PART II.

BACH, HÄNDEL, HAYDN, MOZART, BEETHOVEN, SCHUBERT, SCHUMANN, MENDELSSOHN, WEBER, CHOPIN, AND WAGNER: THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN UPON THEIR MUSICAL PRODUCTIVITY.

JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH.

I, my Fabius, who am in other respects an admirer of antiquity, am of opinion that my Bach, and others like him, unite in their own persons many Orpheuses and twenty Arions.—Gesner.

To thoroughly appreciate the influence of woman upon Sebastian Bach in his musical development and creations, it is necessary to regard the modest and God-fearing cantor of St. Thomas not only as a musician but also as a man. He has left an imperishable name, and his musical creations are the very foundations of the art; and yet his life was mainly spent within the family circle, where, in the true patriarchal spirit, he ruled over his numerous progeny. This domestic characteristic distinguished all the Bachs, from the time when Veit Bach, the old baker who played his zither while his mill was running, and the founder of the family, travelled into Thuringia from Hungary, that he might be free to worship God as he pleased. They were all musicians; and their love of music, as well as their remarkable purity of sentiment and strength of family affection, bound them closely together. At one time there were no less than thirty Bachs who were organists in Thuringia, Franconia, and Saxony. Nothing is more beautiful in the records of music than their anniversary meetings, upon which occasions they gathered together from all parts of Germany, and enjoyed a genuine feast of music in singing chorals and folk-songs, and improvising. No jar or disagreement ever disturbed these meetings. They were as calm and peaceful as the movement of the chorals which opened and closed them. They were simple, unaffected, pious people, remarkably gifted in musical knowledge,—in fact, renowned all over Germany for their skill,—and yet to a large extent living within themselves, and depending upon their homes for their enjoyment.

Of this constellation, Johann Sebastian Bach was the very sun and centre. He seems to have had none of the contrarieties or eccentricities which have characterized so many other musical geniuses. His mother died shortly after he was born, and his father when the boy was but ten years of age. His youth was spent in the home of his elder brother, Johann Christoph, an organist and music-master, who brought him up with an austerity of discipline which seems very harsh, and which particularly manifested itself, for some unaccountable reason, in the apparent determination to crush out his musical impulses and ambitions. His severe training, however, gave him self-reliance. He grew up to be a self-sustained, evenly poised man, simple and unostentatious in his bearing, strictly honorable in his intercourse with men, strong and unvarying in his home love, and guided in every event of life by a strict morality born of sincere religion. The spot where Luther translated the Bible into German overlooked his native place, and on the same spot the minnesingers had fought their romantic battles of song; and the religion of the one and the romance of the other affected his life until its close. He was an affectionate father, laboring manfully and incessantly to support his large family; a good citizen, faithfully fulfilling all his duties and commanding universal respect; a plain, humble man, despising rank and show, making no boast of his grand achievements, and yet recognized in the court of Frederick the Great as above courtiers and nobility, by the title of his genius.

Such a man, domestic by nature, spending most of his time and doing most of his work at home, and, more than all, doing this work for what seems now a beggarly pittance, needed for a companion a sensible, practical, industrious, and economical woman, capable of administering the affairs of the family in such manner that his musical labor, which was incessant, might not be disturbed by household cares, or solicitude as to the ability of the lean family purse to meet the demands upon it. Such a woman he found in his cousin Maria Barbara Bach, the youngest daughter of Johann Michael Bach, of Gehren, himself a composer of no mean ability. He made her acquaintance in Arnstadt, where he was appointed first organist of the new church in 1703. He was at that time too poor to marry; but the attachment between them was so strong that they mutually agreed to wait until a position lucrative enough to support them should offer itself. They did not have to wait long. In 1706 he was successful in obtaining the position of organist of St. Blasius Church, at Mühlhausen, and was left free to fix his own salary. Although upon the verge of marriage, the contract made with the town authorities shows that his requirements for establishing a family and founding a home were modest in the extreme. The contract reads: “Eighty-five guldens (a little more than thirty-five dollars), three malters of corn, two clafters of wood (one of beech and one of other wood), and six schock of small firewood, to be brought to his door.” He also requests that he may be helped “with the loan of a cart in bringing his furniture from Arnstadt.” He assumed his duties at Mühlhausen in 1707; and in October of that year he and Maria Barbara were married, starting in life with the modest outfit already mentioned. Very little is known of her, except that she was an affectionate and dutiful wife, of even temper and sunny disposition, contented with her lot, and so prudent and thrifty in her management that the home of Johann Sebastian was always a happy one, and his musical labors were never disturbed by the interposition of household troubles and annoyances. She died in 1720, during Bach’s absence at Carlsbad with Prince Leopold, and so suddenly that no news of it reached him until after she was buried. She bore him eight children, five sons and three daughters,—Caroline Dorothea, born in 1708; Wilhelm Friedemann, born in 1710, died at Berlin in 1784; Carl Philipp Emanuel, born in 1714, and commonly known as the “Berlin Bach,” who died at Hamburg in 1788; Johann Gottfried Bernhard, born in 1715; and Leopold August, born in 1718. In addition to these, there were a pair of twins, who died before they were a year old; and a daughter, who died very young.

There is no record to show that his first wife was a musician, or that she had musical taste or feeling; but it is on record that the thirteen years of hard labor and of incessant struggle with the necessities of life were years of mutual happiness, respect, and affection. She was thrifty, contented, industrious, and withal unselfish,—qualities which are very essential to happiness in life on an income of less than fifty dollars a year and perquisites of the most meagre description. We may therefore conclude that Sebastian Bach sincerely mourned the loss of the companion so suddenly snatched away from him. His situation in life was such, however, that he could not sorrow long. The necessities of constant labor, the daily recurrence of multifarious household duties, and the pressing cares of his little flock of children, all appealed to him to supply the place of her who had gone, so that he might be relieved of these exacting and worrying household cares, and give his sole attention to his art. A year and a half after her death, in the year 1721, he married Anna Magdalena Wülkens, the youngest daughter of a trumpeter, court musician to the Duke of Weissenfeld. He was then thirty-six years of age, and she was fifteen years his junior. This disparity of years, however, never threw a shadow upon the affections of the two, which remained beautiful and undisturbed until his death. The union was a perfect one, perhaps more perfect than the first; for, in addition to her devotion to household duties and her prudent and economical management of their little income, she was a musician of exceptional talent and had a very fine voice. His income, although larger than he had received heretofore, was still small; for two years after his marriage, when he signed his contracts as cantor of St. Thomas, at Leipzig, his yearly stipend was eighty-seven thalers and twelve groschen (about sixty-five dollars); sixteen scheffel of corn; thirteen thalers, three groschen, for wood and candles; one thaler, eight groschen, interest on a legacy; lodging and firewood free. This sum, with certain fees for services at marriages and funerals, was his only recompense for the arduous labors at the St. Thomas School, and the equally arduous labor of composing and conducting the music for four churches. Under her prudent management, however, they lived very comfortably; and a new element of happiness sprang up in his home, growing out of her knowledge and love of music. She had a soprano voice of beautiful quality, and a knowledge of the technique of music of such a decided character that for five years after her marriage she and the children studied with Bach in thorough-bass and piano music; the father finding time in the midst of his many duties to give them the benefits of his knowledge. He wrote out for her the rules of thorough-bass; and there still exists a testimonial of his great interest in her musical progress in the collection of “easy pieces for the piano,” written in 1722, and inscribed with the autograph, “Clavier Büchlein vor Anna Magdalena Bach.” Three years later he had completed for her a whole volume of music, containing forty-six preludes, minuets, rondos, polonaises, etc., thirty-five of which are for the piano; among them the favorite C major prelude, No. 1 of the “Wohltemperirte Clavier;” five chorals,—“Wer nur den lieben Gott lässt walten,” “Gieb dich zufrieden,” “Schaff’s mit mir Gott,” “Dir, Jehovah, will ich singen,” and “O Ewigkeit, Du Donnerwort;” and, lastly, seven songs, followed by a wedding poem, which are not only of peculiar interest because they were written for his wife, but also because they are the only short songs, not of a sacred character, which Bach has left. To these songs Bach probably furnished words as well as music; and one of them, the “Willst du dein Herz mir schenken,” was inspired by his love for her in the days of their brief courtship. Nearly all of them are filled with true and tender devotion, none more so than that which asks the question so happily answered by a lifetime of love,—the song of their courtship, which brought them together in a bond of love too strong for anything but death to sever. In this volume, written in figured basses, her own handiwork appears, where she has filled in the chords; and his corrections scattered through them leave an interesting and touching souvenir of the great master, and the pupil who was to him the nearest and dearest of all.

Bach died on the 28th of July, 1750, after long and keen suffering, during the midst of which he did not cease work. Only a short time before his death, he dictated his last work, “Wenn wir in höchsten Nöthen sein,”—a choral born of his suffering and inspired by his religion, a touching reflex of his own pitiable condition. He died in his sleep, and no stone marks the spot in the Leipzig churchyard where his body rests. The only record which is left is to be found in the register of deaths, which thus affirms: “A man, age 67, M. Johann Sebastian Bach, Musical Director and Singing-Master at the St. Thomas School, was carried to his grave in the hearse, July 30, 1750.” His widow survived him seven years, supporting herself as she best could upon the scanty pension granted to cantors, and by the sale of her husband’s manuscripts. She bore him thirteen children, but six of whom survived their father’s death,—among them, Johann Christoph Friedrich, born in 1732, known as the “Bückeburger Bach;” and Johann Christian, born in 1735, who became famous as the “London Bach.” Only one daughter, Regina Susanna, survived the mother, whose extreme poverty aroused a widespread feeling of compassion, which took the form of a public contribution in 1801, and becomes more than usually interesting, as it allies the name of Beethoven with that of Bach. On the 19th of May, 1801, Friedrich Rochlitz, one of Bach’s most zealous admirers, and the editor of the Leipzig “Allgemeine Musikzeitung,” writes:—

“Our appeal for the support of the only survivor of the Bach family, Sebastian Bach’s youngest daughter, has not been overlooked by the public.... With deep emotion we received on the 10th of May, through the Viennese musician, Herr Andreas Streicher, the considerable sum of 307 Viennese florins, exchanged by the banker Löhr of this city for 200 Reichthaler from the undersigned persons.

“The collection was made by the musician above mentioned, with the assistance of Count Fries in Vienna.... At the same time the celebrated Viennese composer and pianist, Herr von Beethoven, volunteered to publish one of his newest works, through Messrs. Breitkopf and Härtel, for the sole benefit of Bach’s daughter, that the good old woman might from time to time derive benefits from it, at the same time using all his efforts for the most speedy publication possible, that she may not perchance die before this object is attained.”

Destiny ordered kindly for Sebastian Bach in the arrangement of his domestic life with reference to his musical creations. Notwithstanding his immense and incessant labors, especially in connection with the St. Thomas School and the Leipzig churches, the cares and troubles naturally created by such a large family of children, and the small compensation received for his work, his life ran smoothly, and the grand monument he was erecting for posterity never suffered either in its fair proportions or its complete form. At the outset of his career, and before he entered upon the really great work of his life, he needed for a companion a thrifty, prudent woman, of even disposition and contented nature; and such a one he found in his cousin Maria Barbara. After her death, and when his name had begun to be known as a great organist and composer beyond mere local limits, he still needed a thrifty and prudent and even-tempered woman, but, still more than this, a woman who could sympathize with him, and encourage, assist, and inspire him in his musical labors; and such a one he found in Anna Magdalena. There can be no doubt that the second marriage was the happier, although she was the wife of his prime, and the romance of youth had faded away before the realities of life, with so many of which Bach had to contend. How great that inspiration was his music shows. It is doubly inscribed. First, like Haydn, he wrote upon his scores his reverence to God,—S. D. G. (Soli Deo Gloria),—and then his love for his wife.

GEORGE FREDERICK HÄNDEL.

Remember Händel! who that was not born Deaf as the dead to harmony, forgets, Or can, the more than Homer of his age?

Cowper.

It is said by all his biographers that Händel was never a victim of the tender passion, though many ladies paid homage to his genius by laying siege to his heart. There was one love, however, in the manifestation of which he was both ardent and constant; that was his love for his mother. Händel’s father, George, had studied the rude surgery of the time, with Christoph Oettinger, the town barber of Halle, and eventually married his widow, Frau Anna Oettinger, Feb. 20, 1643, and continued the business of his employer. Frau Anna gave birth to six children, and died in 1682, at the advanced age of seventy-two. In less than six months the bereaved husband contracted a second marriage with Dorothea, daughter of Pastor Taust, of Giebichenstein, who is described by Rochstro as “a lady equally respected for the gentleness of her demeanor, her loving submission to parental and conjugal authority, her earnest piety, and her reverence for, and intimate acquaintance with, the text and teaching of the Holy Scriptures,—qualities which were all faithfully reproduced in the character of her children.” These children were a son who died at birth; two daughters, Dorothea Sophie and Johanna Christiana; and George Frederick, the subject of this sketch. Although the family was not an artistic one in any sense,—indeed, the father was so averse to music that he declared he would have no such “jingling” in the house,—his childhood was a happy one. The old surgeon was resolutely bent upon making a lawyer of his son; but as usual the maternal instincts apprehended the true bent of the boy’s passion, and we may well imagine that she found more than one way to encourage him, in spite of the father’s opposition. The same authority quoted above says he was “the fondest hope of a mother, to whose tender solicitude he owed the training which, through all the trials and vicissitudes of a long and more than ordinarily eventful life, kept him honest and just and true, and secured him the respect of princes, and the affection of all who were not blinded by jealousy to the splendor of his genius and the depth of his moral worth.” She superintended his education, and prepared him for his life-struggle with tender devotion, even stinting herself, after his father’s death, to provide him with the means of continuing his musical studies. Although it has been said of him, by some of the earlier biographers, that his social affections were not very strong, he was not lacking in filial piety. In June, 1725, he writes a very cordial letter from London to his brother-in-law at Halle, expressing his deep regret that he cannot spare time to visit his mother. “I cannot be so ungrateful,” he says, “as to pass over in silence the goodness you have shown to my mother in her advanced age, for which I offer you my very humble thanks. You know how deeply I am interested in all that concerns her, and can therefore judge the depth of the obligation under which you have placed me.” He was always loyal in his affection for her, and in his numerous journeys never failed to find time to visit her. While in Venice in 1729, he received a letter from his brother-in-law, informing him that his mother had been seized with a paralytic attack. He hurried to Halle with all possible despatch, and found her sufficiently recovered to be able to walk about, though she had lost her sight and could only recognize him by the pressure of the hand. The meeting was a very sorrowful one to both, though mutual love lightened the pain. A year afterward she died suddenly, while Händel was in London; and in the funeral oration delivered over her grave, this love which had so strongly affected their lives was particularly dwelt upon. In his reply to the letter informing him of her death, Händel gives still another evidence of his great love for the mother to whom he owed so much. He says:—

“I cannot yet restrain my tears. But it has pleased the Most High to enable me to submit with Christian calmness to his holy will. Your thoughtfulness will never pass from my remembrance until, after this life, we are once more united, which may the All-good God in his mercy grant us!”

The loving mother prepared him for his career, and upon its very threshold he again experienced the beneficence of woman’s influence. Friedrich, the Elector of Brandenburg, afterward King Friedrich I. of Prussia, was a generous patron of arts. His consort, the Electress Sophie Charlotte, who was subsequently styled the “Philosophic Queen,” was not only a warm friend of artists, but was herself one of the most accomplished musicians in Europe, and more than once occupied the conductor’s desk in concerts and at operatic performances. The Electoral palace was the favorite resort of artists from all parts of Europe, and thither Händel was sent as a child. He was most kindly received by the Electress. She was delighted with his performances, introduced him to prominent artists who gave him many valuable hints,—among them, Ariosti and Buononcini,—and at last offered to take him into the service of the Court, send him free of expense to Italy to complete his education, and upon his return to give him an important position. His father, however, declined the offer. Hamburg meanwhile was rapidly competing with Berlin as an art centre; and after the death of the generous Electress, thither went Händel to continue his studies.

About this time an odd experience befell him, and all the more comical when his aversion to matrimony is considered. Buxtehude, the veteran organist at Lübeck, was about to retire from his position, and the place was offered for competition. Händel, in company with Mattheson, the principal tenor of the Hamburg Theatre, went to Lübeck to compete for it. Mattheson himself relates their experiences:—

“We played on almost every organ and harpsichord in the place, and with regard to our performances, agreed between ourselves that he should play only upon the organ and I upon the harpsichord. We listened also to the veteran performer, in the Marienkirche, with deep attention. But because the question of succession involved also that of a marriage contract, into which we neither of us had the slightest desire to enter, we left the place, after receiving many compliments, unusual honors, and very pleasant entertainment. Johann Christian Schieferdecker afterward brought the affair to a more satisfactory conclusion; accepted the bride, after the death of her father, Buxtehude, in 1707, and obtained the coveted appointment.”

The royal ladies of the English Court were the devoted friends of Händel. He had a handsome pension from the bounty of Queen Anne. When George I. succeeded to the throne, he and the royal family were regular attendants at the theatre whenever his operas were given. Eventually the King added a second pension of £200 a year, and appointed him music-master to the daughters of the Prince of Wales, afterward George II., which brought him a third pension of £200 from the private purse of the Princess, afterward Queen Caroline. Her death, in 1737, deprived him of one of his most devoted friends. How deeply he was attached to her is evidenced by the exquisitely beautiful anthem he wrote for her funeral, “The Ways of Zion do mourn.” He gave lessons to all the children of the royal family. The Princess Anne was devotedly attached to him; and when she left England, her last act of kindness to him was to commend him to the favor of Lord Harvey, a favorite of the Queen. This royal favor must have been particularly grateful to him, as it was bestowed at a time when his Italian rivals were organizing cabals against him and seeking in every way to undermine and ruin him. And yet, indebted as he was to them, he never restrained his temper when they violated the proprieties. Schoelcher relates the following incident:—

“At the concerts which he conducted for Frederick, Prince of Wales, if the Prince and his wife were not punctual to the stated time, we are told that the conductor used to be very violent; and the son of George II.—to his great honor be it said—respected him too much to be offended. If the ladies of the Princess talked instead of listening, his rage was uncontrollable, and sometimes carried him to the length of swearing and calling names, even in the presence of royalty; whereupon the gentle Princess, who loved him much, would say to the talkative ones: ‘Hush! hush! Händel is in a passion.’”

Another instance of his terrible temper is related by Rochstro:—

“At the first rehearsal of ‘Ottone,’ Francesca Cuzzoni flatly refused to sing the lovely aria ‘Falsa immagine,’ which Händel had written expressly for her. Said Händel: ‘I know, Madame, that you are a very devil, but I will let you see that I am Beelzebub, the prince of devils;’ and with that he seized her in his arms and threatened to throw her out of the window, whereupon she yielded in terror to his superior will, sang the song in exact accordance with his directions, and achieved in it one of her most brilliant triumphs.”

In view of his success with refractory songstresses, one is disposed to wish that the conductors of our own time had an equally healthy discipline in the ranks of their capricious and moody prime donne.

Händel, as has already been said, was averse to matrimony. More than this, he was not very social by nature and not at all domestic in his habits. His complete devotion to his art, his impatience with whatever crossed him, his hot temper, and the peculiar idiosyncrasies of his nature illy fitted him to make any woman happy; hence it was fortunate that he was never in love with any of the sex except his mother. In his long and eventful career he was constantly associated with ladies, and was much admired by them; but none of them touched his heart. It is said by his biographers that he spent many of his afternoons at the organ of St. Paul’s, in the midst of his admirers, and at night resorted to the Queen’s Arms, a tavern near by, where he played the harpsichord, smoked his pipe, and drank his beer. As he became more absorbed in his compositions he cut loose from all society, and only associated with three intimate friends, not one of whom had musical tastes. His chief amusement was to visit exhibitions of pictures. Hawkins says of him:—

“His social affections were not very strong, and to this it may be imputed that he spent his whole life in celibacy. No impertinent visits and few engagements to parties of pleasure were suffered to interrupt the course of his studies.”

He had no passion except for music, and yet the opportunities for the exercise of the all-engrossing passion were not lacking. While he was in Italy, being then in his twenty-fourth year, the Prince of Tuscany, brother of the Grand Duke John Gaston de Médicis, was present at performances of his operas “Almeria” and “Florinda,” and was so delighted with them that he gave him an invitation to go to Florence. When the opportunity came he went there and brought out the opera of “Roderigo,” written for the occasion, for which he was honored by the Grand Duke with a present in money and a service of plate. It was often the custom at that day for the ladies of the Courts to sing in the works produced in the royal presence; and upon this occasion the Archduchess Victoria, a beautiful woman, took the principal rôle. Burney describes her as “a songstress of great talent.” She conceived so violent a passion for him that she even followed him from Florence to Venice, and literally demanded that he should marry her, after he had manifested a repugnance to her approaches. The choleric Händel, however, repelled her suit with disdain, and she gave up the chase. His decision, or rather his indifference, fortunately saved him from disastrous consequences, as the lady who had been so importunate was the mistress of the Prince who had invited him to Florence.

The author of the “Anecdotes of Händel” also relates the following incidents, in which he was a party of the second part:—

“When he was young, two of his scholars, ladies of considerable fortune, were so much enamoured of him that each was desirous of a matrimonial alliance. The first is said to have fallen a victim to her attachment. Händel would have married her, but his pride was stung by the coarse declaration of her mother, that she never would consent to the marriage of her daughter with a fiddler; and, indignant at the expression, he declined all further intercourse. After the death of the mother the father renewed the acquaintance, and informed him that all obstacles were removed, but he replied that the time was now past; and the young lady fell into a decline, which soon terminated her existence. The second attachment was a lady splendidly related, whose hand he might have obtained by renouncing his profession. That condition he resolutely refused, and laudably declined the connection which was to prove a restriction on the great faculties of his mind.”

It may be remarked that the first story does not comport with the well-known character of Händel, and as it is not mentioned in any of his biographies, may be set down as one of those popular romances which attach to the careers of all geniuses. The second, however, is characteristic of him, though it is to be regretted that the details of his refusal are not given. It would be refreshing to know what the irascible composer would have said to the proposition that he should exchange his music for a wife. No woman touched him so nearly as to affect his music; and yet, without his mother’s warm affection and sympathy for him in his unartistic home, and her determination that he should follow the course he had marked out for himself, he would have lost many of his early advantages. Had it not been also for the devoted friendship and generous support of good Queen Caroline and the princesses of her Court, he would have fared badly, in England, at the hands of his Italian rivals.

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN.

He lived in the ideal world which Petrarch and Dante described, and his passion took nothing from his austerity. Unable to marry, he remained chaste; and he loved as purely as he wrote. He hated licentious speech, and blamed the “Don Giovanni” of Mozart, because a thing so holy as art should not so prostitute itself as to serve to link together so scandalous a story.—M. Taine.

Lenz says in one of his rhapsodies: “In the arts the animating or life-giving element is furnished by the sentiment of love.” In music it finds its highest and truest expression, and in no music more clearly than in the immortal works of Beethoven. No other creation in tones has done so much to dignify and ennoble love as his one opera, “Fidelio;” no song has so expressed its beauty and its ardor as that most perfect amatory lyric, the “Adelaide.” If the passion of love which is pictured in these two works and in nearly all the others which he created, whether song, sonata, or symphony, and the ardent aspiration as well as profound self-abasement of religion which characterize the Second Mass and clothe its measures with the divine presence, had been wanting in his life, it is almost unquestionable that he would have yielded in the bitter struggle with adverse circumstances, and that he would not remain to-day as the one composer to whom all the world does homage. No musician has ever so completely imbued his music with feeling,—that feeling which implies sympathy with passion in all its heights and depths, with the inner life of humanity, with the noblest forms of emotion in man, and with the grandest aspects of Nature,—that feeling which could not have existed without this great underlying principle of love, joined with a naturally reverential and devotional habit of being.

Beethoven’s life was a battle with circumstances, commenced in his boyhood, ending only on his death-bed, and fitly typified by the fearful thunders and lightnings of the storm that raged about him in his last moments. The dissipations of his father, a drunken musician, cast a gloom over his earlier life. The drudgery and the misery of his home fostered a misanthropic feeling. The want of general and liberal culture which he might have had under more favorable circumstances annoyed him all through life. In the midst of the corrupt society of Vienna he had led a blameless career; but even this could not save him from feeling the wretched effects of this corruption in his own family. His nephew Karl was left to his care by his father; but to secure the boy, whom he loved as if he were his son, he had to prove that the mother was a dissolute woman. He abandoned his bachelor habits, and commenced housekeeping on the boy’s account; he hoarded up his money to educate him; he lavished his affection upon him; and the graceless wretch requited it all by the most infamous career of dissipation, making the uncle all the more suspicious and misanthropic. From this point on, the story is one of the most pitiful kind. Painful physical troubles set in one after the other, the most painful being his deafness, which so increased upon him that in the latter years of his life, during which he produced his greatest works,—the Mass in D, the Choral Symphony, and the last sonatas and quartets,—he could hear nothing. “Miser et pauper sum,” he writes in his journal at this time. Over his sonata for violoncello, Op. 59, he writes, “Inter lacrymas et luctum.” Where in all history is there a sadder wail of despair, a more pitiable outburst of grief, than is to be found in his utterance: “I have drunk to the dregs a cup of bitter sorrow, and already earned martyrdom in art”? or in this extract from a letter to his friend Wegeler:—

“How often have I cursed my existence! Plutarch has led me to resignation. I will, if possible, set fate at defiance, although there must be moments in my life when I shall be the most unhappy of God’s creatures. I entreat you to say nothing of my affliction to any one, not even to Lorchen.... Resignation! what a miserable refuge! and yet it is my sole remaining one.”

In the midst of this life, in which this musical colossus was not only struggling with painful physical ailments and severe mental troubles, but was also annoyed with a swarm of petty household discomforts brought upon himself by his love for his worthless nephew, there are episodes upon which it is pleasant to dwell, growing out of his relations to the other sex, of whom, most unquestionably, he was a passionate though very diffusive admirer; and just as his inner life developed more and more grandly, as his deafness compelled him to retire within himself, and gave birth to his most sublime creations, so the influence of woman, previous to this time, had aroused in him a wonderful sense of beauty and depth of tenderness, which were helping to prepare the way for the more majestic and enduring works which were to crown the close of his remarkable career.

Beethoven’s earliest attachment was to the Breuning family in Bonn, who were held in the highest esteem in that city. They were among his earliest friends and protectors, and they clove to him to the last. Frau von Breuning took a deep interest in him, and he regarded her in the sacred light of a mother. Her son Stephen was one of his warmest friends; likewise Eleanore, the daughter, who subsequently married Dr. Wegeler, then his friend, and after his death his biographer. Some writers, more particularly those of the Rau and “Furioso” class, who have rhapsodized over the memory of a man in whose life there was not a trace of romance, have sought to make it appear that Eleanore was Beethoven’s first love; but there is nothing in his relations to her, or in his correspondence with her or with the family, that indicates any sentiment on his part except that of warm and exalted friendship. After a year’s absence from the family, during which there had been an estrangement between them, he writes to Eleanore from Vienna (Nov. 2, 1793):—

“Little as I may deserve favor in your eyes, believe me, my dear friend (let me still call you so), I have suffered and still suffer severely from the privation of your friendship. Never can I forget you and your dear mother.”

And with this letter he sends her, as a souvenir, his variations upon the “Se vuol ballare” of Mozart. Nothing more ardent than expressions of this kind appear in any of his letters to her. It was in the Breuning house that he always found shelter from the misery and squalor of his own home. It was through this family that he first made acquaintance with German literature and the poets, whose creations he so often set to music, and whose lofty and majestic spirit is so clearly reflected in his larger works. All the members of the family were musical, Frau von Breuning not the least so; and it was her strong influence that kept him at work, and directed his genius in the highest and best ways. She understood his eccentric moods, and could make allowance for them. She knew when to urge him on to his best endeavor, how to encourage him, and how to manage his restless, wayward, and gloomy disposition. This woman, more than all others, helped to lay the broad and strong foundation upon which Beethoven’s fame now rests; and to her, more than to any other, should be due the credit for the lofty position he holds in the world of music. He came to her as a son would come to his mother for aid and counsel; and she, better than all others, understood him. She foresaw his future, because she recognized his genius; and she not only urged him on to the accomplishment of its mission, but she helped to direct it in the right course by supplying it with the noblest and most dignified examples of art for study.

While there was no more ardent feeling than that of friendship in the breast of Beethoven towards the Breuning family, there came one day into the circle a friend of Eleanore’s who aroused the first manifestation of love on his part. It was a sudden flame, suddenly extinguished. The friend was Jeannette d’Honrath, a young lady of Cologne, who was a frequent visitor at the Breuning house, a beautiful blonde, a person of amiable disposition, a good singer, and a confirmed coquette withal. She bestowed her favor so equally between Beethoven and Stephen Breuning, and yet so deftly, that each believed himself to be an accepted lover. She laid sportive siege to the infatuated Beethoven with a well-known song of that day,—

“What! part with thee this very day? My heart a thousand times says, Nay!”

And when he was away, the same song did good service for Stephen. Thus each victim was enmeshed in the fair singer’s toils, unknown to the other; and it was not until she had flitted away, with much feigned regret, that the two luckless suitors discovered she was affianced all this time to a young Austrian officer, Major Greth, whom she afterward married, and who subsequently rose to the rank of general. The fair Jeannette and her gallant husband passed away in due time, and, like many other nobodies, have come down to posterity by virtue of some slight connection with Beethoven. It is to be presumed that neither Ludwig nor Stephen brooded long over their slight at the hands of the Cologne beauty, since we find them not long afterward paying assiduous court in the train of suitors and admirers that thronged about Barbara Koch, the beauty of Bonn. Her mother, a widow, kept a coffee-house which was the favorite resort of professors and students. The fair Barbara herself was a very cultivated person, and she drew about her those of like character; and in the pleasant evenings at the coffee-house, art, philosophy, and music were discussed, all having a direct bearing upon the future development of the young musician. There is nothing to indicate that the acquaintance left any lasting impression upon him; though he corresponded with her after he had left Bonn, as we find, in a letter to Eleanore von Breuning, who was her friend, his complaint that he had written twice to Barbara and she had not answered, which may be accounted for by her marriage not long after to Count Anton von Belderbusch, in whose family she had previously served as governess.

Wegeler, his biographer, says of him, “Beethoven war immer in Liebesverhältnissen;” and he himself said that he once loved the same woman for seven whole months,—not a flippant remark, as would seem at the first glance, but indicating a mood of his being which may well be described in his own words:—

“I was born with a passionate and excitable temperament; I am keenly susceptible to the pleasures of society; my heart and mind were, even from childhood, prone to the most tender feelings of affection.”

With such a temperament, one may well fancy that the list of his attachments was a long one; though the most of them were by no means serious, since it was his fate as a rule to bestow them upon ladies whose rank forbade any possibility of requital. These must be passed over lightly, though in the case of some there is a degree of interest attaching to them that warrants a detailed consideration. They were nearly all his pupils. Among them was Mlle. de Gerardi, of whom we know very little, who laid siege to the susceptible Beethoven in verse, but without any more practical result than, as he says in a letter, his serious annoyance. The young Baroness von Drossdich, a somewhat volatile and eccentric person whom he addresses in his letters as “My esteemed Thérèse,” was a favorite with him. In a letter written in 1809, he urges her not to forget her music, and mentions sending her several of his compositions. Upon one occasion he paid her a visit at Mödling, and, not finding her at home, tore a sheet of music-paper from a book, wrote upon it some music for her, set to a verse of Matthisson’s, and on the reverse dedicated it “To my dear Thérèse.” The close of the letter to which I have referred clearly shows the strength of his regard for her:—

“Farewell, my esteemed Thérèse. I wish you all the good and charm that life can offer. Think of me kindly, and forget my follies. Rest assured that no one would more rejoice to hear of your happiness, even were you to feel no interest in your devoted servant and friend.”

After his rupture with Thérèse, another intimate affection consoled him for her absence. In 1811 his pecuniary troubles and physical ailments influenced him to quit Vienna for a time. His first thought was to go to Italy; but by the advice of his physicians he changed his intentions, and selected Teplitz, the little Bohemian town, where two years later the King of Prussia and the Emperors of Austria and Russia signed the treaty of the Holy Alliance. It was always a favorite resort with artists and the aristocracy. In the select society to which he had the entrée he met many old acquaintances and made some new ones,—among them, the poet Tiedge. There was one, however, who made a deeper impression than all the rest. It was Amelia de Sebald, a young and beautiful concert-singer, who cultivated music as an amateur, but had, it is said, a very sympathetic voice and genuine talent. When the fair singer left Teplitz, the master first became aware of the real impression she had made upon him, and in a letter to Tiedge he thus unbosoms himself:—

“Two affectionate words for a farewell would have sufficed me; alas! not even one was said to me! The Countess von der Recke sends me a pressure of the hand; it is something, and I kiss her hands as a token of gratitude; but Amelia has not even saluted me. Every day I am angry at myself in not having profited by her sojourn at Teplitz, seeking her companionship sooner. It is a frightful thing to make the acquaintance of such a sweet creature, and to lose her immediately; and nothing is more insupportable than thus to have to confess one’s own foolishness. I propose to remain here until the end of the month of September. Write me as to how long you reckon to remain in Dresden; it is not impossible that I may take a run to the Saxon metropolis.... Be happy, if suffering humanity can be. Give, on my part, to the Countess a cordial but respectful pressure of the hand, and to Amelia a tender kiss—if nobody there can see.”

The next year Beethoven again visited Teplitz, with the hope of seeing her; but the fair vision had vanished. His only consolation, if consolation it can be called, was the opportunity it gave him of making the acquaintance of Goethe. Except in so far as this acquaintance led to the friendship between himself and the wonderful child Bettina, of which more hereafter, his relations to the great poet were of no special value to him. Goethe had too little music in his composition to appreciate him at his true value, and he was too much of a king-worshipper to suit such a red republican as Beethoven.

The Baroness Dorothea Van Ertmann was another titled pupil whom he held in affectionate esteem, who inspired his wonderful sonata, Op. 101, and who was afterward a warm friend of Mendelssohn. She was the wife of an Austrian captain at eighteen, who died subsequently as a field-marshal at Milan. She commenced her musical studies at a very early age, and made the acquaintance of Beethoven by chance, while playing some of his sonatas for the first time. He accidentally overheard her, and was so captivated with her style that he offered to teach her, and soon became a daily visitor at her house. As a teacher he was severe with her; as a friend, affectionate; and when she had lost the last of her children, he shared her grief and gave expression to it by extemporizing upon the piano in her apartments for her. It is said that when he ended his fantasie, her eyes were filled with tears so that she could not speak to him. Among others who captivated him during his orchestral career in Bonn, was a fair and brilliant singer, Magdalena Willmann, filling at that time an engagement in the Court Opera at Vienna, to whom, it is intimated, he offered his hand in marriage. It would appear that his offer was a serious one; but the repulse was prompt and merciless, the great songstress, afterward Mrs. Galvani, declaring that she rejected him because he was “so ugly and half cracked.”

Mlle. Marie Koschak, who subsequently married Dr. Pachler, an advocate in Gratz, a very beautiful woman, and an amateur musician of extraordinary merit, inspired in Beethoven a glow warmer than that of friendship, or even affection. In one of his letters he writes:—

“Love alone, yes, love alone, can make your life happier. O God! grant that I may at last find her who can strengthen me in virtue, whom I can legitimately call my own. On July 27, 1812, when she drove past me in Baden, she seemed to gaze at me.”

“She” was Marie Koschak. It was an unhappy love. In 1816 he writes to Ries:—

“My kind regards to your wife. I, alas! have none. One, alone, I wished to possess but never shall I call her mine.”

In this connection a statement made in the “Grenzboten,” by Fraulein del Rio, of a conversation between her father and Beethoven, confirms the unhappiness of his attachment for the beautiful Marie. She writes:—

“My father’s idea was that marriage alone could remedy the sad condition of Beethoven’s household matters; so he asked him whether he knew any one, etc. Our long existing presentiment was then realized. His love was unfortunate. Five years ago he had become acquainted with a person with whom he would have esteemed it the highest felicity of his life to have entered into closer ties; but it was vain to think of it, being almost an impossibility, a chimera; and yet his feelings remained the same as on the very first day he had seen her. He added that never before had he found such harmony; but no declaration had ever been made, not being able to prevail upon himself to do so.”

Marie Pachler and her husband were also friends of Franz Schubert, and to her he dedicated a number of his songs as a token of his esteem and friendship. It is touching to think that Beethoven, who had never made the acquaintance of Schubert, though living near him, did not really appreciate or recognize the beauty of his music until he was on his death-bed, when the songs dedicated to Marie were handed to him. He examined them, and exclaimed, “Truly, Schubert is animated by a spark of the sacred fire!” One year later Schubert passed away, almost his last words being the expression of a desire to be buried by the side of Beethoven. And now the world’s greatest musician and Germany’s greatest song-writer, strangers in life, sleep side by side.

There were two other attachments of Beethoven’s which unquestionably exercised a strong influence upon his creative power. The first of these was for Bettina von Arnim, née Brentano, the wonderful child whom Goethe has immortalized no less than Beethoven. She it was who brought these two giants together. She keenly and thoroughly appreciated and understood the great master; and to her he explained, not only his own music, but all music, with an enthusiasm of manner, as well as closeness of analysis, that have never been excelled. One cannot read that extraordinary letter written by Bettina to Goethe, in which she prepares the way for a meeting between them, without feeling how closely Beethoven penetrated to the very soul of music, and how sacred his art was to him. The real meaning and character of music are better set forth in the few lines of this letter than in many volumes that have been written. Bettina, with a genius akin to that of Beethoven’s, clearly comprehended him, and laid his very soul before Goethe with her glowing and enthusiastic eloquence, so that he was ready to embrace it, though the difference between the spiritual nature of the composer and the sensual nature of the poet was a radical one. Beethoven’s attachment to Bettina was purely Platonic, and yet it was strong. His three celebrated letters to her furnish proofs of its strength, and equal proofs of the great influence she exerted upon him. On the 11th of August, 1810, he writes to her:—

“Art! Who comprehends it? With whom can I discuss this mighty goddess? How precious to me were the few days when we talked together, or, I should rather say, corresponded! I have carefully preserved the little notes with your clever, charming, most charming answers; so I have to thank my defective hearing for the greater part of our fugitive intercourse being written down. Since you left I have had some unhappy hours,—hours of the deepest gloom, when I could do nothing. I wandered for three hours in the Schönbrunn Allée after you left us; but no angel met me there to take possession of me as you did.”

In 1811, about the time she was married, he writes:—

“I carried your letter about with me the whole summer, and it often made me feel very happy. Though I do not frequently write to you, and you never see me, still I write you letters by thousands in my thoughts. I can easily imagine what you feel at Berlin in witnessing all the noxious frivolity of the world’s rabble, even had you not written it to me yourself. Such prating about art, and yet no results!”

In still another letter, written to her a year later, he bears direct testimony to her power over his musical creative ability:—

“Heavens! if I could have lived with you as he [Goethe] did, believe me, I should have produced far greater things. A musician is also a poet; he, too, can feel himself transported into a brighter world by a pair of fine eyes, where loftier spirits sport with him and impose heavy tasks upon him. What thoughts rushed into my mind when I first saw you in the observatory, during a refreshing May shower, so fertilizing to me also! The most beautiful themes stole from your eyes into my heart, which shall yet enchant the world when Beethoven no longer directs.”

Elsewhere in the same letter he says:—

“Spirits may love one another, and I shall ever woo yours. Your approval is dearer to me than all else in the world.”

The second attachment was for the beautiful Countess Guiletta Guiccardi,—one of his pupils, around whom popular fancies of all sorts have clustered, and several writers have woven very pretty romances. Mr. Thayer, in his biography, has done much to divest this attachment of its romance with his merciless dates and hard facts; but so long as it has probability on its side, and it has been believed for years without question, even as it was during his own life, let us still believe that she was the “Immortal Beloved” to whom he addressed such passionate letters, and of whom he writes to Wegeler:—

“I am leading a more agreeable and less misanthropic life. This change has been wrought by a lovely, fascinating girl who loves me, and whom I love. It is the first time I ever felt that marriage could make me happy. Unluckily, she is not in my rank in life; and indeed at this moment I can marry no one.”

His feelings towards her admit of no question, as the following extract from one of the letters will show, which, Mr. Thayer to the contrary notwithstanding, we will assume was written to the Countess:—

“My angel, my all, my self,—A few words only to-day in pencil—your pencil [mit Deinem, the Du being used throughout the original]: only till to-morrow is my lodging fixed; what miserable waste of time! Why this deep grief when necessity speaks? Can our love exist except by sacrifice, by not demanding all? Can you help not being quite mine, I not quite yours? Ah, God! look into beautiful Nature, and calm your mind over what must be. Love demands all, and justly; so it is from me to you, from you to me; only you forget too often that I must live for myself and for you. If we were quite united, you would feel this grief no more than I.... My journey was terrible; I did not arrive till four in the morning: for want of sufficient horses the mail-coach chose a different route; and what a terrible road! At the last station they warned me not to travel at night, and frightened me with a wood; but that only tempted me, and I was wrong. The carriage could not but collapse in the terrible road, bottomless, a mere country road; but for my postilions I should have stuck there.... Now quickly from the external to the internal. We shall probably see one another soon; and to-day I cannot tell you the thoughts I had regarding my life during these few days. Were our hearts but always close together, I should have none such. My heart is full: I have much to say to you. Oh! there are moments when I find that language is nothing. Be cheerful; remain my faithful sole treasure, my all, as I am yours; the rest the gods must send, what shall be and must be.

Your faithful

Ludwig.

Incoherent eloquence; but could there be a surer proof of love than its very incoherence? When Beethoven first knew the Countess, she was a lovely girl of seventeen, his pupil, and an excellent musician as well as a skilful linguist. She was possessed of every quality to attract him,—exquisite personal beauty, rare intellectual ability, irreproachable character, and withal was proud of his admiration, or rather adoration, of her. Beethoven then was twice her age; but disparity in years did not occur to him as an obstacle to their union, any more than disparity in rank, though he afterward discovered the effectual bar in the latter. There is every reason to believe that he offered her his hand, and that she would have accepted it had it not been for her father’s opposition. She yielded to his remonstrances, and, at his solicitation, two years later married Count Gallenberg, an impresario and very prolific writer of very poor dance-music. The affair, therefore, was mortifying to Beethoven in a double sense,—first, that he should have been rejected at all; and, second, that he should have been rejected in favor of such an insignificant rival. It is said that upon her refusal he fled to the villa of her friend, the Countess Erdödy, then disappeared for two days, and was eventually found, exhausted with exposure and fasting, in a distant part of her grounds. Certain it is that he never entirely recovered from the pain and mortification of the rejection. He always spoke of her with tenderness; and nearly twenty years after, in a conversation with Schindler, alluded to his discomfiture with a sort of subdued bitterness. Of her influence upon him in his music there remains no question. If no other proof were at hand, the exquisite C sharp minor sonata, so familiarly known as the “Moonlight,” which she inspired, and which he dedicated to her, would be sufficient testimony, in its wealth of beauty, tenderness, and passion, to the magic power of this woman’s love over him. It is not unfair to assume that all he wrote during this period was made brighter, purer, and more majestic by her memory. Lost from his home and his heart, she shone resplendent in his music.

The instances I have cited—and to these many others might be added—show that Dr. Wegeler was correct when he said that Beethoven was always in love. Though fixed and grounded in every other habit of life, in love his nature was contradictory. In this long list of attachments there were but two that made a deep impression upon him. In the other cases he flitted from flower to flower, making butterfly pauses at each. His world was always an ideal one: ardent he may have been, but his passion was none the less austere. Surrounded with corruption, he led a life of absolute purity. Love to him was a light which illumines, not a flame that burns. He found more pleasure in the society of women than of men; and if his energetic, impulsive nature suggested exaggerated feelings, it is very sure that they soon found their sentimental level in his cooler moments. His letters, which at first glance seem imbued with passion, when viewed from this stand-point are only expressions of aspiration rather than of desire. If there were no other proof of this, his purity and nobility of character forbid any doubt. If one wishes to know how these attachments affected him in his music, it is only necessary to look at the long list of his dedications, and remember that almost every one of them sprang from the relations of friendship and love. The very soul of Beethoven’s music is love in its varying forms. His love for humanity rings out in the vocal finale of the Ninth Symphony:—

“Seid umschlungen Millionen Diesen Kuss der ganzen Welt.”

His love of freedom burns in the “Eroica.” His love of God shines resplendent and majestic in the immortal measures of the Second Mass. His love of art is shown by the remorseless manner in which he pressed the thorns of life into his own heart,—this Titan doing battle with Fate, and winning immortality; and all along the fields of this struggle are scattered the roses of woman’s love.

FRANCIS JOSEPH HAYDN.

Sir, if you and I were both melted down together, we should not furnish materials for one Haydn.—Mozart.

“Papa” Haydn—not only the father of the symphony and quartet, but father to the musical world by the grace of his unaffected, naïve, fresh, and smoothly flowing numbers, so full of cheerfulness and good-nature—has been endeared to all musicians since his time by this familiar and affectionate prefix; but the homely family word is a strange misnomer when one considers his domestic relations and their influence upon his music.

Haydn commenced his musical career as a chorister in Vienna, having a voice of great power and beauty. In the midst of his success, however, as a vocalist, one disappointment after another overtook him; and, to crown all, he finally lost his voice, and was discharged from his position besides, upon some trivial pretence, to make room for another with greater vocal ability, and that other his own brother Michael. In his twentieth year he was thrown out upon the world without friends and without money, but, fortunately for him, with a very happy and hopeful temperament. He soon procured a few pupils, borrowed some money, rented a garret of an old stocking-weaver,—attracted by his sign, “A poor person can find a sleeping-room in the attic very cheap,”—devoted himself to composition, made the acquaintance of musicians, and at last had the good luck to be selected as musical director and chamber composer to a Bohemian count. This yielded him a good salary for those days, and he thereupon began to think of marriage. He was of an excitable, impulsive temperament, and withal susceptible to female blandishments, and consequently was in a condition to accept whatever chance might throw in his way. The stocking-weaver had an only daughter, Mary, a young girl of lovely character and pious disposition, whose admiration of Haydn’s musical talent soon developed into love for him. There is little doubt but that the affection was reciprocated. Haydn was struggling at this time, however, between two strong passions,—love, on the one hand, and his mother’s ardent desire that he should become a monk, on the other. The latter was the stronger; and he soon entered the Servite monastery as a novice, where he devoted himself to the pursuit of his art with the greatest industry. The stocking-weaver’s daughter made no complaint when she found herself forgotten and saw that her love was hopeless. She died not long afterward; and among her last words to her parents were these: “Father and mother, you must pray for Joseph as long as you live; for he is a rare gift of God to men, and he will one day be a great man, but he will always remain humble. The world will applaud him, but he will not become unfaithful to his God on that account. He should not weep for me, but sing a hymn at night when he sits all alone at his instrument.” Upon learning of her death, Haydn visited the parents, sympathized with them, and provided them with the money to procure her a befitting grave.

Haydn did not remain long in the monastery. He had not the monastic disposition, though he was a man of very simple and childlike piety. He could not seclude himself from a world in which he felt that he was destined to achieve a great name, nor abandon the profession of music, whose claims upon him were growing stronger and stronger. He was hardly out in the world again before another opportunity for marriage presented itself. Without any unnecessary delay he accepted it, and regretted it all the rest of his life. He was introduced into the family of a hair-dresser and wig-maker, named Keller, who was of a sufficiently musical turn to appreciate his talent. He had two daughters whose education was giving him much trouble, and was delighted when Haydn consented to give them musical instruction. The old wig-maker, having gained this point, took another step ahead, made the most desperate arguments to convince him he ought to love some one, and finally offered him the youngest daughter in marriage, who would have made him an excellent wife. Haydn, however, with the usual perversity of lovers, wanted the other, whereupon the disappointed younger sister retired to a convent. Not a whit discouraged, the wig-maker baited his hook with the other daughter, and easily caught the susceptible Haydn. Never was there a more ill-assorted match. The bride soon displayed herself as a scold and shrew of most ungovernable temper. She had no sympathy with his musical ambition, and no pride in his compositions. He himself said of her that she did not care whether he were an artist or a shoemaker. Long before the honeymoon was over, poor Haydn found himself tied to a Xanthippe, who when she was not utterly unsociable, which probably were his happiest moments, amused herself with curtain lectures of the most vigorous description. And yet, oddly enough, the termagant influenced his music in a very curious manner, and one not peculiarly agreeable to him. Added to all her other disagreeable qualities, she was a religious bigot and prude, with a decided penchant for entertaining priests and monks. She kept the house full of them; and they, realizing his genius, induced her to make him write sacred music. To the religious admonition and argument which she brought to bear upon him, she also added her own personal commands and objurgations; and Haydn, being already under good family discipline, could not do otherwise than submit; so, while the fat fathers were revelling below stairs in carnal enjoyments, “Papa” Haydn above stairs was writing anthems, motets, and masses for their convents and churches, for which he received no remuneration. One can easily imagine the wrath and imprecations he must have hurled at the prude and her roystering companions, as the sounds of their revelry smote upon his ears, and how little of the “Laus Deo” there was in his heart as his fingers penned the scores that were to be sung upon the following Sabbath. Gradually this kind of life became unendurable, and he sought elsewhere the happiness which he could not find at home. Fate, however, was kind to him, and brought him speedy release. The Capellmeister of the reigning prince, Paul Esterhazy, as devoted to music, even, as the present King of Bavaria, was growing old; and the Prince applied to Haydn to fill the position of second Capellmeister. Haydn joyfully accepted it, all the more so as it was an unwritten law of the musical Count that musicians’ wives could not accompany them. It was a happy day for “Papa” Haydn. He not only secured a lucrative and important position, but, what was still better, a permanent release from domestic torture. It was a lasting separation from his wife; but he always acted honorably by granting her an annual stipend for her support. Whenever they met the meeting was sure to be a stormy one, and always on the subject of money. She was a spendthrift, and not only wasted half his earnings, which he always sent her, but contracted debts in his name, knowing he would pay them rather than have trouble. Year by year she grew more extravagant; but at last death put an end to her demands upon him. When the old Capellmeister died, he was appointed to his place, and had full control of the Prince’s musical household, which consisted not only of an excellent orchestra, but also of a large chorus and corps of solo singers; so that he was enabled to bring out large works, and the symphonies and operas of his own composition. Besides these forces, he had travelling companies and virtuosi, and an elegant theatre, at his disposal. Musically he had everything that heart could wish; and in this musical atmosphere he composed nearly all his operas and most of his songs, besides some of his most important instrumental works. The place of his wife was very happily, but not very honorably, filled by Luigia Polzelli, a vocalist in the chapel, and wife of Anton Polzelli, a violinist in his orchestra. The lady was an Italian by birth, and an ordinary singer, but possessed of personal charms that commended her to him, and resulted in a liaison, at first very agreeable, but ultimately subjecting him to almost as much trouble as he had had with his wife, since the Roman woman made constant use of his violent passion for her to extort money from him. She had two children, one of whom was popularly supposed to be his son. There is no record that the Polzelli was of any benefit to him musically; certainly she was not morally.

There were those, however, who exercised a great and lasting influence upon his musical production; and among them was Madame Genzinger, the wife of a prominent physician in Vienna, at whose house he spent much of his time, and for whom he wrote several symphonies and a large number of sonatas. His correspondence with her was very voluminous; and it bears almost constant testimony to the powerful influence she exerted upon him, both during his service under Prince Esterhazy and after he had quit that service. Her husband was the physician in ordinary to that Prince, and it was thus he became acquainted with the family. He visited the house every Sunday; and as the lady was a fine singer and an admirable musician, whose home was the centre of attraction for all the musicians in Vienna, he soon became an honored guest; and the acquaintance which was based upon music soon ripened into a lasting and honorable friendship, though the lady was by many years his senior. It is a bright spot to contemplate in the unhappy and not altogether blameless life of Haydn. Turn to almost any letter in their long correspondence, and it will be found to testify to her influence over him. At one time he writes:—

“I cannot but admire the trouble and patience you lavish on my poor talents; and allow me to assure you in return, that in my frequent evil moods nothing cheers me so much as the flattering conviction that I am kindly remembered by you.”

At another time he writes:—

“Well, here I sit in my wilderness; forsaken like some poor orphan, almost without human society; melancholy, dwelling on the memory of past glorious days. Yes, past, alas! And who can tell when those happy hours may return,—those charming meetings where the whole circle have but one heart and one soul,—all those delightful musical evenings which can only be remembered and not described? Where are all those inspired moments?”

In the same letter he playfully laments the loss of the good things at Madame Genzinger’s home, in the following humorously lugubrious strain:—

“I found everything at home in confusion. For three days I did not know whether I was capell master or capell servant; nothing could console me. My apartments were all in confusion; my pianoforte, that I formerly loved so dearly, was perverse and disobedient, and rather irritated than soothed me. I slept very little, and even my dreams persecuted me; for while asleep, I was under the pleasant delusion that I was listening to the opera of ‘Le Nozze di Figaro,’ when the blustering north-wind woke me, and almost blew my nightcap off my head. I lost twenty pounds in weight in three days; for the effects of my good fare in Vienna disappeared on the journey. ‘Alas! alas!’ thought I to myself, when forced to eat, at the restaurateur’s, instead of capital beef a slice of a cow fifty years old; instead of a ragout with little balls of forced meat, an old sheep with yellow carrots; instead of a Bohemian pheasant, a tough grill; and instead of good and juicy oranges, Hungarian salad; instead of pastry, dry apple-fritters, and hazel-nuts, etc. ‘Alas! alas!’ thought I again to myself, ‘would that I now had many a morsel that I despised in Vienna!’ Here in Estoras, no one asks me, ‘Would you like some chocolate, with milk or without? Will you take some coffee, with or without cream? What can I offer you, my good Haydn? Will you have vanilla ice or pineapple?’ If I had only a piece of good Parmesan cheese, particularly in Lent, to enable me to swallow more easily the black dumplings and puffs! I gave our porter this very day a commission to send me a couple of pounds.”

After Haydn had left Vienna and gone to London, under the management of Salomon, to give concerts, he continued his correspondence, and constantly expresses his obligations to her, besides sending her many of his compositions written expressly for her. During his London visit, where his concerts were all the rage, he made many female friends,—among them, Madame Bartolozzi, the wife of the celebrated engraver, for whom he wrote three piano trios and a sonata; the wife of John Hunter, a celebrated surgeon of that time, who wrote the words for many of his canzonets; Mrs. Hodges, whom he describes as “the loveliest woman I ever saw, and a fine piano-player,” for whom he wrote many pieces; and, lastly, a lady named Schrolter, widow of the Queen’s music-master, who conceived a violent passion for him, which was reciprocated, though he was then sixty years of age and she still older. Referring to her afterward, in connection with some of her letters to him, he said: “These are from an English widow who fell in love with me. She was a very attractive woman, and still handsome though over sixty; and had I been free, I should certainly have married her.” For her he wrote three of his best trios. Of all his numerous female acquaintances, however, not one exercised such an influence upon him musically as Madame Genzinger, for whom his friendship was honorable. We owe much of his music to his wife; but the savage and truculent manner in which she inspired him was not conducive to the best work of his genius. To Madame Genzinger’s exalted friendship and noble influence we must assign his best instrumental pieces; and who shall say that his two greatest works, the “Creation” and the “Seasons,” written in his old age, when the passions had cooled and the dross of life had been swept away, when, as he himself says, “I knelt down every day, and prayed God to strengthen me for my work,” may not also be attributable to the same inspiring influence?

WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART.

He was a man whose mission in the world seems to have been entirely fulfilled; to whom it was given to link together the godlike with humanity, the mortal with the immortal,—a man whose footprints not all the storms of time can ever efface,—a man who, amid all his lofty aims, esteemed the loftiest of all to be the elevation of humanity.—Nohl.

There were but two women who strongly influenced Mozart in his music,—his wife Constance and her sister Aloysia. When in Munich seeking the patronage of the Elector, and while yet a lad, he attended the German opera, and was much smitten with the voice and personal charms of Mlle. Keiserin, the prima donna, a débutante, who was singing in a work called “Das Fischer Mädchen,” adapted from Piccini. It was only a boyish fancy, however, and resulted in nothing more serious than some gushing letters to his father about her; referring to which, several months later, he says, “I must confess that I was an ass to write such a complete falsehood.” His heart was at one time lightly touched by his cousin Marianne, whom he visited at Augsburg; but it ended in a sportive mood between them, and, long after his departure, in many of his most rollicking, frolicsome letters, full of jest and banter, he alludes to it.

On the 30th of October, 1777, young Mozart arrived at Mannheim. The day after his arrival he visited at the house of M. Cannabich, the director of the Elector’s orchestra. He went there many times afterward, for the director’s daughter Rose became his pupil. She was a sprightly, beautiful, amiable girl; and a strong attachment sprang up between them, with music, however, rather than love, for its basis. Painters and poets afterward raved over her; but Mozart never was seriously touched except in admiration of her beauty, and by the strong musical sympathy between them, which led to his writing the B flat sonata for her, the andante movement of which he marked amoroso. It was a favorite movement with both. What story of passion it may have told her can be imagined. He at least never cared much for the response. His fate was yet to come, but it came very speedily.

About this time he made the acquaintance of M. Weber, an uncle of the composer of “Der Freischütz,” who was a prompter and music-copyist. He was an honorable and open-hearted but poor man, with a wife and six children depending upon him for support. The second daughter, Aloysia, a girl of fifteen, had a remarkably beautiful voice, and Mozart offered to instruct her. The offer was accepted, and master and pupil soon became lover and mistress. His own letters tell the story of this ill-fated love so completely that we do not need to look elsewhere for it. On the 17th of January, 1778, he first speaks of her in a letter to his father, and says:—

“She sings admirably, and has a lovely, pure voice. She is only fifteen. She fails in nothing but in stage action; were it not for that, she might be the prima donna of any theatre.... My aria for ‘De Amicis’ she sings to perfection, with all its tremendous passages.”

Two weeks later he writes again, but only to inform his father that she had been singing with him at Kirchheim-Boland, the residence of the Princess of Orange. Meanwhile the two lovers are forming all kinds of impracticable plans,—among them, one to travel together. With that strong sense of filial duty which always characterized Mozart, he laid the plan before his father. He had never expressed even a suggestion of his love for Aloysia to him; but the father surmised it, and disapproved of the plan to travel. He now grows bolder in his letters, and makes no secret of his warm admiration of her, and strives also to induce his father to take an interest in her musical abilities. He wrote arias for her full of passion and feeling; and as she sang them to him with all the beauty and richness of her voice, there can be little doubt that the songs went to their hearts, and that they fully believed in the reality of their love for each other, never dreaming how soon the illusion would vanish. About the middle of March (1778) he went with his mother to Paris. The parting with Aloysia was a sad one: Weber wept, Aloysia wept; and Mozart writes his father: “Pray, forgive me, but really tears come to my eyes when I think of it;” from which we may infer that he himself also did a generous share of the weeping as he bade adieu to the Webers. In Paris, music occupied his attention; and concerts which he attended, and at which he played, tempered the sorrows of separation, and, we may well believe, allayed the rankling of the stings which his father’s satirical allusions to his love-affair had left. Work is the universal panacea, but he by no means forgot Aloysia. He had in his mind the idea of a speedy marriage with her; and he writes to his father, July 31, intimating that he would like to leave Paris and return to Mannheim, where Aloysia was struggling against the cabals of jealous singers who were striving to prevent her from getting an engagement in the Court concerts at Munich. Little he dreamed of the fate that was to await him when he should see her again. Three months later Aloysia secured the coveted situation in that city; and Mozart immediately decided to seek an appointment there, that he might be near her. In December we find him in Munich, where he experienced the second painful shock of his life, the first being the death of his mother during their Paris visit. Aloysia was faithless to him. The blow came upon him like a thunder-stroke. She hardly recognized him when he met her; whereupon he went to the piano and sang a song of unconcern, with his heart full of tears. She had met an actor named Lange at the house of the Princess of Orange, was captivated with his appearance, and subsequently married him. Time was kind to the one, and cruel to the other. It healed Mozart’s wounds, and brought him one who was the soul of honor and constancy. After Aloysia’s marriage he could calmly write to his father: “I was a great fool about Madame Lange. I own it; but what is a man not when he is in love?” The handsome actor whom Aloysia had married was a drunken, dissipated wretch, who went from bad to worse, until at last she had to separate from him. She continued her profession in Vienna, and in 1782 appeared in Mozart’s “Die Entführung.” Nohl says:—

“Neither happiness nor riches brightened Aloysia’s path in life, nor the peace of mind arising from the consciousness of purity of heart. Not till she was an aged woman, and Mozart long dead, did she recognize what he really had been. She liked to talk about him and his friendship; and in thus recalling the brightest memories of her youth some of that lovable charm seemed to revive that Mozart had imparted to her and to all with whom he had any intercourse.”

There is every reason to believe that on the day Mozart lost Aloysia he gained her sister Constance; because there is no question that the calm, quiet, domestic sister not only more thoroughly appreciated and understood him, but had long nourished a strong though unuttered love for him. She was the one whom he needed, the one whom fate had marked out for him. She was quiet and restful in temperament, domestic in nature, and patient, docile, and sweet in disposition. She was very fond of music; and though not possessed of the brilliant powers of her sister, she was still a singer of good taste and excellent voice, and had a deeper insight into music than Aloysia. Joined to a rare tact in managing household affairs, she had the influence necessary to assist and inspire him in composition. She first appears in his letters May 25, 1781, only a few months after the separation from Aloysia, who was now Madame Lange. She finishes a letter to his father, which business engagements had prevented him from closing, and only writes a few formal words regarding Mozart’s concerts. On the 25th of July of the same year we find his first serious allusions to Constance, and these are not very encouraging. He writes to his father that he is going to leave the Webers because people are beginning to gossip. He says:—

“We went together twice to the Prater; but her mother was with us, and as I chanced to be in the house I could not well refuse to accompany them; besides, at that time I had heard none of these foolish rumors. I must also tell you that I was only allowed to pay my own share; and the mother, having since then heard these reports from others as well as from myself, does not wish us to go anywhere together, and herself advised me to remove to another house in order to avoid any further unpleasantness.... I will not say that, living in the same house with the young lady to whom people have married me, I am ill-bred, and do not speak to her; but I am not in love with her. I banter and jest with her when time permits, but nothing more. If I were obliged to marry all those with whom I have jested, I should have at least two hundred wives.”

Jesting saved him from one hundred and ninety-nine misfortunes, perhaps; but there was one whose strong, steady, deep love turned the edge of all his sportive jests, changed his frolicsome humor into serious feeling, and at last gave him home and happiness. How soon jest was turned into reality Mozart himself tells us; for in less than six months he writes to his father, announcing his love for her, and asking his consent to his marriage. The letter is an interesting one, as he draws a picture of his affianced:—

“But now who is the object of my love? Do not be startled, I entreat. Not one of the Webers, surely? Yes, one of the Webers,—not Josepha, not Sophie, but the third daughter, Constance. I never met with such diversity of disposition in any family. The eldest is idle, coarse, and deceitful,—crafty and cunning as a fox. Madame Lange (Aloysia) is false and unprincipled, and a coquette. The youngest is still too childish to have her character defined; she is merely a good-humored, frivolous girl,—may God guard her from temptation! The third, however, namely, my good and beloved Constance, is the martyr of the family, and probably on this very account the kindest-hearted, the cleverest, and, in short, the best of them all. She takes charge of the whole house, and yet does nothing right in their eyes.... Before releasing you from this subject I must make you better acquainted with the character of my Constance. She is not plain, but at the same time far from handsome. Her whole beauty consists in a pair of bright black eyes and a pretty figure. She is not witty, but has enough sound good sense to enable her to fulfil her duties as a wife and mother. It is utterly false that she is inclined to be extravagant; on the contrary, she is invariably very plainly dressed,—for the little her mother can spend on her children she gives to the two others, but to Constance nothing. It is true that her dress is always neat and nice, however simple; and she can herself make most of the things requisite for a young lady. She dresses her own hair, understands housekeeping, and has the best heart in the world. I love her with my whole soul, as she does me. Tell me if I could wish a better wife.”

Surely here was a Cinderella in real life; but Cinderella and the Prince were to fight a hard battle yet, before they came to their own. The composer Peter Winter, while in Salzburg, filled the ears of Mozart’s father with bad reports about his son and scandalous stories about Constance, and thus satisfied a grudge which he and his teacher, the Abbé Vogler, had against Mozart. The father replied to his son’s letter in a furious manner; and the son was for a time hardly less indignant at the father for listening to such baseless accusations against him and his affianced, than he was at the slanderers. Constance’s guardian (the father being dead) was also very uneasy at the insinuations against the young composer, and at last prevailed upon the mother to insist that Mozart should make a written contract of marriage. The contract was drawn up in this form:—

“I bind myself to marry Mlle. Constance Weber in the course of three years; and if it should so happen, which I consider impossible, that I change my mind, she shall be entitled to draw on me every year for three hundred florins.”

Mozart, in a letter to his father, naïvely comments upon this contract:—

“Nothing in the world could be easier than to write this: for I knew that the payment of the three hundred florins never would be exacted, because I never could forsake her; and if, unhappily, I altered my views, I would only be too glad to get rid of her by paying the three hundred florins; and Constance, as I know her, would be too proud to let herself be sold in this way.”

Constance had a more summary way of dealing with this contract. After the guardian had gone, she demanded it of her mother, and resolutely tore it to pieces, saying to her lover, “Dear Mozart, I require no written contract from you; I rely on your promises.”

In January (1782) he again asks his father’s consent, and is busy devising ways and means to procure money, first, for the performance of the marriage ceremony, and second, for support after marriage. He writes that he has in view three sources of income: first, the composition of music for a new military band about to be organized by Prince Lichtenstein; second, the Emperor and the Archduke Maximilian; and, third, his pupils. More troubles begin to crowd in upon the luckless lovers. Malicious gossips are not only spreading stories about them, and Mozart’s father giving ear to them, but Constance’s mother, who all along has favored the alliance, now begins to grow indifferent to it, and demands that if they are united they shall stay with her; to which Constance is opposed, and Mozart, with a wholesome fear of mothers-in-law, decidedly objects. Indifference soon becomes irritation, and there is wrangling in the household, and the mother accosts the young lovers with sneering remarks. At last there is a quarrel even between Mozart and Constance over a petty matter; but it is only an April shower. The cloud passes quickly over, and the sun shines again; but the future mother-in-law remains cloudy with frequent storms, and at last the house becomes so hot that Constance quits it for the domicile of the Baroness Waldstädten,—a somewhat flighty, eccentric, and not altogether reputable person, but a good friend to them. This step precipitated the marriage. Madame Weber threatened to send the police to remove her daughter from the Baroness’s house. Mozart and Constance decide to marry at once. He writes his father of his intentions; and the latter gives his consent, coupled with the condition, however, that he must expect nothing in future from him. His opera, “Die Entführung,” had been performed, July 12, with great success, and secured him the means for the ceremony. They were married, August 4, in very simple style, at the house of the Baroness, four or five persons being present. Three days later Mozart writes his father:—

“Our sole wedding festivities consisted of a supper which Baroness Waldstädten gave us; and, indeed, it was more princely than baronial. My darling is now a hundred times more joyful at the idea of going to Salzburg; and I am willing to stake—ay, my very life, that you will rejoice still more in my happiness when you really know her, if indeed, in your estimation as in mine, a high-principled, honest, virtuous, and pleasing wife ought to make a man happy.”

Eighteen years after Mozart’s death, his widow married the Danish councillor, M. Nissen, and lived with him in Copenhagen; and her declining years were spent, in conjunction with her husband, in the preparation of the memoirs of the distinguished composer.

Notwithstanding many pinches of poverty and burdens of debt, their life together was a happy one. Their mutual love never decreased, but burned strong and clear to the end. She was his constant guide and monitor. She brightened all his days with her loving words and letters, and his love for her was always tender and delicate. She was a prudent manager of his domestic affairs, a safe counsellor in business matters, always a cheerful companion, and tended him in his last days with unfaltering devotion until the final bitter moment, when she flung herself upon his bed and prayed to die with him. The influence of Aloysia upon his music showed itself by the production of numerous brilliant arias which he wrote for her; but all his great works, “Die Entführung,” “Idomeneo,” “Don Giovanni,” “Die Zauberflöte,” “Nozze di Figaro,” “Cosi fan Tutti,” “Titus,” the “Ave Verum,” and the “Requiem,” were written after his marriage; and every one of them bears, in greater or less degree, the imprint of Constance’s influence. She took special care of his health, which was always delicate, so that his work might not be interrupted. She not only spurred him on to the fulfilment of his engagements; but when it happened that he was over-burdened with work, at which times he was apt to pursue his fancies late into the night to his physical detriment, she devised various means to relieve him. Her devotion to him in this regard was untiring. He immortalized her in the “Entführung,” written when they were lovers. The main idea of the opera is based upon their relations to each other; and in it he pictures himself in the character of Belmonte, and her in that of Constanza. The Mass in C minor was written by him as a votive offering for her recovery in her first confinement, and she sung the solos at the first public performance. She was passionately fond of the Bach and Händel fugues, and never ceased her entreaties until he commenced writing in this form. The “Don Giovanni,” “Zauberflöte,” and “Requiem” are largely due to her. In his dedications her name does not appear as frequently as Aloysia’s, for we only find six solfeggi, a fugue, two sonatas, and an aria written for her; but there was no need of specifying her name where almost everything was due to her love, her care, and her encouragement. In delicate health and straitened circumstances, the victim often of bitter musical jealousies, harassed by business complications, with which he was unfitted to contend, it is due to her, not only that he produced so much, but that his music preserved all its original joyousness, sweetness, and freshness, and that it has done so much to bless and gladden humanity.

FRANZ SCHUBERT.

Truly, Schubert is animated by a spark of the divine fire.—Beethoven (on his death-bed).

Franz Schubert, if not the creator, certainly the ablest and clearest exponent, of the German Lied, wrote from his inner life; and his music, so full of beauty and melodiousness, only recently appreciated and known, will place him, in the near future, upon still loftier heights than he now occupies. The life out of which he wrote was in the main a sad one. There were days of cheer and gladness; but the most of them were set to a minor key, so full of sadness and of suffering that they appeal to personal sympathy, though their experiences richly colored all he wrote. Exquisite as his songs are, they did not find a publisher until near his death, and his best works were not known to the world until long after the grave closed over him; while even now there remain treasures of his melody no voice has yet sung. Dwelling by the side of Beethoven, as he now sleeps by his side, the latter never knew the worth of his music until it was shown him on his death-bed; and then he recognized “the divine spark” of Schubert’s genius. In all beauty there is sadness. It is the test of beauty in Nature, in humanity, and in music. It determines the motive of Beethoven’s grandest works. It colors with exquisite tints the measures of Chopin, most poetic of all musicians. It is constantly present in Schubert’s works, though not one of them is morbid. We may say that Schubert himself was morbid. Certainly, sadness was almost the constant habit of his life, dispelled now and then by an excess of hilarity, which when it was ended only left him sadder than before; but his music does not reflect this organic morbidness and despondency so much as it does the effort to get out of the shadow into the sunshine. In this struggle he poured out the rich treasures of his genius with marvellous energy and industry. They reflect the beauty of the sunlight, but the sun is always shining through the cloud. Thus, in great degree the exponent of the common lot, his songs go to the heart, because they are full of the sorrows and the sympathies of the heart, tempering its joys. So long as there are voices to sing, the “Erl King,” the “Wanderer,” the “Ave Maria,” the “Serenade,” and the gems of the “Winterreise” will be sung, because they reflect the awful sadness of the supernatural, the pathos of the homeless, the piteous appeal of the soul to Heaven, and the sad and tender beauty of ideal love. It is a great genius singing by divine right out from the depths of his own sadness what is most sacred to every other heart. Search all through the long catalogue of his works, from song to symphony, and while you may find outbursts of joy, you will rarely find the triviality of humor; while you may discover the constant expression of sorrow and tenderness and pathos, there is no complaint.