XXIV  LEOPOLD STOKOWSKY

    XXV  SERGE KOUSSEVITZKY


[Illustration: LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN]

[Illustration: JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH]

[Illustration: JOHANNES BRAHMS]

[Illustration: PETER ILYITCH TSCHAIKOWSKY]





STORY-LIVES OF

MASTER MUSICIANS




I

PALESTRINA


To learn something of the life and labors of Palestrina, one of the
earliest as well as one of the greatest musicians, we must go back in
the world's history nearly four hundred years. And even then we may
not be able to discover all the events of his life as some of the
records have been lost. But we have the main facts, and know that
Palestrina's name will be revered for all time as the man who strove
to make sacred music the expression of lofty and spiritual meaning.

Upon a hoary spur of the Apennines stands the crumbling town of
Palestrina. It is very old now; it was old when Rome was young. Four
hundred years ago Palestrina was dominated by the great castle of its
lords, the proud Colonnas. Naturally the town was much more important
in those days than it is to-day.

At that time there lived in Palestrina a peasant pair, Sante Pierluigi
and his wife Maria, who seem to have been an honest couple, and not
grindingly poor, since the will of Sante's mother has lately been
found, in which she bequeathed a house in Palestrina to her two sons.
Besides this she left behind a fine store of bed linen, mattresses and
cooking utensils. Maria Gismondi also had a little property.

To this pair was born, probably in 1526, a boy whom they named
Giovanni Pierluigi, which means John Peter Louis. This boy, from a
tiniest child, loved beauty of sight and sound. And this is not at
all surprising, for a child surrounded from infancy by the natural
loveliness and glory of old Palestrina, would unconsciously breathe in
a sense of beauty and grandeur.

It was soon discovered the boy had a voice, and his mother is said
to have sold some land she owned to provide for her son's musical
training.

From the rocky heights on which their town was built, the people
of Palestrina could look across the Campagna--the great plain
between--and see the walls and towers of Rome. At the time of our
story, Saint Peter's had withstood the sack of the city, which
happened a dozen years before, and Bramante's vast basilica had
already begun to rise. The artistic life of Rome was still at high
tide, for Raphael had passed away but twenty years before, and Michael
Angelo was at work on his Last Judgment.

Though painting and sculpture flourished, music did not keep pace with
advance in other arts. The leading musicians were Belgian, Spanish or
French, and their music did not match the great achievements attained
in the kindred art of the time--architecture, sculpture and painting.
There was needed a new impetus, a vital force. Its rise began when
the peasant youth John Peter Louis descended from the heights of
Palestrina to the banks of the Tiber.

It is said that Tomasso Crinello was the boy's master; whether this
is true or not, he was surely trained in the Netherland manner of
composition.

The youth, whom we shall now call Palestrina, as he is known by the
name of his birthplace, returned from Rome at the age of eighteen to
his native town, in 1544, as a practising musician, and took a post at
the Cathedral of Saint Agapitus. Here he engaged himself for life, to
be present every day at mass and vespers, and to teach singing to
the canons and choristers. Thus he spent the early years of his young
manhood directing the daily services and drumming the rudiments of
music into the heads of the little choristers. It may have been dry
and wearisome labor; but afterward, when Palestrina began to reform
the music of the church, it must have been of great advantage to him
to know so absolutely the liturgy, not only of Saint Peter's and Saint
John Lateran, but also that in the simple cathedral of his own small
hill-town.

Young Palestrina, living his simple, busy life in his home town, never
dreamed he was destined to become a great musician. He married in
1548, when he was about twenty-two. If he had wished to secure one of
the great musical appointments in Rome, it was a very unwise thing for
him to marry, for single singers were preferred in nine cases out of
ten. Palestrina did not seem to realize this danger to a brilliant
career, and took his bride, Lucrezia, for pure love. She seems to have
been a person after his own heart, besides having a comfortable dowry
of her own. They had a happy union, which lasted for more than thirty
years.

Although he had agreed to remain for life at the cathedral church of
Saint Agapitus, it seems that such contracts could be broken without
peril. Thus, after seven years of service, he once more turned his
steps toward the Eternal City.

He returned to Rome as a recognized musician. In 1551 he became master
of the Capella Giulia, at the modest salary of six scudi a month,
something like ten dollars. But the young chapel master seemed
satisfied. Hardly three years after his arrival had elapsed, when
he had written and printed a book containing five masses, which he
dedicated to Pope Julius III. This act pleased the pontiff, who, in
January, 1555, appointed Palestrina one of the singers of the Sistine
Chapel, with an increased salary.

It seems however, that the Sistine singers resented the appointment
of a new member, and complained about it. Several changes in the Papal
chair occurred at this time, and when Paul IV, as Pope, came into
power, he began at once with reforms. Finding that Palestrina and two
other singers were married men, he put all three out, though granting
an annuity of six scudi a month for each.

The loss of this post was a great humiliation, which Palestrina found
it hard to endure. He fell ill at this time, and the outlook was dark
indeed, with a wife and three little children to provide for.

But the clouds soon lifted. Within a few weeks after this unfortunate
event, the rejected singer of the Sistine Chapel was created Chapel
Master of Saint John Lateran, the splendid basilica, where the young
Orlandus Lassus had so recently directed the music. As Palestrina
could still keep his six scudi pension, increased with the added
salary of the new position, he was able to establish his family in a
pretty villa on the Coelian Hill, where he could be near his work at
the Lateran, but far enough removed from the turmoil of the city to
obtain the quiet he desired, and where he lived in tranquillity for
the next five years.

Palestrina spent forty-four years of his life in Rome. All the eleven
popes who reigned during this long period honored Palestrina as a
great musician. Marcellus II spent a part of his three weeks' reign
in showing kindness to the young Chapel master, which the composer
returned by naming for this pontiff a famous work, "Mass of Pope
Marcellus." Pius IV, who was in power when the mass was performed,
praised it eloquently, saying John Peter Louis of Palestrina was a new
John, bringing down to the church militant the harmonies of that
"new song" which John the Apostle heard in the Holy City. The
musician-pope, Gregory XIII, to whom Palestrina dedicated his grandest
motets, entrusted him with the sacred task of revising the ancient
chant. Pope Sixtus V greatly praised his beautiful mass, "Assumpta est
Maria" and promoted him to higher honors.

With this encouragement and patronage, Palestrina labored five years
at the Lateran, ten years at Santa Maria Maggiore and twenty three at
Saint Peter's. At the last named it was his second term, of course,
but it continued from 1571 to his death. He was happy in his work, in
his home and in his friends. He also saved quite a little money and
was able to give his daughter-in-law, in 1577, 1300 scudi; he is known
indeed, to have bought land, vineyards and houses in and about Rome.

All was not a life of sunshine for Palestrina, for he suffered many
domestic sorrows. His three promising sons died one after another.
They were talented young men, who might have followed in the footsteps
of their distinguished father. In 1580 his wife died also. Yet neither
poignant sorrow, worldly glory nor ascetic piety blighted his homely
affections. At the Jubilee of Pope Gregory XIII, in 1575, when 1500
pilgrims from the town of Palestrina descended the hills on the way
to Rome, it was their old townsman, Giovanni Pierluigi, who led their
songs, as they entered the Eternal City, their maidens clad in white
robes, and their young men bearing olive branches.

It is said of Palestrina that he became the "savior of church music,"
at a time when it had almost been decided to banish all music from the
service except the chant, because so many secular subjects had been
set to music and used in church. Things had come to a very difficult
pass, until at last the fathers turned to Palestrina, desiring him
to compose a mass in which sacred words should be heard throughout.
Palestrina, deeply realizing his responsibility, wrote not only one
but three, which, on being heard, pleased greatly by their piety,
meekness, and beautiful spirit. Feeling more sure of himself,
Palestrina continued to compose masses, until he had created
ninety-three in all. He also wrote many motets on the Song of Solomon,
his Stabat Mater, which was edited two hundred and fifty years later
by Richard Wagner, and his lamentations, which were composed at the
request of Sixtus V.

Palestrina's end came February 2, 1594. He died in Rome, a devout
Christian, and on his coffin were engraved the simple but splendid
words: "Prince of Music."




II

JOHN SEBASTIAN BACH


Away back in 1685, almost two hundred and fifty years ago, one of the
greatest musicians of the world first saw the light, in the little
town of Eisenach, nestling on the edge of the Thuringen forest. The
long low-roofed cottage where little Johann Sebastian Bach was born,
is still standing, and carefully preserved.

The name Bach belonged to a long race of musicians, who strove to
elevate the growing art of music. For nearly two hundred years there
had been organists and composers in the family; Sebastian's father,
Johann Ambrosius Bach was organist of the Lutheran Church in Eisenach,
and naturally a love of music was fostered in the home. It is no
wonder that little Sebastian should have shown a fondness for music
almost from infancy. But, beyond learning the violin from his father,
he had not advanced very far in his studies, when, in his tenth
year he lost both his parents and was taken care of by his brother
Christoph, fourteen years older, a respectable musician and organist
in a neighboring town. To give his little brother lessons on the
clavier, and send him to the Lyceum to learn Latin, singing and other
school subjects seemed to Christoph to include all that could be
expected of him. That his small brother possessed musical genius of
the highest order, was an idea he could not grasp; or if he did, he
repressed the boy with indifference and harsh treatment.

Little Sebastian suffered in silence from this coldness. Fortunately
the force of his genius was too great to be crushed. He knew all the
simple pieces by heart, which his brother set for his lessons, and
he longed for bigger things. There was a book of manuscript music
containing pieces by Buxtehude and Frohberger, famous masters of the
time, in the possession of Christoph. Sebastian greatly desired to
play the pieces in that book, but his brother kept it under lock and
key in his cupboard, or bookcase. One day the child mustered courage
to ask permission to take the book for a little while. Instead of
yielding to the boy's request Christoph became angry, told him not to
imagine he could study such masters as Buxtehude and Frohberger, but
should be content to get the lessons assigned him.

The injustice of this refusal fired Sebastian with the determination
to get possession of the coveted book at all costs. One moonlight
night, long after every one had retired, he decided to put into
execution a project he had dreamed of for some time.

Creeping noiselessly down stairs he stood before the bookcase and
sought the precious volume. There it was with the names of the various
musicians printed in large letters on the back in his brother's
handwriting. To get his small hands between the bars and draw the book
outward took some time. But how to get it out. After much labor he
found one bar weaker than the others, which could be bent.

When at last the book was in his hands, he clasped it to his breast
and hurried quickly back to his chamber. Placing the book on a table
in front of the window, where the moonlight fell full upon it, he took
pen and music paper and began copying out the pieces in the book.

This was but the beginning of nights of endless toil. For six months
whenever there were moonlight nights, Sebastian was at the window
working at his task with passionate eagerness.

At last it was finished, and Sebastian in the joy of possessing it for
his very own, crept into bed without the precaution of putting
away all traces of his work. Poor boy, he had to pay dearly for his
forgetfulness. As he lay sleeping, Christoph, thinking he heard sounds
in his brother's room, came to seek the cause. His glance, as he
entered the room, fell on the open books. There was no pity in
his heart for all this devoted labor, only anger that he had been
outwitted by his small brother. He took both books away and hid them
in a place where Sebastian could never find them. But he did not
reflect that the boy had the memory of all this beautiful music
indelibly printed on his mind, which helped him to bear the bitter
disappointment of the loss of his work.

When he was fifteen Sebastian left his brother's roof and entered the
Latin school connected with the Church of St. Michael at Lüneburg. It
was found he had a beautiful soprano voice, which placed him with the
scholars who were chosen to sing in the church service in return for
a free education. There were two church schools in Lüneburg, and the
rivalry between them was so keen, that when the scholars sang in the
streets during the winter months to collect money for their support,
the routes for each had to be carefully marked out, to prevent
collision.

Soon after he entered St. Michael's, Bach lost his beautiful soprano
voice; his knowledge of violin and clavier, however, enabled him
to keep his place in the school. The boy worked hard at his musical
studies, giving his spare time to the study of the best composers. He
began to realize that he cared more for the organ than for any other
instrument; indeed his love for it became a passion. He was too
poor to take lessons, for he was almost entirely self-dependent--a
penniless scholar, living on the plainest of fare, yet determined to
gain a knowledge of the music he longed for.

One of the great organists of the time was Johann Adam Reinken. When
Sebastian learned that this master played the organ in St. Katharine's
Church in Hamburg, he determined to walk the whole distance thither to
hear him. Now Hamburg was called in those days the "Paradise of German
music," and was twenty-five good English miles from the little town
of Lüneburg, but what did that matter to the eager lad? Obstacles only
fired him to strive the harder for what he desired to attain.

The great joy of listening to such a master made him forget the long
tramp and all the weariness, and spurred him on to repeat the journey
whenever he had saved a few shillings to pay for food and lodging. On
one occasion he lingered a little longer in Hamburg than usual, until
his funds were well-nigh exhausted, and before him was the long walk
without any food. As he trudged along he came upon a small inn, from
the open door of which came a delightful savory odor. He could not
resist looking in through the window. At that instant a window above
was thrown open and a couple of herrings' heads were tossed into the
road. The herring is a favorite article of food in Germany and poor
Sebastian was glad to pick up these bits to satisfy the cravings of
hunger. What was his surprise on pulling the heads to pieces to
find each one contained a Danish ducat. When he recovered from his
astonishment, he entered the inn and made a good meal with part of the
money; the rest ensured another visit to Hamburg.

After remaining three years in Lüneburg, Bach secured a post as
violinist in the private band of Prince Johann Ernst of Saxe-Weimar;
but this was only to fill the time till he could find a place to
play the instrument he so loved. An opportunity soon came. The old
Thuringian town Arnstadt had a new church and a fine new organ. The
consistory of the church were looking for a capable organist and
Bach's request to be allowed to try the instrument was readily
granted.

As soon as they heard him play they offered him the post, with promise
of increasing the salary by a contribution from the town funds. Bach
thus found himself at the age of eighteen installed as organist at a
salary of fifty florins, with thirty thalers in addition for board and
lodging, equal, all in all, to less than fifty dollars. In those days
this amount was considered a fair sum for a young player. On August
14, 1703, the young organist entered upon his duties, promising
solemnly to be diligent and faithful to all requirements.

The requirements of the post fortunately left him plenty of leisure to
study. Up to this time he had done very little composing, but now he
set about teaching himself the art of composition.

The first thing he did was to take a number of concertos written for
the violin by Vivaldi, and set them for the harpsichord. In this way
he learned to express himself and to attain facility in putting his
thoughts on paper without first playing them on an instrument. He
worked alone in this way with no assistance from any one, and often
studied till far into the night to perfect himself in this branch of
his art.

From the very beginning, his playing on the new organ excited
admiration, but his artistic temperament frequently threatened to
be his undoing. For the young enthusiast was no sooner seated at the
organ to conduct the church music than he forgot that the choir and
congregation were depending on him and would begin to improvise at
such length that the singing had to stop altogether, while the people
listened in mute admiration. Of course there were many disputes
between the new organist and the elders of the church, but they
overlooked his vagaries because of his genius.

Yet he must have been a trial to that well-ordered body. Once he asked
for a month's leave of absence to visit Lübeck, where the celebrated
Buxtehude was playing the organ in the Marien Kirche during Advent.
Lübeck was fifty miles from Arnstadt, but the courageous boy made the
entire journey on foot. He enjoyed the music at Lübeck so much that
he quite forgot his promise to return in one month until he had stayed
three. His pockets being quite empty, he thought for the first time of
returning to his post. Of course there was trouble on his return, but
the authorities retained him in spite of all, for the esteem in which
they held his gifts.

Bach soon began to find Arnstadt too small and narrow for his soaring
desires. Besides, his fame was growing and his name becoming known in
the larger, adjacent towns. When he was offered the post of organist
at St. Blasius at Mülhausen, near Eisenach, he accepted at once. He
was told he might name his own salary. If Bach had been avaricious he
could have asked a large sum, but he modestly named the small amount
he had received at Arnstadt with the addition of certain articles of
food which should be delivered at his door, gratis.

Bach's prospects were now so much improved that he thought he might
make a home for himself. He had fallen in love with a cousin, Maria
Bach, and they were married October 17, 1707.

The young organist only remained in Mülhausen a year, for he received
a more important offer. He was invited to play before Duke Wilhelm
Ernst of Weimar, and hastened thither, hoping this might lead to an
appointment at Court. He was not disappointed, for the Duke was so
delighted with Bach's playing that he at once offered him the post of
Court organist.

A wider outlook now opened for Sebastian Bach, who had all his young
life struggled with poverty and privation. He was now able to give
much time to composition, and began to write those masterpieces for
the organ which have placed his name on the highest pinnacle in the
temple of music.

In his comfortable Weimar home the musician had the quiet and
leisure that he needed to perfect his art on all sides, not only in
composition but in organ and harpsichord playing. He felt that he had
conquered all difficulties of both instruments, and one day boasted
to a friend that he could play any piece, no matter how difficult, at
sight, without a mistake. In order to test this statement the friend
invited him to breakfast shortly after. On the harpsichord were
several pieces of music, one of which, though apparently simple,
was really very difficult. His host left the room to prepare the
breakfast, while Bach began to try over the music. All went well until
he came to the difficult piece which he began quite boldly but stuck
in the middle. It went no better after several attempts. As his friend
entered, bringing the breakfast, Bach exclaimed:--"You are right. One
cannot play everything perfectly at sight,--it is impossible!"

Duke Wilhelm Ernst, in 1714, raised him to the position of
Head-Concert Master, a position which offered added privileges. Every
autumn he used his annual vacation in traveling to the principal towns
to give performances on organ and clavier. By such means he gained a
great reputation both as player and composer.

On one of these tours he arrived in Dresden in time to learn of a
French player who had just come to town. Jean Marchand had won a great
reputation in France, where he was organist to the King at Versailles,
and regarded as the most fashionable musician of the day. All this had
made him very conceited and overbearing. Every one was discussing the
Frenchman's wonderful playing and it was whispered he had been offered
an appointment in Dresden.

The friends of Bach proposed that he should engage Marchand in a
contest, to defend the musical honor of the German nation. Both
musicians were willing; the King promised to attend.

The day fixed for the trial arrived; a brilliant company assembled.
Bach made his appearance, and all was ready, but the adversary failed
to come. After a considerable delay it was learned that Marchand had
fled the city.

In 1717, on his return from Dresden, Bach was appointed Capellmeister
to the young Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Cöthen. The Prince was an
enthusiastic lover of music, and at Cöthen Bach led a happy, busy
life. The Prince often journeyed to different towns to gratify his
taste for music, and always took Bach with him. On one of these trips
he was unable to receive the news that his wife had suddenly passed
away, and was buried before he could return to Cöthen. This was a
severe blow to the whole family.

Four years afterward, Bach married again, Anna Magdalena Wülkens was
in every way suited for a musician's wife, and for her he composed
many of the delightful dances which we now so greatly enjoy. He also
wrote a number of books of studies for his wife and his sons, several
of whom later became good musicians and composers.

Perhaps no man ever led a more crowded life, though outwardly a quiet
one. He never had an idle moment. When not playing, composing or
teaching, he would be found engraving music on copper, since that work
was costly in those days. Or he would be manufacturing some kind of
musical instrument. At least two are known to be of his invention.

Bach began to realize that the Cöthen post, while it gave him plenty
of leisure for his work, did not give him the scope he needed for his
art. The Prince had lately married, and did not seem to care as much
for music as before.

The wider opportunity which Bach sought came when he was appointed
director of music in the churches of St. Thomas and St. Nicholas
in Leipsic, and Cantor of the Thomas-Schule there. With the Leipsic
period Bach entered the last stage of his career, for he retained this
post for the rest of his life. He labored unceasingly, in spite of
many obstacles and petty restrictions, to train the boys under his
care, and raise the standard of musical efficiency in the Schule, as
choirs of both churches were recruited from the scholars of the Thomas
School.

During the twenty-seven years of life in Leipsic, Bach wrote some of
his greatest works, such as the Oratorios of St. Matthew and St. John,
and the Mass in B Minor. It was the Passion according to St. Matthew
that Mendelssohn, about a hundred years later discovered, studied
with so much zeal, and performed in Berlin, with so much devotion and
success.

Bach always preferred a life of quiet and retirement; simplicity had
ever been his chief characteristic. He was always very religious; his
greatest works voice the noblest sentiments of exaltation.

Bach's modesty and retiring disposition is illustrated by the
following little incident. Carl Philip Emmanuel, his third son, was
cembalist in the royal orchestra of Frederick the Great. His Majesty
was very fond of music and played the flute to some extent. He had
several times sent messages to Bach by Philip Emmanuel, that he would
like to see him. But Bach, intent on his work, ignored the royal
favor, until he finally received an imperative command, which could
not be disobeyed. He then, with his son Friedmann, set out for
Potsdam.

The King was about to begin the evening's music when he learned that
Bach had arrived. With a smile he turned to his musicians: "Gentlemen,
old Bach has come." Bach was sent for at once, without having time
to change his traveling dress. His Majesty received him with great
kindness and respect, and showed him through the palace, where he
must try the Silbermann pianofortes, of which there were several. Bach
improvised on each and the King gave a theme which he treated as a
fantasia, to the astonishment of all. Frederick next asked him to play
a six part fugue, and then Bach improvised one on a theme of his own.
The King clapped his hands, exclaiming over and over, "Only one Bach!
Only one Bach!" It was a great evening for the master, and one he
never forgot.

Just after completing his great work, The Art of Fugue, Bach became
totally blind, due no doubt, to the great strain he had always put
upon his eyes, in not only writing his own music, but in copying out
large works of the older masters. Notwithstanding this handicap he
continued at work up to the very last. On the morning of the day on
which he passed away, July 28, 1750, he suddenly regained his sight. A
few hours later he became unconscious and passed in sleep.

Bach was laid to rest in the churchyard of St. John's at Leipsic, but
no stone marks his resting place. Only the town library register tells
that Johann Sebastian Bach, Musical Director and Singing Master of the
St. Thomas School, was carried to his grave July 30, 1750.

But the memory of Bach is enduring, his fame immortal and the love his
beautiful music inspires increases from year to year, wherever that
music is known, all over the world.




III

GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL


While little Sebastian Bach was laboriously copying out music by pale
moonlight, because of his great love for it, another child of the same
age was finding the greatest happiness of his life seated before an
old spinet, standing in a lumber garret. He was trying to make music
from those half dumb keys. No one had taught him how to play; it was
innate genius that guided his little hands to find the right harmonies
and bring melody out of the old spinet.

The boy's name was George Frederick Handel, and he was born in the
German town of Halle, February 23, 1685. Almost from infancy he showed
a remarkable fondness for music. His toys must be able to produce
musical sounds or he did not care for them. The child did not inherit
a love for music from his father, for Dr. Handel, who was a surgeon,
looked on music with contempt, as something beneath the notice of a
gentleman. He had decided his son was to be a lawyer, and refused
to allow him to attend school for fear some one might teach him his
notes. The mother was a sweet gentle woman, a second wife, and much
younger than her husband, who seemed to have ruled his household with
a rod of iron.

When little George was about five, a kind friend, who knew how he
longed to make music, had a spinet sent to him unbeknown to his
father, and placed in a corner of the old garret. Here the child loved
to come when he could escape notice. Often at night, when all were
asleep, he would steal away to the garret and work at the spinet,
mastering difficulties one by one. The strings of the instrument had
been wound with cloth to deaden the sound, and thus made only a tiny
tinkle.

After this secret practising had been going on for some time, it was
discovered one night, when little George was enjoying his favorite
pastime. He had been missed and the whole house went in search.
Finally the father, holding high the lantern in his hand and followed
by mother and the rest of the inmates, reached the garret, and there
found the lost child seated at his beloved spinet, quite lost to
the material world. There is no record of any angry outburst on the
father's part and it is likely little George was left in peace.

One day when the boy was seven years old, the father was about to
start for the castle of the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels, to see his son,
a stepbrother of George, who was a _valet de chambre_ to the Duke.
Little George begged to go too, for he knew there was music to be
heard at the castle. In spite of his father's refusal he made up his
mind to go if he had to run every step of the way. So watching his
chance, he started to run after the coach in which his father rode.
The child had no idea it was a distance of forty miles. He strove
bravely to keep pace with the horses, but the roads were rough and
muddy. His strength beginning to fail, he called out to the coachman
to stop. His father, hearing the boy's voice looked out of the window.
Instead of scolding the little scamp roundly, he was touched by his
woebegone appearance, had him lifted into the coach and carried on to
Weissenfels.

George enjoyed himself hugely at the castle. The musicians were very
kind to him, and his delight could hardly be restrained when he was
allowed to try the beautiful organ in the chapel. The organist stood
behind him and arranged the stops, and the child put his fingers on
the keys that made the big pipes speak. During his stay, George had
several chances to play; one was on a Sunday at the close of the
service. The organist lifted him upon the bench and bade him play.
Instead of the Duke and all his people leaving the chapel, they stayed
to listen. When the music ceased the Duke asked: "Who is that child?
Does anybody know his name?" The organist was sent for, and then
little George was brought. The Duke patted him on the head, praised
his playing and said he was sure to become a good musician. The
organist then remarked he had heard the father disapproved of his
musical studies. The Duke was greatly astonished. He sent for the
father and after speaking highly of the boy's talent, said that
to place any obstacle in the child's way would be unworthy of the
father's honorable profession.

And so it was settled that George Frederick should devote himself to
music. Frederick Zachau, organist of the cathedral at Halle, was
the teacher chosen to instruct the boy on the organ, harpsichord and
violin. He also taught him composition, and showed him how different
countries and composers differed in their ideas of musical style. Very
soon the boy was composing the regular weekly service for the church,
besides playing the organ whenever Zachau happened to be absent. At
that time the boy could not have been more than eight years old.

After three years' hard work his teacher told him he must seek another
master, as he could teach him nothing more. So the boy was sent to
Berlin, to continue his studies. Two of the prominent musicians there
were Ariosti and Buononcini; the former received the boy kindly and
gave him great encouragement; the other took a dislike to the little
fellow, and tried to injure him. Pretending to test his musicianship,
Buononcini composed a very difficult piece for the harpsichord
and asked him to play it at sight. This the boy did with ease and
correctness. The Elector was delighted with the little musician,
offered him a place at Court and even promised to send him to Italy
to pursue his studies. Both offers were refused and George returned to
Halle and to his old master, who was happy to have him back once more.

Not long after this the boy's father passed away, and as there was but
little money left for the mother, her son decided at once that he must
support himself and not deprive her of her small income. He acted as
deputy organist at the Cathedral and Castle of Halle, and a few years
later, when the post was vacant, secured it at a salary of less
than forty dollars a year and free lodging. George Frederick was now
seventeen and longed for a broader field. Knowing that he must leave
Halle to find it, he said good-by to his mother, and in January 1703,
set out for Hamburg to seek his fortune.

The Opera House Orchestra needed a supplementary violin. It was a very
small post, but he took it, pretending not to be able to do anything
better. However a chance soon came his way to show what he was capable
of. One day the conductor, who always presided at the harpsichord, was
absent, and no one was there to take his place. Without delay George
came forward and took his vacant seat. He conducted so ably, that he
secured the position for himself.

The young musician led a busy life in Hamburg, filled with teaching,
study and composition. As his fame increased he secured more pupils,
and he was not only able to support himself, but could send some money
to his mother. He believed in saving money whenever he could; he knew
a man should not only be self supporting, but somewhat independent, in
order to produce works of art.

Handel now turned his attention to opera, composing "Almira, Queen of
Castile," which was produced in Hamburg early in January 1705. This
success encouraged him to write others; indeed he was the author of
forty operas, which are only remembered now by an occasional aria.
During these several years of hard work he had looked forward to a
journey to Italy, for study. He was now a composer of some note and
decided it was high time to carry out his cherished desire.

He remained some time in Florence and composed the opera "Rodrigo,"
which was performed with great success. While in Venice he brought
out another opera, "Agrippina," which had even greater success. Rome
delighted him especially and he returned for a second time in 1709.
Here he composed his first oratorio, the "Resurrection," which was
produced there. Handel returned to Germany the following year. The
Elector of Hanover was kind to him, and offered him the post of
Capellmeister, with a salary of about fifteen hundred dollars. He
had long desired to visit England, and the Elector gave him leave of
absence. First, however, he went to Halle to see his mother and his
old teacher. We can imagine the joy of the meeting, and how proud and
happy both were at the success of the young musician. After a little
time spent with his dear ones, he set out for England.

Handel came to London, preceded by the fame of his Italian success.
Italian opera was the vogue just then in the English capital, but
it was so badly produced that a man of Handel's genius was needed to
properly set it before the people. He had not been long on English
soil when he produced his opera "Rinaldo," at the Queen's Theater;
it had taken him just two weeks to compose the opera. It had great
success and ran night after night. There are many beautiful airs in
"Rinaldo," some of which we hear to-day with the deepest pleasure.
"Lascia ch'jo pianga" and "Cara si's sposa" are two of them. The
Londoners had welcomed Handel with great cordiality and with his
new opera he was firmly established in their regard. With the young
musician likewise there seemed to be a sincere affection for England.
He returned in due time to his duties in Hanover, but he felt that
London was the field for his future activities.

It was not very long after his return to Germany that he sought
another leave of absence to visit England, promising to return within
a "reasonable time." London received him with open arms and many great
people showered favors upon him. Lord Burlington invited him to his
residence in Piccadilly, which at that time consisted of green fields.
The only return to be made for all this social and home luxury was
that he should conduct the Earl's chamber concerts. Handel devoted his
abundant leisure to composition, at which he worked with much ardor.
His fame was making great strides, and when the Peace of Utrecht was
signed and a Thanksgiving service was to be held in St. Paul's, he was
commissioned to compose a Te Deum and Jubilate. To show appreciation
for his work and in honor of the event, Queen Anne awarded Handel a
life pension of a thousand dollars.

The death of the Queen, not long after, brought the Elector of Hanover
to England, to succeed her as George I. It was not likely that King
George would look with favor on his former Capellmeister, who had so
long deserted his post. But an opportunity soon came to placate his
Majesty. A royal entertainment, with decorated barges on the Thames
was arranged. An orchestra was to furnish the music, and the Lord
Chamberlain commissioned Handel to compose music for the fête. He
wrote a series of pieces, since known as "Water Music." The king was
greatly delighted with the music, had it repeated, and learning that
Handel conducted in person, sent for him, forgave all and granted him
another pension of a thousand dollars. He was also appointed teacher
to the daughters of the Prince of Wales, at a salary of a thousand
a year. With the combined sum (three thousand dollars) which he now
received, he felt quite independent, indeed a man of means.

Not long after this Handel was appointed Chapel master to the Duke
of Chandos, and was expected to live at the princely mansion he
inhabited. The size and magnificence of The Cannons was the talk of
the country for miles around. Here the composer lived and worked,
played the organ in the chapel, composed church music for the service
and wrote his first English oratorio, "Esther." This was performed in
the Duke's chapel, and the Duke on this occasion handed the composer
five thousand dollars. Numerous compositions for the harpsichord
belong to this period, among them the air and variations known as
"The Harmonious Blacksmith." The story goes that Handel was walking
to Cannons through the village of Edgeware, and being overtaken by a
heavy shower, sought shelter in the smithy. The blacksmith was singing
at his work and his hammer kept time with his song. The composer was
struck with the air and its accompaniment, and as soon as he reached
home, wrote out the tune with the variations. This story has been
disputed, and it is not known whether it is true or not.

When Handel first came to London, he had done much to encourage the
production of opera in the Italian style. Later these productions
had to be given up for lack of money, and the King's Theater remained
closed for a long time. Finally a number of rich men formed a society
to revive opera in London. The King subscribed liberally to the
venture. Handel was at once engaged as composer and impressario. He
started work on a new opera and when that was well along, set out for
Germany, going to Dresden to select singers. On his return he stopped
at Halle, where his mother was still living, but his old teacher had
passed away.

The new opera "Radamisto" was ready early in 1720, and produced at the
Royal Academy of Music, as the theater was now called. The success
of the production was tremendous. But Handel, by his self-will had
stirred up envy and jealousy, and an opposition party was formed,
headed by his old enemy from Hamburg, Buononcini, who had come to
London to try his fortunes. A test opera was planned, of which Handel
wrote the third act, Buononcini the second and a third musician the
first. When the new work was performed, the third act was pronounced
by the judges much superior to the second. But Buononcini's friends
would not accept defeat, and the battle between all parties was
violent. Newspapers were full of it, and many verses were written.
Handel cared not a whit for all this tempest, but calmly went his way.

In 1723, his opera "Ottone" was to be produced. The great singer
Cuzzoni had been engaged, but the capricious lady did not arrive in
England till the rehearsals were far advanced, which of course did not
please the composer. When she did appear she refused to sing the aria
as he had composed it. He flew into a rage, took her by the arm and
threatened to throw her out of the window unless she obeyed. The
singer was so frightened by his anger that she sang as he directed,
and made a great success of the aria.

Handel's industry in composing for the Royal Academy of Music
was untiring. For the first eight years from the beginning of the
Society's work he had composed and produced fourteen operas. During
all this time, his enemies never ceased their efforts to destroy him.
The great expense of operatic production, the troubles and quarrels
with singers, at last brought the Academy to the end of its resources.
At this juncture, the famous "Beggar's Opera," by John Gay, was
brought out at a rival theater. It was a collection of most beautiful
melodies from various sources, used with words quite unworthy of them.
But the fickle public hailed the piece with delight, and its success
was the means of bringing total failure to the Royal Academy. Handel,
however, in spite of the schemes of his enemies, was determined to
carry on the work with his own fortune. He went again to Italy to
engage new singers, stopping at Halle to see his mother who was ill.
She passed away the next year at the age of eighty.

Handel tried for several years to keep Italian opera going in London,
in spite of the lack of musical taste and the opposition of his
enemies; but in 1737, he was forced to give up the struggle. He was
deeply in debt, his whole fortune of ten thousand pounds had been
swept away and his health broken by anxiety. He would not give up;
after a brief rest, he returned to London to begin the conflict anew.
The effort to re-awaken the English public's interest in Italian opera
seemed useless, and the composer at last gave up the struggle. He was
now fifty-five, and began to think of turning his attention to more
serious work. Handel has been called the father of the oratorio; he
composed at least twenty-eight works in this style, the best
known being "Samson," "Israel in Egypt," "Jephtha," "Saul," "Judas
Maccabæus" and greatest of all, the "Messiah."

The composer conceived the idea of writing the last named work in
1741. Towards the end of this year he was invited to visit Ireland
to make known some of his works. On the way there he was detained at
Chester for several days by contrary winds. He must have had the score
of the "Messiah" with him, for he got together some choir boys to try
over a few of the choral parts. "Can you sing at sight?" was put to
each boy before he was asked to sing. One broke down at the start.
"What de devil you mean!" cried the impetuous composer, snatching the
music from him. "Didn't you say you could sing at sight?"

"Yes sir, but not at _first_ sight."

The people of Dublin warmly welcomed Handel, and the new oratorio,
the "Messiah," was performed at Music Hall, with choirs of both
cathedrals, and with some concertos on the organ played by the
composer. The performance took place, April 13, 1742. Four hundred
pounds were realized, which were given to charity. The success was so
great that a second performance was announced. Ladies were requested
to come without crinoline, thereby providing a hundred more seats than
at the first event.

The Irish people were so cordial, that the composer remained almost
a year among them. For it was not till March 23, 1743, that the
"Messiah" was performed in London. The King was one of the great
audience who heard it. All were so deeply impressed by the Hallelujah
chorus, that with the opening words, "For the Lord God omnipotent
reigneth," the whole audience, including the King, sprang to their
feet, and remained standing through the entire chorus. From that time
to this it has always been the custom to stand during this chorus,
whenever it is performed.

Once started on this line of thought, one oratorio after another
flowed from his prolific pen, though none of them proved to be as
exalted in conception as the "Messiah." The last work of this style
was "Jephtha," which contains the beautiful song, "Waft her, angels."
While engaged in composing this oratorio, Handel became blind, but
this affliction did not seem to lessen his power for work. He was now
sixty-eight, and had conquered and lived down most of the hostility
that had been so bitter against him. His fortunes also constantly
improved, so that when he passed away he left twenty thousand pounds.

The great composer was a big man, both physically and mentally. A
friend describes his countenance as full of fire; "when he smiled it
was like the sun bursting out of a black cloud. It was a sudden flash
of intelligence, wit and good humor, which illumined his countenance,
which I have hardly ever seen in any other." He could relish a joke,
and had a keen sense of humor. Few things outside his work interested
him; but he was fond of the theater, and liked to go to picture sales.
His fiery temper often led him to explode at trifles. No talking among
the listeners could be borne by him while he was conducting. He did
not hesitate to visit violent abuse on the heads of those who ventured
to speak while he was directing and not even the presence of royalty
could restrain his anger.

Handel was always generous in assisting those who needed aid, and he
helped found the Society for Aiding Distressed Musicians. His last
appearance in public, was at a performance of the "Messiah," at Covent
Garden, on April 6, 1759. His death occurred on the 14th of the same
month, at the house in Brook Street where he had lived for many years.
Thus, while born in the same year as Sebastian Bach, he outlived him
by about a decade. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, and later a
fine monument was erected to his memory. The most of his manuscripts
came into the possession of King George III, and are preserved in the
musical library of Buckingham Palace.




IV

CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK


Christoph Willibald Gluck has been called the "regenerator of the
opera" for he appeared just at the right moment to rescue opera
from the deplorable state into which it had fallen. At that time the
composers often yielded to the caprices of the singers and wrote to
suit them, while the singers themselves, through vanity and ignorance,
made such requirements that opera itself often became ridiculous.
Gluck desired "to restrict the art of music to its true object, that
of aiding the effect of poetry by giving greater expression to words
and scenes, without interrupting the action or the plot." He wrote
only operas, and some of his best works keep the stage to-day. They
are simple in design yet powerful in appeal: very original and stamped
with refinement and true feeling.

The boy Christoph, like many another lad who became a great musician,
had a sorrowful childhood, full of poverty and neglect. His home was
in the little town of Weissenwangen, on the borders of Bohemia, where
he was born July 2, 1714. As a little lad he early manifested a love
for music, but his parents were in very straitened circumstances and
could not afford to pay for musical instruction. He was sent to one of
the public schools. Fortunately the art of reading music from notes,
formation of scales and fundamentals, was taught along with general
school subjects.

While his father lived the boy was sure of sympathy and affection,
though circumstances were of the poorest. But the good man passed away
when the boy was quite young, and then matters were much worse. He was
gradually neglected until he was at last left to shift for himself.

He possessed not only talent but perseverance and the will to succeed.
The violoncello attracted him, and he began to teach himself to play
it, with no other help than an old instruction book. Determination
conquered many difficulties however, and before long he had made
sufficient progress to enable him to join a troop of traveling
minstrels. From Prague they made their way to Vienna.

Arrived in Vienna, that rich, gay, laughter-loving city, where the
people loved music and often did much for it, the youth's musical
talent together with his forlorn appearance and condition won sympathy
from a few generous souls, who not only provided a home and took care
of his material needs, but gave him also the means to continue his
musical studies. Christoph was overcome with gratitude and made the
best possible use of his opportunities. For nearly two years he gave
himself up to his musical studies.

Italy was the goal of his ambition, and at last the opportunity
to visit that land of song was within his grasp. At the age of
twenty-four, in the year 1738, Gluck bade adieu to his many kind
friends in Vienna, and set out to complete his studies in Italy. Milan
was his objective point. Soon after arriving there he had the good
fortune to meet Padre Martini, the celebrated master of musical
theory. Young Gluck at once placed himself under the great man's
guidance and labored diligently with him for about four years. How
much he owed to the careful training Martini was able to give, was
seen in even his first attempts at operatic composition.

At the conclusion of this long period of devoted study, Gluck began to
write an opera, entitled "Artaxerxes." When completed it was accepted
at the Milan Theater, brought out in 1741 and met with much success.
This success induced one of the managers in Venice to offer him an
engagement for that city if he would compose a new opera. Gluck then
produced "Clytemnestra." This second work had a remarkable success,
and the managers arranged for the composition of another opera, which
was "Demetrio," which, like the others was most favorably received.
Gluck now had offers from Turin, so that the next two years were spent
between that city and Milan, for which cities he wrote five or six
operas. By this time the name of Gluck had become famous all over
Italy; indeed his fame had spread to other countries, with the
result that tempting offers for new operas flowed in to him from all
directions. Especially was a London manager, a certain Lord Middlesex,
anxious to entice the young composer from Italy to come over to
London, and produce some of his works at the King's Theater in the
Haymarket.

The noble manager made a good offer too, and Gluck felt he ought to
accept. He reached London in 1745, but owing to the rebellion which
had broken out in Scotland all the theaters were closed, and the city
in more or less confusion. However a chance to hear the famous German
composer, who had traveled such a distance, was not to be lost, and
Lord Middlesex besought the Powers to re-open the theater. After much
pleading his request was finally granted. The opening opera, written
on purpose to introduce Gluck to English audiences, was entitled "La
Caduta del Giganti,"--"Fall of the Giants"--and did not seem to please
the public. But the young composer was undaunted. His next opera,
"Artamene," pleased them no better. The mind of the people was taken
up at that period with politics and political events, and they cared
less than usual for music and the arts. Then, too, Handel, at the
height of his fame, was living in London, honored and courted by the
aristocracy and the world of fashion.

Though disappointed at his lack of success, Gluck remained in England
several years, constantly composing operas, none of which seemed to
win success. At last he took his way quietly back to Vienna. In 1754,
he was invited to Rome, where he produced several operas, among them
"Antigone"; they were all successful, showing the Italians appreciated
his work. He now proceeded to Florence, and while there became
acquainted with an Italian poet, Ranieri di Calzabigi. They were
mutually attracted to each other, and on parting had sworn to use
their influence and talents to reform Italian opera.

Gluck returned to Vienna, and continued to compose operas. In 1764,
"Orfeo" was produced,--an example of the new reform in opera! "Orfeo"
was received most favorably and sung twenty-eight times, a long run
for those days. The singing and acting of Guadagni made the opera
quite the rage, and the work began to be known in England. Even in
Paris and Parma it became a great favorite. The composer was
now fifty, and his greatest works had yet--with the exception or
"Orfeo"--to be written. He began to develop that purity of style which
we find in "Alceste," "Iphigénie en Tauride" and others. "Alceste" was
the second opera on the reformed plan which simplified the music to
give more prominence to the poetry. It was produced in Vienna in 1769,
with the text written by Calzabigi. The opera was ahead of "Orfeo" in
simplicity and nobility, but it did not seem to please the critics.
The composer himself wrote: "Pedants and critics, an infinite
multitude, form the greatest obstacle to the progress of art. They
think themselves entitled to pass a verdict on 'Alceste' from some
informal rehearsals, badly conducted and executed. Some fastidious
ear found a vocal passage too harsh, or another too impassioned,
forgetting that forcible expression and striking contrasts are
absolutely necessary. It was likewise decided in full conclave, that
this style of music was barbarous and extravagant."

In spite of the judgment of the critics, "Alceste" increased the
fame of Gluck to a great degree. Paris wanted to see the man who had
revolutionized Italian opera. The French Royale Académie had made him
an offer to visit the capital, for which he was to write a new opera
for a début. A French poet, Du Rollet, living in Vienna, offered to
write a libretto for the new opera, and assured him there was every
chance for success in a visit to France. The libretto was thereupon
written, or rather arranged from Racine's "Iphigénie en Aulide," and
with this, Chevalier Gluck, lately made Knight of the papal order of
the Golden Spur, set out for Paris.

And now began a long season of hard work. The opera "Iphigénie"
took about a year to compose, besides a careful study of the French
language. He had even more trouble with the slovenly, ignorant
orchestra, than he had with the French language. The orchestra
declared itself against foreign music; but this opposition was
softened down by his former pupil and patroness, the charming Marie
Antoinette, Queen of France.

After many trials and delays, "Iphigénie" was produced August 19,
1774. The opera proved an enormous success. The beautiful Queen
herself gave the signal for applause in which the whole house joined.
The charming Sophie Arnould sang the part of Iphigénie and seemed
to quite satisfy the composer. Larrivée was the Agamemnon, and other
parts were well sung. The French were thoroughly delighted. They
fêted and praised Gluck, declaring he had discovered the music of the
ancient Greeks, that he was the only man in Europe who could express
real feelings in music. Marie Antoinette wrote to her sister: "We had,
on the nineteenth, the first performance of Gluck's 'Iphigénie,' and
it was a glorious triumph. I was quite enchanted, and nothing else is
talked of. All the world wishes to see the piece, and Gluck seems well
satisfied."

The next year, 1775, Gluck brought out an adaptation suitable for
the French stage, of his "Alceste," which again aroused the greatest
enthusiasm. The theater was crammed at every performance. Marie
Antoinette's favorite composer was again praised to the skies, and was
declared to be the greatest composer living.

But Gluck had one powerful opponent at the French Court, who was none
other than the famous Madame du Barry, the favorite of Louis XV. Since
the Queen had her pet musical composer, Mme. du Barry wished to have
hers. An Italian by birth, she could gather about her a powerful
Italian faction, who were bent upon opposition to the Austrian Gluck.
She had listened to his praises long enough, and the tremendous
success of "Alceste" had been the last straw and brought things to a
climax. Du Barry would have some one to represent Italian music, and
applied to the Italian ambassador to desire Piccini to come to Paris.

On the arrival of Piccini, Madame du Barry began activities, aided by
Louis XV himself. She gathered a powerful Italian party about her,
and their first act was to induce the Grand Opera management to make
Piccini an offer for a new opera, although they had already made the
same offer to Gluck. This breach of good faith led to a furious war,
in which all Paris joined; it was fierce and bitter while it lasted.
Even politics were forgotten for the time being. Part of the press
took up one side and part the other. Many pamphlets, poems and satires
appeared, in which both composers were unmercifully attacked. Gluck
was at the time in Germany, and Piccini had come to Paris principally
to secure the tempting fee offered him. The leaders of the feud kept
things well stirred up, so that a stranger could not enter a café,
hotel or theater without first answering the question whether he stood
for Gluck or Piccini. Many foolish lies were told of Gluck in his
absence. It was declared by the Piccinists that he went away on
purpose, to escape the war; that he could no longer write melodies
because he was a dried up old man and had nothing new to give France.
These lies and false stories were put to flight one evening when the
Abbé Arnaud, one of Gluck's most ardent adherents, declared in an
aristocratic company, that the Chevalier was returning to France with
an "Orlando" and an "Armide" in his portfolio.

"Piccini is also working on an 'Orlando,'" spoke up a follower of that
redoubtable Italian.

"That will be all the better," returned the abbé, "for we shall then
have an 'Orlando' and also an 'Orlandino.'"

When Gluck arrived in Paris, he brought with him the finished opera of
"Armide," which was produced at the Paris Grand Opera on September
23, 1777. At first it was merely a _succès d'estime_, but soon became
immensely popular. On the first night many of the critics were against
the opera, which was called too noisy. The composer, however, felt he
had done some of his best work in "Armide"; that the music was written
in such style that it would not grow old, at least not for a long
time. He had taken the greatest pains in composing it, and declared
that if it were not properly rehearsed at the Opera he would not let
them have it at all, but would retain the work himself for his own
pleasure. He wrote to a friend: "I have put forth what little strength
is left in me, into 'Armide'; I confess I should like to finish my
career with it."

It is said the Gluck composed "Armide" in order to praise the beauty
of Marie Antoinette, and she for her part showed the deepest interest
in the success of the piece, and really "became quite a slave to
it." Gluck often told her he "rearranged his music according to the
impression it made upon the Queen."

"Great as was the success of 'Armide,'" wrote the Princess de
Lamballe, "no one prized this beautiful work more highly than the
composer of it. He was passionately enamored of it; he told the Queen
the air of France had rejuvenated his creative powers, and the sight
of her majesty had given such a wonderful impetus to the flow
of ideas, that his composition had become like herself, angelic,
sublime."

The growing success of "Armide" only added fuel to the flame of
controversy which had been stirred up. To cap the climax, Piccini
had finished his opera, which was duly brought out and met with a
brilliant reception. Indeed its success was greater than that won by
"Armide," much to the delight of the Piccinists. Of course the natural
outcome was that the other party should do something to surpass the
work of their rivals. Marie Antoinette was besought to prevail on
Gluck to write another opera.

A new director was now in charge of the Opera House. He conceived the
bright idea of setting the two composers at work on the same subject,
which was to be "Iphigénie en Tauride." This plan made great commotion
in the ranks of the rival factions, as each wished to have their
composer's work performed first. The director promised that Piccini's
opera should be first placed in rehearsal. Gluck soon finished his
and handed it in, but the Italian, trusting to the director's word of
honor, was not troubled when he heard the news, though he determined
to complete his as soon as possible. A few days later, when he went to
the Opera House with his completed score, he was horrified to find the
work of his rival already in rehearsal. There was a lively scene, but
the manager said he had received orders to produce the work of Gluck
at once, and he must obey. On the 18th of May, 1779, the Gluck opera
was first performed. It produced the greatest excitement and had a
marvelous success. Even Piccini succumbed to the spell, for the music
made such an impression on him that he did not wish his own work to be
brought out.

The director, however, insisted, and soon after the second Iphigénie
appeared. The first night the opera did not greatly please; the next
night proved a comic tragedy, as the prima donna was intoxicated.
After a couple of days' imprisonment she returned and sang well. But
the war between the two factions continued till the death of Gluck,
and the retirement of Piccini.

The following year, in September, Gluck finished a new opera, "Echo et
Narcisse," and with this work decided to close his career, feeling he
was too old to write longer for the lyric stage. He was then nearly
seventy years old, and retired to Vienna, to rest and enjoy the fruits
of all his years of incessant toil. He was now rich, as he had earned
nearly thirty thousand pounds. Kings and princes came to do him honor,
and to tell him what pleasure his music had always given them.

Gluck passed away on November 15, 1787, honored and beloved by all.
The simple beauty and purity of his music are as moving and expressive
to-day as when it was written, and the "Michael of Music" speaks to us
still in his operas, whenever they are adequately performed.




V

JOSEF HAYDN


In Josef Haydn we have one of the classic composers, a sweet, gentle
spirit, who suffered many privations in early life, and through his
own industrious efforts rose to positions of respect and honor, the
result of unremitting toil and devotion to a noble ideal. Like many
of the other great musicians, through hardship and sorrow he won his
place among the elect.

Fifteen leagues south of Vienna, amid marshy flats along the river
Leitha, lies the small village of Rehrau. At the end of the straggling
street which constitutes the village, stood a low thatched cottage
and next to it a wheelwright's shop, with a small patch of greensward
before it. The master wheelwright, Mathias Haydn, was sexton, too, of
the little church on the hill. He was a worthy man and very religious.
A deep love for music was part of the man's nature, and it was shared
to a large extent by his wife Maria. Every Sunday evening he would
bring out his harp, on which he had taught himself to play, and he
and his wife would sing songs and hymns, accompanied by the harp. The
children, too, would add their voices to the concert. The little
boy Josef, sat near his father and watched his playing with rapt
attention. Sometimes he would take two sticks and make believe play
the violin, just as he had seen the village schoolmaster do. And
when he sang hymns with the others, his voice was sweet and true. The
father watched the child with interest, and a new hope rose within
him. His own life had been a bitter disappointment, for he had been
unable to satisfy his longing for a knowledge of the art he loved.
Perhaps Josef might one day become a musician--indeed he might even
rise to be Capellmeister.

Little Josef was born March 31, 1732. The mother had a secret desire
that the boy should join the priesthood, but the father, as we have
seen, hoped he would make a musical career, and determined, though
poor in this world's goods, to aid him in every possible way.

About this time a distant relative, one Johann Mathias Frankh by name,
arrived at the Haydn cottage on a visit. He was a schoolmaster at
Hainburg, a little town four leagues away. During the regular evening
concert he took particular notice of Josef and his toy violin. The
child's sweet voice indicated that he had the makings of a good
musician. At last he said: "If you will let me take Sepperl, I will
see he is properly taught; I can see he promises well."

The parents were quite willing and as for little Sepperl, he was
simply overjoyed, for he longed to learn more about the beautiful
music which filled his soul. He went with his new cousin, as he called
Frankh, without any hesitation, and with the expectation that his
childish day dreams were to be realized.

A new world indeed opened to the six year old boy, but it was not all
beautiful. Frankh was a careful and strict teacher; Josef not only was
taught to sing well, but learned much about various instruments.
He had school lessons also. But his life in other ways was hard
and cheerless. The wife of his cousin treated him with the utmost
indifference, never looking after his clothing or his well being in
any way. After a time his destitute and neglected appearance was
a source of misery to the refined, sensitive boy, but he tried to
realize that present conditions could not last forever, and he bravely
endeavored to make the best of them. Meanwhile the training of his
voice was well advanced and when not in school he could nearly always
be found in church, listening to the organ and the singing. Not long
after, he was admitted to the choir, where his sweet young voice
joined in the church anthems. Always before his mind was a great city
where he knew he would find the most beautiful music--the music of his
dreams. That city was Vienna, but it lay far away. Josef looked down
at his ragged clothing and wondered if he would ever see that magical
city.

One morning his cousin told him there would be a procession through
the town in honor of a prominent citizen who had just passed away. A
drummer was needed and the cousin had proposed Josef. He showed the
boy how to make the strokes for a march, with the result that Josef
walked in the procession and felt quite proud of this exhibition of
his skill. The very drum he used that day is preserved in the little
church at Hamburg.

A great event occurred in Josef's prospects at the end of his second
year of school life at Hamburg. The Capellmeister, Reutter by name, of
St. Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, came to see his friend, the pastor
of Hamburg. He happened to say he was looking for a few good voices
for the choir. "I can find you one at least," said the pastor; "he is
a scholar of Frankh, the schoolmaster, and has a sweet voice."

Josef was sent for and the schoolmaster soon returned leading him by
the hand.

"Well my little fellow," said the Capellmeister, drawing him to his
knee, "can you make a shake?"

"No sir, but neither can my cousin Frankh."

Reutter laughed at this frankness, and then proceeded to show him how
the shake was done. Josef after a few trials was able to perform the
shake to the entire satisfaction of his teacher. After testing him on
a portion of a mass the Capellmeister was willing to take him to the
Cantorei or Choir school of St. Stephen's in Vienna. The boy's heart
gave a great leap. Vienna, the city of his dreams. And he was really
going there! He could scarcely believe in his good fortune. If he
could have known all that was to befall him there, he might not have
been so eager to go. But he was only a little eight-year-old boy, and
childhood's dreams are rosy.

Once arrived at the Cantorei, Josef plunged into his studies with
great fervor, and his progress was most rapid. He was now possessed
with a desire to compose, but had not the slightest idea how to go
about such a feat. However, he hoarded every scrap of music paper he
could find and covered it with notes. Reutter gave no encouragement to
such proceedings. One day he asked what the boy was about, and when
he heard the lad was composing a "Salve Regina," for twelve voices,
he remarked it would be better to write it for two voices before
attempting it in twelve. "And if you must try your hand at
composition," added Reutter more kindly, "write variations on the
motets and vespers which are played in church."

As neither the Capellmeister nor any of the teachers offered to
show Josef the principles of composition, he was thrown upon his own
resources. With much self denial he scraped together enough money to
buy two books which he had seen at the second hand bookseller's and
which he had longed to possess. One was Fox's "Gradus ad Parnassum,"
a treatise on composition and counterpoint; the other Matheson's "The
Complete Capellmeister." Happy in the possession of these books, Josef
used every moment outside of school and choir practise to study them.
He loved fun and games as well as any boy, but music always came
first. The desire to perfect himself was so strong that he often added
several hours each day to those already required, working sixteen or
eighteen hours out of the twenty-four.

And thus a number of years slipped away amid these happy surroundings.
Little Josef was now a likely lad of about fifteen years. It was
arranged that his younger brother Michael was to come to the Cantorei.
Josef looked eagerly forward to this event, planning how he would help
the little one over the beginning and show him the pleasant things
that would happen to him in the new life. But the elder brother could
not foresee the sorrow and privation in store for him. From the moment
Michael's pure young voice filled the vast spaces of the cathedral, it
was plain that Josef's singing could not compete with it. His soprano
showed signs of breaking, and gradually the principal solo parts,
which had always fallen to him, were given to the new chorister. On
a special church day, when there was more elaborate music, the "Salve
Regina," which had always been given to Josef, was sung so beautifully
by the little brother, that the Emperor and Empress were delighted,
and they presented the young singer with twenty ducats.

Poor Josef! He realized that his place was virtually taken by the
brother he had welcomed so joyously only a short time before. No one
was to blame of course; it was one of those things that could not be
avoided. But what actually caused him to leave St. Stephen's was a
boyish prank played on one of the choir boys, who sat in front of
him. Taking up a new pair of shears lying near, he snipped off, in a
mischievous moment, the boy's pigtail. For this jest he was punished
and then dismissed from the school. He could hardly realize it, in his
first dazed, angry condition. Not to enjoy the busy life any more, not
to see Michael and the others and have a comfortable home and sing
in the Cathedral. How he lived after that he hardly knew. But several
miserable days went by. One rainy night a young man whom he had known
before, came upon him near the Cathedral, and was struck by his
white, pinched face. He asked where the boy was living. "Nowhere--I am
starving," was the reply. Honest Franz Spangler was touched at once.

"We can't stand here in the rain," he said. "You know I haven't a
palace to offer, but you are welcome to share my poor place for one
night anyway. Then we shall see."

It was indeed a poor garret where the Spanglers lived, but the
cheerful fire and warm bread and milk were luxuries to the starving
lad. Best of all was it to curl up on the floor, beside the dying
embers and fall into refreshing slumber. The next morning the world
looked brighter. He had made up his mind not to try and see his
brother; he would support himself by music. He did not know just how
he was going to do this, but determined to fight for it _and never
give in_.

Spangler, deeply touched by the boy's forlorn case, offered to let
him occupy a corner of his garret until he could find work, and Josef
gratefully accepted. The boy hoped he could quickly find something to
do; but many weary months were spent in looking for employment and
in seeking to secure pupils, before there was the slightest sign
of success. Thinly clad as he was and with the vigorous appetite of
seventeen, which was scarcely ever appeased, he struggled on, hopeful
that spring would bring some sort of good cheer.

But spring came, yet no employment was in sight. His sole earnings had
been the coppers thrown to him as he stood singing in the snow covered
streets, during the long cold winter. Now it was spring, and hope rose
within him. He had been taught to have simple faith in God, and felt
sure that in some way his needs would be met.

At last the tide turned slightly. A few pupils attracted by the small
fee he charged, took lessons on the clavier; he got a few engagements
to play violin at balls and parties, while some budding composers got
him to revise their manuscripts for a small fee. All these cheering
signs of better times made Josef hopeful and grateful. One day a
special piece of good fortune came his way. A man who loved music,
at whose house he had sometimes played, sent him a hundred and fifty
florins, to be repaid without interest whenever convenient.

This sum seemed to Haydn a real fortune. He was able to leave the
Spanglers and take up a garret of his own. There was no stove in it
and winter was coming on; it was only partly light, even at midday,
but the youth was happy. For he had acquired a little worm-eaten
spinet, and he had added to his treasures the first six sonatas of
Emmanuel Bach.

On the third floor of the house which contained the garret, lived a
celebrated Italian poet, Metastasio. Haydn and the poet struck up an
acquaintance, which resulted in the musician's introduction to the
poet's favorite pupil, Marianne Martinez. Also through Metastasio,
Haydn met Nicolo Porpora, an eminent teacher of singing and
composition. About this time another avenue opened to him. It was a
fashion in Vienna to pick up a few florins by serenading prominent
persons. A manager of one of the principal theaters in Vienna, Felix
Kurz, had recently married a beautiful woman, whose loveliness was
much talked of. It occurred to Haydn to take a couple of companions
along and serenade the lady, playing some of his own music. Soon after
they had begun to play the house door opened and Kurz himself stood
there in dressing gown and slippers. "Whose music was that you were
playing?" he asked. "My own," was the answer. "Indeed; then just step
inside." The three entered, wondering. They were presented to Madame,
then were given refreshments. "Come and see me to-morrow," said Kurz
when the boys left; "I think I have some work for you."

Haydn called next day and learned the manager had written a libretto
of a comic opera which he called "The Devil on two Sticks," and was
looking for some one to compose the music. In one place there was to
be a tempest at sea, and Haydn was asked how he would represent that.
As he had never seen the sea, he was at a loss how to express it. The
manager said he himself had never seen the ocean, but to his mind it
was like this, and he began to toss his arms wildly about. Haydn tried
every way he could think of to represent the ocean, but Kurz was not
satisfied. At last he flung his hands down with a crash on each end
of the keyboard and brought them together in the middle. "That's it,
that's it," cried the manager and embraced the youth excitedly. All
went well with the rest of the opera. It was finished and produced,
but did not make much stir, a fact which was not displeasing to the
composer, as he was not proud of his first attempt.

His acquaintance with Porpora promised better things. The singing
master had noticed his skill in playing the harpsichord, and offered
to engage him as accompanist. Haydn gladly accepted at once, hoping to
pick up much musical knowledge in this way. Old Porpora was very
harsh and domineering at first, treating him more like a valet than
a musician. But at last he was won over by Haydn's gentleness and
patience, until he was willing to answer all his questions and
to correct his compositions. Best of all he brought Haydn to the
attention of the nobleman in whose house he was teaching, so that
when the nobleman and his family went to the baths of Mannersdorf for
several months, Haydn was asked to go along as accompanist to Porpora.

The distinguished musicians he met at Mannersdorf were all very kind
to him and showed much interest in his compositions, many of which
were performed during this visit. The nobleman, impressed with Haydn's
desire to succeed, allotted him a pension of a sum equal to fifteen
dollars a month. The young musician's first act on receiving this was
to buy himself a neat suit of black.

Good fortune followed him on his return to Vienna. More pupils came,
until he was able to raise his prices and move into better lodgings.
A wealthy patron of music, the Countess of Thun, sent for him to come
and see her. She had heard one of his clavier sonatas played, found
it charming and wished to see the composer. Her manner was so
sympathetic, that Haydn was led to tell her the story of his
struggles. Tears came into her eyes as she listened. She promised her
support as friend and pupil, and Haydn left her with a happy, grateful
heart.

His compositions were heard in the best musical circles in Vienna, and
the future was bright with promise. A wealthy music patron persuaded
him to write a string quartet, the first of many to follow. Through
this man he received, in 1759, an appointment of music director to a
rich Bohemian, Count Morzin, who had a small orchestra at his country
seat. In the same year the first Symphony was composed.

As brighter days dawned, Haydn procured all the works on theory
obtainable, and studied them deeply. He had mastered the difficulties
of the "Gradus," one of the books purchased years before, and without
any outside help had worked out his musical independence, uninfluenced
by any other musician. He was now twenty-six, and his fame was
growing. Meanwhile an affair of the heart had great influence on his
life. Sometime previously Haydn had been engaged to give lessons
on the harpsichord to two daughters of a wig-maker named Keller. An
attachment soon sprang up between the teacher and the younger of the
girls. His poverty had stood in the way of making his feelings known.
But as prosperity began to dawn, he grew courageous and asked the
maiden to become his wife. His disappointment was keen when he found
the girl had in the meantime decided to take the veil. The wig-maker
proved to be a matchmaker, for when he learned how matters stood he
urged the composer to take the sister, who was only three years older.
The gentle Haydn was unable to withstand the pressure brought to bear,
and consented. After his bride was his he found he had won a virago,
one who cared nothing for art or for her husband's ideals, if only she
could have enough money to spend.

The composer was in sad straits for a while, but fortunately a way
opened by means of which he could be free. Count Morzin, where he had
conducted the orchestra, was obliged to reduce his establishment and
dismissed his band and its director. As soon as this was known, the
reigning Prince of Hungary, Paul Anton Esterházy offered Haydn the
post of assistant Capellmeister at his country seat of Eisenstadt.
The head Capellmeister, Werner, was old, but the Prince kept him
on account of his long service. Haydn, however, was to have
entire control of the orchestra, and also of most of the musical
arrangements.

Haydn was blissfully happy over the realization of his highest hopes.
In his wildest dreams he had never imagined such magnificence as he
found at the palace of Eisenstadt. The great buildings, troops of
servants, the wonderful parks and gardens, with their flowers, lakes
and fountains almost made him believe he was in fairyland. Of course
there would be some hard work, though it would not seem hard amid such
fascinating surroundings and there would be plenty of leisure for his
own creative activities. Best of all his wife could not be with him.

Prince Paul Anton passed away after a year and his brother Nikolaus
succeeded him. He advanced Haydn still further, and increased his
salary. Werner, the old Capellmeister, died in 1766, and Haydn
succeeded to the full title. This was the father's dream for his boy
Josef, and it had been abundantly realized. His mother had passed
away, but his father was living, and had come, on one occasion,
to Eisenstadt to see him. His brother Michael who had now become
Concertmeister in Salzburg, spent several happy days with him also.

The summer residence of Prince Nikolaus at Esterházy had been rebuilt,
enlarged and was more magnificent than Eisenstadt. The music was more
elaborate. The Prince was so fond of the life there that he postponed
his return to town till late in the autumn.

In order to give him a hint through music, Haydn composed what he
called the "Farewell Symphony," in which, toward the close each pair
of players in turn rose, extinguished their candles and passed out,
until only the first violinist remained. He last of all blew out his
light and left, while Haydn prepared to follow. The Prince at last
understood, and treating the whole as a joke, gave orders for the
departure of the household.

In 1790 Haydn lost the master to whom he was so devotedly attached.
He received a pension of a thousand florins on condition that he would
retain his post. But Prince Anton, who succeeded his brother, cared
nothing for music; Haydn was not obliged to live at the palace and
returned to Vienna. Several attempts had already been made to induce
him to visit London, but he always had refused. Now there seemed to be
no obstacle in the way. One day a visitor called. "My name is Salomon;
I have come from London to fetch you; we will settle terms to-morrow."
On the sail from Calais to Dover, the composer first saw the sea and
was reminded of his boyish efforts to describe it in tones.

London welcomed Haydn warmly, for his fame had preceded him and his
music was familiar. The first concert was given March 11, 1790 at the
Hanover Square Rooms, and was a great success. This was followed by a
series of concerts, and at last a benefit for the composer on May 16,
which was an ovation and realized three hundred and fifty pounds. He
heard the "Messiah" for the first time and when, at the "Hallelujah
Chorus," the audience sprang to its feet, he burst into tears,
exclaiming "He is the master of us all!"

At Oxford, in July, he received the honorary degree of Doctor of
Music, and three great concerts were given in his honor, with special
performers brought from London. In fact the whole visit to England had
been such a success that he repeated the trip in 1794, and received
even greater honors. His symphonies were heard on all London
programs. He was the lion of the season, and was frequently invited to
Buckingham Palace to play for the King and Queen, who always urged
him to live in England. Haydn was now sixty-five; he had composed
quantities of music, but his greatest work, "The Creation," was not
yet written. While in London, Salomon had shown him a poem founded on
"Paradise Lost," written years before in the hope that Handel would
use it for an oratorio. Haydn decided to try his hand at oratorio on
this subject. As he went on, it grew to be a labor of love and prayer.
It was finished and performed in Vienna, March 19, 1799, and made
a profound impression. The composer at once began work on a second
oratorio, founded on Thompson's "Seasons." The desire for work was
strong within, but his health was failing. "'The Seasons' gave me my
finishing stroke," he often remarked to friends.

Haydn was acknowledged on every hand as the father of instrumental
music. He laid great stress on melody. "It is the air which is
the charm of music," he said, "and it is the air which is the most
difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is a work of
genius."

Full of years and honors, respected and beloved, Father Haydn passed
away. As Vienna was at that time in the hands of the French, he was
given a very simple burial. In 1820 Prince Esterhazy had the remains
reinterred in the upper parish church at Eisenstadt, where a simple
stone with Latin inscription is placed in the wall above the vault to
mark the spot.




VI

WOLFGANG MOZART


The early December dusk was closing in over the quaint old city of
Salzburg. Up on the heights above the town the battlements of the
great castle caught a reflection of the last gleams of light in the
sky. But the narrow streets below were quite in shadow.

In one of the substantial looking houses on a principal thoroughfare,
called the Getreide Gasse, lights gleamed from windows on the third
floor. Within, all was arranged as if for some special occasion.
The larger room, with its three windows looking on the street, was
immaculate in its neatness. The brass candlesticks shone like gold,
the mahogany table was polished like a mirror, the simple furniture
likewise. For today was Father Mozart's birthday and the little
household was to celebrate the event.

Mother Mozart had been busy all day putting everything in order
while Nannerl, the seven year old daughter, had been helping. Little
Wolfgang, now three years old, in his childish eagerness to be as busy
as the others, had only hindered, and had to be reprimanded once in a
while. One could never be vexed with the little elf, even if he turned
somersaults in new clean clothes, or made chalk figures all over the
living-room chairs. He never meant to do any harm, and was always so
tenderhearted and lovable, it was hard to scold him.

And this was the Father's birthday, about the most important of all
the family celebrations. Already the roast on the spit was nearing
perfection, while in the oven a fine cake was browning.

When all was ready and Leopold Mozart had received the good wishes
of the little household, baby Wolfgang was mounted on a footstool to
recite a poem, in honor of the occasion. When he had finished it he
stood quietly a moment then reaching out his tiny arms, clasped them
tightly about his father's neck, and said:

"Dear papa, I love you very, very much; after God, next comes my
papa."

Leopold Mozart was a musician and held the post of Vice-Capellmeister.
Music was honored in this simple home, and when two of the Court
musicians, friends of Father Mozart, came in to join the festivities
on this birthday night, a toast was drunk to the honor of _Musica_,
the divine goddess of tones.

"I wonder if even a little of my own musical knowledge and love for
the art will overflow upon the two dear children," remarked Father
Mozart, gazing down tenderly on the little ones.

"Why not," answered the mother; "you long ago promised to begin
lessons with Nannerl; can she not start this very night?"

"Yes, indeed, Papachen, may I not learn to play the piano? I promise
to work very hard."

"Very well," answered the father; "you shall see I am grateful for all
the love you have showed me tonight, and I will begin to teach Nannerl
at once."

"I want to learn music too," broke in little Wolfgang, looking at his
father with beaming eyes.

Every one laughed at this, while the father said baby Wolfgang would
have to grow some inches before he could reach the keys.

The lesson began, and the little girl showed both quickness and
patience to grasp the ideas. No one at first noticed the tiny child
who planted himself at his sister's elbow, the light of the candles
falling on his delicate, sensitive features and bright brown hair. His
glance never left Nannerl's fingers as they felt hesitatingly
among the white and black keys, while his ear easily understood the
intervals she tried to play.

When the little girl left the piano, or the harpsichord, as it was
called in those days, Wolfgang slipped into her place and began to
repeat with his tiny fingers what his father had taught her. He sought
the different intervals, and when at last he found them, his little
face beamed with joy. In a short time he was able to play all the
simple exercises that had been given his sister.

The parents listened to their wonder-child with ever increasing
astonishment, mingled with tears of emotion. It was plain to be seen
that Wolfgang must have lessons as well as Nannerl. And what joy it
would be to teach them both.

It was a happy household that retired that night. Nannerl was happy
because she at last had the chance to take piano lessons. Wolfgang,
little "Starbeam," dreamed of the wonderful Goddess of Music, who
carried him away to fairyland which was filled with beautiful music.
The parents were filled with joy that heaven had granted them such
blessings in their children.

The musical progress of the children was quite remarkable. Marianne,
which was Nannerl's real name, soon began to play very well indeed,
while little Wolfgang hardly had to be told anything in music, for
he seemed to know it already. The father would write Minuets for the
little girl to study; her tiny brother would learn them in half an
hour. Soon Wolfgang was able to compose his own Minuets. Several have
come down to us which he wrote when he was five years old; and they
are quite perfect in form and style.

One day Father Mozart brought home Schachtner, the Court trumpeter, to
dinner. Coming suddenly into the living-room, they found the tiny elf
busily writing at his father's desk.

"Whatever are you doing, Wolferl?" cried his father, gazing at the ink
stained fingers of his little son and then at the paper covered with
blots.

"Oh, Papa, a piano sonata, but it isn't finished yet."

"Never mind that," said Leopold Mozart, "let us see it, it must be
something very fine." Taking up the paper the father and his friend
looked at it curiously. The sheets were bedaubed with ink stains that
almost concealed the notes. For the child had thrust his pen each time
to the bottom of the ink well, so that frequent blots on the paper
were the result. These did not trouble him in the least, for he
merely rubbed his hand over the offending blot and proceeded with his
writing.

At first the two friends laughed heartily to see how the little
composer had written the notes over smudges, but soon the father's
eyes filled with happy tears.

"Look, my dear Schachtner!" he cried. "See how correct and orderly it
all is, all written according to rule. Only one could never play it
for it seems to be too difficult."

"But it's a sonata, Papa, and one must practice it first, of course,
but this is the way it should go."

He sprang to the piano and began to play. The small fingers could not
master the more intricate parts, but gave sufficient idea of how he
intended the piece to sound.

They stood in speechless astonishment at this proof of the child's
powers; then Leopold Mozart caught up the little composer and kissing
him cried, "My Wolfgang, you will become a great musician."

Wolfgang, not content with merely learning the piano, begged to study
the violin also. His violin lessons had hardly begun when one evening
his father and two friends were about to play a set of six trios,
composed by Wentzl, one of the players. Wolfgang begged to be allowed
to play the second violin. Needless to say his request was refused.
At last he was told he might sit next to Schachtner and make believe
play, though he must make no sound.

The playing began, when before long it was seen the boy was actually
playing the second violin part and doing it correctly. The second
violin ceased bowing in amazement and allowed Wolfgang to go on alone.
After this he was permitted to play all the second violin part of
the whole six pieces. Emboldened by this success, he volunteered
to attempt the first violin part, an offer which was greeted with
laughter; but nothing daunted, he took up his violin and began. There
were mistakes here and there, of course, but he persisted to the end,
to the astonishment of all.

Three years had passed swiftly by since little Wolfgang Mozart began
to study music the night of his father's fortieth birthday. He had
made marvelous progress and already the fame of his powers had passed
beyond the narrow limits of his native town. Leopold Mozart had no
means other than the salary which he received from the Court. His
children's musical gifts induced the father to turn them to advantage,
both to supply the family needs and to provide the children a broad
education in music. He determined to travel with the children. A
first experiment in January, 1762, had proved so successful that the
following September they set out for Vienna. Wolfgang was now six
years old and Marianne eleven.

At Linz they gave a successful concert and every one was delighted
with the playing of the children. From here they continued their
journey as far as the monastery of Ips, where they expected to stay
for the night. It had been a wonderful day, spent in sailing down
the majestic Danube, till they reached the grey old building with
its battlemented walls. Soon after they arrived, Father Mozart took
Wolfgang into the chapel to see the organ.

The child gazed with awe at the great pipes, the keyboard and the
pedals. He begged his father to explain their working, and then as
the father filled the great bellows the tiny organist pushed aside
the organ bench, stood upon the pedals and trod them, as though he had
always known how. The monks in the monastery hastened to the chapel,
holding their breath as one pointed to the figure of a tiny child in
the organ loft. Was it possible, they asked themselves, that a child
could produce such beautiful music? They remained rooted to the spot,
till Wolfgang happened to see them and crept meekly down from his
perch.

All the rest of the journey to Vienna, Wolfgang was the life of the
party, eager to know the name and history of everything they met. At
the custom-house on the frontier, he made friends with the officials
by playing for them on his violin, and thus secured an easy pass for
the party.

Arrived at Vienna, Leopold Mozart found the fame of the children's
playing had preceded them. A kind and gracious welcome awaited the
little party when they went to the palace of Schönbrunn. The Emperor
Franz Josef took to Wolfgang at once, was delighted with his playing
and called him his "little magician." The boy's powers were tested by
being required to read difficult pieces at sight, and playing with one
finger, as the Emperor jestingly asked him to do. Next, the keyboard
was covered with a cloth, as a final test, but little Wolfgang played
as finely as before, to the great delight of the company who applauded
heartily. The little magician was so pleased with the kindness of both
the Emperor and Empress that he returned it in his own childish way,
by climbing into the lap of the Empress and giving her a hug and a
kiss, just as though she were his own mother. He was also greatly
attracted by the little Princess Marie Antoinette, a beautiful child
of about his own age, with long fair curls and laughing blue eyes. The
two struck up an immediate friendship.

After the favor shown them at Court, the gifted children became the
rage in Vienna society. Invitations poured in from every side, and
many gifts. Those bestowed by the royal family were perhaps the most
valued. Wolfgang's present was a violet colored suit, trimmed with
broad gold braid, while Nannerl received a pretty white silk dress.
Each of the children also received a beautiful diamond ring from the
Emperor. A portrait of the boy in his gala suit, which was painted at
the time, is still preserved.

The following year the Mozarts took the children on a longer journey,
this time with Paris in view. They stopped at many towns and cities
on the way. At Frankfort the first performance was so successful that
three more were given. A newspaper of the time says "little Mozart
is able to name all notes played at a distance, whether single or in
chords, whether played on the piano, or any other instrument, bell,
glass or clock." The father offered as an additional attraction that
Wolfgang would play with the keyboard covered.

The family stayed five months in Paris; the children played before
the Court at Versailles, exciting surprise and enthusiasm there and
wherever they appeared. From Paris they traveled to London, in April,
1764.

Leopold Mozart's first care on reaching the great English metropolis
was to obtain an introduction at Court. King George III and the Queen
were very fond of music, and it was not long before an invitation came
for the children to attend at the Palace. The King showed the greatest
interest in Wolfgang, asking him to play at sight difficult pieces by
Bach and Handel. Then the boy, after accompanying the Queen in a song,
selected the bass part in a piece by Handel, and improvised a charming
melody to it. The King was so impressed that he wished him to play the
organ, in the playing of which Wolfgang won a further triumph.

The King's birthday was to be celebrated on June 4 and London was
crowded with people from all parts of the country. Leopold Mozart had
chosen June 5 as the date for his first public concert. The hall was
filled to overflowing; one hundred guineas being taken in. Many of the
assisting performers would take no fee for their services, which added
to the father's gratitude and happiness.

Not long after this Leopold Mozart fell ill, and the little family
moved to Chelsea, for the quiet and good air. Later they were
given another reception at Court, where, after Wolfgang's wonderful
performances, the children won much applause by playing some piano
duets composed by the boy--a style of composition then quite new.

In July, 1765, the family left London and traveled in Holland, after
which came a second visit to Paris, where they added to their former
triumphs, in addition to playing in many towns on the way back.
Finally the long tour was brought to a close by the return to Salzburg
in November, 1766.

At the period of musical history in which the gifted boy lived, a
musician's education was not complete unless he went to Italy, for
this country stood first as the home of music. Leopold Mozart had made
a couple of trips to Vienna with his children, the account of which
need not detain us here. He had decided that Wolfgang must go to
Italy, and breathe in the atmosphere of that land of song. And so in
December, 1769, father and son set out for the sunny south, with high
hopes for success.

Mozart's happy nature was jubilant over the journey. He watched
eagerly the peasants as they danced on the vine-clad terraces,
overlooking the deep blue lakes,--or listened as they sang at their
work in the sunny fields. He gazed at the wonderful processions of
priests through narrow streets of the towns, but above all there was
the grand music in the cathedrals.

The young musician had plenty of work to do, more than most boys
of thirteen. For, besides the concerts he had to give, he was set
difficult problems by the various professors who wished to test his
powers. The fame of his playing constantly spread, so the further he
traveled into Italy there were more demands to hear him. At Roveredo,
where it was announced he would play the organ in St. Thomas's Church,
the crowd was so great he could scarcely get to the organ-loft. The
vast audience listened spellbound, and then refused to disperse till
they had caught a glimpse of the boy player. At Verona he had another
triumph; one of his symphonies was performed, and his portrait was
ordered to be painted.

When they reached Milan the Chief musician of the city subjected the
boy to severe tests, all of which he accomplished to the astonishment
and delight of everybody. It was at Bologna however, where he met
the most flattering reception. Here was the home of the famous Padre
Martini, the aged composer of church music. Father Martini was almost
worshiped by the Italians; he was a most lovable man and looked up to
as a great composer. He had long ago given up attending concerts, so
that every one was astonished when he was present in the brilliant
audience gathered at Count Pallavicini's mansion to listen to the
boy's playing. Wolfgang did his best, for he realized the importance
of the event. Father Martini took the boy to his heart at once,
invited him to visit him as often as possible during his stay,
and gave him several fugue subjects to work out. These the boy
accomplished with ease, and the Padre declared he was perfectly
satisfied with his knowledge of composition.

The journey to Rome was now continued, and for Wolfgang it was a
succession of triumphs. At Florence he played before the Court of the
Archduke Leopold, and solved every problem put to him by the Court
music director as easily as though he were eating a bit of bread.

It was Holy Week when young Mozart and his father entered Rome, and
the city lay under the spell of the great festival of the year. They
soon joined the throngs that filled the vast temple of St. Peter's,
to which all turn during this solemn season. After attending a service
and viewing the treasures of the Cathedral, they turned their steps to
the Sistine Chapel, which contains the wonderful painting of the Last
Judgment by Michael Angelo. It was here that the celebrated Miserere
by Allegri was performed. Wolfgang had been looking forward to this
moment all through the latter part of his journey. His father had told
him how jealously guarded this music was; it could never be performed
in any other place, and the singers could never take their parts out
of the chapel. He was intensely eager to hear this work. And indeed it
would be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful and impressive
than the singing of the Miserere, which means "Have Mercy." It follows
the solemn service called Tenebrae, (Darkness) during which the six
tall candles on the altar are extinguished one by one,--till but one
is left, which is removed to a space behind the altar. Then in almost
complete darkness the Miserere begins. A single voice is heard singing
the antiphon, or short introduction,--and then comes silence, a
silence so profound that the listener scarcely dares to breathe
for fear of disturbing it. At length the first sad notes of the
supplication are heard, like the softest wailing of an anguished
spirit; they gradually gain force till the whole building seems to
throb with the thrilling intensity of the music.

The young musician was profoundly moved; the father too was much
affected by the solemn service. Neither spoke as they left the chapel
and sought their lodgings. After they had retired the boy could not
sleep; his thoughts were filled with the wonderful music he had heard.
He arose, lit the lamp, and got out pens and music paper. He worked
industriously the long night through. When morning dawned the boy sat
with his beautiful head upon his folded arms, asleep, while before him
on the table lay a score of the Miserere of Allegri, entirely written
from memory.

The next day, Good Friday, the Miserere was performed for the second
time. Wolfgang, the boy of fourteen, who had performed the wonderful
feat of writing this work out after one hearing, again attended the
service, keeping the score in his hat, and found his work was nearly
perfect, needing but a couple of trifling corrections.

The news of this startling feat gained for the young musician a
cordial welcome into the houses of the great in Rome; during their
stay father and son were fêted to their hearts' content.

At Naples, their next stopping place, Wolfgang played before a
brilliant company, and excited so much astonishment, that people
declared his power in playing came from a ring he wore on his finger.
"He wears a charm," they cried. Mozart smiled, took off the ring and
played more brilliantly than ever. Then the enthusiasm was redoubled.
The Neapolitans showed them every attention and honor. A carriage
was provided for their use, and we have an account of how they drove
through the best streets, the father wearing a maroon-colored coat
with light blue facings, and Wolfgang in one of apple green, with
rose-colored facings and silver buttons.

It was indeed a wonderful tour which they made in Italy, though there
is not time to tell of many things that happened. On their return to
Rome, the Pope gave him the order of the Golden Spur, which made him
Chevalier de Mozart. Arriving at Bologna the young musician was made a
member of the Accademia Filharmonica. The test for this admission was
setting an antiphon in four parts. Wolfgang was locked in a room till
the task should be finished. To the astonishment of everybody he asked
to be let out at the end of half an hour,--having completed the work.

The travelers now proceeded to Milan, where Mozart was to work on his
first opera, for which he had received a commission. It was a great
task for a boy to accomplish and we find the young composer writing
to his mother and sister to pray for his success. The opera was called
"Mitridate," and was finished after three months' hard work. The first
performance was given in Milan, December 26, 1770, and was conducted
by Wolfgang himself. It was a proud, happy day for the father, indeed
for the whole family. "Mitridate" succeeded beyond their hopes; it was
given twenty times before crowded houses; and its success brought an
election to the Accademia, and also a commission to write a dramatic
Serenata for an approaching royal wedding. This work also was a great
success. The Empress who had commissioned Mozart to compose the work
was so pleased, that besides the promised fee, she gave the composer a
gold watch with her portrait set in diamonds on the back.

Sunshine and success had followed the gifted boy through all his
travels; but now shadows and disappointments were to come, due to
jealousy, intrigue and indifference of those in power who might have
helped him but failed to recognize his genius. Shortly after the
return of the father and son to their home town of Salzburg, their
protector and friend, the good Archbishop of Salzburg, died. His
successor was indifferent to art and held in contempt those who
followed it as a profession. He persistently refused to appoint the
young musician to any office worthy his talent or to recognize his
gifts in any way. While Mozart remained at home in Salzburg, hoping
his prospects would improve, he worked at composing with untiring
diligence. By the time he was twenty-one he had accumulated a mass
of music that embraced every branch of the art. He had a growing
reputation as a composer but no settled future. He had the post of
concertmaster, it is true, but the salary was but a trifle and he
was often pressed for money. Leopold therefore decided to undertake
another professional tour with his son. The Archbishop however
prevented the father leaving Salzburg. So the only course left open
was to allow Wolfgang and his mother to travel together. They set out
on the morning of September 23, 1777. Wolfgang's spirits rose as the
town of Salzburg faded into the haze of that September morning; the
sense of freedom was exhilarating; he had escaped the place associated
in his mind with tyranny and oppression, to seek his fortune in new
and wider fields.

At Munich where they first halted, Wolfgang sought an engagement
at the Elector's Court. He had an audience at the Nymphenburg, a
magnificent palace on the outskirts of the city. The Elector said
there was no vacancy; he did not know but later it might be possible
to make one, after Mozart had been to Italy and had made a name for
himself. With these words the Elector turned away. Mozart stood as
if stunned. To Italy, when he had concertized there for about seven
years, and had been showered with honors! It was too much. He shook
off the dust of Munich and he and his mother went on to Mannheim.
Here was a more congenial atmosphere. The Elector maintained a fine
orchestra, and with the conductor, Cannabich, Mozart became great
friends, giving music lessons to his daughter. But he could not seem
to secure a permanent appointment at Court, worthy his genius and
ability. Money became more scarce and the father and sister must make
many sacrifices at home to send money to maintain mother and son. With
the best of intentions Wolfgang failed to make his way except as a
piano teacher. The father had resorted to the same means of securing
the extra sums required, and wrote quite sharply to the son to bestir
himself and get something settled for the future.

For the young genius, Mannheim possessed a special attraction of which
the father knew nothing. Shortly after their arrival in the city,
Wolfgang became acquainted with the Weber family. The two oldest
daughters, Aloysia, fifteen, and Constanza, fourteen, were charming
girls just budding into womanhood. Aloysia had a sweet, pure voice,
and was studying for the stage; indeed she had already made her début
in opera. It was not at all strange that young Mozart, who often
joined the family circle, should fall in love with the girl's fair
beauty and fresh voice, should write songs for her and teach her
to sing them as he wished. They were much together and their early
attraction fast ripened into love. Wolfgang formed a project for
helping the Webers, who were in rather straitened circumstances, by
undertaking a journey to Italy in company with Aloysia and her father;
he would write an opera in which Aloysia should appear as prima donna.
Of this brilliant plan he wrote his father, saying they could stop in
Salzburg on the way, when the father and Nannerl could meet the fair
young singer, whom they would be sure to love.

Leopold Mozart was distracted at news of this project. He at once
wrote, advising his son to go to Paris and try there to make a name
and fame for himself. The son dutifully yielded at once. With a heavy
heart he prepared to leave Mannheim, where he had spent such a happy
winter, and his love dream came to an end. It was a sad parting with
the Weber household, for they regarded Wolfgang as their greatest
benefactor.

The hopes Leopold Mozart had built on Wolfgang's success in Paris were
not to be realized. The enthusiasm he had aroused as a child prodigy
was not awarded to the matured musician. Three months passed away in
more or less fruitless endeavor. Then the mother, who had been his
constant companion in these trials and travels, fell seriously ill. On
July 3, 1778, she passed away in her son's arms.

Mozart prepared to leave Paris at once, and his father was the
more willing, since the Archbishop of Salzburg offered Wolfgang
the position of Court organist, at a salary of 500 florins, with
permission to absent himself whenever he might be called upon to
conduct his own operas. Leopold urged Wolfgang's acceptance, as their
joint income would amount to one thousand florins a year--a sum that
would enable them to pay their debts and live in comparative comfort.

To Mozart the thought of settling down in Salzburg under the
conditions stated in his father's letter was distasteful, but he had
not the heart to withstand his father's appeal. He set out from Paris
at once, promising himself just one indulgence before entering the
bondage which lay before him, a visit to his friends the Webers at
Mannheim. When he arrived there he found they had gone to Munich to
live. Therefore he pushed on to Munich. The Weber family received him
as warmly as of old, but in Aloysia's eyes there was only a friendly
greeting, nothing more. A few short months had cooled her fickle
attachment for the young composer. This discovery was a bitter
trial to Wolfgang and he returned to his Salzburg home saddened by
disappointed love and ambition.

Here in his old home he was cheered by a rapturous welcome; it was
little short of a triumph, this greeting and homage showered on him by
father, sister and friends. In their eyes his success was unshadowed
by failure; to them he was Mozart the great composer, the genius among
musicians. He was very grateful for these proofs of affection and
esteem, but he had still the same aversion to Salzburg and his Court
duties. So it was with new-kindled joy that he set out once more for
Munich, in November, 1780, to complete and produce the opera he had
been commissioned to write for the carnival the following year.

The new opera, "Idomeneo," fulfilled the high expectations his Munich
friends had formed of the composer's genius. Its reception at the
rehearsals proved success was certain, and the Elector who was
present, joined the performers in expressing his unqualified approval.
At home the progress of the work was followed with deepest interest.
The first performance of "Idomeneo" took place on January 29, 1781.
Leopold and Marianne journeyed to Munich to witness Wolfgang's
triumph. It was a proud, happy moment for all three; the enthusiastic
acclaim which shook the theater seemed to the old father, who watched
with swimming eyes the sea of waving hands around him, to set the seal
of greatness on his son's career.

The Archbishop, under whom Mozart held the meager office we have
spoken of, grew more overbearing in his treatment; he was undoubtedly
jealous that great people of Vienna were so deferential to one of his
servants, as he chose to call him. At last the rupture came; after a
stormy scene Mozart was dismissed from his service, and was free.

Father Mozart was alarmed when he heard the news of the break, and
endeavored to induce Wolfgang to reconsider his decision and return to
Salzburg. But the son took a firm stand for his independence. "Do not
ask me to return to Salzburg," he wrote his father; "ask me anything
but that."

And now came a time of struggling for Mozart. His small salary was cut
off and he had but one pupil. He had numerous friends, however, and
soon his fortunes began to mend. He was lodging with his old friends
the Webers. Aloysia, his former beloved, had married; Madame Weber
and her two unmarried daughters were now in Vienna and in reduced
circumstances. Mozart's latest opera, "The Elopement," had brought
him fame both in Vienna and Prague, and he had the patronage of many
distinguished persons, as well as that of Emperor Josef.

Mozart had now decided to make a home for himself, and chose as his
bride Constanza Weber, a younger sister of Aloysia, his first love. In
spite of Leopold Mozart's remonstrance, the young people were married
August 16, 1782.

Constanza, though a devoted wife, was inexperienced in home keeping.
The young couple were soon involved in many financial troubles
from which there seemed no way out, except by means of some Court
appointment. This the Emperor in spite of his sincere interest in the
composer, seemed disinclined to give.

Mozart now thought seriously of a journey to London and Paris, but
his father's urgent appeal that he would wait and exercise patience,
delayed him. Meanwhile he carried out an ardent desire to pay a visit
to his father and sister in Salzburg, to present to them his bride.
It was a very happy visit, and later on, when Mozart and his wife were
again settled in Vienna, they welcomed the father on a return visit.
Leopold found his son immersed in work, and it gladdened his heart to
see the appreciation in which his playing and compositions were held.
One happy evening they spent with Josef Haydn who, after hearing some
of Mozart's quartets played, took the father aside, saying: "I declare
before God, as a man of honor, that your son is the greatest composer
I know, either personally or by reputation. He has taste, but more
than that the most consummate knowledge of the art of composition."

This happy time was to be the last meeting between father and son.
Soon after Leopold's return to Salzburg, he was stricken with illness,
and passed away May 28, 1787. The news reached the composer shortly
after he had achieved one of the greatest successes of his life. The
performances of his latest opera, "The Marriage of Figaro," had been
hailed with delight by enthusiastic crowds in Vienna and Prague; its
songs were heard at every street corner, and village ale house. "Never
was anything more complete than the triumph of Mozart and his 'Nozze
di Figaro,'" wrote a singer and friend.--"And for Mozart himself, I
shall never forget his face when lighted up with the glowing rays of
genius; it is as impossible to describe as to paint sunbeams."

Despite the success of Figaro, Mozart was still a poor man, and must
earn his bread by giving music lessons. Finally the Emperor, hoping
to keep him in Germany, appointed him Chamber-composer at a salary
of about eighty pounds a year. It must have seemed to Mozart and his
friends a beggarly sum for the value his Majesty professed to set upon
the composer's services to art. "Too much for the little I am asked to
produce, too little for what I could produce," were the bitter words
he penned on the official return stating the amount of his salary.

Mozart was inclined to be somewhat extravagant in dress and household
expenditure, also very generous to any one who needed assistance.
These trials, added to the fact that his wife was frequently in
ill health, and not very economical, served to keep the family in
continual straits. Occasionally they were even without fire or food,
though friends always assisted such dire distress. Mozart's father had
declared procrastination was his son's besetting sin. Yet the son was
a tireless worker, never idle. In September, 1787, he was at Prague,
writing the score of his greatest opera, "Don Giovanni"; the time was
short, as the work was to be produced October 29. On the evening of
the 28th it was found he had not yet written the overture. It only
had to be written down, for this wonderful genius had the music quite
complete in his head. He set to work, while his wife read fairy tales
aloud to keep him awake, and gave him strong punch at intervals. By
seven o'clock next morning the score was ready for the copyist. It was
played in the evening without rehearsal, with the ink scarcely dry on
the paper.

Even the successes of "Don Giovanni," which was received with thunders
of applause, failed to remedy his desperate financial straits. Shortly
after this his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed he
should accompany him to Berlin. Mozart gladly consented, hoping for
some betterment to his fortunes. The King of Prussia received him
with honor and respect and offered him the post of Capellmeister, at
a salary equal to about three thousand dollars. This sum would have
liberated him from all his financial embarrassments, and he was
strongly tempted to accept. But loyalty to his good Emperor Josef
caused him to decline the offer.

The month of July, 1791, found Mozart at home in Vienna at work on a
magic opera to help his friend Salieri, who had taken a little theater
in the suburb of Wieden. One day he was visited by a stranger, a tall
man, who said he came to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem. He
would neither give his own name nor that of the person who had sent
him.

Mozart was somewhat depressed by this mysterious commission; however
he set to work on the Requiem at once. The composing of both this and
the fairy opera was suddenly interrupted by a pressing request that he
would write an opera for the coronation of Leopold II at Prague. The
ceremony was fixed for September 6, so no time was to be lost. Mozart
set out at once for Prague. The traveling carriage was at the door.
As he was about to enter it, the mysterious stranger suddenly appeared
and enquired for the Requiem. The composer could only promise to
finish on his return, when hastily entering his carriage, he drove
away.

The new opera, "La Clemenza di Tito," was finished in time and
performed, but was received somewhat indifferently. Mozart returned to
Vienna with spirits depressed and body exhausted by overwork. However,
he braced himself anew, and on September 30th, the new fairy opera,
the "Magic Flute," was produced, and its success increased with each
performance.

The Requiem was not yet finished and to this work Mozart now turned.
But the strain and excitement he had undergone for the past few months
had done their work: a succession of fainting spells overcame him, and
the marvelous powers which had always been his seemed no longer at his
command. He feared he would not live to complete the work. "It is for
myself I am writing the Requiem," he said sadly to Constanza, one day.

On the evening of December 4, friends who had gathered at his bedside,
handed him, at his desire, the score of the Requiem, and, propped up
by pillows he tried to sing one of the passages. The effort was too
great; the manuscript slipped from his nerveless hand and he fell back
speechless with emotion. A few hours later, on the morning of December
5, 1791, this great master of whom it was prophesied that he would
cause all others to be forgotten, passed from the scene of his many
struggles and greater triumphs.




VII

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN


The Shakespeare of the realm of music, as he has been called, first
saw the light on December 16, 1770, in the little University town
of Bonn, on the Rhine. His father, Johann Beethoven, belonged to the
court band of the Elector of Cologne. The family were extremely poor.
The little room, where the future great master was born, was so low,
that a good-sized man could barely stand upright in it. Very small
it was too, and not very light either, as it was at the back of the
building and looked out on a walled garden.

The fame of young Mozart, who was acclaimed everywhere as a marvelous
prodigy, had naturally reached the father's ears. He decided to train
the little Ludwig as a pianist, so that he should also be hailed as
a prodigy and win fame and best of all money for the poverty-stricken
family. So the tiny child was made to practice scales and finger
exercises for hours together. He was a musically gifted child, but how
he hated those everlasting tasks of finger technic, when he longed to
join his little companions, who could run and play in the sunshine. If
he stopped his practice to rest and dream a bit, the stern face of his
father would appear at the doorway, and a harsh voice would call out,
"Ludwig! what are you doing? Go on with your exercises at once. There
will be no soup for you till they are finished."

The father, though harsh and stern, wished his boy to have as thorough
a knowledge of music as his means would permit. The boy was also sent
to the public school, where he picked up reading and writing, but did
not make friends very quickly with the other children. The fact
was the child seemed wholly absorbed in music; of music he dreamed
constantly; in the companionship of music he never could be lonely.

When Ludwig was nine his father, regarding him with satisfaction and
some pride, declared he could teach him no more--and another master
must be found. Those childhood years of hard toil had resulted in
remarkable progress, even with the sort of teaching he had received.
The circumstances of the family had not improved, for poverty had
become acute, as the father became more and more addicted to drink.
Just at this time, a new lodger appeared, who was something of a
musician, and arranged to teach the boy in part payment for his room.
Ludwig wondered if he would turn out to be a more severe taskmaster
than his father had been. The times and seasons when his instruction
was given were at least unusual. Tobias Pfeiffer, as the new lodger
was called, soon discovered that father Beethoven generally spent his
evenings at the tavern. As an act of kindness, to keep his drunken
landlord out of the way of the police, Tobias used to go to the tavern
late at night and bring him safely home. Then he would go to the
bedside of the sleeping boy, and awake him by telling him it was time
for practice. The two would go to the living room, where they would
play together for several hours, improvising on original themes and
playing duets. This went on for about a year; meanwhile Ludwig studied
Latin, French, Italian and logic. He also had organ lessons.

Things were going from bad to worse in the Beethoven home, and in the
hope of bettering these unhappy conditions, Frau Beethoven undertook
a trip through Holland with her boy, hoping that his playing in the
homes of the wealthy might produce some money. The tour was successful
in that it relieved the pressing necessities of the moment, but the
sturdy, independent spirit of the boy showed itself even then. "The
Dutch are very stingy, and I shall take care not to trouble them
again," he remarked to a friend.

The boy Ludwig could play the organ fairly well, as he had studied it
with Christian Neefe, who was organist at the Court church. He also
could play the piano with force and finish, read well at sight and
knew nearly the whole of Bach's "Well Tempered Clavichord." This was
a pretty good record for a boy of 11, who, if he went on as he had
begun, it was said, would become a second Mozart.

Neefe was ordered to proceed with the Elector and Court to Münster,
which meant to leave his organ in Bonn for a time. Before starting
he called Ludwig to him and told him of his intended absence. "I must
have an assistant to take my place at the organ here. Whom do you
think I should appoint?" Seeing the boy had no inkling of his meaning,
he continued: "I have thought of an assistant, one I am sure I can
trust,--and that is you, Ludwig."

The honor was great, for a boy of eleven and a half. To conduct the
service, and receive the respect and deference due the position, quite
overwhelmed the lad. Honors of this kind were very pleasant, but,
alas, there was no money attached to the position, and this was what
the straitened family needed most sorely. The responsibilities of the
position and the confidence of Neefe spurred Ludwig on to a passion of
work which nothing could check. He began to compose; three sonatas
for the pianoforte were written about this time. Before completing his
thirteenth year, Ludwig obtained his first official appointment from
the Elector; he became what is called cembalist in the orchestra,
which meant that he had to play the piano in the orchestra, and
conduct the band at rehearsals. With this appointment there was no
salary attached either, and it was not until a year later when he was
made second organist to the Court, under the new Elector, Max Franz,
that he began to receive a small salary, equal to about sixty-five
dollars a year. We have seen that the straits of the family had not
prevented Ludwig from pursuing his musical studies with great ardor.
With his present attainments and his ambition for higher achievements,
he longed to leave the little town of Bonn, and see something of the
great world. Vienna was the center of the musical life of Germany; the
boy dreamed of this magical city by day as he went about his routine
of work, and by night as he lay on his poor narrow cot. Like Haydn,
Vienna was the goal of his ambition. When a kind friend, knowing his
great longing, came forward with an offer to pay the expenses of the
journey, the lad knew his dream was to become a reality. In Vienna he
would see the first composers of the day; best of all he would see and
meet the divine Mozart, the greatest of them all.

Ludwig, now seventeen, set out for the city of his dreams with the
brightest anticipations. On his arrival in Vienna he went at once to
Mozart's house. He was received most kindly and asked to play, but
Mozart seemed preoccupied and paid but little attention. Ludwig,
seeing this stopped playing and asked for a theme on which to
improvise. Mozart gave a simple theme, and Beethoven, taking the
slender thread, worked it up with so much feeling and power, that
Mozart, who was now all attention and astonishment, stepped into the
next room, where some friends were waiting for him, and said, "Pay
attention to this young man; he will make a noise in the world some
day."

Shortly after his return home he was saddened by the loss of his
good, kind, patient mother, and a few months later his little sister
Margaretha passed away. No doubt these sorrows were expressed in some
of his most beautiful compositions. But brighter days followed the
dark ones. He became acquainted with the Breuning family, a widow
lady and four children, three boys and a girl, all young people. The
youngest boy and the girl became his pupils, and all were very fond
of him. He would stay at their house for days at a time and was always
treated as one of the family. They were cultured people, and in
their society Beethoven's whole nature expanded. He began to take an
interest in the literature of his own country and in English authors
as well. All his spare time was given to reading and composition.
A valuable acquaintance with the young Count Von Waldstein was made
about this time. The Count called one day and found the composer at
his old worn out piano, surrounded by signs of abject poverty. It
went to his heart to see that the young man, whose music he so greatly
admired should have to struggle for the bare necessities of life while
he himself enjoyed every luxury. It seemed to him terribly unjust. He
feared to offend the composer's self-respect by sending him money, but
shortly after the call Beethoven was made happy by the gift of a fine
new piano, in place of his old one. He was very grateful for this
friendship and later dedicated to the Count one of his finest sonatas,
the Op. 53, known as the "Waldstein Sonata."

With a view of aiding the growth of the opera, and operatic art, the
Elector founded a national theater, and Beethoven was appointed viola
player in the orchestra besides still being assistant organist in the
chapel. In July, 1792, the band arranged a reception for Haydn, who
was to pass through Bonn on his way from London, where he had had
a wonderful success, to his home in Vienna. Beethoven seized the
opportunity to show the master a cantata he had just composed. Haydn
praised the work and greatly encouraged the young musician to go
forward in his studies. The Elector, hearing of Haydn's words of
praise, felt that Beethoven should have the chance to develop his
talents that he might be able to produce greater works. Therefore
he decided to send the young composer, at his own expense, to
study strict counterpoint with Haydn. He was now twenty-two and his
compositions already published had brought him considerable fame and
appreciation in his vicinity. Now he was to have wider scope for his
gifts.

He bade farewell to Bonn in November of this year and set out a second
time for the city of his dreams--Vienna. He was never to see Bonn
again. He arrived in Vienna comparatively unknown, but his fine piano
playing and wonderful gift for improvising greatly impressed all
who heard him. He constantly played in the homes of the wealthy
aristocracy. Many who heard him play, engaged lessons and he was
well on the road to social success. Yet his brusque manners often
antagonized his patrons. He made no effort to please or conciliate;
he was obstinate and self-willed. In spite of all this, the innate
nobleness and truth of his character retained the regard of men and
women belonging to the highest ranks of society. With the Prince and
Princess Lichnowsky Beethoven shortly became very intimate, and was
invited to stay at the Palace. The Princess looked after his personal
comfort with as motherly an affection as Madame Breuning had done.
The etiquette of the Palace however, offended Ludwig's love of
Bohemianism, especially the dressing for dinner at a certain time.
He took to dining at a tavern quite frequently, and finally engaged
lodgings. The Prince and his good lady, far from taking offense at
this unmannerly behavior, forgave it and always kept for Beethoven a
warm place in their hearts, while he, on his part was sincere in his
affection for his kind friends.

Beethoven began his lessons with Haydn, but they did not seem to get
on well together. The pupil thought the master did not give him enough
time and attention. When Haydn went to England, about a year after the
lessons began, Beethoven studied with several of the best musicians
of the city, both in playing and composition. Albrechtsberger, one of
these, was a famous contrapuntist of his time, and the student gained
much from his teaching. The young musician was irresistible when he
seated himself at the piano to extemporize. "His improvisating was
most brilliant and striking," wrote Carl Czerny, a pupil of Beethoven.
"In whatever company he might be, he knew how to produce such an
effect upon the listeners that frequently all eyes would be wet,
and some listeners would sob; there was something wonderful in his
expressive style, the beauty and originality of his ideas and his
spirited way of playing." Strange to say the emotion he roused in
his hearers seemed to find no response in Beethoven himself. He would
sometimes laugh at it, at other times he would resent it, saying, "We
artists don't want tears, we want applause." These expressions however
only concealed his inner feelings--for he was very sympathetic
with those friends he loved. His anger, though sharp, was of short
duration, but his suspicions of those whose confidence he had won by
his genius and force of character, were the cause of much suffering to
himself and others.

Beethoven in appearance was short and stockily built; his face was not
at all good looking. It is said he was generally meanly dressed and
was homely, but full of nobility, fine feeling and highly cultivated.
The eyes were black and bright, and they dilated, when the composer
was lost in thought, in a way that made him look inspired. A mass of
dark hair surmounted a high broad forehead. He often looked gloomy,
but when he smiled it was with a radiant brightness. His hands were
strong and the fingers short and pressed out with much practise. He
was very particular about hand position when playing. As a conductor
he made many movements, and is said to have crouched below the desk in
soft passages; in Crescendos he would gradually lift himself up
until at the loudest parts he would rise to his full height with arms
extended, even springing into the air, as though he would float in
space.

Beethoven as a teacher, showed none of the impatience and carelessness
that were seen in his personal habits. He insisted on a pupil
repeating the passage carefully a number of times, until it could be
played to his satisfaction. He did not seem to mind a few wrong notes,
but the pupil must not fail to grasp the meaning or put in the right
expression, or his anger would be aroused. The first was an accident,
the other would be a lack of knowledge of feeling.

Beethoven loved nature as much or more than any musician ever did. How
he hailed the spring because he knew the time would soon come when he
could close the door of his lodgings in the hot city, and slip away to
some quiet spot and hold sweet communion with nature. A forest was a
paradise, where he could ramble among the trees and dream. Or he
would select a tree where a forking branch would form a seat near the
ground. He would climb up and sit in it for hours, lost in thought.
Leaning against the trunk of a lime tree, his eyes fixed upon the
network of leaves and branches above him, he sketched the plan of his
oratorio "The Mount of Olives"; also that of his one opera "Fidelio,"
and the third Symphony, known as the "Eroica." He wrote to a friend,
"No man loves the country more than I. Woods, trees and rocks give the
response which man requires. Every tree seems to say 'Holy, holy.'"

Already, as a young man, symptoms of deafness began to appear, and
the fear of becoming a victim of this malady made the composer more
sensitive than ever. He was not yet thirty when this happened, and
believing his life work at an end, he became deeply depressed. Various
treatments were tried for increasing deafness; at one time it seemed
to be cured by the skill of Dr. Schmidt, to whom out of gratitude he
dedicated his Septet, arranged as a Trio. By his advice the composer
went for the summer of 1820 to the little village of Heiligenstadt
(which means Holy City) in the hope that the calm, sweet environment
would act as a balm to his troubled mind. During this period of rest
and quiet his health improved somewhat, but from now on he had to give
up conducting his works, on account of his deafness.

It may be thought that one so reticent and retiring, of such hasty
temper and brusque manners, would scarcely be attracted to women.
But Beethoven, it is said, was very susceptible to the charm of the
opposite sex. He was however, most careful and high-souled in all his
relations with women. He was frequently in love, but it was usually a
Platonic affection. For the Countess Julie Guicciardi he protested
the most passionate love, which was in a measure returned. She was
doubtless his "immortal beloved," whose name vibrates through the
Adagio of the "Moonlight Sonata," which is dedicated to her. He wrote
her the most adoring letters; but the union, which he seemed to desire
so intensely, was never brought about, though the reason is not known.
For Bettina von Arnim, Goethe's little friend, he conceived a tender
affection. Another love of his was for the Countess Marie Erdödy,
to whom he dedicated the two fine Trios, Op. 70, but this was also
a purely Platonic affection. The composer was unfortunate in his
attachments, for the objects were always of a much higher social
standing than himself. As he constantly associated with people of rank
and culture, it was natural that the young girl nobly born, with all
the fascinations of the high bred aristocrat, should attract him far
more than the ordinary woman of his own class. And thus it happened
that several times he staked his chances of happiness on a love he
knew could never be consummated. Yet no one needed a kind, helpful,
sympathetic wife more than did our poet-musician. She would have
soothed his sensitive soul when he suffered from fancied wrongs,
shielded him from intrusion, shared his sorrows and triumphs, and
attended to his house-keeping arrangements, which were always in a sad
state of confusion. This blissful state was seemingly not for him. It
was best for the great genius to devote himself wholly to his divine
art, and to create those masterpieces which will always endure.

In 1804 Beethoven completed one of his greatest symphonies, the
"Eroica." He made a sketch, as we have seen, two years before. He had
intended it to honor Napoleon, to whose character and career he was
greatly attracted. But when Napoleon entered Paris in triumph and was
proclaimed Emperor, Beethoven's worship was turned to contempt. He
seized the symphony, tore the little page to shreds and flung the work
to the other end of the room. It was a long time before he would look
at the music again, but finally, he consented to publish it under the
title by which it is now known.

When we consider the number and greatness of Beethoven's compositions
we stand aghast at the amount of labor he accomplished. "I live only
in my music," he wrote, "and no sooner is one thing done than the next
is begun. I often work at two or three things at once." Music was his
language of expression, and through his music we can reach his heart
and know the man as he really was. At heart he was a man capable of
loving deeply and most worthy to be loved.

Of the composer's two brothers, one had passed away and had left his
boy Carl, named after himself, as a solemn charge, to be brought up by
Uncle Ludwig as his own son. The composer took up this task generously
and unselfishly. He was happy to have the little lad near him, one of
his own kin to love. But as Carl grew to young manhood he proved to
be utterly unworthy of all this affection. He treated his good uncle
shamefully, stole money from him, though he had been always generously
supplied with it, and became a disgrace to the family. There is no
doubt that his nephew's dissolute habits saddened the master's life,
estranged him from his friends and hastened his death.

How simple and modest was this great master, in face of his mighty
achievements! He wrote to a friend in 1824: "I feel as if I had
scarcely written more than a few notes." These later years had been
more than full of work and anxiety. Totally deaf, entirely thrown in
upon himself, often weak and ill, the master kept on creating work
after work of the highest beauty and grandeur.

Ludwig van Beethoven passed from this plane March 26, 1827, having
recently completed his fifty-sixth year, and was laid to rest in the
Währing Cemetery near Vienna. Unlike Mozart, he was buried with much
honor. Twenty thousand people followed him to his grave. Among them
was Schubert, who had visited him on his deathbed, and was one of the
torch bearers. Several of the Master's compositions were sung by a
choir of male voices, accompanied by trombones. At the grave Hummel
laid three laurel wreaths on the casket.




VIII

CARL MARIA VON WEBER


As we have already seen in the life stories of a number of musicians,
the career they were to follow was often decided by the father, who
determined to form them into wonder children, either for monetary gain
or for the honor and glory of the family. The subject of this story is
an example of such a preconceived plan.

Franz Anton von Weber, who was a capable musician himself, had always
cherished the desire to give a wonder child to the world. In his
idea wonder children need not be born such, they could be made by the
proper care and training. He had been a wealthy man, but at the time
of our story, was in reduced circumstances, and was traveling about
Saxony at the head of a troupe of theatrical folk, called "Weber's
Company of Comedians."

Little Carl Maria Friedrich Ernst, to give his full name, was born
December 18, 1786, at Eutin, a little town in Lower Saxony. He was the
first child of a second marriage, and before the baby boy could
speak, his career had been planned; the father had made up his mind
to develop his son into an extraordinary musical genius. It is not
recorded what his young mother, a delicate girl of seventeen, thought
about it; probably her ideas for her baby son did not enter into the
father's plan. Mother and child were obliged to follow in the train
of the wandering comedians, so baby Carl was brought up amid the
properties of stage business. Scenery, canvas, paints and stage lights
were the materials upon which Carl's imagination was fed. He learned
stage language with his earliest breath; it is no wonder he turned to
writing for the stage as to the manner born.

As a child he was neither robust nor even healthy, which is not
surprising, since he was not allowed to run afield with other
children, enjoying the sweet air of nature, the flowers, the sunshine
and blue sky. No, he must stay indoors much of the time and find his
playmates among cardboard castles and painted canvas streets. This
treatment was not conducive to rosy cheeks and strong, sturdy little
legs. Then, before the delicate child was six years old, a violin was
put into his hand, and if his progress on it was thought to be too
slow by his impatient father, he was treated to raps and blows by way
of incentive to work yet harder. His teachers, too, were continually
changing, as the comedians had to travel about from place to place.
After awhile he was taken in hand by Michael Haydn, a brother of the
great Josef. Michael was a famous musician himself and seldom gave
lessons to any one. But he was interested in Carl and took charge of
his musical education for some time.

It was not long before Carl Maria's genius began definitely to show
itself, for he started to write for the lyric stage. Two comic operas
appeared, "The Dumb Girl of the Forest," and "Peter Schmoll and his
Neighbors." They were both performed, but neither made a hit.

When Carl was seventeen, the father decided he should go to Vienna,
for there he would meet all the great musicians of the time. The
boy was at the most impressionable age: he was lively, witty, with
pleasant manners and amiable disposition; he soon became a favorite in
the highest musical circles. It was a gay life and the inexperienced
youth yielded to its allurements. In the meantime he did some serious
studying under the famous Abbé Vogler. The following year the Abbé
recommended him to the conductorship of the Breslau Opera House. This
was a very difficult post for a boy of eighteen, and he encountered
much jealousy and opposition from the older musicians, who did not
relish finding themselves under the leadership of such a youth. A year
served to disgust him with the work and he resigned. During the year
he had found time to compose most of his opera "Rubezahl."

For the next few years there were many "ups and downs" in Carl's life.
From Breslau he went to Carlsruhe, and entered the service of Prince
Eugene. For about a year he was a brilliant figure at the Court. Then
war clouds gathered and the gay Court life came to an end. Music
under the present conditions could no longer support him, as the whole
social state of Germany had altered. The young composer was forced to
earn his livelihood in some way, and now became private secretary to
Prince Ludwig of Wurtemburg, whose Court was held at Stuttgart. The
gay, dissolute life at the Court was full of temptation for our young
composer, yet he found considerable time for composition; his opera
"Sylvana" was the result, besides several smaller things. During the
Stuttgart period, his finances became so low, that on one occasion he
had to spend several days in prison for debt. Determined to recruit
his fortunes, he began traveling to other towns to make known his art.
In Mannheim, Darmstadt and Baden, he gave concerts, bringing out
in each place some of his newer pieces, and earning enough at each
concert to last a few weeks, when another concert would keep the wolf
from the door a little longer.

In 1810, when he was twenty-four, he finished his pretty opera "Abu
Hassan," which, on the suggestion of his venerable master, Vogler,
he dedicated to the Grand Duke. The Duke accepted the dedication with
evident pleasure, and sent Carl a purse of gold, in value about two
hundred dollars. The opera was performed on February 6, 1811, and its
reception was very gratifying to the composer. The Grand Duke took one
hundred and twenty tickets and the performance netted over two hundred
florins clear profit. It was after this that Carl Maria went on a tour
of the principal German cities and gave concerts in Munich, Prague,
Berlin, Dresden and other places. He was everywhere welcomed, his
talents and charming manners winning friends everywhere. Especially in
Prague he found the highest and noblest aristocracy ready to bid him
welcome.

Weber paid a visit to Liebich, director of the Prague theater, almost
as soon as he arrived in town. The invalid director greeted him
warmly.

"So, you are _the_ Weber! I suppose you want me to buy your operas.
One fills an evening, the other doesn't. Very well, I will give
fifteen hundred florins for the two. Is it a bargain?" Weber accepted,
and promised to return the next spring to conduct the operas. He kept
his promise, and the result was much better than he ever dreamed. For
beyond the performance of his operas, he was offered the post of music
director of the Prague theater, which post was just then vacant.
The salary was two thousand florins, with a benefit concert at a
guaranteed sum of one thousand more, and three months leave of absence
every year. This assured sum gave young Weber the chance of paying his
debts and starting afresh, which, he writes "was a delight to him."

The composer now threw himself heart and soul into improving the
orchestra placed in his charge. Before long he had drilled it to a
high state of excellence. Many new operas were put on the stage in
quick succession. Thus Weber worked on with great industry for three
years. The success he achieved created enemies, and perhaps because of
intrigues, envy and ill feeling which had arisen, he resigned his
post in 1816. The three years in Prague had been fruitful in new
compositions. Several fine piano sonatas, a set of "National Songs,"
and the Cantata, "Kampf und Sieg," (Struggle and Victory). This last
work soon became known all over Germany and made the gifted young
composer very popular. During this period Weber became engaged to
Caroline Brandt, a charming singer, who created the title rôle in his
opera of "Sylvana."

Weber had many kind, influential friends in Prague, who admired his
zeal and efficiency as music director. One of them, Count Vitzhum, did
all he could to secure Weber for Dresden. On Christmas morning, 1816,
he received the appointment. He wrote to Caroline: "Long did I look on
Count Vitzhum's letter without daring to open it. Did it contain joy
or sorrow? At length I took courage and broke the seal. It was joy!
I am Capellmeister to his Majesty the King of Saxony. I must now rig
myself out in true Court style. Perhaps I ought to wear a pigtail to
please the Dresdeners. What do you say? I ought at least to have an
extra kiss from you for this good news."

He went to Dresden, and at first looked over the situation. On nearer
view the prospect was not as bright as it had appeared at first. There
was a rival faction, strongly opposed to his plans for the promotion
of German opera. There had never been anything tolerated at Dresden
but Italian opera, and there were many talented Italian singers to
interpret them. Weber was encouraged by a new national spirit, which
he felt would favor German opera, and was determined to conquer at
all costs. He finally succeeded, for, as he wrote to a friend, "The
Italians have moved heaven, earth and hell also, to swallow up the
whole German opera and its promoter. But they have found in me a
precious tough morsel; I am not easily swallowed." It was the same
kind of fight that Handel waged in England, and that Gluck fought
against the Piccinists.

"Joseph and his Brethren," by Mehul, was the first opera to be taken
up by the new conductor. He drilled the orchestra much more carefully
than they had been accustomed, and while, in the beginning, some were
sulky at the strictness they were subjected to, yet they finally saw
the justice of it and at last took pride in doing their work well.
"Joseph" was brought out January 30, 1817. The King and Court were
present, and everything passed off well, indeed remarkably well. His
majesty was greatly pleased and did not cough once during the whole
performance, as he used to do when things did not go to suit him.

In spite of Italian opposition which still continued, Weber's efforts
to establish German opera kept right on, until at last it became a
State institution, and the composer was appointed musical director for
life. With this bright prospect in view he was able to wed his beloved
Caroline. They were married on November 4. A quotation from his diary
shows the talented musician had become a serious, earnest man. "May
God bless our union, and grant me strength and power to make my
beloved Lina as happy and contented as my inmost heart would desire.
May His mercy lead me in all things."

Weber was now entering the most prolific and brilliant period of his
life. His music became richer, more noble and beautiful. The happy
union with Caroline seemed to put new life and energy into him, and as
a result his works became quickly known all over Europe. His mind
was literally teeming with original themes, which crowded each other,
struggling to be expressed. First there was the "Mass in E flat," a
beautiful, original work; then a festal Cantata, "Nature and Love,"
written to celebrate the Queen of Saxony's birthday. After this the
"Jubilee Cantata," composed to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary
of the reign of Augustus, of Saxony. The Italian faction prevented a
performance of the whole work, and only the Overture was given.
When the entire work was heard it made a great sensation. Now came a
Jubilee Mass and some piano pieces, among them the charming and famous
"Invitation to the Dance," with which every one is familiar. While
writing all these works, the composer was busy with one of his
greatest operas, "Der Freischütz." On May 8, 1820, a hundred years
ago, the score of "Der Freischütz," was sent to the director of the
Berlin theater, and directly put in rehearsal. The rehearsals had not
proceeded very far before Weber, the tireless ceaseless worker, had
finished his important opera, "Preciosa," which was also despatched to
Berlin. "Preciosa" was brought out before "Der Freischütz," which was
just as it should be, as the public needed to be educated up to the
"Freischütz" music. "Preciosa" was founded on a Spanish story, "The
Gypsy of Madrid," and Weber has written for it some of his most
charming melodies, full of Spanish color, life and vivacity. Nowadays
the opera is neglected, but we often hear the overture. It is to be
noted that the overtures to each of Weber's operas contain the leading
themes and melodies of the operas themselves, showing with what skill
the artist wrought. When Weber's widow presented the original score
of "Der Freischütz" to the Royal Library in Berlin, it was found there
was not a single erasure or correction in the whole work.

On June 18, 1821, came the first performance of Weber's masterpiece,
"Der Freischütz." The theater was beseiged for hours by eager crowds,
and when the doors were at last opened, there was a grand rush to
enter. The whole house from pit to galleries was soon filled, and
when the composer entered the orchestra, there was a roar of applause,
which it seemed would never end. As the performance proceeded, the
listeners became more charmed and carried away, and at the close there
was a wild scene of excitement. The success had been tremendous, and
the frequent repetitions demanded soon filled the treasury of the
theater. Everybody was happy, the composer most of all. The melodies
were played on every piano in Germany and whistled by every street
urchin. Its fame spread like lightning over Europe, and quickly
reached England. In London the whole atmosphere seemed to vibrate with
its melodies. In Paris, however, it did not please on first hearing,
perhaps because it was so thoroughly German. But somewhat later, when
renamed "Robin des Bois,"--"Robin of the Forest,"--it was performed
some three hundred and fifty times before being withdrawn.

Weber kept ever at work. Two years after the production of "Der
Freischütz" the opera of "Euryanthe" was completed. The libretto was
the work of a half demented woman, Helmine von Chezy, but Weber set
out to produce the best opera he was capable of, and to this story he
has joined some wonderful music. It was his favorite work; he wrote
to his beloved wife two hours before the first performance: "I rely
on God and my 'Euryanthe.'" The opera was produced at the Kärnthnertor
Theater, in Vienna, on October 25, 1823. The composer, though weak and
ill, made the long journey to the great city, that he might personally
introduce his favorite to the Viennese. He wrote his wife after the
performance: "Thank God, as I do, beloved wife, for the glorious
success of 'Euryanthe.' Weary as I am, I must still say a sweet good
night to my beloved Lina, and cry Victory! All the company seemed in
a state of ecstasy; singers, chorus, orchestra;--all were drunk, as it
were, with joy."

The title rôle was taken by Henrietta Sontag, a young girl, still in
her teens, though giving high promise of the great things she achieved
a few years later. Strange to say, a short time after its first
appearance, "Euryanthe" failed to draw. One reason might have been
laid to the poor libretto, another to the rumor, started, it is said,
by no less an authority than the great master Beethoven, that the
music of the opera was "only a collection of diminished sevenths."

The composer lost no time in laying his score before Beethoven, who
said he should have visited him _before_, not _after_ the performance.
He advised him to do what he himself had done to "Fidelio," cut out
nearly a third of the score. Weber took this advice, and remade parts
of the opera, where he deemed it necessary.

The strain of the production of "Euryanthe" told severely on the
composer's delicate health, and he returned to Dresden in an exhausted
state. There was no rest for him here, as official duties were
pressing. The malady afflicting his lungs had made rapid progress and
he began to fear he should not be long spared to his wife and little
ones.

He shook off the apathy and took up his pen once more. His fame
was known all over Europe and many tempting offers came in from all
directions. One of these was from Covent Garden Theater, London, in
the summer of 1824, which resulted in a visit to the English capital.
Charles Kemble, the director of Covent Garden, desired Weber to write
a new opera for production there. "Oberon" was the subject at last
decided upon; it was taken from an old French romance. Weber at once
set to work on the music of this fairy opera, and with the exception
of the overture, had finished the work in time to bring it to London
in 1826. He was ill and suffering at the time he left home, February
7, and it seemed as though he were bidding a final good-by to his wife
and little ones.

Arrived in London, Sir George Smart invited him to take up his
residence in his house. Here he had every comfort, a beautiful piano
too was placed at his disposal by one of the first makers in London.
"No King could be served with greater love and affection in all
things," he wrote; "I cannot be sufficiently grateful to heaven for
the blessings which surround me." Here he composed the beautiful
Overture to "Oberon" which was only completed a few days before the
first performance of the opera.

"Oberon" was given at Covent Garden on April 12. The house was packed
from pit to dome, and the success was tremendous. Next morning the
composer was in a highly nervous and exhausted state, but felt he must
keep his promise to Kemble and conduct the first twelve performances
of "Oberon." He was to have a benefit concert, and hoped through this
to have a goodly sum to take back to his little family. Sad to relate,
on the evening chosen, May 26, a heavy rain fell and the hall was
nearly empty. After the concert he was so weak he had to be assisted
from the room. The physician ordered postponement of the journey home,
but he cried continually, "I must go to my own--I must! Let me see
them once more and then God's will be done."

The next morning, when they came to call him, all was still in his
chamber; he had passed away peacefully in sleep.

Weber was buried in London. His last wish--to return home,--was
finally fulfilled. Eighteen years after, his remains were brought to
Dresden, and the composer was at last at home.




IX

FRANZ SCHUBERT


In the old Lichtenthal quarter of the city of Vienna, in the vicinity
of the fortifications, there still stands an old house. It is
evidently a public house, for there hangs the sign--"At the Red Crab."
Beside this there is a marble tablet fastened above the doorway, which
says that Franz Schubert was born in this house. At the right of his
name is placed a lyre crowned with a star, and at the left a laurel
wreath within which is placed the date, January 31, 1797.

This then was the birthplace of the "most poetical composer who ever
lived," as Liszt said of him; the man who created over six hundred
songs, eight symphonies, operas, masses, chamber works and much
beautiful piano music, and yet only lived to be thirty-one. It is
almost unbelievable. Let us get a nearer view of this remarkable
musician.

His father kept a school here; there were five children, four boys and
a girl to provide for, and as there was nothing to depend on but
the school-master's pay, it is easy to see the family was in poor
circumstances, though the wife managed most carefully to make ends
meet. They were a very devoted family altogether. Little Franz early
showed a decided fondness for music, and tried to pick out bits
of tunes of his own by ear on an old dilapidated piano the family
possessed. He made friends with a young apprentice who took him
sometimes to a piano wareroom in the city, where he was allowed to
play his little tunes on a fine piano.

When Franz was seven he began to have music lessons at home, the
father teaching him violin and his big brother Ignaz, the piano.
Franz, in his eagerness to learn soon outstripped his home teachers,
and told them he could go on alone. It was then decided he should go
to the parish choir master, Holzer, to learn piano, violin, organ,
singing and thorough bass. Soon Holzer was astonished at the boy's
progress. "Whenever I begin to teach him anything I find he knows
it already; I never had such a pupil before." By the time Franz was
eleven, his voice had come out so well that he was given the place of
head soprano in the parish church, and played violin solos whenever
they occurred in the service. He had even begun at home to compose and
write down little piano pieces and songs. The parents considered that
this remarkable talent should be cultivated further, if possible, in
order that it might assist the slender purse of the family. There was
a choir school, called the Convict, which trained its boys for the
Imperial Chapel. If Franz could prove his ability to enter this
school, he would receive free education in return for his services.

One fine morning in October, 1808, Franz in his homespun grey suit,
spectacles shielding his bright, near-sighted eyes, his bushy
black hair covered by an old fashioned hat, presented himself for
examination by the Court Capellmeister and the singing master. The
other boys jeered at his odd appearance, but he kept his good humor.
When his turn came to sing, after solving all the problems given, his
singing of the trial pieces was so astonishing that he was passed in
at once, and ordered to put on the uniform of the imperial choristers.

The boy soon found plenty to fill his time and occupy his mind. There
was the school orchestra, in which he was able to take a prominent
place. There was daily practise, in which the boys learned the
overtures and symphonies of Mozart and Haydn, and even Beethoven. He
loved best Mozart's "Symphony in G minor," in which he said he heard
angels singing. The leader of the orchestra was attracted to the
lad's playing the very first day he entered, for he played with such
precision and understanding. One day Franz mustered courage to talk
a little to the big conductor, whose name was Spaun, and confessed he
had composed quite a good deal already, adding he would like to do
it every day, only he could not afford to get the music paper. Spaun
received this burst of confidence with sympathy, and saw to it that
the boy was, in the future, supplied with the necessary music paper.

Franz had soon made such progress on the violin, that he began to take
the first violin parts and when the conductor was absent he was asked
to lead the orchestra. Indeed by his deep earnestness and sincerity,
as well as ability, the gifted boy had become a power in the school.
When he went home to see his people, which could only be on Sundays
and holidays, it was a happy reunion for all. If he brought home a
new string quartet, the father would get out his 'cello, Ignaz and
Ferdinand would take first and second violins and the young composer
the viola. After it had been played through, then all the players
discussed it and offered their criticism. Indeed Franz was composing
at such an astonishing rate, that it was difficult to keep him
supplied with music paper. One of his works of this time was a
fantasia for four hands, in twelve movements. Then came a first
attempt at song writing, a long affair which also contained twelve
movements, and was in melancholy mood.

Five years the boy Franz Schubert remained at the Convict School and
as he had decided to give himself entirely to music, there was no
reason for his remaining longer in the school. At the end of the year
1813, he left, and his departure was celebrated by the composition of
his first Symphony, in honor of Dr. Lang, the musical director. The
lad, now seventeen, stood at the beginning of his career; he was full
of hope and energy, and determined to follow in the footsteps of the
great masters of music. Of all his compositions so far produced, his
songs seemed to be the most spontaneous. He probably did not guess
that he was to open up new paths in this field.

Hardly had he left the school when he was drafted for the army. This
meant several years of virtual captivity, for conscription could not
be avoided. The only other thing he could do was to return home and
become a teacher in his father's school. He chose the lesser evil and
qualified at once to become his father's assistant, which would also
assure him a certain amount of leisure. We can imagine him installed
as teacher of the infant class, and realize how distasteful was the
daily round of school work, and how he longed to have it over, that he
might put on paper all the lovely themes that had come to him through
the school day. Other bright spots were the happy hours he spent with
the Grob family, who lived also in the district of Lichtenthal.
The family consisted of a mother, a son and daughter. They were all
musical. Therese Grob had a fine voice and she enjoyed the songs
Schubert brought her to sing, while her brother Heinrich could play
both piano and 'cello. Many evenings filled with music were passed by
the young people. His friends at the Convict too, welcomed each new
piece he wrote. Nor did he forget his old master Holzer, the organist
of the little church where the composer himself regularly attended.
During 1814, Schubert composed his first mass, which was performed
October 16. It excited so much interest that it was repeated ten days
later at the Augustine church. Franz conducted, the choir was led
by Holzer, Ferdinand sat at the organ, and Therese sang the soprano
solos. In the audience sat old Salieri, Court Capellmeister of Vienna,
with whom Beethoven had studied. Salieri praised Schubert for his
work, and said that he should become his pupil. He kept his word and
gave the young composer daily lessons for some time. The father was
so proud and happy that he bought a five octave piano for his boy, to
celebrate the event.

Schubert added many compositions to his list this year, among them
seventeen songs, including "Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel." His
acquaintance with the poet Johann Mayrhofer, with whom he soon became
intimate, was of benefit to both. The poet produced verses that
his friend might set to music. The following year, 1815, he wrote a
hundred and thirty-seven songs, to say nothing of six operas, and much
music for church and piano. Twenty-nine of these songs were written
in the month of August. One day in August eight songs were created; on
another day seven. Some of the songs were quite long, making between
twenty and thirty pages when printed.

A new friend came into Schubert's life the next year. His name was
Franz Schober, and he intended entering the University in Vienna.
Being a great lover of music and also familiar with some of Schubert's
manuscript songs, he lost no time, on arriving in Vienna, in seeking
out the composer. He found the young musician at his desk very busily
writing. School work was over for the day, and he could compose in
peace. The two young men became friends at once, for they felt the
sympathetic bond between them. They were soon talking as though they
had always known each other. In a few words Schubert told his new
friend how he was situated at home, and how he disliked the daily
drudgery of school teaching. On hearing of these trials Schober
suggested they should make a home together, which arrangement would
free the composer from the grinding life he was living and enable him
to give his whole time to his art. The proposal delighted Franz, and
the father willingly gave his consent. And so it came about that
the composer was free at last, and took up his abode at his friend's
lodgings. He insisted on giving him musical instruction, to make some
return for all his kindness, though this did not last long, owing to
the dislike Franz always had for teaching of any sort.

Schubert, at the age of twenty-four, had composed a great quantity
of music, but none of it had as yet been published. He was almost
unknown, and publishers were unwilling to undertake issuing the work
of an unknown man. When his songs were performed by good artists,
as had been done a number of times, they won instant recognition and
success. Seeing that the publishers were unwilling to print the work
of an unknown musician, two of Schubert's friends undertook to publish
the "Erlking," one of his first songs, at their own risk. At the
Sonnleithner mansion, where musicals were regularly held, the
"Erlking" had been much applauded, and when it was decided to have it
published, the decision was announced. A hundred copies were at once
subscribed for, and with this encouragement the engraving of the
"Erlking" and "Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel" was forthwith begun.
The pieces were sold by the music publishers on commission. The plan
succeeded beyond expectation, so that other songs were issued in the
same way, until, when seven had appeared the publishers were willing
to risk the engraving of other songs themselves. Before all this had
taken place, Johann Vogl, an admired opera singer in Vienna at the
time, had learned Schubert's "Erlking," and had sung it in March,
1821, at a public concert patronized by royalty. The song was received
with storms of applause. Schober, who knew the singer, constantly
talked to him about the gifts of his friend and begged him to come and
see Schubert. At last one day he consented. They found the composer
hard at work as usual, music sheets covering the floor as well as the
table and chair. Vogl, used to the highest society, made himself quite
at home and did his best to put Schubert at his ease, but the
composer remained shy and confused. The singer began looking over some
manuscripts. When he left he shook Schubert's hand warmly, remarking;
"There is stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead of
making the most of them."

Vogl had been much impressed by what he had seen that day, and
repeated his visit. Before long the two were close friends. Schubert
wrote to his brother: "When Vogl sings and I accompany him, we seem
for the moment to be one." Vogl wrote of Schubert's songs that they
were "truly divine inspirations."

Schubert's residence with his friend Schober only lasted six months,
for Schober's brother came to live with him, and the composer had to
shift for himself. Teaching was exceedingly distasteful to him, yet as
his music did not bring in anything for years after he left home,
he had to find some means of making a living. In these straits he
accepted a position as music teacher in the family of Count Johann
Esterházy. This meant that he must live with the family in their
Vienna home in winter, and go with them to their country seat in the
summer. The change from the free life he had enjoyed with his
friends who idolized him and his beautiful music, to the etiquette of
aristocratic life, was great. But there were many comforts amid his
new surroundings; the family was musical, the duties were not heavy,
and so Schubert was not unhappy.

At the Esterházy country estate of Zelész, he heard many Hungarian
melodies sung or played by the gipsies, or by servants in the castle.
He has employed some of these tunes in his first set of Valses. In
his present position he had much leisure for composition. Indeed Franz
Schubert's whole life was spent in giving out the vast treasures of
melody with which he had been so richly endowed. These flowed from his
pen in a constant stream, one beautiful work after another. He wrote
them down wherever he happened to be and when a scrap of paper could
be had. The exquisite song "Hark, Hark the Lark" was jotted down on
the back of a bill of fare, in a beer garden. The beautiful works
which he produced day after day brought him little or no money,
perhaps because he was so modest and retiring, modestly undervaluing
everything he did. He had no desire to push himself, but wrote because
impelled to by the urge within. So little did he sometimes value his
work that a fine composition would be tucked away somewhere and quite
forgotten. His physical strength was not robust enough to stand the
strain of constant composition. Then too, when funds were very low,
as they often were, he took poor lodgings, and denied himself the
necessary nourishing food. If he could have had a dear companion to
look after his material needs and share his aims and aspirations, his
earthly life might have been prolonged for many a year. With no one to
advise him, and often pressed with hunger and poverty, he was induced
to sell the copyrights of twelve of his best songs, including the
"Erlking" and the "Wanderer," for a sum equal to about four hundred
dollars. It is said the publishers made on the "Wanderer" alone, up to
the year 1861, a sum of about five thousand five hundred dollars. It
is true that "everything he touched turned to music," as Schumann once
said of him. The hours of sleep were more and more curtailed, for he
wrote late at night and rose early the next day. It is even said he
slept in his spectacles, to save the trouble and time of putting them
on in the morning.

In Schubert's boyhood, the music of Mozart influenced him most. This
is seen in his earlier compositions. Beethoven was a great master
to him then, but as time went on the spell of his music always grew
stronger. In 1822, he wrote and published a set of variations on a
French air, and dedicated them to Beethoven. He greatly desired to
present them in person to the master he adored, but was too shy to go
alone. Diabelli, the publisher, finally went with him. Beethoven was
courteous but formal, pushing paper and pencil toward his guest, as he
was totally deaf. Schubert was too shy to write a single word.
However he produced his Variations. Beethoven seemed pleased with the
dedication, and looked through the music. Soon he found something in
it he did not approve of and pointed it out. The young author, losing
his presence of mind, fled from the house. But Beethoven really liked
the music and often played it to his nephew.

Five years later, during his last illness, a collection of some sixty
of Schubert's songs was placed in his hands. He turned them over and
over with amazement and delight. "Truly Schubert has the divine fire,"
he exclaimed. He wanted to see the composer of such beautiful music.
Schubert came and was allowed to have a talk with him first, before
other friends who were waiting. When Schubert paid another visit to
the bedside of the master, it was almost the end of his life, though
he could recognize all who stood about him. Overcome with emotion,
Schubert left the room.

A couple of weeks after this Schubert was one of the torch bearers who
accompanied the great master to the last resting place. Little did the
young man of thirty dream that he would soon follow after. His life at
this time was full of disappointments. He had always longed to write
for the lyric stage. He composed numerous operas; but they were always
rejected, for one reason or another. The last, "Fierabras," which was
on the point of being produced, was finally given up. The composer
became very dejected, and believed himself to be the most unfortunate,
the most miserable being on earth. But, fortunately for Schubert,
his cheerfulness again asserted itself and the stream of production
resumed its flow. With his temperament, at one moment he would be
utterly despairing, the next his troubles would seem to be forgotten,
and he would be writing a song, a symphony or a sonata. At all
events, constant work filled his days. The last year of his life was
productive of some of his finest works.

About the end of October, 1828, he began to show signs of a serious
breakdown. He was living at the home of his brother Ferdinand, in one
of the suburbs of the city. Although he revived a little during
the early part of November, so that he could resume walks in the
neighborhood, the weakness increased, and eleven days passed without
food or drink. Lingering till the nineteenth of November, he passed
peacefully away, still in his early manhood. The old father, the
schoolmaster at the old home, hoped to have his son buried in the
little cemetery near by. But Ferdinand knew his brother's wish, to be
placed near Beethoven in Währinger Cemetery. The monument, erected by
his friends and admirers the following year, bears, above the name,
this inscription:

    "Music has here entombed a rich treasure, but much fairer
    hopes."




X

FELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY


Mendelssohn has often been named "Felix the Happy," and he truly
deserved the title. Blest with a most cheerful disposition, with the
power to make friends of every one he met, and wherever he went, the
son of a rich banker, surrounded with everything that wealth could
give, it was indeed no wonder that Felix Mendelssohn was happy. He did
not have to struggle with poverty and privation as most of the
other great musicians were forced to do. Their music was often the
expression of struggle and sorrow. He had none of these things to
bear; he was carefree and happy, and his music reflects the joyous
contentment of his life.

The Mendelssohn family originally lived in Hamburg. Their house faced
one of the fine squares of the city, with a handsome church on
the opposite side. The building is still there and well preserved,
although the principal story is used as public dining rooms. A large
tablet has been placed above the doorway, with a likeness of the
composer encircled by a wreath of laurel. Here little Felix was born,
February 3, 1809. There were other children, Fanny a year or two
older, then after Felix came Rebekka and little Paul. When French
soldiers occupied the town in 1811, life became very unpleasant for
the German residents, and whoever could, sought refuge in other cities
and towns. Among those who successfully made their escape was the
Mendelssohn-Bartholdy family, the second name belonged to the family
and was used to distinguish their own from other branches of the
Mendelssohn family. With his wife and children, Abraham Mendelssohn
fled to Berlin, and made his home for some years with the grandmother,
who had a house on the Neue Promenade, a fine broad street, with
houses only on one side, the opposite side descended in a grassy slope
to the canal, which flowed lazily by.

It was a happy life the children led, amid ideal surroundings. Felix
very early showed a great fondness for music, and everything was done
to foster his budding talent. With his sister Fanny, to whom he was
devotedly attached, he began to have short music lessons from
his mother when he was only four years old. Their progress was so
satisfactory, that after a while, professional musicians were engaged
to teach them piano, violin and composition, as a regular part of
their education. Besides these, they must study Greek, Latin, drawing
and school subjects. With so much study to be done each day, it was
necessary to begin work at five o'clock in the morning. But in spite
of hard work all were happy, and as for Felix nothing could dampen the
flow of his high spirits; he enjoyed equally work and play, giving the
same earnest attention to each. Both he and Fanny were beginning
to compose, and Felix's attempts at improvising upon some comical
incident in their play time would call forth peals of laughter from
the inseparable children.

Soon more ambitious attempts at composition were made, the aim being
to write little operas. But unless they could be performed, it was
useless to try and make operas. This was a serious difficulty; but
Felix was deeply in earnest in whatever he undertook, and decided he
must have an orchestra to try out his operatic efforts. It looked like
an impossibility, but love and money can accomplish wonders. A small
orchestra was duly selected from among the members of the Court band.
The lad Felix was to conduct these sedate musicians, which he did
modestly but without embarrassment, standing on a footstool before
his men, waving the baton like a little general. Before the first
performance was quite ready, Felix felt there must be some one present
who could really judge of the merits of his little piece. Who would
do so better than his old professor of thorough bass and composition,
Carl Zelter, the director of the Berlin Singakademie. Zelter agreed
to accept this delicate office, and a large number of friends were
invited for the occasion.

This was only the beginning of a series of weekly musical evenings at
the Mendelssohn home. Felix, with his dark curls, his shining eyes,
and charming manners, was the life of anything he undertook. He
often conducted his little pieces, but did not monopolize the time.
Sometimes all four children took part, Fanny at the piano, Rebekka
singing, Paul playing the 'cello and Felix at the desk. Old Zelter was
generally present, and though averse to praising pupils, would often
say a few words of encouragement at the close.

Felix was at this time but little more than twelve years old. He had
within the last year composed fifty or sixty pieces, including a trio
for piano and strings, containing three movements, several sonatas for
the piano, some songs and a musical comedy in three scenes, for
piano and voices. All these were written with the greatest care and
precision, and with the date of each neatly added. He collected his
pieces into volumes; and the more work he did the more neatly he
wrote.

The boy Felix had a wonderful gift for making friends. One day he
suddenly caught sight of Carl Maria von Weber walking along the
streets of Berlin, near his home. He recognized the famous composer at
once, as he had lately visited his parents. The boy's dark eyes glowed
with pleasure at the recognition, and tossing back his curls, he
sprang forward and threw his arms about Weber's neck, begging him to
go home with him. When the astonished musician recovered himself, he
presented the boy to Jules Benedict, his young friend and pupil who
walked at his side, saying, "This is Felix Mendelssohn." For response
Felix, with a bright look, seized the young man's hand in both his
own. Weber stood by smiling at the boy's enthusiasm. Again Felix
besought them to come home with him, but Weber had to attend a
rehearsal. "Is it for the opera?" the boy cried excitedly.

"Yes," answered the composer.

"Does he know all about it?" asked Felix, pointing to Benedict.

"Indeed he does," answered the composer laughing, "or if he doesn't he
ought to for he has been bored enough with it already." The boy's eyes
flashed.

"Then _you_, will come with me to my home, which is quite near, will
you not?" There was no refusing those appealing dark eyes. Felix again
embraced Weber, and then challenged his new friend, Mr. Benedict, to
race him to the door of his house. On entering he dragged the visitor
upstairs to the drawing-room, exclaiming, "Mama, Mama, here is a
gentleman, a pupil of Carl Weber, who knows all about the new opera,
'Der Freischütz.'"

The young musician received a warm welcome, and was not able to leave
until he had played on the piano all the airs he could remember
from the wonderful new opera, which Weber had come to Berlin to
superintend. Benedict was so pleased with his first visit that he came
again. This time he found Felix writing music and asked what it was.
"I am finishing my new quartet for piano and strings," was the simple
reply. To say that Benedict was surprised at such an answer from a boy
of twelve hardly expresses what he felt. It was quite true he did not
yet know Felix Mendelssohn. "And now," said the boy, laying down his
pen, "I will play to you, to prove how grateful I am that you played
to us last time." He then sat down at the piano and played correctly
several melodies from "Der Freischütz," which Benedict had played on
his first visit. After that they went into the garden, and Felix for
the moment, became a rollicking boy, jumping fences and climbing trees
like a squirrel.

Toward the close of this year, 1821, his teacher Zelter announced he
intended going to Wiemar, to see Goethe, the aged poet of Wiemar, and
was willing to take Felix with him. The poet's house at Wiemar was
indeed a shrine to the elect, and the chance of meeting the object
of so much hero worship, filled the impressionable mind of Felix with
reverential awe. Zelter on his part, felt a certain pride in bringing
his favorite pupil to the notice of the great man, though he would not
have permitted Felix to guess what he felt for anything he possessed.

When they arrived, Goethe was walking in his garden. He greeted both
with kindness and affection, and it was arranged that Felix should
play for him next day. Zelter had told Goethe much about his pupil's
unusual talents, but the poet wished to prove these accounts by his
own tests. Selecting piece after piece of manuscript music from his
collection, he asked the boy to play them at sight. He was able to do
so with ease, to the astonishment of the friends who had come in to
hear him. They were more delighted when he took a theme from one of
the pieces and improvised upon it. Withholding his praise, Goethe
announced he had a final test, and placed on the music desk a sheet
which seemed covered with mere scratches and blotches. The boy
laughingly exclaimed, "Who could ever read such writing as that?"
Zelter rose and came to the piano to look at this curiosity. "Why, it
is Beethoven's writing; one can see that a mile off! He always wrote
as if he used a broomstick for a pen, then wiped his sleeve over the
wet ink!"

The boy picked out the strange manuscript bit by bit; when he came to
the end he cried, "Now I will play it through for you," which he did
without a mistake. Goethe was well pleased and begged Felix to come
every day and play, while he was in the city. The two became fast
friends; the poet treated him as a son, and at parting begged he would
soon return to Wiemar, that they might again be together. During the
following summer the whole family made a tour through Switzerland,
much to the delight of Felix, who enjoyed every moment. There was
little time for real work in composition, but a couple of songs and
the beginning of a piano quartet were inspired by the view of Lake
Geneva and its exquisite surroundings.

When Felix returned to Berlin, he had grown much, physically as well
as mentally. He was now tall and strong, his curling locks had been
clipped, and he seemed at a single bound to have become almost a man.
His happy, boyish spirits, however, had not changed in the least.
About this time the family removed from their home on the Neue
Promenade, to a larger and more stately mansion, No. 3 Leipsiger
Strasse, then situated on the outskirts of the town, near the Potsdam
Gate. As those who know the modern city realize, this house, now no
longer a private residence, stands in the very heart of traffic and
business. The rooms of the new home were large and elegant, with
a spacious salon suitable for musicals and large functions. A fine
garden or park belonged to the house, where were lawns shaded by
forest trees, winding paths, flowering shrubs and arbors in shady
nooks, offering quiet retreats. Best of all there was a garden house,
with a central hall, which would hold several hundred people, having
long windows and glass doors looking out upon the trees and flowers.
Sunday concerts were soon resumed and given in the garden house,
where, on week days the young people met, with friends and elders, to
play, and act and enjoy the social life of the home. The mansion and
its hospitality became famous, and every great musician, at one time
or another, came to pay his respects and become acquainted with this
art-loving family.

At a family party in honor of Felix's fifteenth birthday, his teacher
Zelter saluted him as no longer an apprentice, but as an "assistant"
and member of the Brotherhood of Art. Very soon after this the young
composer completed two important works. The first was an Octet for
strings. He was not yet seventeen when the Octet was finished,
which was pronounced the most fresh and original work he had yet
accomplished. It marked a distinct stage in the gifted youth's
development. The composition which followed was the beautiful
"Midsummer Night's Dream" music. He and his sister Fanny had lately
made the acquaintance of Shakespeare through a German translation, and
had been fascinated by this fairy play. The young people spent much of
their time in the lovely garden that summer, and amid these delightful
surroundings the music was conceived.

The Overture was first to spring into being. When it was written
out, Felix and Fanny often played it as a duet. In this form the
composer-pianist Moscheles heard it and was impressed by its beauty.
The fascinating Scherzo and dreamy Nocturne followed. When all were
elaborated and perfected, the complete work was performed by the
garden house orchestra for a crowded audience, who abundantly
expressed their delight. Sir G. Macfarren has said of it: "No one
musical work contains so many points of harmony and orchestration that
are novel yet none of them have the air of experiment, but all seem to
have been written with a certainty of their success."

And now a great plan occupied Mendelssohn's mind, a project which had
been forming for some time; this was nothing less than to do something
to arouse people to know and appreciate the great works of Johann
Sebastian Bach. Two years before Felix had been presented with a
manuscript score of Bach's "Passion according to St. Matthew," which
Zelter had allowed to be copied from the manuscript preserved in the
Singakademie. The old man was a devoted lover of Bach's music, and
had taught his pupil in the same spirit. When Felix found himself the
possessor of this wonderful book, he set to work to master it, until
he knew every bit of it by heart. As he studied it deeply he was more
and more impressed with its beauty and sublimity. He could hardly
believe that this great work was unknown throughout Germany, since
more than a hundred years had passed since it had been written. He
determined to do something to arouse people from such apathy.

Talking the matter over with musicians and friends, he began to
interest them in the plan to study the music of the Passion. Soon
he had secured sixteen good voices, who rehearsed at his home once
a week. His enthusiasm fired them to study the music seriously, and
before very long they were anxious to give a public performance.
There was a splendid choir of nearly four hundred voices conducted by
Zelter, at the Singakademie; if he would only lend his chorus to give
a trial performance, under Mendelssohn's conducting, how splendid that
would be! But Felix knew that Zelter had no faith in the public taking
any interest in Bach, so there was no use asking. This opinion was
opposed by one of his little choir, named Devrient, who insisted that
Zelter should be approached on the subject. As he himself had been
a pupil of Zelter, he persuaded Mendelssohn to accompany him to the
director's house.

Zelter was found seated at his instrument, enveloped by a cloud of
smoke from a long stemmed pipe. Devrient unfolded the plan of bringing
this great work of Bach to the knowledge of the public. The old man
listened to their plea with growing impatience, until he became quite
excited, rose from his chair and paced the floor with great strides,
exclaiming, "No, it is not to be thought of--it is a mad scheme." To
Felix argument then seemed useless and he beckoned his friend to
come away, but Devrient refused to move, and kept up his persuasive
argument. Finally, as though a miracle had been wrought, Zelter began
to weaken, and at last gave in, and besides promised all the aid in
his power.

How this youth, not yet twenty, undertook the great task of preparing
this masterpiece, and what he accomplished is little short of the
marvelous. The public performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took
place March 11, 1829, with every ticket sold and more than a thousand
persons turned away. A second performance was given on March 21, the
anniversary of Bach's birth, before a packed house. These performances
marked the beginning of a great Bach revival in Germany and England,
and the love for this music has never been lost, but increases each
year.

And now it seemed best for Felix to travel and see something of other
countries. He had long wished to visit England, and the present seemed
a favorable time, as his friends there assured him of a warm
welcome. The pleasure he felt on reaching London was increased by the
enthusiastic greeting he received at the hands of the musical public.
He first appeared at a Philharmonic concert on May 25, when his
Symphony in C minor was played. The next day he wrote to Fanny: "The
success of the concert last night was beyond all I had ever dreamed.
It began with my Symphony. I was led to the desk and received an
immense applause. The Adagio was encored, but I went on; the Scherzo
was so vigorously applauded that I had to repeat it. After the Finale
there was lots more applause, while I was thanking the orchestra and
shaking hands, till I left the room."

A continual round of functions interspersed with concerts at which he
played or conducted, filled the young composer's time. The overture to
"Midsummer Night's Dream" was played several times and always received
with enthusiasm. On one occasion a friend was so careless as to leave
the manuscript in a hackney coach on his way home and it was lost.
"Never mind, I will write another," said Mendelssohn, which he was
able to do, without making a single error.

When the London season closed, Mendelssohn and his friend Klingemann
went up to Scotland, where he was deeply impressed with the varied
beauty of the scenery. Perhaps the Hebrides enthralled him most, with
their lonely grandeur. His impressions have been preserved in the
Overture to "Fingal's Cave," while from the whole trip he gained
inspiration for the Scottish Symphony.

On his return to London and before he could set out for Berlin, Felix
injured his knee, which laid him up for several weeks, and prevented
his presence at the home marriage of his sister Fanny, to William
Hensel, the young painter. This was a keen disappointment to all, but
Fanny was not to be separated from her family, as on Mendelssohn's
return, he found the young couple had taken up their residence in the
Gartenhaus.

Mendelssohn had been greatly pleased with his London visit, and though
the grand tour he had planned was really only begun, he felt a strong
desire to return to England. However, other countries had to be
visited first. The following May he started south, bound for Vienna,
Florence and Rome. His way led through Wiemar and gave opportunity for
a last visit to Goethe. They passed a number of days in sympathetic
com

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