The World's Great Men of Music: Story-Lives of Master Musicians (2024)

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 researchwork in a great musical library. As a honey-bee flutters from flower toflower, culling sweetness from many blossoms, so the compiler of suchstories as these must gather facts from many sources—from biography,letters, journals and musical history. Then, impressed with the personalityand individual achievement of each composer, the author has endeavored topresent his life story.

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

CONTENTS

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

STORY-LIVES OF
MASTER MUSICIANS

I

PALESTRINA

To learn something of the life and labors of Palestrina, one of theearliest as well as one of the greatest musicians, we must go back in theworld's history nearly four hundred years. And even then we may not be ableto discover all the events of his life as some of the records have beenlost. But we have the main facts, and know that Palestrina's name willbe revered for all time as the man who strove to make sacred music theexpression 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 yearsago Palestrina was dominated by the great castle of its lords, the proudColonnas. Naturally the town was much more important in those days than itis to-day.

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

To this pair was born, probably in 1526, a boy whom they named GiovanniPierluigi, 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 achild surrounded from infancy by the natural loveliness and glory of oldPalestrina, 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 havesold some land she owned to provide for her son's musical training.

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

Though painting and sculpture flourished, music did not keep pace withadvance in other arts. The leading musicians were Belgian, Spanish orFrench, and their music did not match the great achievements attained inthe kindred art of the time—architecture, sculpture and painting. Therewas needed a new impetus, a vital force. Its rise began when the peasantyouth John Peter Louis descended from the heights of Palestrina to thebanks of the Tiber.

It is said that Tomasso Crinello was the boy's master; whether this is trueor 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 nameof his birthplace, returned from Rome at the age of eighteen to his nativetown, in 1544, as a practising musician, and took a post at the Cathedralof Saint Agapitus. Here he engaged himself for life, to be present everyday 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 dailyservices and drumming the rudiments of music into the heads of the littlechoristers. It may have been dry and wearisome labor; but afterward, whenPalestrina began to reform the music of the church, it must have been ofgreat advantage to him to know so absolutely the liturgy, not only of SaintPeter's and Saint John Lateran, but also that in the simple cathedral ofhis own small hill-town.

Young Palestrina, living his simple, busy life in his home town, neverdreamed 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 greatmusical 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 didnot 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 ownheart, besides having a comfortable dowry of her own. They had a happyunion, which lasted for more than thirty years.

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

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

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

The loss of this post was a great humiliation, which Palestrina found ithard 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 unfortunateevent, the rejected singer of the Sistine Chapel was created Chapel Masterof Saint John Lateran, the splendid basilica, where the young OrlandusLassus had so recently directed the music. As Palestrina could still keephis 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 fromthe turmoil of the city to obtain the quiet he desired, and where he livedin tranquillity for the next five years.

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

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

All was not a life of sunshine for Palestrina, for he suffered manydomestic sorrows. His three promising sons died one after another. Theywere talented young men, who might have followed in the footsteps of theirdistinguished father. In 1580 his wife died also. Yet neither poignantsorrow, worldly glory nor ascetic piety blighted his homely affections. Atthe Jubilee of Pope Gregory XIII, in 1575, when 1500 pilgrims from thetown of Palestrina descended the hills on the way to Rome, it was theirold townsman, Giovanni Pierluigi, who led their songs, as they enteredthe Eternal City, their maidens clad in white robes, and their young menbearing olive branches.

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

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

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

The name Bach belonged to a long race of musicians, who strove to elevatethe growing art of music. For nearly two hundred years there had beenorganists and composers in the family; Sebastian's father, Johann AmbrosiusBach was organist of the Lutheran Church in Eisenach, and naturally a loveof music was fostered in the home. It is no wonder that little Sebastianshould have shown a fondness for music almost from infancy. But, beyondlearning the violin from his father, he had not advanced very far in hisstudies, when, in his tenth year he lost both his parents and was takencare of by his brother Christoph, fourteen years older, a respectablemusician and organist in a neighboring town. To give his little brotherlessons on the clavier, and send him to the Lyceum to learn Latin, singingand other school subjects seemed to Christoph to include all that couldbe expected of him. That his small brother possessed musical genius of thehighest order, was an idea he could not grasp; or if he did, he repressedthe boy with indifference and harsh treatment.

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

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

Creeping noiselessly down stairs he stood before the bookcase and soughtthe precious volume. There it was with the names of the various musiciansprinted in large letters on the back in his brother's handwriting. To gethis 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 theothers, which could be bent.

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

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

At last it was finished, and Sebastian in the joy of possessing it for hisvery own, crept into bed without the precaution of putting away all tracesof his work. Poor boy, he had to pay dearly for his forgetfulness. As helay 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 theopen books. There was no pity in his heart for all this devoted labor, onlyanger that he had been outwitted by his small brother. He took both booksaway and hid them in a place where Sebastian could never find them. Buthe did not reflect that the boy had the memory of all this beautifulmusic indelibly printed on his mind, which helped him to bear the bitterdisappointment of the loss of his work.

When he was fifteen Sebastian left his brother's roof and entered the Latinschool connected with the Church of St. Michael at Lüneburg. It was foundhe had a beautiful soprano voice, which placed him with the scholars whowere chosen to sing in the church service in return for a free education.There were two church schools in Lüneburg, and the rivalry between themwas so keen, that when the scholars sang in the streets during the wintermonths to collect money for their support, the routes for each had to becarefully 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 placein the school. The boy worked hard at his musical studies, giving his sparetime to the study of the best composers. He began to realize that he caredmore for the organ than for any other instrument; indeed his love forit became a passion. He was too poor to take lessons, for he was almostentirely self-dependent—a penniless scholar, living on the plainest offare, yet determined to gain a knowledge of the music he longed for.

One of the great organists of the time was Johann Adam Reinken. WhenSebastian learned that this master played the organ in St. Katharine'sChurch in Hamburg, he determined to walk the whole distance thither to hearhim. 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 tostrive the harder for what he desired to attain.

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

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

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

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

The first thing he did was to take a number of concertos written for theviolin by Vivaldi, and set them for the harpsichord. In this way he learnedto express himself and to attain facility in putting his thoughts on paperwithout first playing them on an instrument. He worked alone in this waywith no assistance from any one, and often studied till far into the nightto 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 thechurch music than he forgot that the choir and congregation were dependingon him and would begin to improvise at such length that the singing had tostop altogether, while the people listened in mute admiration. Of coursethere were many disputes between the new organist and the elders of thechurch, but they overlooked his vagaries because of his genius.

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

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

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

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

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

In his comfortable Weimar home the musician had the quiet and leisure thathe needed to perfect his art on all sides, not only in composition butin organ and harpsichord playing. He felt that he had conquered alldifficulties of both instruments, and one day boasted to a friend that hecould play any piece, no matter how difficult, at sight, without a mistake.In order to test this statement the friend invited him to breakfast shortlyafter. On the harpsichord were several pieces of music, one of which,though apparently simple, was really very difficult. His host left the roomto prepare the breakfast, while Bach began to try over the music. All wentwell until he came to the difficult piece which he began quite boldlybut stuck in the middle. It went no better after several attempts. As hisfriend 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-ConcertMaster, a position which offered added privileges. Every autumn he used hisannual vacation in traveling to the principal towns to give performanceson organ and clavier. By such means he gained a great reputation both asplayer and composer.

On one of these tours he arrived in Dresden in time to learn of a Frenchplayer who had just come to town. Jean Marchand had won a great reputationin France, where he was organist to the King at Versailles, and regardedas the most fashionable musician of the day. All this had made him veryconceited and overbearing. Every one was discussing the Frenchman'swonderful playing and it was whispered he had been offered an appointmentin 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 werewilling; the King promised to attend.

The day fixed for the trial arrived; a brilliant company assembled. Bachmade 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 tothe young Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Cöthen. The Prince was an enthusiasticlover of music, and at Cöthen Bach led a happy, busy life. The Prince oftenjourneyed to different towns to gratify his taste for music, and alwaystook Bach with him. On one of these trips he was unable to receive thenews that his wife had suddenly passed away, and was buried before he couldreturn to Cöthen. This was a severe blow to the whole family.

Four years afterward, Bach married again, Anna Magdalena Wülkens was inevery way suited for a musician's wife, and for her he composed many of thedelightful dances which we now so greatly enjoy. He also wrote a number ofbooks of studies for his wife and his sons, several of whom later becamegood 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, hewould be found engraving music on copper, since that work was costly inthose 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 ofleisure for his work, did not give him the scope he needed for his art. ThePrince had lately married, and did not seem to care as much for music asbefore.

The wider opportunity which Bach sought came when he was appointed directorof music in the churches of St. Thomas and St. Nicholas in Leipsic, andCantor of the Thomas-Schule there. With the Leipsic period Bach enteredthe last stage of his career, for he retained this post for the rest ofhis life. He labored unceasingly, in spite of many obstacles and pettyrestrictions, to train the boys under his care, and raise the standard ofmusical efficiency in the Schule, as choirs of both churches were recruitedfrom the scholars of the Thomas School.

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

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

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

The King was about to begin the evening's music when he learned that Bachhad arrived. With a smile he turned to his musicians: "Gentlemen, old Bachhas come." Bach was sent for at once, without having time to change histraveling dress. His Majesty received him with great kindness and respect,and showed him through the palace, where he must try the Silbermannpianofortes, of which there were several. Bach improvised on each and theKing gave a theme which he treated as a fantasia, to the astonishmentof all. Frederick next asked him to play a six part fugue, and thenBach 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 greatevening for the master, and one he never forgot.

Just after completing his great work, The Art of Fugue, Bach became totallyblind, 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 theolder masters. Notwithstanding this handicap he continued at work up tothe very last. On the morning of the day on which he passed away, July28, 1750, he suddenly regained his sight. A few hours later he becameunconscious and passed in sleep.

Bach was laid to rest in the churchyard of St. John's at Leipsic, but nostone marks his resting place. Only the town library register tells thatJohann 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 hisbeautiful music inspires increases from year to year, wherever that musicis known, all over the world.

III

GEORGE FREDERICK HANDEL

While little Sebastian Bach was laboriously copying out music by palemoonlight, because of his great love for it, another child of the same agewas 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 halfdumb keys. No one had taught him how to play; it was innate genius thatguided his little hands to find the right harmonies and bring melody out ofthe old spinet.

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

When little George was about five, a kind friend, who knew how he longed tomake music, had a spinet sent to him unbeknown to his father, and placedin a corner of the old garret. Here the child loved to come when he couldescape notice. Often at night, when all were asleep, he would steal away tothe garret and work at the spinet, mastering difficulties one by one. Thestrings 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 wasdiscovered 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 ofthe inmates, reached the garret, and there found the lost child seated athis beloved spinet, quite lost to the material world. There is no record ofany angry outburst on the father's part and it is likely little George wasleft in peace.

One day when the boy was seven years old, the father was about to start forthe castle of the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels, to see his son, a stepbrotherof George, who was a valet de chambre to the Duke. Little Georgebegged 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 runevery step of the way. So watching his chance, he started to run after thecoach in which his father rode. The child had no idea it was a distance offorty miles. He strove bravely to keep pace with the horses, but the roadswere rough and muddy. His strength beginning to fail, he called out to thecoachman to stop. His father, hearing the boy's voice looked out of thewindow. Instead of scolding the little scamp roundly, he was touched byhis woebegone appearance, had him lifted into the coach and carried on toWeissenfels.

George enjoyed himself hugely at the castle. The musicians were very kindto him, and his delight could hardly be restrained when he was allowed totry the beautiful organ in the chapel. The organist stood behind him andarranged the stops, and the child put his fingers on the keys that made thebig pipes speak. During his stay, George had several chances to play; onewas on a Sunday at the close of the service. The organist lifted him uponthe bench and bade him play. Instead of the Duke and all his people leavingthe chapel, they stayed to listen. When the music ceased the Duke asked:"Who is that child? Does anybody know his name?" The organist was sentfor, 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. Theorganist then remarked he had heard the father disapproved of his musicalstudies. The Duke was greatly astonished. He sent for the father and afterspeaking highly of the boy's talent, said that to place any obstacle in thechild'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 teacherchosen to instruct the boy on the organ, harpsichord and violin. Healso taught him composition, and showed him how different countries andcomposers differed in their ideas of musical style. Very soon the boy wascomposing the regular weekly service for the church, besides playing theorgan whenever Zachau happened to be absent. At that time the boy could nothave been more than eight years old.

After three years' hard work his teacher told him he must seek anothermaster, 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 Ariostiand Buononcini; the former received the boy kindly and gave him greatencouragement; the other took a dislike to the little fellow, and tried toinjure him. Pretending to test his musicianship, Buononcini composed a verydifficult piece for the harpsichord and asked him to play it at sight. Thisthe boy did with ease and correctness. The Elector was delighted with thelittle musician, offered him a place at Court and even promised to sendhim to Italy to pursue his studies. Both offers were refused and Georgereturned to Halle and to his old master, who was happy to have him backonce more.

Not long after this the boy's father passed away, and as there was butlittle money left for the mother, her son decided at once that he mustsupport himself and not deprive her of her small income. He acted as deputyorganist at the Cathedral and Castle of Halle, and a few years later, whenthe post was vacant, secured it at a salary of less than forty dollars ayear and free lodging. George Frederick was now seventeen and longed for abroader field. Knowing that he must leave Halle to find it, he saidgood-by to his mother, and in January 1703, set out for Hamburg to seek hisfortune.

The Opera House Orchestra needed a supplementary violin. It was a verysmall post, but he took it, pretending not to be able to do anythingbetter. 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 forwardand took his vacant seat. He conducted so ably, that he secured theposition for himself.

The young musician led a busy life in Hamburg, filled with teaching, studyand composition. As his fame increased he secured more pupils, and he wasnot 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 notonly be self supporting, but somewhat independent, in order to produceworks of art.

Handel now turned his attention to opera, composing "Almira, Queen ofCastile," which was produced in Hamburg early in January 1705. This successencouraged him to write others; indeed he was the author of forty operas,which are only remembered now by an occasional aria. During these severalyears 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 carryout his cherished desire.

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

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

It was not very long after his return to Germany that he sought anotherleave of absence to visit England, promising to return within a "reasonabletime." London received him with open arms and many great people showeredfavors upon him. Lord Burlington invited him to his residence inPiccadilly, which at that time consisted of green fields. The only returnto be made for all this social and home luxury was that he should conductthe Earl's chamber concerts. Handel devoted his abundant leisure tocomposition, at which he worked with much ardor. His fame was makinggreat strides, and when the Peace of Utrecht was signed and a Thanksgivingservice was to be held in St. Paul's, he was commissioned to compose a TeDeum and Jubilate. To show appreciation for his work and in honor of theevent, Queen Anne awarded Handel a life pension of a thousand dollars.

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

Not long after this Handel was appointed Chapel master to the Duke ofChandos, and was expected to live at the princely mansion he inhabited. Thesize and magnificence of The Cannons was the talk of the country for milesaround. 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 thisoccasion handed the composer five thousand dollars. Numerous compositionsfor the harpsichord belong to this period, among them the air andvariations known as "The Harmonious Blacksmith." The story goes that Handelwas walking to Cannons through the village of Edgeware, and being overtakenby a heavy shower, sought shelter in the smithy. The blacksmith was singingat his work and his hammer kept time with his song. The composer was struckwith the air and its accompaniment, and as soon as he reached home, wroteout the tune with the variations. This story has been disputed, and it isnot known whether it is true or not.

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

The new opera "Radamisto" was ready early in 1720, and produced at theRoyal Academy of Music, as the theater was now called. The success of theproduction was tremendous. But Handel, by his self-will had stirred up envyand jealousy, and an opposition party was formed, headed by his old enemyfrom Hamburg, Buononcini, who had come to London to try his fortunes. Atest opera was planned, of which Handel wrote the third act, Buononcini thesecond 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. ButBuononcini's friends would not accept defeat, and the battle between allparties was violent. Newspapers were full of it, and many verses werewritten. Handel cared not a whit for all this tempest, but calmly went hisway.

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

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 hadcomposed and produced fourteen operas. During all this time, his enemiesnever ceased their efforts to destroy him. The great expense of operaticproduction, the troubles and quarrels with singers, at last brought theAcademy 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 acollection of most beautiful melodies from various sources, used withwords quite unworthy of them. But the fickle public hailed the piece withdelight, and its success was the means of bringing total failure to theRoyal 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 toItaly to engage new singers, stopping at Halle to see his mother who wasill. She passed away the next year at the age of eighty.

Handel tried for several years to keep Italian opera going in London, inspite of the lack of musical taste and the opposition of his enemies; butin 1737, he was forced to give up the struggle. He was deeply in debt, hiswhole fortune of ten thousand pounds had been swept away and his healthbroken by anxiety. He would not give up; after a brief rest, he returnedto London to begin the conflict anew. The effort to re-awaken the Englishpublic's interest in Italian opera seemed useless, and the composer at lastgave up the struggle. He was now fifty-five, and began to think of turninghis attention to more serious work. Handel has been called the father ofthe oratorio; he composed at least twenty-eight works in this style, thebest known being "Samson," "Israel in Egypt," "Jephtha," "Saul," "JudasMaccabæus" 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 knownsome of his works. On the way there he was detained at Chester for severaldays by contrary winds. He must have had the score of the "Messiah" withhim, for he got together some choir boys to try over a few of the choralparts. "Can you sing at sight?" was put to each boy before he was askedto sing. One broke down at the start. "What de devil you mean!" cried theimpetuous composer, snatching the music from him. "Didn't you say you couldsing 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, andwith some concertos on the organ played by the composer. The performancetook place, April 13, 1742. Four hundred pounds were realized, which weregiven to charity. The success was so great that a second performancewas announced. Ladies were requested to come without crinoline, therebyproviding a hundred more seats than at the first event.

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

Once started on this line of thought, one oratorio after another flowedfrom his prolific pen, though none of them proved to be as exalted inconception as the "Messiah." The last work of this style was "Jephtha,"which contains the beautiful song, "Waft her, angels." While engaged incomposing this oratorio, Handel became blind, but this affliction didnot seem to lessen his power for work. He was now sixty-eight, and hadconquered and lived down most of the hostility that had been so bitteragainst him. His fortunes also constantly improved, so that when he passedaway he left twenty thousand pounds.

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

Handel was always generous in assisting those who needed aid, and he helpedfound the Society for Aiding Distressed Musicians. His last appearance inpublic, was at a performance of the "Messiah," at Covent Garden, on April6, 1759. His death occurred on the 14th of the same month, at the housein Brook Street where he had lived for many years. Thus, while born inthe same year as Sebastian Bach, he outlived him by about a decade. He wasburied in Westminster Abbey, and later a fine monument was erected to hismemory. The most of his manuscripts came into the possession of King GeorgeIII, and are preserved in the musical library of Buckingham Palace.

IV
CHRISTOPH WILLIBALD GLUCK

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

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

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

He possessed not only talent but perseverance and the will to succeed. Thevioloncello attracted him, and he began to teach himself to play it, withno other help than an old instruction book. Determination conquered manydifficulties however, and before long he had made sufficient progress toenable him to join a troop of traveling minstrels. From Prague they madetheir way to Vienna.

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

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

At the conclusion of this long period of devoted study, Gluck began towrite an opera, entitled "Artaxerxes." When completed it was accepted atthe Milan Theater, brought out in 1741 and met with much success. Thissuccess induced one of the managers in Venice to offer him an engagementfor that city if he would compose a new opera. Gluck then produced"Clytemnestra." This second work had a remarkable success, and the managersarranged for the composition of another opera, which was "Demetrio," which,like the others was most favorably received. Gluck now had offers fromTurin, 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 ofGluck had become famous all over Italy; indeed his fame had spread to othercountries, with the result that tempting offers for new operas flowed into him from all directions. Especially was a London manager, a certain LordMiddlesex, anxious to entice the young composer from Italy to come overto London, and produce some of his works at the King's Theater in theHaymarket.

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 brokenout in Scotland all the theaters were closed, and the city in more or lessconfusion. However a chance to hear the famous German composer, who hadtraveled such a distance, was not to be lost, and Lord Middlesex besoughtthe Powers to re-open the theater. After much pleading his request wasfinally granted. The opening opera, written on purpose to introduce Gluckto English audiences, was entitled "La Caduta del Giganti,"—"Fall of theGiants"—and did not seem to please the public. But the young composer wasundaunted. His next opera, "Artamene," pleased them no better. The mind ofthe 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 thearistocracy and the world of fashion.

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

Gluck returned to Vienna, and continued to compose operas. In 1764, "Orfeo"was produced,—an example of the new reform in opera! "Orfeo" was receivedmost favorably and sung twenty-eight times, a long run for those days. Thesinging and acting of Guadagni made the opera quite the rage, and the workbegan to be known in England. Even in Paris and Parma it became a greatfavorite. The composer was now fifty, and his greatest works had yet—withthe exception or "Orfeo"—to be written. He began to develop that purityof style which we find in "Alceste," "Iphigénie en Tauride" and others."Alceste" was the second opera on the reformed plan which simplified themusic to give more prominence to the poetry. It was produced in Vienna in1769, 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. Thecomposer himself wrote: "Pedants and critics, an infinite multitude,form the greatest obstacle to the progress of art. They think themselvesentitled to pass a verdict on 'Alceste' from some informal rehearsals,badly conducted and executed. Some fastidious ear found a vocal passage tooharsh, or another too impassioned, forgetting that forcible expression andstriking contrasts are absolutely necessary. It was likewise decided infull conclave, that this style of music was barbarous and extravagant."

In spite of the judgment of the critics, "Alceste" increased the fame ofGluck to a great degree. Paris wanted to see the man who had revolutionizedItalian opera. The French Royale Académie had made him an offer to visitthe capital, for which he was to write a new opera for a début. A Frenchpoet, Du Rollet, living in Vienna, offered to write a libretto for the newopera, and assured him there was every chance for success in a visitto France. The libretto was thereupon written, or rather arranged fromRacine's "Iphigénie en Aulide," and with this, Chevalier Gluck, lately madeKnight 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 abouta year to compose, besides a careful study of the French language. He hadeven more trouble with the slovenly, ignorant orchestra, than he had withthe 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 thesignal for applause in which the whole house joined. The charming SophieArnould sang the part of Iphigénie and seemed to quite satisfy thecomposer. Larrivée was the Agamemnon, and other parts were well sung. TheFrench were thoroughly delighted. They fêted and praised Gluck, declaringhe had discovered the music of the ancient Greeks, that he was the only manin Europe who could express real feelings in music. Marie Antoinette wroteto her sister: "We had, on the nineteenth, the first performance of Gluck's'Iphigénie,' and it was a glorious triumph. I was quite enchanted, andnothing else is talked of. All the world wishes to see the piece, and Gluckseems well satisfied."

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

But Gluck had one powerful opponent at the French Court, who was none otherthan the famous Madame du Barry, the favorite of Louis XV. Since the Queenhad her pet musical composer, Mme. du Barry wished to have hers. An Italianby birth, she could gather about her a powerful Italian faction, who werebent upon opposition to the Austrian Gluck. She had listened to his praiseslong enough, and the tremendous success of "Alceste" had been the laststraw and brought things to a climax. Du Barry would have some one torepresent Italian music, and applied to the Italian ambassador to desirePiccini to come to Paris.

On the arrival of Piccini, Madame du Barry began activities, aided by LouisXV himself. She gathered a powerful Italian party about her, and theirfirst act was to induce the Grand Opera management to make Piccini an offerfor 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 forthe time being. Part of the press took up one side and part the other.Many pamphlets, poems and satires appeared, in which both composers wereunmercifully attacked. Gluck was at the time in Germany, and Piccini hadcome to Paris principally to secure the tempting fee offered him. Theleaders of the feud kept things well stirred up, so that a stranger couldnot enter a café, hotel or theater without first answering the questionwhether he stood for Gluck or Piccini. Many foolish lies were told of Gluckin his absence. It was declared by the Piccinists that he went away onpurpose, to escape the war; that he could no longer write melodies becausehe was a dried up old man and had nothing new to give France. These liesand false stories were put to flight one evening when the Abbé Arnaud, oneof Gluck's most ardent adherents, declared in an aristocratic company, thatthe Chevalier was returning to France with an "Orlando" and an "Armide" inhis portfolio.

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

"That will be all the better," returned the abbé, "for we shall then havean '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 becameimmensely popular. On the first night many of the critics were against theopera, which was called too noisy. The composer, however, felt he had donesome of his best work in "Armide"; that the music was written in such stylethat it would not grow old, at least not for a long time. He had taken thegreatest pains in composing it, and declared that if it were not properlyrehearsed at the Opera he would not let them have it at all, but wouldretain the work himself for his own pleasure. He wrote to a friend: "I haveput forth what little strength is left in me, into 'Armide'; I confess Ishould like to finish my career with it."

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

"Great as was the success of 'Armide,'" wrote the Princess de Lamballe, "noone prized this beautiful work more highly than the composer of it. Hewas passionately enamored of it; he told the Queen the air of France hadrejuvenated his creative powers, and the sight of her majesty had givensuch a wonderful impetus to the flow of ideas, that his composition hadbecome like herself, angelic, sublime."

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

A new director was now in charge of the Opera House. He conceived thebright idea of setting the two composers at work on the same subject, whichwas to be "Iphigénie en Tauride." This plan made great commotion in theranks of the rival factions, as each wished to have their composer's workperformed first. The director promised that Piccini's opera should be firstplaced in rehearsal. Gluck soon finished his and handed it in, but theItalian, trusting to the director's word of honor, was not troubled when heheard 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. Therewas a lively scene, but the manager said he had received orders to producethe work of Gluck at once, and he must obey. On the 18th of May, 1779, theGluck opera was first performed. It produced the greatest excitement andhad a marvelous success. Even Piccini succumbed to the spell, for the musicmade such an impression on him that he did not wish his own work to bebrought out.

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

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

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

V

JOSEF HAYDN

In Josef Haydn we have one of the classic composers, a sweet, gentlespirit, who suffered many privations in early life, and through his ownindustrious efforts rose to positions of respect and honor, the resultof unremitting toil and devotion to a noble ideal. Like many of the othergreat musicians, through hardship and sorrow he won his place among theelect.

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 whichconstitutes the village, stood a low thatched cottage and next to it awheelwright's shop, with a small patch of greensward before it. The masterwheelwright, Mathias Haydn, was sexton, too, of the little church on thehill. He was a worthy man and very religious. A deep love for music waspart of the man's nature, and it was shared to a large extent by his wifeMaria. Every Sunday evening he would bring out his harp, on which he hadtaught 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 theconcert. The little boy Josef, sat near his father and watched his playingwith rapt attention. Sometimes he would take two sticks and make believeplay the violin, just as he had seen the village schoolmaster do. And whenhe sang hymns with the others, his voice was sweet and true. The fatherwatched the child with interest, and a new hope rose within him. His ownlife had been a bitter disappointment, for he had been unable to satisfyhis longing for a knowledge of the art he loved. Perhaps Josef might oneday become a musician—indeed he might even rise to be Capellmeister.

Little Josef was born March 31, 1732. The mother had a secret desire thatthe boy should join the priesthood, but the father, as we have seen, hopedhe would make a musical career, and determined, though poor in this world'sgoods, 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 hetook particular notice of Josef and his toy violin. The child's sweet voiceindicated that he had the makings of a good musician. At last he said: "Ifyou will let me take Sepperl, I will see he is properly taught; I can seehe promises well."

The parents were quite willing and as for little Sepperl, he was simplyoverjoyed, for he longed to learn more about the beautiful music whichfilled his soul. He went with his new cousin, as he called Frankh, withoutany hesitation, and with the expectation that his childish day dreams wereto be realized.

A new world indeed opened to the six year old boy, but it was not allbeautiful. Frankh was a careful and strict teacher; Josef not only wastaught to sing well, but learned much about various instruments. He hadschool lessons also. But his life in other ways was hard and cheerless. Thewife of his cousin treated him with the utmost indifference, never lookingafter his clothing or his well being in any way. After a time his destituteand neglected appearance was a source of misery to the refined, sensitiveboy, but he tried to realize that present conditions could not lastforever, and he bravely endeavored to make the best of them. Meanwhile thetraining of his voice was well advanced and when not in school he couldnearly 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 voicejoined in the church anthems. Always before his mind was a great city wherehe 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 raggedclothing and wondered if he would ever see that magical city.

One morning his cousin told him there would be a procession through thetown in honor of a prominent citizen who had just passed away. A drummerwas needed and the cousin had proposed Josef. He showed the boy how tomake the strokes for a march, with the result that Josef walked in theprocession and felt quite proud of this exhibition of his skill. The verydrum 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 yearof school life at Hamburg. The Capellmeister, Reutter by name, of St.Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, came to see his friend, the pastor ofHamburg. He happened to say he was looking for a few good voices for thechoir. "I can find you one at least," said the pastor; "he is a scholar ofFrankh, the schoolmaster, and has a sweet voice."

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

"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 theshake was done. Josef after a few trials was able to perform the shake tothe entire satisfaction of his teacher. After testing him on a portion ofa mass the Capellmeister was willing to take him to the Cantorei or Choirschool 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 couldscarcely believe in his good fortune. If he could have known all that wasto befall him there, he might not have been so eager to go. But he was onlya little eight-year-old boy, and childhood's dreams are rosy.

Once arrived at the Cantorei, Josef plunged into his studies with greatfervor, and his progress was most rapid. He was now possessed with a desireto 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 itwith notes. Reutter gave no encouragement to such proceedings. One day heasked 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 writeit for two voices before attempting it in twelve. "And if you must try yourhand at composition," added Reutter more kindly, "write variations on themotets and vespers which are played in church."

As neither the Capellmeister nor any of the teachers offered to show Josefthe principles of composition, he was thrown upon his own resources. Withmuch self denial he scraped together enough money to buy two books whichhe had seen at the second hand bookseller's and which he had longed topossess. One was Fox's "Gradus ad Parnassum," a treatise on composition andcounterpoint; the other Matheson's "The Complete Capellmeister." Happy inthe possession of these books, Josef used every moment outside of schooland choir practise to study them. He loved fun and games as well as anyboy, but music always came first. The desire to perfect himself wasso strong that he often added several hours each day to those alreadyrequired, 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 arrangedthat his younger brother Michael was to come to the Cantorei. Josef lookedeagerly forward to this event, planning how he would help the little oneover the beginning and show him the pleasant things that would happen tohim in the new life. But the elder brother could not foresee the sorrowand privation in store for him. From the moment Michael's pure young voicefilled the vast spaces of the cathedral, it was plain that Josef's singingcould not compete with it. His soprano showed signs of breaking, andgradually the principal solo parts, which had always fallen to him, weregiven to the new chorister. On a special church day, when there was moreelaborate music, the "Salve Regina," which had always been given to Josef,was sung so beautifully by the little brother, that the Emperor and Empresswere delighted, and they presented the young singer with twenty ducats.

Poor Josef! He realized that his place was virtually taken by the brotherhe had welcomed so joyously only a short time before. No one was to blameof course; it was one of those things that could not be avoided. But whatactually caused him to leave St. Stephen's was a boyish prank played on oneof the choir boys, who sat in front of him. Taking up a new pair of shearslying 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 couldhardly realize it, in his first dazed, angry condition. Not to enjoythe busy life any more, not to see Michael and the others and have acomfortable home and sing in the Cathedral. How he lived after that hehardly knew. But several miserable days went by. One rainy night a youngman whom he had known before, came upon him near the Cathedral, and wasstruck by his white, pinched face. He asked where the boy was living."Nowhere—I am starving," was the reply. Honest Franz Spangler was touchedat once.

"We can't stand here in the rain," he said. "You know I haven't a palaceto 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 cheerfulfire and warm bread and milk were luxuries to the starving lad. Best ofall was it to curl up on the floor, beside the dying embers and fall intorefreshing slumber. The next morning the world looked brighter. He had madeup his mind not to try and see his brother; he would support himself bymusic. He did not know just how he was going to do this, but determined tofight for it and never give in.

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

But spring came, yet no employment was in sight. His sole earnings had beenthe 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 someway his needs would be met.

At last the tide turned slightly. A few pupils attracted by the small feehe charged, took lessons on the clavier; he got a few engagements to playviolin at balls and parties, while some budding composers got him to revisetheir manuscripts for a small fee. All these cheering signs of better timesmade Josef hopeful and grateful. One day a special piece of good fortunecame his way. A man who loved music, at whose house he had sometimesplayed, sent him a hundred and fifty florins, to be repaid without interestwhenever convenient.

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

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

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

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

The distinguished musicians he met at Mannersdorf were all very kind to himand showed much interest in his compositions, many of which were performedduring 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 youngmusician's first act on receiving this was to buy himself a neat suit ofblack.

Good fortune followed him on his return to Vienna. More pupils came, untilhe was able to raise his prices and move into better lodgings. A wealthypatron 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 andwished to see the composer. Her manner was so sympathetic, that Haydn wasled to tell her the story of his struggles. Tears came into her eyes as shelistened. She promised her support as friend and pupil, and Haydn left herwith a happy, grateful heart.

His compositions were heard in the best musical circles in Vienna, and thefuture was bright with promise. A wealthy music patron persuaded him towrite a string quartet, the first of many to follow. Through this man hereceived, in 1759, an appointment of music director to a rich Bohemian,Count Morzin, who had a small orchestra at his country seat. In the sameyear 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 hadworked out his musical independence, uninfluenced by any other musician.He was now twenty-six, and his fame was growing. Meanwhile an affair of theheart had great influence on his life. Sometime previously Haydn had beenengaged to give lessons on the harpsichord to two daughters of a wig-makernamed Keller. An attachment soon sprang up between the teacher and theyounger of the girls. His poverty had stood in the way of making hisfeelings known. But as prosperity began to dawn, he grew courageous andasked the maiden to become his wife. His disappointment was keen when hefound the girl had in the meantime decided to take the veil. The wig-makerproved to be a matchmaker, for when he learned how matters stood he urgedthe composer to take the sister, who was only three years older. The gentleHaydn 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 nothingfor art or for her husband's ideals, if only she could have enough money tospend.

The composer was in sad straits for a while, but fortunately a way openedby means of which he could be free. Count Morzin, where he had conductedthe orchestra, was obliged to reduce his establishment and dismissed hisband and its director. As soon as this was known, the reigning Princeof Hungary, Paul Anton Esterházy offered Haydn the post of assistantCapellmeister 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 ofmost of the musical arrangements.

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

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

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

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

In 1790 Haydn lost the master to whom he was so devotedly attached. Hereceived a pension of a thousand florins on condition that he would retainhis post. But Prince Anton, who succeeded his brother, cared nothing formusic; 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, buthe always had refused. Now there seemed to be no obstacle in the way. Oneday a visitor called. "My name is Salomon; I have come from London to fetchyou; 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 todescribe it in tones.

London welcomed Haydn warmly, for his fame had preceded him and his musicwas familiar. The first concert was given March 11, 1790 at the HanoverSquare Rooms, and was a great success. This was followed by a series ofconcerts, and at last a benefit for the composer on May 16, which was anovation and realized three hundred and fifty pounds. He heard the "Messiah"for the first time and when, at the "Hallelujah Chorus," the audiencesprang 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 performersbrought from London. In fact the whole visit to England had been sucha success that he repeated the trip in 1794, and received even greaterhonors. His symphonies were heard on all London programs. He was the lionof the season, and was frequently invited to Buckingham Palace to play forthe King and Queen, who always urged him to live in England. Haydn was nowsixty-five; he had composed quantities of music, but his greatest work,"The Creation," was not yet written. While in London, Salomon had shown hima poem founded on "Paradise Lost," written years before in the hope thatHandel would use it for an oratorio. Haydn decided to try his hand atoratorio on this subject. As he went on, it grew to be a labor of love andprayer. It was finished and performed in Vienna, March 19, 1799, and made aprofound 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," heoften 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 ofmusic," 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 verysimple burial. In 1820 Prince Esterhazy had the remains reinterred inthe upper parish church at Eisenstadt, where a simple stone with Latininscription 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 ofSalzburg. Up on the heights above the town the battlements of the greatcastle caught a reflection of the last gleams of light in the sky. But thenarrow 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 largerroom, with its three windows looking on the street, was immaculate in itsneatness. The brass candlesticks shone like gold, the mahogany table waspolished like a mirror, the simple furniture likewise. For today was FatherMozart's birthday and the little household was to celebrate the event.

Mother Mozart had been busy all day putting everything in order whileNannerl, 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 couldnever be vexed with the little elf, even if he turned somersaults in newclean clothes, or made chalk figures all over the living-room chairs. Henever meant to do any harm, and was always so tenderhearted and lovable, itwas hard to scold him.

And this was the Father's birthday, about the most important of all thefamily 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 thelittle household, baby Wolfgang was mounted on a footstool to recite apoem, in honor of the occasion. When he had finished it he stood quietlya moment then reaching out his tiny arms, clasped them tightly about hisfather'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 birthdaynight, a toast was drunk to the honor of Musica, the divine goddessof tones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When the little girl left the piano, or the harpsichord, as it was calledin those days, Wolfgang slipped into her place and began to repeat withhis tiny fingers what his father had taught her. He sought the differentintervals, 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 beengiven his sister.

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

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

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

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

"Whatever are you doing, Wolferl?" cried his father, gazing at the inkstained 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 besomething very fine." Taking up the paper the father and his friend lookedat it curiously. The sheets were bedaubed with ink stains that almostconcealed the notes. For the child had thrust his pen each time to thebottom of the ink well, so that frequent blots on the paper were theresult. These did not trouble him in the least, for he merely rubbed hishand over the offending blot and proceeded with his writing.

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

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

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

He sprang to the piano and began to play. The small fingers could notmaster the more intricate parts, but gave sufficient idea of how heintended 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 studythe violin also. His violin lessons had hardly begun when one evening hisfather and two friends were about to play a set of six trios, composedby Wentzl, one of the players. Wolfgang begged to be allowed to play thesecond violin. Needless to say his request was refused. At last he was toldhe might sit next to Schachtner and make believe play, though he must makeno sound.

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

Three years had passed swiftly by since little Wolfgang Mozart beganto study music the night of his father's fortieth birthday. He had mademarvelous progress and already the fame of his powers had passed beyond thenarrow limits of his native town. Leopold Mozart had no means other thanthe salary which he received from the Court. His children's musical giftsinduced the father to turn them to advantage, both to supply the familyneeds and to provide the children a broad education in music. He determinedto travel with the children. A first experiment in January, 1762, hadproved 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 theplaying of the children. From here they continued their journey as far asthe monastery of Ips, where they expected to stay for the night. It hadbeen a wonderful day, spent in sailing down the majestic Danube, till theyreached the grey old building with its battlemented walls. Soon after theyarrived, 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 fatherfilled 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. Themonks in the monastery hastened to the chapel, holding their breath as onepointed 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 andcrept meekly down from his perch.

All the rest of the journey to Vienna, Wolfgang was the life of theparty, eager to know the name and history of everything they met. At thecustom-house on the frontier, he made friends with the officials by playingfor 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 playinghad preceded them. A kind and gracious welcome awaited the little partywhen they went to the palace of Schönbrunn. The Emperor Franz Josef took toWolfgang at once, was delighted with his playing and called him his "littlemagician." The boy's powers were tested by being required to read difficultpieces at sight, and playing with one finger, as the Emperor jestinglyasked him to do. Next, the keyboard was covered with a cloth, as a finaltest, but little Wolfgang played as finely as before, to the great delightof the company who applauded heartily. The little magician was so pleasedwith the kindness of both the Emperor and Empress that he returned it inhis own childish way, by climbing into the lap of the Empress and givingher a hug and a kiss, just as though she were his own mother. He was alsogreatly attracted by the little Princess Marie Antoinette, a beautifulchild 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 ragein Vienna society. Invitations poured in from every side, and many gifts.Those bestowed by the royal family were perhaps the most valued. Wolfgang'spresent was a violet colored suit, trimmed with broad gold braid, whileNannerl received a pretty white silk dress. Each of the children alsoreceived a beautiful diamond ring from the Emperor. A portrait of the boyin his gala suit, which was painted at the time, is still preserved.

The following year the Mozarts took the children on a longer journey, thistime 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 weregiven. A newspaper of the time says "little Mozart is able to name allnotes played at a distance, whether single or in chords, whether playedon the piano, or any other instrument, bell, glass or clock." The fatheroffered as an additional attraction that Wolfgang would play with thekeyboard covered.

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

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

The King's birthday was to be celebrated on June 4 and London was crowdedwith people from all parts of the country. Leopold Mozart had chosen June5 as the date for his first public concert. The hall was filled tooverflowing; one hundred guineas being taken in. Many of the assistingperformers would take no fee for their services, which added to thefather's gratitude and happiness.

Not long after this Leopold Mozart fell ill, and the little family movedto Chelsea, for the quiet and good air. Later they were given anotherreception at Court, where, after Wolfgang's wonderful performances, thechildren won much applause by playing some piano duets composed by theboy—a style of composition then quite new.

In July, 1765, the family left London and traveled in Holland, after whichcame 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 tourwas brought to a close by the return to Salzburg in November, 1766.

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

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

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

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

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

It was Holy Week when young Mozart and his father entered Rome, and thecity lay under the spell of the great festival of the year. They soonjoined the throngs that filled the vast temple of St. Peter's, to which allturn during this solemn season. After attending a service and viewing thetreasures of the Cathedral, they turned their steps to the Sistine Chapel,which contains the wonderful painting of the Last Judgment by MichaelAngelo. It was here that the celebrated Miserere by Allegri was performed.Wolfgang had been looking forward to this moment all through the latterpart of his journey. His father had told him how jealously guarded thismusic was; it could never be performed in any other place, and the singerscould never take their parts out of the chapel. He was intensely eager tohear this work. And indeed it would be difficult to imagine anything morebeautiful 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 byone,—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 isheard singing the antiphon, or short introduction,—and then comes silence,a silence so profound that the listener scarcely dares to breathe for fearof disturbing it. At length the first sad notes of the supplication areheard, like the softest wailing of an anguished spirit; they gradually gainforce till the whole building seems to throb with the thrilling intensityof the music.

The young musician was profoundly moved; the father too was much affectedby the solemn service. Neither spoke as they left the chapel and soughttheir lodgings. After they had retired the boy could not sleep; histhoughts were filled with the wonderful music he had heard. He arose, litthe lamp, and got out pens and music paper. He worked industriously thelong night through. When morning dawned the boy sat with his beautiful headupon his folded arms, asleep, while before him on the table lay a score ofthe 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 ofwriting 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 cordialwelcome into the houses of the great in Rome; during their stay father andson were fêted to their hearts' content.

At Naples, their next stopping place, Wolfgang played before a brilliantcompany, and excited so much astonishment, that people declared his powerin playing came from a ring he wore on his finger. "He wears a charm," theycried. Mozart smiled, took off the ring and played more brilliantly thanever. Then the enthusiasm was redoubled. The Neapolitans showed them everyattention and honor. A carriage was provided for their use, and we have anaccount of how they drove through the best streets, the father wearing amaroon-colored coat with light blue facings, and Wolfgang in one of applegreen, with rose-colored facings and silver buttons.

It was indeed a wonderful tour which they made in Italy, though there isnot 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 Chevalierde Mozart. Arriving at Bologna the young musician was made a member of theAccademia Filharmonica. The test for this admission was setting an antiphonin four parts. Wolfgang was locked in a room till the task should befinished. To the astonishment of everybody he asked to be let out at theend of half an hour,—having completed the work.

The travelers now proceeded to Milan, where Mozart was to work on his firstopera, for which he had received a commission. It was a great task for aboy to accomplish and we find the young composer writing to his mother andsister to pray for his success. The opera was called "Mitridate," and wasfinished after three months' hard work. The first performance was given inMilan, December 26, 1770, and was conducted by Wolfgang himself. It was aproud, happy day for the father, indeed for the whole family. "Mitridate"succeeded beyond their hopes; it was given twenty times before crowdedhouses; and its success brought an election to the Accademia, and also acommission to write a dramatic Serenata for an approaching royal wedding.This work also was a great success. The Empress who had commissioned Mozartto compose the work was so pleased, that besides the promised fee, she gavethe 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, intrigueand indifference of those in power who might have helped him but failedto recognize his genius. Shortly after the return of the father and sonto their home town of Salzburg, their protector and friend, the goodArchbishop of Salzburg, died. His successor was indifferent to art and heldin contempt those who followed it as a profession. He persistently refusedto appoint the young musician to any office worthy his talent or torecognize his gifts in any way. While Mozart remained at home in Salzburg,hoping his prospects would improve, he worked at composing with untiringdiligence. By the time he was twenty-one he had accumulated a mass of musicthat embraced every branch of the art. He had a growing reputation as acomposer but no settled future. He had the post of concertmaster, it istrue, but the salary was but a trifle and he was often pressed for money.Leopold therefore decided to undertake another professional tour with hisson. The Archbishop however prevented the father leaving Salzburg. Sothe only course left open was to allow Wolfgang and his mother to traveltogether. They set out on the morning of September 23, 1777. Wolfgang'sspirits rose as the town of Salzburg faded into the haze of that Septembermorning; the sense of freedom was exhilarating; he had escaped the placeassociated in his mind with tyranny and oppression, to seek his fortune innew and wider fields.

At Munich where they first halted, Wolfgang sought an engagement at theElector's Court. He had an audience at the Nymphenburg, a magnificentpalace 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 Mozarthad been to Italy and had made a name for himself. With these words theElector turned away. Mozart stood as if stunned. To Italy, when he hadconcertized 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 motherwent on to Mannheim. Here was a more congenial atmosphere. The Electormaintained a fine orchestra, and with the conductor, Cannabich, Mozartbecame great friends, giving music lessons to his daughter. But he couldnot seem to secure a permanent appointment at Court, worthy his genius andability. Money became more scarce and the father and sister must make manysacrifices at home to send money to maintain mother and son. With the bestof intentions Wolfgang failed to make his way except as a piano teacher.The father had resorted to the same means of securing the extra sumsrequired, and wrote quite sharply to the son to bestir himself and getsomething settled for the future.

For the young genius, Mannheim possessed a special attraction of whichthe father knew nothing. Shortly after their arrival in the city, Wolfgangbecame acquainted with the Weber family. The two oldest daughters, Aloysia,fifteen, and Constanza, fourteen, were charming girls just budding intowomanhood. 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 strangethat young Mozart, who often joined the family circle, should fall in lovewith the girl's fair beauty and fresh voice, should write songs for herand teach her to sing them as he wished. They were much together and theirearly attraction fast ripened into love. Wolfgang formed a project forhelping the Webers, who were in rather straitened circ*mstances, byundertaking a journey to Italy in company with Aloysia and her father; hewould write an opera in which Aloysia should appear as prima donna. Of thisbrilliant plan he wrote his father, saying they could stop in Salzburg onthe way, when the father and Nannerl could meet the fair young singer, whomthey 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 forhimself. The son dutifully yielded at once. With a heavy heart he preparedto leave Mannheim, where he had spent such a happy winter, and his lovedream came to an end. It was a sad parting with the Weber household, forthey regarded Wolfgang as their greatest benefactor.

The hopes Leopold Mozart had built on Wolfgang's success in Paris were notto be realized. The enthusiasm he had aroused as a child prodigy was notawarded to the matured musician. Three months passed away in more or lessfruitless endeavor. Then the mother, who had been his constant companion inthese trials and travels, fell seriously ill. On July 3, 1778, she passedaway in her son's arms.

Mozart prepared to leave Paris at once, and his father was the morewilling, since the Archbishop of Salzburg offered Wolfgang the positionof Court organist, at a salary of 500 florins, with permission to absenthimself whenever he might be called upon to conduct his own operas. Leopoldurged Wolfgang's acceptance, as their joint income would amount to onethousand florins a year—a sum that would enable them to pay their debtsand live in comparative comfort.

To Mozart the thought of settling down in Salzburg under the conditionsstated in his father's letter was distasteful, but he had not the heartto withstand his father's appeal. He set out from Paris at once, promisinghimself just one indulgence before entering the bondage which lay beforehim, a visit to his friends the Webers at Mannheim. When he arrived therehe 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 eyesthere was only a friendly greeting, nothing more. A few short months hadcooled her fickle attachment for the young composer. This discovery was abitter trial to Wolfgang and he returned to his Salzburg home saddened bydisappointed love and ambition.

Here in his old home he was cheered by a rapturous welcome; it was littleshort of a triumph, this greeting and homage showered on him by father,sister and friends. In their eyes his success was unshadowed by failure; tothem he was Mozart the great composer, the genius among musicians. He wasvery grateful for these proofs of affection and esteem, but he hadstill the same aversion to Salzburg and his Court duties. So it was withnew-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 thecarnival the following year.

The new opera, "Idomeneo," fulfilled the high expectations his Munichfriends had formed of the composer's genius. Its reception at therehearsals proved success was certain, and the Elector who was present,joined the performers in expressing his unqualified approval. At homethe progress of the work was followed with deepest interest. The firstperformance of "Idomeneo" took place on January 29, 1781. Leopold andMarianne journeyed to Munich to witness Wolfgang's triumph. It was aproud, happy moment for all three; the enthusiastic acclaim which shook thetheater seemed to the old father, who watched with swimming eyes the sea ofwaving 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 spokenof, grew more overbearing in his treatment; he was undoubtedly jealous thatgreat people of Vienna were so deferential to one of his servants, as hechose to call him. At last the rupture came; after a stormy scene Mozartwas dismissed from his service, and was free.

Father Mozart was alarmed when he heard the news of the break, andendeavored to induce Wolfgang to reconsider his decision and return toSalzburg. But the son took a firm stand for his independence. "Do not askme 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 offand he had but one pupil. He had numerous friends, however, and soon hisfortunes began to mend. He was lodging with his old friends the Webers.Aloysia, his former beloved, had married; Madame Weber and her twounmarried daughters were now in Vienna and in reduced circ*mstances.Mozart's latest opera, "The Elopement," had brought him fame both in Viennaand Prague, and he had the patronage of many distinguished persons, as wellas that of Emperor Josef.

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

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

Mozart now thought seriously of a journey to London and Paris, but hisfather's urgent appeal that he would wait and exercise patience, delayedhim. Meanwhile he carried out an ardent desire to pay a visit to his fatherand sister in Salzburg, to present to them his bride. It was a very happyvisit, 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 immersedin work, and it gladdened his heart to see the appreciation in which hisplaying and compositions were held. One happy evening they spent with JosefHaydn who, after hearing some of Mozart's quartets played, took the fatheraside, saying: "I declare before God, as a man of honor, that your son isthe greatest composer I know, either personally or by reputation. He hastaste, but more than that the most consummate knowledge of the art ofcomposition."

This happy time was to be the last meeting between father and son. Soonafter Leopold's return to Salzburg, he was stricken with illness, andpassed away May 28, 1787. The news reached the composer shortly after hehad achieved one of the greatest successes of his life. The performances ofhis latest opera, "The Marriage of Figaro," had been hailed with delightby enthusiastic crowds in Vienna and Prague; its songs were heard at everystreet corner, and village ale house. "Never was anything more completethan the triumph of Mozart and his 'Nozze di Figaro,'" wrote a singerand friend.—"And for Mozart himself, I shall never forget his face whenlighted up with the glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describeas to paint sunbeams."

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

Mozart was inclined to be somewhat extravagant in dress and householdexpenditure, also very generous to any one who needed assistance. Thesetrials, 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 alwaysassisted such dire distress. Mozart's father had declared procrastinationwas 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 greatestopera, "Don Giovanni"; the time was short, as the work was to be producedOctober 29. On the evening of the 28th it was found he had not yet writtenthe overture. It only had to be written down, for this wonderful genius hadthe music quite complete in his head. He set to work, while his wiferead fairy tales aloud to keep him awake, and gave him strong punch atintervals. By seven o'clock next morning the score was ready for thecopyist. It was played in the evening without rehearsal, with the inkscarcely dry on the paper.

Even the successes of "Don Giovanni," which was received with thunders ofapplause, failed to remedy his desperate financial straits. Shortly afterthis his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed he shouldaccompany him to Berlin. Mozart gladly consented, hoping for somebetterment to his fortunes. The King of Prussia received him with honorand respect and offered him the post of Capellmeister, at a salary equalto about three thousand dollars. This sum would have liberated him from allhis financial embarrassments, and he was strongly tempted to accept. Butloyalty 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 magicopera to help his friend Salieri, who had taken a little theater in thesuburb of Wieden. One day he was visited by a stranger, a tall man, whosaid he came to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem. He would neithergive his own name nor that of the person who had sent him.

Mozart was somewhat depressed by this mysterious commission; however he setto work on the Requiem at once. The composing of both this and the fairyopera was suddenly interrupted by a pressing request that he would writean opera for the coronation of Leopold II at Prague. The ceremony was fixedfor September 6, so no time was to be lost. Mozart set out at once forPrague. The traveling carriage was at the door. As he was about to enterit, the mysterious stranger suddenly appeared and enquired for the Requiem.The composer could only promise to finish on his return, when hastilyentering 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 withspirits depressed and body exhausted by overwork. However, he bracedhimself anew, and on September 30th, the new fairy opera, the "MagicFlute," was produced, and its success increased with each performance.

The Requiem was not yet finished and to this work Mozart now turned. Butthe strain and excitement he had undergone for the past few months had donetheir work: a succession of fainting spells overcame him, and the marvelouspowers which had always been his seemed no longer at his command. He fearedhe would not live to complete the work. "It is for myself I am writing theRequiem," 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 bypillows he tried to sing one of the passages. The effort was too great; themanuscript slipped from his nerveless hand and he fell back speechless withemotion. A few hours later, on the morning of December 5, 1791, this greatmaster of whom it was prophesied that he would cause all others tobe forgotten, passed from the scene of his many struggles and greatertriumphs.

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

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

The father, though harsh and stern, wished his boy to have as thorough aknowledge of music as his means would permit. The boy was also sent to thepublic school, where he picked up reading and writing, but did not makefriends very quickly with the other children. The fact was the childseemed wholly absorbed in music; of music he dreamed constantly; in thecompanionship of music he never could be lonely.

When Ludwig was nine his father, regarding him with satisfaction and somepride, declared he could teach him no more—and another master must befound. Those childhood years of hard toil had resulted in remarkableprogress, even with the sort of teaching he had received. The circ*mstancesof the family had not improved, for poverty had become acute, as the fatherbecame more and more addicted to drink. Just at this time, a new lodgerappeared, who was something of a musician, and arranged to teach the boyin part payment for his room. Ludwig wondered if he would turn out to be amore severe taskmaster than his father had been. The times and seasons whenhis instruction was given were at least unusual. Tobias Pfeiffer, as thenew lodger was called, soon discovered that father Beethoven generallyspent his evenings at the tavern. As an act of kindness, to keep hisdrunken landlord out of the way of the police, Tobias used to go to thetavern late at night and bring him safely home. Then he would go to thebedside of the sleeping boy, and awake him by telling him it was timefor practice. The two would go to the living room, where they would playtogether for several hours, improvising on original themes and playingduets. 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 hopeof bettering these unhappy conditions, Frau Beethoven undertook a tripthrough Holland with her boy, hoping that his playing in the homes ofthe wealthy might produce some money. The tour was successful in thatit relieved the pressing necessities of the moment, but the sturdy,independent spirit of the boy showed itself even then. "The Dutch are verystingy, and I shall take care not to trouble them again," he remarked to afriend.

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

Neefe was ordered to proceed with the Elector and Court to Münster, whichmeant to leave his organ in Bonn for a time. Before starting he calledLudwig to him and told him of his intended absence. "I must have anassistant to take my place at the organ here. Whom do you think I shouldappoint?" Seeing the boy had no inkling of his meaning, he continued: "Ihave 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 theservice, and receive the respect and deference due the position, quiteoverwhelmed the lad. Honors of this kind were very pleasant, but, alas,there was no money attached to the position, and this was what thestraitened family needed most sorely. The responsibilities of the positionand the confidence of Neefe spurred Ludwig on to a passion of work whichnothing could check. He began to compose; three sonatas for the pianofortewere written about this time. Before completing his thirteenth year, Ludwigobtained his first official appointment from the Elector; he became whatis called cembalist in the orchestra, which meant that he had to playthe piano in the orchestra, and conduct the band at rehearsals. With thisappointment there was no salary attached either, and it was not until ayear later when he was made second organist to the Court, under the newElector, Max Franz, that he began to receive a small salary, equal to aboutsixty-five dollars a year. We have seen that the straits of the family hadnot prevented Ludwig from pursuing his musical studies with great ardor.With his present attainments and his ambition for higher achievements, helonged to leave the little town of Bonn, and see something of the greatworld. Vienna was the center of the musical life of Germany; the boydreamed 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 thegoal of his ambition. When a kind friend, knowing his great longing, cameforward with an offer to pay the expenses of the journey, the lad knew hisdream was to become a reality. In Vienna he would see the first composersof the day; best of all he would see and meet the divine Mozart, thegreatest of them all.

Ludwig, now seventeen, set out for the city of his dreams with thebrightest anticipations. On his arrival in Vienna he went at once toMozart's house. He was received most kindly and asked to play, but Mozartseemed preoccupied and paid but little attention. Ludwig, seeing thisstopped playing and asked for a theme on which to improvise. Mozart gave asimple theme, and Beethoven, taking the slender thread, worked it up withso much feeling and power, that Mozart, who was now all attention andastonishment, stepped into the next room, where some friends were waitingfor him, and said, "Pay attention to this young man; he will make a noisein 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 Margarethapassed away. No doubt these sorrows were expressed in some of his mostbeautiful compositions. But brighter days followed the dark ones. He becameacquainted with the Breuning family, a widow lady and four children, threeboys and a girl, all young people. The youngest boy and the girl becamehis pupils, and all were very fond of him. He would stay at their housefor days at a time and was always treated as one of the family. They werecultured people, and in their society Beethoven's whole nature expanded.He began to take an interest in the literature of his own country andin English authors as well. All his spare time was given to reading andcomposition. A valuable acquaintance with the young Count Von Waldstein wasmade about this time. The Count called one day and found the composer athis old worn out piano, surrounded by signs of abject poverty. It wentto his heart to see that the young man, whose music he so greatly admiredshould have to struggle for the bare necessities of life while he himselfenjoyed every luxury. It seemed to him terribly unjust. He feared to offendthe composer's self-respect by sending him money, but shortly after thecall Beethoven was made happy by the gift of a fine new piano, in place ofhis old one. He was very grateful for this friendship and later dedicatedto the Count one of his finest sonatas, the Op. 53, known as the "WaldsteinSonata."

With a view of aiding the growth of the opera, and operatic art, theElector founded a national theater, and Beethoven was appointed violaplayer in the orchestra besides still being assistant organist in thechapel. In July, 1792, the band arranged a reception for Haydn, who wasto pass through Bonn on his way from London, where he had had a wonderfulsuccess, to his home in Vienna. Beethoven seized the opportunity to showthe master a cantata he had just composed. Haydn praised the work andgreatly encouraged the young musician to go forward in his studies. TheElector, hearing of Haydn's words of praise, felt that Beethoven shouldhave the chance to develop his talents that he might be able to producegreater works. Therefore he decided to send the young composer, at his ownexpense, to study strict counterpoint with Haydn. He was now twenty-two andhis compositions already published had brought him considerable fame andappreciation 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 secondtime for the city of his dreams—Vienna. He was never to see Bonn again.He arrived in Vienna comparatively unknown, but his fine piano playingand wonderful gift for improvising greatly impressed all who heard him. Heconstantly played in the homes of the wealthy aristocracy. Many who heardhim play, engaged lessons and he was well on the road to social success.Yet his brusque manners often antagonized his patrons. He made no effortto please or conciliate; he was obstinate and self-willed. In spite of allthis, the innate nobleness and truth of his character retained the regardof men and women belonging to the highest ranks of society. With the Princeand Princess Lichnowsky Beethoven shortly became very intimate, and wasinvited to stay at the Palace. The Princess looked after his personalcomfort with as motherly an affection as Madame Breuning had done. Theetiquette of the Palace however, offended Ludwig's love of Bohemianism,especially the dressing for dinner at a certain time. He took to dining ata tavern quite frequently, and finally engaged lodgings. The Prince and hisgood lady, far from taking offense at this unmannerly behavior, forgave itand always kept for Beethoven a warm place in their hearts, while he, onhis part was sincere in his affection for his kind friends.

Beethoven began his lessons with Haydn, but they did not seem to get onwell together. The pupil thought the master did not give him enough timeand attention. When Haydn went to England, about a year after the lessonsbegan, Beethoven studied with several of the best musicians of the city,both in playing and composition. Albrechtsberger, one of these, was afamous contrapuntist of his time, and the student gained much from histeaching. The young musician was irresistible when he seated himself at thepiano 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 frequentlyall eyes would be wet, and some listeners would sob; there was somethingwonderful in his expressive style, the beauty and originality of his ideasand his spirited way of playing." Strange to say the emotion he rousedin his hearers seemed to find no response in Beethoven himself. He wouldsometimes laugh at it, at other times he would resent it, saying, "Weartists don't want tears, we want applause." These expressions howeveronly concealed his inner feelings—for he was very sympathetic with thosefriends he loved. His anger, though sharp, was of short duration, but hissuspicions of those whose confidence he had won by his genius and force ofcharacter, were the cause of much suffering to himself and others.

Beethoven in appearance was short and stockily built; his face was notat all good looking. It is said he was generally meanly dressed and washomely, but full of nobility, fine feeling and highly cultivated. The eyeswere black and bright, and they dilated, when the composer was lostin thought, in a way that made him look inspired. A mass of dark hairsurmounted a high broad forehead. He often looked gloomy, but when hesmiled it was with a radiant brightness. His hands were strong and thefingers short and pressed out with much practise. He was very particularabout hand position when playing. As a conductor he made many movements,and is said to have crouched below the desk in soft passages; in Crescendoshe would gradually lift himself up until at the loudest parts he wouldrise to his full height with arms extended, even springing into the air, asthough he would float in space.

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

Beethoven loved nature as much or more than any musician ever did. How hehailed the spring because he knew the time would soon come when he couldclose the door of his lodgings in the hot city, and slip away to some quietspot and hold sweet communion with nature. A forest was a paradise, wherehe could ramble among the trees and dream. Or he would select a tree wherea forking branch would form a seat near the ground. He would climb up andsit in it for hours, lost in thought. Leaning against the trunk of a limetree, his eyes fixed upon the network of leaves and branches above him, hesketched the plan of his oratorio "The Mount of Olives"; also that of hisone opera "Fidelio," and the third Symphony, known as the "Eroica." Hewrote to a friend, "No man loves the country more than I. Woods, trees androcks 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 fearof becoming a victim of this malady made the composer more sensitive thanever. He was not yet thirty when this happened, and believing his life workat an end, he became deeply depressed. Various treatments were tried forincreasing 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 aTrio. By his advice the composer went for the summer of 1820 to the littlevillage of Heiligenstadt (which means Holy City) in the hope that the calm,sweet environment would act as a balm to his troubled mind. During thisperiod of rest and quiet his health improved somewhat, but from now on hehad to give up conducting his works, on account of his deafness.

It may be thought that one so reticent and retiring, of such hasty temperand brusque manners, would scarcely be attracted to women. But Beethoven,it is said, was very susceptible to the charm of the opposite sex. He washowever, most careful and high-souled in all his relations with women. Hewas frequently in love, but it was usually a Platonic affection. For theCountess Julie Guicciardi he protested the most passionate love, which wasin a measure returned. She was doubtless his "immortal beloved," whose namevibrates through the Adagio of the "Moonlight Sonata," which is dedicatedto her. He wrote her the most adoring letters; but the union, which heseemed to desire so intensely, was never brought about, though the reasonis not known. For Bettina von Arnim, Goethe's little friend, he conceived atender 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 purelyPlatonic affection. The composer was unfortunate in his attachments, forthe objects were always of a much higher social standing than himself. Ashe constantly associated with people of rank and culture, it was naturalthat the young girl nobly born, with all the fascinations of the high bredaristocrat, should attract him far more than the ordinary woman of his ownclass. And thus it happened that several times he staked his chances ofhappiness on a love he knew could never be consummated. Yet no one needed akind, helpful, sympathetic wife more than did our poet-musician. She wouldhave soothed his sensitive soul when he suffered from fancied wrongs,shielded him from intrusion, shared his sorrows and triumphs, and attendedto his house-keeping arrangements, which were always in a sad state ofconfusion. This blissful state was seemingly not for him. It was best forthe great genius to devote himself wholly to his divine art, and to createthose 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 tohonor 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, torethe 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, heconsented to publish it under the title by which it is now known.

When we consider the number and greatness of Beethoven's compositions westand aghast at the amount of labor he accomplished. "I live only in mymusic," 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 ofexpression, and through his music we can reach his heart and know the manas he really was. At heart he was a man capable of loving deeply and mostworthy to be loved.

Of the composer's two brothers, one had passed away and had left his boyCarl, named after himself, as a solemn charge, to be brought up by UncleLudwig as his own son. The composer took up this task generously andunselfishly. He was happy to have the little lad near him, one of his ownkin to love. But as Carl grew to young manhood he proved to be utterlyunworthy of all this affection. He treated his good uncle shamefully, stolemoney 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'sdissolute habits saddened the master's life, estranged him from his friendsand hastened his death.

How simple and modest was this great master, in face of his mightyachievements! He wrote to a friend in 1824: "I feel as if I had scarcelywritten more than a few notes." These later years had been more than fullof work and anxiety. Totally deaf, entirely thrown in upon himself, oftenweak and ill, the master kept on creating work after work of the highestbeauty and grandeur.

Ludwig van Beethoven passed from this plane March 26, 1827, having recentlycompleted his fifty-sixth year, and was laid to rest in the WähringCemetery near Vienna. Unlike Mozart, he was buried with much honor. Twentythousand people followed him to his grave. Among them was Schubert, who hadvisited him on his deathbed, and was one of the torch bearers. Several ofthe Master's compositions were sung by a choir of male voices, accompaniedby 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, thecareer they were to follow was often decided by the father, who determinedto form them into wonder children, either for monetary gain or for thehonor and glory of the family. The subject of this story is an example ofsuch a preconceived plan.

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

Little Carl Maria Friedrich Ernst, to give his full name, was born December18, 1786, at Eutin, a little town in Lower Saxony. He was the first childof a second marriage, and before the baby boy could speak, his career hadbeen planned; the father had made up his mind to develop his son into anextraordinary musical genius. It is not recorded what his young mother, adelicate girl of seventeen, thought about it; probably her ideas forher baby son did not enter into the father's plan. Mother and child wereobliged to follow in the train of the wandering comedians, so baby Carl wasbrought up amid the properties of stage business. Scenery, canvas, paintsand stage lights were the materials upon which Carl's imagination was fed.He learned stage language with his earliest breath; it is no wonder heturned 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 thesweet air of nature, the flowers, the sunshine and blue sky. No, he muststay indoors much of the time and find his playmates among cardboardcastles and painted canvas streets. This treatment was not conducive torosy cheeks and strong, sturdy little legs. Then, before the delicate childwas six years old, a violin was put into his hand, and if his progress onit was thought to be too slow by his impatient father, he was treated toraps and blows by way of incentive to work yet harder. His teachers, too,were continually changing, as the comedians had to travel about from placeto place. After awhile he was taken in hand by Michael Haydn, a brotherof the great Josef. Michael was a famous musician himself and seldom gavelessons to any one. But he was interested in Carl and took charge of hismusical 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." Theywere both performed, but neither made a hit.

When Carl was seventeen, the father decided he should go to Vienna, forthere he would meet all the great musicians of the time. The boy was at themost impressionable age: he was lively, witty, with pleasant manners andamiable disposition; he soon became a favorite in the highest musicalcircles. It was a gay life and the inexperienced youth yielded to itsallurements. In the meantime he did some serious studying under thefamous Abbé Vogler. The following year the Abbé recommended him to theconductorship of the Breslau Opera House. This was a very difficult postfor a boy of eighteen, and he encountered much jealousy and oppositionfrom the older musicians, who did not relish finding themselves under theleadership of such a youth. A year served to disgust him with the work andhe 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. FromBreslau 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 cloudsgathered and the gay Court life came to an end. Music under the presentconditions could no longer support him, as the whole social state ofGermany had altered. The young composer was forced to earn his livelihoodin some way, and now became private secretary to Prince Ludwig ofWurtemburg, whose Court was held at Stuttgart. The gay, dissolute lifeat the Court was full of temptation for our young composer, yet he foundconsiderable time for composition; his opera "Sylvana" was the result,besides several smaller things. During the Stuttgart period, his financesbecame so low, that on one occasion he had to spend several days in prisonfor debt. Determined to recruit his fortunes, he began traveling to othertowns to make known his art. In Mannheim, Darmstadt and Baden, he gaveconcerts, bringing out in each place some of his newer pieces, and earningenough at each concert to last a few weeks, when another concert would keepthe wolf from the door a little longer.

In 1810, when he was twenty-four, he finished his pretty opera "AbuHassan," which, on the suggestion of his venerable master, Vogler, hededicated to the Grand Duke. The Duke accepted the dedication with evidentpleasure, and sent Carl a purse of gold, in value about two hundreddollars. The opera was performed on February 6, 1811, and its reception wasvery gratifying to the composer. The Grand Duke took one hundred and twentytickets and the performance netted over two hundred florins clear profit.It was after this that Carl Maria went on a tour of the principal Germancities and gave concerts in Munich, Prague, Berlin, Dresden and otherplaces. He was everywhere welcomed, his talents and charming mannerswinning friends everywhere. Especially in Prague he found the highest andnoblest aristocracy ready to bid him welcome.

Weber paid a visit to Liebich, director of the Prague theater, almost assoon 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 fifteenhundred florins for the two. Is it a bargain?" Weber accepted, and promisedto return the next spring to conduct the operas. He kept his promise, andthe result was much better than he ever dreamed. For beyond the performanceof his operas, he was offered the post of music director of the Praguetheater, which post was just then vacant. The salary was two thousandflorins, with a benefit concert at a guaranteed sum of one thousand more,and three months leave of absence every year. This assured sum gave youngWeber 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 orchestraplaced in his charge. Before long he had drilled it to a high state ofexcellence. Many new operas were put on the stage in quick succession.Thus Weber worked on with great industry for three years. The success heachieved created enemies, and perhaps because of intrigues, envy and illfeeling which had arisen, he resigned his post in 1816. The three years inPrague had been fruitful in new compositions. Several fine piano sonatas,a set of "National Songs," and the Cantata, "Kampf und Sieg," (Struggle andVictory). This last work soon became known all over Germany and made thegifted young composer very popular. During this period Weber became engagedto Caroline Brandt, a charming singer, who created the title rôle in hisopera of "Sylvana."

Weber had many kind, influential friends in Prague, who admired his zealand efficiency as music director. One of them, Count Vitzhum, did all hecould to secure Weber for Dresden. On Christmas morning, 1816, he receivedthe appointment. He wrote to Caroline: "Long did I look on Count Vitzhum'sletter without daring to open it. Did it contain joy or sorrow? At lengthI took courage and broke the seal. It was joy! I am Capellmeister to hisMajesty 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 yousay? 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 viewthe prospect was not as bright as it had appeared at first. There was arival faction, strongly opposed to his plans for the promotion of Germanopera. There had never been anything tolerated at Dresden but Italianopera, and there were many talented Italian singers to interpret them.Weber was encouraged by a new national spirit, which he felt would favorGerman opera, and was determined to conquer at all costs. He finallysucceeded, 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 easilyswallowed." It was the same kind of fight that Handel waged in England, andthat Gluck fought against the Piccinists.

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

In spite of Italian opposition which still continued, Weber's effortsto establish German opera kept right on, until at last it became a Stateinstitution, and the composer was appointed musical director for life. Withthis bright prospect in view he was able to wed his beloved Caroline. Theywere married on November 4. A quotation from his diary shows the talentedmusician had become a serious, earnest man. "May God bless our union, andgrant me strength and power to make my beloved Lina as happy and contentedas 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 withCaroline seemed to put new life and energy into him, and as a result hisworks became quickly known all over Europe. His mind was literally teemingwith original themes, which crowded each other, struggling to be expressed.First there was the "Mass in E flat," a beautiful, original work; thena festal Cantata, "Nature and Love," written to celebrate the Queen ofSaxony's birthday. After this the "Jubilee Cantata," composed to celebratethe fiftieth anniversary of the reign of Augustus, of Saxony. The Italianfaction prevented a performance of the whole work, and only the Overturewas given. When the entire work was heard it made a great sensation. Nowcame a Jubilee Mass and some piano pieces, among them the charming andfamous "Invitation to the Dance," with which every one is familiar. Whilewriting all these works, the composer was busy with one of his greatestoperas, "Der Freischütz." On May 8, 1820, a hundred years ago, the scoreof "Der Freischütz," was sent to the director of the Berlin theater, anddirectly put in rehearsal. The rehearsals had not proceeded very far beforeWeber, the tireless ceaseless worker, had finished his important opera,"Preciosa," which was also despatched to Berlin. "Preciosa" was broughtout before "Der Freischütz," which was just as it should be, as the publicneeded to be educated up to the "Freischütz" music. "Preciosa" was foundedon a Spanish story, "The Gypsy of Madrid," and Weber has written forit some of his most charming melodies, full of Spanish color, life andvivacity. 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 theleading themes and melodies of the operas themselves, showing with whatskill the artist wrought. When Weber's widow presented the original scoreof "Der Freischütz" to the Royal Library in Berlin, it was found there wasnot a single erasure or correction in the whole work.

On June 18, 1821, came the first performance of Weber's masterpiece, "DerFreischütz." The theater was beseiged for hours by eager crowds, and whenthe doors were at last opened, there was a grand rush to enter. The wholehouse from pit to galleries was soon filled, and when the composer enteredthe orchestra, there was a roar of applause, which it seemed would neverend. As the performance proceeded, the listeners became more charmed andcarried away, and at the close there was a wild scene of excitement. Thesuccess had been tremendous, and the frequent repetitions demanded soonfilled the treasury of the theater. Everybody was happy, the composer mostof all. The melodies were played on every piano in Germany and whistledby every street urchin. Its fame spread like lightning over Europe, andquickly reached England. In London the whole atmosphere seemed to vibratewith its melodies. In Paris, however, it did not please on first hearing,perhaps because it was so thoroughly German. But somewhat later, whenrenamed "Robin des Bois,"—"Robin of the Forest,"—it was performed somethree 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 halfdemented woman, Helmine von Chezy, but Weber set out to produce the bestopera he was capable of, and to this story he has joined some wonderfulmusic. It was his favorite work; he wrote to his beloved wife two hoursbefore the first performance: "I rely on God and my 'Euryanthe.'" The operawas 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 wrotehis wife after the performance: "Thank God, as I do, beloved wife, for theglorious success of 'Euryanthe.' Weary as I am, I must still say a sweet good nightto 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 herteens, though giving high promise of the great things she achieved a fewyears later. Strange to say, a short time after its first appearance,"Euryanthe" failed to draw. One reason might have been laid to thepoor libretto, another to the rumor, started, it is said, by no less anauthority 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 heshould have visited him before, not after the performance. Headvised him to do what he himself had done to "Fidelio," cut out nearly athird 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'sdelicate health, and he returned to Dresden in an exhausted state. Therewas no rest for him here, as official duties were pressing. The maladyafflicting his lungs had made rapid progress and he began to fear he shouldnot be long spared to his wife and little ones.

He shook off the apathy and took up his pen once more. His fame was knownall over Europe and many tempting offers came in from all directions. Oneof 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 forproduction there. "Oberon" was the subject at last decided upon; it wastaken from an old French romance. Weber at once set to work on the music ofthis fairy opera, and with the exception of the overture, had finished thework in time to bring it to London in 1826. He was ill and suffering at thetime he left home, February 7, and it seemed as though he were bidding afinal good-by to his wife and little ones.

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

"Oberon" was given at Covent Garden on April 12. The house was packed frompit to dome, and the success was tremendous. Next morning the composer wasin a highly nervous and exhausted state, but felt he must keep his promiseto Kemble and conduct the first twelve performances of "Oberon." He was tohave a benefit concert, and hoped through this to have a goodly sum to takeback to his little family. Sad to relate, on the evening chosen, May 26, aheavy rain fell and the hall was nearly empty. After the concert he wasso weak he had to be assisted from the room. The physician orderedpostponement of the journey home, but he cried continually, "I must go tomy 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 finallyfulfilled. Eighteen years after, his remains were brought to Dresden, andthe composer was at last at home.

IX

FRANZ SCHUBERT

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

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

His father kept a school here; there were five children, four boys anda girl to provide for, and as there was nothing to depend on butthe school-master's pay, it is easy to see the family was in poorcirc*mstances, though the wife managed most carefully to make ends meet.They were a very devoted family altogether. Little Franz early showed adecided fondness for music, and tried to pick out bits of tunes of his ownby ear on an old dilapidated piano the family possessed. He made friendswith a young apprentice who took him sometimes to a piano wareroom in thecity, 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 fatherteaching him violin and his big brother Ignaz, the piano. Franz, in hiseagerness to learn soon outstripped his home teachers, and told them hecould go on alone. It was then decided he should go to the parish choirmaster, Holzer, to learn piano, violin, organ, singing and thorough bass.Soon Holzer was astonished at the boy's progress. "Whenever I begin toteach him anything I find he knows it already; I never had such a pupilbefore." By the time Franz was eleven, his voice had come out so well thathe was given the place of head soprano in the parish church, and playedviolin solos whenever they occurred in the service. He had even begun athome to compose and write down little piano pieces and songs. The parentsconsidered that this remarkable talent should be cultivated further, ifpossible, in order that it might assist the slender purse of the family.There was a choir school, called the Convict, which trained its boys forthe 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 haircovered by an old fashioned hat, presented himself for examination by theCourt Capellmeister and the singing master. The other boys jeered at hisodd 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 wasso astonishing that he was passed in at once, and ordered to put on theuniform of the imperial choristers.

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

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

Five years the boy Franz Schubert remained at the Convict School and as hehad decided to give himself entirely to music, there was no reason for hisremaining longer in the school. At the end of the year 1813, he left, andhis departure was celebrated by the composition of his first Symphony, inhonor of Dr. Lang, the musical director. The lad, now seventeen, stood atthe beginning of his career; he was full of hope and energy, and determinedto follow in the footsteps of the great masters of music. Of all hiscompositions 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 meantseveral years of virtual captivity, for conscription could not be avoided.The only other thing he could do was to return home and become a teacherin his father's school. He chose the lesser evil and qualified at once tobecome his father's assistant, which would also assure him a certain amountof 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 helonged to have it over, that he might put on paper all the lovely themesthat had come to him through the school day. Other bright spots were thehappy hours he spent with the Grob family, who lived also in the districtof Lichtenthal. The family consisted of a mother, a son and daughter. Theywere all musical. Therese Grob had a fine voice and she enjoyed the songsSchubert brought her to sing, while her brother Heinrich could play bothpiano and 'cello. Many evenings filled with music were passed by the youngpeople. 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 churchwhere the composer himself regularly attended. During 1814, Schubertcomposed his first mass, which was performed October 16. It excited so muchinterest that it was repeated ten days later at the Augustine church. Franzconducted, the choir was led by Holzer, Ferdinand sat at the organ, andTherese sang the soprano solos. In the audience sat old Salieri, CourtCapellmeister of Vienna, with whom Beethoven had studied. Salieri praisedSchubert for his work, and said that he should become his pupil. He kepthis word and gave the young composer daily lessons for some time. Thefather was so proud and happy that he bought a five octave piano for hisboy, to celebrate the event.

Schubert added many compositions to his list this year, among themseventeen songs, including "Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel." Hisacquaintance with the poet Johann Mayrhofer, with whom he soon becameintimate, was of benefit to both. The poet produced verses that his friendmight set to music. The following year, 1815, he wrote a hundred andthirty-seven songs, to say nothing of six operas, and much music for churchand 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. Someof the songs were quite long, making between twenty and thirty pages whenprinted.

A new friend came into Schubert's life the next year. His name was FranzSchober, and he intended entering the University in Vienna. Being a greatlover 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. Hefound the young musician at his desk very busily writing. School work wasover for the day, and he could compose in peace. The two young men becamefriends at once, for they felt the sympathetic bond between them. They weresoon talking as though they had always known each other. In a few wordsSchubert told his new friend how he was situated at home, and how hedisliked the daily drudgery of school teaching. On hearing of these trialsSchober suggested they should make a home together, which arrangement wouldfree the composer from the grinding life he was living and enable himto give his whole time to his art. The proposal delighted Franz, and thefather willingly gave his consent. And so it came about that the composerwas free at last, and took up his abode at his friend's lodgings. Heinsisted on giving him musical instruction, to make some return for all hiskindness, though this did not last long, owing to the dislike Franz alwayshad for teaching of any sort.

Schubert, at the age of twenty-four, had composed a great quantity ofmusic, but none of it had as yet been published. He was almost unknown, andpublishers 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 oftimes, they won instant recognition and success. Seeing that the publisherswere unwilling to print the work of an unknown musician, two of Schubert'sfriends undertook to publish the "Erlking," one of his first songs, attheir own risk. At the Sonnleithner mansion, where musicals were regularlyheld, the "Erlking" had been much applauded, and when it was decided tohave it published, the decision was announced. A hundred copies were atonce subscribed for, and with this encouragement the engraving of the"Erlking" and "Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel" was forthwith begun. Thepieces were sold by the music publishers on commission. The plan succeededbeyond expectation, so that other songs were issued in the same way, until,when seven had appeared the publishers were willing to risk the engravingof 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 patronizedby royalty. The song was received with storms of applause. Schober, whoknew the singer, constantly talked to him about the gifts of his friendand begged him to come and see Schubert. At last one day he consented. Theyfound the composer hard at work as usual, music sheets covering the flooras well as the table and chair. Vogl, used to the highest society, madehimself quite at home and did his best to put Schubert at his ease, butthe composer remained shy and confused. The singer began looking oversome manuscripts. When he left he shook Schubert's hand warmly, remarking;"There is stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead ofmaking the most of them."

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

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

At the Esterházy country estate of Zelész, he heard many Hungarian melodiessung or played by the gipsies, or by servants in the castle. He hasemployed some of these tunes in his first set of Valses. In his presentposition he had much leisure for composition. Indeed Franz Schubert's wholelife was spent in giving out the vast treasures of melody with which he hadbeen so richly endowed. These flowed from his pen in a constant stream, onebeautiful work after another. He wrote them down wherever he happened to beand when a scrap of paper could be had. The exquisite song "Hark, Hark theLark" was jotted down on the back of a bill of fare, in a beer garden. Thebeautiful works which he produced day after day brought him little or nomoney, perhaps because he was so modest and retiring, modestly undervaluingeverything he did. He had no desire to push himself, but wrote becauseimpelled to by the urge within. So little did he sometimes value his workthat a fine composition would be tucked away somewhere and quite forgotten.His physical strength was not robust enough to stand the strain of constantcomposition. Then too, when funds were very low, as they often were, hetook poor lodgings, and denied himself the necessary nourishing food. If hecould have had a dear companion to look after his material needs and sharehis aims and aspirations, his earthly life might have been prolonged formany a year. With no one to advise him, and often pressed with hunger andpoverty, 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 fourhundred dollars. It is said the publishers made on the "Wanderer" alone, upto the year 1861, a sum of about five thousand five hundred dollars. It istrue that "everything he touched turned to music," as Schumann once said ofhim. The hours of sleep were more and more curtailed, for he wrote lateat night and rose early the next day. It is even said he slept in hisspectacles, 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 isseen 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 dedicatedthem to Beethoven. He greatly desired to present them in person to themaster he adored, but was too shy to go alone. Diabelli, the publisher,finally went with him. Beethoven was courteous but formal, pushing paperand pencil toward his guest, as he was totally deaf. Schubert was tooshy to write a single word. However he produced his Variations. Beethovenseemed pleased with the dedication, and looked through the music. Soon hefound something in it he did not approve of and pointed it out. The youngauthor, losing his presence of mind, fled from the house. But Beethovenreally liked the music and often played it to his nephew.

Five years later, during his last illness, a collection of some sixty ofSchubert's songs was placed in his hands. He turned them over and over withamazement and delight. "Truly Schubert has the divine fire," he exclaimed.He wanted to see the composer of such beautiful music. Schubert came andwas allowed to have a talk with him first, before other friends who werewaiting. 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 stoodabout him. Overcome with emotion, Schubert left the room.

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

About the end of October, 1828, he began to show signs of a seriousbreakdown. He was living at the home of his brother Ferdinand, in one ofthe suburbs of the city. Although he revived a little during the earlypart of November, so that he could resume walks in the neighborhood, theweakness increased, and eleven days passed without food or drink. Lingeringtill the nineteenth of November, he passed peacefully away, still in hisearly manhood. The old father, the schoolmaster at the old home, hoped tohave his son buried in the little cemetery near by. But Ferdinand knewhis brother's wish, to be placed near Beethoven in Währinger Cemetery. Themonument, 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 deservedthe title. Blest with a most cheerful disposition, with the power tomake friends of every one he met, and wherever he went, the son of a richbanker, surrounded with everything that wealth could give, it was indeed nowonder that Felix Mendelssohn was happy. He did not have to struggle withpoverty and privation as most of the other great musicians were forced todo. Their music was often the expression of struggle and sorrow. He hadnone of these things to bear; he was carefree and happy, and his musicreflects the joyous contentment of his life.

The Mendelssohn family originally lived in Hamburg. Their house faced oneof the fine squares of the city, with a handsome church on the oppositeside. The building is still there and well preserved, although theprincipal story is used as public dining rooms. A large tablet has beenplaced above the doorway, with a likeness of the composer encircled by awreath of laurel. Here little Felix was born, February 3, 1809. There wereother children, Fanny a year or two older, then after Felix came Rebekkaand little Paul. When French soldiers occupied the town in 1811, lifebecame very unpleasant for the German residents, and whoever could, soughtrefuge in other cities and towns. Among those who successfully made theirescape was the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy family, the second name belonged tothe family and was used to distinguish their own from other branches of theMendelssohn family. With his wife and children, Abraham Mendelssohn fledto Berlin, and made his home for some years with the grandmother, who hada house on the Neue Promenade, a fine broad street, with houses only onone side, the opposite side descended in a grassy slope to the canal, whichflowed lazily by.

It was a happy life the children led, amid ideal surroundings. Felix veryearly showed a great fondness for music, and everything was done tofoster his budding talent. With his sister Fanny, to whom he was devotedlyattached, he began to have short music lessons from his mother when hewas only four years old. Their progress was so satisfactory, that after awhile, professional musicians were engaged to teach them piano, violin andcomposition, as a regular part of their education. Besides these, they muststudy Greek, Latin, drawing and school subjects. With so much study tobe done each day, it was necessary to begin work at five o'clock in themorning. But in spite of hard work all were happy, and as for Felix nothingcould dampen the flow of his high spirits; he enjoyed equally work andplay, giving the same earnest attention to each. Both he and Fanny werebeginning to compose, and Felix's attempts at improvising upon some comicalincident in their play time would call forth peals of laughter from theinseparable children.

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

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

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

The boy Felix had a wonderful gift for making friends. One day he suddenlycaught 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 latelyvisited his parents. The boy's dark eyes glowed with pleasure at therecognition, and tossing back his curls, he sprang forward and threwhis arms about Weber's neck, begging him to go home with him. When theastonished musician recovered himself, he presented the boy to JulesBenedict, his young friend and pupil who walked at his side, saying, "Thisis Felix Mendelssohn." For response Felix, with a bright look, seizedthe young man's hand in both his own. Weber stood by smiling at the boy'senthusiasm. Again Felix besought them to come home with him, but Weber hadto 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 heought to for he has been bored enough with it already." The boy's eyesflashed.

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

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

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

When they arrived, Goethe was walking in his garden. He greeted both withkindness and affection, and it was arranged that Felix should play for himnext day. Zelter had told Goethe much about his pupil's unusual talents,but the poet wished to prove these accounts by his own tests. Selectingpiece after piece of manuscript music from his collection, he asked the boyto play them at sight. He was able to do so with ease, to the astonishmentof the friends who had come in to hear him. They were more delighted whenhe took a theme from one of the pieces and improvised upon it. Withholdinghis praise, Goethe announced he had a final test, and placed on the musicdesk a sheet which seemed covered with mere scratches and blotches. The boylaughingly exclaimed, "Who could ever read such writing as that?"Zelter rose and came to the piano to look at this curiosity. "Why, it isBeethoven's writing; one can see that a mile off! He always wrote as if heused 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 theend he cried, "Now I will play it through for you," which he did withouta mistake. Goethe was well pleased and begged Felix to come every dayand play, while he was in the city. The two became fast friends; the poettreated 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 wholefamily made a tour through Switzerland, much to the delight of Felix, whoenjoyed 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 bythe view of Lake Geneva and its exquisite surroundings.

When Felix returned to Berlin, he had grown much, physically as well asmentally. 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 thefamily removed from their home on the Neue Promenade, to a larger and morestately mansion, No. 3 Leipsiger Strasse, then situated on the outskirts ofthe 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 heartof traffic and business. The rooms of the new home were large and elegant,with a spacious salon suitable for musicals and large functions. A finegarden or park belonged to the house, where were lawns shaded by foresttrees, winding paths, flowering shrubs and arbors in shady nooks, offeringquiet retreats. Best of all there was a garden house, with a central hall,which would hold several hundred people, having long windows and glassdoors looking out upon the trees and flowers. Sunday concerts were soonresumed and given in the garden house, where, on week days the young peoplemet, with friends and elders, to play, and act and enjoy the social lifeof the home. The mansion and its hospitality became famous, and everygreat musician, at one time or another, came to pay his respects and becomeacquainted with this art-loving family.

At a family party in honor of Felix's fifteenth birthday, his teacherZelter saluted him as no longer an apprentice, but as an "assistant" andmember of the Brotherhood of Art. Very soon after this the young composercompleted two important works. The first was an Octet for strings. He wasnot yet seventeen when the Octet was finished, which was pronounced themost fresh and original work he had yet accomplished. It marked a distinctstage in the gifted youth's development. The composition which followed wasthe beautiful "Midsummer Night's Dream" music. He and his sister Fanny hadlately made the acquaintance of Shakespeare through a German translation,and had been fascinated by this fairy play. The young people spent muchof their time in the lovely garden that summer, and amid these delightfulsurroundings the music was conceived.

The Overture was first to spring into being. When it was written out, Felixand Fanny often played it as a duet. In this form the composer-pianistMoscheles heard it and was impressed by its beauty. The fascinating Scherzoand dreamy Nocturne followed. When all were elaborated and perfected, thecomplete work was performed by the garden house orchestra for a crowdedaudience, who abundantly expressed their delight. Sir G. Macfarren hassaid of it: "No one musical work contains so many points of harmony andorchestration 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 beenforming for some time; this was nothing less than to do something to arousepeople 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 copiedfrom the manuscript preserved in the Singakademie. The old man was adevoted 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 towork to master it, until he knew every bit of it by heart. As he studiedit deeply he was more and more impressed with its beauty and sublimity. Hecould hardly believe that this great work was unknown throughout Germany,since more than a hundred years had passed since it had been written. Hedetermined to do something to arouse people from such apathy.

Talking the matter over with musicians and friends, he began to interestthem in the plan to study the music of the Passion. Soon he had securedsixteen good voices, who rehearsed at his home once a week. His enthusiasmfired them to study the music seriously, and before very long they wereanxious to give a public performance. There was a splendid choir of nearlyfour hundred voices conducted by Zelter, at the Singakademie; if he wouldonly lend his chorus to give a trial performance, under Mendelssohn'sconducting, how splendid that would be! But Felix knew that Zelter hadno faith in the public taking any interest in Bach, so there was nouse asking. This opinion was opposed by one of his little choir, namedDevrient, who insisted that Zelter should be approached on the subject.As he himself had been a pupil of Zelter, he persuaded Mendelssohn toaccompany him to the director's house.

Zelter was found seated at his instrument, enveloped by a cloud of smokefrom a long stemmed pipe. Devrient unfolded the plan of bringing this greatwork of Bach to the knowledge of the public. The old man listened to theirplea with growing impatience, until he became quite excited, rose from hischair and paced the floor with great strides, exclaiming, "No, it is not tobe thought of—it is a mad scheme." To Felix argument then seemed uselessand he beckoned his friend to come away, but Devrient refused to move,and kept up his persuasive argument. Finally, as though a miracle had beenwrought, Zelter began to weaken, and at last gave in, and besides promisedall the aid in his power.

How this youth, not yet twenty, undertook the great task of preparing thismasterpiece, and what he accomplished is little short of the marvelous. Thepublic performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took place March 11, 1829,with every ticket sold and more than a thousand persons turned away. Asecond performance was given on March 21, the anniversary of Bach's birth,before a packed house. These performances marked the beginning of a greatBach revival in Germany and England, and the love for this music has neverbeen lost, but increases each year.

And now it seemed best for Felix to travel and see something of othercountries. He had long wished to visit England, and the present seemed afavorable time, as his friends there assured him of a warm welcome. Thepleasure he felt on reaching London was increased by the enthusiasticgreeting he received at the hands of the musical public. He first appearedat a Philharmonic concert on May 25, when his Symphony in C minor wasplayed. The next day he wrote to Fanny: "The success of the concert lastnight was beyond all I had ever dreamed. It began with my Symphony. I wasled 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 repeatit. After the Finale there was lots more applause, while I was thanking theorchestra and shaking hands, till I left the room."

A continual round of functions interspersed with concerts at which heplayed or conducted, filled the young composer's time. The overture to"Midsummer Night's Dream" was played several times and always receivedwith enthusiasm. On one occasion a friend was so careless as to leave themanuscript 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, withoutmaking a single error.

When the London season closed, Mendelssohn and his friend Klingemann wentup to Scotland, where he was deeply impressed with the varied beauty ofthe scenery. Perhaps the Hebrides enthralled him most, with their lonelygrandeur. His impressions have been preserved in the Overture to "Fingal'sCave," while from the whole trip he gained inspiration for the ScottishSymphony.

On his return to London and before he could set out for Berlin, Felixinjured his knee, which laid him up for several weeks, and prevented hispresence at the home marriage of his sister Fanny, to William Hensel, theyoung painter. This was a keen disappointment to all, but Fanny was notto be separated from her family, as on Mendelssohn's return, he found theyoung couple had taken up their residence in the Gartenhaus.

Mendelssohn had been greatly pleased with his London visit, and though thegrand tour he had planned was really only begun, he felt a strong desireto return to England. However, other countries had to be visited first. Thefollowing May he started south, bound for Vienna, Florence and Rome. Hisway led through Wiemar and gave opportunity for a last visit to Goethe.They passed a number of days in sympathetic companionship. The poet alwayswanted music, but did not seem to care for Beethoven's compositions,which he said did not touch him at all, though he felt they were great,astonishing.

After visiting numerous German cities, Switzerland was reached and itswonderful scenery stirred Mendelssohn's poetic soul to the depths.Yet, though his passionate love of nature was so impressed by the greatmountains, forests and waterfalls, it was the sea which he loved best ofall. As he approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the sun lightedbay, he exclaimed: "To me it is the finest object in nature! I love italmost more than the sky. I always feel happy when I see before me the wideexpanse of water." Rome, of course, was a center of fascination. Every dayhe picked out some special object of interest to visit, which made thatparticular day one never to be forgotten. The tour lasted until the springof 1832, before Mendelssohn returned to his home in Berlin, only to leaveit shortly afterwards to return to London. This great city, in spite of itsfogs, noises and turmoil, appealed to him more than the sunshine of Naples,the fascination of Florence or the beauty of Rome.

The comment on Mendelssohn that "he lived years where others only livedweeks," gives a faint idea of the fulness with which his time was occupied.It is only possible to touch on his activities in composition, for hewas always at work. In May 1836 when he was twenty-seven, he conducted inDüsseldorf the first performance of his oratorio of "St. Paul." At thisperiod he wrote many of those charming piano pieces which he called "Songswithout Words." This same year brought deepest happiness to Mendelssohn,in his engagement to Cécile Jean-Renaud, the beautiful daughter of aFrench Protestant clergyman. The following spring they were married, a truemarriage of love and stedfast devotion.

The greatest work of Mendelssohn's career was his oratorio of "Elijah"which had long grown in his mind, until it was on the eve of completionin the spring of 1846. In a letter to the famous singer Jenny Lind, anintimate friend, he writes: "I am jumping about my room for joy. If my workturns out half as good as I fancy it is, how pleased I shall be."

During these years in which he conceived the "Elijah," his fame had spreadwidely. Honors had been bestowed on him by many royalties. The King ofSaxony had made him Capellmeister of his Court, and Queen Victoria hadshown him many proofs of personal regard, which endeared him more than everto the country which had first signally recognized his genius.

It was Leipsic perhaps which felt the power of his genius mostconclusively. The since famous Leipsic Conservatory was founded by him, andhe was unceasing in his labors to advance art in every direction. He alsofound time to carry out a long cherished plan to erect, at the threshold ofthe Thomas School, Leipsic, a monument to the memory of Sebastian Bach.

Let us take one more glimpse of our beloved composer. It was the morning ofAugust 26, 1846. The Town Hall of Birmingham, England, was filled with anexpectant throng, for today the composer of the "Elijah" was to conducthis greatest work, for the first time before an English audience. WhenMendelssohn stepped upon the platform, he was greeted by a deafening shout;the reception was overwhelming, and at the close the entire audience sprangto its feet in a frenzy of admiration. He wrote to his brother Paul thatevening: "No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance,or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians and public." DuringApril the following year, four performances of the "Elijah" took place inExeter Hall, the composer conducting, the Queen and Prince Albert beingpresent on the second occasion. This visit to England which was to be hislast, had used his strength to the limit of endurance, and there wasa shadow of a coming breakdown. Soon after he rejoined his family inFrankfort, his sister Fanny suddenly passed away in Berlin. The news wasbroken to him too quickly, and with a shriek he fell unconscious to thefloor.

From this shock he never seemed to rally, though at intervals for a while,he still composed. His death occurred November 4, 1847. It can be said ofhim that his was a beautiful life, in which "there was nothing to tell thatwas not honorable to his memory and profitable to all men."

Mendelssohn's funeral was imposing. The first portion was solemnized atLeipsic, attended by crowds of musicians and students, one of the latterbearing on a cushion a silver crown presented by his pupils of theConservatory. Beside the crown rested the Order "Pour le Mérite," conferredon him by the King of Prussia. The band, during the long procession, playedthe E minor "Song without Words," and at the close of the service the choirsang the final chorus from Bach's "Passion." The same night the body wastaken to Berlin and placed in the family plot in the old DreifaltigkeitKirch-hof, beside that of his devoted sister Fanny.

XI

ROBERT SCHUMANN

Many of the composers whose life stories we have read were surrounded bymusical atmosphere from their earliest years; Robert Schumann seems tohave been an exception. His father, August Schumann, was the son of a poorpastor, and the boy August was intended to be brought up a merchant. At theage of fifteen he was put into a store in Nonneburg. He was refined in histastes, loved books, and tried even in boyhood to write poetry. He seemeddestined, however, to live the life marked out for him, at least for atime. It grew so distasteful, that later he gave it up and, on account ofextreme poverty, returned to his parents' home, where he had the leisureto write. At last he secured a position in a book store in Zeitz. In thislittle town he met the daughter of his employer. The engagement was allowedon the condition that he should leave the book store and set up his ownbusiness. But where was the money to come from? He left the store, returnedhome and in a year and a half had earned a thousand thalers, then quite ahandsome sum.

He now claimed the hand of his chosen love and established in the bookbusiness, labored so unceasingly, that the business increased. Then hemoved to a more favorable location, choosing the mining town of Zwickau, inSaxony.

Here, this industrious, honorable man and his attractive, intelligent, butrather narrow and uneducated young wife lived out their lives, and broughtup their children, of whom Robert, born June 8, 1810, was the youngest;before him there were three brothers and a sister. All passed away beforeRobert himself.

He was the so-called "handsome child" of the family, and much petted by thewomen. Besides his mother there was his god-mother, who was very fond ofhim, and at her home he would spend whole days and nights. As his talentsdeveloped, the boy became the spoilt darling of everybody. This lay at thefoundation of his extreme susceptibility, even the obstinacy of his riperyears.

Little Robert at six was sent to a popular private school and now for thefirst time mingled with a number of children of his own age. The firstsymptoms of ambition, the source of much of his later achievement, beganto show itself, though quite unconsciously. It made him the life of allchildish games. If the children played "soldiers," little Robert was alwayscaptain. The others loved his good nature and friendliness, and alwaysyielded to him.

He was a good student in the primary school, but in no way distinguishedhimself in his studies. The following year he was allowed to take pianolessons of an old pedantic professor from Zwickau High School. This man hadtaught himself music, but had heard little of it. The kind of instructionhe was able to give may be imagined, yet Robert was faithful all his lifeto this kind old friend.

In spite of inadequate guidance, music soon kindled the boy's soul. Hebegan to try to make music himself, though entirely ignorant of the rulesof composition. The first of these efforts, a set of little dances, werewritten during his seventh or eighth year. It was soon discovered that hecould improvise on the piano; indeed he could sketch the disposition of hiscompanions by certain figures on the piano, so exactly and comically thatevery one burst out laughing at the portraits. He was fond of reading too,much to his father's delight, and early tried his hand at authorship. Hewrote robber plays, which he staged with the aid of the family and such ofhis youthful friends as were qualified. The father now began to hope hisfavorite son would become an author or poet; but later Robert's increasinglove for music put this hope to flight.

The father happened to take his boy with him to Carlsbad in the summerof 1819, and here he heard for the first time a great pianist, IgnatzMoscheles. His masterful playing made a great impression on the nine yearold enthusiast, who began now to wish to become a musician, and appliedhimself to music with redoubled zeal. He also made such good progress atschool that at Easter 1820 he was able to enter the Zwickau Academy.

The love for music grew with each day. With a boy of his own age,as devoted as himself to music, four-hand works of Haydn, Mozart andBeethoven, as well as pieces by Weber, Hummel and Czerny, were playedalmost daily. The greatest ecstasy was caused by the arrival of a Steckpiano at the Schumann home, which showed that father Schumann endeavored tofurther his boy's taste for music. About this time Robert found by chance,the orchestral score of an old Italian overture. He conceived the bold ideaof performing it. So a bit of an orchestra was gathered among the boys heknew, who could play an instrument. There were two violins, two flutes, aclarinet and two horns. Robert, who conducted with great fervor, suppliedas best he could the other parts on the piano.

This effort was a great incentive to the boys, principally to Robert, whobegan to arrange things for his little band and composed music for the onehundred fiftieth Psalm. This was in his twelfth year.

August Schumann was more and more convinced that Providence had intendedhis son to become a musician, and though the mother struggled against it,he resolved to see that Robert had a musical education. Carl Maria vonWeber, then living in Dresden, was written to, and answered he was willingto accept the boy as a student. The plan never came to anything however,for what reason is not known. The boy was left now to direct his ownmusical studies, just when he needed an expert guiding hand. He had norivals in his native town, where he sometimes appeared as a pianist. It wasno wonder he thought he was on the right road, and that he tried more thanever to win his mother's consent to his following music as a life work.

And now a great change took place in the lively, fun-loving boy. He seemedto lose his gay spirits and become reflective, silent and reserved. Thiscondition of mind never left him, but grew into a deeper reserve as theyears passed.

Two events deeply stirred Robert's nature with great force—the death ofhis father in 1826, and his acquaintance with the works of Jean Paul.The Jean Paul fever attacked him in all its transcendentalism, and thisinfluence remained through life, with more or less intensity.

After his father left him, Robert found he must make a choice of aprofession. His mother had set her heart on his making a study of law,while his heart was set on music. Yielding to her wishes for a time he wentto Leipsic in March 1828 to prepare to enter the University as a studentof law. He also gained consent to study piano at the same time, and beganlessons with Frederick Wieck. The desire to study with Wieck was inspiredby the piano playing of his little daughter, Clara, then nine yearsold, who had already gained a considerable degree of musical culture andpromised to make her mark as a pianist.

Under his new teacher, Robert for the first time was obliged to study arational system of technic and tone production. He was also expected tolearn harmony correctly, but strangely enough he seemed to take no interestin it, even saying he thought such knowledge useless. He held to thisfoolish idea for some time, not giving it up till forced to by realizinghis total ignorance of this branch of the art.

Robert now became greatly impressed by the genius of Franz Schubert. Heeagerly played everything the master had composed for the piano, both fortwo and four hands, and Schubert's death during this year, filled himwith profound grief. The young musical friends with whom Robert had becomeintimate, while living in Leipsic, shared his enthusiasm about his heroof German song, and they desired to enlarge their knowledge of Schubert'swork. They did more, for they decided to take one representativecomposition and practise together till they had reached the highestperfection. The choice fell on the Trio in B flat major, Op. 99,whose beauties had greatly impressed them. After much loving labor theperformance was well nigh perfect. Schumann arranged a musical party atwhich the Trio was played. Besides students and friends, Wieck was invitedand given the seat of honor.

This musical evening was the forerunner of many others. Weekly meetingswere held in Robert's room, where much music was played and discussed. Thetalk often turned to grand old Bach and his "Well-tempered Clavichord," towhich in those early days, he gave ardent study.

With all this music study and intercourse with musical friends therewas very little time left for the study of law. Yet he still kept upappearances by attending the lectures, and had intended for some months toenter the Heidelberg University. This decision was put into execution inMay 1829, when he started by coach for Heidelberg.

We find Robert Schumann at nineteen domiciled in the beautiful city ofHeidelberg, and surrounded by a few musical friends, who were kindredspirits. With a good piano in his room, the "life of flowers," as he calledit, began. Almost daily they made delightful trips in a one-horse carriageinto the suburbs. For longer trips they went to Baden-Baden, Wurms, Spiresand Mannheim. Whenever Robert went with his friends he always carried asmall "dumb piano" on which he industriously practised finger exercises,meanwhile joining in the conversation. During the following August andSeptember, Robert and two or three chosen companions made a delightfuljourney through Italy, the young man preparing himself by studying Latin,in which he became so fluent that he could translate poems from onelanguage to the other.

The next winter Robert devoted himself to music more than ever—"played thepiano much," as he says. His skill as a pianist gradually became knownin Heidelberg and he frequently played in private houses. But he was notcontent with the regular study of the piano. He wanted to get ahead fasterand invented some sort of a device to render his fourth finger more firmand supple. It did not have the desired effect however, but was the meansin time of injuring his hands so that he never could attain the pianovirtuosity he dreamed of.

Before starting on the trip to Italy just mentioned, he felt that adecision must be reached about his music. It had become as the breath oflife to him. He wrote his mother and laid bare his heart to her. "My wholelife has been a twenty years struggle between poetry and prose, or letus say—between music and law. If I follow my own bent, it points, as Ibelieve correctly, to music. Write yourself to Wieck at Leipsic and askhim frankly what he thinks of me and my plan. Beg him to answer at once anddecisively." The letter was duly written to Wieck, who decided in favor ofRobert and his plans.

Robert on hearing his decision was wild with joy. He wrote an exuberantletter to Wieck promising to be most submissive as a piano pupil and saying"whole pailfuls of very very cold theory can do me no harm and I will workat it without a murmur. I give myself up wholly to you."

With a heart full of hope, young Schumann returned to Leipsic, which he hadgladly left more than a year before. It was during this early resumption ofpiano lessons with Wieck that he began the treatment which he thought wouldadvance his technic in such a marvelously short time. He fastened his thirdfinger into a machine, of his own invention, then practised unceasinglywith the other four. At last he lost control over the muscles of the righthand, to his great distress. He now practised unremittingly with the lefthand, which gained great facility, remarkable long after he had given uppiano playing.

Under these difficulties piano lessons with Wieck had to be given up andwere never resumed. He studied theory for a short time with Kupach, butsoon relinquished this also. He was now free to direct his own path inmusic and to study—study, and compose.

One of the first pieces he wrote was "ThePapillons"—"Butterflies,"—published as Op. 2. It was dedicated to histhree sisters-in-law, of all of whom he was very fond. In the variousscenes of the Butterflies there are allusions to persons and places knownto the composer; the whimsical spirit of Jean Paul broods over the whole.

Robert began to realize more and more his lack of thorough theoreticalknowledge and applied to Dorn, who stood high in the musical professionin Leipsic. On his introduction, in spite of his lame hand he played his"Abegg Variations," published as Op. 1, and Dorn was willing to accept thetimid quiet youth as pupil. He studied with great ardor, going from theA.B.C. to the most involved counterpoint.

Thus passed two or three busy years. Part of the time Schumann had a roomin the house of his teacher Wieck and thus was thrown more or less in thesociety of Clara Wieck, now a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. Later hegave up his room—though not his intimate relations with the family—andmoved to a summer residence in Riedel's Garden, where he spent the days inmusic and the evenings with his friends.

The year 1833, was one of the most remarkable in his life so far. Not theleast important event was the establishment of the "Neue Zeitschrift fürMusik." Schumann himself says of this:—

"At the close of the year '33, a number of musicians, mostly young, met inLeipsic every evening, apparently by accident at first, but really for theinterchange of ideas on all musical subjects. One day the young hotheads exclaimed: 'Why do we look idly on? Let's take hold and make thingsbetter.' Thus the new Journal for music began.

"The youthful, fresh and fiery tone of the Journal is to be in sharpcontrast to the characterless, worn-out Leipsic criticism. The elevation ofGerman taste, the encouragement of young talent must be our goal. We writenot to enrich tradespeople, but to honor artists."

Schumann took up arms in favor of the younger generation of musiciansand helped make the fame of many now held in the world's highest esteem.Sometimes, he admits, his ardor carried him too far in recognition ofyouthful talent, but in the main he was very just in his estimates. We donot forget how his quick commendation aided Brahms.

The young musicians who founded the paper had formed themselves also intoan alliance, which they called the Davidsbündlerschaft. The idea of thisalliance, which was derived from David's war with the Philistines, seemedto exist only in the mind of Schumann himself. It gave him a chance towrite under the name of different characters, chief of whom were Florestanand Eusebius, between whom stood Master Raro. In Florestan Schumannexpressed the powerful, passionate side of his nature, and in Eusebius themild and dreamy side.

He wrote to a friend: "Florestan and Eusebius are my double nature, whichI would gladly—like Raro—melt down into one man." As time passed however,he made less and less use of these fanciful images until they finallyseemed to fade out of his mind.

An important event of 1834, was Schumann's acquaintance with Ernestine vonFricken, who came to Leipsic from the little town of Asch, on the Bohemianborder. She lived at the Wiecks', expecting to become a pianist under PapaWieck's tuition. Schumann became greatly interested in Ernestine andfor some time he had in mind an engagement with her. The noble "ÉtudesSymphoniques" were written this year. The theme was suggested byErnestine's father. The "Carnival" was partly written in this year, butnot completed till the following year. In this collection of charming shortpieces he brings in the characters of his dreams,—Florestan, Eusebius,Chiarina (Clara), Estrella (Ernestine). There is the March againstthe Philistines, and the titles of many other of the little pieces arecharacteristic. It is a true Schumann composition, full of his traits.Here we have the sweet, graceful, elegant and the very humorous and comicalfinale.

The tone creations of 1835 consist of the two Sonatas, F sharp minor, Op.11 and G minor, Op. 22, which are held by pianists to be among his mostinteresting and poetical works.

By the next year Schumann had suffered a deep sorrow in the loss of hismother, and also his love for Ernestine began to cool, until the partialbond was amicably dissolved. Meanwhile his affection for Clara Wieck, whowas just budding into womanhood, began to ripen into devoted love. This,too, was the beginning of the long struggle for the possession of hisbeloved, since the father had opposed such a connection from beginning toend. Schumann wrote a friend in 1839: "Truly from the struggle Clara hascost me, much music has been caused and created; the Concerto, Sonatas,Davidsbündler Dances, Kreisleriana and Novellettes are the result." Beyondthe compositions just mentioned, he relieved his oppressed heart by acomposition rich in meaning—nothing less than the great Fantaisie, Op.17. He meant to contribute the profits from its sale to the fund for theerection of a monument to Beethoven. The titles to the three movements were"Ruins," "Triumphal Arch," "Starry Crown." He afterwards gave up the wholeidea, and dedicated the work to Franz Liszt.

Schumann lived a quiet, busy life, and if he could have gained the consentof Clara's father for their union, he would have been supremely happy.He feared the principal reason of Wieck's refusal was that the young manshould earn more money first, before thinking of settling down with a wife.Robert therefore reverted more seriously to a plan he had thought of, to goto Vienna, and move his paper to that city, hoping to better his fortunes.He felt, too, that he ought to travel, as he had remained in Leipsic foreight years without change.

Thus, by the end of September, 1838, Schumann started for Vienna with manyhigh hopes. A friend invited him to remain at his house, which was of muchadvantage. He made many calls and visits, saw musicians and publishers,and really learned to know the city for itself. He found it would not beprofitable for him to publish the Journal there, also that the Austriancapital was a no more propitious place to make one's fortune than thesmaller town of Leipsic. However he was able to compose a number of workswhich have become among the best known and beloved of all, including the"Arabesque," "Faschingsschwank," or "Carnival Strains from Vienna," the"Night Pieces," Op. 24, and other short compositions.

When Robert discovered Vienna was not the city to prosper in, he thoughtof a return to Leipsic, to win his bride. He came back in April, andsucceeded, with the help of legal proceedings, in securing Clara's hand inmarriage. This was in 1840. From now on Schumann began to write songs. Inthis one year he composed as many as a hundred and thirty-eight songs, bothlarge and small. He writes at this time: "The best way to cultivate a tastefor melody, is to write a great deal for the voice and for independentchorus."

He now began to express himself not only in song but in orchestral music.His first effort was the beautiful B flat major Symphony, which, with thesongs of that time seems to embody all the happiness he enjoyed in winninghis Clara. She proved a most admirable helpmate, trying to shield himfrom interruptions and annoyance of every sort, so he should have his timeundisturbed for his work. Thus many of his best compositions came intobeing in the early years of wedded happiness.

This retirement was interrupted in 1844, by a long concert tour plannedby Clara. She was firmly decided to go and made Robert solemnly promise toaccompany her to St. Petersburg. He was loath to leave the quiet he loved,but it had to be done. Clara had great success everywhere, as a pianist,giving many recitals during their travels from place to place. From Russiathe artist pair went to Helsingfors, Stockholm and Copenhagen. They startedon their tour in January and did not reach home till the first of June.

Schumann now seemed to lose interest in the Journal and expressed a wish towithdraw from it and live only for his creative art. An alarming stateof health—both mind and body—seemed to make this retirement desirable.Perhaps owing to this condition of health he decided to leave Leipsic forgood and make his home in Dresden. He and his wife took formal leave ofLeipsic in a Matinée musical given on the eighth of December.

But life in Dresden became even more strenuous and more racking than it hadbeen in Leipsic. He threw himself into the labor of composing the epilogueof Goethe's "Faust" with such ardor that he fell into an intensely nervousstate where work was impossible. However, with special medical treatmenthe so far recovered that he was able to resume the work, but still was nothimself. We can divine from brief remarks he let drop from time to time,that he lived in constant fear—fear of death, insanity or disaster of somekind. He could not bear the sight of Sonnenstein, an insane asylum nearDresden. Mendelssohn's sudden death in November, 1847, was a great shockand preyed on his mind.

Schumann had intervals of reprieve from these morbid dreams, and he againbegan to compose with renewed—almost abnormal—vigor and productiveness.

The artist pair took a trip to Vienna where Clara gave several concerts.They spent some weeks there and before returning to Dresden, gave twosplendid concerts in Prague, where Schumann received a perfect ovation forhis piano quintette and some songs. A little later the two artists made atrip north. In Berlin Robert conducted a performance of "Paradise and thePeri" at the Singakademie, while Clara gave two recitals.

This year of 1847 was a very active one outside of the musical journeys.The master composed several piano trios, much choral music, and began theopera "Genevieve," which was not completed however, until the middle of1848. All the compositions of the previous year were perfectly lucid andsane. The opera unfortunately had a text from which all the beauty andromance had been left out.

The music, however, revealed a rare quality of creative power, combinedwith deep and noble feeling. Schumann's nature was more lyric thandramatic; he was not born to write for the stage. The lyric portions of hisopera are much the best. He did not realize that he failed on the dramaticside in his work, indeed seemed quite unconscious of the fact.

"Genevieve" was given in Leipsic in June 1850, directed by the composer.Two more performances were given and then the work was laid away.

In 1848, Schumann, who loved children dearly and often stopped his moreserious work to write for them, composed the "Album for the Young," Op. 68,a set of forty-two pieces. The title originally was: "Christmas Album forChildren who like to play the Piano." How many children, from that dayto this have loved those little pieces, the "Happy Farmer," "Wild Rider,""First Loss," "Reaper's Song," and all the rest. Even the great pianists ofour time are not above performing these little classics in public. They area gift, unique in musical literature, often imitated, but never equaledby other writers. Schumann wrote of them: "The first thing in the Album Iwrote for my oldest child's birthday. It seems as if I were beginning mylife as a composer anew, and there are traces of the old human here andthere. They are decidedly different from 'Scenes from Childhood' which areretrospective glances by a parent, and for elders, while 'Album for theYoung' contains hopes, presentments and peeps into futurity for theyoung."

After the children's Album came the music to Byron's "Manfred." Thisconsists of an overture and fifteen numbers. The whole work, with oneexception, is deep in thought and masterly in conception. The overtureespecially is one of his finest productions, surpassing other orchestralworks in intellectual grandeur.

A choral club of sixty-seven members, of which Schumann was the director,inspired him to compose considerable choral music, and his compositions ofthis time, 1848-9, were numerous.

The intense creative activity of 1849 was followed by a period of restwhen the artist pair made two trips from Dresden, early in 1850. Leipsic,Bremen, and Hamburg were visited. Most of the time in Hamburg was spentwith Jenny Lind, who sang at his last two concerts.

The late summer of 1850 brought Schumann an appointment of director ofmusic in Düsseldorf, left vacant by the departure of Ferdinand Hillerfor Cologne. Schumann and his wife went to Düsseldorf the first week ofSeptember and were received with open arms. A banquet and concert werearranged, at which some of the composer's important works were performed.His duties in the new post were conducting the subscription concerts,weekly rehearsals of the Choral Club and other musical performances. Heseemed well content with the situation and it did not require too much ofhis physical strength.

Outside of his official duties his passion for work again gained theascendent. From November 2, to December 9, he sketched and completed theSymphony in E flat in five parts, a great work, equal to any of the otherworks in this form.

From this time on, one important composition followed another, untilincreasing illness forshadowed the sad catastrophe of the early part of1854. He wrote in June 1851, "we are all tolerably well, except that I amthe victim of occasional nervous attacks; a few days ago I fainted afterhearing Radecke play the organ." These nervous attacks increased in 1852.He could not think music in rapid tempo and wished everything slow. Heheard special tones to the exclusion of all others.

The close of 1853, brought two joyful events to Schumann. In October he metJohann Brahms, whom he had introduced to the world through his Journal,as the "Messiah of Art." In November he and his wife took a trip throughHolland, which was a triumphal procession. He found his music almostas well known in Holland as at home. In Rotterdam and Utrecht his thirdsymphony was performed; in The Hague the second was given, also "ThePilgrimage of the Rose." Clara also played at many concerts.

Just before Christmas the artist pair returned to Düsseldorf.

The hallucinations which had before obsessed him now returned with alarmingforce. He could no longer sleep—he seemed to be lost in mental darkness.

One day in February 1854, his physician made a noon call upon him. They satchatting when suddenly Schumann left the room without a word. The doctorand his friends supposed he would return. His wife went in search of him.It seems he had left the house in dressing-gown, gone to the Rhine bridgeand thrown himself into the river. Some sailors rescued him.

He now received constant care, and it was found best to place him in aprivate hospital near Bonn. Here he remained till the end of July, 1856,when the end came.

In his death the world of music lost one of the most highly gifted spirits.His life was important and instructive for its moral and intellectualgrandeur, its struggles for the noblest, loftiest subjects as well as forits truly great results.

XII

FREDERIC CHOPIN

What would the piano playing world do without the music of Frederic Chopin?We can hardly think of the piano without thinking of Chopin, since he wrotealmost exclusively for the universal instrument. His music touches theheart always rather than the head, the emotional message far outweighs theintellectual meaning. It is vital music—love music, winning the heartby its tenderness, voicing the highest sentiments by its refinement, itspurity, its perfection of detail and finish.

And the man who could compose with such refinement, with such appealingeloquence, must have possessed those qualities which shine out in hismusic. He must have been gentle, chivalrous, high-thoughted. We cannotavoid expressing ourselves in our work—in whatever we do.

The father of this beloved composer was a Frenchman, born in Nancy,Lorraine, in 1770, the same year Beethoven saw the light in Bonn. He wascarefully brought up, well-bred and well-educated. When a friend of his inWarsaw, Poland, in the tobacco and snuff trade, then in high reputewith the nobility, needed help with his book-keeping, he sent for theseventeen-year-old lad. Thus it happened that Nicholas Chopin came toWarsaw in 1787. It was a time of unrest, when the nation was strugglingfor liberty and independence. The young man applied himself to master thelanguage, and study the character and needs of his adopted country, thathe might be well informed. During the period of insecurity in politicalaffairs, the tobacco factory had to be closed and Nicholas Chopin lookedfor other activity. A few years later we find him in the household ofCountess Skarbek, as a tutor to her son, Frederic. Here he met his bride,Justina de Krzyzanowska, a young lady of noble but poor family, whom hemarried in 1806. She became the mother of his four children, three girlsand a boy.

The boy Frederic Chopin, was born on March 1, 1809, in the little villageof Zelazowa Wola, belonging to the Countess Skarbek, about twenty-eightmiles from Warsaw. It is probable the family did not remain here long, forthe young husband was on the lookout for more profitable employment. He wassuccessful, for on October 1, 1810, he was appointed Professor of Frenchin the newly founded Lyceum in Warsaw. He also soon organized a boardingschool for boys in his own home, which was patronized by the best Polishfamilies of the country.

Surrounded by refined, cultivated people, in an atmosphere at once moraland intellectual, little Frederic passed a fortunate childhood. He soonmanifested such fondness for music, especially for the piano, that hisparents allowed him to have lessons, his teacher being Adalbert Zywny, thebest-known master of the city. It is related that Zywny only taughthis little pupil first principles, for the child's progress was soextraordinary that before long he had mastered all his teacher couldimpart, and at twelve he was left to shape his own musical destiny.

He early gave proofs of his talents. Before he was eight years old heplayed at a large evening company, with such surprising cleverness that itwas predicted he would become another Mozart. The next year he was invitedto take part in a large concert given under distinguished patronage. Theboy was a simple, modest child, and played the piano as the bird sings,with unconscious art. When he returned home after this concert, his motherasked: "What did the people like best?" and he answered naïvely: "Oh, mama,every one was looking at my collar."

After this, little Frederic became more than ever the pet of thearistocracy of Warsaw; his charming manners, his unspoiled nature, hismusical gifts made him welcome in princely homes. He had also begun tocompose; indeed these efforts started soon after he began piano lessons,and before he could handle a pen. His teacher had to write down what thelittle composer played. Among those early pieces were mazurkas, polonaises,valses and the like. At the age of ten he dedicated a march to Grand DukeConstantine, who had it scored for band and played on parade. He startedlessons in composition with Joseph Eisner, a celebrated teacher, who becamea life-long adviser and friend.

Up to the age of fifteen, Frederic was taught at home, in his father'sschool. He now entered the Warsaw Lyceum, and proved a good student,twice carrying off a prize. With this studiousness was joined a gaiety andsprightliness that manifested itself in all sorts of fun and mischief.He loved to play pranks on his sisters, comrades and others, and had afondness for caricature, taking off the peculiarities of those about himwith pose and pen. Indeed it was the opinion of a clever member of theprofession, that the lad was born to become a great actor. All the youngChopins had a great fondness for literature and writing; they occasionallytried their hand at poetry, and the production of original one-act plays,written for birthday fêtes and family parties.

The most important event of Frederic's fifteenth year was the publicationof his first composition for piano, a Rondo in C minor. This was soonfollowed by a set of Variations, Op. 2, on an air from Mozart's "DonGiovanni." In these early pieces, written perhaps even before he wasfifteen, we find the first stages of his peculiar style. Even at this earlytime he was pleased with chords that had the tones spread apart in extendedharmony. As his hands were small he invented a contrivance which separatedthe fingers as far apart as possible, in order that he might reach the newchords more easily. This he wore even during the night. The contrivancehowever, did not result in injury to his hands, as did Schumann's effortsto strengthen his fourth finger.

In 1827, Chopin finished his studies at the Lyceum and determined to adoptmusic as his profession. He was now seventeen, of slender figure, finelycut features, high forehead, delicate brows above dreamy, soulful eyes.Though not weak or sickly, as some accounts make out, he was never veryrobust; he would far rather lie under beautiful trees in delightful daydreams, than take long excursions afoot. One of his aversions was smokingor tobacco in any form; he never used it in his whole life. He wasvivacious, active, hard working at music and reasonably healthy in earlyyouth, but not of a hardy organism. His mother and sisters constantlycautioned him to wrap up in cold or damp weather, and like an obedient sonand good brother, he obeyed.

Young Chopin greatly wished to travel and see something of the world. Amuch longed-for opportunity to visit Berlin came to him the followingyear. An old friend of his father's, Dr. Jarocki, Professor in the WarsawUniversity, was invited to attend a Philosophic Congress, presided overby Alexander von Humboldt, to be held in that city. The good Professor waswilling to take his friend's son under his wing, and Frederic was quitebeside himself with joy, for now he believed he could meet some of themusical celebrities of Berlin, and hear some great music. As to the latterhis hopes were realized, but he did not meet many musicians, and couldonly gaze at them from a distance. It may have been a certain shyness andreticence that stood in the way, for he wrote home about a concert in theSingakademie: "Spontini, Zelter and Felix Mendelssohn were all there, butI spoke to none of these gentlemen, as I did not think it becoming tointroduce myself." Music and things connected with music, music-shops andpiano factories, took up most of his time, as he declined to attend themeetings of the Congress.

"At the time of the Berlin visit," writes Niecks, his biographer, "Chopinwas a lively, well-educated, well-mannered youth, who walked through life,pleased with its motley garb, but as yet unconscious of the deeper truths,the immensities of joy and sadness, of love and hate, which lie beneath thesurface."

After a stay of two weeks in the Prussian capital, Professor Jarocki andFrederic started on their return to Poland. During the journey they wereobliged to halt an hour for fresh horses. Chopin began to look about thelittle inn for some sort of amusem*nt to while away the time. He soondiscovered in a corner, an old piano, which proved to be in tune. Of coursehe lost no time, but sat down and began to improvise on Polish melodies.Soon his fellow passengers of the stage-coach began to drop in one afteranother; at last came the post master with his wife and pretty daughter.Even when the hour was up and the horses had been put to the chaise, theybegged the young musician to go on and on. Although he remonstrated, sayingit was now time to go, they protested so convincingly that the boy sat downagain and resumed his playing. Afterwards wine was brought in and they alldrank to the health of the young master. Chopin gave them a mazurka forfarewell, then the tall post master caught him up and carried him out tothe coach, and all travelers started away in high spirits.

About the middle of July, 1829, Chopin with three young friends, startedout for Vienna. In those days an artist, in order to make himself and hiswork known, had to travel about the world and arrange concerts here andthere, introduce himself to prominent people in each place and make themacquainted with his gifts. The present journey had for its object Vienna,the city of Beethoven and Schubert and other great masters.

Of course the young musician carried many letters of introduction, both topublishers and influential persons, for whom he played. Every one toldhim he ought to give a concert, that it would be a disgrace to parents,teachers and to himself not to appear in public. At last Frederic overcamehis hesitation. In a letter home he writes; "I have made up my mind; theytell me I shall create a furore, that I am an artist of the first rank,worthy of a place beside Moscheles, Herz and Kalbrenner," well-knownmusicians of the day. One must forgive the nineteen year old boy, if hefelt a little pride in being classed with these older and more famousmusicians.

The concert took place in the Imperial Opera House, just ten days after hisarrival, and from all accounts was a great success. Chopin was more thansatisfied, he was delighted. Indeed his success was so emphatic that asecond concert was given the following week. In both he played some of hisown compositions and improvised as well.

"It goes crescendo with my popularity here, and this gives me muchpleasure," he wrote home, at the end of the fortnight, and on the eve ofstarting to return. On the way back the travelers visited Prague, Teplitzand Dresden. A couple of days were spent in each, and then the partyarrived safely in Warsaw.

With such an intense nature, friendship and love were two vital forcescontrolling life and action. Chopin was devoted to his friends; he clungto them with effusive ardor, incomprehensible to those less sensitiveand romantic. With Titus Woyciechowski he was heart to heart in closestintimacy, and wrote him the most adoring letters when they chanced to beseparated. Titus was less demonstrative, but always remained devoted.

Love for women was destined to play a large part in the inner life ofChopin. The first awakening of this feeling came from his admiration ofConstantia Gladowska, a beautiful girl and vocal pupil at the Conservatoryat Warsaw. Strangely enough he admired the young lady for some time at adistance, and if report be true, never really declared himself to her. Butshe filled his thoughts by day, and he confessed to dreaming of her eachnight. When she made her début in opera, he hung on every note she sangand rejoiced in her success but did not make his feelings known to her.All this pent-up emotion was confined to his piano, in impassionedimprovisations.

Seeing no suitable field for his genius in Warsaw and realizing he ought toleave home and strike out for himself, he yet delayed making the break. Hecontinued putting off the evil day of parting from home and friends, andespecially putting a wide distance between himself and the object of hisadoration, Constantia.

The two years of indecision were fruitful in producing much piano musicand in completing the beautiful E minor Concerto, which was rehearsed withorchestra and was performed at the third and last concert he ever gave inWarsaw. This concert was arranged for October 11, 1830. Chopin requestedConstantia Gladowska, whom he had never met, to sing an aria. In thesuccess of the evening sorrow was forgotten. He wrote to his friend: "MissGladowska wore a white gown with roses in her hair and was wondrouslybeautiful; she had never sung so well."

After this event, Chopin decided the time had come for him to depart. Histrunk was bought, his clothing ready, pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed; in factnothing remained but the worst of all, the leave-taking. On November I,1830, Elsner and a number of friends accompanied him to Wola, the firstvillage beyond Warsaw. There they were met by a group of students from theConservatory, who sang a cantata, composed by Elsner for the occasion. Thenthere was a banquet. During this last meal together, a silver goblet filledwith Polish earth was presented to Chopin in the name of them all.

We can imagine the tender leave-takings after that. "I am convinced,"he said, "I am saying an eternal farewell to my native country; I have apresentiment I shall never return." And so indeed it proved.

Again to Vienna, by way of Breslau, Dresden and Prague. In Vienna all wasnot as rosy as it had been on his first visit. Haslinger was unwillingto publish more of his compositions, though there were the two concertos,études and many short pieces. The way did not open to give a concert.He was lonely and unhappy, constantly dreaming of home and the belovedConstantia. From graphic letters to one of his dearest friends, a fewsentences will reveal his inner life.

"To-day is the first of January (1831). Oh, how sadly this year begins forme! I love you all above all things. My poor parents! How are my friendsfaring? I could die for you all. Why am I doomed to be here so lonely andforsaken? You can at least open your hearts to each other. Go and see myparents—and—Constantia."

Although it did not seem advisable to give concerts in Vienna, yet Chopinmade many pleasant acquaintances among the musicians and prominent people,and was constantly invited. He had planned to go from Vienna to eitherItaly or France. As there were political troubles in the former country, hedecided to start for Paris, stopping on the way at a few places. In Munichhe gave a morning concert, in the hall of the Philharmonie, which won himrenown. From Munich he proceeded to Stuttgart, and during a short staythere, heard the sad news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians. Thisevent, it is said, inspired him to compose the C minor Etude, Op. 10, No.12.

The Poles and everything Polish were at that time the rage in Paris. Theyoung Polish master found ready entrance into the highest musical andliterary circles of this most delightful city of the world. All wasromance, fantasy, passion, which fitted with Chopin's sensitive andromantic temperament. Little wonder that he became inspired by contact withsome of the greatest in the world of arts and letters.

There were Victor Hugo. King of the romanticists, Heine, poet and novelist;De Musset, Flaubert, Zola, Lamartine, Chateaubriand, Baudelaire, AryScheffer, Mérimée, Gautier, Berlioz, Balzac, Rossini, Meyerbeer,Hiller, Nourrit, to mention a few. Liszt was there too, and George Sand,Mendelssohn and Kalkbrenner. Chopin called on the last named, who wasconsidered the first pianist of the day, and played for him. Kalkbrennerremarked he had the style of Cramer and the touch of Field. He proposedthat Chopin should study three years with him, and he would then become agreat virtuoso. Of course the young artist might have learned something-onthe mechanical side, but at the risk of injuring the originality and styleof his playing. His old friend and teacher Elsner, kept him from doingthis.

The first year in Paris Chopin played at a number of concerts andfunctions, with ever increasing success. But in spite of the artisticsuccess, his finances ran low, and he began to consider a trip to America.Fortunately he met Prince Radziwill on the street at this time, and waspersuaded to play at a Rothschild soirée in the evening. From this moment,it is said, his prospects brightened, and he secured a number of wealthypatrons as pupils. Whether this be true or not, he came to know many titledpersonages. One has only to turn the pages of his music to note how manypieces are dedicated to Princess This and Countess That. This mode of lifewas reflected in his music, which became more elegant and aristocratic.

During the season of 1833 and 1834, Chopin continued to make his wayas composer, pianist and teacher. A letter to friends in Poland, says:"Frederic looks well and strong; he turns the heads of all the Frenchwomen, and makes the men jealous. He is now the fashion."

In the spring of 1834 Chopin had been persuaded by Ferdinand Hiller toaccompany him to Aix-la-Chapelle, to attend the Lower Rhine Music Festival.Before they started Chopin found he had not the money to go, as it had beenspent or given to some needy countryman. Hiller did not like to go alone,and asked if his friend could think of no way out of the dilemma. At lastChopin took the manuscript of the E flat Valse, Op. 18, went with it toPleyel the publisher, and returned with five hundred francs. They could nowgo and enjoy the trip they had planned.

In July, 1835, Chopin met his parents at Carlsbad, where his father hadbeen sent by the Warsaw physicians to take the cure. The young musician,now famous, had not seen his parents in nearly five years, and the reunionmust have been a happy one. From here he went to Dresden and Leipsic,meeting Schumann and Mendelssohn. Schumann admired the young Pole greatlyand wrote much about him in his musical magazine. Mendelssohn consideredhim a "really perfect virtuoso, whose piano playing was both originaland masterly," but he was not sure whether his compositions were right orwrong. Chopin also stopped in Heidelberg on the way to Paris, visiting thefather of his pupil Adolph Gutman. He must have been back in Paris aboutthe middle of October, for the papers mention that "M. Chopin, one of themost eminent pianists of our epoch, has just made a tour of Germany, whichhas been for him a real ovation. Everywhere his admirable talent obtainedthe most flattering reception and excited much enthusiasm."

The story of Chopin's attraction for Marie Wodzinski and his reportedengagement to her, is soon told. During his visit in Dresden, after leavinghis parents in Carlsbad, he saw much of his old friends, Count Wodzinskiand his family. The daughter, Marie, aged nineteen, was tall and slender,not beautiful but charming, with soft dark hair and soulful eyes. Chopinspent all his evenings at their home and saw much of Marie. The lastevening the girl gave him a rose, and he composed a valse for her.

The next summer the two met again at Marienbad, and resumed their walks,talks and music. She drew his portrait, and one day Chopin proposed. Sheassured him she would always remain his friend, but her family would neverconsent to their marriage. So that brief romance was over.

An attachment of a different sort was that with Mme. Dudevant, known inliterature as George Sand. Books have been written about this remarkablewoman. The family at Nohant where she had spent her childhood, where hertwo children, Maurice and Solange, lived, and where her husband sometimescame, became distasteful to her; she wanted to see life. Paris offered it.Although possessing ample means, she arranged to spend six months in Pariseach year, and live on two hundred and fifty francs a month. She came in1831. Her ménage was of the simplest—three small rooms, with mealsfrom a near-by restaurant at two francs; she did the washing herself.Woman's attire was too expensive, so, as she had worn man's attire whenriding and hunting at Nohant, she saw nothing shocking in wearing it inParis.

Her literary student life, as she called it, now began. She went about thestreets at all times, in all weathers; went to garrets, studios, clubs,theaters, coffee-houses, everywhere but the salons. The romance ofsociety-life as it was lived in the French capital, were the studies sheardently pursued. From these studies of life grew the several novels sheproduced during the years that followed.

It is said that Chopin met Mme. Sand at a musical matinée, given by theMarquis of C, where the aristocracy of genius, wealth and beautyhad assembled. Chopin had gone to the piano and was absorbed in animprovisation, when lifting his eyes from the keys he encountered the fieryglances of a lady standing near. Perhaps the truer account of their firstmeeting is that given by Chopin's pupil Gutman. Mme. Sand, who had thefaculty of subjugating every man of genius she came in contact with, askedLiszt repeatedly to introduce her.

One morning, early in the year 1837, Liszt called on his brother artistand found him in good spirits over some new compositions. He wished to playthem to some friends, so it was arranged that a party of them shouldcome to his rooms that evening. Liszt came with his special friend,Mme. d'Agoult and George Sand. Afterwards these meetings were frequentlyrepeated. Liszt poetically describes one such evening, in his "Life ofChopin."

The fastidious musician was not at first attracted to the rathermasculine-looking woman, addicted to smoking, who was short, stout, withlarge nose, coarse mouth and small chin. She had wonderful eyes, though,and her manners were both quiet and fascinating.

Her influence over Chopin began almost at once; they were soon seentogether everywhere. Sand liked to master a reserved, artistic naturesuch as that of the Polish musician. She was not herself musical, butappreciated all forms of art.

In 1838 Mme. Sand's son Maurice became ill, and she proposed a trip toMajorca. Chopin went with the party and fell ill himself. There weremany discomforts during their travels, due to bad weather and otherinconveniences.

Chopin's health now began to be a source of anxiety to his friends. He hadto be very careful, gave fewer lessons during the season, and spent hisvacations at Nohant. He played rarely in public, though there were twopublic concerts in 1841 and '42 at Pleyel's rooms. From 1843 to 1847 helived quietly and his life was apparently happy. He was fond of the Sandchildren, and amused himself with them when at Nohant.

But the breach, which had started some years before, between Mme. Sandand Chopin, widened as time passed, and they parted in 1847. It was theinevitable, of course. Chopin never had much to say about it; Sand saidmore, while the students asserted she had killed their beloved master.Probably it all helped to undermine the master's feeble health. His fatherpassed away in 1844, his sister also, of pulmonary trouble; he was lonelyand ill himself. He gave his last concert in Paris, February 16, 1848.Though weak he played beautifully. Some one said he fainted in the artist'sroom. The loss of Sand, even though he had long wearied of her was the lastdrop.

To secure rest and change, he undertook a trip to London, for the secondand last time, arriving April 21, 1848. He played at different great housesand gave two matinées, at the homes of Adelaide Kemble and Lord Falmouth,June 23, and July 7. These were attended by many titled personages. ViardotGarcia sang. The composer was thin, pale, and played with "wasted fingers,"but the money helped replenish his depleted purse.

Chopin visited Scotland in August of the same year, and stayed with hispupil Miss Jane Stirling, to whom he dedicated the two Nocturnes, Op.55. He played in Manchester, August 28; his playing was rather weak,but retained all its elegance, finish and grace. He was encored for hisfamiliar Mazurka, Op. 7, No. 1, and repeated it with quite differentnuances. One survivor of this audience remarked subsequently in a letterto a friend: "My emotion was so great I was compelled to retire to recovermyself. I have heard all the celebrated stars of the musical firmament, butnever has one left such an impression on my mind."

Chopin returned to London in November, and left England in January 1849.His purse was very low and his lodgings in the Rue Chaillot, Paris, wererepresented as costing half their value, the balance being paid by aRussian Countess, who was touched by his need. The generous hearted MissStirling raised 25,000 francs for the composer, so his last days werecheered by every comfort. He passed away October 17, 1849, and every writeragrees it was a serene passing. His face was beautiful and young, inthe flower-covered casket, says Liszt, for friends filled his rooms withblossoms. He was buried from the Madeleine, October thirtieth. The B flatminor Funeral March, orchestrated by Reber, was given, and during theservice Lefebure Wely played on the organ the E and B minor Preludes. Hisgrave in Père Lachaise is sought out by many travelers who admire his greatart. It is difficult to find the tomb in that crowded White City, butno doubt all music lovers seek to bring away at least a leaf—as didthe writer—from the earthly resting place of the most ideal pianist andcomposer who ever lived.

Chopin was preeminently a composer for the piano. With the exception ofthe Trio, Op. 8 and a book of Polish songs, everything he wrote was for hisfavorite instrument. There are seventy-one opus numbers in the list, butoften whole sets of pieces are contained in one opus number, as is the casewith the Études, of which there are twelve in Op. 10, and the same inOp. 25. These Études take up every phase of piano technic; each one hasa definite aim, yet each is a beautiful finished work as music. They havebeen edited and re-edited by the greatest masters.

The twenty-four Preludes were composed before the trip to Majorca, thoughthey were perfected and polished while there. Written early in his career,they have a youthful vigor not often found in later works. "Much inminiature are these Preludes of the Polish poet," says Huneker.

There are four Impromptus and four Ballades, also four Scherzos. Inthem the composer is free, fascinating, often bold and daring. The greatFantaisie, Op. 49, is an epic poem, much as the Barcarolle is a poem oflove. The two Sonatas, not to mention an early effort in this form, areamong the modern classics, which are bound to appear on the programs ofevery great pianist of the present, and doubtless of the future. The twoConcertos are cherished by virtuosi and audience alike, and never fail tomake an instant and lasting appeal.

And think of the eleven Polonaises, those courtly dances, the mostcharacteristic and national of his works; the fourteen Valses, beloved ofevery young piano student the world over; the eighteen Nocturnes, of starrynight music; the entrancing Mazurkas, fifty-two in number. One marvels,in merely glancing over the list, that the composer, who lived such asuper-sensitive hectic life, whose days were so occupied with lessongiving, ever had the time to create such a mass of music, or the energy towrite it.

When one considers the amount of it, the beauty, originality and gloryof it, one must acknowledge Frederic Chopin as one of the greatest pianogeniuses of all time.

XIII

HECTOR BERLIOZ

In the south of France, near Grenoble, is found a romantic spot, La CôteSaint-André. It lies on a hillside overlooking a wide green and goldenplain, and its dreamy majesty is accentuated by the line of mountains thatbounds it on the southeast. These in turn are crowned by the distant gloryof snowy peaks and Alpine glaciers. Here one of the most distinguished menof the modern movement in French musical art, Hector Berlioz, first saw thelight, on December 11, 1803.

He was an only son of a physician. His father, a learned man, withthe utmost care, taught his little boy history, literature, geography,languages, even music. Hector was a most romantic, impressionable child,who peopled nature with fairies and elves, as he lay under great trees anddreamed fantastic day dreams. Poetry and romantic tales were his delightand he found much to feed his imagination in his father's large library.

His mother's father lived at Meylan, a little village not far fromGrenoble, and there, in this picturesque valley, the family used to spend apart of each summer.

Above Meylan, in a crevice of the mountain, stood a white house amid itsvineyards and gardens. It was the home of Mme. Gautier and her two nieces,of whom the younger was called Estelle. When the boy Hector saw her for thefirst time, he was twelve, a shy, retiring little fellow. Estelle was justeighteen, tall, graceful, with beautiful dusky hair and large soulful eyes.Most wonderful of all, with her simple white gown, she wore pink slippers.The shy boy of twelve fell in desperate love with this white robedapparition in pink slippers. He says himself:

"Never do I recall Estelle, but with the flash of her large dark eyescomes the twinkle of her dainty pink shoes. To say I loved her compriseseverything. I was wretched, dumb, despairing. By night I sufferedagonies—by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or,like a wounded bird, sought the deepest recesses of my grandfather'sorchard.

"One evening there was a party at Mme. Gautier's and various games wereplayed. In one of them I was told to choose first. But I dared not, myheart-beats choked me. Estelle, smiling, caught my hand, saying: 'Come, Iwill begin; I choose Monsieur Hector.' But, ah, she laughed!

"I was thirteen when we parted. I was thirty when, returning from Italy, Ipassed through this district, so filled with early memories. My eyes filledat sight of the white house: I loved her still. On reaching my old home Ilearned she was married!"

With pangs of early love came music, that is, attempts at musicalcomposition. His father had taught him the rudiments of music, and soonafter gave him a flute. On this the boy worked so industriously that inseven or eight months he could play fairly well. He also took singinglessons, as he had a pretty soprano voice. Harmony was likewise studied bythis ambitious lad, but it was self taught. He had found a copy of Rameau's"Harmony" among some old books and spent many hours poring over thoselabored theories in his efforts to reduce them to some form and sense.

Inspired by these studies he tried his hand at music making in earnest.First came some arrangements of trios and quartettes. Then finally he wasemboldened to write a quintette for flute, two violins, viola and 'cello.Two months later he had produced another quintette, which proved to be alittle better. At this time Hector was twelve and a half. His father hadset his heart on the boy's following his footsteps and becoming a doctor;the time was rapidly approaching when a decision had to be made. DoctorBerlioz promised if his son would study anatomy and thoroughly preparehimself in this branch of the profession, he should have the finest flutethat could be bought. His cousin Robert shared these anatomical lessons;but as Robert was a good violinist, the two boys spent more time over musicthan over osteology. The cousin, however, really worked over his anatomy,and was always ready at the lessons with his demonstrations, while Hectorwas not, and thus drew upon himself many a reprimand. However he managed tolearn all his father could teach him, and when he was nineteen consentedto go to Paris, with Robert, and—though much against his will—become adoctor.

When the boys reached Paris, in 1822, Hector loyally tried to keep hispromise to his father and threw himself into the studies which were sorepugnant to him. He says he might have become a common-place physicianafter all, had he not one night gone to the opera. That night was arevelation; he became half frantic with excitement and enthusiasm. He wentagain and again. Learning that the Conservatoire library, with its wealthof scores, was open to the public, he began to study the scores of hisadored Gluck. He read, re-read and copied long parts and scenes from thesewonderful scores, even forgetting to eat, drink or sleep, in his wildenthusiasm. Of course, now, the career of doctor must be given up; therewas no question of that. He wrote home that in spite of father, mother,relations and friends, a musician he would be and nothing else.

A short time after this the choir master of Saint Roch, suggested thatHector should write a mass for Innocents' Day, promising a chorus andorchestra, with ample rehearsals, also that the choir boys would copy theparts. He set to work with enthusiasm. But alas, after one trial of thecompleted work, which ended in confusion owing to the countless mistakesthe boys had made in copying the score, he rewrote the whole composition.Fearing another fiasco from amateur copyists, the young composer wrote outall the parts himself. This took three months. With the help of a friendwho advanced funds, the mass was performed at Saint Roch, and was wellspoken of by the press.

The hostility of Hector's family to music as a profession, died down a bit,owing to the success of the mass, but started up with renewed vigorwhen the son and brother failed to pass the entrance examinations at theConservatoire. His father wrote that if he persisted in staying on in Parishis allowance would be stopped. Lesueur, his teacher, promised to intercedeand wrote an appealing letter, which really made matters worse instead ofbetter. Then Hector went home himself, to plead his cause in person. He wascoldly received by his family; his father at last consented to his returnto Paris for a time, but his mother forbade it absolutely. In case hedisobeyed her will, she would disown him and never again wished to see hisface. So Hector at last set out again for Paris with no kind look or wordfrom his mother, but reconciled for the time being with the rest of thefamily.

The young enthusiast began life anew in Paris, by being very economical,as he must pay back the loan made for his mass. He found a tiny fifth floorroom, gave up restaurant dinners and contented himself with plain bread,with the addition of raisins, prunes or dates. He also secured some pupils,which helped out in this emergency, and even got a chance to sing invaudeville, at the enormous sum of 50 francs per month!

These were strenuous days for the eager ardent musician. Teaching fromnecessity, in order to live, spending every spare moment on composing;attending opera whenever he got a free ticket; yet, in spite of manyprivations there was happiness too. With score under arm, he always made ita point to follow the performance of any opera he heard. And so in time,he came to know the sound—the voice as it were, of each instrument in theorchestra. The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini—watching for rareand unusual combinations of sounds, being with artists who were kind enoughto explain the compass and powers of their instruments, were the ways andmeans he used to perfect his art.

When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827, came on, Hector tried again,and this time passed the preliminary test. The task set for the generalcompetition was to write music for Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. Anincompetent pianist, whose duty it was to play over the compositions, forthe judges, could seem to make nothing of Hector's score. The six judges,headed by Cherubini, the Director of the Conservatoire, voted against theaspirant, and he was thrown out a second time.

And now came to Berlioz a new revelation—nothing less than the revelationof the art of Shakespeare. An English company of actors had come to Paris,and the first night Hamlet was given, with Henrietta Smithson—who fiveyears later became his wife—as Ophelia.

In his diary Berlioz writes: "Shakespeare, coming upon me unawares, struckme down as with a thunderbolt. His lightning spirit opened to me thehighest heaven of Art, and revealed to me the best and grandest and truestthat earth can give." He began to worship both the genius of Shakespeareand the art of the beautiful English actress. Every evening found him atthe theater, but days were spent in a kind of dumb despair, dreaming ofShakespeare and of Miss Smithson, who had now become the darling of Paris.

At last this sort of dumb frenzy spent itself and the musician in him awokeand he returned to his normal self. A new plan began to take shape in hismind. He would give a concert of his own works: up to that time no Frenchmusician had done so. Thus he would compel her to hear of him, although hehad not yet met the object of his devoted admiration.

It was early spring of the year 1828, when he set to work with franticenergy, writing sixteen hours a day, in order to carry through thewonderful plan. The concert, the result of so much labor, was given thelast of May, with varying success. But alas, Miss Smithson, adsorbed inher own affairs, had not even heard of the excitable young composer who haddared and risked so much to make a name that might attract her notice.

As Berlioz père again stopped his allowance, Hector began to write formusical journals. At first ignorant of the ways of journalism, his wildutterances were the despair of his friends; later his trenchant pen wasboth admired and feared.

For the third time, in June of this year, he entered the Conservatoirecontest, and won a second prize, in this case a gold medal. Two years laterhe won the coveted Prix de Rome, which gives the winner five years' study,free of expense, in the Eternal City.

Before this honor was achieved, however, a new influence came into hislife, which for a time overshadowed the passion for Shakespeare and MissSmithson. It happened on this wise.

Ferdinand Hiller, composer, pianist and one of Hector's intimate friends,fell deeply in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful, talented girl who, lateron, won considerable fame as a pianist. She became interested in the youngFrench composer, through hearing of his mental suffering from Hiller. Theywere thrown together in a school where both gave lessons, she on the pianoand he on the—guitar! Meeting so constantly, her dainty beauty won a warmplace in the affections of the impressionable Hector. She was but eighteen,while her admirer was twenty-five.

Hiller saw how things were going and behaved admirably. He called it fate,wished the pair every happiness, and left for Frankfort.

Then came the Prix de Rome, which the poor boy had struggled so long towin, and now did not care so much for, as going to Italy would mean toleave Paris. On August 23, 1830, he wrote to a friend:

"I have gained the Prix de Rome. It was awarded unanimously—a thing neverknown before. My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I told her the news;her dainty wings were all ruffled, till I smoothed them with a word. Evenher mother, who does not look too favorably on our love, was touched totears.

"On November 1, there is to be a concert at the Theater Italien. I am askedto write an Overture and am going to take as subject Shakespeare's Tempest;it will be quite a new style of thing. My great concert, with the SymphonieFantastique, will take place November 14, but I must have a theatricalsuccess; Camille's parents insist on that, as a condition of our marriage.I hope I shall succeed."

These concerts were both successful and the young composer passed fromdeepest anxiety to exuberant delight. He wrote to the same friend;

"The Tempest is to be played a second time at the opera. It is new,fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Fétis wrote two splendidarticles about it for the Revue Musicale.—My marriage is fixed for Easter,1832, on condition that I do not lose my pension, and that I go to Italyfor one year. My blessed Symphonie has done the deed."

The next January Berlioz went home to his family, who were now reconciledto his choice of music as a profession, and deluged him with compliments,caresses and tender solicitude. The parents had fully forgiven their giftedson.

"There is Rome, Signore."

It was true. The Eternal City lay spread out in purple majesty before theyoung traveler, who suddenly realized the grandeur, the poetry of thisheart of the world. The Villa Medici, the venerable ancient palace,centuries old, had been reserved by the Academié of France as home for herstudents, whose sole obligation was to send, once a year, a sample of theirwork to the Academié in Paris.

When Hector Berlioz arrived in Rome he was twenty-seven, and of strikingappearance. A mass of reddish auburn hair crowned a high forehead; thefeatures were prominent, especially the nose; the expression was full ofsensitive refinement. He was of an excitable and ardent temperament, but inknowledge of the world's ways often simple as a child.

Berlioz, who was welcomed with many humorous and friendly jests on hisappearance among the other students, had just settled down to work, whenhe learned that his Ariel—otherwise Marie Moke—had forsaken him and hadmarried Pleyel. In a wild state of frenzy he would go to Paris at once andseek revenge. He started, got as far as Nice, grew calmer, remained at Nicefor a month, during which time the Overture to "King Lear" was written,then returned to Rome by the way of Genoa and Florence.

By July 1832, Berlioz had returned to La Côte Saint André for a home visit.He had spent a year in Italy, had seen much, composed a number of importantthings, but left Rome without regrets, and found the familiar landscapenear his home more fascinating than anything Italy could show.

The rest of the summer was spent in the beautiful Dauphiny country, workingon the "Damnation of Faust." In the fall he returned to Paris. The visionof his Ophelia, as he used to call Miss Smithson, was seldom long absentfrom his thoughts, and he now went to the house where she used to live,thinking himself very lucky to be able to find lodging there. Meeting theold servant, he learned Miss Smithson was again in Paris, and would managea new English theater, which was to open in a few days. But Berlioz wasplanning a concert of his own compositions, and did not trust himselfto see the woman he had so long adored until this venture was over. Ithappened, however, that some friends induced her to attend the concert,the success of which is said to have been tremendous. The composer had thehappiness of meeting the actress the same evening. The next day he calledon her. Their engagement lasted nearly a year, opposed by her motherand sister, and also by Hector's family. The following summer HenriettaSmithson, all but ruined from her theatrical ventures, and weak froma fall, which made her a cripple for some years, was married to HectorBerlioz, in spite of the opposition of their two families.

And now there opened to Berlioz a life of stress and struggle, inseparablefrom such a nature as his. At one moment he would be in the highest heavenof happiness, and the next in the depths of despair. His wife's heavy debtswere a load to carry, but he manfully did his best to pay them. We canbe sure that every work he ever produced was composed under most tryingcirc*mstances, of one kind or another. One of his happiest ventures was aconcert of his own compositions, given at the Conservatoire on October22, 1833. Of it he wrote: "The concert, for which I engaged the verybest artists, was a triumphant success. My musicians beamed with joy allevening, and to crown all, I found waiting for me a man with long blackhair, piercing eyes and wasted form. Catching my hand, he poured forth aflood of burning praise and appreciation. It was Paganini!"

Paganini commissioned Berlioz to write a solo for his beautiful Strad.viola. The composer demurred for a time, and then made the attempt. Whilethe result was not just what the violinist wished, yet the themes afterwardformed the basis for Berlioz' composition "Childe Harold."

The next great work undertaken by Berlioz was the Requiem. It seems that,in 1836, the French Minister of the Interior set aside yearly, 3,000 francsto be given to a native composer, chosen by the Minister, to composea religious work, either a mass or an oratorio, to be performed at theexpense of the Government.

"I shall begin with Berlioz," he announced: "I am sure he could write agood Requiem."

After many intrigues and difficulties, this work was completed andperformed in a way the composer considered "a magnificent triumph."

Berlioz, like most composers, always wished to produce an opera. "BenvenutoCellini" was the subject finally chosen. It took a long time to write,and perhaps would never have been finished, since Berlioz was so tied tobread-winning journalistic labors, if a kind friend—Ernest Legouvé—hadnot offered to lend him two thousand francs. This loan made him independentfor a little time, and gave him the necessary leisure in which to compose.

The "Harold" music was now finished and Berlioz advertised both this andthe Symphonie Fantastique for a concert at the Conservatoire, December16, 1838. Paganini was present, and declared he had never been so moved bymusic before. He dragged the composer back on the platform, where some ofthe musicians still lingered, and there knelt and kissed his hand. The nextday he sent Berlioz a check for twenty thousand francs.

Berlioz and his wife, two of the most highly strung individuals to be foundanywhere, were bound to have plenty of storm and stress in their dailylife. And so it came about that a separation, at least for a time, seemedadvisable. Berlioz made every provision in his power for her comfort, andthen started out on various tours to make his compositions known. Concertswere given in Stuttgart, Heckingen, Weimar, Leipsic, and in Dresden two,both very successful. Others took place in Brunswick, Hamburg, Berlin,Hanover, finishing at Darmstadt, where the Grand Duke insisted not only onthe composer taking the full receipts for the concert, but, in addition,refused to let him pay any of the expenses.

And now back in Paris, at the treadmill of writing again. Berlioz hadthe sort of mentality which could plan, and also execute, big musicalenterprises on a grand scale. It was proposed that he and Strauss shouldgive a couple of monster concerts in the Exhibition Building. He gottogether a body of 1022 performers, all paid except the singers from thelyric theaters, who volunteered to help for the love of music.

It was a tremendous undertaking, and though an artistic success, theexertion nearly finished Berlioz, who was sent south by his physician.Resting on the shores of the Mediterranean, he afterwards gave concerts inMarseilles, Lyons, and Lille and then traveled to Vienna. He writes of thisvisit:

"My reception by all in Vienna—even by my fellow-plowmen, the critics—wasmost cordial; they treated me as a man and a brother, for which I amheartily grateful.

"After my third concert, there was a grand supper, at which my friendspresented me with a silver-gilt baton, and the Emperor sent me elevenhundred francs, with the odd compliment: 'Tell Berlioz I was reallyamused.'"

His way now led through Hungary. Performances were given in Pesth andPrague, where he was royally entertained and given a silver cup.

On returning to Paris, he had much domestic trouble to bear. His wifewas paralyzed and his only son, Louis, wished to leave home and becomea sailor—which he did eventually, though much against the wishes of hisparents.

The "Damnation of Faust," now finished, was given at the Opéra, and was nota success. Berlioz then conceived the idea of going to Russia to retrievehis fortunes. With the help of kind friends, who advanced the money, he wasable to carry out the plan. He left for Russia on February 14, 1847. Thevisits to both St. Petersburg and Moscow proved to be very successfulfinancially as well as artistically. To cap the climax, "Romeo andJuliette" was performed at St. Petersburg. Then the King of Prussia,wishing to hear the "Faust," the composer arranged to spend ten days inBerlin: then to Paris and London, where success was also achieved.

Shadows as well as sunshine filled the next few years. The composer wassaddened by the passing of his father. Then a favorite sister also left,and last of all his wife passed quietly away, March 3, 1854. With all thesesorrows Berlioz was at times nearly beside himself. But as he becamecalmer he decided, after half a year, to wed a woman who had been of greatassistance to him in his work for at least fourteen years.

The remaining span of Berlioz' life was outwardly more peaceful and happy.He continued to travel and compose. Everywhere he went he was honored andadmired.

Among his later compositions were the Te Deum, "Childhood of Christ,""Lelio," "Beatrice and Benedict" and "The Trojans."

At last, after what he called thirty years of slavery, he was able toresign his post of critic. "Thanks to 'The Trojans,' the wretched quilldriver is free!"

A touching episode, told in his vivid way, was the meeting, late in life,with his adored Estelle of the pink shoes. He called on her and found aquiet widow, who had lost both husband and children. They had a poignanthour of reminiscence and corresponded for some time afterwards.

Hector Berlioz passed away March 8, 1869. The French Institute sent adeputation, the band of the National Guard played selections from hisFuneral Symphony; on the casket lay wreaths from the Saint Cécilia Society,from the youths of Hungary, from Russian nobles and from the town ofGrenoble, his old home.

The music of Berlioz is conceived on large lines, in broad masses of tonecolor, with new harmonies and imposing effects. He won a noble place inart through many trials and hardships. His music is the expression, thereflection of the mental struggles of a most intense nature. The futurewill surely witness a greater appreciation of its merits than has up to nowbeen accorded it.

XIV

FRANZ LISZT

Franz Liszt, in his day the king of pianists, a composer whose compositionsstill glow and burn with the fire he breathed into them; Liszt thediplomat, courtier, man of the world—always a conqueror! How difficult totell, in a few pages, the story of a life so complex and absorbing!

A storm outside: but all was warmth and simple comfort in the largesitting-room of a steward's cottage belonging to the small estate ofRaiding, in Hungary.

It was evening and father Liszt, after the labors of the day were over,could call these precious hours his own. He was now at the old piano, forwith him music was a passion. He used all his leisure time for study andhad some knowledge of most instruments. He had taught himself the piano,indeed under the circ*mstances had become quite proficient on it. To-nighthe was playing something of Haydn, for he greatly venerated that master.Adam Liszt made a striking figure as he sat there, his fine head, with itsmass of light hair, thrown back, his stern features softened by the musiche was making.

At a table near sat his wife, her dark head with its glossy braids bentover her sewing. Hers was a sweet, kindly face, and she endeared herself toevery one by her simple, unassuming manners.

Quite near the old piano stood little Franz, not yet six. He was absolutelyabsorbed in the music. The fair curls fell about his childish face and hisdeep blue eyes were raised to his father, as though the latter were somesort of magician, creating all this beauty.

When the music paused, little Franz awoke as from a trance.

"Did you like that, Franzerl?" asked his father, looking down at him. Thechild bent his curly head, hardly able to speak.

"And do you want to be a musician when you grow up?" Franzerl nodded, then,pointing to a picture of Beethoven hanging on the wall, exclaimed withbeaming eyes: "I want to be such a musician as he is!"

Adam Liszt had already begun to teach his baby son the elements of music,at the child's earnest and oft-repeated request. He had no real method,being self-taught himself, but in spite of this fact Franz made remarkableprogress. He could read the notes and find the keys with as much ease asthough he had practised for years. He had a wonderful ear, and his memorywas astonishing. The father hoped his boy would become a great musician,and carry out the dream which he had failed to realize in himself.

Little Franz was born in the eventful year of 1811,—the "year of thecomet." The night of October 21, the night of his birth, the tail of themeteor seemed to light up the roof of the Liszt home and was regarded asan omen of destiny. His mother used to say he was always cheerful, loving,never naughty but most obedient. The child seemed religious by nature,which feeling was fostered by his good mother. He loved to go to church onSundays and fast days. The midnight mass on Christmas eve, when Adam Liszt,carrying a lantern, led the way to church along the country road, throughthe silent night, filled the child's thoughts with mystic awe.

Those early impressions have doubtless influenced the creations of Liszt,especially that part of his "Christus" entitled "Christmas Oratorio."

Before Franz was six, as we have seen, he had already begun his musicalstudies. If not sitting at the piano, he would scribble notes—for hehad learned without instruction how to write them long before he knew theletters of the alphabet, or rudiments of writing. His small hands werea source of trouble to him, and he resorted to all kinds of comicalexpedients, such as sometimes playing extra notes with the tip of his nose.Indeed his ingenuity knew no bounds, when it came to mastering some musicaldifficulty.

Franz was an open minded, frank, truth-loving child, always ready toconfess his faults, though he seemed to have but few. Strangely enough,though born an Hungarian, he was never taught to speak his native tongue,which indeed was only used by the peasants. German, the polite language ofthe country, was alone used in the Liszt home.

The pronounced musical talent of his boy was a source of pride to AdamLiszt, who spoke of it to all his friends, so that the little fellow beganto be called "the artist." The result was that when a concert was to begiven at the neighboring Oldenburg, Adam was requested to allow his wonderchild to play.

When Franz, now a handsome boy of nine, heard of the concert, he wasoverjoyed at the prospect of playing in public. It was a happy day forhim when he started out with his father for Oldenburg. He was to play aConcerto by Reis, and a Fantaisie of his own, accompanied by the orchestra.In this his first public attempt Franz proved he possessed two qualitiesnecessary for success—talent and will. All who heard him on this occasionwere so delighted, that Adam then and there made arrangements to give asecond concert on his own account, which was attended with as great successas the first.

The father had now fully made up his mind Franz was to be a musician. Hedecided to resign his post of steward at Raiding and take the boy to Viennafor further study.

On the way to Pressburg, the first stop, they halted to call at Eisenstadt,on Prince Esterhazy. The boy played for his delighted host, who gavehim every encouragement, even to placing his castle at Pressburg at hisdisposal for a concert. The Princess, too, was most cordial, and gave theboy costly presents when they left.

At Pressburg Adam Liszt succeeded in arranging a concert which interestedall the Hungarian aristocracy of the city. It was given in the spaciousdrawing-rooms of the Prince's palace, and a notable audience was present.Little Franz achieved a triumph that night, because of the fire andoriginality of his playing. Elegant women showered caresses upon the childand the men were unanimous that such gifts deserved to be cultivated to theutmost without delay.

When it was learned that father Liszt had not an ample purse, and therewould be but little for Franz's further musical education, six Hungariannoblemen agreed to raise a subscription which would provide a yearly incomefor six years. With this happy prospect in view, which relieved him offurther anxiety, the father wrote to Hummel, now in employ of the Court atWeimar, asking him to undertake Franz's musical education. Hummel, though afamous pianist, was of a grasping nature; he wrote back that he was willingto accept the talented boy as a pupil, but would charge a louis d'or perlesson!

As soon as the father and his boy arrived in Vienna, the best teachers weresecured for Franz. Carl Czerny was considered head of the piano profession.Czerny had been a pupil of Beethoven, and was so overrun with pupilshimself, that he at first declined to accept another. But when he heardFranz play, he was so impressed that he at once promised to teach him. Hisnature was the opposite of Hummel's, for he was most generous to strugglingtalent. At the end of twelve lessons, when Adam Liszt wished to paythe debt, Czerny would accept nothing, and for the whole period ofinstruction—a year and a half—he continued to teach Franz gratuitously.

At first the work with such a strict master of technic as Czerny, was veryirksome to the boy, who had been brought up on no method at all, but wasallowed free and unrestrained rein. He really had no technical foundation;but since he could read rapidly at sight and could glide over the keys withsuch astonishing ease, he imagined himself already a great artist. Czernysoon showed him his deficiencies; proving to him that an artist must haveclear touch, smoothness of execution and variety of tone. The boy rebelledat first, but finally settled down to hard study, and the result soonastonished his teacher. For Franz began to acquire a richness of feelingand beauty of tone wonderful for such a child. Salieri became his teacherof theory. He was now made to analyze and play scores, also compose littlepieces and short hymns. In all these the boy made fine progress.

He now began to realize he needed to know something besides music, and setto work by himself to read, study and write. He also had great opportunity,through his noble Hungarian patrons, to meet the aristocracy of Vienna. Histalents, vivacity and grace, his attractive personality, all helped to winthe notice of ladies—even in those early days of his career.

After eighteen busy months in Vienna, father Liszt decided to bring hisboy out in a public concert. The Town Hall was placed at his disposal and anumber of fine artists assisted. With beaming face and sparkling eyes,the boy played with more skill, fire and confidence than he had ever donebefore. The concert took place December 1, 1822. On January 12, 1823, Franzrepeated his success in another concert, again at the Town Hall.

It was after this second concert that Franz's reputation reached the earsof Beethoven, always the object of the boy's warmest admiration. Severaltimes Franz and his father had tried to see the great master, but withoutsuccess. Schindler was appealed to and promised to do his best. He wrote inBeethoven's diary, as the master was quite deaf:

"Little Liszt has entreated me to beg you to write him a theme forto-morrow's concert. He will not break the seal till the concert begins.Czerny is his teacher—the boy is only eleven years old. Do come to hisconcert, it will encourage the child. Promise me you will come."

It was the thirteenth of April, 1823. A very large audience filled theRedouten Saal. When Franz stepped upon the platform, he perceived the greatBeethoven seated near. A great joy filled him. Now he was to play for thegreat man, whom all his young life he had worshiped from afar. He put forthevery effort to be worthy of such an honor. Never had he played with suchfire; his whole being seemed thrilled—never had he achieved such success.In the admiration which followed, Beethoven rose, came upon the platform,clasped the boy in his arms and kissed him repeatedly, to the franticcheers of the audience.

The boy Franz Liszt had now demonstrated that already at eleven years old,he was one of the leading virtuosi of the time; indeed his great reputationas a pianist dates from this third Vienna concert. The press praised himhighly, and many compared him to the wonderful genius, Mozart. Adam Lisztwished him now to see more of the world, and make known his great talents,also to study further. He decided to take the boy to Paris, for there livedthe celebrated composer, Cherubini, at that time Director of the ParisConservatoire.

On the way to Paris, concerts were given in various cities. In Munich hewas acclaimed "a second Mozart." In Strassburg and Stuttgart he had greatsuccess.

Arrived in Paris, father and son visited the Conservatoire at once, for itwould have been a fine thing for the boy to study there for a time, asit was the best known school for counterpoint and composition. Cherubini,however, refused to even read the letters of recommendation, saying noforeigner, however talented, could be admitted to the French NationalSchool of Music. Franz was deeply hurt by this refusal, and begged withtears to be allowed to come, but Cherubini was immovable.

However they soon made the acquaintance of Ferdinand Paër, who offered togive the child lessons in composition.

Franz made wonderful progress, both in this new line of study, and inbecoming known as a piano virtuoso. Having played in a few of the greathouses, he soon found himself the fashion; everybody was anxious for "lepetit Litz" as he was called, to attend and play at their soirées. Franzthus met the most distinguished musicians of the day. When he played inpublic the press indulged in extravagant praise, calling him "the eighthwonder of the world," "another Mozart," and the like. Of course the fatherwas overjoyed that his fondest hopes were being realized. Franz stood atthe head of the virtuosi, and in composition he was making rapid strides.He even attempted an operetta, "Don Sancho," which later had severalperformances.

The eminent piano maker, Erard, who had a branch business in London andwas about to start for that city, invited Liszt to accompany him andbring Franz. They accepted this plan, but in order to save expense, it wasdecided that mother Liszt, who had joined them in Paris, should return toAustria and stay with a sister till the projected tours were over.

Franz was saddened by this decision, but his entreaties were useless; hisfather was stern. The separation was a cruel one for the boy. For a longtime thereafter the mere mention of his mother's name would bring tears.

In May, 1824, father and son, with Erard, started for England, and on June21 Franz gave his first public concert in London. He had already played forthe aristocracy in private homes, and had appeared at Court by command ofKing George IV. The concert won him great success, though the Englishwere more reserved in their demonstrations, and not like the impulsive,open-hearted French people. He was happy to return to Paris, after theLondon season, and to resume his playing in the French salons.

The next spring, accompanied by his father, he made a tour of the Frenchprovinces, and then set out for a second trip to England. He was nowfourteen; a mere boy in years, but called the greatest pianist of the day.He had developed so quickly and was so precocious that already he dislikedbeing called "le petit Litz," for he felt himself full grown. He wished tobe free to act as he wished. Adam, however, kept a strict watch on all hismovements, and this became irksome to the boy, who felt he was already aman.

But father Liszt's health became somewhat precarious; constant travelinghad undermined it. They remained in Paris quietly, till the year 1826, whenthey started on a second tour of French cities till Marseilles was reached,where the young pianist's success was overwhelming.

Returning to Paris, Franz devoted much of his time to ardent study ofcounterpoint, under Anton Reicha. In six months' study he had mastered thedifficulties of this intricate art.

Adam Liszt and Franz spent the winter of 1826-7 in Switzerland, the boyplaying in all important cities. They returned to Paris in the spring, andin May, set out again for England on a third visit. Franz gave his firstconcert in London on June ninth and proved how much he had gained in powerand brilliancy. Moscheles, who was present, wrote: "Franz Liszt's playingsurpasses in power and the overcoming of difficulties anything that has yetbeen heard."

The strain of constant travel and concert playing was seriously tellingon the boy's sensitive, excitable nature. He lost his sunny gaiety, grewquiet, sometimes almost morose. He went much to church, and wanted totake orders, but his father prevented this step. Indeed the father becamealarmed at the boy's pale face and changed condition, and took him to theFrench watering place of Boulogne-sur-Mer. Here both father and son werebenefited by the sea baths and absolute rest. Franz recovered his genialspirits and constantly gained in health and strength.

But with Adam Liszt the gain was only temporary. He was attacked with afever, succumbed in a few days and was buried at Boulogne. The loss of hisfather was a great blow to Franz. He was prostrated for days, but youth atlast conquered. Aroused to his responsibilities, he began to think for thefuture. He at once wrote his mother, telling her what had happened, sayinghe would give up his concert tours and make a home for her in Paris, bygiving piano lessons.

Looking closer into his finances, of which he had no care before, Franzfound the expenses of his father's illness and death had exhausted theirlittle savings, and he was really in debt. He decided to sell his grandpiano, so that he should be in debt to no one. This was done, every one waspaid off and on his arrival in Paris his old friend Erard invited him tohis own home till the mother came.

It was a sweet and happy meeting of mother and son, after such a longseparation. The two soon found a modest apartment in the Rue Montholon.

As soon as his intention to give lessons became known, many aristocraticpupils came and found him a remarkable teacher. Among his new pupils wasCaroline Saint Cricq, youngest daughter of Count Saint Cricq, then Ministerof the Interior, and Madame his wife.

Caroline, scarcely seventeen, the same age as her young teacher, was abeautiful girl, as pure and refined as she was talented. Under the eyes ofthe Countess, the lessons went on from month to month, and the mother didnot fail to see the growing attachment between the young people. But love'syoung dream was of short duration. The Countess fell ill and the lessonshad to be discontinued. Caroline did not see her devoted teacher till allwas over.

There was now another bond between them, the sympathy over the lossof their dear ones. The Count had requested that the lessons should beresumed. But when the young teacher remained too long in converse with hispupil after the lessons, he was dismissed by the Count, and all their sweetintercourse came to an abrupt end.

Mme. Liszt did all she could to soothe the grief and despair of her son.For days and weeks he remained at home, neglecting his piano and his work.He again thought of the church with renewed ardor and told his mother henow had decided to become a monk. His spirits sank very low; he becameill, unable to leave the house and it was reported everywhere he had passedaway.

Again he rallied and his strong constitution conquered. As strength slowlyreturned, so also did his activity and love of life.

During his long convalescence he was seized with a great desire forknowledge, and read everything he could lay hands on. He would often sitat the piano, busying his fingers with technic while reading a book on thedesk before him. He had formerly given all his time to music and languages;now he must know literature, politics, history and exact sciences. A wordcasually dropped in conversation, would start him on a new line of reading.Then came the revolution of 1830. Everybody talked politics, and Franz,with his excitable spirits, would have rushed into the conflict if hismother had not restrained him.

With all this awakening he sought to broaden his art, to make hisinstrument speak of higher things. Indeed the spirit must speak throughthe form. This he realized the more as he listened to the thrillingperformances of that wizard of the violin, Paganini, who appeared in Parisin 1831. This style of playing made a deep impression on Liszt. He nowtried to do on the piano what Paganini accomplished on the violin, inthe matter of tone quality and intensity. He procured the newly publishedCaprices for violin and tried to learn their tonal secrets, alsotranscribing the pieces for piano.

Liszt became fast friends with the young composer, Hector Berlioz, andmuch influenced by his compositions, which were along new harmonic lines.Chopin, the young Polish artist, now appeared in Paris, playing his E minorConcerto, his Mazurkas and Nocturnes, revealing new phases of art. Chopin'scalm composure tranquilized Liszt's excitable nature. From Chopin, Lisztlearned to "express in music the poetry of the aristocratic salon." Lisztever remained a true and admiring friend of the Pole, and wrote the poeticstudy sketch of him in 1849.

Liszt was now twenty-three. Broadened and chastened by all he had passedthrough, he resumed his playing in aristocratic homes. He also appeared inpublic and was found to be quite a different artist from what the Parisianshad previously known. His bold new harmonies in his own compositions, therich effects, showed a deep knowledge of his art. He had transcribed anumber of Berlioz's most striking compositions to the piano and performedthem with great effect.

The handsome and gifted young artist was everywhere the object ofadmiration. He also met George Sand, and was soon numbered among thatwonderful and dangerous woman's best friends. Later he met the young andbeautiful Countess Laprunarède, and a mutual attraction ensued. The elderlyCount, her husband, pleased with the dashing young musician, invited him tospend the winter at his chateau, in Switzerland, where the witty Countessvirtually kept him prisoner.

The following winter, 1833-34, when the salons opened again, Lisztfrequented them as before. He was in the bloom of youth and fame, when hemet the woman who was to be linked with his destiny for the next ten years.

We have sketched the childhood and youth of this wonderful artist up tothis point. We will pass lightly over this decade of his career, merelystating briefly that the lady—the beautiful Countess d'Agoult, captivatedby the brilliant talents of the Hungarian virtuoso, left her husband andchild, and became for ten years the faithful companion of his travels andtours over Europe. Many writers agree that Liszt endeavored to dissuadeher from this attraction, and behaved as honorably as he could under thecirc*mstances. A part of the time they lived in Switzerland, and it wasthere that many of Liszt's compositions were written.

Of their three children, the boy died very young. Of the girls, Blandinebecame the wife of Émile Ollivier, a French literary man and statesman. Hersister, Cosima, married first Hans von Bülow and later Richard Wagner.

In 1843 Liszt intended to take Madame with him to Russia, but instead,left her and her children in Paris, with his mother, as the Countess was infailing health. His first concert, in St. Petersburg, realized the enormoussum of fifty thousand francs—ten thousand dollars. Instead of giving oneconcert in Moscow, he gave six. Later he played in Bavaria, Saxony andother parts of Germany. He then settled in Weimar for a time, being madeGrand Ducal Capellmeister. Then, in 1844-45, longing for more success, hetoured Spain and Portugal.

A generous act was his labor in behalf of the Beethoven monument, to beerected in the master's birthplace, Bonn. The monument was to be given bysubscriptions from the various Princes of Germany. Liszt helped make up thedeficit and came to Bonn to organize a Festival in honor of the event. Healso composed a Cantata for the opening day of the Festival, and in hisenthusiasm nearly ruined himself by paying the heavy expenses of theFestival out of his own pocket.

The political events of 1848 brought him back to Weimar, and he resumed hispost of Court Music Director. He now directed his energies toward makingWeimar the first musical city of Germany. Greatly admiring Wagner's genius,he undertook to perform his works in Weimar, and to spread his nameand fame. Indeed it is not too much to say that without Liszt's devotedefforts, Wagner would never have attained his vogue and fame. Wagnerhimself testified to this.

While living in Weimar, Liszt made frequent journeys to Rome and to Paris.In 1861 there was a rumor that the object of his visits to Rome was to gainPapal consent to his marriage with the Princess Sayn-Wittgenstein. Duringa visit to Rome in 1864, the musician was unable to resist longer themysticism of the church. He decided to take orders and was made an Abbé.

Since that time, Abbé Franz Liszt did much composing. He also continuedto teach the piano to great numbers of pupils, who flocked to him from allparts of the world. Many of the greatest artists now before the public werenumbered among his students, and owe much of their success to his artisticguidance.

In 1871, the Hungarian Cabinet created him a noble, with a yearly pensionof three thousand dollars. In 1875, he was made Director of the Academy atBudapest. In addition, Liszt was a member of nearly all the European Ordersof Chivalry.

Franz Liszt passed away August 1, 1886, in the house of his friend,Herr Frohlich, near Wagner's Villa Wahnfried, Bayreuth, at the age ofseventy-five. As was his custom every summer, Liszt was in Bayreuth,assisting in the production of Wagner's masterpieces, when he succumbed topneumonia. Thus passed a great composer, a world famous piano virtuoso, anda noble and kindly spirit.

For the piano, his chosen instrument, Liszt wrote much that was beautifuland inspiring. He created a new epoch for the virtuoso. His fifteenHungarian Rhapsodies, B minor Sonata, Concert Études and manytranscriptions, appear on all modern programs, and there are many piecesyet to be made known. He is the originator of the Symphonic Poem, fororchestra; while his sacred music, such as the Oratorio "Christus," andthe beautiful "Saint Elizabeth," a sacred opera, are monuments to his greatgenius.

XV

GIUSEPPE VERDI

In the little hamlet of Le Roncole, at the foot of the Apeninnes, a placethat can hardly be found on the map, because it is just a cluster ofworkmen's houses, Giuseppe Verdi, one of the greatest operatic composers,was born, October 9, 1813.

There were great wars going on in Europe during that time. When Giuseppewas a year old, the Russian and Austrian soldiers marched through Italy,killing and destroying everywhere. Some of them came to Le Roncole fora few hours. All the women and children ran to the church and lockedthemselves in for safety. But these savage men had no respect for the houseof God. They took the hinges off the doors and rushing in murdered andwounded the helpless ones. Luigia Verdi, with the baby Giuseppe in herarms, escaped, ran up a narrow staircase to the belfry, and hid herself andchild among some old lumber. Here she stayed in her hiding place, until thedrunken troops were far away from the little village.

The babe Giuseppe was born among very poor, ignorant working people, thoughhis father's house was one of the best known and most frequented among thecluster of cottages. His parents Carlo Verdi and Luigia his wife, kepta small inn at Le Roncole and also a little shop, where they sold sugar,coffee, matches, spirits, tobacco and clay pipes. Once a week the goodCarlo would walk up to Busseto, three miles away, with two empty basketsand would return with them filled with articles for his store, carryingthem slung across his strong shoulders.

Giuseppe Verdi who was to produce such streams of beautiful, sparklingmusic,—needing an Act of Parliament to stop them, as once happened,—wasa very quiet, thoughtful little fellow, always good and obedient; sometimesalmost sad, and seldom joined in the boisterous games of other children.That serious expression found in all of Verdi's portraits as a man was evennoticeable in the child. The only time he would rouse up, was when a handorgan would come through the village street; then he would follow it asfar as his little legs would carry him, and nothing could keep him in thehouse, when he heard this music. Intelligent, reserved and quiet, every oneloved him.

In 1820, when Giuseppe was seven years old, Carlo Verdi committed a greatextravagance for an innkeeper; he bought a spinet for his son, somethingvery unheard of for so poor a man to do.

Little Giuseppe practised very diligently on his spinet. At first he couldonly play the first five notes of the scale. Next he tried very hard tofind out chords, and one day was made perfectly happy at having sounded themajor third and fifth of C. But the next day he could not find the chordagain, and began to fret and fume and got into such a temper, that hetook a hammer and tried to break the spinet in pieces. This made such acommotion that it brought his father into the room. When he saw what thechild was doing, he gave a blow on Giuseppe's ear that brought the littlefellow to his senses at once. He saw he could not punish the good spinetbecause he did not know enough to strike a common chord.

His love of music early showed itself in many ways. One day he wasassisting the parish priest at mass in the little church of Le Roncole. Atthe moment of the elevation of the Host, such sweet harmonies were soundingfrom the organ, that the child stood perfectly motionless, listening to thebeautiful music, all unconscious of everything else about him.

"Water," said the priest to the altar boy. Giuseppe, not hearing him, thepriest repeated the call. Still the child, who was listening to the music,did not hear. "Water," said the priest a third time and gave Giuseppe sucha sharp kick that he fell down the steps of the altar, hitting his head onthe stone floor, and was taken unconscious into the sacristy.

After this Giuseppe was allowed to have music lessons with Baistrocchi, theorganist of the village church. At the end of a year Baistrocchi said therewas nothing more he could teach his young pupil, so the lessons came to anend.

Two years later, when old Baistrocchi died, Giuseppe, who was then onlyten, was made organist in his place. This pleased his parents very much,but his father felt the boy should be sent to school, where he could learnto read and write and know something of arithmetic. This would have beenquite impossible had not Carlo Verdi had a good friend living at Busseto, ashoemaker, named Pugnatta.

Pugnatta agreed to give Giuseppe board and lodging and send him to the bestschool in the town, all for a small sum of three pence a day. Giuseppe wentto Pugnatta's; and while he was always in his place in school and studieddiligently, he still kept his situation as organist of Le Roncole, walkingthere every Sunday morning and back again to Busseto after the eveningservice.

His pay as organist was very small, but he also made a little money playingfor weddings, christenings and funerals. He also gained a few lire from acollection which it was the habit of artists to make at harvest time, forwhich he had to trudge from door to door, with a sack upon his back. Thepoor boy's life had few comforts, and this custom of collections broughthim into much danger. One night while he was walking toward Le Roncole,very tired and hungry, he did not notice he had taken a wrong path, whensuddenly, missing his footing, he fell into a deep canal. It was very darkand very cold and his limbs were so stiff he could not use them. Had it notbeen for an old woman who was passing by the place and heard his cries, theexhausted and chilled boy would have been carried away by the current.

After two years' schooling, Giuseppe's father persuaded his friend, AntonioBarezzi of Busseto, from whom he was in the habit of buying wines andsupplies for his inn and shop,—to take the lad into his warehouse. Thatwas a happy day for Giuseppe when he went to live with Barezzi, who was anenthusiastic amateur of music. The Philharmonic Society, of which Barezziwas the president, met, rehearsed and gave all its concerts at his house.

Giuseppe, though working hard in the warehouse, also found time to attendall the rehearsals of the Philharmonics, and began the task of copying outseparate parts from the score. His earnestness in this work attractedthe notice of the conductor, Ferdinando Provesi, who began to take greatinterest in the boy, and was the first one to understand his talent andadvised him to devote himself to music. A Canon in the Cathedral offeredto teach him Latin, and tried to make a priest of him, saying, "What doyou want to study music for? You have a gift for Latin and it would be muchbetter for you to become a priest. What do you expect from your music?Do you think that some day you will become organist of Busseto? Stuff andnonsense! That can never be."

A short time after this, there was a mass at a chapel in Busseto, wherethe Canon had the service. The organist was unable to attend, and Verdi wascalled at the last moment to take his place. Very much impressed with theunusually beautiful organ music, the priest, at the close of the servicedesired to see the organist. His astonishment was great when he saw hisscholar whom he had been seeking to turn from the study of music. "Whosemusic did you play?" he asked. "It was most beautiful."

"Why," timidly answered the boy, "I had no music, I was playingextempore—just as I felt."

"Ah, indeed," replied the Canon; "well I am a fool and you cannot do betterthan to study music, take my word for it."

Under the good Provesi, Verdi studied until he was sixteen and made suchrapid progress that both Provesi and Barezzi felt he must be sent to Milanto study further. The lad had often come to the help of his master, both atthe organ and as conductor of the Philharmonic. The records of the societystill have several works written by Verdi at that time—when he wassixteen—composed, copied, taught, rehearsed and conducted by him.

There was an institution in Busseto called the Monte di Pietà, which gavefour scholarships of three hundred francs a year, each given for fouryears to promising young men needing money to study science or art. ThroughBarezzi one of these scholarships was given to Verdi, it being arrangedthat he should have six hundred francs a year for two years, instead ofthree hundred francs for four years. Barezzi himself advanced the moneyfor the music lessons, board and lodging in Milan and the priest gave hima letter of introduction to his nephew, a professor there, who received himwith a hearty welcome, and insisted upon his living with him.

Like all large music schools, there were a great many who presentedthemselves for admittance by scholarship and only one to be chosen.And Verdi did not happen to be that one, Basili not considering hiscompositions of sufficient worth. This was not because Verdi was reallylacking in his music, but because Basili had other plans. This did not inthe least discourage Giuseppe, and at the suggestion of Alessando Rolla,who was then conductor of La Scala, he asked Lavigna to give him lessons incomposition and orchestration.

Lavigna was a former pupil of the Conservatoire of Naples and an ablecomposer. Verdi showed him some of the same compositions he had shownBasili. After examining them he willingly accepted the young aspirant as apupil.

Verdi spent most of his evenings at the home of the master, when Lavignawas not at La Scala and there met many artists. One night it chanced thatLavigna, Basili and Verdi were alone, and the two masters were speakingof the deplorable result of a competition for the position of Maîtredi Capelle and organist of the Church of San Giovanni di Monza. Out oftwenty-eight young men who had taken part in the competition, not onehad known how to develop correctly the subject given by Basili for theconstruction of a fugue. Lavigna, with a bit of mischief in his eyes,began to say to his friend:—"It is really a remarkable fact. Well, lookat Verdi, who has studied fugue for two short years. I lay a wager he wouldhave done better than your eight and twenty candidates."

"Really?" replied Basili, in a somewhat vexed tone.

"Certainly. Do you remember your subject? Yes, you do? Well, write itdown."

Basili wrote and Lavigne, giving the theme to Verdi, said:

"Sit down there at the table and just begin to work out this subject."

Then the two friends resumed their conversation, until Verdi, coming tothem said simply: "There, it is done."

Basili took the paper and examined it, showing signs of astonishment as hecontinued to read. When he came to the conclusion he complimented thelad and said: "But how is it that you have written a double canon on mysubject?"

"It is because I found it rather poor and wished to embellish it," Verdireplied, remembering the reception he had had at the Conservatoire.

In 1833 his old master Provesi died. Verdi felt the loss keenly, forProvesi was the one who first taught him music and who showed him howto work to become an artist. Though he wished to do greater things, hereturned to Busseto to fulfill his promise to take Provesi's place asorganist of the Cathedral and conductor of the Philharmonic, rather bigpositions to fill for a young man of twenty.

And now Verdi fell in love with the beautiful Margherita, the oldestdaughter of Barezzi, who did not mind giving his daughter to a poor youngman, for Verdi possessed something worth far more than money, and that wasgreat musical talent. The young people were married in 1836, and the wholePhilharmonic Society attended.

About the year 1833-34 there flourished in Milan a vocal society called thePhilharmonic, composed of excellent singers under the leadership ofMasini. Soon after Verdi came to the city, the Society was preparing fora performance of Haydn's "Creation." Lavigna, with whom the young composerwas studying composition, suggested his pupil should attend the rehearsals,to which he gladly agreed. It seems that three Maestri shared theconducting during rehearsals. One day none of them were present at theappointed hour and Masini asked young Verdi to accompany from the fullorchestral score, adding, "It will be sufficient if you merely play thebass." Verdi took his place at the piano without the slightest hesitation.The slender, rather shabby looking stranger was not calculated to inspiremuch confidence. However he soon warmed to his work, and after a whilegrew so excited that he played the accompaniment with the left hand whileconducting vigorously with the right. The rehearsal went off splendidly,and many came forward to greet the young conductor, among them were CountsPompeo Belgiojoso and Remato Borromes. After this proof of his ability,Verdi was appointed to conduct the public performance, which was such asuccess that it was repeated by general request, and was attended by thehighest society.

Soon after this Count Borromes engaged Verdi to write a Cantata for chorusand orchestra, to honor the occasion of a marriage in the family. Verdi didso but was never paid a sou for his work. The next request was from Masini,who urged Verdi to compose an opera for the Teatro Filodramatico, where hewas conductor. He handed him a libretto, which with a few alterations hereand there became "Oberto, Conte di San Bonifacio." Verdi accepted the offerat once, and being obliged to move to Busseto, where he had been appointedorganist, remained there nearly three years, during which time the operawas completed. On returning to Milan he found Masini no longer conductor,and lost all hope of seeing the new opera produced. After long waitinghowever, the impressario sent for him, and promised to bring out the workthe next season, if the composer would make a few changes. Young and as yetunknown, Verdi was quite willing. "Oberto" was produced with a fair amountof success, and repeated several times. On the strength of this propitiousbeginning, the impressario, Merelli, made the young composer an excellentoffer—to write three operas, one every eight months, to be performedeither in Milan or in Vienna, where he was impressario of both theprincipal theaters. He promised to pay four thousand lire—about sixhundred and seventy dollars—for each, and share the profits of thecopyright. To young Verdi this seemed an excellent chance and he acceptedat once. Rossi wrote a libretto, entitled "Proscritto," and work on themusic was about to begin. In the spring of 1840, Merelli hurried fromVienna, saying he needed a comic opera for the autumn season, and wantedwork begun on it at once. He produced three librettos, none of them verygood. Verdi did not like them, but since there was no time to lose, chosethe least offensive and set to work.

The Verdis were living in a small house near the Porta Ticinesa; the familyconsisted of the composer, his wife and two little sons. Almost as soon aswork was begun on the comic opera, Verdi fell ill and was confined to hisbed several days. He had quite forgotten that the rent money, whichhe always liked to have ready on the very day, was due, and he had notsufficient to pay. It was too late to borrow it, but quite unknown to himthe wife had taken some of her most valuable trinkets, had gone out andbrought back the necessary amount. This sweet act of devotion greatlytouched her husband.

And now sudden sorrow swept over the little family. At the beginning ofApril one of the little boys fell ill. Before the doctors could understandwhat was the matter, the little fellow breathed his last in the arms of hisdesperate mother. A few days after this, the other child sickened and died.In June the young wife, unable to bear the strain, passed away and Verdisaw the third coffin leave his door carrying the last of his dear ones. Andin the midst of these crushing trials he was expected to compose a comicopera! But he bravely completed his task. "Un Giorno di Regno" naturallyproved a dead failure. In the despondency that followed, the composerresolved to give up composition altogether. Merelli scolded him roundlyfor such a decision, and promised if, some day, he chose to take up his penagain, he would, if given two months' notice, produce any opera Verdi mightwrite.

At that time the composer was not ready to change his mind. He could notlive longer in the house filled with so many sad memories, but moved to anew residence near the Corsia di Servi. One evening on the street, heran against Merelli, who was hurrying to the theater. Without stopping helinked his arm in that of the composer and made him keep pace. The managerwas in the depths of woe. He had secured a libretto by Solera, which was"wonderful, marvelous, extraordinary, grand," but the composer he hadengaged did not like it. What was to be done? Verdi bethought him of thelibretto "Proscritto," which Rossi had once written for him, and he had notused. He suggested this to Merelli. Rossi was at once sent for and produceda copy of the libretto. Then Merelli laid the other manuscript beforeVerdi. "Look, here is Solera's libretto; such a beautiful subject! Takeit home and read it over." But Verdi refused. "No, no, I am in no humor toread librettos."

"It won't hurt you to look at it," urged Merelli, and thrust it into thecoat pocket of the reluctant composer.

On reaching home, Verdi pulled the manuscript out and threw it on thewriting table. As he did so a stanza from the book caught his eye; it wasalmost a paraphrase from the Bible, which had been such a solace to himin his solitary life. He began to read the story and was more and moreenthralled by it, yet his resolution to write no more was not altered.However, as the days passed there would be here a line written down, therea melody—until at last, almost unconsciously the opera of "Nabucco" cameinto being.

The opera once finished, Verdi hastened to Merelli, and reminded him of hispromise. The impressario was quite honorable about it, but would not agreeto bring the opera out until Easter, for the season of 1841-42, was alreadyarranged. Verdi refused to wait until Easter, as he knew the best singerswould not then be available. After many arguments and disputes, it wasfinally arranged that "Nabucco" should be put on, but without extra outlayfor mounting. At the end of February 1842, rehearsals began and on Marchninth the first performance took place.

The success of "Nabucco" was remarkable. No such "first night" had beenknown in La Scala for many years. "I had hoped for success," said thecomposer, "but such a success—never!"

The next day all Italy talked of Verdi. Donizetti, whose wealth ofmelodious music swayed the Italians as it did later the English, was soimpressed by it that he continually repeated, "It is fine, uncommonlyfine."

With the success of "Nabucco" Verdi's career as a composer may be said tohave begun. In the following year "I Lombardi" was produced, followedby "Ernani." Then came in quick succession ten more operas, among them"Attila" and "Macbeth."

In 1847, we find Verdi in London, where on July 2, at Her Majesty'sTheater, "I Masnadieri" was brought out, with a cast including Lablanche,Gardoni, Colletti, and above all Jenny Lind, in a part composed expresslyfor her. All the artists distinguished themselves; Jenny Lind actedadmirably and sang her airs exquisitely, but the opera was not a success.No two critics could agree as to its merits. Verdi left England in disgustand took his music to other cities.

The advantage to Verdi of his trips through Europe and to England is shownin "Rigoletto," brought out in Vienna in 1851. In this opera his true powermanifests itself. The music shows great advance in declamation, which liftsit above the ordinary Italian style of that time. With this opera Verdi'ssecond period begins. Two years later "Trovatore" was produced in Rome andhad a tremendous success. Each scene brought down thunders of applause,until the very walls resounded and outside people took up the cry, "Longlive Verdi, Italy's greatest composer! Vive Verdi!" It was given in Parisin 1854, and in London the following year. In 1855, "La Traviata" wasproduced in Vienna. This work, so filled with delicate, beautiful music,nearly proved a failure, because the consumptive heroine, who expires onthe stage, was sung by a prima donna of such extraordinary stoutnessthat the scene was received with shouts of laughter. After a number ofunsuccessful operas, "Un Ballo in Maschera" scored a success in Rome in1859, and "La Forza del Destino," written for Petrograd, had a recentrevival in New York.

When Rossini passed away, November 13, 1868, Verdi suggested a requiemshould be written jointly by the best Italian composers. The work wascompleted, but was not satisfactory on account of the diversity of styles.It was then proposed that Verdi write the entire work himself. The death ofManzoni soon after this caused the composer to carry out the idea. Thus thegreat "Manzoni Requiem" came into being.

In 1869, the Khedive of Egypt had a fine opera house built in Cairo, andcommissioned Verdi to write an opera having an Egyptian subject, for theopening. The ever popular "Aida" was then composed and brought out in 1871,with great success. This proved to be the beginning of the master's thirdperiod, for he turned from his earlier style which was purely lyric, to onewith far more richness of orchestration.

Verdi had now retired to his estate of Sant'Agata, and it was supposed hiscareer as composer had closed, as he gave his time principally to the careof his domain. From time to time it was rumored he was writing anotheropera. The rumor proved true, for on February 5, 1887, when Verdi wasseventy-four years old, "Otello" was produced at La Scala, Milan, amidindescribable enthusiasm. Six years later the musical world was againstartled and overjoyed by the production of another Shakespearean opera,"Falstaff," composed in his eightieth year. In all, his operas number overthirty, most of them serious, all of them containing much beautiful music.

At Sant'Agata the master lived a quiet, retired life. The estate wassituated about two miles from Busseto, and was very large, with a greatpark, a large collection of horses and other live stock. The residence wasspacious, and the master's special bedroom was on the first floor. It waslarge, light and airy and luxuriously furnished. Here stood a magnificentgrand piano, and the composer often rose in the night to jot down thethemes which came to him in the silence of the midnight hours. Here "DonCarlos" was written. In one of the upper rooms stood the old spinet thatVerdi hacked at as a child.

Verdi was one of the noblest of men as well as one of the greatest ofmusical composers. He passed away in Milan, January 27, 1901, at the age ofeighty-eight.

XVI

RICHARD WAGNER

One of the most gigantic musical geniuses the world has yet known wasRichard Wagner. Words have been exhausted to tell of his achievements;books without number have been written about him; he himself, in hisAutobiography, and in his correspondence, has told with minutest detail howhe lived and what his inner life has been. What we shall strive for is thesimple story of his career, though in the simple telling, it may read likea fairy tale.

Richard Wagner first saw the light on May 22, 1813, in Leipsic. Those werestirring times in that part of the world, for revolution was often on theeve of breaking out. The tiny babe was but six months old when the fatherpassed away. There were eight other children, the eldest son being onlyfourteen. The mother, a sweet, gentle little woman, found herself quiteunable to support her large family of growing children. No one could blameher for accepting the hand of her husband's old friend, Ludwig Geyer, inless than a year after the loss of her first husband. Geyer was a man ofmuch artistic talent, an actor, singer, author and painter. He thoughtlittle Richard might become a portrait painter, or possibly a musician,since the child had learned to play two little pieces on the piano.

Geyer found employment in a Dresden theater, so the family removed to thatcity. But he did not live to see the blossoming of his youngest step-son'sgenius, as he passed away on September 30, 1821, when the child was eightyears old.

Little Richard showed wonderful promise even in those years of childhood.At the Kreuzschule, where his education began, he developed an ardentlove for the Greek classics, and translated the first twelve books of theOdyssey, outside of school hours. He devoured all stories of mythology hecould lay hands on, and soon began to create vast tragedies. He revelledin Shakespeare, and finally began to write a play which was to combine theideas of both Hamlet and King Lear. Forty-two persons were killed off inthe course of the play and had to be brought back as ghosts, as otherwisethere would have been no characters for the last act. He worked on thisplay for two years.

Everything connected with the theater was of absorbing interest to thisprecocious child. Weber, who lived in Dresden, often passed their houseand was observed with almost religious awe by little Richard. Sometimesthe great composer dropped in to have a chat with the mother, who was wellliked among musicians and artists. Thus Weber became the idol of thelad's boyhood, and he knew "Der Freischütz" almost by heart. If he was notallowed to go to the theater to listen to his favorite opera, there wouldbe scenes of weeping and beseeching, until permission was granted for himto run off to the performance.

In 1827 the family returned to Leipsic, and it was at the famous Gewandhausconcerts that the boy first heard Beethoven's music. He was so fired bythe Overture to "Egmont," that he decided at once to become a musician. Buthow—that was the question. He knew nothing of composition, but, borrowinga treatise on harmony, tried to learn the whole contents in a week.

It was a struggle, and one less determined than the fourteen-year-old boywould have given up in despair. He was made of different stuff. Workingalone by himself, he composed a sonata, a quartette and an aria. At lasthe ventured to announce the result of his secret studies. At this news hisrelatives were up in arms; they judged his desire for music to be a passingfancy, especially as they knew nothing of any preparatory studies, andrealized he had never learned to play any instrument, not even the piano.

The family, however, compromised enough to engage a teacher for him. ButRichard would never learn slowly and systematically. His mind shotfar ahead, absorbing in one instance the writings of Hoffmann, whoseimaginative tales kept the boy's mind in a continual state of nervousexcitement. He was not content to climb patiently the mountain; he triedto reach the top at a bound. So he wrote overtures for orchestras, one ofwhich was really performed in Leipsic—a marvelous affair indeed, with itstympani explosions.

Richard now began to realize the need of solid work, and settled down tostudy music seriously, this time under Theodor Weinlig, who was cantor inthe famous Thomas School.

In less than six months the boy was able to solve the most difficultproblems in counterpoint. He learned to know Mozart's music, and tried towrite with more simplicity of style. A piano sonata, a polonaise for fourhands and a fantaisie for piano belong to this year. After that he aspiredto make piano arrangements of great works, such as Beethoven's "NinthSymphony." Then came his own symphony, which was really performed atGewandhaus, and is said to have shown great musical vigor.

Instrumental music no longer satisfied this eager, aspiring boy; he mustcompose operas. He was now twenty, and went to Würzburg, where his brotherAlbert was engaged at the Würzburg Theater as actor, singer and stagemanager. Albert secured for him a post as chorus master, with a salary often florins a month.

The young composer now started work on a second opera, the first, called"The Marriage," was found impracticable. The new work was entitled "TheFairies." This he finished, and the work, performed years later, wasfound to be imitative of Beethoven, Weber, and Marschner; the music wasnevertheless very melodious.

Wagner returned to Leipsic in 1834. Soon there came another impetus to thisbudding genius: he heard for the first time the great singer WilhelminaSchroeder-Devrient, whose art made a deep impression on him.

It was a time for rapid impressions to sway the ardent temperament of thisboy genius of twenty-one. He read the works of Wilhelm Heinse, who depictsboth the highest artistic pleasures and those of the opposite sort. Otherauthors following the same trend made him believe in the utmost freedom inpolitics, literature and morals. Freedom in everything—the pleasures ofthe moment—seemed to him the highest good.

Under the sway of such opinions he began to sketch the plot of his nextopera, "Prohibition of Love" (Liebesverbot), founded on Shakespeare's"Measure for Measure." This was while he was in Teplitz on a summerholiday. In the autumn he took a position as conductor in a small operatictheater in Magdeburg. Here he worked at his new opera, hoping he couldinduce the admired Schroeder-Devrient to be his heroine.

Wagner remained in this place about two years and finished his opera there.The performance of it, for which he labored with great zeal, was a fiasco.The theater, too, failed soon after and the young composer was thrownout of work. His sojourn there influenced his after career, as he metWilhelmina Planer, who was soon to become his wife.

Hearing there was an opening for a musical director at Königsberg, hetraveled to that town, and in due course secured the post. Minna Planeralso found an engagement at the theater, and the two were married onNovember 24, 1836; he was twenty-three and she somewhat younger. Kind,gentle, loving, she was quite unable to understand she was linked with agenius. Wagner was burdened with debts, begun in Magdeburg and increasedin Königsberg. She was almost as improvident as he. They were like twochildren playing at life, with fateful consequences. It was indeed hermisfortune, as one says, that this gentle dove was mismated with an eagle.But Minna learned later, through dire necessity, to be more economical andcareful, which is more than can be said of her gifted husband.

After a year the Königsberg Theater failed and again Wagner was outof employment. Through the influence of his friend Dorn, he secured adirectorship at Riga, Minna also being engaged at the theater. At firsteverything went well; the salary was higher and the people among whom theywere placed were agreeable. But before long debts began to press again,and Wagner was dissatisfied with the state of the lyric drama, which he wasdestined to reform in such a wonderful way. He was only twenty-four, andhad seen but little of the world. Paris was the goal toward which he lookedwith longing eyes, and to the gay French capital he determined to go.

When he tried to get a passport for Paris, he found it impossible becauseof his debts. Not to be turned from his purpose, he, Minna and the greatNewfoundland dog, his pet companion, all slipped away from Riga at nightand in disguise. At the port of Pillau the trio embarked on a sailingvessel for Paris, the object of all his hopes. The young composer carriedwith him one opera and half of a second work—"Rienzi," which he hadwritten during the years of struggle in Magdeburg and Königsberg. In Rigahe had come upon Heine's version of the Flying Dutchman legend, and the seavoyage served to make the story more vital.

He writes: "This voyage I shall never forget as long as I live; it lastedthree weeks and a half, and was rich in mishaps. Thrice we endured the mostviolent storms, and once the captain had to put into a Norwegian haven. Thepassage among the crags of Norway made a wonderful impression on my fancy,the legends of the Flying Dutchman, as told by the sailors, were clothedwith distinct and individual color, heightened by the ocean adventuresthrough which we passed."

After stopping a short time in London, the trio halted for several weeks inBoulogne, because the great Meyerbeer was summering there. Wagner metthe influential composer and confided his hopes and longings. Meyerbeerreceived the poor young German kindly, praised his music, gave him severalletters to musicians in power in Paris, but told him persistence was themost important factor in success.

With a light heart, and with buoyant trust in the future, though withlittle money for present necessities, Wagner and his companions arrived inParis in September, 1839. Before him lay, if he had but known it, twoyears and a half of bitter hardship and privation; but—"out of trials andtribulations are great spirits molded."

There were many noted musicians in the French capital at that time, andmany opportunities for success. The young German produced his letters ofintroduction and received many promises of assistance from conductors anddirectors. Delighted with his prospects he located in the "heart of elegantand artistic Paris," without regarding cost.

Soon the skies clouded; one hope after another failed. His compositionswere either too difficult for conductors to grasp, or theaters failed onwhich he depended for assistance. He became in great distress and could notpay for the furniture of the apartment, which he had bought on credit. Itwas now that he turned to writing for musical journals, to keep the wolffrom the door, meanwhile working on the score of "Rienzi," which wasfinished in November, 1840 and sent to Dresden. In later years it wasproduced in that city.

But the Wagners, alas, were starving in Paris. One of Richard's articlesat this time was called "The End of a Musician in Paris," and he makes thepoor musician die with the words; "I believe in God—Mozart and Beethoven."It was almost as bad as this for Wagner himself. He determined to turn hisback on all the intrigues and hardships he had endured for over two years,and set out for the homeland, which seemed the only desirable spot onearth.

The rehearsals for "Rienzi" began in Dresden in July 1842. Wagner hadnow finished "The Flying Dutchman," and had completed the outline of"Tannhäuser," based on Hoffmann's story of the Singers' Contest at theWartburg.

And now Wagner's star as a composer began to rise and light was seen ahead.On October 20, 1842 "Rienzi" was produced in the Dresden Opera House andthe young composer awoke the next morning to find himself famous. Theperformance was a tremendous success, with singers, public and criticsalike. The performance lasted six hours and Wagner, next day, decided thework must be cut in places, but the singers loudly protested: "The work washeavenly," they assured him, "not a measure could be spared."

With this first venture Wagner was now on the high road to success, andspent a happy winter in the Saxon capital. He could have gone on writingoperas like "Rienzi," to please the public, but he aimed far higher. Tofuse all the arts in one complete whole was the idea that had been formingin his mind. He first illustrated this in "The Flying Dutchman," and itbecame the main thought of his later works. This theory made both vocal andinstrumental music secondary to the dramatic plan, and this, at that time,seemed a truly revolutionary idea.

"The Flying Dutchman" was produced at the Dresden Opera House January2. 1843, with Mme. Schroeder-Devrient as Senta. Critics and publichad expected a brilliant and imposing spectacle like "Rienzi" and weredisappointed. In the following May and June "The Dutchman" was heard inRiga and Cassel, conducted by the famous violinist and composer, Spohr.

In spite of the fact that "The Flying Dutchman" was not then a success, andin Dresden was shelved for twenty years, Wagner secured the fine post ofHead Capellmeister, at a salary of nearly twelve hundred dollars. Thispost he retained for seven years, gaining a great deal of experience inorchestral conducting, and producing Beethoven's symphonies with greatoriginality, together with much that was best in orchestral literature.

"Tannhäuser" was now complete, and during the following summer, atMarienbad, sketches for "Lohengrin" and "Die Meistersinger" weremade. During the winter, the book being made he began on the music of"Lohengrin." In March of the exciting year 1848, the music of "Lohengrin"was finished. There was a wide difference in style between that work and"Tannhäuser." And already the composer had in mind a new work to be called"The Death of Siegfried." He wrote to Franz Liszt, with whom he now beganto correspond, that within six months he would send him the book of the newwork complete. As he worked at the drama, however, it began to spread outbefore him in a way that he could not condense into one opera, or eventwo; and thus-it finally grew into the four operas of the "Ring of theNibelungen."

It must not be imagined that Wagner had learned the lesson of carefulnessin money matters, or that, with partial success he always had plenty forhis needs. He had expensive tastes, loved fine clothing and beautifulsurroundings. Much money, too, was needed to produce new works; so thatin reality, the composer was always in debt. The many letters which passedbetween Wagner and Liszt, which fill two large volumes, show how Lisztclearly recognized the brilliant genius of his friend, and stood ready tohelp him over financial difficulties, and how Wagner came to lean more andmore on Liszt's generosity.

Just what part Wagner played in the revolution of 1848 is not quite clear.He wrote several articles which were radical protests for freedom ofthought. At all events he learned it would be better for him to leaveDresden in time. In fact he remained in exile from his country for overeleven years.

Wagner fled to Switzerland, leaving Minna still in Dresden, though indue time he succeeded in scraping together funds for her to follow himto Zurich. He was full of plans for composing "Siegfried," while shecontinually urged him to write pleasing operas that Paris would like.Wagner believed the world should take care of him while he was composinghis great works, whereas Minna saw this course meant living on the charityof friends, and at this she rebelled. But Wagner grew discouraged overthese petty trials, and for five years creative work was at a standstill.

How to meet daily necessities was the all absorbing question. A kindfriend, who greatly admired his music, Otto Wesendonck, made it possiblefor him to rent, at a low price, a pretty chalet near Lake Zurich, andthere he and Minna lived in retirement, and here he wrote many articlesexplaining his theories.

During the early years at Zurich Wagner's only musical activity wasconducting a few orchestral concerts. Then, one day, he took out the scoreof his "Lohengrin," and read it, something he rarely did with any of hisworks. Seized with a deep desire to have this opera brought out, he sent apleading letter to Liszt, begging him to produce the work. Liszt faithfullyaccomplished this task at Weimar, where he was conducting the Court Opera.The date chosen was Goethe's birthday, August 28, and the year 1850. Wagnerwas most anxious to be present, but the risk of arrest prevented himfrom venturing on German soil. It was not till 1861, in Vienna, thatthe composer heard this the most popular of all his operas. Liszt wasprofoundly moved by the beautiful work, and wrote his enthusiasm to thecomposer.

Wagner now took up his plan of the Nibelung Trilogy, that is the threeoperas and a prologue. Early in 1853 the poem in its new form was complete,and in February he sent a copy to Liszt, who answered: "You are truly awonderful man, and your Nibelung poem is surely the most incredible thingyou have ever done!"

So Wagner was impelled by the inner flame of creative fire, to workincessantly on the music of the great epic he had planned. And work hemust, in spite of grinding poverty and ill health. It was indeed to be the"Music of the Future."

After a brief visit to London, to conduct some concerts for the LondonPhilharmonic, Wagner was back again in Zurich, hard at work on the"Walküre," the first opera of the three, as the "Rheingold" was consideredthe introduction. By April 1856, the whole opera was finished and sent toLiszt for his opinion. Liszt and his great friend, Countess Wittgenstein,studied out the work together, and both wrote glowing letters to thecomposer of the deep effect his music made upon them.

And now came a halt in the composition of these tremendous music dramas.Wagner realized that to produce such great works, a special theatershould be built, of adaptable design. But from where would the funds beforthcoming? While at work on the "Walküre," the stories of "Tristan" and"Parsifal" had suggested themselves, and the plan of the first was alreadysketched. He wrote to Liszt: "As I have never in life felt the bliss ofreal love, I must erect a monument to the most beautiful of all my dreams."The first act of "Tristan and Isolde" was finished on the last day ofthe year 1857. In his retreat in Switzerland, the composer longed forsympathetic, intellectual companionship, which, alas, Minna could notgive him. He found it in the society of Marie Wesendonck, wife of thekind friend and music lover, who had aided him in many ways. This markedattention to another aroused Minna's jealousy and an open break wasimminent. The storm, however, blew over for a time.

In June, 1858, Wagner was seized with a desire for luxury and quiet, andbetook himself to Venice, where he wrote the second act of "Tristan."Then came the trouble between Wagner and the Wesendoncks which caused thecomposer to leave Zurich finally, on August 17, 1859. Minna returned toDresden while Wagner went to Paris, where Minna joined him for a time,before the last break came.

What promised to be a wonderful stroke of good luck came to him here. Hisart was brought to the notice of the Emperor, Napoleon III, who requestedthat one of his operas should be produced, promising carte blanche forfunds. All might have gone well with music of the accepted pattern. But"Tannhäuser" was different, its composer particular as to who sang and howit was done. The rehearsals went badly, an opposing faction tried to drownthe music at the first performance. Matters were so much worse at thesecond performance that Wagner refused to allow it to proceed. In spite ofthe Emperor's promises, he had borne much of the expense, and left Paris indisgust, burdened with debt.

From Paris Wagner went to Vienna, where he had the great happiness ofhearing his "Lohengrin" for the first time. He hoped to have "Tristan"brought out, but the music proved too difficult for the singers of thattime to learn. After many delays and disappointments, the whole thing wasgiven up. Reduced now to the lowest ebb, Wagner planned a concert tour toearn a living. Minna now left him finally; she could no longer endure lifewith this "monster of genius." She went back to her relatives in Leipsic,and passed away there in 1866.

The concert tours extended over a couple of years, but brought few returns,except in Russia. Wagner became despondent and almost convinced he oughtto give up trying to be a composer. People called him a freak, a madman andridiculed his efforts at music making. And yet, during all this troublesometime, he was at work on his one humorous opera, "Die Meistersinger." Onthis he toiled incessantly.

And now, when he was in dire need, and suffering, a marvelous boon wascoming to him, as wonderful as any to be found in fairy tale. A fairyPrince was coming to the rescue of this struggling genius. This Prince wasthe young monarch of Bavaria, who had just succeeded to the throne left bythe passing of his father. The youthful Prince, ardent and generous, hadlong worshiped in secret the master and his music. One of his first acts onbecoming Ludwig of Bavaria, was to send for Wagner to come to his capitalat once and finish his life work in peace. "He wants me to be with himalways, to work, to rest, to produce my works," wrote Wagner to a friend inZurich, where he had been staying. "He will give me everything I need; Iam to finish my Nibelungen and he will have them performed as I wish. Alltroubles are to be taken from me; I shall have what I need, if I only staywith him."

The King placed a pretty villa on Lake Starnberg, near Munich, at Wagner'sdisposal, and there he spent the summer of 1864. The King's summer palacewas quite near, and monarch and composer were much together. In the autumna residence in the quiet part of Munich was set apart for Wagner. Hans vonBülow was sent for as one of the conductors; young Hans Richter livedin Munich and later became one of the most distinguished conductors ofWagner's music.

The Bülows arrived in Munich in the early autumn, and almost at once beganthe attraction of Mme. Cosima von Bülow and Wagner. She, the daughterof Liszt, was but twenty five, of deeply artistic temperament, and couldunderstand the aims of the composer as no other woman had yet done. Thisardent attraction led later to Cosima's separation from her husband andfinally to her marriage with Wagner.

The first of the Wagner Festivals under patronage of the King, took placein Munich June 10, 13, 19, and July 1, 1865. The work was "Tristan andIsolde," perhaps the finest flower of Wagner's genius, and already eightyears old. Von Bülow was a superb conductor and Ludwig an inspired Tristan.Wagner was supremely happy. Alas, such happiness did not last. Enemiessprang up all about him. The King himself could not stem the tide of falserumors, and besought the composer to leave Munich for a while, till publicopinion calmed down. So Wagner returned to his favorite Switzerland andsettled in Triebschen, near Lucerne, where he remained till he removed toBayreuth in 1872.

In 1866, the feeling against Wagner had somewhat declined and the Kingdecided to have model performances of "Tannhäuser" and "Lohengrin"at Munich. The Festival began June 11, 1867. The following year "DieMeistersinger" was performed—June 21, 1868.

And now the King was eager to hear the "Ring." It was not yet complete butthe monarch could not wait and ordered "Das Rheingold," the Introduction tothe Trilogy, to be prepared. It was poorly given and was not a success. Notat all discouraged, he wished for "Die Walküre," which was performed thefollowing year, June 26, 1870.

It had long been Wagner's desire to have a theater built, in which hiscreations could be properly given under his direction. Bayreuth had beenchosen, as a quiet spot where music lovers could come for the sole purposeof hearing the music. He went to live there with his family in April,1872. Two years later they moved into Villa Wahnfried, which had been builtaccording to the composer's ideas. Meanwhile funds were being raisedon both sides of the water, through the Wagner Societies, to erect theFestival Theater. The corner stone was laid on Wagner's birthday—hisfifty-ninth—May 22, 1872. It was planned to give the first performancesin the summer of 1876; by that time Wagner's longed-for project became areality.

The long-expected event took place in August, 1876. The Festival opened onthe thirteenth with "Das Rheingold," first of the Ring music dramas. Onthe following night "Die Walküre" was heard; then came "Siegfried" and"Götterdämmerung," the third and fourth dramas being heard for the firsttime. Thus the Ring of the Nibelungen, on which the composer had laboredfor a quarter of a century at last found a hearing, listened to by Kingsand Potentates, besides a most distinguished audience of musicians from allparts of the world.

At last one of Wagner's dreams was realized and his new gospel of artvindicated.

One music drama remained to be written—his last. Failing health preventedthe completion of the drama until 1882. The first performance of this noblework was given on July 26, followed by fifteen other hearings. After theexertions attending these, Wagner and his wife, their son Siegfried, Lisztand other friends, went to Italy and occupied the Vendramin Palace, on theGrand Canal, Venice. Here he lived quietly and comfortably, surrounded bythose he loved. His health failed more and more, the end coming February13, 1883.

Thus passed from sight one of the most astonishing musicians of all time.He lives in his music more vitally than when his bodily presence was onearth, since the world becomes more familiar with his music as time goeson. And to know this music is to admire and love it.

XVII

CÉSAR FRANCK

Whatever we learn of César Franck endears him to all who would know andappreciate the beautiful character which shines through his art. He wasalways kind, loving, tender, and these qualities are felt in the music hecomposed. Some day we shall know his music better. It has been said of thisunique composer: "Franck is enamored of gentleness and consolation; hismusic rolls into the soul in long waves, as on the slack of a moonlit tide.It is tenderness itself."

In Liège, Belgium, it was that César Franck was born, December 10, 1822.Chopin had come a dozen years earlier, so had Schumann, Liszt and othergifted ones; it was a time of musical awakening.

The country about Liège was peculiarly French, not only in outwardappearance, but in language and sentiment. Here were low hills coveredwith pines and beeches, here charming valleys; there wide plains where theflowering broom flourished in profusion. It was the Walloon country, andthe Francks claimed descent from a family of early Walloon painters of thesame name. The earliest of these painters was Jérome Franck, born away backin 1540. Thus the name Franck had stood for art ideals during a period ofmore than two and a half centuries.

When César and his brother were small children, the father, a man of sternand autocratic nature—a banker, with many friends in the artistic andmusical world—decided to make both his sons professional musicians.

His will had to be obeyed, there was no help for it. In the case of César,however, a musician was what he most desired to become, so that music studywas always a delight.

Before he was quite eleven years old, his father took him on a tour ofBelgium. It looked then as though he had started on a virtuoso career, asthe wonder children—Mozart, Chopin, Thalberg, Liszt and others who hadpreceded him, had done. The future proved, however, that César's life workwas to be composing, teaching and organ playing, with a quiet life, even inbusy Paris, instead of touring the world to make known his gifts.

During this youthful tour of Belgium, he met a child artist, a year or twoolder than himself, a singer, also touring as a virtuoso. The little girlwas called Pauline Garcia, who later became famous as Mme. Pauline ViardotGarcia.

When César was twelve he had learned what they could teach him at the LiègeConservatory, and finished his studies there. His father, ambitious for themusical success of his sons, emigrated with his family to Paris, in 1836.César applied for entrance to the Conservatoire, but it was not until thefollowing year, 1837, that he gained admission, joining Leborne's class incomposition, and becoming Zimmermann's pupil in piano playing. At the endof the year the boy won a prize for a fugue he had written. In piano hechose Hummel's Concerto in A minor for his test, and played it off in finestyle. When it came to sight reading, he suddenly elected to transpose thepiece selected a third below the key in which it was written, which he wasable to do at sight, without any hesitation or slip.

Such a feat was unheard of and quite against the time-honored rules ofcompetition. And to think it had been performed by an audacious slip of aboy of fifteen! The aged Director, none other than Maestro Cherubini, wasshocked out of the even tenor of his way, and declared that a first prizecould not be awarded, although he must have realized the lad deserved it.To make amends, however, he proposed a special award to the audacious youngpianist, outside the regular competition, to be known as "The Grand Prizeof Honor." This was the first time, and so far as is known, the only timesuch a prize has been awarded.

César Franck won his second prize for fugue composition in 1839. Fuguewriting had become so natural and easy for him, that he was able to finishhis task in a fraction of the time allotted by the examiners. When hereturned home several hours before the other students had finished, hisfather reproached him roundly for not spending more time on the test uponwhich so much depended. With his quiet smile the boy answered he thoughtthe result would be all right. And it was! The next year he again securedthe first prize for fugue; this was in July 1840. The year following heentered the organ contest, which was a surprise to the examiners.

The tests for organ prizes have always been four. First, the accompanimentof a plain chant, chosen for the occasion; second, the performance ofan organ piece with pedals; third, the improvising of a fugue; fourth,improvising a piece in sonata form. Both the improvisations to be on themesset by the examiners. César at once noticed that the two themes could becombined in such a way that one would set off the other. He set to work,and soon became so absorbed in this interweaving of melodies that theimprovisation extended to unaccustomed lengths, which bewildered theexaminers and they decided to award nothing to such a tiresome boy.Benoist, teacher of this ingenious pupil, explained matters with the resultthat César was awarded a second prize for organ.

He now began to prepare for the highest honor, the Prix de Rome. But hereparental authority interfered. For some unexplained reason, his fathercompelled him to leave the Conservatoire before the year was up. It mayhave been the father desired to see his son become a famous virtuosopianist and follow the career of Thalberg and Liszt. At any rate heinsisted his boy should make the most of his talents as a performer andshould also compose certain pieces suitable for public playing. To thisperiod of his life belong many of the compositions for piano solo, theshowy caprices, fantaisies and transcriptions. Being obliged to write thiskind of music, the young composer sought for new forms in fingering andnovel harmonic effects, even in his most insignificant productions. Thusamong the early piano works, the Eclogue, Op. 3, and the Ballade, Op. 9,are to be found innovations which should attract the pianist and musicianof to-day.

His very first compositions, a set of three Trios, Op. 1, were composedwhile he was still at the Conservatoire, and his father wished themdedicated "To His Majesty, Leopold I, King of the Belgians." He wished tosecure an audience with the King and have his son present the compositionto his Majesty in person. It may have been for this reason he withdrew theboy so suddenly from the Conservatoire. However this may have been, theFranck family returned to Belgium for two years. At the end of that time,they all returned to Paris, with almost no other resources than thoseearned by the two young sons, Josef and César, by private teaching andconcert engagements.

And now began for César Franck that life of regular and tireless industry,which lasted nearly half a century. This industry was expressed inlesson-giving and composing.

One of the first works written after his return to Paris, was a musicalsetting to the Biblical story of "Ruth." The work was given in the concertroom of the Conservatoire, on January 4, 1846, when the youthful composerwas twenty-three. The majority of the critics found little to praise in themusic, which, they said, was but a poor imitation of "Le Desert," by David.One critic, more kindly disposed than the others, said: "M. César Franck isexceedingly naïve, and this simplicity we must confess, has served himwell in the composition of his sacred oratorio of 'Ruth.'" A quarter ofa century later, a second performance of "Ruth" was given, and the samecritic wrote: "It is a revelation! This score, which recalls by its charmand melodic simplicity Mehul's 'Joseph,' but with more tenderness andmodern feeling, is certainly a masterpiece."

But alas, hard times came upon the Franck family. The rich pupils, whoformed the young men's chief clientèle, all left Paris, alarmed by theforebodings of the revolution of 1848. Just at this most inopportunemoment, César decided to marry. He had been in love for some time witha young actress, the daughter of a well-known tragedienne, MadameDesmousseaux, and did not hesitate to marry in the face of bad times andthe opposition of his parents, who strongly objected to his bringing atheatrical person into the family.

César Franck was then organist in the church of Notre Dame de Lorette, andthe marriage took place there, February 22, 1848, in the very thick of therevolution. Indeed, to reach the church, the wedding party were obliged toclimb a barricade, helped over by the insurgents, who were massed behindthis particular fortification.

Soon after the wedding, Franck, having now lost his pupils—or most ofthem—and being continually blamed by his father, whom he could no longersupply with funds, decided to leave the parental roof and set up forhimself in a home of his own. Of course he had now to work twice as hard,get new pupils and give many more lessons. But with all this extra labor,he made a resolve, which he always kept sacredly, which was to reserve anhour or two each day for composition, or for the study of such musicaland literary works as would improve and elevate his mind. Nothing was everallowed to interfere with this resolution, and to it we owe all his greatworks.

Franck made his first attempt at a dramatic work in 1851, with a librettoentitled "The Farmer's Man." As he must keep constantly at his teachingduring the day, he devoted the greater part of the night to composition. Heworked so hard that the opera, begun in December 1851, was finished in twoyears, but he paid dearly for all this extra labor. He fell ill—a state ofnervous prostration—and was unable for some time to compose at all.

It was indeed a time of shadows for the young musician, but the skiesbrightened after a while. He had the great good fortune to secure the postof organist and choir master in the fine new basilica of Sainte Clothilde,which had lately been erected, and which had an organ that was indeed amasterpiece. This wonderful instrument kept all its fulness of tone andfreshness of timbre after fifty years of use. "If you only knew how Ilove this instrument," Father Franck used to say to the curé of SainteClothilde; "it is so supple beneath my fingers and so obedient to all mythoughts."

As Vincent d'Indy, one of Franck's most gifted and famous pupils, writes:

"Here, in the dusk of this organ-loft, which I can never think of withoutemotion, he spent the best part of his life. Here he came every Sundayand feast day—and toward the end of his life, every Friday morning too,fanning the fire of his genius by pouring out his spirit in wonderfulimprovisations, which were often far more lofty in thought than manyskilfully elaborated compositions. And here, too, he must have conceivedthe sublime melodies which afterward formed the groundwork of his'Beatitudes.'"

"Ah, we knew it well, we who were his pupils, the way up to thatthrice-blessed organ loft, a way as steep and difficult as that which theGospels tell us leads to Paradise. But when we at last reached the littleorgan chamber, all was forgotten in the contemplation of that rapt profile,the intellectual brow, from which seemed to flow without effort a stream ofinspired melody and subtle, exquisite harmonies."

César Franck was truly the genius of improvisation. It is said no othermodern organist, not excepting the most renowned players, could hold anycomparison to him in this respect. Whether he played for the service, forhis pupils or for some chosen musical guest, Franck's improvisations werealways thoughtful and full of feeling. It was a matter of conscience to dohis best always. "And his best was a sane, noble, sublime art."

For the next ten years Franck worked and lived the quiet life of a teacherand organist; his compositions during this time were organ pieces andchurch music. But a richer inner life was the outgrowth of this period ofcalm, which was to blossom into new, deeper and more profoundly beautifulcompositions.

One of these new works was "The Beatitudes." For years he had had thelonging to compose a religious work on the Sermon on the Mount. In 1869, heset to work on the poem, and when that was well under way, began to create,with great ardor, the musical setting.

In the very midst of this absorbing work came the Franco-Prussian war, andmany of his pupils must enter the conflict, in one way or another. Thenearly in 1872, he was appointed Professor of Organ at the Conservatoire,which was an honor he appreciated.

The same year, while occupied with the composition of the "Beatitudes," hewrote and completed his "Oratorio of the Redemption." After this he devotedsix years to the finishing of the "Beatitudes," which occupied ten yearsof his activity, as it was completed in 1879. A tardy recognition of hisgenius by the Government granted him the purple ribbon as officer of theAcademy, while not until five or six years later did he receive the ribbonof a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor.

In consequence of this event his pupils and friends raised a fund to coverexpenses of a concert devoted entirely to the master's compositions. Theseworks were given—conducted by Pasdeloup: Symphonic Poem—"Le ChasseurMaudit," Symphonic Variations, piano and orchestra, Second Part of "Ruth."Part II was conducted by the composer and consisted of March and Air deBallet, with chorus, from "Hulda" and the Third and Eighth Beatitudes.

The Franck Festival occurred January 30, 1887, and was not a veryinspiring performance. The artist pupils of the master voiced to him theirdisappointment that his works should not have been more worthily performed.But he only smiled on them and comforted them with the words: "No, no, youare too exacting, dear boys; for my part I am quite satisfied."

No wonder his pupils called him "Father Franck," for he was ever kind,sympathetic and tender with them all.

During the later years of César Franck's earthly existence, he producedseveral masterpieces. Among them the Violin Sonata, composed for Eugeneand Théophile Ysaye, the D minor Symphony, the String Quartet, the tworemarkable piano pieces, Prelude, Chorale and Fugue, Prelude, Aria andFinale, and finally the Three Chorales for organ, his swan song. His healthgradually declined, due to overwork and an accident, and he passed quietlyaway, November 8, 1890.

Chabrier, who only survived Franck a few years, ended his touching remarksat the grave with these words:

"Farewell, master, and take our thanks, for you have done well. In youwe salute one of the greatest artists of the century, the incomparableteacher, whose wonderful work has produced a whole generation of forcefulmusicians and thinkers, armed at all points for hard-fought and prolongedconflicts. We salute, also, the upright and just man, so humane, sodistinguished, whose counsel was sure, as his words were kind. Farewell!"

It has been truly said that great composers cannot be compared one withanother. Each is a solitary star, revolving in his own orbit. For instanceit is impossible to compare Wagner and Brahms; the former could not havewritten the German Requiem or the four Symphonies any more than Brahmscould have composed "Tristan." In the combination of arts which Wagnerfused into a stupendous whole, he stands without a rival. But Brahms isalso a mighty composer in his line of effort, for he created music thatcontinually grows in beauty as it is better known.

Johannes Brahms was born in Hamburg, May 7, 1833. The house at 60Speckstrasse still stands, and doubtless looks much as it did seventy yearsago. A locality of dark, narrow streets with houses tall and gabled andholding as many families as possible. Number 60 stands in a dismal court,entered by a close narrow passage. A steep wooden staircase in the center,used to have gates, closed at night. Jakob and Johanna lived in thefirst floor dwelling to the left. It consisted of a sort of lobby or halfkitchen, a small living room and a tiny sleeping closet—nothing else. Inthis and other small tenements like it, the boy's early years were spent.It certainly was an ideal case of low living and high thinking.

The Brahms family were musical but very poor in this world's goods. Thefather was a contra bass player in the theater; he often had to play indance halls and beer gardens, indeed where he could. Later he became amember of the band that gave nightly concerts at the Alster Pavillion. Themother, much older than her husband, tried to help out the family financesby keeping a little shop where needles and thread were sold.

Little Johannes, or Hannes as he was called, was surrounded from hisearliest years by a musical atmosphere, and must have shown a great desireto study music. We learn that his father took him to Otto Cossel, toarrange for piano lessons. Hannes was seven years old, pale and delicatelooking, fair, with blue eyes and a mass of flaxen hair. The father said:

"Herr Cossel, I wish my son to become your pupil; he wants so much to learnthe piano. When he can play as well as you do it will be enough."

Hannes was docile, eager and quick to learn. He had a wonderful memoryand made rapid progress. In three years a concert was arranged for him, atwhich he played in chamber music with several other musicians of Hamburg.The concert was both a financial and artistic success. Not long after this,Cossel induced Edward Marxsen, a distinguished master and his own teacher,to take full charge of the lad's further musical training. Hannes was abouttwelve at the time.

Marxsen's interest in the boy's progress increased from week to week, ashe realized his talents. "One day I gave him a composition of Weber's," hesays. "The next week he played it to me so blamelessly that I praised him.'I have also practised it in another way,' he answered, and played me theright hand part with the left hand." Part of the work of the lessons wasto transpose long pieces at sight; later on Bach's Preludes and Fugues weredone in the same way.

Jakob Brahms, who as we have seen was in very poor circ*mstances, was readyto exploit Hannes' gift whenever occasion offered. He had the boy play inthe band concerts in the Alster Pavillion, which are among the daily eventsof the city's popular life, as all know who are acquainted with Hamburg,and his shillings earned in this and similar ways, helped out the family'sscanty means. But late hours began to tell on the boy's health. His fatherbegged a friend of his, a wealthy patron of music, to take the lad to hissummer home, in return for which he would play the piano at any time of daydesired and give music lessons to the young daughter of the family, a girlof about his own age.

Thus it came about that early in May, 1845, Hannes had his first tasteof the delights of the country. He had provided himself with a small dumbkeyboard, to exercise his fingers upon. Every morning, after he haddone what was necessary in the house, Hannes was sent afield by the kindmistress of the household, and told not to show himself till dinner time.Perhaps the good mistress did not know that Hannes had enjoyed himself outof doors hours before. He used to rise at four o'clock and begin his daywith a bath in the river. Shortly after this the little girl, Lischen,would join him and they would spend a couple of hours rambling about,looking for bird's nests, hunting butterflies and picking wild flowers.Hannes' pale cheeks soon became plump and ruddy, as the result of fresh airand country food. Musical work went right on as usual. Studies in theoryand composition, begun with Marxsen, were pursued regularly in the fieldsand woods all summer.

When the summer was over and all were back in Hamburg again, Lischen usedto come sometimes to Frau Brahms, of whom she soon grew very fond. But ittroubled her tender heart to see the poor little flat so dark and dreary;for even the living room had but one small window, looking into thecheerless courtyard. She felt very sorry for her friends, and proposed toHannes they should bring some scarlet runners to be planted in the court.He fell in with the idea at once and it was soon carried out. But alas,when the children had done their part, the plants refused to grow.

Johannes had returned home much improved in health, and able to play inseveral small concerts, where his efforts commanded attention. The winterpassed uneventfully, filled with severe study by day and equally hard laborat night in playing for the "lokals." But the next summer in Winsen broughtthe country and happiness once more.

Hannes began to be known as a musician among the best families of Winsen,and often played in their homes. He also had the chance to conduct a smallchorus of women's voices, called the Choral Society of Winsen. He wasexpected to turn his theoretical studies to account by composing somethingfor this choir. It was for them he produced his "A B C" song for fourparts, using the letters of the alphabet. The composition ended withthe words "Winsen, eighteen-hundred seven and forty," sung slowly andfortissimo. The little piece was tuneful and was a great favorite with theteachers, from that day to this.

The boy had never heard an opera. During the summer, when Carl Formes, thenof Vienna, was making a sensation in Hamburg, Lischen got her father tosecure places and take them. The opera was the "Marriage of Figaro." Hanneswas almost beside himself with delight. "Lischen, listen to the music!there was never anything like it," he cried over and over again. Thefather, seeing it gave so much pleasure, took the children again to hearanother opera, to their great delight.

But the happy summer came to an end and sadness fell, to think Johannesmust leave them, for he had found many kind friends in Winsen. He was overfifteen now and well knew he must make his way as a musician, help supportthe family, and pay for the education of his brother Fritz, who was tobecome a pianist and teacher. There was a farewell party made for him inWinsen, at which there was much music, speech making and good wishes forhis future success and for his return to Winsen whenever he could.

Johannes made his new start by giving a concert of his own on September 21,1848. The tickets for this concert were one mark; he had the assistance ofsome Hamburg musicians. In April next, 1849, he announced a second concert,for which the tickets were two marks. At this he played the Beethoven"Waldstein Sonata," and the brilliant "Don Juan Fantaisie." These two workswere considered about the top of piano virtuosity. Meanwhile the boy wasalways composing and still with his teacher Marxsen.

The political revolution of 1848, was the cause of many refugees crowdinginto Hamburg on their way to America. One of these was the violinist,Edward Remenyi, a German Hungarian Jew, whose real name was Hofmann. But itseemed Remenyi was really in no haste to leave Hamburg. Johannes, engagedas accompanist at the house of a wealthy patron, met the violinist and wasfascinated by his rendering of national Hungarian music. Remenyi, on hisside, saw the advantage of having such an accompanist for his own use.So it happened the two played together frequently for a time, until theviolinist disappeared from Germany, for several years. He reappeared inHamburg at the close of the year 1852. He was then twenty-two, while Brahmswas nineteen. It was suggested that the two musicians should do a littleconcert work together. They began to plan out the trip which became quite atour by the time they had included all the places they wished to visit.

The tour began at Winsen, then came Cella. Here a curious thing happened.The piano proved to be a half tone below pitch, but Brahms was equal to thedilemma. Requesting Remenyi to tune his violin a half tone higher,making it a whole tone above the piano, he then, at sight, transposedthe Beethoven Sonata they were to play. It was really a great feat, butJohannes performed it as though it were an every day affair.

The next place was Luneburg and there the young musician had such successthat a second concert was at once announced. Two were next given atHildesheim. Then came Leipsic, Hanover and after that Weimer, where FranzLiszt and his retinue of famous pupils held court. Here Johannes becameacquainted with Raff, Klindworth, Mason, Prükner and other well-knownmusicians.

By this time his relations with Remenyi had become somewhat irksome andstrained and he decided to break off this connection. One morning hesuddenly left Weimar, and traveled to Göttingen. There he met JosephJoachim, whom he had long wished to know, and who was the reigningviolinist of his time. Without any announcement, Johannes walked in onthe great artist, and they became fast friends almost at once. Joachimhad never known what it was to struggle; he had had success from the verystart; life had been one long triumph, whereas Johannes had come fromobscurity and had been reared in privation. At this time Johannes was afresh faced boy, with long fair hair and deep earnest blue eyes. Wüllner,the distinguished musician of Cologne, thus describes him: "Brahms, attwenty, was a slender youth, with long blond hair and a veritable St.John's head, from whose eyes shone energy and spirit."

Johannes was at this time deeply engaged on his piano Sonata in F minor,Op. 5. He had already written two other piano sonatas, as yet little known.The Op. 5, is now constantly heard in concert rooms, played by the greatestartists of our time.

In disposition Hannes was kindly and sincere; as a youth merry and gay. Afriend in Düsseldorf, where he now spent four weeks, thus describes him:

"He was a most unusual looking young musician, hardly more than a boy,in his short summer coat, with his high-pitched voice and long fair hair.Especially fine was his energetic, characteristic mouth, and his earnest,deep gaze. His constitution was thoroughly healthy; the most strenuousmental exercise hardly fatigued him and he could go to sleep at any hour ofthe day he pleased. He was apt to be full of pranks, too. At the pianohe dominated by his characteristic, powerful, and when necessary,extraordinarily tender playing." Schumann, whom he now came to knowin Düsseldorf, called him the "young eagle—one of the elect." In factSchumann, in his musical journal, praised the young musician most highly.And his kindness did not stop there. He wrote to Hannes' father, JakobBrahms, in Hamburg, commending in glowing terms his son's compositions.This letter was sent to Johannes and the result was the offering of someof his compositions to Breitkopf and Härtel for publication. He had alreadywritten two Sonatas, a Scherzo, and a Sonata for piano and violin. TheSonata in C, now known as Op. I, although not his first work, was the onein which he introduced himself to the public. For, as he said: "When onefirst shows one's self, it is to the head and not to the heels that onewishes to draw attention."

Johannes made his first appearance in Leipsic, as pianist and composer, atone of the David Quartet Concerts, at which he played his C major Sonataand the Scherzo. His success was immediate, and as a result, he was able tosecure a second publisher for his Sonata Op. 5.

And now, after months of traveling, playing in many towns and meeting withmany musicians and distinguished people, Johannes turned his steps towardHamburg, and was soon in the bosom of the home circle. It is easy toimagine the mother's joy, for Hannes had always been the apple of her eye,and she had kept her promise faithfully, to write him a letter every week.But who shall measure the father's pride and satisfaction to have his boyreturn a real musical hero?

The concert journey just completed was the bridge over which JohannesBrahms passed from youth to manhood. With the opening year of 1854, he maybe said to enter the portals of a new life.

He now betook himself to Hanover, to be near his devoted friend Joachim,plunged into work and was soon absorbed in the composition of his B majorPiano Trio. Later Schumann and his charming wife, the pianist, came toHanover for a week's visit, which was the occasion for several concertsin which Brahms, Joachim and Clara Schumann took part. Soon after thisSchumann's health failed and he was removed to a sanatorium. In sympathyfor the heavy trial now to be borne by Clara Schumann, both young artistscame to Düsseldorf, to be near the wife of their adored master, RobertSchumann. There they remained and by their encouragement so lifted thespirits of Frau Clara that she was able to resume her musical activities.

Johann had been doing some piano teaching when not occupied withcomposition. But now, on the advice of his musical friends, he decided totry his luck again as a concert pianist. He began by joining Frau Claraand Joachim in a concert at Danzig. Each played solos. Johann's were Bach's"Chromatic Fantaisie" and several manuscript pieces of his own. After thisthe young artist went his own way. He played with success in Bremen, alsoin Hamburg. It is said he was always nervous before playing, but especiallyso in his home city. However all passed off well. He now settled definitelyin Hamburg, making musical trips to other places when necessary.

Robert Schumann rallied for a while from his severe malady, and hopes wereheld out of his final recovery. Frau Clara, having her little family tosupport, resumed her concert playing in good earnest, and appeared withtriumphant success in Vienna, London and many other cities. When possibleBrahms and Joachim accompanied her. Then Schumann's malady took anunfavorable turn. When the end was near, Brahms and Frau Clara went toEndenich and were with the master till all was over. On July 31, 1856, abalmy summer evening, the mortal remains of the great composer were laid torest in the little cemetery at Bonn, on the Rhine. The three chief mournerswere: Brahms—who carried a laurel wreath from the wife—Joachim andDietrich.

Frau Schumann returned to Düsseldorf the next day, accompanied by Brahmsand Joachim. Together they set in order the papers left by the composer,and assisted the widow in many little ways. A little later she went toSwitzerland to recover her strength, accompanied by Brahms and his sisterElise. A number of weeks were spent in rest and recuperation. By Octoberthe three musicians were ready to take up their ordinary routine again.Frau Clara began practising for her concert season, Joachim returned tohis post in Hanover, and Johann turned his face toward Hamburg, giving someconcerts on the way, in which he achieved pronounced success.

The season of 1856-7, was passed uneventfully by Brahms, in composing,teaching and occasional journeys. He may be said to have had four homes,besides that of his parents in Hamburg. In Düsseldorf, Hanover, Göttingenand Bonn he had many friends and was always welcome.

It may be asked why Brahms, who had the faculty of endearing himself sowarmly to his friends, never married. It is true he sometimes desiredto found a home of his own, but in reality the mistress of his absorbingpassion was his art, to which everything else remained secondary. He neverswerved a hair's breadth from this devotion to creative art, but acceptedpoverty, disappointment, loneliness and often failure in the eyes of theworld, for the sake of this, his true love.

Johannes was now engaged as conductor of a Choral Society in Detmold, alsoas Court Pianist and teacher in the royal family. The post carried with itfree rooms and living, and he was lodged at the Hotel Stadt Frankfort, acomfortable inn, exactly opposite the Castle, and thus close to the sceneof his new labors.

He began his duties by going through many short choral works of the olderand modern masters. With other musicians at Court much chamber music wasplayed, in fact almost the entire repertoire. The young musician soonbecame a favorite at Court, not only on account of his musical genius butalso because of the general culture of his mind. He could talk on almostany subject. "Whoever wishes to play well must not only practise a greatdeal but read many books," was one of his favorite sayings. One ofhis friends said, of meetings in Brahms' rooms at night, when his booncompanions reveled in music: "And how Brahms loved the great masters! Howhe played Haydn and Mozart! With what beauty of interpretation and delicateshading of tone. And then his transposing!" Indeed Johann thought nothingof taking up a new composition and playing it in any key, without amistake. His score reading was marvelous. Bach, Handel, Mozart, Haydn, allseemed to flow naturally from under his fingers.

The post in Detmold only required Brahms' presence a part of the year, buthe was engaged for a term of years. The other half of the year was spentin Hamburg, where he resumed his activities of composing and teaching. Thesummer after his first winter in Detmold was spent in Göttingen with warmfriends. Clara Schumann was there with her children, and Johann was alwaysone of the family—as a son to her. He was a famous playfellow for thechildren, too. About this time he wrote a book of charming Children's FolkSongs, dedicated to the children of Robert and Clara Schumann. Johann wasoccupied with his Piano Concerto in D minor. His method of working wassomewhat like Beethoven's, as he put down his ideas in notebooks. Later onhe formed the habit of keeping several compositions going at once.

The prelude to Johann's artistic life was successfully completed. Thencame a period of quiet study and inward growth. A deeper activity was tosucceed. It opened early in the year 1859, when the young musician traveledto Hanover and Leipsic, bringing out his Concerto in D minor. He performedit in the first named city, while Joachim conducted the orchestra. It wassaid the work "with all its serious striving, its rejection of the trivial,its skilled instrumentation, seemed difficult to understand; but thepianist was considered not merely a virtuoso but a great artist of pianoplaying."

The composer had now to hurry to Leipsic, as he was to play with the famousGewandhaus orchestra. How would Leipsic behave towards this new and seriousmusic? Johann was a dreamer, inexperienced in the ways of the world; hewas an idealist—in short, a genius gifted with an "imagination, profound,original and romantic." The day after the concert he wrote Joachim he hadmade a brilliant and decided failure. However he was not a whit discouragedby the apathy of the Leipsigers toward his new work. He wrote: "TheConcerto will please some day, when I have made some improvements, and asecond shall sound quite different."

It has taken more than half a century to establish the favor of theConcerto, which still continues on upward wing. The writer heard thecomposer play this Concerto in Berlin, toward the end of his life. He madean unforgettable figure, as he sat at the piano with his long hair andbeard, turning to gray; and while his technic was not of the virtuoso type,he created a powerful impression by his vivid interpretation.

After these early performances of the Concerto, Johann returned to Hamburg,to his composing and teaching. He, however, played the Concerto in hisnative city on a distinguished occasion, when Joachim was a soloist inSpohr's Gesang-Scene, Stockhausen in a magnificent Aria, and then Johann,pale, blond, slight, but calm and self controlled. The Concerto scored aconsiderable success at last, and the young composer was content.

In the autumn of this year, Johann paid his third visit to Detmold, andfound himself socially as well as musically the fashion. It was the correctthing to have lessons from him and his presence gave distinction to anyassemblage. But Johann did not wish to waste his time at social functions;when obliged to be present at some of these events he would remain silentthe entire evening, or else say sharp or biting things, making the hostsregret they had asked him. His relations with the Court family, however,remained very pleasant. Yet he began to chafe under the constant demands onhis time, and the rigid etiquette of the little Court. The next season hedefinitely declined the invitation to revisit Detmold, the reason given wasthat he had not the time, as he was supervising the publication of a numberof his works. Brahms had become interested in writing for the voice, andhad already composed any number of beautiful vocal solos and part songs.

We are told that Frau Schumann, Joachim and Stockhausen came frequently toHamburg during the season of 1861, and all three made much of Johannes.All four gave concerts together, and Johannes took part in a performanceof Schumann's beautiful Andante and Variations, for two pianos, whileStockhausen sang entrancingly Beethoven's Love Songs, accompanied byBrahms. On one occasion Brahms played his Variations on a Handel Theme,"another magnificent work, splendidly long, the stream of ideas flowinginexhaustibly. And the work was wonderfully played by the composer; itseemed like a miracle. The composition is so difficult that none but agreat artist can attempt it." So wrote a listener at the time. That was in1861. We know this wonderful work in these days, for all the present timeartists perform it. At each of Frau Schumann's three appearances inHamburg during the autumn of this year, she performed one of Brahms' largercompositions; one of them was the Handel Variations.

Although one time out of ten Johann might be taciturn or sharp, the othernine he would be agreeable, always pleased—good humored, satisfied, likea child with children. Every one liked his earnest nature, his gaiety andhumor.

Johann had had a great longing to see Vienna, the home of so many greatmusicians; but felt that when the right time came, the way would open.And it did. Early in September, 1862, he wrote a friend: "I am leaving onMonday, the eighth, for Vienna. I look forward to it like a child."

He felt at home in Vienna from the start, and very soon met the leadinglights of the Austrian capital. On November 16, he gave his first concert,with the Helmesberger Quartet, and before a crowded house. It was areal success for "Schumann's young prophet." Although concert giving wasdistasteful, he appeared again on December 20, and then gave a secondconcert on January 6, 1863, when he played Bach's Chromatic Fantaisie,Beethoven's Variations in C minor, his own Sonata Op. 5, and Schumann'sSonata OP. 11.

Johann returned home in May, and shortly after was offered the post ofConductor of the Singakademie, which had just become vacant. He had manyplans for the summer, but finally relinquished them and sent an acceptance.By the last of August he was again in Vienna.

Now followed years of a busy musical life. Brahms made his headquarters inVienna, and while there did much composing. The wonderful Piano Quintette,one of his greatest works, the German Requiem, the Cantata Rinaldo andmany beautiful songs came into being during this period. Every little whileconcert tours and musical journeys were undertaken, where Brahms oftencombined with other artists in giving performances of his compositions. Aseries of three concerts in Vienna in February and March, 1869, given byBrahms and Stockhausen, were phenomenally successful, the tickets beingsold as soon as the concerts were announced. The same series was given inBudapest with equal success.

Early in the year 1872, when our composer was nearly forty, we find himinstalled in the historic rooms in the third floor of Number 4 Carl'sGasse, Vienna, which were to remain to the end of his life the nearestapproach to an establishment of his own. There were three small rooms. Thelargest contained his grand piano, writing table, a sofa with another tablein front of it. The composer was still smooth of face and looked much ashe did at twenty, judging from his pictures. It was not until several yearslater, about 1880, that he was adorned by the long heavy beard, which gavehis face such a venerable appearance.

The year 1874, was full of varied excitement. Many invitations wereaccepted to conduct his works in North Germany, the Rhine, Switzerland, andother countries. A tour in Holland in 1876, brought real joy. He played hisD minor Concerto in Utrecht and other cities, conducted his works and waseverywhere received with honors. But the greatest event of this year wasthe appearance of his first Symphony. It was performed for the first timefrom manuscript in Carlsruhe and later in many other cities. In this work"Brahms' close affinity with Beethoven must become clear to every musician,who has not already perceived it," wrote Hanslick, the noted critic.

We have now to observe the unwearied energy with which Brahms, during theyears that followed added one after another to his list, in each and everybranch of serious music; songs, vocal duets, choral and instrumental works.In the summer of 1877 came the Second Symphony. In 1879 appeared the greatViolin Concerto, now acclaimed as one of the few masterpieces for thatinstrument. It was performed by Joachim at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic, earlyin the year. There were already four Sonatas for Piano and Violin. TheSonata in G, the Rhapsodies Op. 79 and the third and fourth books ofHungarian Dances, as duets, were the publications of 1880. He now wrote anew Piano Concerto, in B flat, which he played in Stuttgart for thefirst time, November 22, 1881. In 1883 the Third Symphony appeared, whichrevealed him at the zenith of his powers. This work celebrated his fiftiethbirthday.

The Fourth Symphony was completed during the summer of 1885. Then came theGipsy Songs.

From 1889 onward, Brahms chose for his summer sojourn the town of Ischl, inthe Salzkammergut. The pretty cottage where he stayed was on the outskirtsof the town, near the rushing river Traun. He always dined at the "Keller"of the Hotel Elizabeth, which was reached by a flight of descending steps.In this quiet country, among mountain, valley and stream, he could composeat ease and also see his friends at the end of the day.

A visit to Italy in the spring of 1890, afforded rest, refreshment and manypleasant incidents.

The "Four Serious Songs," were published in the summer of 1896. At thistime Brahms had been settled in his rooms at Ischl scarcely a fortnightwhen he was profoundly shaken by news of Clara Schumann's death. She passedpeacefully away in Frankfort, and was laid beside her husband, in Bonn, May24. Brahms was present, together with many musicians and celebrities.

The master felt this loss keenly. He spent the summer in Ischl as usual,composing, among other things, the Eleven Choral Preludes. Most of thesehave death for their subject, showing that his mind was taken up withthe idea. His friends noticed he had lost his ruddy color and that hiscomplexion was pale. In the autumn he went to Carlsbad for the cure.

After six weeks he returned to Vienna, but not improved, as he had becomevery thin and walked with faltering step. He loved to be with his friends,the Fellingers, as much as possible, as well as with other friends. Hespent Christmas eve with them, and dined there the next day. From thistime on he grew worse. He was very gentle the last months of his life, andtouchingly grateful for every attention shown him. Every evening hewould place himself at the piano and improvise for half an hour. When toofatigued to continue, he would sit at the window till long after darknesshad fallen. He gradually grew weaker till he passed peacefully away, April3, 1897.

The offer of an honorary grave was made by the city of Vienna, and he hasfound resting place near Beethoven and Mozart, just as he had wished.

Memorial tablets have been placed on the houses in which Brahms lived inVienna, Ischl and Thun, also on the house of his birth, in Hamburg.

XIX

EDWARD GRIEG

 "From every point of view Grieg is one of the most original geniuses in the musical world of the present or past. His songs are a mine of melody, surpassed in wealth only by Schubert, and that only because there are more of Schubert's. In originality of harmony and modulation he has only six equals. Bach, Schubert, Chopin, Schumann, Wagner and Liszt. In rhythmic invention and combination he is inexhaustible, and as orchestrator he ranks among the most fascinating."

HENRY T. FINCK

Edward Hargarup Grieg, "the Chopin of the North," was a unique personality,as well as an exceptional musician and composer. While not a "wonderchild," in the sense that Mozart, Chopin and Liszt were, he early showedhis love for music and his rapt enjoyment of the music of the home circle.Fortunately he lived and breathed in a musical atmosphere from his earliestbabyhood. His mother was a fine musician and singer herself, and withloving care she fostered the desire for it and the early studies of it inher son. She was his first teacher, for she kept up her own musical studiesafter her marriage, and continued to appear in concerts in Bergen, wherethe family lived. Little Edward, one of five children, seemed to inheritthe mother's musical talent and had vivid recollections of the rhythmicanimation and spirit with which she played the works of Weber, who was oneof her favorite composers.

The piano was a world of mystery to the sensitive musical child. His babyfingers explored the white keys to see what they sounded like. When hefound two notes together, forming an interval of a third, they pleased himbetter than one alone. Afterwards three keys as a triad, were better yet,and when he could grasp a chord of four or five tones with both hands, hewas overjoyed. Meanwhile there was much music to hear. His mother practiseddaily herself, and entertained her musical friends in weekly soirées. Herethe best classics were performed with zeal and true feeling, while littleEdward listened and absorbed music in every pore.

When he was six years old piano lessons began. Mme. Grieg proved a strictteacher, who did not allow any trifling; the dreamy child found he couldnot idle away his time. As he wrote later: "Only too soon it became clearto me I had to practise just what was unpleasant. Had I not inherited mymother's irrepressible energy as well as her musical capacity, I shouldnever have succeeded in passing from dreams to deeds."

But dreams were turned into deeds before long, for the child tried to setdown on paper the little melodies that haunted him. It is said he began todo this at the age of nine. A really serious attempt was made when he wastwelve or thirteen. This was a set of variations for piano, on a Germanmelody. He brought it to school one day to show one of the boys. Theteacher caught sight of it and reprimanded the young composer soundly, forthus idling his time. It seems that in school he was fond of dreaming awaythe hours, just as he did at the piano.

The truth was that school life was very unsympathetic to him, very narrowand mechanical, and it is no wonder that he took every opportunity toescape and play truant. He loved poetry and knew all the poems in thereading books by heart; he was fond, too, of declaiming them in season andout of season.

With the home atmosphere he enjoyed, the boy Grieg early became familiarwith names of the great composers and their works. One of his idols wasChopin, whose strangely beautiful harmonies were just beginning to beheard, though not yet appreciated. His music must have had an influenceover the lad's own efforts, for he always remained true to this ideal.

Another of his admirations was for Ole Bull, the famous Norwegianviolinist. One day in summer, probably in 1858, when Edward was aboutfifteen, this "idol of his dreams" rode up to the Grieg home on horseback.The family had lived for the past five years at the fine estate of Landaas,near Bergen. The great violinist had just returned from America and wasvisiting his native town, for he too was born in Bergen. That summer hecame often to the Griegs' and soon discovered the great desire of youngEdward for a musical career. He got the boy to improvise at the piano,and also to show him the little pieces he had already composed. There wereconsultations with father and mother, and then, finally, the violinist cameto the boy, stroked his cheek and announced; "You are to go to Leipsic andbecome a musician."

Edward was overjoyed. To think of gaining his heart's desire so easily andnaturally; it all seemed like a fairy tale, too good to be true.

The Leipsic Conservatory, which had been founded by Mendelssohn, and laterdirected for a short time by Schumann, was now in the hands of Moscheles,distinguished pianist and conductor. Richter and Hauptmann, also Papperitz,taught theory; Wenzel, Carl Reinecke and Plaidy, piano.

Some of these later gained the reputation of being rather dry and pedantic;they certainly were far from comprehending the romantic trend of theimpressionable new pupil, for they tried to curb his originality and squareit with rules and customs. This process was very irksome, for the boywanted to go his own gait.

Among his fellow students at the Conservatory were at least a half dozenwho later made names for themselves. They were: Arthur Sullivan, WalterBache, Franklin Taylor, Edward Dannreuther and J.F. Barnett. All these weremaking rapid progress in spite of dry methods. So Edward Grieg began torealize that if he would also accomplish anything, he must buckle down towork. He now began to study with frantic ardor, with scarcely time leftfor eating and sleeping. The result of this was a complete breakdown inthe spring of 1860, with several ailments, incipient lung trouble being themost serious. Indeed it was serious enough to deprive Grieg of one lung,leaving him for the remainder of his life somewhat delicate.

When his mother learned of his illness, she hurried to Leipsic and took himback to Bergen, where he slowly regained his health. His parents now beggedhim to remain at home, but he wished to return to Leipsic. He did so,throwing himself into his studies with great zeal. In the spring of 1862,after a course of four years, he passed his examinations with credit. Onthis occasion he played some of his compositions—the four which have beenprinted as Op. 1—and achieved success, both as composer and pianist.

After a summer spent quietly with his parents at Landaas, he began toprepare for coming musical activities. The next season he gave his firstconcert in Bergen, at which the piano pieces of Op. 1, Four Songs for Alto,and a String Quartet were played. With the proceeds of this concert hebought orchestral and chamber music, and began to study score, which he hadnot previously learned to do. In the spring of 1863—he was hardly twentythen—he left home and took up his residence in Copenhagen, a much largercity, offering greater opportunities for an ambitious young musician. It wasalso the home of Niels W. Gade, the foremost Scandinavian composer.

Of course Grieg was eager to meet Gade, and an opportunity soon occurred.Gade expressed a willingness to look at some of his compositions, and askedif he had anything to show him. Edward modestly answered in the negative."Go home and write a symphony," was the retort. This the young composerstarted obediently to do, but the work was never finished in this form. Itbecame later Two Symphonic Pieces for Piano, Op. 14.

Two sources of inspiration for Grieg were Ole Bull and Richard Nordraak.We remember that Ole Bull was the means of influencing his parents to sendEdward to Leipsic. That was in 1858. Six years later, when Ole Bull wasstaying at his country home, near Bergen, where he always tried to pass thesummers, the two formed a more intimate friendship. They played frequentlytogether, sonatas by Mozart and others, or trios, in which Edward's brotherJohn played the 'cello parts. Or they wandered together to their favoritehaunts among mountains, fjords or flower clad valleys. They both worshipednature in all her aspects and moods, and each, the one on his instrument,the other in his music, endeavored to reproduce these endless influences.

Richard Nordraak was a young Norwegian composer of great talent, who, inhis brief career, created a few excellent works. The two musicians metin the winter of 1864 and were attracted to each other at once. Nordraakvisited Grieg in his home, where they discussed music and patriotism totheir hearts' content. Nordraak was intensely patriotic, and wished tosee the establishment of Norse music. Grieg, who had been more or lessinfluenced by German ideas, since Leipsic days, now cast off the fettersand placed himself on the side of Norwegian music. To prove this hecomposed the Humoresken, Op. 6, and dedicated them to Nordraak. From now onhe felt free to do as he pleased in music—to be himself.

In 1864 Grieg became engaged to his cousin, Nina Hargerup, a slender girlof nineteen, who had a lovely voice and for whom he wrote many of hisfinest songs. He returned to Christiania from a visit to Rome, and decidedto establish himself in the Norwegian capital. Soon after his arrival, inthe autumn of 1856, he gave a concert, assisted by his fiancée and Mme.Norman Neruda, the violinist. The program was made up entirely of Norwegianmusic, and contained his Violin Sonata Op. 8, Humoresken, Op. 6, PianoSonata, Op. 7. There were two groups of songs, by Nordraak and Kjerulfrespectively. The concert was a success with press and public and the youngcomposer's position seemed assured. He secured the appointment of Conductorof the Philharmonic Society, and was quite the vogue as a teacher. Hemarried Nina Hargerup the following June, 1867, and they resided inChristiania for the next eight years.

Grieg could not endure "amateurish mediocrity," and made war upon it, thusdrawing jealous attacks upon himself. His great friend and ally, Nordraak,passed away in 1868, and the next year his baby daughter, aged thirteenmonths, the only child he ever had, left them.

In spite of these discouragements, some of his finest compositions cameinto being about this period of his life. Songs, piano pieces and thesplendid Concerto followed each other in quick succession.

Another satisfaction to Grieg was a most sympathetic and cordial letterfrom Liszt on making acquaintance with his Sonata for violin and piano, Op.8, which he praised in high terms. He invited Grieg to come and visit him,that they might become better acquainted. This unsolicitated appreciationfrom the famous Liszt was a fine honor for the young composer, and was themeans of inducing the Norwegian Government to grant him an annuity.This sum enabled him the following year, to go to Rome and meet Lisztpersonally.

He set out on this errand in October, and later wrote his parents of hisvisits to Liszt. The first meeting took place at a monastery near the RomanForum, where Liszt made his home when in town.

"I took with me my last violin Sonata, the Funeral March on the death ofNordraak and a volume of songs. I need not have been anxious, for Lisztwas kindness itself. He came smiling towards me and said in the most genialmanner:

"'We have had some little correspondence, haven't we?'

"I told him it was thanks to his letters that I was now here. He eyedsomewhat hungrily the package under my arm, his long, spider-like fingersapproaching it in such an alarming manner that I thought it advisable toopen at once. He turned over the leaves, reading through the Sonata. He hadnow become interested, but my courage dropped to zero when he asked me toplay the Sonata, but there was no help for it.

"So I started on his splendid American Chickering grand. Right in thebeginning, where the violin starts in, he exclaimed: 'How bold that is!Look here, I like that; once more please.' And where the violin againcomes in adagio, he played the part on the upper octaves with anexpression so beautiful, so marvelously true and singing, it made me smileinwardly. My spirits rose because of his lavish approval, which did megood. After the first movement, I asked his permission to play a solo, andchose the Minuet, from the Humoresken."

At this point Grieg was brave enough to ask Liszt to play for him. This themaster did in a superb manner. To go on with the letter:

"When this was done, Liszt said jauntily, 'Now let us go on with theSonata'; to which I naturally retorted, 'No thank you, not after this.'

"'Why not? Then give it to me, I'll do it.' And what does Liszt do? Heplays the whole thing, root and branch, violin and piano; nay more, for heplays it fuller and more broadly. He was literally over the whole piano atonce, without missing a note. And how he did play! With grandeur, beauty,unique comprehension.

"Was this not geniality itself? No other great man I have met is like him.I played the Funeral March, which was also to his taste. Then, after alittle talk, I took leave, with the consciousness of having spent two ofthe most interesting hours of my life."

The second meeting with Liszt took place soon after this. Of it he writesin part:

"I had fortunately received the manuscript of my Concerto from Leipsic, andtook it with me. A number of musicians were present.

"'Will you play?' asked Liszt. I answered in the negative, as you know Ihad never practised it. Liszt took the manuscript, went to the piano, andsaid to the assembled guests: 'Very well, then, I will show you that I alsocannot.' Then he began. I admit that he took the first part too fast, butlater on, when I had a chance to indicate the tempo, he played as only hecan play. His demeanor is worth any price to see. Not content with playing,he at the same time converses, addressing a bright remark now to one, nowto another of his guests, nodding from right to left, particularly whensomething pleases him. In the Adagio, and still more in the Finale, hereached a climax, both in playing and in the praise he bestowed.

"When all was over, he handed me the manuscript, and said, in a peculiarlycordial tone: 'Keep steadily on; you have the ability, and—do not let themintimidate you!'

"This final admonition was of tremendous importance to me; there wassomething in it like a sanctification. When disappointment and bitternessare in store for me, I shall recall his words, and the remembrance of thathour will have a wonderful power to uphold me in days of adversity."

When Edward Grieg was a little over thirty, in the year 1874, the NorwegianGovernment honored him with an annuity of sixteen hundred crowns a year,for life. Another good fortune was a request from the distinguished poet,Henrik Ibsen, to produce music for his drama of "Peer Gynt."

With the help of the annuity Grieg was able to give up teaching andconducting and devote himself to composition. He left Christiania, wherehe and Mme. Grieg had resided for eight years, and came back for a time toBergen. Here, in January 1874, Ibsen offered him the proposition of writingmusic for his work, for which he was arranging a stage production.

Grieg was delighted with the opportunity, for such a task was verycongenial. He completed the score in the autumn of 1875. The firstperformance was given on February 24, 1876, at Christiania. Grieg himselfwas not present, as he was then in Bergen. The play proved a realsuccess and was given thirty-six times that season, for which success theaccompanying original and charming music was largely responsible.

Norway is a most picturesque country, and no one could be more passionatelyfond of her mountains, fjords, valleys and waterfalls than Edward Grieg.For several years he now chose to live at Lofthus, a tiny village, situatedon a branch of the Hardanger Fjord. It is said no spot could have been moreenchanting. The little study, consisting of one room, where the composercould work in perfect quiet, was perched among the trees above the fjord,with a dashing waterfall near by. No wonder Grieg could write of the"Butterfly," the "Little Bird," and "To the Spring," in such poetical,vivid harmonies. He had only to look from his window and see the marvels ofnature about him.

A few years later he built a beautiful villa at Troldhaugen, not far fromBergen, where he spent the rest of his life. Some American friends whovisited them in 1901, speak of the ideal existence of the artist pair.Grieg himself is described as very small and frail looking, with a face asindividual, as unique and attractive as his music—the face of a thinker,a genius. His eyes were keen and blue; his hair, almost white, was brushedbackward like Liszt's. His hands were thin and small; they were wonderfulhands and his touch on the piano had the luscious quality of Paderewski's.Mme. Grieg received them with a fascinating smile and won all hearts by herappearance and charm of manner. She was short and plump, with short wavygray hair and dark blue eyes. Her sister, who resembled her strongly, madeup the rest of the family. Grieg called her his "second wife" and theyseemed a most united family.

Here, too, Grieg had his little work cabin away from the house, down asteep path, among the trees of the garden. In this tiny retreat he composedmany of his unique pieces.

As a pianist, there are many people living who have heard Grieg play, andall agree that his performance was most poetical and beautiful. He neverhad great power, for a heavy wagon had injured one of his hands, and he hadlost the use of one of his lungs in youth. But he always brought out lyricparts most expressively, and had a "wonderfully crisp and buoyant executionin rhythmical passages." He continued to play occasionally in differentcities, and with increased frequency made visits to England, France andGermany, to make known his compositions. He was in England in the spring of1888, for on May 3, the London Philharmonic gave almost an entire programof Grieg's music. He acted in the three-fold capacity of composer,conductor and pianist. It was said by one of the critics: "Mr. Grieg playedhis own Concerto in A minor, after his own manner; it was a revelation."Another wrote; "The Concerto is very beautiful. The dreamy charm of theopening movement, the long-drawn sweetness of the Adagio, the graceful,fairy music of the final Allegro—all this went straight to the hearts ofthe audience. Grieg as a conductor gave equal satisfaction. It is to behoped the greatest representative of 'old Norway' will come amongst usevery year."

Grieg did return the next year and appeared with the Philharmonic, March14, 1889. The same critic then wrote:

"The hero of the evening was unquestionably Mr. Grieg, the heroine beingMadame Grieg, who sang in her own unique and most artistic fashion, aselection of her husband's songs, he accompanying with great delicacyand poetic feeling. Grieg is so popular in London, both as composer andpianist, that when he gave his last concert, people were waiting in thestreet before the doors from eleven in the morning, quite as in the oldRubinstein days."

In only a few cities did the artist pair give their unique piano and songrecitals. These were: Christiania, Copenhagen, Leipsic, Rome, Paris, Londonand Edinburgh. They were indeed artistic events, in which Nina Grieg wasalso greatly admired. While not a great singer, it was said she had thecaptivating abandon, dramatic vivacity and soulful treatment of the poem,which reminded of Jenny Lind.

Mme. Grieg made her last public appearance in London in 1898. After thatshe sang only for her husband and his friends. Grieg's sixtieth birthday,June 15, 1903, was celebrated in the cities of Scandanavia, throughoutEurope and also in America: thus he lived to see the recognition of hisunique genius in many parts of the world.

Grieg was constantly using up his strength by too much exertion. To afriend in 1906, he wrote: "Yes, at your age it is ever hurrah-vivat. At myage we say, sempre diminuendo. And I can tell you it is not easy to makea beautiful diminuendo." Yet he still gave concerts, saying he had not thestrength of character to refuse. Indeed he had numerous offers to go toAmerica, which he refused as he felt he could not endure the sea voyage.Always cheerful, even vivacious, he kept up bravely until almost the end ofhis life, but finally, the last of August, 1907, he was forced to go toa hospital in Bergen. On the night of September 3, his life ebbed away insleep.

The composer who through his music had endeared himself to the whole world,was granted a touching funeral, at which only his own music was heard,including his Funeral March, which he had composed for his friend Nordraak.The burial place is as romantic as his music. Near his home there is asteep cliff, about fifty feet high, projecting into the fjord. Half wayup there is a natural grotto, which can only be reached by water. In thisspot, chosen by Grieg himself, the urn containing his ashes was depositedsome weeks after the funeral. Then the grotto was closed and a stone slabwith the words "Edward Grieg" cut upon it, was cemented in the cliff.

Russian composers and Russian music are eagerly studied by those who wouldkeep abreast of the time. This music is so saturated with strong,vigorous life that it is inspiring to listen to. Its rugged strength, itsfascinating rhythms, bring a new message. It is different from the musicof other countries and at once attracts by its unusual melodies and itsrichness of harmony.

Among the numerous composers of modern Russia, the name of Peter IlyitchTschaikowsky stands out most prominently. This distinctive composer wasborn on April 28, 1840, in Votinsk, where his father, who was a miningengineer, had been appointed inspector of the mines at Kamsko-Votinsk. Theposition of manager of such important mines carried with it much luxury, afine house, plenty of servants and an ample salary. Thus the future youngmusician's home life was not one of poverty and privation, as has been thelot of so many gifted ones, who became creators in the beautiful art ofmusic.

Peter Ilyitch was less than five years old when a new governess came intothe family, to teach his elder brother Nicholas and his cousin Lydia. As alittle boy he was apt to be untidy, with buttons missing and rumpled hair.But his nature was so affectionate and sympathetic that he charmed everyone with his pretty, loving ways. This natural gift he always retained.The governess was a very superior person and her influence over her youngcharges was healthful and beneficial. The child Peter was most industriousat his lessons; but for recreation often preferred playing the piano,reading, or writing poetry, to playing with other children.

When Peter was eight, the family moved to St. Petersburg, and the twoyounger boys were sent to boarding school. The parting from his home butespecially from his mother—though he saw her once a week—nearly brokehis heart. Such a school was no place for a sensitive, high-strung boy likePeter, who needed the most tender fostering care. The work of the schoolwas very heavy, the hours long. The boys often sat over their books tillfar into the night. Besides the school work, Peter had music lessons of thepianist Philipov, and made rapid progress. At this time music in generalexcited the boy abnormally; a hand organ in the street would enchant him,an orchestra strangely agitated him. He seemed to live at a high strung,nervous tension, and had frequent ailments, which kept him out of school.

In 1849 the father secured another appointment, this time at Alapaiev, alittle town, where, though there was not so much luxury, the family triedto revive the home life of Votinsk.

No one at Alapaiev seemed to take any interest in the boy Peter's music. Hewas really making great progress, for he had learned much in the lessons hehad taken in St. Petersburg. He studied many pieces by himself, and oftenimprovised at the piano. His parents did nothing to further his musicaleducation; this may have been because they were afraid of a return ofthe nervous disorders that the quiet of the present home surroundings hadseemed to cure.

From the fact that the father had held government appointments, his sonswere eligible for education at the School of Jurisprudence. Peter wasaccordingly entered there as a scholar, and completed his course at the ageof nineteen. In those nine years the child Peter developed into maturity.During this period he suffered the loss of his mother, a handsome and veryestimable woman, whom he adored with passionate devotion, and from whom hecould never bear to be separated.

While attending the Law School, music had to be left in the background. Hisfamily and companions only considered it as a pastime at best, and withoutserious significance; he therefore kept his aspirations to himself. Theold boyish discontent and irritability, which were the result of hisformer nervous condition, had now given place to his natural frankness ofcharacter and charm of manner, which attracted all who came in contact withhim.

In 1859, when Peter had finished his studies at the School ofJurisprudence, he received an appointment in the Ministry of Justice, asclerk of the first class. This would have meant much to some young men,but did not greatly impress Peter, as he did not seem to take his work veryseriously. During the three years in which he held the post, he followedthe fashion of the day, attended the opera and theater, meanwhile receivingmany impressions which molded his character and tastes. The opera "DonGiovanni," Mozart's masterpiece, made a deep impression upon him, also theacting of Adelaide Ristori and the singing of Lagrona.

The new Conservatoire of Music was founded at St. Petersburg in 1862, withAnton Rubinstein as director, and Tschaikowsky lost no time in entering asa pupil, studying composition and kindred subjects with Professor Zaremba.His progress was so rapid in the several branches he took up—piano, organand flute—that Rubinstein advised him to make music his profession, andthrow his law studies to the winds. Thanks to Rubinstein, he securedsome pupils and also engagements as accompanist. Meanwhile he workedindustriously at composition, and one of his pieces was a Concert Overturein F, scored for small orchestra. In 1865 he took his diploma as a musicianand also secured a silver medal for a cantata. One year after this theMoscow Conservatoire was founded, with Nicholas Rubinstein at its head.The position of Professor of Composition and Musical History was offered toTschaikowsky, then only twenty-six. It was a flattering offer for so younga man, when many older heads would have liked to secure such an honor.He moved to Moscow, and retained his position in the Conservatoire for atleast twelve years, in the meantime making many friends for himself and hisart, as his fame as a composer grew. One of these friends was the publisherJurgenson, who was to play rather an important part in the composer's life,through accepting and putting forth his compositions.

During those first years in Moscow, Tschaikowsky made his home withNicholas Rubinstein. His life was of the simplest, his fare always so.Later on when money was more abundant, and he had his own house in thecountry, he lived with just the same simplicity. One would think that allthis care and thought for expense would have taught him the value of money.Not at all. He never could seem to learn its value, never cared for it,and never could keep it. He liked to toss his small change among groupsof street boys, and it is said he once spent his last roubles in sendinga cablegram to von Bülow in America, to thank him for his admirableperformance of his first Piano Concerto. Often his friends protestedagainst this prodigality, but it was no use to protest, and at last theygave up in despair.

Soon after he began his professorship in Moscow, he composed a ConcertOverture in C minor. To his surprise and disappointment, Rubinsteindisapproved of the work in every way. This was a shock, after the lack ofencouragement in St. Petersburg. But he recovered his poise, though he madeup his mind to try his next work in St. Petersburg instead of Moscow. Hecalled the new piece a Symphonic Poem, "Winter Daydreams," but it is nowknown as the First Symphony, Op. 13. About the end of 1866, he started outwith it, only to be again rebuffed and cast down. The two men whose goodopinion he most desired, Anton Rubinstein and Professor Zaremba, could findnothing good in his latest work, and the young composer returned to Moscowto console himself with renewed efforts in composition. Two years later the"Winter Daydreams" Symphony was produced in Moscow with great success,and its author was much encouraged by this appreciation. He was, likemost composers, very sensitive to criticism and had a perfect dread ofcontroversy. Efforts to engage him in arguments of this sort only made himwithdraw into himself.

Tschaikowsky held the operas of Mozart before him as his ideal. He caredlittle for Wagner, considering his music dramas to be built on falseprinciples. Thus his first opera, "Voivoda," composed in 1866, evidentlyhad his ideal, Mozart, clearly in mind. It is a somewhat curious fact thatTschaikowsky, who was almost revolutionary in other forms of music, shouldgo back to the eighteenth century for his ideal of opera. Soon after itwas completed "Voivoda" was accepted to be produced at the Moscow GrandTheater. The libretto was written by Ostrowsky, one of the celebrateddramatists of the day. The first performance took place on January 30,1869. We are told it had several performances and considerable popularsuccess. But the composer was dissatisfied with its failure to win a greatartistic success, and burnt the score. He did the same with his next work,an orchestral fantaisie, entitled "Fatum." Again he did the same with thescore of a complete opera, "Undine," finished in 1870, and refused at theSt. Petersburg Opera, where he had offered it.

"The Snow Queen," a fairy play with music, was the young Russian's nextadventure; it was mounted and produced with great care, yet it failed tomake a favorable impression. But these disappointments did not dampen thecomposer's ardor for work. Now it was in the realm of chamber music. Up tothis time he had not seemed to care greatly for this branch of his art, forhe had always felt the lack of tone coloring and variety in the strings.The first attempt at a String Quartet resulted in the one in D major,Op. 11. To-day, fifty years after, we enjoy the rich coloring, thecharacteristic rhythms of this music; the Andante indeed makes specialappeal. A bit of history about this same Andante shows how the composerprized national themes and folk tunes, and strove to secure them. Itis said that morning after morning he was awakened by the singing of alaborer, working on the house below his window. The song had a hauntinglilt, and Tschaikowsky wrote it down. The melody afterwards became thattouching air which fills the Andante of the First String Quartet. AnotherString Quartet, in F major, was written in 1814, and at once acclaimed byall who heard it, with the single exception of Anton Rubinstein.

Tschaikowsky wrote six Symphonies in all. The Second, in C minor wascomposed in 1873; in this he used themes in the first and last movements,which were gathered in Little Russia. The work was produced with greatsuccess in Moscow in 1873. The next orchestral composition was a SymphonicPoem, called "The Tempest," with a regular program, prepared by Stassow. Itwas brought out in Paris at the same time it was heard in Moscow. Bothat home and in France it made a deep impression. The next work was thesplendid piano Concerto in B flat minor, Op. 23, the first of three worksof this kind. At a trial performance of it, his friend and former master,Nicholas Rubinstein, to whom it was dedicated, and who had promised to playthe piano part, began to criticize it unmercifully and ended by saying itwas quite unplayable, and unsuited to the piano.

No one could blame the composer for being offended and hurt. He at onceerased the name of Nicholas Rubinstein from the title page and dedicatedthe work to Hans von Billow, who not long after performed it withtremendous success in America, where he was on tour. When we think of allthe pianists who have won acclaim in this temperamental, inspiring work,from Carreno to Percy Grainger, to mention two who have aroused specialenthusiasm by their thrilling performance of it, we can but wonder that hisown countrymen were so short sighted at the time it was composed. Later onNicholas Rubinstein gave a superb performance of the Concerto in Moscow,thus making some tardy amends for his unkindness.

Tschaikowsky was now thirty-five. Most of his time was given to theConservatoire, where he often worked nine hours a day. Besides, he hadwritten a book on harmony, and was contributing articles on music to twojournals. In composition he had produced large works, including up to thistime, two Symphonies, two Operas, the Concerto, two String Quartets andnumerous smaller pieces. To accomplish such an amount of work, he must havepossessed immense energy and devotion to his ideals.

One of the operas just mentioned was entitled "Vakoula the Smith." It bearsthe date of 1874, and was first offered in competition with others. Theresult was that it not only was considered much the best work of themall but it won both the first and second prizes. "Vakoula" was splendidlymounted and performed in St. Petersburg, at the Marinsky Theater at leastseventeen times. Ten years later, in January 1887, it appeared again. Thecomposer meanwhile had re-written a good part of it and now called it "TwoLittle Shoes." This time Tschaikowsky was invited to conduct his own work.The invitation filled him with alarm, for he felt he had no gift in thatdirection, as he had tried a couple of times in the early years of hiscareer and had utterly failed. However, he now, through the cordialsympathy of friends, decided to make the attempt. Contrary to his ownfears, he obtained a successful performance of the opera.

It proved an epoch-making occasion. For this first success as conductor ledhim to undertake a three months' tour through western Europe in 1888. Onhis return to St. Petersburg he conducted a program of his own compositionsfor the Philharmonic Society, which was also successful, in spite of theintense nervousness which he always suffered. As a result of his concert hereceived offers to conduct concerts in Hamburg, Dresden, Leipsic, Vienna,Copenhagen and London, many of which he accepted.

To go back a bit in our composer's life story, to an affair of the heartwhich he experienced in 1868. He became engaged to the well-known singerDésirée Artôt; the affair never went further, for what reason is not known.He was not yet thirty, impressionable and intense. Later on, in theyear 1877, at the age of thirty-seven, he became a married man. How thishappened was doubtless told in his diaries, which were written with greatregularity: but unfortunately he destroyed them all a few years before hisdeath. The few facts that have been gleaned from his intimate friend, M.Kashkin, are that he was engaged to the lady in the spring of this year,and married her a month or so afterward. It was evidently a hasty affairand subsequently brought untold suffering to the composer. When theprofessors of his Conservatoire re-assembled in the autumn, Tschaikowskyappeared among them a married man, but looking the picture of despair.A few weeks later he fled from Moscow, and when next heard of waslying dangerously ill in St. Petersburg. One thing was evident, theill-considered marriage came very near ruining his life. The doctorsordered rest and change of scene, and his brother Modeste Ilyitch tookhim to Switzerland and afterward to Italy. The peaceful life and change ofscene did much to restore his shattered nerves. Just at this time a wealthywidow lady, Madame von Meek, a great admirer of Tschaikowsky's music,learning of his sad condition, settled on him a generous yearly allowancefor life. He was now independent and could give his time to composition.

The following year he returned to Moscow and seemed quite his natural self.A fever of energy for work took possession of him. He began a new opera,"Eugen Onégin," and completed his Fourth Symphony, in F minor. The score ofthe opera was finished in February, 1878, and sent at once to Moscow, wherethe first performance was given in March 1879. In the beginning the operahad only a moderate success, but gradually grew in favor till, after fiveyears, it was performed in St. Petersburg and had an excellent reception.It is considered Tschaikowsky's most successful opera, sharing withGlinka's "Life of the Tsar" the popularity of Russian opera. In 1881 he wasinvited to compose an orchestral work for the consecration of the Templeof Christ in Moscow. The "Solemn Overture 1812," Op. 49, was the outcome ofthis. Later in the year he completed the Second Piano Concerto. The PianoTrio in A minor, "To the memory of a great artist," Op. 50, refers to hisfriend and former master, Nicholas Rubinstein, who passed away in Paris, in1881.

Tschaikowsky's opera, "Mazeppa," was his next important work. In the sameyear the Second Orchestral Suite, Op. 53, and the Third, Op. 55, followed.Two Symphonic Poems, "Manfred" and "Hamlet" came next. The latter of thesewas written at the composer's country house, whose purchase had been madepossible by the generosity of his benefactress, and to which he retired atthe age of forty-five, to lead a peaceful country life. He had purchasedthe old manor house of Frovolo, on the outskirts of the town of Klin, nearMoscow. Here his two beautiful ballets and two greatest Symphonies, theFifth and Sixth, were written. The Fifth Symphony was composed in 1888 andpublished the next year. On its first hearing it made little impression andwas scarcely heard again till Nikisch, with unerring judgment, rescuedit from neglect; then the world discovered it to be one of the composer'sgreatest works.

Tschaikowsky's two last operas, the "Pique Dame" (Queen of Spades), Op.68, and "King Rene's Daughter" are not considered in any way distinctive,although the former was performed in New York, at the Metropolitan. TheThird Piano Concerto, Op. 75, occupied the master during his last days atFrovolo; it was left unfinished by him and was completed by the composerTaneiev. The wonderful Sixth Symphony, Op. 74, is a superb example ofTschaikowsky's genius. It was composed in 1893, and the title "Pathetic"was given it by the composer after its first performance, in St.Petersburg, shortly before his death, as the reception of it by the publicdid not meet his anticipations. In this work the passion and despair whichfill so many of the master's finest compositions, rise to the highesttragic significance. The last movement, with its prophetic intimation ofhis coming death, is heart-breaking. One cannot listen to its poignantphrases without deep emotion. The score is dated August 81, 1893. OnOctober twelfth, Tschaikowsky passed away in St. Petersburg, a victim ofcholera.

A couple of years before he passed away, Tschiakowsky came to America. InMay, 1891, he conducted four concerts connected with the formal opening ofCarnegie Hall, New York. We well remember his interesting personality, ashe stood before the orchestra, conducting many of his own works, with AdeleAus der Ohe playing his famous Concerto in B flat minor.

The music of this representative Russian composer has made rapid headwayin the world's appreciation, during the last few years. Once heard it willalways be remembered. For we can never forget the deeply human andtouching message which is brought to us through the music of Peter IlyitchTschaikowsky.

XXI

EDWARD MACDOWELL

Edward MacDowell has been acclaimed America's greatest composer. If we tryto substitute another name in its place, one of equal potency cannot befound.

Our composer's ancestors were Irish and Scotch, though his father was bornin New York City and his mother was an American girl. Edward was theirthird son, and appeared December 18, 1861; this event happened at the homeof his parents, 220 Clinton Street, New York.

The father was a man of artistic instincts, and as a youth, fond of drawingand painting. His parents had been Quakers of a rather severe sort andhad discouraged all such artistic efforts. Little Edward seems to haveinherited his father's artistic gifts, added to his own inclination towardmusic.

The boy had his first piano lessons when he was about eight years old, froma family friend, Mr. Juan Buitrago, a native of Bogota, South America. Mr.Buitrago became greatly interested in Edward and asked permission to teachhim his notes. At that time the boy was not considered a prodigy, or evenprecocious, though he seemed to have various gifts. He was fond of coveringhis music and exercise books with little drawings, which showed he had theinnate skill of a born artist. Then he liked to scribble bits of versesand stories and invent fairy tales. He could improvise little themes at thepiano, but was not fond of technical drudgery at the instrument in thoseearly days.

The lessons with Mr. Buitrago continued for several years, and then hewas taken to a professional piano teacher, Paul Desvernine, with whomhe remained till he was fifteen. During this time he received occasionallessons from the brilliant Venezuelan pianist, Teresa Carreño, who admiredhis gifts and later played his piano concertos.

Edward was now fifteen, and his family considered he was to become amusician. In those days and for long after, even to the present moment, itwas thought necessary for Americans to go to Europe for serious study andartistic finish. It was therefore determined the boy should go to Parisfor a course in piano and theory at the Conservatoire. In April, 1876,accompanied by his mother, he left America for France.

He passed the examinations and began the autumn term as a pupil ofMarmontel in piano and of Savard in theory and composition.

Edward's knowledge of French was very uncertain, and while he could getalong fairly well in the piano class, he had considerable trouble infollowing the lessons in theory. He determined to make a special study ofthe language, and a teacher was engaged to give him private lessons.

His passion for drawing was liable to break out at any moment. During oneof the lesson hours he was varying the monotony by drawing, behind hisbook, a picture of his teacher, whose special facial characteristic was avery large nose. Just as the sketch was finished he was detected and wasasked to show the result. The professor, instead of being angry, consideredit a remarkable likeness and asked to keep it. Shortly after this theprofessor called on Mrs. MacDowell, telling her he had shown the drawingto an eminent painter, also an instructor at the école des Beaux Arts. Thepainter had been so greatly impressed with the boy's talent that he offeredhim a three years' course of free instruction, under his own supervision.He also promised to be responsible for Edward's support during that time.

This was a vital question to decide; the boy's whole future hung in thebalance. Mrs. MacDowell, in her perplexity, laid the whole matter beforeMarmontel, who strongly advised against diverting her son from a musicalcareer. The decision was finally left to Edward himself, and he chose toremain at the Conservatoire.

Conditions there, however, were not just to his liking, and after two yearshe began to think the school was not the place for him. It was the summerof 1878, the year of the Exposition. Edward and his mother attended afestival concert and heard Nicholas Rubinstein play the Tschaikowsky B flatminor piano Concerto. His performance was a revelation. "I can never learnto play the piano like that if I stay here," exclaimed Edward, as they leftthe hall.

They began to consider the merits of the different European schools ofmusic, and finally chose Stuttgart. Mrs. MacDowell and her son went therein November hoping that in this famous Conservatory could be found theright kind of instruction.

But alas, MacDowell soon found out his mistake. He discovered that he wouldhave to unlearn all he had acquired and begin from the beginning. And eventhen the instruction was not very thorough.

They now thought of Frankfort, where the composer Joachim Raff was thedirector and Carl Heymann, a very brilliant pianist, was one of theinstructors.

After months of delay, during which young MacDowell worked under theguidance of Ehlert, he at last entered the Frankfort Conservatory, studyingcomposition with Raff, and piano with Heymann. Both proved very inspiringteachers. For Heymann he had the greatest admiration, calling him a marvel,whose technic was equal to anything. "In hearing him practise and play, Ilearned more in a week than I ever knew before."

Edward MacDowell remained in close study at the Frankfort Conservatory fortwo years, his mother having in the meantime returned to America. Hehad hoped to obtain a place as professor on the teaching staff of theinstitution. Failing to do this he took private pupils. One of these, MissMarian Nevins, he afterwards married. He must have been a rather strikinglooking youth at this time. He was nineteen. Tall and vigorous, with blueeyes, fair skin, rosy cheeks, very dark hair and reddish mustache, he wascalled "the handsome American." He seemed from the start, to have successin teaching, though he was painfully shy, and always remained so.

In 1881, when he was twenty, he applied for the position of head pianoteacher in the Darmstadt Conservatory, and was accepted. It meant fortyhours a week of drudgery, and as he preferred to live in Frankfort, he madethe trip each day between the two towns. Besides this he went once a weekto a castle about three hours away, and taught some little counts andcountesses, really dull and sleepy children, who cared but little ifanything for music. However the twelve hours spent in the train each week,were not lost, as he composed the greater part of his Second Modern Suitefor piano, Op. 14; the First Modern Suite had been written in Frankfortthe year before. He was reading at this period a great deal of poetry, bothGerman and English, and delving into the folk and fairy lore of romanticGermany. All these imaginative studies exerted great influence on hissubsequent compositions, both as to subject and content.

MacDowell found that the confining labors at Darmstadt were telling on hisstrength, so he gave up the position and remained in Frankfort, dividinghis time between private teaching and composing. He hoped to secure a fewpaying concert engagements, as those he had already filled had brought inno money.

One day, as he sat dreaming before his piano, some one knocked at the door,and the next instant in walked his master Raff, of whom the young Americanstood in great awe. In the course of a few moments, Raff suddenly askedwhat he had been writing. In his confusion the boy stammered he had beenworking on a concerto. When Raff started to go, he turned back and toldthe boy to bring the concerto to him the next Sunday. As even the firstmovement was not finished, its author set to work with vigor. When Sundaycame only the first movement was ready. Postponing the visit a week or two,he had time to complete the work, which stands today, as he wrote it then,with scarcely a correction.

At Raff's suggestion, MacDowell visited Liszt in the spring of 1882. Thedreaded encounter with the master proved to be a delightful surprise, asLiszt treated him with much kindness and courtesy. Eugen D'Albert, who waspresent, was asked to accompany the orchestral part of the concerto ona second piano. Liszt commended the work in warm terms: "You must bestiryourself," he warned D'Albert, "if you do not wish to be outdone byour young American." Liszt praised his piano playing too, and MacDowellreturned to Frankfort in a happy frame of mind.

At a music Convention, held that year in Zurich, in July, MacDowell playedhis First Piano Suite, and won a good success. The following year, uponLiszt's recommendation, both the First and Second Modern Suites werebrought out by Breitkopf and Haertel. "Your two Piano Suites areadmirable," wrote Liszt from Budapest, in February, 1883, "and I acceptwith sincere pleasure and thanks the dedication of your piano Concerto."

The passing of Raff, on June 25, 1882, was a severe blow to MacDowell. Itwas in memory of his revered teacher that he composed the "Sonata Tragica,"the first of the four great sonatas he has left us. The slow movement ofthis Sonata especially embodies his sorrow at the loss of the teacher whoonce said to him: "Your music will be played when mine is forgotten."

For the next two years MacDowell did much composing. Then in June 1884he returned to America, and in July was married to his former pupil, MissMarian Nevins, a union which proved to be ideal for both. Shortly afterthis event the young couple returned to Europe.

The next winter was spent in Frankfort, instructing a few private pupils,but mostly in composing, with much reading of the literature of variouscountries, and, in the spring, with long walks in the beautiful woods aboutFrankfort. Wiesbaden became their home during the winter of 1885-6. Thesame year saw the completion of the second. Piano Concerto, in D minor.

In the spring of 1887, MacDowell, in one of his walks about the town,discovered a deserted cottage on the edge of the woods. It overlooked thetown, with the Rhine beyond, and woods on the other side of the river.Templeton Strong, an American composer, was with him at the time, and boththought the little cottage an ideal spot for a home. It was soon purchased,and the young husband and wife lived an idyllic life for the next year.A small garden gave them exercise out of doors, the woods were alwaysenticing and best of all, MacDowell was able to give his entire time tocomposition. Many beautiful songs and piano pieces were the result, besidesthe symphonic poem "Lamia," "Hamlet and Ophelia," the "Lovely Aida,""Lancelot and Elaine," and other orchestral works.

In September, 1888, the MacDowells sold their Wiesbaden cottage andreturned to America, settling in Boston. Here MacDowell made himself feltas a pianist and teacher. He took many pupils, and made a conspicuousnumber of public appearances. He also created some of his best work, amongwhich were the two great Sonatas, the "Tragica" and "Eroica." One of theimportant appearances was his playing of the Second Concerto with thePhilharmonic Orchestra of New York, under Anton Seidl, in December, 1894.

In the spring of 1896 a Department of Music was founded at ColumbiaUniversity, of New York, the professorship of which was offered toMacDowell. He had now been living eight years in Boston; his fame as apianist and teacher was constantly growing; indeed more pupils came to himthan he could accept. The prospect of organizing a new department from thevery beginning was a difficult task to undertake. At first he hesitated;he was in truth in no hurry to accept the offer, and wished to weigh bothsides carefully. But the idea of having an assured income finally causedhim to decide in favor of Columbia, and he moved from Boston to New Yorkthe following autumn.

He threw himself into this new work with great ardor and entire devotion.With the founding of the department there were two distinct ideas to becarried out. First, to train musicians who would be able to teach andcompose. Second, to teach musical history and aesthetics.

All this involved five courses, with many lectures each week, taking upform, harmony, counterpoint, fugue, composition, vocal and instrumentalmusic, both from the technical and interpretative side. It was a tremendouslabor to organize and keep all this going, unaided. After two years he wasgranted an assistant, who took over the elementary classes. But even withthis help, MacDowell's labors were increasingly arduous. He now had sixcourses instead of five, which meant more classes and lectures each week.Perhaps the most severe drain on his time and strength was the continualcorrection of exercise books and examination papers, a task which heperformed with great patience and thoroughness. Added to all this, hedevoted every Sunday morning to his advanced students, giving them help andadvice in their piano work and in composition.

Amid all this labor his public playing had to be given up, but compositionwent steadily on. During the eight years of the Columbia professorship,some of the most important works of his life were produced; among themwere, Sea Pieces the two later Sonatas, the Norse and the Keltic, FiresideTales, and New England Idyls. The Woodland Sketches had already beenpublished and some of his finest songs. Indeed nearly one quarter of allhis compositions were the fruit of those eight years while he held the postat Columbia.

In 1896 he bought some property near Peterboro, New Hampshire—fifteenacres with a small farmhouse and other buildings, and fifty acres offorest. The buildings were remodeled into a rambling but comfortabledwelling, and here, amid woods and hills he loved, he spent the summer ofeach year. He built a little log cabin in the woods near by, and here hewrote some of his best music.

In 1904 MacDowell left Columbia, but continued his private piano classes,and sometimes admitted free such students as were unable to pay. After hisarduous labors at Columbia, which had been a great drain on his vitality,he should have had a complete rest and change. Had he done so, the collapsewhich was imminent might have been averted. But he took no rest thoughin the spring of 1905 he began to show signs of nervous breakdown. Thefollowing summer was spent, as usual, in Peterboro but it seemed to bringno relief to the exhausted composer. In the fall of that year his ailmentappeared worse. Although he seemed perfectly well in body, his mindgradually became like that of a child. The writer was privileged to see himon one occasion, and retains an ineffaceable memory of the composer in hiswhite flannels, seated in a large easy chair, taking little notice of whatwas passing about him, seldom recognizing his friends or visitors, butgiving the hand of his devoted wife a devoted squeeze when she moved to hisside to speak to him.

This state continued for over two years, until his final release,January 23, 1908, as he had just entered his forty-seventh year. The oldWestminster Hotel had been the MacDowell home through the long illness.From here is but a step to St. George's Episcopal Church, where a simpleservice was held. On the following day the composer was taken to Peterboro,his summer home, a spot destined to play its part, due to the untiringefforts of Mrs. MacDowell, in the development of music in America.

Mr. Gilman tells us:

"His grave is on an open hill-top, commanding one of the spacious andbeautiful views he had loved. On a bronze tablet are these lines of hisown, used as a motto for his 'From a Log Cabin,' the last music he everwrote:

 'A house of dreams untold It looks out over the whispering tree-tops And faces the setting sun.'"

XXII

CLAUDE ACHILLE DEBUSSY

 "I love music too much to speak of it otherwise than passionately."

DEBUSSY

 "Art is always progressive; it cannot return to the past, which is definitely dead. Only imbeciles and cowards look backward. Then—Let us work!"

DEBUSSY

It is difficult to learn anything of the boyhood and youth of this rareFrench composer. Even his young manhood and later life were so guarded andsecluded that few outside his intimate circle knew much of the man, exceptas mirrored in his music. After all that is just as the composer wished,to be known through his compositions, for in them he revealed himself. Theyare transparent reflections of his character, his aims and ideals.

Only the barest facts of his early life can be told. We know that he wasborn at Saint Germain-en-Laye, France, August 22, 1862. From the verybeginning he seemed precociously gifted in music, and began at a very earlyage to study the piano. His first lessons on the instrument were receivedfrom Mme. de Sivry, a former pupil of Chopin. At ten he entered the ParisConservatoire, obtaining his Solfège medals in 1874, '75, and '76, underLavignac; a second prize for piano playing from Marmontel in 1877, a firstprize for accompanying in 1880; an accessory prize for counterpoint andfugue in 1882, and finally the Grande Prix de Rome, with his cantata,"L'Enfant Prodigue," in 1884, as a pupil of Guirand.

Thus in twelve years, or at the age of twenty-two, the young musician wasthoroughly furnished for a career. He had worked through carefully, fromthe beginning to the top, with thoroughness and completeness, gaining hishonors, slowly, step by step. All this painstaking care, this overcomingof the technical difficulties of his art, is what gave him such completecommand and freedom in using the medium of tone and harmony, in his uniquemanner.

While at work in Paris, young Debussy made an occasional side trip toanother country. In 1879 he visited Russia, where he learned to know themusic of that land, yet undreamed of by the western artists. When his turncame to go to Rome, for which honor he secured the prize, he sent home therequired compositions, a Symphonic Suite "Spring," and a lyric poem for awoman's voice, with chorus and orchestra, entitled "La Demoiselle Elue."

From the first Claude Debussy showed himself a rare spirit, who looked atthe subject of musical art from a different angle than others had done.For one thing he must have loved nature with whole souled devotion, for hesought to reflect her moods and inspirations in his compositions. Once hesaid: "I prefer to hear a few notes from an Egyptian shepherd's flute,for he is in accord with his scenery and hears harmonies unknown to yourtreatises. Musicians too seldom turn to the music inscribed in nature. Itwould benefit them more to watch a sunrise than to listen to a performanceof the Pastorale Symphony. Go not to others for advice but take counsel ofthe passing breezes, which relate the history of the world to those who canlisten."

Again he says, in a way that shows what delight he feels in beauty that isspontaneous and natural:

"I lingered late one autumn evening in the country, irresistibly fascinatedby the magic of old world forests. From yellowing leaves, flutteringearthward, celebrating the glorious agony of the trees, from the clangorousangelus bidding the fields to slumber, rose a sweet persuasive voice,counseling perfect oblivion. The sun was setting solitary. Beasts and menturned peacefully homeward, having accomplished their impersonal tasks."

When as a youth Debussy was serving with his regiment in France, he relatesof the delight he experienced in listening to the tones of the bugles andbells. The former sounded over the camp for the various military duties;the latter belonged to a neighboring convent and rang out daily forservices. The resonance of the bugles and the far-reaching vibrations ofthe bells, with their overtones and harmonics, were specially noted by theyoung musician, and used by him later in his music. It is a well-known factthat every tone or sound is accompanied by a whole series of other sounds;they are the vibrations resulting from the fundamental tone. If the tone Cis played in the lower octave of the piano, no less than sixteen overtonesvibrate with it. A few of these are audible to the ordinary listener, butvery keen ears will hear more of them. In Claude Debussy's compositions,his system of harmony and tonality is intimately connected with these lawsof natural harmonics. His chords, for instance, are remarkable for theirshifting, vapory quality; they seem to be on the border land between majorand minor—consonance and dissonance; again they often appear to float inthe air, without any resolution whatever. It was a new aspect of music,a new style of chord progression. At the same time the young composer waswell versed in old and ancient music; he knew all the old scales, eightin number, and used them in his compositions with compelling charm.The influence of the old Gregorian chant has given his music a certainfluidity, free rhythm, a refinement, richness and variety peculiarly itsown.

We can trace impressions of early life in Debussy's music, through hisemployment of the old modes, the bell sounds which were familiar to hisboyhood, and also circ*mstances connected with his later life. As a studentin Rome, he threw himself into the study of the music of Russian composers,especially that of Moussorgsky; marks of the Oriental coloring derived fromthese masters appear in his own later music. When he returned to Paris forgood, he reflected in music the atmosphere of his environment. By interestand temperament he was in sympathy with the impressionistic school in art,whether it be in painting, literature or in music. In Debussy's music thequalities of impressionism and symbolism are very prominent. He employssounds as though they were colors, and blends them in such a way asliterally to paint a picture in tones, through a series of shaded,many-hued chord progressions. Fluid, flexible, vivid, these beautifulharmonies, seemingly woven of refracted rays of light, merge into shadowymelody, and free, flowing rhythm.

What we first hear in Debussy's music, is the strangeness of the harmony,the use of certain scales, not so much new as unfamiliar. Also theemployment of sequences of fifths or seconds. He often takes his subjectsfrom nature, but in this case seems to prefer a sky less blue and alandscape more atmospheric than those of Italy, more like his nativeFrance. His music, when known sufficiently, will reveal a sense ofproportion, balance and the most exquisite taste. It may lack strengthat times, it may lack outbursts of passion and intensity, but it is theperfection of refinement.

Mr. Ernest Newman, in writing of Debussy, warmly praises the delightfulnaturalness of his early compositions. "One would feel justified inbuilding the highest hopes on the young genius who can manipulate so easilythe beautiful shapes his imagination conjures up."

The work of the early period shows Debussy developing freely and naturally.The independence of his thinking is unmistakable, but it does not runinto wilfulness. There is no violent break with the past, but simplythe quickening of certain French qualities by the infusion of a newpersonality. It seemed as if a new and charming miniaturist had appeared,who was doing both for piano and song what had never been done before.The style of the two Arabesques and the more successful of the Ariettesoubliées is perfect. A liberator seemed to have come into music, to takeup, half a century later, the work of Chopin—the work of redeeming the artfrom the excessive objectivity of German thought, of giving it not onlya new soul but a new body, swift, lithe and graceful. And that thisexquisitely clear, pellucid style could be made to carry out not onlygaiety and whimsicality but emotion of a deeper sort, is proved by thelovely "Clair de Lune."

Among Debussy's best known compositions are "The Afternoon of a Faun,"composed in 1894 and called his most perfect piece for orchestra, which henever afterward surpassed. There are also Three Nocturnes for orchestra.In piano music, as we have briefly shown, he created a new school forthe player. All the way from the two Arabesques just mentioned, through"Gardens in the Rain," "The Shadowy Cathedral," "A Night in Granada," "TheGirl with Blond Hair," up to the two books of remarkable Preludes, it is anew world of exotic melody and harmony to which he leads the way. "Art mustbe hidden by art," said Rameau, long ago, and this is eminently true inDebussy's music.

Debussy composed several works for the stage, one of which was "Martyrdomof Saint Sebastien," but his "Pélleas and Mélisande" is the one supremeachievement in the lyric drama. As one of his critics writes: "The readingof the score of 'Pélleas and Mélisande' remains for me one of the mostmarvelous lessons in French art: it would be impossible for him toexpress more with greater restraint of means." The music, which seemsso complicated, is in reality very simple. It sounds so shadowy andimpalpable, but it is really built up with as sure control as the mostclassic work. It is indeed music which appeals to refined and sensitivetemperaments.

This mystical opera was produced in Paris, at the Opéra Comique, in April,1902, and at once made a sensation. It had any number of performances andstill continues as one of the high lights of the French stage. Its famesoon reached America, and the first performance was given in New York in1907, with a notable cast of singing actors, among whom Mary Garden, as theheroine gave an unforgettable, poetic interpretation.

Many songs have been left us by this unique composer. He was especiallyfond of poetry and steeped himself in the verse of Verlaine, Villon,Baudelaire and Mallarmé. He chose the most unexpected, the most subtle,and wedded it to sounds which invariably expressed the full meaning. Hebreathed the breath of life into these vague, shadowy poems, just as hemade Maeterlinck's "Pélleas" live again.

As the years passed, Claude Debussy won more and more distinction as aunique composer, but also gained the reputation of being a very unsociableman. Physically it has been said that in his youth he seemed like anAssyrian Prince; through life he retained his somewhat Asiatic appearance.His eyes were slightly narrowed, his black hair curled lightly over anextremely broad forehead. He spoke little and often in brusque phrase. Forthis reason he was frequently misunderstood, as the irony and sarcasm withwhich he sometimes spoke did not tend to make friends. But this attitudewas only turned toward those who did not comprehend him and his ideals, orwho endeavored to falsify what he believed in and esteemed.

A friend of the artist writes:

"I met Claude Debussy for the first time in 1906. Living myself in aprovincial town, I had for several years known and greatly admired someof the songs and the opera, 'Pélleas and Mélisande,' and I made each ofmy short visits to Paris an opportunity of improving my acquaintance withthese works. A young composer, André Caplet, with whom I had long beenintimate, proposed to introduce me to Debussy; but the rumors I had heardabout the composer's preferred seclusion always made me refuse in spiteof my great desire to know him. I now had a desire to express the feelingsawakened in me, and to communicate to others, by means of articles andlectures, my admiration for, and my belief in, the composer and his work.The result was that one day, in 1906, Debussy let me know through a friend,that he would like to see me. From that day began our friendship."

Later the same friend wrote:

"Debussy was invited to appear at Queen's Hall with the London SymphonyOrchestra, on February 1, 1908, to conduct his 'Afternoon of a Faun,' and'The Sea.' The ovation he received from the English public was exceptional.I can still see him in the lobby, shaking hands with friends after theconcert, trying to hide his emotion, and saying repeatedly: 'How nice theyare—how nice they are!'"

He went again the next year to London, but the state of his healthprevented his going anywhere else. For a malady, which finally provedfatal, seemed to attack the composer when in his prime, and eventuallyput an end to his work. We cannot guess what other art works he might havecreated. But there must be some that have not yet seen the light. It isknown that he was wont to keep a composition for some time in his desk,correcting and letting it ripen, until he felt it was ready to be broughtout.

One of his cherished dreams had been to compose a "Tristan."

The characters of Tristan and Iseult are primarily taken from a Frenchlegend. Debussy felt the story was a French heritage and should be restoredto its original atmosphere and idea. This it was his ardent desire toaccomplish.

Debussy passed away March 26, 1918.

Since his desire to create a Tristan has been made impossible, let uscherish the rich heritage of piano, song and orchestral works, which thisoriginal French artist and thinker has left behind, to benefit art and hisfellow man.

XXIII

ARTURO TOSCANINI

The sharp rap of Arturo Toscanini's baton that cuts the ear like a whiplashbrought the rehearsal of the NBC Symphony Orchestra to a sudden, shockingstop. Overtones from chords of Wagner's "Faust Overture," killed inmid-career, vibrated through the throat-gripping silence.

The men stared at their music, bowed their heads a little in anticipationof the storm. "Play that again," the Maestro commanded William Bell, thebass tuba player, who had just finished a solo. On Mr. Bell's face therewas an expression of mixed worry and wonderment. Mr. Toscanini noticed thetroubled anxious look.

"No, no, no," he said, with that childlike smile of his that suffuses hiswhole face with an irresistible light. "There is nothing wrong. Play itagain; please, play it again, just for me. It is so beautiful. I have neverheard these solo passages played with such a lovely tone."

There you have a side of Mr. Toscanini that the boys have forgotten to tellyou about. For years newspaper and magazine writers (in the last couple ofseasons the Maestro has even "made" the Broadway columns!) have doled outanecdotes concerning his terrible temper.

From these stories there emerged a demoniacal little man with the tantrumsof a dozen prima donnas, a temperamental tyrant who, at the dropping of astitch in the orchestral knitting, tore his hair, screamed at the top ofhis inexhaustible Latin lungs, doused his trembling players with streams ofblistering invective.

That's how you learned that, to the king of conductors, a musician playingan acid note is a "shoemaker," a "swine," an "assassin" or even somethingcompletely unprintable.

So far as they went the stories were true. Mr. Toscanini, as all the worldknows by now, is the world's No. 1 musical purist. Nothing but perfectionsatisfies him. He hates compromise, loathes the half-baked and mediocre,refuses to put up with "something almost as good."

As Stefan Zweig puts it: "In vain will you remind him that the perfect, theabsolute, are rarely attainable in this world; that, even to the sublimestwill, no more is possible than an approach to perfection.... His gloriousunwisdom makes it impossible to recognize this wise dispensation."

His rages, then, are the spasms of pain of a perfectionist wounded byimperfection. It was his glorious unwisdom that caused him, at a rehearsalnot long ago, to fling a platinum watch to the floor, where, of course, itwas smashed into fragments.

In the shadows of the studio that afternoon lurked John F. Royal, programdirector of NBC. Next day he presented the Maestro with two $1 watches,both inscribed, "For Rehearsals Only." Mr. Toscanini was so amused that heforgot to get angry with Mr. Royal for breaking the grimly enforced rulebarring all but orchestra members from rehearsals.

The sympathetic program director also had the shattered platinum watch puttogether by what must have been a Toscanini among watchmakers. By that timethe incident had become such a joke that the orchestra men dared togive the Maestro a chain, of material and construction guaranteed to beunbreakable, to attach the brace of Ingersolls to the dark, roomy jacketwhich for years he has worn at rehearsals.

Less than a week later that same choleric director, with the burningdeep-set black eyes, the finely chiseled features and the halo of silverhair surrounding a bald spot that turns purple in his passions, walked intoa room where a girl of this reporter's acquaintance stood beside a canarycage, making a rather successful attempt at whistling, in time and tunewith the bird.

For a moment the man who can make music like no one else on earth listenedto the girl and her pet. Then he sighed and said:

"Oh, if I could only whistle!"

Those who know Mr. Toscanini intimately find in those six simple words thekey to his character. He is, they say, the most modest man who ever lived,a man sincerely at a loss to understand the endless fuss that is made abouthim.

Time and again he has told his friends that he has no fonder desire than tobe able to walk about undisturbed, to saunter along the avenue, lookinto shop-windows, do the thousand-and-one common little things that arepermitted other human beings.

That same humility, that same incurable bewilderment at public acclaim musthave been apparent to all who ever attended a Toscanini concert, saw him atthe close of a superb interpretation bowing as one of the group of playersand making deprecating gestures that seemed to say: "What you have heardwas a great score brought to life by these excellent musicians—why applaudme?"

At rehearsals he is the strictest of disciplinarians but not a prima donnaconductor. He demands the utmost attention and concentration from his men,brooks no disturbance or interruption. On the other hand, he is punctualto a fault, arrives fifteen minutes ahead of time, never asks for specialprivileges of any kind.

He has been described as the world's most patient and impatient orchestraldirector. In rehearsal he will take the men through a passage, a merephrase, innumerable times to achieve a certain tonal or dynamic effect. Buthe explodes when he feels that he is faced with stupidity or stubbornness.

Some famous conductors have added the B of Barnum to the three immortal B'sof music—Bach, Beethoven and Brahms. Those wielders of the stick are greatshowmen as well as great musicians.

Not so Mr. Toscanini. In his platform manner there is nothing calculatedfor theatrical effect. He doesn't care in the least what he looks like"from out front." His gestures are designed not to impress, enrapture orenglamour the musical groundlings, but to convey his sharply defined wishesto his men and transmit to them the flaming enthusiasm that consumes him.

His motions are patiently sincere, almost unconscious. He enters carryinghis baton under his right arm, like a riding crop. Orchestra and audiencerise. He acknowledges this mark of respect and the tumultuous applause witha quick bow, an indulgent smile and a gesture that plainly say: "Thanks,thanks, all this is very nice, you're a lot of kind, good children, but forheaven's sake let's get down to business."

While waiting a few seconds for listeners and players to settle themselveshe rests his baton against his right shoulder, like a sword. Then the sharprap. The Maestro closes his eyes. Another rap, sharper than the first.Oppressive, electrical silence. He lifts the baton as if saluting theorchestra. The concert begins.

As a rule the right hand gives the tempo and tracks down every smallestmelody, wherever it may hide in the score. In passages for the strings, thebaton indicates the type of bowing the conductor wants from the violins,violas or cellos.

The left hand, with the long thumb separate from the other fingers, is theorchestra's guide to the Maestro's interpretative desires. It wheedles thetone from the men. It coaxes, hushes, demands increased volume. It moves,trembling, to the heart to ask for feeling, closes into a fist to get soundand fury from the brasses, thunder from the drums. Through it all, theMaestro talks, sings, whistles and blows out his cheeks for the benefit oftrumpeters and trombonists.

After a concert, keyed to feverish excitement, he often plays over pianoscores of every number that appeared on the program. Then he may lie awakeall night, worrying over two possible tempi in which he might have takensome passage—shadings in rhythm that the average listener would not, couldnot discern.

He is never satisfied with himself. Some years ago, when he was stillconducting at the Scala in Milan, he came home one night after the opera.Mr. Toscanini does not eat before a performance, and his family wait withthe evening meal until he joins them.

As he stepped into the hall he saw his wife and daughters walking intothe dining room. "Where are you going?" he asks them. "In to supper, ofcourse," one of them told him. The Maestro exploded: "What? After THATperformance? Oh, no, you're not. It shall never be said of my family thatthey could eat after such a horrible show!" All of them, including thegreat man himself, went to bed without supper that night.

It stands to reason that a man of this type detests personal publicity.The interviews he has granted in the fifty-six years of his career—Mr.Toscanini, who is seventy-five, began conducting at nineteen—can becounted on the fingers of one hand. He feels and has often told friendsthat all he has to say he can say in musical terms; that he gladly leavesto others what satisfaction they may derive from publicly bandying words.

But his frequent brushes with news photographers don't come under thishead. The existence of numerous fine camera studies of the Maestroproves that he doesn't dislike being photographed. Nor does he dislikephotographers. But he hates flashlights because they hurt his eyes.

This has bolstered the popular notion—based on the fact that he conductsfrom memory—that his sight is so poor as to amount almost to blindness.

Mr. Toscanini is neither blind nor half-blind. He does not use a strongmagnifying glass to study his scores, note by note. He is near-sighted,but not more so than millions of others, and reads with the aid of ordinaryspectacles.

He has always conducted from memory because he believes that having thescore in his head gives a conductor greater freedom and authority to imposehis musical will upon his men. At rehearsals the score is kept on a standa few feet from the Maestro. From time to time he consults it to verify apoint at dispute. He has never been known to be wrong.

His memory is, of course, phenomenal. Anything he has once seen, read andparticularly, heard, he not only remembers but is unable to forget. Theother day he and a friend were discussing the concerto played by a certainpianist on his American debut in 1911. Mr. Toscanini remembered it asBeethoven's Fourth Piano Concerto; the friend maintained it was the Second.

The Maestro said: "I recall the concert very well. He was soloist with thePhilharmonic." And he reeled off all the other compositions on that programof twenty-seven years ago.

To settle the argument the skeptical friend called the office of thePhilharmonic. Mr. Toscanini had been right about the Beethoven Concerto andhad correctly remembered the purely orchestral numbers as well.

He is a profound student, not only of music but of all available literaturebearing upon it. A music critic who visited him in Salzburg a few yearsago, just before he was to conduct Wagner's "Die Meistersinger," found himin a room littered with books on the opera, books on Wagner, volumes of thecomposer's correspondence.

The Maestro, who has been coming to this country since 1908, speaks betterEnglish than most of us. He knows his English literature and is in thesometimes disconcerting habit of quoting by the yard from the works ofShakespeare, Keats, Shelley and Swinburne.

Almost as great a linguist as he is a musician, he coaxes and curses hismen in perfect, idiomatic French, German and Spanish as well as English andItalian.

He likes reading, listening to the radio—he is fond of good jazz—anddriving out in the country. He loves speed. An American friend who someyears ago accompanied him on a motor trip from Milan to Venice groaned whenthe speedometer began hovering around 78. "What's the matter with you?" theMaestro wanted to know. "We're only jogging along." Whenever possible heflies.

Since 1926 he and Mrs. Toscanini have occupied an apartment in theAstor—the same suite of four smallish rooms. The place is furnished by thehotel, but the Maestro always brings his beloved knickknacks—his miniatureof Beethoven, his Wagner and Verdi manuscripts, his family photographs.

He has no valet and dislikes being pawed by barbers. He shaves himself,and Mrs. Toscanini or one of the daughters cuts his hair. He eats verylittle—two plates of soup (preferably minestrone), a piece of bread and aglass of chianti do him nicely for dinner.

He begrudges the time spent in eating and sleeping. Like the child he is atheart, he loves staying up late. Occasionally he takes a nocturnal prowl.

The other night, after a concert, he asked a friend to take himsomewhere—"some place where they won't know me and make a fuss over me."

The friend took him to a little place in the Village. The moment Mr.Toscanini entered, the proprietor dashed forward, bowed almost to theground and said: "Maestro, I am greatly honored ... I'll never forget thishour ..." Then he led the party to the most conspicuous spot in the room.

Mr. Toscanini wanted a nip of brandy, but the innkeeper insisted that hetry some very special wine of the house's own making. From a huge jughe poured a brownish-red, viscous liquid into a couple of tumblers. TheMaestro's companion says it tasted like a mixture of castor oil, hair tonicand pitch.

Turning white at the first sip, Mr. Toscanini drained his glass at a gulp.Outside, his friend asked him: "Why did you drink that vile stuff?"

The Maestro said: "The poor fellow meant well, and I didn't want to refuse.A man can do anything."

XXIV

LEOPOLD STOKOWSKI

Many years ago this reporter was traveling, as a non-fiddling, non-tootingmember of the Philadelphia Orchestra, on a train that carried theorganization on one of its Pennsylvania-Maryland-Ohio tours.

It was 2 o'clock in the morning, Mr. Stokowski, the conductor, was secludedin his drawing room, perhaps asleep, but more likely trying to digest threehelpings of creamed oysters in which he had indulged at the home of aneffusive Harrisburg hostess. Mr. Stokowski in those days couldn't letcreamed oysters alone, but neither could he take them.

In the Pullman smoker sat the handsome gentleman who was then manager ofthe orchestra and your correspondent. "Tell me," said the reporter, "justbetween you and me—where did Stoky get that juicy accent?"

The manager removed his cigar to reply:

"God alone knows."

Mr. Stokowski then had been in this country nearly twenty years. He hasbeen here now more than thirty years, and still no one on earth, with thepossible exception of Mr. Stokowski himself, can tell you where he dug uphis rich luscious accent that trickles down the portals of the ear as thesauce of creamed oysters trickles down the gullet.

Surely he didn't get it in London where, on April 18, 1882, he was born.Nor did he learn it in Queens College, Oxford, where he was considered abright student, or on Park Avenue, New York, where he landed in 1905 toplay the organ at St. Bartholomew's.

Mr. Stokowski's dialectic vagaries are among the mysteries in which, forhis own good reasons, he has chosen to wrap himself. Another one concernshis name and origin. Is he really Leopold Antoni Stanislaw Stokowski? Washis father one Joseph Boleslaw Kopernicus Stokowski, a Polish emigrewho became a London stockbroker? Was his mother an Irish colleen and thegranddaughter of Tom Moore, who wrote "Believe Me If All Those EndearingYoung Charms"? Or is Stoky just plain Lionel Stokes, the sprout of a humbleco*ckney family?

Nobody knows. But everybody knows that Leopold Stokowski is one of theworld's really great orchestra conductors, a true poet of the stick (thoughhe has dispensed with the baton in recent years), and that he has made thename of the Philadelphia Orchestra synonymous with superb singing, beautyof tone and dazzling brilliance.

Everybody knows, too, that he has few peers as an interpreter of Bach, manyof whose compositions he unearthed from the organ repertoire and gave tothe general public in shimmering orchestral arrangements, and that criticstrot out their choicest adjectives to praise his playing of Brahms and allRussian composers.

Everybody knows, further, that he and his orchestra have made a largernumber of phonograph recordings of symphonic music than any other conductorand band, and that the Philadelphia organization was the first of its kindto dare the raised eyebrows of the musical tories by going on the air as acommercially sponsored attraction.

The list, here necessarily condensed, is one of impressive musicalachievements, which many an artist of a more placid temperament than Mr.Stokowski's would have considered ample to insure his fame.

But the slender, once golden-locked, now white-thatched Leopold is andalways was a restless fellow, a bundle of nervous energy, an insatiablelover of experiment, innovation and—the limelight.

Those traits began to come to the surface in 1922, when he had been bossingthe Philadelphia band for ten years. About that time he seemed no longersatisfied with merely playing to his audiences—he started talking to them.

There were (and still are) two groups of Philadelphia Orchestrasubscribers—the Friday afternoon crowd, consisting largely of stuffydowagers, and the Saturday night clientele, composed mostly of personsgenuinely interested in music.

The old society gals went to the Friday matinees because it was the thingto do. While "that dear, handsome boy" and his men on the platform werediscoursing Beethoven, Schubert and Wagner, the ladies swapped gossip,recipes and lamented the scarcity of skillful, loyal but inexpensivedomestics.

It was at one of those whispering bees (your reporter, who was there,swears it really happened) that, during the playing of a gossamerpianissimo passage, a subscriber informed her neighbor in a resonantcontralto:

"I always mix butter with MINE!" Mr. Stokowski did not address the audienceon that occasion. He gave his first lecture at another concert, and then hescolded the women not for talking but for applauding.

Many of the Friday afternoon customers were in such a rush to catch trainsfor their Main Line suburbs that they seldom remained long enough to giveconductor and orchestra a well-deserved ovation. So nobody ever quite knewwhether the dead-pan Stoky was in earnest or moved by an impish sense ofhumor when, following the usual thin smattering of applause, he said:

"This strange beating together of hands has no meaning, and to me it isvery disturbing. I do not like it. It destroys the mood my colleagues and Ihave been trying to create with our music."

Shortly afterward, the Philadelphia Orchestra and its blond, romanticconductor invaded New York. Their Tuesday night concerts at CarnegieHall became the rage. The uninhibited music lovers of this town not onlyapplauded Stoky but cheered, yelled and stamped to express their frenziedapproval. He never lectured THEM.

But in Philadelphia he continued his extra-conductorial antics. When theaudience hissed an ultra-modern composition, he told them: "I am glad youare hissing. It is so much better than apathy." Another time, when theybooed an atonal piece, he repeated it immediately.

He scolded the audience for coming late. He scolded them for leaving early.Once he scolded them for coughing. They continued the rasping noise. Afterthe intermission, on Stoky's orders, the 100-odd men of the orchestrawalked out on the stage barking as if in the last stages of an epidemicbronchial disease.

All those didoes promptly made the front page. Thereafter Mr. Stokowski,who had tasted blood, or rather, printer's ink, came out on the average ofonce a month with a new notion to astound the Quakers.

He shocked them with a demand for Sunday concerts—then a heresy inPhiladelphia. He changed the seating arrangement of the orchestra. Hediscarded the wooden amphitheatre on which, since the dark symphonic ages,the players had sat in tiers, and put them on chairs directly on the stage.Then he shuffled the men, making the cellos change places with the secondviolins, the battery with the basses. There must have been some merit inall this switching, for several conductors copied it.

Next he announced that light was a distraction at a concert. Henceforth,the Philadelphia Orchestra would play in darkness. Wails of dismay from theFriday afternoon dowagers. How on earth was any one going to see what herfriends were wearing?

At the next matinee the Academy of Music was black as a crypt. On thestage, at each of the players' desks, hung a small, green-shaded light.Then Mr. Stokowski walked out on the podium. The moment he had mountedthe dais, a spotlight was trained on his head, turning his hair into aglittering golden halo. The ladies forgot all about their friends' dresses.Why, the darling boy looked like an angel descended into a tomb to wakenthe dead!

Stoky explained to the press that the spot was necessary to enable his mento follow the play of his facial expressions.

Most conductors make their appearance in a leisurely manner. Carryingthe stick, they stride out on the platform, acknowledge the audience'sreception with a courtly bow, say a few kind words to the men, and whenmusicians and listeners have composed themselves, begin the concert.

Leopold changed all that. Leander-like, he leaped from the wings, dashed tothe center of the stage, nodded curtly to the customers, then acceptedthe baton which was handed to him, with a flourish, by one of the violaplayers, and, before you could say "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart," plunged intothe opening number.

His audiences, particularly the ladies, doted on his conducting technique.His slim, youthful, virile figure was held erect, his feet remainedstill as if nailed to the floor, while his arms went through a series ofsensuously compelling, always graceful motions. The view from the back wasenhanced by the fact that the tailor who cut his morning and evening coatswas almost as great as Stoky himself. And his hands! Ah, my dear, thosehands——!

There was so much ecstatic comment on those slender, nervous, expressivehands that Mr. Stokowski decided to give the gals a full, unhampered view.He did away with the baton.

About the same time he invented a new way of rehearsing the orchestra—theremote-control method. An assistant conductor wielded the stick whileStoky sat in the rear of the dark hall manipulating an intricate systemof colored lights that made known his wishes to his understudy on theplatform.

Mr. Stokowski is inordinately fond of gadgets and fancies himself as quitea technical expert. When he first conducted for the radio he strenuouslyobjected to the arrangement whereby the engineers in the control room hadthe last word as to the volume of sound that was to go out on the air.

Radio executives pacified him by rigging up an elaborate set of dials onhis desk. These he happily twirled, completely unaware that the doodadswere dead.

Meanwhile—and please don't lose sight of this cardinal fact—he madetranscendently beautiful music. His stature as a conductor grew with theyears and so did the repertoire of scores he conducted from memory. Thisfeat involved heartbreaking work, for his memory, while good, is notunusually retentive. In the middle years of his career, he devoted from tento twelve hours a day to studying scores.

In periods when the Stokowski brain was unproductive of new stunts, hisprivate life and his recurrent rows with the directors of the orchestraabout matters of salary and control kept him in the papers.

His divorce from Mme. Olga Samaroff, the pianist, a Texan born as LucyHickenlooper, whom he married in the dim days when he conducted inCincinnati, provided Rittenhouse Square with chit-chat for a whole winter.So did his marriage to Evangeline Brewster Johnson, an extremely wealthy,eccentric and independent young woman, who later divorced him.

Mr. Stokowski's doings of the last few years can no longer be classed asminor-league musical sensations. They have become Hot Hollywood Stuff.First, there was his appearance in films. Then his collaboration withMickey Mouse. Then his friendship with Greta Garbo. Then his five-monthsentimental journey over half of Europe with the Duse of the screen. Todayhe is as big a feature of the fan magazines as Clark Gable and RobertTaylor.

Upon his return from Europe in August, Stoky made the most amusing remarkof a long amusing career. He told this reporter:

"I am not interested in publicity."

XXV

SERGE KOUSSEVITZKY

In the official biographies of Serge Alexandrovitch Koussevitzky you willfind that the boss of the Boston Symphony learned the art and mystery ofconducting at the Royal Hochschule in Berlin under the great Artur Nikisch,but in this town there lives and breathes a rather well-known Russianpianist who tells a different story.

Long ago, says this key-tickler, when he was a youth, he was hired byKoussevitzky, then also a young fellow, to play the piano scores of theentire standard symphony repertoire.

He pounded away by the hour, the day and the week, while Koussevitzkyconducted, watching himself in a set of three tall mirrors in a corner ofthe drawing room of his Moscow home.

The job lasted just about a year, and our pianist has never looked at aconductor since.

There's also an anecdote to the effect that, much earlier, when Serge wasstill a little boy in his small native town in the province of Tver, innorthern Russia, he would arrange the parlor chairs in rows and, with somescore open in front of him, conduct them. Once in a while he'd stop shortand berate the chairs. Then little Serge's language was something awful.

Whether these stories are true or not, the fact remains that Mr.Koussevitzky became a conductor and a great one—one of the greatest.The yarn of the mirrors is the most credible of the lot, for the Russianbatonist's platform appearance is so meticulous and his movements are soobviously studied to produce the desired effects that he seems to conductbefore an imaginary pier glass.

For elegant tailoring he has no peer among orchestral chiefs, except,perhaps, Mr. Stokowski. It's a toss-up between the two. Both are as sleekas chromium statues. Mr. Stokowski, slim, lithe, romantic in a virileway, looks as a poet should look, but never does. Mr. Koussevitzky,broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, extremely military and virile in adramatic way, looks as a captain of dragoons in civvies should have lookedbut never did.

Mr. Koussevitzy's conductorial gestures are literally high, wide andhandsome. His wing-spread, so to speak, is much larger than that ofeither Mr. Stokowski or Mr. Toscanini, and he has a greater repertoire ofunpredictable motions than both of them put together. Time cannot wither,nor custom stale, the infinite variety of his shadow boxing.

Those who knew his history look upon Mr. Koussevitzky's joyous,unrestrained gymnastics with tolerant eyes. They realize that, for years,he was forced to hide his fine figure and athletic prowess from thousandsof potential admirers.

For Mr. Koussevitzky, before he became a conductor, was a world-famousperformer on the double bass, that big growling brute of an instrumentpopularly known as the bull fiddle. In those days all that was visible ofhis impressive person was his head, one of his shoulders and his arms.

He didn't want to be a bull fiddler any more than you or you or you, andit's greatly to his credit and indicative of his iron will, consumingambition and extraordinary musicianship that he developed, according toauthoritative opinion, into the best bull fiddler of his time.

Here's what happened:

Serge was the son of a violinist who scratched away for a meager living ina third-rate theatre orchestra. The boy, intensely musical, wished to bea fiddler like his father. When he was fourteen, his family gave him theirblessing, which was all they had to give, and sent him to Moscow to try fora scholarship at the Philharmonic School.

He arrived with three rubles in his pocket. At the school he was told thatthe only available scholarship was one in bull fiddling. Serge tried for itand won. He was, so far as is known, the first musician to make the barkingmonster into a solo instrument.

An overburdened troubadour, he dragged the cumbersome thing all overRussia and played it in recitals with amazing success. In 1903, when Mr.Koussevitzky was twenty-nine (he's sixty-eight now but looks a mettlesomefifty), the Czar decorated him—the only instance in history of adecoration bestowed for bull fiddling.

That same year, while giving a concert in Moscow, the virtuoso happened tolook into the audience and his eyes met those of a stunning brunette inthe front row. The owner of the lovely eyes, Natalya Konstantinova Ushkova,became his wife two years later.

Natalya, the daughter of a wealthy merchant and a rich girl in her ownright, promised him anything he wanted for a wedding gift. "Give me asymphony orchestra." was Koussevitzky's startling request. The bride wastaken aback, for it was with the bull fiddle that he had wooed and won herand she hated to see him give it up, but she kept her word.

Now here is where our old pianist comes in. It was at that time, he says,that Mr. Koussevitzky sent for him and began an intensive course of studybefore the triple mirror.

A year or so later Natalya hired eighty-five of the best musicians inMoscow. After a season of rehearsals Mr. Koussevitzky took his band on touraboard a steamer—a little gift from his father-in-law.

They rode up and down the Volga. Every evening the vessel—a sort ofmusical showboat—tied up at a different city, town or village and theorchestra gave a concert, often before peasants and small-town folk who hadnever heard symphony music before. In seven years Mr. Koussevitzky and hismen traveled some 3,000 miles.

Came the revolution. Kerensky ordered Koussevitzy and his men: "Keep upwith your music." They did, but it wasn't easy. It was a terribly severewinter; the country was in the killing grip of cold and famine.

Koussevitzky and his players starved for weeks on end. The boss conductedin mittens. The men wore mittens, too, but they had holes in them, so theycould finger the strings and keys of their instruments.

The Bolsheviks made Mr. Koussevitzky director of the state orchestraswhich, in those early Soviet days, were at low musical ebb. He labored inthat job for three years, from 1917 to 1920, but he was out of sympathywith the Lenin-Trotzky regime and asked permission to leave the country. Itwas refused because officials said, "Russia needs your music."

The fiery Koussevitzky told the Government that, unless he were allowed totravel abroad, he'd never play or conduct another note in Russia. They lethim go.

Mr. Koussevitzky says that the Bolsheviks robbed him of about a million inmoney, land and other property. In illustration of the state of things thatimpelled him to leave his native land, he likes to tell this story:

A minor Bolshevik official came in one day to check up on the affairs ofthe orchestra. "Who are those people?" he asked, pointing to a group ofplayers at the conductor's left. "Those," said Koussevitzky, "are the firstviolins."

"And those over there?" asked the inspector, indicating a group at theconductor's right. "The second violins," was the reply.

"What!" yelled the official. "Second violins in a Soviet state orchestra?Clear them out!"

Mr. Koussevitzky went to Paris, where he conducted a series of orchestralconcerts and performances of Moussorgsky's "Boris Godounoff" andTschaikowsky's "Pique Dame" at the Opera. Between 1921 and 1924 he alsoappeared in Barcelona, Rome and Berlin. In Paris he established a musicpublishing house (still in existence), which issued the works of suchmodern Russian composers as Stravinsky, Scriabine, Medtner, Prokofieff andRachmaninoff.

In 1924, the offer of a $50,000 salary and the opportunity of rebuildingthe Boston Symphony Orchestra, which had sadly deteriorated since the daysof Dr. Karl Muck, lured him to this country.

American customs, he now admits, at first appalled him. He was amazed tofind musicians smoking in intermissions at rehearsals and concert. This hecalled "an insult to art." He forbade smoking. The players raised anunholy rumpus, but Koussevitzky persisted. The men haven't taken a puff inSymphony Hall since that time.

The next unpopular move he made was to fire a number of the old standbyswho had sat in the orchestra for most of its forty-four-year history. "Ivant yongk blott!" he cried in his then still very thick accent. "If doseold chentlemen vant to sleep, let dem sleep in deir houses!"

The Boston music lovers didn't like it. To them the Symphony is a sacredcow and they regarded the older members in the light of special pets. Butwhen, at the opening of the new season, they heard a brilliant, completelyrejuvenated orchestra, they forgave the new conductor. Since then, hehas restored the Symphony to its old-time glory. Today Beacon Hill has nogreater favorite than Serge Alexandrovitch Koussevitzky.

The orchestra men, too, learned to like him. They discovered that, withall his public histrionics, he was on the level as a musician. He is amerciless task master, but in rehearsals he gives himself no airs. Dressedin an old pair of pants and a disreputable brown woolen sweater, whichhe has worn in private since the day he landed in Boston, he works like astevedore. When he, the pants and the sweater had been with the Symphonyten years, the men gave him a testimonial dinner.

Next to Mr. Toscanini he's the world's most temperamental conductor, but hehas the ability to keep himself in check—when he wants to. "Koussevitzky,"says Ernest Newman, the eminent English music critic, "has a volcanictemperament, yet never have I known it to run away with him. It isprecisely when his temperament is at the boiling point that his hand on theregulator is steadiest."

At a concert in Carnegie Hall four years ago he gave a dramaticdemonstration of self-control. He was conducting Debussy's "Prelude to theAfternoon of a Faun," when smoke from an incinerator fire in a neighboringbuilding penetrated the hall. The smoke grew dense. People rose, rushed forthe exits in near-panic. Women screamed.

He stopped the orchestra, turned to the audience, held up his hand andshouted:

"Come back! Sit down! Sit down—all of you! Everything is all right!"

The customers meekly resumed their seats. Mr. Koussevitzky swung 'round andcontinued playing Debussy's brooding, sensuous dreampiece as if nothing hadhappened.

Because he has done so much, both as conductor and publisher, for livingcomposers (he is the high priest of the Sibelius cult), he has been calleda modernist. The label infuriates him.

"Nonsense!" he snarls. "I'm not a modernist and I'm not a classicist. I'ma musician! The first movement of the Ninth Symphony of Beethoven is thegreatest music ever written and George Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue' is amasterpiece."

"There you are! Make the best of it!"

[Transcriber's Notes:a. The spelling of names and places are noted as having changedbetween the publication of this book and the year 2004:Chapter I (Palestrina):'Michael Angelo' vs. 'Michaelangelo' (also in Chapter VI)Chapter II (Bach):Leipsic vs. Leipzig (repeated in following chapters)Lüneberg vs. LüneburgChapter X (Mendelssohn):'Dreifaltigkeit Kirch-hof' vs. 'Dreifaltigkeit Kirchhof'Wiemar vs. WeimarChapter XIII (Berlioz):Academié vs. AcadémieChapter XIV (Verdi):'Sant' Agata' vs. 'Sant'Agata''Apeninnes' vs. 'Apennines''Corsia di Servi' vs. 'Corsia dei Servi'Chpater XXI (McDowell):Frankfort vs. Frankfurt (Germany)Peterboro vs. Peterborough (New Hampshire) * * * * *b. Spelling errors found, not corrected:beseiged (besieged);Esterhazy (spelled unaccented twice) vs. Esterházy (spelled with accent 6 times)Carreno vs. Carreño (Teresa; each spelling used once.)Academié (Académie)Scandanavia (Scandinavia) * * * * *c. Obvious spelling errors corrected:Lüneberg (in 1 place) to Lüneburg (this spelling found in 3 places)Febuary to February (One day in February ...);obsorbed to absorbed (... soon became so absorbed ...);polish to Polish (... a Polish emigre ...);Intrumental to Instrumental (Instrumental music no longer satisfied ...);Opportunties to opportunities (... greater opportunties for anambitious ...);financée to fiancée (... assisted by hisfinancée ...);turing to turning (... turing his hair ...) * * * * *d. Chapter numbers (Roman numerals) omittedfor start of chapters on Toscanini, Stokowski and Koussevitzky,but were present in the Table of Contents;so the proper numbers (XXIII, XXIV, XXV) were entered in the proper places.]