Chapter VII: Part 7

To the realisation of these the first-fruits of his previous sojourn at Munich Mozart was to owe the establishment of his fame as a dramatic composer of the first rank. 'Idomeneo,' as the new opera was called, fulfilled the high expectations which his Munich friends had formed from the composer's powers. Its reception at the rehearsals rendered success a certainty, and the Elector, who was present, joined with the performers in expressing his unqualified approval. At home the progress of the work was watched with the deepest interest. 'The universal subject of conversation here,' writes Leopold to his son, 'is your opera.' The first performance took place on January 29, and as the Archbishop was then staying in Vienna, Leopold and Marianne journeyed to Munich to witness Wolfgang's triumph. It was a proud and happy moment for all three, and the enthusiastic applause which shook the theatre at the close of the performance must have seemed to the old father, who stood gazing with swimming eyes at the sea of waving hands around him, to set the seal of greatness upon his son's career.

Mozart was soon, however, to taste the bitterness of his bondage by receiving orders from the Archbishop to attend him in Vienna. From the moment of his arrival the arrogant ecclesiastic gave him to understand that, except when his services were required for his master's glorification, he would be expected to take his place amongst the servants of the household, to dine at their table, and to receive the like treatment and consideration. The indignities to which he was subjected beneath the Archbishop's roof, however, did not for a time prevent Mozart from feeling happy, for the aristocracy as a body welcomed him with enthusiasm, and invited him to their houses to dine. To Hieronymus, on the other hand, who was cordially detested by the nobility, and especially by the Emperor Joseph, the fact that one of his musicians--a mere domestic of his establishment--was made the object of all this attention on the part of the great people of Vienna, was in itself sufficient to rekindle the hatred which he had always felt towards Mozart. It was a purely selfish feeling which had induced the Archbishop to reattach Mozart to his Court; and now, when he found that requests were flowing in from the nobility to be allowed to hear the composer play at their own houses, where Hieronymus himself was far from being a welcome guest, he gave full rein to his spite, with the result that Mozart's life speedily became unbearable.

The culminating point was reached when the Emperor purposely left the Archbishop out of the list of guests invited to his summer residence at Laxenburg. Enraged at the slight thus offered to him, Hieronymus before leaving Vienna sought to gratify a portion of his revenge by turning Mozart from his doors. Mozart had just before made up his mind to quit the Archbishop's service, for his treatment had of late become unendurable, and there was every prospect of his being able to make a living in Vienna. He now requested an audience for the purpose of ascertaining his position. Hieronymus seized the occasion for showering upon the head of his Concertmeister all the abuse which he could summon to his aid. Calling him 'villain,' 'low wretch,' 'low fellow of the streets,' the Archbishop declared that none of his servants treated him so badly. 'Your Grace is dissatisfied with me, then?' said Mozart. 'What! you dare to employ threats! Fex! there is the door! I will have nothing more to do with such a vile wretch!' 'Nor I with, you,' was Mozart's retort, as he quitted the room.

Mozart was now virtually free from the intolerable burden under which he had suffered, but his actual discharge was not obtained without further indignity and insult. Leopold Mozart received the news of the rupture with alarm, and endeavoured to induce Wolfgang to reconsider his decision not to return to Salzburg. But even though an official acceptance of his resignation was not then forthcoming, Mozart made a stand for his independence. 'Do not ask it,' he wrote to his father in reply. 'Demand of me anything but that. The very thought of it makes me tremble with rage. I hate the Archbishop almost to frenzy!'

We must pass over the time of struggle which followed the severance of Mozart's connection with the Archbishop, when he found himself with only a single pupil as a visible means of support, but, fortunately, not without friends, and come to the point when, for the second time, he fell in love. He was lodging with his old friends the Webers. Fridolin Weber was dead; Aloysia had married, and was well known as a professional singer; and Madame Weber, with her two unmarried daughters, was living, in reduced circumstances, in Vienna. Mozart's prospects had greatly improved, for his latest opera, 'Entführung aus dem Serail,' had brought him increased fame, both in Vienna and in Prague, and he had secured the patronage of many distinguished personages, in addition to that of the Emperor Joseph. Bachelorhood to him now seemed insupportable. 'To my mind,' he says in a letter to his father, 'a bachelor lives only half a life,' and so he had determined to marry. The object of his choice was Constanze Weber, the third daughter, and, despite Leopold's remonstrances, Mozart made her his bride on August 16, 1782.

His marriage marked the beginning of a new era of struggle, for Constanze, though a devoted wife, was incapable of managing a home, and as their means were uncertain to start with, they were soon involved in a sea of monetary troubles, from which there seemed to be no prospect of their extricating themselves. An unpropitious note had been struck on the very day of the wedding, when it must have appeared to Mozart that he had committed a crime in robbing the family of one of its members. 'As soon as we were married,' he wrote to his father, 'my wife and I both began to weep. All present, even the priest, were touched at seeing us so moved, and wept too.'

With the friends and influence which Mozart's genius had ranged upon his side it was hoped that a post of importance would by this time have been found for him in Vienna. The bestowal of a Court appointment would have relieved him of much of the drudgery of teaching and the anxiety of tiding over periods when pupils and engagements were scarce, but the Emperor, despite his sincere interest in all that concerned the composer, showed a seeming disinclination to make a proposal. Yet there could be no doubt of the appreciation in which Mozart was held at the Court, for in a letter to his father at this time he quotes a remark made by Prince Kaunitz to the Archduke Maximilian on the subject of the Emperor's inaction with regard to retaining Mozart's services: 'That men of that stamp only came into the world once in a hundred years, and that they ought not to be driven out of Germany, especially when, as good luck would have it, they were already in the capital.'

Mozart was, indeed, seriously contemplating a journey to London and Paris, and had even begun to make his preparations, but his father's urgent appeals for patience and further effort had the effect of postponing for the time the carrying out of his schemes. In the meantime Mozart seized the opportunity for which he had been longing of paying a visit to Salzburg to present Constanze to his father, and at the same time of fulfilling a vow which he had made that, if Constanze became his wife, he would have a Mass composed by him for the occasion performed in her honour. It was, on the whole, a very happy visit, and later on, when Mozart and his wife had once more settled down in Vienna, they had the pleasure of welcoming the father on a return visit. Leopold found his son immersed in work, and it gladdened his heart to witness the appreciation in which his playing and compositions were held. One never-to-be-forgotten evening they spent together in the company of Haydn, when, after hearing several of Mozart's quartets performed, Leopold was made the happy recipient of a testimony to his son's greatness, which he treasured above all else that had been spoken or written in his favour, and which came as a fitting reward for the unremitting care and solicitude which he had bestowed upon Mozart's welfare and training. Haydn took the old man aside at the close of the evening, and said: 'I declare to you before God as a man of honour that your son is the greatest composer that I know, either personally or by reputation. He has taste, and, beyond that, the most consummate knowledge of the art of composition.'

This pleasant time was rendered the happier by the fact that Leopold found Wolfgang and his wife in somewhat better circumstances, and their home brightened by the presence of a little grandson, Karl, who clambered upon his grandfather's knee, and filled the old man's mind with tender recollections of a little son whom he had lost before Wolfgang's birth. But it was destined to be the last meeting between Mozart and his father, for shortly after Leopold's return he was seized with illness, on hearing of which Wolfgang wrote to him a letter, in which he expressed his own views on death. 'As death, strictly speaking, is the true end and aim of our lives, I have accustomed myself during the last two years to so close a contemplation of this, our best and truest friend, that he possesses no more terrors for me--nothing but peace and consolation. And I thank God for enabling me to discern in death the _key_ to our true blessedness. I never lie down in bed without remembering that, perhaps, young as I am, I may never see another day, and yet no one who knows me can say that I am melancholy or fanciful. For this blessing I thank God daily, and desire nothing more than to share it with my fellow-men.'

The news of his father's death, which occurred on May 28, 1787, reached Mozart shortly after he had accomplished one of the greatest successes of his life. The name of his latest opera, 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' was on every one's lips; its performances in Vienna and Prague had been hailed with enthusiastic delight by crowded audiences; its songs were to be heard in every street, and wandering minstrels in the country, as they halted at the village alehouses, were compelled to satisfy their groups of listeners with selections from its entrancing airs. Michael Kelly, the singer and friend of Mozart, who took part in the opera, has thus described its reception by the orchestra and performers: 'Never was anything more complete than the triumph of Mozart, and his "Nozze di Figaro," to which numerous overflowing audiences bore witness. Even at the first full-band rehearsal all present were roused to enthusiasm, and when Benucci came to the fine passage, "Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar," which he gave with stentorian lungs, the effect was electric, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated, "Bravo! bravo! Maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!" Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of their violins against the music-desks.' As for Mozart himself: 'I never shall forget his little animated countenance when lighted up with the glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describe it as it would be to paint sunbeams.'

Despite the success of 'Figaro' Mozart still remained a poor man--still was he compelled to earn a living by the hated drudgery of teaching. 'You happy man,' he said to a young musician who was leaving for a tour in Italy; 'as for me, I am off now to give a lesson to earn my bread.' The desire to visit England was once more uppermost in his mind, and when the Emperor, with a view to retaining him in Germany, appointed him Kammer-compositor at a salary of eight hundred gulden (about eighty pounds sterling), it must have occurred to many besides Mozart himself that such a 'beggarly dole' but poorly represented the value which his Majesty professed to set upon the composer's services to art. This feeling was accentuated in Mozart when he discovered how trivial were the requirements of his royal master in connection with the position. 'Too much for what I produce, too little for what I could produce,' were the bitter words which he penned on the official return stating the amount of his salary.

The 'beggarly dole,' indeed, brought small relief to the domestic anxieties which now more than ever oppressed Mozart and his wife. The latter's ill-health necessitated frequent change of air, and in this way tended to increase their embarrassments. Applications to friends for assistance became more and more numerous. 'I am still most unfortunate,' he writes in one of these appeals. 'Always hovering between hope and anxiety.' Repeated attempts were made at reform. Mozart even commenced to keep strict accounts of their expenditure, but they came to nothing, for the want of management was always apparent in every detail of his domestic life. Yet, despite all, the merry side of Mozart's nature refused to succumb to the stress of adversity; amidst his difficulties he retained the sunshine of his boyish days, being as merry-hearted, and full of jokes, and as open as a child. One winter day an old friend found him and his wife dancing madly about the room; knowing Mozart's fondness for this pastime--his favourite of all forms of amusement--the friend expressed his pleasure at finding them so light-hearted, when Mozart, pointing to the empty stove, explained that they were dancing in order to keep themselves warm, as they had no money to purchase fuel. Horror-struck, the caller darted from the house, and returned in a few minutes with his arms laden with logs.

To some extent a natural leaning to extravagance may be held accountable for Mozart's embarrassments, for he was extremely fond of dress, and had a great weakness for lace and watch-chains. But if he indulged his tastes overmuch in this particular, he was no less lavish in regard to giving where he thought help was needed. He could never turn a deaf ear to the appeal of a beggar, and his kindness was frequently imposed upon; even when monetary help was not forthcoming to meet the request of a brother-musician, he would contrive to find time amidst the pressure of his own work to compose a concerto for the latter's benefit. To the animal world, also, his affectionate nature went forth in no small degree, and he became deeply attached to a starling, which had learnt to pipe the subject of the Rondo of his 'Pianoforte Concerto in G Major.'

And if his distresses failed to diminish his joy in the very fact of living, even less did they affect his powers of work. His father had declared that 'procrastination was his besetting sin,' and Mozart was certainly given to putting off the evil day as far as possible; but no one knew better than Leopold Mozart himself how tireless was Mozart's industry, or how boundless his powers of coping with a gigantic task which he had set his mind to accomplish. When, in September, 1787, he was at Prague, writing the score of 'Don Giovanni,' his favourite resort was the vineyard belonging to his friend Duschek, situated close to the city; here he would be seated at his work[13] whilst conversation or skittle-playing went on around him, often quitting his task to join in one or the other. The time was short, for the opera was to be produced on October 29, and when the evening of the 28th arrived it found the overture still unwritten. Nothing daunted, however, Mozart bade his wife brew him some punch, and bring her book of fairy-stories, and then, for hour after hour, he wrote on, whilst Constanze read aloud to keep him awake. When sleep could no longer be resisted he lay down for an hour or two, but when the copyist came for the score at seven o'clock in the morning it was ready for him. His musical memory was so marvellous that the merest scraps of notes, jotted down whilst driving, conversing, or soothing his wife in her pain, were sufficient to recall to mind without the slightest effort the exact ideas which he desired to reproduce. An entire work would thus be completed in his brain before he began to write a single note on paper, and it was no unusual thing for him to be thinking out a second part whilst writing down the first. 'He never composed at the clavier,' says his wife, in speaking of his manner of work, 'but wrote music like letters, and never tried a movement until it was finished.'

The limits of our story forbid even a mention of the compositions which made up the life-work of Mozart; the few to which we have found space to refer are those connected with the chief episodes of his career. Much less can we convey an idea of his powers of improvisation. Hours snatched from sleep would be spent at the piano, and into the silence of the night drifted many a divine melody which no ear but his own was destined to hear. One who lived to be eighty, speaking of those wonderful improvisations, says: 'I still, in my old age, seem to hear the echo of those heavenly harmonies, and I go to my grave with the full conviction that there can never be another Mozart.'

It was at such times that the inspiration of true genius shone forth in his expression. Ordinarily there was nothing distinguished about his appearance; the head, with its profusion of fine hair, was somewhat too large for the body, which was short and slim; the face was pale, and the nose a rather too prominent feature; the eyes were large, well-shaped, and shaded by long lashes and bushy eyebrows, but the expression was absent and restless. When seated at the piano, however, the whole countenance changed; the eye became calm and fixed, and every movement of his muscles spoke the emotion which his playing expressed.

Even the success of 'Don Giovanni'--at the performance of which the Prague audience greeted Mozart's appearance in the orchestra with thunders of applause and a triple flourish of trumpets--failed to remedy the desperate condition into which his affairs had fallen; and when his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed that he should accompany him to Berlin, Mozart gladly accepted the invitation. The visit, however, was productive of much honour, but very little money, and at its conclusion he wrote to his wife: 'On my return you must be glad to have _me_, and not think about money.' The King of Prussia received Mozart with every mark of kindness and respect, and being himself very musical, and desirous of having the best musicians about him, he sought Mozart's advice regarding the proficiency of his band. 'It contains some great players,' replied Mozart; 'but if the gentlemen would _play together_ they would make a better effect.' The King was evidently much impressed by this remark, for before Mozart left he offered him the post of Capellmeister, with a salary of three thousand thalers (equal to about six hundred pounds sterling). Mozart was deeply affected by the munificent offer, and for the moment he hardly knew how to reply; then, reflecting how much he owed to the Emperor Joseph for the latter's friendship and interest, he said: 'How could I abandon my good Emperor?'

Though his loyalty had thus withstood the temptation of an offer which, if accepted, would have ensured his liberation from the 'net of embarrassments' in which he was so hopelessly entangled, the feeling of resistance weakened later on, when his return to Vienna revealed no improvement in the situation of affairs. Yielding therefore to the advice of others, he told the Emperor of the King of Prussia's offer, and at the same time tendered his resignation. Dismayed by this unlooked-for resolution, the Emperor exclaimed: 'What, Mozart, do you mean to forsake me?' The tone in which this remonstrance was uttered, and the expression which accompanied it had their effect upon the tender-hearted, grateful Mozart, and with emotion he answered: 'Your Majesty, I throw myself upon your kindness--I remain.'

Thus perished the only chance which was destined to fall within Mozart's grasp of freeing himself from his troubles, for soon afterwards the Emperor fell ill and died, and no renewal of the Berlin offer was forthcoming.

The coronation of the Emperor Joseph's successor, the Emperor Leopold, took place at Frankfort, on October 9, 1790, and Mozart journeyed thither for the occasion, having first pawned all his valuables in order to raise the necessary funds. Whatever hopes Mozart may have built upon the results of this tour were doomed to disappointment, for though he visited and played at several towns on his return journey, and was the recipient of numerous honours, his efforts produced no permanent fruit, and the horizon remained as dark as ever. His arrival in Vienna was timed with the departure of Haydn, whom Salomon, the impressario, had come to carry off to London, and it was with a heart heavy with gloomy forebodings that Mozart said good-bye to his truest friend.

The month of July, 1791, found Mozart hard at work writing a magic opera to help a friend who had taken a little theatre in the suburb of Wieden. Whilst thus engaged he was visited by a stranger, 'a tall, thin grave-looking man, dressed from head to foot in grey,' who refused to divulge his name, but stated that his business was to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem for a personage whose identity must likewise remain concealed.[14] After a brief colloquy the terms were arranged, and the mysterious stranger rose to take his leave. As he did so he looked fixedly at Mozart, and said warningly: 'Make no effort to discover the identity either of myself or your patron; it will be in vain.'

Though somewhat disconcerted by the stranger's mysterious injunction, Mozart felt all his love for Church music reawakened by the new commission, and he set to work upon the Requiem without delay. His labours on this composition, as well as on the magic opera, however, were interrupted by a pressing request from the Estates of Bohemia that he would compose an opera for the coronation of Leopold II. at Prague. As the ceremony was fixed for September 6 no time was to be lost, and, banishing every other thought from his mind, Mozart prepared to set out at once for Prague. The travelling carriage was at the door, and he was about to step into it when the mysterious stranger suddenly appeared, and inquired after the Requiem. Startled by the suddenness of the man's appearance, and at a loss to explain his remissness, Mozart could only promise to fulfil the commission on his return, and, hastily entering his carriage, he drove away.

The strain involved by his arduous labours at Prague was increased by the indifference with which his opera, 'La Clemenza di Tito,' was received, and Mozart returned to Vienna with spirits depressed, and mind and body exhausted by overwork. Nevertheless, he braced himself anew, and on September 30 the new opera, 'Die Zauberflöte' (the Magic Flute) was produced. Though somewhat coldly received at first, the work increased in popularity at each subsequent representation, until its success was everything that could be desired. A friend who had a place in the orchestra on the first performance relates that he was so enchanted with the overture that he crept up to the chair in which Mozart sat conducting, and, seizing the composer's hand, pressed it to his lips. Mozart glanced kindly at him, and, extending his right hand, gently stroked his cheek.

The Requiem was still far from finished, and to this work Mozart now turned his attention. But it was too late; the strain and excitement which he had undergone during the past few months had done their work, a succession of fainting fits followed, and it was evident that the marvellous powers which he had controlled in the past were no longer under his command. With fast-fleeting strength came the oppressive thought, haunting him from day to day, that he would not live to complete the work. 'It is for myself that I am writing this Requiem,' he said one day to Constanze, whilst his eyes filled with tears. Vainly she endeavoured to comfort him; he declared that he felt his end approaching, and, indeed, death--the 'best and truest friend'--was very near him now, far nearer than they who gathered about his bed, and sought to cheer him with the news that his freedom from anxiety was at last to be assured by the combined action of the nobility in securing to him an annuity--far nearer than they, or other well-wishers, whose tardy recognition of his claims had come too late, imagined. He who had 'always hovered between hope and anxiety' was now hovering between life and death, soon to be released from all earthly travail.

On the evening of December 4 they brought the score of the Requiem to him at his request, and, propped up by pillows, he began to sing one of the passages, in company with three of his friends. They had not proceeded far, however, before Mozart laid the manuscript aside, and, bursting into tears, declared that it would never be finished. A few hours later, at one o'clock in the morning of December 5, 1791, he passed away in sleep.

The body was removed from the house on the following day,[15] and taken to St. Stephen's Church, where it received benediction. The hearse, with the few mourners, then proceeded to St. Mark's Churchyard, but before the burial-place was reached a terrific storm of snow and rain burst overhead, and with one accord the followers turned back, and left the hearse to proceed alone. And thus the master of whom it was prophesied that he would cause all others to be forgotten--he whose triumphs had caused him to be acclaimed by thousands as 'grande Mozart'--was left to be buried by the hands of strangers in a pauper's grave, without even a stone to mark the spot where he was laid.

And to this day no one knows exactly which is the resting-place of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This manuscript book is preserved in the Mozart Museum at Salzburg, and beneath several of the pieces may be seen the notes made by the father at the time. For example, 'Wolfgang learnt this Minuet and Trio in half an hour, when he was five.' or 'Wolfgang learnt this Minuet when he was four.'

[12] 'Have mercy'--a psalm of supplication.

[13] The room and the stone table at which he worked are still shown to visitors at the Villa Bertramka, Koschirz.

[14] It was ascertained after Mozart's death that this personage was a certain Count Walsegg, who desired a Requiem to be performed in memory of his wife. The messenger was his steward. The reason for secrecy was that the Count intended to pass off the Requiem as his own composition, and in this he actually succeeded.

[15] Mozart died of malignant typhus fever.

MOZART'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS

OPERAS, ETC.:
Bastien und Bastienne. 1768.
La finta Semplice. 1768.
Mitridate, Ré di Ponto. 1770.
Ascanio in Alba. 1771.
La finta Giardiniera. 1774.
Il Ré Pastore. 1775.
Zaida. 1780.
King Thamos. 1780.
[The three motets, 'Splendente Te Deus,' 'Ne pulvis et cinis,'
and 'Deus Tibi laus et honor,' are adaptations from this work.]
Idomeneo, Ré di Creta. 1781.
Die Entführung aus dem Serail. 1782.
Der Schauspieldirector. 1786.
Le Nozze di Figaro. 1786.
Il Don Giovanni. 1787.
Cosi fan tutte. 1790.
Die Zauberflöte. 1791.
La Clemenza di Tito. 1791.
15 Masses (1768-1783) and 1 Requiem (1791).
[The masses published by Novello as No. 7 (B-flat), No. 8 (C),
No. 9 (G), No. 12 (G), Nos. 13 and 16 (E-flat--one Mass), and
No. 17 (C), are not considered authentic. The same may be said
of the Requiem in D minor (No. 18). The celebrated Requiem
(also in D minor, Novello, No. 15) was completed by Süssmayer
after Mozart's death. The well-known Novello No. 1 (in C) and
No. 2 (also in C) were composed in 1779 and 1776.]
4 Litanies.
2 Vespers. 1779 and 1780.
[The 'Laudate Dominum' (in A) of the earlier setting is well
known.]
Te Deum in C. 1772.
Motet, Ave verum. 1791.
Cantata, Davidde Penitente. 1785.
41 Arias for different voices.
6 Vocal Trios and 1 Quartet.
41 Symphonies.
[The earliest symphony was in E-flat (1764). Mention may also be
made of three in the key of D--the Parisian (1778), the Haffner
(1782), and the Prague (1786)--and of his three last and
greatest--in E-flat, G minor, and C, the Jupiter--all composed
in 1788.]
31 Divertimenti, Serenades, etc.
Masonic Dirge in C minor. 1785.
8 Quintets for strings.
1 Quintet for clarinet and strings. 1789.
26 Quartets for strings. 1770-1790.
[The six quartets dedicated to Haydn were composed in 1782-85.]
6 Concertos for violin.
4 Concertos for horn.
1 Concerto for clarinet. 1791.
25 Concertos for pianoforte.
[We may mention the Concerto in D (1773), in D minor (1784), that
in G (1784), two in C (1784 and 1786), and one in C minor (1786).]
Concerto for two pianofortes in E-flat. 1780.
Concerto for three pianofortes in F. 1776.
2 Quartets for pianoforte and strings.
7 Trios for pianoforte and strings.
42 Sonatas for pianoforte and violin.
[The sonata in B-flat, dedicated to Mlle. Strinasacchi, was
composed in 1784.]
17 Sonatas for pianoforte solo.
5 Sonatas for pianoforte, four hands.
Rondo in A minor for pianoforte. 1787.
17 Sonatas for organ, with accompaniment.

BEETHOVEN

BEETHOVEN

It was a beautiful spring morning; the sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the birds were singing blithely on the branches of the trees just outside the window, as if inviting the child who stood within to come out into the sunshine and be as free and happy as themselves. But he could not respond to their call, for he was not yet half-way through his long task. A pitiful little figure he made, mounted on a footstool in front of the pianoforte, with his head resting wearily on his hand, and his absent, dreamy gaze fixed upon the window. Scarcely five years old, and yet condemned to practise endless finger-exercises until his eyes grew dim with straining over the notes; kept a prisoner indoors, apart from his playmates, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing--and all because he happened to possess a great gift for music, and because his father, realising this fact, had determined to use the child's talents for the support of the family.

Suddenly the door of the sitting-room opened, and a stern face was thrust inside.

'Ludwig!'--the tone was harsh and severe, and at the well-known sound the boy awoke from his reverie--'Ludwig! what are you doing? Go on with your exercise at once, and remember there will be no soup for you until it is finished.'

Then the door closed again, and Ludwig turned with a sigh to his monotonous task. Why should his life be made so much harder than that of other children? he might have asked himself bitterly. It was not that he disliked music--no, he loved it--but he yearned for the brightness and sympathy which seemed to be given freely to others, and yet were denied to him. And as he strove to master his long exercise his eyes wandered from the music to a portrait which hung over the piano. It represented an elderly gentleman with a kindly face, bushy dark hair, and large dark eyes. It was a humorous face, not handsome, yet frank and pleasant, and decidedly clever. How clearly Ludwig could recall the bright blue coat, with its large gilt buttons, which the artist had faithfully portrayed! As the boy's glance rested upon the portrait the recollection of the merry times he had spent with his grandfather was presented to his mind. Once more he heard the old man's genial laugh, and felt the gentle pressure of his hand upon his curls. And then his playing! How little Ludwig had listened enrapt whilst Grandfather Ludwig charmed forth those mysterious melodies which seemed to be locked up at other times in the silent, prim little clavier! Those were delicious day-dreams that Grandfather Ludwig had the power to conjure up in his grandson's mind. But two years had passed since the kindly old musician had gone to his rest, and during those years the surroundings of Ludwig's childhood had changed for the worse.

The parents of Ludwig van Beethoven, as the boy was named, were extremely poor. Johann Beethoven, the father, was a member of the Court band of the Elector of Cologne, at Bonn, in which town Ludwig was born on December 16, 1770. The German Princes of those days maintained companies of musicians for the performance of Divine service in their chapels, as well as for their private entertainment, and such companies frequently comprised musicians of considerable ability. Johann's position as tenor singer was but a humble one, bringing in not more than £25 a year. The grandfather, who also belonged to the band, first as bass singer, and later as music director, had, on the other hand, achieved a considerable reputation, both as performer and composer, and during his latter years his earnings had gone far to support Johann's family, with whom he lived. With the old man's death, however, this help ceased, and the family means became greatly reduced.

It was, no doubt, in consequence of the privation felt at this time that the father was induced to keep Ludwig so hard at work. Mozart as a boy had exhibited marvellous powers, and his performances in public at an early age were attended by success. Johann, therefore, seemed to think that his little son would have a chance of earning money by his forced capacities for music. That a child of such tender years should have been regarded in the light of a bread-winner for the family appears unreasonable and hard; and it is not to be wondered at that Ludwig failed to understand the necessity which led to such pressure being put upon him. In his mother, Marie Magdalena, however, he could always find a ready sympathy and a tenderness which must have served to counteract, to some degree, the unhappiness occasioned by the father's severity. But not even a mother's love could make up for the loss the child had sustained by his grandfather's death, for the excellent qualities of head and heart which the old man had exhibited were just those which the boy missed in his father. To Ludwig music meant everything--or, rather, it would have meant everything, even at that early time, had its development only been continued under the same kindly influence.

Despite his severity and unreasonableness, however, Johann must be credited with the determination that his boy's knowledge of music should be as thorough as it was possible to make it with the means at his command, and to this end he spared no pains. Moreover, in order that Ludwig should not grow up in complete ignorance of subjects which lay outside his art, he was sent to the public school of Bonn to pick up what learning he could, though this chiefly comprised reading and writing. With his schoolfellows Ludwig had little in common. They thought him shy, because he kept to himself, and showed no desire to join in their games. The truth was his mind was almost wholly absorbed by music, and the consciousness that this great love had taken possession of his soul, and was growing stronger day by day may have made him inapt for games or boyish society, and thus may have led to his taking refuge in his own thoughts. In the companionship of music he could never have felt lonely, and in his walks between school hours he found plenty to interest him. He never tired of sounding Nature for her harmonies, and as he pursued his way through the fields and lanes he listened to the peasants singing at their work, and then, catching up the simple tunes, he fitted his own notes to them, so as to produce beautiful and subtle effects of harmony. Many of those old folk-tunes were closely connected with the history of the country to which they belonged; they were often the musical expression of the feelings, struggles, and passions of the people, and to Beethoven's sensitive ear they conveyed a deeper meaning than they did to the simple peasants who hummed or carolled them to the whirr of the spinning-wheel, the blows of the forge-hammer, or the speeding of the plough.

Thus, with the drudgery of unremitting toil and constant reproof, the years passed away until Ludwig was nearly nine. Hard as the lessons of those years had been, there could be no doubt as to the progress which he had made. Not even the severity and harshness of his father could lessen or abate his yearning for musical knowledge; and so it came about that one day Johann, regarding him with an expression more akin to pride and satisfaction than that which Ludwig was accustomed to read in his father's face, said, 'I can teach you no more; we must see about finding you another master.'

But how this was to be accomplished it is as difficult for us as it must have been to Johann himself to imagine; for, so far from the family circumstances having improved, the poverty was even more acute than before, and such further efforts as the father may have been induced to make to increase their comforts were negatived by his growing addiction to drink--a fact which must of itself have caused a further reduction in their resources. Fortunately, at this critical period help was forthcoming in the shape of a musician boarder, who agreed to give instruction to Ludwig in part return for his accommodation.

The coming of Tobias Pfeiffer, as the new boarder was named, must have been regarded by Ludwig with some curiosity. Would he turn out an even harder task-master than his own father had been? This question was soon settled by the glimpse which Tobias early gave to his pupil of his peculiar method of imparting instruction. Johann's evenings were now chiefly spent at some tavern resort, whither it became the custom for Tobias to repair at a very late hour, in order that he might give his drunken landlord a safe convoy home. By this friendly help the erring Johann escaped falling into the hands of the police--an eventuality which would have resulted in his losing his employment. Having fulfilled his friendly mission, Pfeiffer would betake himself to Ludwig's bedside, and, with a shake which soon became familiar, would arouse the boy with, 'Now then, Ludwig, time for practice!' At this gentle admonition the sleepy child would rise obediently, rubbing his eyes, and master and pupil descended to the sitting-room, where they would play together till the early hours of the morning--Pfeiffer giving out a theme, and Beethoven extemporising upon it, and then Ludwig in his turn giving the lead to Pfeiffer. Extemporisation would be followed by duets, until the approach of day gave warning that it was time to retire to bed. Such music as these two players made in the still hours of the night was, no doubt, but rarely heard in the district in which they lived, and on the other side of the open window, in the early dawn of the summer morning, a small knot of listeners frequently gathered, attracted by the unusual performance proceeding within.

For about a year this curious mode of instruction continued, and during this time Ludwig's education received a stimulus in the shape of lessons in Latin, French, Italian, and Logic, given by a man named Zambona. This Zambona was an eccentric personage, whose peculiarities would appear to have been well adapted to the condition of things prevailing in the Beethoven home. He apparently considered himself qualified to fill a variety of posts, as he had acted as innkeeper, chamber-porter at the Court, and book-keeper, in addition to being a teacher of languages; but his worth was proved by the fact that Beethoven made good progress under his tuition. Hitherto Ludwig's playing had been confined to the pianoforte and violin, but at this point a friendly hand was held out to him by an old friend of his grandfather, named Van den Eeden, who for many years had held the post of organist at the Court. 'Come to me, and I will teach you the organ,' the kindly old musician said to Ludwig, and the boy's heart leapt with pleasure at the generous offer. No doubt Van den Eeden saw in the young player the signs of genius such as his old friend had exhibited in no small degree in past years, and felt drawn towards him in consequence. A new field was thus opened to Beethoven, and when, at the end of a year, Van den Eeden resigned on account of ill-health, and the post was given to Christian Neefe, Ludwig was happy in the discovery of a new friend, who not only expressed his willingness to carry on the instruction, but was quick to recognise the boy's extraordinary talent. At this point of our story we get our first glimpse of the fruits of Beethoven's work at composition. The death of a friend who had assisted the family with money gifts inspired him to write a cantata in his honour; but though it was performed at the funeral, no trace exists for us of this little outcome of gratitude on Beethoven's part.

Ludwig was now ten years old, and in the winter of 1781 he made his first essay at bread-winning for the family. The state of things at home was wretched in the extreme, and the hopelessness of looking to the father to retrieve the condition into which they had fallen decided Ludwig's mother upon undertaking a tour through Holland with the boy, in the hope that his playing at the houses of the rich might bring in money. We may well believe that sheer necessity alone impelled the gentle, ailing woman to such a step. Her faith in her son's powers was evidently of a higher order than that of Johann, and she must have seen that this exhibition of his talents at so early an age not only implied an interruption to his studies, but also, to some extent, a debasing of the art which she felt that he loved for its own sake. The tour produced money--that chiefest need of the moment--and, so far, it was a success; but Ludwig himself did not carry away any pleasing recollections of his visit. 'The Dutch are very stingy, and I shall take care not to trouble them again,' he afterwards remarked to a friend; and there was no repetition of the experiment.

In the following year a notice appeared in _Cramer's Magazine_, calling the attention of music-lovers to a young player who, though not more than eleven years old, could play with force and finish, read well at sight, and--most remarkable of all--play the greater part of Bach's 'Wohltemperirte Klavier' (Well-tempered Clavier), 'a feat,' declared the writer, 'which will be understood by the initiated.' 'This young genius,' the article went on to say, 'deserves some assistance that he may travel. If he goes on as he has begun, he will certainly become a second Mozart.'

The writer of this notice was Christian Neefe, and the subject of his praise was none other than his pupil, Ludwig Beethoven. That the boy should have mastered a work of such extraordinary difficulty as Bach's collection of preludes and fugues may well have excited the astonishment of his friend and teacher, whose praise was thus deservedly given. But Neefe's confidence in his pupil's abilities was shown in a more substantial manner during this same year. Van den Eeden's death took place in June, and when the Court band had played the old organist to his last resting-place Neefe received orders to proceed with the rest of the performers to Münster, whither the Elector had already gone. Two days before the band left Bonn Neefe called Beethoven to his side, and told him that he was going away for a time. 'I must have a deputy to take my place at the organ here,' continued the organist, looking keenly into his pupil's face as he spoke. 'Now, tell me, who do you think I ought to appoint to the post?'

Ludwig's face was crossed by a shade of trouble. If his kind tutor was going away, how did he know whether he would find his deputy equally willing to teach him? But Christian Neefe was waiting for his answer, and his eyes were shining with a kindly, half-amused light. 'I do not know,' Ludwig began hesitatingly. But Neefe's eyes had grown serious, and he now spoke with earnestness.

'I have thought of a deputy, Ludwig, and I think I can trust him--yes, I am sure I may trust him. The deputy shall be yourself!'

Beethoven's surprise and delight may be imagined. But Neefe knew what he was about, and in this preferment we may mark the first step in the recognition of Beethoven's genius. The honour was great. To be entrusted with the conduct of Divine service at the chapel, and to receive the deference due to the position of organist--it must have seemed incredible to Ludwig at first; and he was only eleven and a half! To his mother he must first have carried the good news, and if the father's expression had in it less of joy and thankfulness than hers it must be attributed to the fact that no pay was attached to the exalted position which Ludwig had obtained.

Beethoven had now practically the choice of three instruments to select from; but his heart did not waver for long, ere it became fixed upon the pianoforte as the fittest interpreter of his genius, and he was true to his first love to the end. His 'Three Sonatas for the Pianoforte,' written about this time, gives us the first record of his published works. Evidently those terrible finger exercises were beginning to bear fruit, for the young musician had acquired considerable command over the instrument of his choice--indeed, his musical life was now beginning to open itself before him, and the longing to do great things had taken possession of his soul. There were no more tears at being forced to work, for the greatest incentives to work--love and ambition--were now swaying him and impelling him onwards at a speed which nothing could check. Neefe's confidence and praise were more than justified, and before he had completed his thirteenth year Beethoven received his first official appointment at the hands of the Elector. He could now sign himself 'Ludwig van Beethoven, Cembalist im Orchester,' and his duties comprised not only the playing of the pianoforte in the orchestra, but the conducting of the band at rehearsals. With this accession, however, there was still the fact staring him in the face of no money coming in. Just at this time, too, the Elector Max Friedrich died; and it was not until a year later, when Beethoven was appointed second organist to the Court, under the new Elector Max Franz, that he began to receive a small salary in return for his services. Thirteen pounds a year sounds very little for so much work and responsibility, but Ludwig was overjoyed to think that he could back up his announcement to his parents with so substantial a fact as the receipt of an income. For the poverty at home was keener than ever; Johann's earnings did not exceed £25 a year, and as his voice was steadily declining, the outlook for the family had become exceedingly black.

The time would not appear to have been propitious for joking; nevertheless, Beethoven sat in the organ-loft one day planning a joke. He had just had a conversation with one of the chief singers of the band--a tenor named Heller--and the latter had been boasting that his knowledge of singing was so great that he could easily surmount any difficulty as it presented itself. Beethoven inherited from his grandfather a love of joking, and the temptation to lower the singer's vanity was too great to be resisted. Accordingly, on the following Sunday, whilst Heller was singing a solo to Ludwig's accompaniment, the latter adroitly introduced a modulation of his own. Heller unsuspectingly followed his lead, and fell into the trap devised for him, with the result that, after attempting to keep up with the organist, he lost himself entirely and, to the astonishment of the congregation, came to a dead stop; and it was only when Beethoven returned to the original key that the disconcerted singer could proceed. Heller was naturally furious at the trick played upon him, and lodged a complaint with the Elector. The latter, however, was too good a musician himself to be angry at this exhibition of skill on the part of his youngest performer, and he contented himself with admonishing Beethoven not to attempt any more clever tricks.

There was a dream which had taken possession of young Beethoven's mind at this time. It was constantly recurring during the hours of work, and when he lay down to sleep in his poorly-furnished attic it was with the hope that the dawning of a new day might bring him nearer to its realisation. Yet for some time the dream remained only a shadowy companion to his working thoughts, ever present, it is true, and sometimes glowing in brighter colours that seemed to give to it the semblance of reality--but still, only a dream. But the vision seen afar off was to be realised at length--Beethoven was to visit Vienna! It was the city of his dreams, the centre of his longings, this Vienna, just as it was the centre of the musical world of Germany at that time. A kind friend had come forward with the offer to pay his expenses for the journey, and Ludwig knew that his dream had come true.

As we have seen, the dire straits into which the family had fallen had not hindered Beethoven's pursuit of musical knowledge. His genius had steadily asserted itself under the most adverse conditions; and now we are to picture the young musician, at the age of seventeen, full of fire and energy, setting out on a journey which must have been fraught with the brightest anticipations. He was to meet in Vienna the greatest composer of the day. Mozart--the divine Mozart--was staying in the city, planning the production of his opera, 'Don Giovanni,' and it had been arranged that he should receive Beethoven and put his powers to the test.

On reaching Vienna, Ludwig made his way to Mozart's house, and with a heart beating high with expectancy, and a face aglow with excitement, he was ushered into the presence of the maestro. Mozart received him kindly, but it was evident that his thoughts were preoccupied, for, after desiring Beethoven to play, he began to turn over his papers in a listless fashion. 'Ah!' thought Beethoven; 'he imagines that I have merely come to play him something which I have practised for the occasion.' Dismayed by this reflection, he took his hands from the keyboard and, turning to Mozart, said, 'Will you give me a theme on which to extemporise?' Aroused by his appeal, and the earnest look which accompanied it, Mozart sat down and played a simple theme; and then Beethoven, taking up the slender thread, improvised so finely--allowing his feelings to flow into the music as he went on--that a bystander could not fail to have been struck by the change which came over Mozart's face as he listened. The abstracted look gave place to one of pure astonishment. Then he arose from his seat, and, stepping softly into an adjoining room, where a number of his friends were waiting to see him, he exclaimed, 'Pay attention to this young man, for he will make a noise in the world some day.' Beethoven, meanwhile, played on and on, lost in the intricate melodies which he was weaving out of the single thread, until the touch of Mozart's hand upon his shoulder recalled him to earth to hear the master's praises sounding in his ear.

Vanished in a moment were the memories of the trials and hardships which he had undergone in order to perfect himself for this day of trial, for Beethoven realised that he possessed the power of impressing so great a judge as Mozart; and praise and encouragement were needed at that time, when he was trying to do his best, rather than later on, when his powers were assured. Nor was this the only recognition which his talents received on his visit. The fame of the young player had reached the ears of royalty itself, and he was granted an audience of the Emperor Joseph, whose love of music had made him desirous of hearing for himself what the Bonn performer could do.