Chapter VIII: The Orchestra (3)

Haydn was fortunate in having such a patron as Prince Esterhazy; for, of course, he had no trouble in getting his works performed. For thirty years he had an opera-house, an Orchestra—and both of the best—and a cultivated audience as well; for Prince Esterhazy entertained royal and noble personages and amateurs from every nook and corner of Europe.

When Haydn first went to Eisenstadt the Orchestra numbered eighteen instruments, six violins, viola, violoncello, double-bass, flute, two oboes, two bassoons and four horns. Then it was enlarged to twenty-two and twenty-four instruments, including trumpets and kettledrums. There was a great advance in the Orchestra of Esterhazy as the years rolled by; and the last symphonies that Haydn wrote are very much richer than his early ones.

Haydn represents the Orchestra in the same way that Gluck represents the music-drama, Bach the organ and Handel the oratorio. He has been called the “Father of the Orchestra”; and the name, “Papa Haydn,” that Mozart gave to him, has been affectionately retained by posterity.

Haydn fixed the form of the quartet and the Symphony. Mozart and Beethoven were his actual pupils as well as followers. Yet from Mozart, Haydn learned much in the way of writing for instruments. Haydn left the Orchestra in shape for Beethoven to carry still farther.

Haydn’s Orchestra consisted of the string-quartet, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets and kettledrums.

His practical knowledge of the kettledrums made him very partial to them; and he was the first to give this instrument an individuality and artistic part in the Orchestra.

Haydn introduced a loud blow on the kettledrum in the _Surprise Symphony_ to startle and wake up the audience. “Here all the women will scream,” he laughingly said when he wrote the part.

Regarding Haydn’s quartets we have the following clever and humorous analysis by Stendhal:

“An intelligent woman said that when she heard a quartet of Haydn’s she fancied herself present at the conversation of four agreeable persons. She thought that the first violin had the air of an eloquent man of genius of middle age who supported a conversation, the subject of which he had suggested. In the second violin she recognized a friend of the first, who sought by all possible means to display himself to advantage, seldom thought of himself and kept up the conversation rather by assenting to what was said by the others than by advancing any ideas of his own. The alto was a grave, learned and sententious man. He supported the discourse of the first violin by laconic maxims, striking for their truth. The bass was a worthy old lady, rather inclined to chatter, who said nothing of much consequence, and yet was always desiring to put in a word. But she gave an additional grace to the conversation, and while she was talking, the others had time to breathe. It was, however, evident that she had a secret inclination for the alto, which she preferred to the other instruments.”

_By Gutenbrunn_]

Stendhal, who knew Haydn well, also writes:

“You must know, my friend, that before Haydn, no man had conceived the idea of an Orchestra composed of eighteen kinds of instruments. He is the inventor of _prestissimo_, the very idea of which made the old square toes of Vienna shudder. In music, as in everything else, we have little conception of what the world was a hundred years back; the _Allegro_, for instance, was only an _Andantino_.

“In instrumental music Haydn has revolutionized the details as well as the masses. It is he who has obliged the wind instruments to execute _pianissimo_.

“In the same way as Leonardo da Vinci sketched in a little book which he always carried with him the singular faces he met with, Haydn also carefully noted down the passages and ideas which came into his head. When he was in good spirits and happy he hastened to his little table and wrote subjects for airs and minuets. Did he feel himself disposed to tenderness and melancholy, he noted down themes for _Andantes_ and _Adagios_; and, afterwards, in composing, when he wanted a passage of such a character, he had recourse to his note-book.

“Haydn, like Buffon, thought it necessary to have his hair put in the same nice order, as if he were going out, and dressed himself with a degree of magnificence. Frederick II had sent him a diamond ring; and Haydn confessed that, often, when he sat down to his piano, if he had forgotten to put on his ring, he could not summon a single idea. The paper on which he composed must be of the finest and whitest possible; and he wrote with so much neatness and care that the best copyist could not have surpassed him in the regularity and clearness of his characters. It is true that his notes had such little heads and slender tails that he used, very properly, to call them his _flies’ legs_.

“It is said that no man had such a knowledge of the various effects and relations of colors and the contrasts which they were capable of forming as Titian. Haydn, likewise, possessed an incredible acquaintance with each of the instruments which composed his Orchestra. As soon as his imagination supplied him with a passage, a chord, or a single note, he immediately saw by what instrument it should be executed, in order to produce the most sonorous and agreeable effect. If any doubt arose during the composition of a symphony, his situation at Eisenstadt enabled him easily to resolve it. He rang his bell in the way agreed on to announce a rehearsal; the performers repaired to the rehearsing-room. He made them execute the passage which he had in his mind in two or three different ways; and, having made his choice, he dismissed them and returned to resume his composition.

“Sometimes he supposed that one of his friends, the father of a numerous family, ill provided with the goods of fortune, was embarking for America in the hope of improving his circumstances. The first events of the voyage formed the symphony. It began with the departure. A favorable breeze gently agitated the waves. The ship sailed smoothly out of the port; while on shore the family of the voyager followed him with tearful eyes and his friends made signals of farewell. The vessel had a prosperous voyage and reached at length an unknown land. A savage music, dances and barbarous cries were heard towards the middle of the symphony. The fortunate navigator made advantageous exchanges with the natives of the country, loaded his vessel with rich merchandise and at length set sail for Europe with a prosperous wind. Here the first part of the symphony returned. But soon the sea begins to be rough, the sky grows dark and a dreadful storm confounds together all the chords and accelerates the time. Everything is in disorder on board the vessel. The cries of the sailors, the roaring of the waves, and the whistling of the wind, carry the melody of the chromatic scale to the highest degree of the pathetic. Diminished and excited chords, modulations, succeeded by semitones, describe the terror of the mariners.

“But, gradually, the sea becomes calm, favorable breezes swell the sails and port is reached. The happy father casts anchor in the midst of the congratulations of his friends and the joyful cries of his children and of their mother, whom he at length embraces safe on shore. Everything at the end of the symphony is happiness and joy.

“I cannot recollect to which of the symphonies this little romance served as a clue. I know that he mentioned it to me, as well as to Professor Pichl, but I have totally forgotten it.

“For the subject of another symphony, Haydn had imagined a sort of dialogue between Jesus Christ and an obstinate sinner, and afterwards followed the parable of the Prodigal Son.

“From these little romances were taken the names by which our composer sometimes designated his symphonies. Without the knowledge of this circumstance, one is at a loss to understand the meaning of the titles _The Fair Circassian_, _Roxalana_, _The Hermit_, _The Enamoured Schoolmaster_, _The Persian_, _The Poltroon_, _The Queen_, _Laudohn_, all which names indicate the little romance which guided the composer. I wish the names of Haydn’s symphonies had been retained instead of the numbers.”

When Dr. Burney had nearly finished his immense _History of Music_ he wrote the following words:

“I am now happily arrived at that part of my narrative where it is necessary to speak of Haydn, the admirable and matchless Haydn! from whose productions I have received more pleasure late in my life, when tired of most other Music, than I ever received in the most ignorant and rapturous part of my youth, when everything was new and the disposition to be pleased undiminished by criticism, or satiety.

“The first time I met with his name in the German catalogues of Music is in that of Breitkopf of Leipzig, 1763, to a _Divertimento a Cembalo_, _3 Concerti a Cembalo_, _6 Trios_, _8 Quados_, or _Quartets_, and _6 Symphonies in four_. The chief of his early music was for the Chamber. He is said at Vienna to have composed before 1782 a hundred and twenty-four pieces for the _baryton_, for the use of his prince, who is partial to that instrument and a great performer upon it. Besides his numerous pieces for instruments he has composed many operas for the Esterhazy theatre and Church Music that has established his reputation as a deep contrapuntist.

“His innumerable symphonies, quartets and other instrumental pieces, which are so original and so difficult, have the advantage of being rehearsed and performed at Esterhazy under his own direction, by a band of his own forming, who have apartments in the palace and practise from morning to night in the same room, according to Fischer’s account, like the students in the conservatories of Naples.

“Ideas so new and varied were not at first so universally admired in Germany as at present. The critics in the northern parts of the empire were up in arms. And a friend at Hamburg wrote me word in 1772 that ‘the genius, fine ideas and fancy of Haydn, Ditters and Filtz were praised, but their mixture of serious and comic was disliked, particularly as there is more of the latter than the former in their works; and as for rules, they knew but little of them.’ This is a censure which the admirable Haydn has long since silenced; for he is now as much respected by professors for his science as invention. Indeed his compositions are in general so new to the player and hearer that they are equally unable, at first, to keep pace with his inspiration. But it may be laid down as an axiom in Music that whatever is _easy_ is _old_, and what the hand, eye and ear are accustomed to; and, on the contrary, what is _new_ is, of course, _difficult_, and not only scholars but professors have it to learn. The first exclamation of an embarrassed performer and a bewildered hearer is, that the Music is very _odd_, or very _comical_; but the queerness and the comicality cease, when, by frequent repetition, the performer and hearer are at their ease. There is a general cheerfulness and good humor in Haydn’s _Allegros_ which exhilarate every hearer. But his _Adagios_ are often so sublime in ideas and the harmony in which they are clad that though played by inarticulate instruments they have a more pathetic effect on my feelings than the finest opera air united with the most exquisite poetry. He has likewise movements that are sportive, _folâtres_, and even grotesque, for the sake of variety; but they are only the _entremets_, or rather _intermezzi_, between the serious business of his other movements.”

Haydn’s _Symphonies_ are to-day considered very simple and easy, so it is interesting to learn from Dr. Burney that a hundred years ago they were thought difficult and full of new effects and violent contrasts.

What would Dr. Burney have thought of Richard Strauss!

And now let us place by the side of Dr. Burney’s criticism one by a writer of to-day, which will show us how Haydn is regarded at the present time.

“Of Haydn’s general style as a composer it is hardly necessary to speak. To say that a composition is ‘Haydnish’ is to express in one word what is well understood by all intelligent amateurs. Haydn’s music is like his character—clear, straightforward, fresh and winning, without the slightest trace of affectation, or morbidity. Its perfect transparency, its firmness of design, its fluency of instrumental language, the beauty and inexhaustible invention of its melody, its studied moderation, its child-like cheerfulness—these are some of the qualities which mark the style of this most genial of all the great composers.”[59]

Mozart was, perhaps, the greatest musical genius that ever lived. There was no branch of music in which he did not shine. His life was short. He only lived thirty-five years, but every moment of it was full of music and experience.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in Salzburg in 1756 and died in Vienna in 1791. He picked out chords on the harpsichord when he was only a baby and began to compose when he was but four years old. His sister was also a musical genius; and his father, Leopold Mozart, a violinist of reputation, took these two children on concert tours throughout Europe. They visited all the German cities, Paris and London, and in 1769-1770 they travelled through Italy, where Mozart performed in Rome the great feat of writing from memory Allegri’s famous _Miserere_ performed in the Sistine Chapel during Passion Week.

In reviewing Mozart’s life it seems almost impossible that anyone could have composed so many works, travelled so much and lived so much in the world besides. His long list of compositions includes operas, church-music, pieces for the piano, chamber-music, concertos for nearly every kind of known instrument; and for the Orchestra there is an astonishing number of works, among which forty-nine _Symphonies_ are included!

Such genius cannot be accounted for, nor explained: it has to be accepted. We cannot stop to talk of his many great works. We can only say that the older one grows and the more musical knowledge and experience one has, the more one appreciates the charm and greatness of Mozart.

Mozart had the gift of beauty and grace; and those two qualities blended together produce that quality so hard to define and so easy to feel,—_charm_. _Mozart has charm._

Whatever Mozart does, he, like Raphael, to whom he has been compared, is always beautiful. He is sunny and fresh and smiling, clear and delightful. His melodies, moreover, are like a never-failing spring,—they flow from an inexhaustible source.

Stendhal wrote in 1808:

“Like Raphael, Mozart embraced his art in its whole extent. Raphael appears to have been unacquainted with one thing only,—the mode of painting figures on a ceiling in contracted proportion, or what is termed foreshortening. As for Mozart, I am not aware of any department in which he has not excelled: operas, symphonies, songs, airs for dancing,—he is great in everything. The most remarkable circumstance in his music, independently of the genius displayed in it, is the novel way in which he employs the Orchestra, especially the wind instruments. He draws surprising effects from the flute, an instrument of which Cimarosa hardly ever made any use. He enriches the accompaniment with all the beauties of the finest symphonies.”

_By Cignaroli_]

What did Mozart do towards the development of our modern Orchestra? The question is easily answered. Mozart gave the Orchestra _tone-color_.

We have seen that Bach’s Orchestra and Handel’s Orchestra were both neutral in tint; or, if we prefer, black and white. The instruments all played their separate parts, but their individual _voices_ had as yet hardly been discovered. It is true that Bach and Handel had written solo parts for various instruments, but, as a general thing, the melodies could be sung by one instrument as well as any other. But Mozart had very different ideas regarding instruments. To him a violin was a violin, a flute was a flute, a bassoon was a bassoon and a clarinet was a clarinet. Each instrument had to _speak for itself and with its own true voice_, or _tone-color_. Mozart originated what we may call an _orchestral palette_.

We have all seen a painter’s palette, with the colors arranged in groups of reds and blues and greens, and so on, in their different gradations, or shades. Mozart’s orchestral palette was arranged similarly, only instead of paints he grouped his instruments—his strings, his woodwind, his brass—as he pleased; and he mixed these tone-colors or conspicuously exhibited one of these splendid hues, keeping the others subordinate as an accompaniment.

We all know that light—perfectly white light—can be divided into the seven colors of the rainbow and that all the manifold and varied tints that we see in the world of nature—in sky and earth and sea—in every flower and every fleeting hue that falls upon it—comes from those seven colors. Now Bach and Handel and all the other composers who lived before Mozart had never thought of music as anything but white, so to speak. It was Mozart who broke up this white light into its prismatic hues. It was Mozart who brought the new _beauty of color into music_.

Although Mozart learned much from Haydn, Haydn learned more from Mozart. When Haydn wrote his first _Symphony_, Mozart was three years old. Mozart died while Haydn was enjoying his London triumphs. Haydn’s last _Symphonies_ show the influence of Mozart, though Haydn never reached Mozart’s glowing and brilliant color.

It is singular to remember that Mozart wrote his first Symphony only five years after Haydn wrote his first; but then Mozart was only eight years old! It was, however, a real symphony, in three movements and scored for the usual Orchestra of two violins, viola, bass (violoncello), two oboes and two horns.

Mozart had a very great advantage over Haydn in having heard so much music and so many different Orchestras. At this time there were a great many fine Orchestras in Europe and Mozart heard them all. Particularly notable was that of Mannheim, where Mozart first heard clarinets. “Oh, if we only had clarinets!” he wrote home in 1778. “You cannot think what a splendid effect a symphony makes with flutes, oboes and clarinets!”

The Mannheim Orchestra was generally considered the best in Europe, though some critics thought those of Munich and Vienna were better.

“The excellence of the Mannheim Orchestra—whose performances excited as much admiration among contemporaries as those of the Paris Orchestra under Habeneck’s conductorship at a later date—gained for it the honor of taking a regular share in the Elector’s concerts. The Orchestra contained some of the first artists and _virtuosi_ of the day, such as Cannabich, Toeschi, Cramer, Stamitz and Fränzel among the violins, Wendling as a flute-player, Le Brun and Ramm as oboists, Ritter as bassoonist and Lang as horn-player. But its fame rested chiefly on the excellent discipline of the Orchestra, which, among so many first-rate artists, it was no easy task to maintain. The _Kapellmeister_ at the time of Mozart’s visit was Christian Cannabich (1731-1798), who had succeeded Stamitz in 1775. His compositions were, doubtless, overrated by his contemporaries; but he was admirable as a solo violinist and still better as an orchestral leader, besides being an excellent teacher. The majority of the violinists in the Mannheim Orchestra had issued from his school and to this was mainly owing the uniformity of their execution and delivery. Cannabich, who was more of an organizer than an originator, had experimented with every condition and device for producing instrumental effects and he laid special stress on technical perfection of execution in order to be certain of having good ensemble players.”[60]

Mozart had much to do in raising the standard of the Vienna Orchestra on his return home.

From this time forward the clarinet became conspicuous in Mozart’s compositions.

We get a glimpse of Mozart conducting in 1789 from Jahn. He was in Leipzig:

“At the rehearsal for this concert he took the _tempo_ of the first _Allegro_ of his symphony so fast that the Orchestra was very soon in hopeless confusion. Mozart stopped, told the players what was wrong and began again as fast as before, doing all he could to keep the Orchestra together and stamping the time with his foot so energetically that his steel shoe-buckle snapped in two. He laughed at this; and, as they still dragged, he began a third time. The musicians, now having become impatient, worked in desperation; and at last the movement went right. ‘It was not caprice;’ he explained afterwards to some musical friends, to whom he had been holding forth on the subject of too rapid _tempo_, ‘but I saw at once that most of the players were advanced in years and there would have been no end to the dragging if I had not worked them up into a rage so that they did their best out of pure spite.’ The rest of the symphony he took in moderate time; and after the song had been rehearsed he praised the accompaniment of the Orchestra and said it would be unnecessary to rehearse his concerto: ‘The parts are correctly written out, you play accurately and so do I.’ The result showed that his confidence was not misplaced.”

Mozart is interesting to us in many periods; but we like best to think of him as the tiny prodigy, who was caressed and admired by all the world and who wrote the most delightful, childish letters home inquiring if “Master Canary still sang in G-sharp” and sending “A thousand kisses to Miss Bimberl” (the dog). We like, too, the story of his first composition, as related by an eye-witness:

“Mozart’s father, returning from church one day with a friend, found his son aged five, busy writing.

“‘What are you doing there, my little boy?’ he asked.

“‘I am composing a concerto for the harpsichord, and have almost got to the end of the first part.’

“‘Let me see your fine scrawl.’

“‘No; I have not finished it yet.’

“The father, however, took the paper and showed his friend the sheet full of notes, which could hardly be deciphered for the blots of ink.

“The two friends at first laughed heartily at this scribbling; but after a little time when the father had looked at it with more attention, his eyes were fastened on the paper, and at length, overflowed with tears of joy and wonder.

“‘Look, my friend,’ he said, ‘look. Everything is composed according to rule. It is a pity that the piece cannot be made any use of; but it is too difficult. Nobody would be able to play it.’

“‘It is a concerto,’ replied his little son, ‘and must be studied until it can be played properly. This is the way it should be played.’”

This was the beginning of Mozart’s composition. He wrote no less than six hundred and thirty-six works!

And to his name we will add this tribute:

“I have always been one of the greatest admirers of Mozart and I shall remain so until my last breath,—Beethoven.”

When Mozart heard the boy Beethoven play during his first visit to Vienna in 1787 he said to his friends: “Pay attention to him he will make a noise in the world some day, or other.”

It seems strange to find an English musician writing the following just appreciation of Beethoven in 1818, while the great genius was still living:

“Beethoven’s genius seems to anticipate a future age. In one comprehensive view, he surveys all that science has hitherto produced, but regards it only as the basis of that superstructure which harmony is capable of raising. He measures the talents and resources of every preceding artist, and, as it were, collects into a focus their scattered rays. He discovers that Haydn and Mozart alone have followed nature, yet he explores the hidden treasures of harmony with a vigor superior to either. In sacred music he is pre-eminently great. The dark tone of his mind is in unison with that solemn style which the service of the church requires; and the gigantic harmony which he wields enables him to excite by sounds, a terror hitherto unknown.”

Yes; Beethoven had a dark nature; or, at least, dark clouds frequently floated across his mind. He had everything to make him morose. His life was exceptionally unhappy: he had an unfortunate love-affair; the nephew in whom he placed all his hopes disappointed him; and, finally, he became totally deaf.

“His whole life is like a stormy day. At the beginning—a fresh, clear morning, perhaps a languid breeze, scarcely a breath of air. But there is always in the still air a secret menace, a dark foreboding. Large shadows loom and pass; tragic rumblings; murmuring awesome silences—the furious gusts of the winds of the _Eroica_ and the _C-minor_.”[61]

Ludwig van Beethoven was of Flemish-Dutch origin as the “van” shows. He was, however, born in Bonn in 1770, his birthplace a bare attic. His father was a lazy tenor and his mother a servant. His childhood was most unhappy. Beethoven was marked for sorrow from his earliest years.

He was compelled to practise the violin and harpsichord by his good-for-nothing father, who made him earn his own living, and he soon lost his mother, whom he adored.

In 1787 he visited Vienna and had some lessons from Mozart. In 1788, when but seventeen, Beethoven was playing in the Orchestra of the Elector of Cologne at Bonn.

We get a good idea of what a fine German Orchestra was in 1791 from Charles Louis Junker, who described it in that year, and Beethoven, too, who was then twenty:

“The Elector remained a considerable time at Mergentheim and had some twenty of his band with him. I heard the most exquisite music and made the acquaintance of some first-rate artists.

“On the first day I heard the musical performance, which took place regularly while the Elector dined. There were two oboes, two clarinets, two flageolets, and two horns. These eight players may fairly be called masters in their art. Soon after the musical performance during dinner the play began. It was _King Theodor_, with music by Paisiello.

“The Orchestra was capital, the _piani_, _forti_ and _crescendi_ being exceedingly well observed. Herr Ries, the expert score-reader and player at sight, conducted with the violin. He is worthy of being placed beside Cannabich.[62] His firm, vigorous lead inspires every player with life and spirit.

“The arrangement of the Orchestra was such as I had not seen elsewhere, but I thought it very convenient. Herr Ries stood on a raised platform in the middle of the theatre, and close to the stage where he could be seen by everyone. Immediately below and behind him were a counter violinist and violoncellist; on his right were the first violins, with the second violins opposite them; behind the violins the violas, with the clarinets opposite; behind the violas the counter violin and violoncello; and, last of all, the trumpets. On the conductor’s left were the wind instruments; the oboes with the flageolets opposite and flutes and horns. It would be difficult to find an Orchestra where the violins and basses were so perfect.

“I also heard one of the greatest pianists—the dear, good Beethoven. I heard him improvise. In fact, I, myself, was asked to give him a theme. The greatness of this gentle man as a _virtuoso_ may, I think, be estimated by the almost inexhaustible wealth of his imagination, the skill of his execution and the thorough originality of his expression. I did not find him deficient in any of the attributes of a great artist. In addition to his fluent execution he is suggestive, expressive, telling—in a word he touches the heart, and he is as good in _adagio_ as in _allegro_. The clever artists of this Orchestra are his admirers one and all and listen intently when he plays. But he is modest and quite unassuming.

“The members of this band are, almost without exception in the prime of early manhood and well-educated. They have a splendid physique and, attired in the scarlet and gold uniform of the Prince, their appearance is very striking.

“We have perhaps been accustomed to regard the Electorate of Cologne as a dark land into which rays of enlightenment had never penetrated; but a visit to the Elector’s Court would soon alter this opinion. I found the members of the Orchestra men of very liberal and sound understanding.

“The Elector, the most humane and best of princes, is not only a performer, but an enthusiastic lover of music. At the concert I went to he was the most attentive listener present.”

Beethoven saw Haydn when the latter stopped in Bonn on his way to and from London. In 1792 Beethoven submitted a cantata to Haydn. Haydn praised it and encouraged Beethoven to go on with his studies. After a time the Elector sent Beethoven to Vienna, the main reason being that he should study with Haydn. One of his friends, on parting, advised him to “Labor assiduously and receive Mozart’s spirit from the hands of Haydn.”

Beethoven was then twenty-two. He never returned. Vienna was thenceforth his home.

Beethoven took lessons with Haydn for nearly two years and then went to another master, Albrechtsberger, a very strict contrapuntist, who took great pains with Beethoven but evidently did not think much of him, for he said to a friend: “Have nothing to do with Beethoven. He has learned nothing and will never do anything in decent style.”

Among Beethoven’s friends in Vienna were the Prince and Princess Lichnowsky, who had been patrons of Mozart. They supported a Quartet and an Orchestra and gave musical parties on a large scale. Their Friday evenings were famous.

Music in Vienna was at that time chiefly dependent upon the patronage of the wealthy; for concerts were not paying and they were usually organized for some benevolent purpose.

The Lichnowskys offered Beethoven a home in their palace and a yearly allowance. For ten years, or more, it was at Prince Lichnowsky’s house that almost all of Beethoven’s works were first performed.

He was free to come and go as he pleased and had plenty of time to study and compose. Here he had a great deal of pleasure with the famous Quartet, first known as the Schuppanzigh and afterwards as the Rasoumoffsky.

Notwithstanding his uncouth ways and his passionate temper, Beethoven was a favorite in Vienna society. Haydn called him the Grand Mogul and considered him more of a pianist than a composer.

_By Lebronne_]

“His manner was often abrupt and even aggressive. Perhaps he sometimes appeared so when nothing was further from his intention. A man with the _C-minor Symphony_ ringing in his head might well be excused some forgetfulness of the smaller conventions.

“Hitherto Beethoven’s playing in Vienna had been restricted to the drawing-rooms of his personal friends. It was not till the year 1795 that the public whose curiosity must have been considerably excited by reports of the achievements of the young pianist from Bonn, had an opportunity of witnessing his powers. At the annual concert given at the Burg Theatre, for the benefit of the widows and orphans of musicians, the composer made his first public appearance. Salieri, as usual, conducted, and the programme included, besides an operetta composed by one of his pupils, a ‘Pianoforte Concerto in C-major by L. van Beethoven.’

“On this, as on several other occasions, Beethoven caused something like a panic among his friends by postponing the completion of his composition till the last moment. Two days before the date of the performance the Concerto was still in an unfinished state; one cause of the delay being an attack of the colic, a malady to which the composer was subject. Wegeler was at hand to doctor him as well as he could; and while Beethoven, working at high pressure, filled sheet after sheet of music-paper, they were passed over to four copyists who attended in the next room. Next day at rehearsal a fresh _contretemps_ arose. There was found to be a difference of half a tone between the pitch of the pianoforte and that of the other instruments. To save a general retuning Beethoven seated himself at the piano without hesitation, and played the whole Concerto in C-sharp—not an entirely unprecedented feat, but, nevertheless, one that gives an idea of his thorough mastery over technical difficulties.”[63]

In 1796 Beethoven visited Dresden, Leipzig and Berlin.

In 1800 he left the Lichnowsky house and took lodgings for himself. Thenceforward he spent his summers in the country. He was now deaf.

In 1803 Beethoven gave an important concert in the Theater-an-der-Wien, the programme consisting of the oratorio _The Mount of Olives_, the Piano Concerto in C-minor and the Second Symphony, which was dedicated to Prince Lichnowsky. The final rehearsal took place at eight o’clock in the morning. “A terrible rehearsal,” Ries[64] recorded, “and by half-past two everybody was tired out and more or less discontented. But the genial Lichnowsky, who was present from the beginning, had brought some huge baskets laden with meat, wine and bread-and-butter, and he was soon hard at work, pressing the good things upon each tired musician with both his friendly hands. After this all went well.”

“We are told that Beethoven’s attitude at the piano was perfectly quiet and dignified, with no approach to grimace except to bend down a little towards the keys as his deafness increased. This is remarkable because as a conductor his motions were most extravagant. At a _pianissimo_ he would crouch down so as to be hidden by the desk, and then as the _crescendo_ increased would gradually rise, beating all the time, until at the _fortissimo_ he would spring into the air with his arms extended as if wishing to float on the clouds. When, as was sometimes the case after he became deaf, he lost his place and these motions did not coincide with the music, the effect was very unfortunate, though not so unfortunate as it would have been had he himself been aware of the mistake. In the Orchestra, as at the piano, he was urgent in demanding expression, exact attention to _piano_ and _forte_ and the slightest shades of _nuance_ and to _tempo rubato_. Generally speaking, he was extremely courteous to the band, though there were now and then exceptions.”[65]

“Beethoven was short and thick-set, broad shouldered and of athletic build. A big face, ruddy in complexion—except towards the end of his life, when his color became sickly and yellow, especially in the winter after he had been remaining indoors far from the fields. He had a massive and rugged forehead, extremely black and extraordinarily thick hair through which it seemed the comb had never passed, for it was always very rumpled, veritable bristling ‘serpents of Medusa.’ His eyes shone with prodigious force. It was one of the chief things one noticed on first encountering him, but many were mistaken in their color. When they shone out in dark splendor from a sad and tragic visage, they generally appeared black; but they were usually a bluish gray. Small and very deep set, they flashed fiercely in moments of passion or warmth, and dilated in a peculiar way under the influence of inspiration, reflecting his thoughts with a marvellous exactness. Often they inclined upwards with a melancholy expression. His nose was short and broad with the nostrils of a lion; the mouth refined, with the lower lip somewhat prominent. He had very strong jaws, which would easily break nuts, and a large indentation in his chin imparted a curious irregularity to the face. ‘He had a charming smile,’ said Moscheles, ‘and in conversation a manner often lovable and inviting confidence; on the other hand his laugh was most disagreeable, loud, discordant and strident’—the laugh of a man unused to happiness. His usual expression was one of melancholy. Rellstab in 1825 said that he had to summon up all his courage to prevent himself from breaking into tears when he looked into Beethoven’s ‘tender eyes with their speaking sadness.’ Braun von Braunthal met him at an inn a year later. Beethoven was sitting in a corner with closed eyes, smoking a long pipe—a habit which grew on him more and more as he approached death. A friend spoke to him. He smiled sadly, drew from his pocket a little note-tablet, and in a thin voice which frequently sounded cracked notes, asked him to write down his request.

“His face would suddenly become transfigured, maybe in the access of sudden inspiration which seized him at random, even in the street, filling the passers-by with amazement, or it might be when great thoughts came to him suddenly when seated at the piano. The muscles of his face would stand out; his veins would swell; his wild eyes would become doubly terrible. His lips trembled, he had the manner of a wizard controlling the demons which he had invoked. A Shakespearean visage—King Lear, so Sir Julius Benedict described it.”[66]

Beethoven’s compositions are far too numerous to mention here. We shall only speak of the _Symphonies_.

Beethoven’s very first _Symphony_ showed he was master of the Orchestra.

The Orchestra left by Mozart and Haydn consisted of the four stringed instruments, two flutes, two oboes, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, kettledrums and, occasionally, two clarinets. Neither Mozart nor Haydn ever used trombones in their _Symphonies_. Haydn had used as an exceptional matter in his _Military Symphony_ a big drum, a triangle and cymbals.

The _First Symphony_ is written for two drums (in C and G), two trumpets, two horns, two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, first and second violins, violas and basso. There are one flute and one clarinet more than Mozart used in his _Jupiter Symphony_. One flute only is used in the _Andante_.

Beethoven also for the first time in the history of the Orchestra tuned the kettledrums in the key of the dominant instead of in the key of the movement.

In the _Second Symphony_ the Orchestra is still the ordinary Haydn-Mozart Orchestra without trombones, but _with the addition of clarinets_.

In the _Eroica_ (the _Third_) _Symphony_ we find something new—_three horns_. It was, perhaps, the first appearance of three horns in the Orchestra. In passing, we may recall that in 1805 when Prince Lobkowitz was entertaining Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia at his castle in Bohemia, to honor his guest, who was a remarkable musician and connoisseur, Lobkowitz ordered a performance of the new _Eroica_, by his Orchestra which always attended him. When the _Symphony_ was finished Louis Ferdinand begged to have it repeated, and on the second performance begged to hear it again. “Certainly,” replied Lobkowitz, “only we must first give the Orchestra some supper!”

In the _Fourth Symphony_ only one flute is used. It is scored for two drums, two trumpets, two horns, one flute, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, first and second violins, violas, violoncello and double-bass.

This _Symphony_, lovely as it is, was severely criticised. No one was more satirical than Weber, who was then a young man. He wrote a sketch in which he imagined himself as seeing in a dream all the instruments of the Orchestra grouped around the violins. The double-bass speaks: “I have just come from the rehearsal of a Symphony by one of our newest composers; and though, as you know, I have a tolerably strong constitution, I could only just hold out. Five minutes more would have shattered my frame and burst the sinews of my body. I have been made to caper about like a wild goat and to turn myself into a mere fiddle to execute the no-ideas of Mr. Composer. I’d sooner be a dancing master’s kit at once.”

The first violoncello (bathed in perspiration) says that for his part he is too tired to speak, and can recollect nothing like the warming he has just had since he played in Cherubini’s last opera. The second violoncello is of the opinion that the _Symphony_ is a musical monstrosity, revolting alike to the nature of the instruments and the expression of thought and with no purpose but that of perpetually “showing-off.” The conductor enters and threatens if they are not quiet to make them play the _Eroica Symphony_; and then he makes a speech, telling the instruments that the time has gone by for clearness and force, spirit and fancy, works like those of Gluck and Haydn and Mozart; and that here is the latest Vienna recipe for a _Symphony_: “First a slow movement full of short, disjointed, unconnected ideas, at the rate of three or four notes per quarter of an hour; then a mysterious roll of the drum and passage of the violas, seasoned with the proper quantity of pauses and _ritardandos_; and to end all a furious _finale_, in which the only requisite is that there should be no ideas for the hearer to make out, but plenty of transitions from one key to another—on to the new note at once, never mind modulating—above all things, throw rules to the winds, for they only hamper a genius.”

“At this point,” says Weber, “I woke in a dreadful fright. I was on the road to become either a great composer, or a lunatic.”

The _Fifth Symphony_ is scored for two drums, two trumpets, two horns, two flutes, one flute piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, three trombones, first and second violins, violoncellos, basses and contra-fagotto (double-bassoon).

The piccolo, trombones and double-bassoon here make their first appearance in the symphonies. Beethoven had long known the double-bassoon, for there was one in the Orchestra of the Elector of Cologne.

The _C-minor Symphony_ is of all Beethoven’s works the most popular. It was the work that made him known to the whole world.

Berlioz tells an anecdote of how the _C-minor_ impressed Lesueur, one of Berlioz’s masters, at the Paris Conservatoire when it was first played in Paris. “After the performance,” Berlioz says, “I hurried to see the effect the work had had upon him and to hear his judgment on it. I found him in the passage, red as fire and walking furiously fast. ‘Well, my dear master,’ said I—

“‘Ouf!’ was his reply, ‘I must get out into the air. It is astonishing, wonderful. It has excited and overcome me so that in trying to put my hat on I could hardly find my head. Don’t stop me now, but come to me to-morrow.’

“Early next morning I called on him and we at once rushed into the subject. At length I succeeded in making him repeat the confession of his emotion at the performance, but then with a violent shake of his head and a peculiar smile he said: ‘All the same, such music as that ought not to be made.’ To which I answered: ‘All right, dear master, there’s no fear of much being made like it.’”

The _Pastoral Symphony_ (the _Sixth_) calls for two flutes, one piccolo, two oboes, two clarinets, two horns, two bassoons, two trumpets, two drums, alto and tenor trombones, first and second violins, viola, violoncellos and basses. The trumpets and trombones are used in the _Storm_ only (fourth movement). In the _Andante_ (second movement) there are two solo violoncellos (with _sordini_); the other violoncellos play with the double-basses.

The _Seventh Symphony_ is composed for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, two drums, first and second violins, viola, violoncello and double-basses. The drums are tuned in E and A except in the _Scherzo_, where they are tuned in F and A.

This _Symphony_ was first performed in the University of Vienna at a concert for the benefit of soldiers wounded at the Battle of Hanau (Oct. 30, 1813), where the Austrians and Bavarians tried to cut off Napoleon’s retreat from Leipzig.

Beethoven conducted. Some of the most famous musicians and composers played in the Orchestra. There was Schuppanzigh, Romberg, Spohr, Mayseder and the famous double-bass, Dragonetti (see page 70); Meyerbeer and Hummel played the kettledrums; Moscheles, the cymbals and old Salieri “gave time to the drums and salvos,” says a contemporary, who continued:

“At this concert I first saw Beethoven conduct. Often as I had heard of it, it surprised me extremely. He was accustomed to convey the marks of expression to the Orchestra by the most peculiar motions of his body. Thus at a _sforzando_ he tore his arms, which were before crossed on his breast, violently apart. At a _piano_ he crouched down, bending lower the softer the tone. At the _crescendo_ he raised himself by degrees until at the _forte_ he sprang up to his full height; and without knowing it would often at the same time shout aloud.”

The _Eighth Symphony_ has two drums in F and C, two trumpets in F, two horns in F, two flutes, two clarinets, two oboes, two bassoons, first and second violins, violas, violoncello and double-bass. In the Finale the drums are for the first time tuned in octaves. It was first performed in the Great Redoutensaal, Vienna, on Feb. 27, 1814. The Seventh Symphony was also on the programme and received the most applause.

There is a tremendous gap between the _Eighth_ and the _Ninth Symphonies_. Even Beethoven, Titan that he was and with an orchestra that had developed marvellously under his magic hands, felt that instruments were not sufficient to express the ultimate climax of this mighty work, and, therefore, added human voices to swell the joyous uproar of the last movement. The _Ninth_ was first performed at the Kärnthnerthor Theatre, Vienna, May 7, 1824. The house was crowded. All the principal musicians, professional and amateur, were present. “In a letter to Schindler, quoted by Lenz, he calls the day _Fracktag_, because he had the bore of putting on a smarter coat than usual. On this occasion it was a green coat, and he probably also wore a three-cornered cocked hat. The preparations had somewhat upset him, and his dress had to be discussed with Schindler in one of the conversation-books. His deafness had by this time become total, but that did not keep him out of the Orchestra. He stood by the side of Umlauf, the conductor, to indicate the times of the various movements. The house was tolerably full, though not crowded, and his reception was all that his warmest friends could desire. To use Schindler’s expression it was more than Imperial. Three successive bursts of applause were the rule for the Imperial Family and he had _five_! After the fifth, the Commissary of Police interfered and called for silence! Beethoven acknowledged the applause by a bow. The Scherzo was so completely interrupted—at the _Ritmo di tre battute_, where the drums give the motif—that it had to be begun again. A great deal of emotion was naturally enough visible in the Orchestra; and we hear of such eminent players as Mayseder and Böhm even weeping.

“At the close of the performance an incident occurred which must have brought the tears to many an eye in the room. The master, though placed in the midst of this confluence of music, heard nothing of it at all and was not even sensible of the applause of the audience at the end of his great work, but continued standing with his back to the audience and beating the time, till Fräulein Ungher, who had sung the contralto part, turned him, or induced him to turn round and face the people, who were still clapping their hands and giving way to the greatest demonstrations of pleasure. His turning round and the sudden conviction thereby forced on everybody that he had not done so before because he could not hear what was going on, acted like an electric shock on all present, and a volcanic explosion of sympathy and admiration followed, which was repeated again and again and it seemed as if it would never end.”[67]

The score comprises two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, four horns, two trumpets, two drums, first and second violins, violas, violoncellos and basses. In some of the movements three trombones, a double bassoon, a piccolo, triangle, cymbals and big drum are called for.

“These great works he did as no one ever did and probably no one ever will. But of orchestral music he wrote no more after the _Ninth Symphony_. Music will advance in richness, scope and difficulty; but such music as Beethoven’s great instrumental works, in which thought, emotion, melody and romance combine with extraordinary judgment and common sense and a truly wonderful industry to make a perfect whole, can hardly any more be written. The time for such an event, such a concurrence of the man and the circumstances will not again arrive. There can never be a second Beethoven, or a second Shakespeare. However much Orchestras may improve and execution increase, Beethoven’s _Symphonies_ will always remain at the head of music as Shakespeare’s plays are at the head of the literature of the modern world—‘Age cannot wither them, nor custom stale their infinite variety.’”[68]

In every way possible Beethoven discovered and brought forward the capacities of each individual instrument. Each instrument in the Orchestra was enriched under Beethoven’s touch and given a new standing, a new dignity. The viola, the violoncello, the double-bass, the horn, the trombone and the kettledrum were all brought forward and turned into solo instruments. The clarinet, too, became firmly established as a leading voice.

No composer before him had ever _made the instruments converse_ as did Beethoven. No composer had ever made the strings so flexible, so humorous, so pathetic, so gay, so languorous. Besides, Beethoven was the first to take the violins up into the highest register—into the ethereal domain where Wagner followed.

“When an idea comes to me,” said Beethoven, “I hear it on an instrument, never on a voice.”

“Beethoven is the prophet of the new era which the Nineteenth Century ushered in for mankind. As things must be _felt_ before they can be acted out, so they must be expressed in the indefinite emotional forms of music before they can be uttered and definitely imaged forth in words or pictorial shapes. Beethoven is the forerunner of Shelley and Whitman among the poets, of J. W. Turner and J. F. Millet among the painters. He is the great poet who holds Nature by the one hand and Man by the other. Within that low-statured, rudely outlined figure which a century ago walked hatless through the fields near Mödling or sat oblivious in some shabby restaurant at Vienna, dwelt an emotional giant—a being who—through his outer life by deafness, disease, business-worries, poverty, was shattered as it were into a thousand squalid fragments—in his great heart embraced all mankind, with piercing insight penetrated intellectually through all falsehoods to the truth and already in his art-work gave outline to the religious, the human, the democratic yearnings, the loves, the comradeship, the daring individualities, and all the heights and depths of feeling of a new dawning era of society. He was, in fact, and he gave utterance to, a new type of man. What that struggle must have been between his inner and outer conditions—of his real self with the lonely and mean surroundings in which it was embodied—we only know through his music.”[69]

Beethoven was the last great Classical composer.

With Weber we enter a new school of music—the Romantic; and Carl Maria von Weber stands at the head of this Romantic School.

The word _Classical_ is used in two ways: one, to define old works which have held their place in general estimation for a long time; and the other to describe works, written according to strict ideas of form, usually in the Sonata and Symphonic style. The great classical masters are Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven. The word _Romantic_ is used to define the works of the composers who came directly after the Classical composers and who wished to write in freer form, permitting more play for the imagination.

The great Romantics are Weber, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Chopin.

“Widely as the composers of this new school differed in other respects, they were alike in their susceptibility to the tone of thought and feeling which so deeply colored the romantic literature of their time. None of them were strangers to that weariness, approaching to disgust, of the actual world around them and those yearnings to escape from it which pursued so many of the finest minds of the generation to which they belonged. To such men it was a relief and delight to live in an ideal world as remote as possible from the real one.

_By Schimon_]

“Some took refuge in mediæval legends, where no border divided the natural from the supernatural one; some, in the charms and solitudes of nature; and others in the contemplation of peace and beatitude beyond the grave.”[70]