Chapter II: Appendix: 273 (1)

INDEX 297

The author acknowledges the efficient collaboration of Mr. Gustav
Kobbe in preparing these Memories for publication, and also the
valuable assistance of his son-in-law, Mr. Howard van Sinderen.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

William Mason in 1899 _Frontispiece_
From a photograph by Gessford & Van Brunt.

FACING PAGE

William Mason as a Boy 12
From a daguerreotype.

William Mason at the Age of Eighteen 20
From a daguerreotype.

Autograph of I. Moscheles 32

Autograph of Robert Schumann 38

Autograph of Mme. Schumann 44

Autograph of Moritz Hauptmann 48

Autograph of Richard Wagner 56

Autograph of Joseph Joachim 64

Autograph of Anton Schindler 80

Liszt in Middle Life 88
Drawn by George T. Tobin from a photograph of uncertain date.

The Altenburg, Liszt's House at Weimar 96

Autograph of Vieuxtemps 144

Autograph of Ole Bull 150

Autograph of Henriette Sontag 164

Autograph of Hector Berlioz 168

Autograph of Ferdinand Laub 180

The Mason-Thomas Quartet 196

Theodore Thomas about Twenty-four Years Old 200
From a photograph by Duchochois & Klauser.

Autograph of Moreau Gottschalk 208

Autograph of Sigismond Thalberg 212

Autograph of Anton Rubinstein 232

Autograph of I. J. Paderewski 236

Autograph of Hans von Bulow 240

Autograph of Edvard Grieg 244

Interior of Studio in Steinway Building, New York 248

Autographs of the Kneisel Quartet 262

Lowell Mason 277
From a daguerreotype.

MEMORIES

OF A MUSICAL LIFE MEMORIES

OF A MUSICAL LIFE

EARLY DAYS IN NEW ENGLAND

I am the third son of Lowell Mason of Medfield, Massachusetts, and of Abigail Gregory of Westborough, Massachusetts, his wife, and I was born in Boston on January 24, 1829. My father was in the seventh generation from Robert Mason, who was born in England about the year 1590. In 1630 Robert came to America, and was probably one of John Winthrop's company, landing at Salem on the twelfth day of June of that year. Thomas Mason, the elder son of Robert, went to Medfield to live in the second year of the settlement of the town. His marriage with Margery Partridge, on April 23, 1653, was the first marriage to be entered upon the town records; and the homestead lands, which he acquired by grant from the town, have ever since remained in possession of some member of the Mason family. Thomas and two of his sons were killed by the Indians under Monaco on February 21, 1676, when Medfield was burned. The line was continued through Ebenezer, a third son, born at Medfield, September 12, 1669; Thomas, a son of Ebenezer, born at Medfield, April 23, 1699; Barachias, son of Thomas, born at Medfield, June 10, 1723, who was musical and who taught singing; and Johnson, son of Barachias, born at Medfield, August 7, 1767. Johnson was the father of Lowell Mason, who was born at Medfield, January 8, 1792. On January 8, 1892, the one hundredth anniversary of my father's birth was celebrated at Medfield, under the auspices of the Historical Society of that place. In the address delivered by the president of the society, a period of his life was touched upon concerning which but little had heretofore been published. The address will be interesting to those who are interested in him and in the work which he accomplished, and is printed, by permission, in an appendix to these memories.

The difference between Boston and New York as musical centers is largely due to my father. He made Boston a self-developing musical city. New York has received its musical culture from abroad.

My father manifested a remarkable fondness for music at an early age. His parents did not intend that he should take up music as a profession, but his talent was not neglected. In 1812, before he was twenty, he heard of an opening in a bank in Savannah, Georgia, and having secured the position, he went there. After business hours he continued his studies in music with an instructor named F. L. Abel, under whom he made rapid progress. He soon attempted composition, his first efforts being hymn-tunes and anthems. He arranged a collection consisting of a group of selections from William Gardiner's "Sacred Melodies," to which he added some of his own compositions. For this collection he vainly endeavored to find a publisher in Philadelphia and Boston, until chance brought to Savannah a Boston organ-builder, W. M. Goodrich, who had come to set up an organ. He induced my father to go to Boston in person, with the result that the work was submitted to Dr. G. K. Jackson, the organist of the Handel and Haydn Society, and received his approval. It was published in 1822, with the title, "The Boston Handel and Haydn Society's Collection of Music," and was an instant success, finding its way into singing-schools and church choirs throughout New England. Some of my father's hymn-tunes have become famous. It has been said that his missionary hymn, "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," has been sung in more languages than any other sacred tune. Among the many popular tunes which he composed are "Boylston," "Hebron," "Olivet," and "Bethany"; and one of his collections of sacred melodies brought him in over a hundred thousand dollars in royalties.

LOWELL MASON'S CAREER

The success of my father's first venture led him to leave Savannah and settle in Boston. Then, as now, the Handel and Haydn Society was largely recruited from church choirs, but in those days its concerts were few, and these were almost entirely devoted to church music. Rarely was a "work" offered to the public. Outside the realm of church music, the society's repertory consisted of "The Messiah", "The Creation" (and more frequently fragments from these), the "Dettingen Te Deum" by Handel, and the "Intercession" by M. P. King, who has long since been forgotten. For five years my father was president of the society, and served as musical director, the special employment of a conductor not having been authorized until 1847.

Meanwhile he was constantly aiming at the introduction of popular education in music. It was through his efforts--and strenuous efforts they were--that music was introduced into the Boston public schools. To bring this about he first taught classes of children free of charge, and gave concerts to illustrate the practicability of his plans. When finally musical education was made a part of the Boston public-school system, the city council refused to make any appropriation for it, and he served as instructor for a year gratuitously, beginning work in 1837 in the Hawes Grammar School, South Boston. The experiment was a complete success. Music was generally introduced into the public schools, and my father was made superintendent of the department. The seeds he sowed then are still bearing fruit. This was part of his labor which created in Boston a self-developing musical activity. While Dr. Samuel G. Howe was engaged in organizing the Perkins Institution for the Blind in 1832, at his request my father devised a system of musical instruction for the blind.

FIRST BEETHOVEN SYMPHONY IN AMERICA

About 1830 an English musician, Mr. George James Webb, settled in Boston. He was a gentleman of high culture, thoroughly educated in music, played the organ well, and was a good vocal teacher. His talents and his personal charm were promptly recognized. My father became intimate with him, and in 1833, with the cooperation of certain influential gentlemen of Boston, they founded the Boston Academy of Music, my father taking charge of the special department of church music, while Mr. Webb devoted himself chiefly to secular music and voice-culture. Instrumental concerts were also given at the academy, and there, on February 10, 1841, occurred the first performance in America of a Beethoven symphony, the Fifth, which was played by an orchestra of twenty-three, under the direction of Henry Schmidt.

MUSICAL CONVENTIONS

My father originated the idea of assembling music-teachers in classes. In 1838, when the experiment was not more than three years old, one hundred and thirty-four teachers, representing ten States, assembled at the academy. From these assemblages grew the musical conventions which my father held throughout New England and in some of the other States. Choir-singers and other musically inclined people from the towns lying within the surrounding district would gather at a central point, and he would hold a musical convention lasting for several days, drilling the singers in church music, but also, where he found sufficient advancement, in music of a higher order. The Worcester festivals may be traced to these conventions.

EARLY MUSICAL TRAINING

I had shown my fondness for music at a very early age. When I was a child, my father was the organist of the Bowdoin Street Congregational Church in Boston, of which Lyman Beecher had been the pastor. When I was seven years old, he placed me unexpectedly on the organ-bench at a public service, and while the choir sang the tune of "Boylston", I played the accompaniment. Up to this time I had had but little instruction in pianoforte-playing. My mother used to sit by me and guide me in the way of careful practising, and thus I had acquired considerable facility for those days, though now I have a feeling of compassion for any one who had to listen to me.

I became useful to my father as an accompanist, and when he went to musical conventions he took me along with him, and I would play the piano accompaniments while he conducted.

WEBSTER AND CLAY

It was at about this time that my father took me with him on a trip to Providence. In those days the entrance to the cars was from the side, and we took seats nearly opposite the door. My father called my attention to a very dignified and impressive-looking man in the front corner of the car, saying: "William, the gentleman in the corner is Daniel Webster. Go over and wish him good morning." I promptly obeyed, and marching over to him, said, "Good morning, Daniel Webster." He asked my name, and I replied, saying my father was "over there," and then he exchanged greetings with my father. I was somewhat awed by his great dignity, and remember very well his piercing eyes.

About the year 1842 I went to Maysville, Kentucky, to stay with the family of my uncle, Mr. E. F. Tucker. My health had not been good, and the change of residence was thought to be judicious. My uncle was at the head of some factory in Maysville, and one day, after I had been there for some time, a gentleman called at the house to see him about business connected with the factory. My aunt called me, and, presenting me to the gentleman, requested me to show him the way to the factory. This gentleman was Henry Clay. I remember his urbanity, and his friendly conversation attracted me. This time it was not the eye which was noticeable, but the mouth, which was unusually large.

FROM A DAGUERREOTYPE ]

FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE

Returning to Boston after a year, I was sent to Newport, Rhode Island, to study under the Rev. T. T. Thayer, who was a Congregational clergyman in that place. In a short time after my arrival I began playing the organ at the services in his church, and continued this with regularity until my return to Boston a few years later. At Boston I became the organist at the Congregational church in Winter street, at which my father was music-conductor.

I played in public about the year 1846, in one of the concerts of the Boston Academy of Music, given in the Odeon, which was then the principal concert-hall in Boston. On this occasion I had the accompaniment of a string quartet. This was my first regular appearance in public. About this time, too, I began taking pianoforte lessons of Mr. Henry Schmidt, to whom reference has been made as the conductor of Beethoven's "Fifth Symphony" on the occasion of the first performance of this work in Boston. Mr. Schmidt's instrument was the violin, but he was also an excellent pianoforte teacher, and to his careful and skilful instruction I owe very much. I remember that in those days I was more fond of playing--if my habit of improvising in a loose or inaccurate way can be so called--than of careful practising and close attention to detail. When my lesson-hour arrived I used to trust much to luck, and thus occasioned poor Mr. Schmidt a deal of trouble and vexation. He begged and entreated me to be careful, and after a while a spirit of contrition overcame me, and so, on a certain occasion, I really did practise carefully and to my best ability during the interval between my lessons. When Mr. Schmidt made his appearance, however, I became so nervous and apprehensive lest my work should not show to advantage that the very thing I dreaded took place, and I stumbled through my piece in a distressing manner. I do not wonder that my teacher's patience was tried, and he rebuked me with severity, saying that he believed I had not practised at all since the previous lesson. I received this all very meekly, but when he took his departure I pitched the music into a corner, and did not practise until he made his appearance for the following lesson. At this lesson, however, I played with great accuracy and spirit, much to my gratification and somewhat to my surprise. Mr. Schmidt warmly commended my work, and attributed it to the fact that I had _now_ practised industriously and carefully. I had enough sense to know that the successful result was owing to the practice I had previously done, and which needed time to produce its results. This bit of experience I commend to pianoforte students for careful consideration, to show that acts are not always immediately followed by desirable results.

Mr. Schmidt taught me much concerning the production of tone in pianoforte playing, and in particular led me to acquire a certain habit of touch which I have never lost, and which has been the means of greatly lessening the fatigue which would otherwise have been attendant on the performance of pieces which require much strength and long-continued endurance. I write somewhat at length concerning this matter, feeling that a knowledge of my experience may be of substantial use to pianoforte students.

The habit referred to has especial relation to the playing of the various rapid scale and arpeggio passages, involving closed or open hand position which are so common in pianoforte compositions and which grow out of the nature of the instrument. The touch is accomplished by quickly but quietly drawing the finger-tips inward toward the palm of the hand, or, in other words, slightly and partly closing the finger-points as they touch the keys while playing. This action of the fingers secures the cooperation of many more muscles of the finger, wrist, hand, and forearm than could be accomplished by the merely "up-and-down" finger-touch. It is difficult to describe in detail without an instrument at hand for illustration. If correctly performed, however, the tones produced are very clear and well defined, and of a beautifully musical quality. The simile of "a string of pearls" of precisely similar size and shape has often been used in describing their fluency and clearness of outline. A too rapid withdrawal of the finger-tips would result in a short and crisp staccato. While this extreme staccato is also desirable and frequently used, it is not the kind of effect here desired, namely, a clear, clean delivery of the tones which in no wise disturb the legato effect.

Of course it requires cultivation and skill to secure just the right degree of finger-motion to preserve the legato and at the same time the slight separation of each tone. Therefore the fingers must not be drawn so quickly as to produce a separation or staccato effect, but in just the right degree to avoid impairing the legato or binding effect. For the sake of convenience in description I have named this touch the "elastic finger-touch," and through its influence a clear and crisp effect is attained. It is interesting to observe in this connection, a fact which I learned only many years later, that Sebastian Bach's touch, described in detail by J. N. Forkel in his work entitled "Ueber Johann Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke," both as used by Bach himself and as he taught it to his pupils, seems to be identical with the touch I am here attempting to describe. Forkel expressly emphasizes the "pulling-in" motion of the finger-tips. While it has relation solely to finger-action as distinguished from the action of the wrist and arm, it cannot be accomplished properly without bringing into action the flexor and extensor muscles, principally of the forearm from wrist to elbow.

Through the medium of this touch pianissimo effects are possible which no other mechanism can reach, for passages of the most extreme delicacy and softness still retain the quality of vitality and clearness of outline.

During the season of 1846 I played the pianoforte part throughout the series of six concerts of chamber-music given by the Harvard Musical Association. I remember that Mr. Blessner played the violin and Mr. Groenvelt the violoncello, but cannot recall the names of the players of the second violin and viola. These concerts were given at the pianoforte warerooms of Mr. Jonas Chickering, 334 Washington street, Boston. I still have the programs. String quartets by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven were played, also piano trios by Beethoven, Reissiger, and Mayseder.

LEOPOLD DE MEYER

The knowledge I gained from Mr. Schmidt was largely advanced and supplemented by what I learned a year or two later, in 1847-48, from the playing of the pianoforte virtuoso Leopold de Meyer, who came to the United States about that time.

It was from a careful study of the manner of his playing that I first acquired the habit of fully devitalized upper-arm muscles in pianoforte-playing. The loveliness and charming musical beauty of his tones, the product of these conditions, greatly excited my admiration and fascinated me. I never missed an opportunity of hearing him play, and closely watched his movements, and particularly the motions of hand, arm, and shoulder. I was incessantly at the pianoforte trying to produce the same delightful tone quality by imitating his manner and style.

FROM A DAGUERREOTYPE ]

My continued perseverance was rewarded with success, for the result was a habit of devitalized muscular action in such degree that I could practically play all day without a feeling of fatigue. The constant alternation between devitalization and reconstruction keeps the muscles always fresh for their work and enables the player to rest while playing. The force is so distributed that each and every muscle has ample opportunity to rest while yet in a state of activity. Furthermore the tones resulting from this touch are sonorous and full of energy and life. An idea of my own which was persistently carried into act aided materially in bringing about the desired result. This was to allow the arms to hang limp by my side, either in a sitting or standing posture, and then to shake them rigorously with the utmost possible looseness and devitalization. This device was in after years recommended to my pupils, and those who persistently followed it up and persevered for a while gained great advantage from it, and eventually acquired a state of habitual muscular elasticity and flexibility.

I might easily have learned from any book of anatomy the names of the muscles which are here referred to, but for the practical instruction of pianoforte pupils this seemed to be of little consequence. However, there are three muscles of the upper arm which may here be named: the triceps, the brachialis anticus, and the biceps. Of these the first-named is of the most importance to the pianist.

Leopold de Meyer's New York concerts were given in the old Broadway Tabernacle, some distance below Canal street, as I now remember. The piano-lovers were not so numerous then as they are now, and it was difficult to fill the hall, even with the help of deadheads. De Meyer's agent, acting on the principle that "a crowd draws a crowd," hired a lot of carriages to make their appearance a little before the concert-hour, and to stand in front of the doors and then advance in turn, so that passers-by might receive the impression of activity on the part of the concert-goers.

"FATHER HEINRICH"

Somewhere about this time there lived in New York an elderly German musician and composer who had somehow gained the cognomen of "Father Heinrich." He composed quite a number of large works, both vocal and instrumental, and also a number of pianoforte pieces. During a visit which he made to Boston, his headquarters were at Chickering's pianoforte warerooms, and on one occasion I was presented to him as a youth of some musical promise. He immediately showed me one of his pianoforte pieces in manuscript, and said: "Young man, I am going to test your musical talent and intelligence and see if you appreciate in any degree the importance of a proper observance of dynamics in musical interpretation." He had placed the open pages of the manuscript on the pianoforte desk, and I was glancing over them in close scrutiny. "I wish to tell you before you begin to play that I have submitted this piece to two or three of the best musicians in New York and they have failed to bring out the intended effect in an important phrase." This remark put me at once on my guard, and while he was talking I was closely scrutinizing the manuscript to see if there was some dynamic or other mark which would reveal his intention. About half-way down the second page I discovered a series of sforzando marks, thus: > > > > > over several notes in one of the inner parts, and immediately determined to bring out these tones with all possible force. Further than this there seemed to be no peculiarity; but as he had by this time finished his remarks I began to play with special care. The piece was easy to read, and so I made good progress, and on coming to the passage referred to I put a tremendous emphasis on the tones marked sforzando, playing all of the other voices by contrast quite softly. To my boyish satisfaction I found I had hit the mark. The excitement and pleasure of Father Heinrich was excessive and amusing. "Bravo! bravo!" he cried. "You have great talent, and you have done what none of our musicians in New York have accomplished!"

I did not at the time understand how he could lay so much stress on the affair, but in the light of a long experience as teacher of the pianoforte I no longer wonder at his excitement. All music is full of nuances and accents of greater or less intensity, to which pupils hardly ever give any attention, although they are necessary in order to give due expression to rhythm. They correspond to vocal accents in reading aloud, or in declamation.

AN EMBARRASSING EXPERIENCE

It is difficult to realize the crudity of musical taste in the early days. I remember that in 1840 my father conducted a convention in Vermont--I think in Woodstock. We went by rail as far as we could, and then traveled a number of hours by coach. We were received by the dignitaries of the town, and conducted to the house in which we were to stay. While we were shaking off the dust of travel, we heard the sounds of drum and fife. Looking out of the window, we found that these instruments headed a small procession which had come to escort us to the church. The drum and the fife were the instrumental outfit of the town; so, led by these, my father and I marched with the magnates of the place to the church. I still remember how foolish I felt.

In 1846 my father was preparing to hold a convention in Augusta, Maine. Mr. Webb was to go with him, and I was sent to his house the evening before they were to start to let him know about the arrangements. Though I knew Mr. Webb very well, I had never had occasion to go to his house. At this time I was seventeen years old. When I was shown into the drawing-room, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Webb and their daughter, a girl then not fourteen. I had not been in the house half an hour before I was deeply in love with her. I found that she was going to Augusta, and I decided at once that I would go, too. So the next day we all started together. She and I grew to be good friends, but the idea of an engagement between us was not to be thought of at that time, and while I lived in Germany we were not permitted to correspond. For five years I did not see her; but when I came back I hastened to her father's house. The sequel I shall tell later.

STUDENT LIFE ABROAD

It having been decided that I should continue my musical studies in Europe, I sailed from New York for Bremen on the side-wheel steamer _Herrmann_ in May, 1849, accompanied by Mr. Frank Hill of Boston, who had already attained some distinction as a pianist. My intention was to go directly to Leipsic to study with Moscheles. One of our fellow-passengers was Julius Schuberth, the music-publisher of Hamburg, who had been in America on business. Arriving at Bremen, we learned that the insurrection had not yet been suppressed, and that within two or three days there had been bloodshed in the streets of Leipsic. For this and other reasons I gladly accepted Mr. Schuberth's invitation to visit him, first making a short trip to Paris with Hill.

MEETING WITH MEYERBEER

I arrived in Paris shortly after six o'clock in the morning, and went to the Hotel de Paris, in the Rue de Richelieu. In those days, at that early hour, Paris was as quiet as an American town at midnight. There were three of us in the party. We secured two rooms, and my friends remained up-stairs, while I returned to the porter's lodge below to have my passport sent to the Bureau of Police to be vised. The porter went out to attend to this, and I was left alone in the lodge.

Shortly afterward a man entered, of medium height, well dressed, and with a good deal of manner. He addressed me in French, but when I asked him if he could speak English he began conversing fluently in that language. He asked if I was from England and a stranger in Paris. When I told him I was from America, he exclaimed, "Ah, that is farther off." Then, noticing the passport, which was uncommonly large and was bound like a book, he asked, "Is that an American passport? Please let me have a look at it I'm curious to see it." Bound in with the passport were a number of blank leaves to be used for the vises of various consuls. "Young man," said my chance acquaintance, "you have leaves enough there to travel about Europe for twenty years." Then he inquired if I was traveling for pleasure or on business.

"I have come over to study music."

"Ah, composition?"

"No; mainly piano, but also theory and composition."

"And where?"

"I expect to go to Leipsic to study with Moscheles, Hauptmann, and Richter. Eventually I hope to go to Liszt."

"Well, well, you've chosen good men. Moscheles knew Beethoven."

Then, with a few friendly words, he left the lodge and entered the hotel. Just as he was leaving the porter returned.

"Who is the gentleman?" I asked, pointing after the disappearing form.

"Meyerbeer, the composer."

The porter then took me into the courtyard and pointed out the room which Meyerbeer occupied, calling my attention to the fact that his window and mine almost faced each other.

"If you look out of your window about eleven o'clock," said the porter, "you will see Mme. Garcia and Roger, the tenor, coming here to rehearse their roles in the new opera with the composer."

Meyerbeer was so affable at our chance meeting that I think I could easily have followed it up and have seen more of him; but when a boy is in Paris for the first time, he has many things to think of. Moreover, I did not realize that at the end of the century, "Le Prophete," the work which Meyerbeer was then rehearsing, would still be in the repertory of every first-class opera-house. I knew that he was a distinguished composer, but I did not for a moment imagine that his work would live so long. As I now look back through the perspective of time, I realize the opportunity I missed; but I thank the freak of fortune which threw in his way, if only for a few moments, a young man who was too careless to improve the chance acquaintance.

From Paris I returned to Schuberth's in Hamburg. He was an active, enterprising, pushing business man, with a large acquaintance in the musical world, and the knowledge of how to put it to the best use. I remained in Hamburg for some time. Boy-like, I had spent all my money in Paris, and was now obliged to wait for a remittance from home. In Hamburg I met Carl Mayer of Dresden, a fine pianist of the Hummel school, and Mortier de Fontaine, who was very well known in his day as a Beethoven-player--had, in fact, won considerable fame as the first pianist to perform Beethoven's "Sonata, Op. 106" in public. That was his label.

LISZT'S FEAT OF MEMORY

From Hamburg I went to Leipsic, but Schuberth did not lose sight of me. Whenever he came there he looked me up, and was very kind in introducing me to people whom it was well for me to meet. He knew Liszt very well, and having taken a fancy to a composition of mine, "Les Perles de Rosee," which was still in manuscript, he said: "Let me have it for publication. Dedicate it to Liszt. I can easily get Liszt to accept the dedication. I am going directly from here to Weimar, and will see him about it. At the same time, I will prepare the way for your reception later as a pupil."

Not long afterward I received a letter from Schuberth in which he told me that when he handed the music to Liszt, the latter looked at the manuscript, hummed it over, then sat down and played it from memory. Then, going to his desk, he took a pen, and accepted the dedication by writing his name at the top of the title-page. Encouraged by this, I wrote a letter to Liszt, expressing my desire to become one of his pupils, and asking what my chances were. Unfortunately, I misinterpreted his reply, and received the impression that it amounted to a refusal; but at the same time he gave me a cordial invitation to attend the festival about to take place in Weimar in commemoration of the hundredth anniversary of Goethe's birth. I still have this letter, which is dated August 18, 1849. Had I understood then that Liszt was ready to accept me as a pupil, I should have taken up my residence at Weimar at once, instead of waiting until I learned my mistake, as I did during a call which I made upon Liszt nearly four years later.

FIRST MEETING WITH LISZT

However, I went to Weimar with Mr. Hill to attend the Goethe festival, arriving there early in the afternoon of the day before it began.

The third day of the festival we called on Liszt, who was then living in the Hotel zum Erbprinzen, and were received most cordially. Schlesinger, the Paris publisher, was there with his little daughter, who was precocious as a pianist and played several Chopin waltzes. Liszt was very busy with his guests, so that our visit was limited, and nothing was said about my coming to Weimar to study except that Liszt said he never received pupils for regular lessons, but that those who lived in Weimar (and there were only three or four in those days) had frequent opportunities of hearing and meeting artists who visited him. Having misinterpreted his letter, I accepted these remarks as a further politely worded refusal to receive me. So I returned to Leipsic to continue my studies there.

ARRIVAL AT LEIPSIC

I well remember the feeling of awe mingled with interest with which I looked upon every German whom I met in the streets of Leipsic on my first arrival in that famously musical city. I looked on even the laboring-men, the peasants as well as those in higher positions, as being Mozarts and Beethovens, and the idea gained such ascendancy that I felt my own inferiority and metaphorically held down my head. This feeling, however, was not of long duration, and changed in the course of a month or two on account of what happened at a concert of the Euterpe Society which I attended. The concerts of this musical society were second only to those of the famous Gewandhaus, and their audiences were made up largely of those who attended the concerts of the latter. At this concert the program was classical and unimpeachable as to the orchestral concerted pieces, but one of the numbers was a solo for clarinet. At my age I was disposed to look down on this as an inferior kind of music, and as decidedly unsuitable to an educated and musically cultivated taste. Therefore, when, to my surprise, this turned out to be the most popular piece of the evening and received the most vociferous applause of the entire audience, I found my high opinion of the select musical taste of the Germans sensibly decreased.

Since then I have learned that there is a place for everything good in its way; but the clarinet solo seemed out of place in the classical atmosphere of a symphony concert.

MOSCHELES, BEETHOVEN, AND CHOPIN

Moscheles, with whom I studied in Leipsic, had been a pupil of Dionysius Weber in Prague. At that time Beethoven was still a newcomer, and was regarded with skepticism by the older men, whose ideas were formed and who could not get over their first unfavorable impressions of him. Beethoven was a profound man and had strong individuality. He was eagerly accepted by the younger men, Moscheles among them; but Dionysius Weber regarded him as a monstrosity, and would never allow Moscheles to learn any of his music. Consequently, Moscheles practised Beethoven in secret, and when he grew up he prided himself on being a Beethoven-player, and wrote a life of Beethoven, which, however, is largely based on Schindler's.

At about the time I went to Leipsic the attitude of Moscheles toward Chopin was very like what Dionysius Weber's had been toward Beethoven. One of the daughters of Moscheles was very fond of playing Chopin, but her father forbade it. Afterward she married and went to London, where she played Chopin to her heart's content. It is curious how men who in their younger days are pioneers become so conservative as they grow older that they are like stone walls in the paths of progress. They forget that in their youth they laughed at or criticized their elders for the same pedantry of which they themselves afterward become guilty.

THE INTIMACY OF MOSCHELES AND MENDELSSOHN

Moscheles and Mendelssohn had been warm friends. Moscheles, in particular, prided himself on the composer's friendship. No one to-day can understand the influence which Mendelssohn had upon his contemporaries, by whom his music and his personality were fairly worshiped. Comparisons were made between him and Beethoven to the latter's disadvantage. I remember an excellent musician saying to me, "Beethoven does have consecutive fifths now and then, Mendelssohn never." He did not realize that these apparent violations of technical rules were part of Beethoven's ragged strength, while Mendelssohn's scrupulous adherence to them was evidence of weakness.

Mendelssohn's death was a great shock to Moscheles. Mendelssohn had often visited him, and there was such profound musical sympathy between them that they were able to improvise together on two pianos. They understood each other so well that one of them would improvise a theme, which the other would follow. After a while they would interchange their roles, the second piano taking up the theme, the first piano subordinating itself. This is not in itself an extraordinary feat, but it illustrates the musical sympathy which existed between Mendelssohn and Moscheles.

SCHUMANN

For some years prior to 1844 Schumann lived in Leipsic. It was his habit to compose intensely all day, and then to walk to a beer-cellar at the upper end of the Grimmaische Strasse. There he would sit at a table with one of his most trusted friends, an odd-looking but able musician and piano-teacher named Wenzel. There were two or three other musicians who frequented the place and were generally at the same table. Schumann enjoyed being among friends, but disliked nothing more than the restraint of social functions. No doubt there was a large consumption of beer, after the fashion of the Germans on such occasions, but to a musical student who could sit within hearing there was afforded a golden opportunity of absorbing musical ideas.

SCHUMANN'S "SYMPHONY NO. 1, B FLAT"

When I went to Germany, Schumann was living in Dresden, but he made frequent visits to Leipsic. I knew little or nothing of Schumann's music, for Mendelssohn then dominated the musical world; but the first orchestral composition of Schumann's that I ever heard placed him far above Mendelssohn in my estimation. It was at the second concert I attended at the Gewandhaus in Leipsic, and the work was the "First Symphony." I was so wrought up by it that I hummed passages from it as I walked home, and sat down at the piano when I got there, and played as much of it as I could remember. I hardly slept that night for the excitement of it. The first thing I did in the morning was to go to Breitkopf & Haertel's and buy the score, the orchestral parts and piano arrangements for four and two hands, and in these I fairly reveled.

I grew so enthusiastic over the symphony that I sent the score and parts to the Musical Fund Society of Boston, the only concert orchestra then in that city, and conducted by Mr. Webb. They could make nothing of the symphony, and it lay on the shelf for one or two years. Then they tried it again, saw something in it, but somehow could not get the swing of it, possibly on account of the syncopations. Before my return from Europe in 1854, I think they finally played it. In speaking of it, Mr. Webb said to my father: "Yes, it is interesting; but in our next concert we play Haydn's 'Surprise Symphony,' and that will live long after this symphony of Schumann's is forgotten." Many years afterward I reminded Mr. Webb of this remark, whereupon he said, "William, is it possible that I was so foolish?"

Only a few years before I arrived at Leipsic, Schumann's genius was so little appreciated that when he entered the store of Breitkopf & Haertel with a new manuscript under his arm, the clerks would nudge one another and laugh. One of them told me that they regarded him as a crank and a failure because his pieces remained on the shelf and were in the way.

I often saw Schumann in Leipsic, and I heard him conduct his cantata, "The Pilgrimage of the Rose." His conducting was awkward, as he was neither active nor of commanding presence. However, I liked his looks, as he seemed good-natured, though perhaps not like a man with whom one might easily become acquainted. This impression, however, may be due to anecdotes which I had heard regarding his lack of sociability.

SCHUMANN'S ABSENT-MINDEDNESS

Up to the time of Mendelssohn's death his followers and the small body of musicians who appreciated Schumann had rubbed pretty hard together. Naturally, Moscheles and Schumann had not been intimate. But Moscheles felt Mendelssohn's loss so keenly that he cast about for some one to take his place, and finally decided to make overtures to Schumann by inviting him to his house to supper. What occurred there was told to me by a fellow-pupil. He said that while the company was gathering in the drawing-room, Schumann sat in a corner apparently absorbed in thought, without looking at any one or uttering a word. He did not impress my friend as morose, but rather as a man whose thoughts were at the moment in an entirely different sphere. Supper was announced, and the guests being seated, it was discovered that there was a vacant place at the table. Moscheles looked about for Schumann, but he was not there. The host and several guests went back to the salon to look for him, and found him sitting in his corner, still deep in thought. When aroused, he said, "Oh, I hadn't noticed that you had gone out." Then he went in to supper, but hardly said a word. What a contrast there was between his personality and that of the ever-affable, polished Mendelssohn! There is the same contrast between their music: Schumann's profound, and appealing to us most when we wish to withdraw entirely within the very sanctuary of our own emotions; Mendelssohn's smooth, finished, and easily understood.

Early in 1844 Schumann had moved to Dresden, and I called upon him in that city and received a pleasant welcome, contrary to my expectation, for I had heard much of his reticence. Judging by the brief entry in my diary, nothing of importance was said. I could not see Mme. Schumann, because she was giving a lesson. This was on April 13, 1850. I called again later in the month, and Schumann gave me his musical autograph, a canon for male voices; and the next day I received an autograph from Clara Schumann. In 1880 I learned from Mme. Schumann that the canon referred to had already been published at the time when I received it from Schumann. (See Op. 65, No. 6.)

Afterward, when I met Wagner I could not help contrasting his lively manner and glowing enthusiasm with Schumann's reserve, which, however, was by no means repellent. Indeed, if I had been the greatest living musician, instead of a mere boy student, Wagner could not have received me with more kindness, or have talked to me more delightfully during the three memorable hours of my life which were spent with him.

MORITZ HAUPTMANN

My teacher in harmony and counterpoint was Moritz Hauptmann, a pupil of Spohr, and an excellent composer of church music, his motets being especially beautiful. He was the cantor and music director of the Thomas-schule at Leipsic, a position which years before had been held by Sebastian Bach. He was altogether a genial and attractive man, of gentle manner and disposition, and I at once became much attached to him. He was in delicate health and suffered constantly from dyspepsia, yet bore all of his ills with patience and equanimity. I remember that he had a passion for baked apples, one of the few things he could eat without ill results, and on his stove, a regular old-fashioned German structure of porcelain, nearly as high as the ceiling, there was always a row of apples in process of slow baking.

His autograph is one of the most curious in my book, and is an excellent example of his technical knowledge. It is a _Spiegel-Canon_ ("looking-glass canon"). When held up to the mirror the reflection shows the answer to the canon in the related key.

Not long after beginning my studies under Hauptmann, I received from my father a copy of his latest publication, being a collection of tunes, mostly of his own composition, for choir and congregational use in the church. He requested me to show this to Hauptmann and get his opinion, if practicable. I felt a decided reluctance to do this, because I thought my father's work was not worthy of the notice of such a profound musician, so I delayed the carrying out of his request. After a few weeks, however, I began receiving letters from my father upon the subject, and realized that I could not postpone action any longer. So one day, going to my lesson, I took the book with me. I kept it as well out of sight as I could during the lesson, and then at the last moment, when about to leave the room, I placed it on Hauptmann's table, telling him in an apologetic way of my father's request and seeking to excuse myself for troubling him. I said I was afraid he would find nothing in the book to interest him.

When the regular time for my lesson recurred I hesitated to present myself again; but there was no way of avoiding the difficulty, so with a tremendous exercise of will I faced the situation. What was my surprise and relief when he greeted me with "Mr. Mason, I have examined your father's book with much interest and pleasure, and his admirable treatment of the voices is most musicianly and satisfactory. Please give him my sincere regards, and thank him for his attention in sending me the book."

At the moment I could not understand how such a big contrapuntist could express himself in such strong terms of approval; but I knew him to be genuine, and so I straightened myself up and really began to be proud of my father. Another and more important result was the recognition of my own ignorance in imagining that a thing in order to be great must necessarily be intricate and complicated. It dawned upon me that the simplest things are sometimes the grandest and the most difficult of attainment.

I also took lessons in instrumentation from Ernst Friedrich Richter, a pupil of Hauptmann.

A VISIT TO WAGNER.

My parents joined me in Leipsic in January, 1852, and in the spring of that year we planned a tour which was to take us to Switzerland in June.

In Leipsic I made the acquaintance of a man named Albert Wagner, meeting him quite frequently at the restaurant where I took my meals. While I was planning the tour, I chanced to mention it to him, and when he heard that I was going to Zurich, he said: "My brother, Richard Wagner, lives there. I will give you a letter of introduction to him." This was the first intimation I had that Albert was a brother of the composer. I suppose he had not thought it worth while to tell me. Richard was still under a political cloud in Saxony, and was compelled to live in exile on account of the part he had taken in the revolution of 1848; nor was his reputation as a composer then so general that Albert would have thought his kinship much to boast of.

We reached Zurich on June 5, 1852, and, the next morning, armed with the letter, I made my way to Wagner's chalet, which was situated on a hill in the suburbs. It was then about ten o'clock in the morning.

When I asked the maid who opened the door if Herr Wagner was at home and to be seen, she answered, as I had feared she would, that he was busily at work in his study, and could not be disturbed. I handed her my letter of introduction, and asked her to give it to Herr Wagner, and to say to him that I was expecting to remain in Zurich three or four days, and would call again, hoping to be fortunate enough to find him disengaged.

Just as I was turning to leave, I heard a voice at the head of the stairs call out, "Wer ist da?" I told the maid to deliver my letter immediately. As soon as Wagner had glanced through it, he exclaimed, "Kommen Sie herauf! Kommen Sie herauf!"

At that time Wagner was known, and that not widely, only as the composer of "Rienzi," "The Flying Dutchman," "Tannhaeuser," and "Lohengrin." I had heard only "The Flying Dutchman," but considered it a most beautiful work, and was eager to meet the composer.

Wagner's first words, as I met him on the landing at the head of the stairs, were: "You've come just at the right time. I've been working away at something, and I'm stuck. I'm in a state of nervous irritation, and it is absolutely impossible for me to go on. So I'm glad you've come."

I remember perfectly my first impression of him. He looked to me much more like an American than a German. After asking about his brother, he began questioning me in a lively way about his friends in Leipsic, about the concerts and opera there, and the works that had been given. He also asked most kindly after my own affairs--what I was doing, with whom I had studied, how long I intended to remain, what my plans were for the future, and most particularly about musical matters in America. In some way Beethoven was mentioned. After that the conversation became a monologue with me as a listener, for Wagner began to talk so fluently and enthusiastically about Beethoven that I was quite content to keep silent and to avoid interrupting his eloquent oration.

WAGNER ON MENDELSSOHN AND BEETHOVEN

As he warmed up to the subject, he began to draw comparisons between Beethoven and Mendelssohn. "Mendelssohn," he said, "was a gentleman of refinement and high degree; a man of culture and polished manner; a courtier who was always at home in evening dress. As was the man, so is his music, full of elegance, grace, finish, and refinement, but carried without variance to such a degree that at times one longs for brawn and muscle. Yet it is music that is always exquisite, fairy-like, and fine in character. In Beethoven we get the man of brawn and muscle. He was too inspired to pay much attention to conventionalities. He went right to the pith of what he had to say, and said it in a robust, decisive, manly, yet tender way, brushing aside the methods and amenities of conventionalism, and striking at once at the substance of what he wished to express. Notwithstanding its robustness, his music is at times inexpressibly tender; but it is a manly tenderness, and carries with it an idea of underlying and sustaining strength. Some years ago, when I was kapellmeister in Dresden, I had a remarkable experience, which illustrates the invigorating and refreshing power of Beethoven's music. It was at one of the series of afternoon concerts of classic music given at the theater. The day was hot and muggy, and everybody seemed to be in a state of lassitude and incapacity for mental or physical effort. On glancing at the program, I noticed that by some chance all of the pieces I had selected were in the minor mode--first, Mendelssohn's exquisite 'A Minor Symphony,' music in dress-suit and white kid gloves, spotless and _comme il faut_; then an overture by Cherubini; and finally Beethoven's 'Symphony No. 5, in C Minor.'" At this point Wagner rose from his chair, and began walking about the room. "Everybody," he continued, "was listless and languid, and the atmosphere seemed damp and spiritless. The orchestra labored wearily through the symphony and overture, while the audience became more and more apathetic. It seemed impossible to arouse either players or listeners, and I thought seriously of dismissing both after the overture. I was very reluctant to subject Beethoven's wonderfully beautiful music to such a crucial test, but after a moment's reflection I appreciated the fact that here was an opportunity for proving the strength and virility of it, and I said to myself, 'I will have courage, and stick to my program.'"

Wagner stopped walking a moment, and looked about the room as if searching for something. Then he rushed to a corner, and seizing a walking-stick, raised it as if it were a baton.

"Here is Beethoven," he exclaimed, "the working-man in his shirt-sleeves, with his great herculean breast bared to the elements."

He straightened himself up, and, giving the stick a swing, brought it down with an abrupt "Ta-ta-ta-tum!"--the opening measure of Beethoven's "C Minor Symphony":

The whole scene was graphically portrayed. Then throwing himself into a chair, he said: "The effect was electrical on orchestra and audience. There was no more apathy. The air was cleared as by a passing thunder-shower. There was the test."

"When Wagner spoke of Mendelssohn, his tone of voice indicated the gentle refinement of the courtier and his music. When he mentioned Beethoven, his manner was animated and full of enthusiasm.

Wagner's enthusiasm, his openness in taking me at once into his musical confidence, fascinated me, and gave me an insight into the wonderful vitality and energy of the man. He was planning a tramp through the Tyrol, about a week later, with a professor from the Zurich University. "Come along with us," he said. "Alle guten Dinge sind drei" ("All good things are three"). However, I did not feel at liberty to leave my parents to continue their trip alone, as I was acting as interpreter for them. Of course Wagner was not then what he afterward became in the eyes of the world. I now know what I missed.

A WAGNER AUTOGRAPH