Chapter III: Foreword (3)

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

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

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

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

It was Holy Week when young Mozart and his father entered Rome, and the city lay under the spell of the great festival of the year. They soon joined the throngs that filled the vast temple of St. Peter's, to which all turn during this solemn season. After attending a service and viewing the treasures of the Cathedral, they turned their steps to the Sistine Chapel, which contains the wonderful painting of the Last Judgment by Michael Angelo. It was here that the celebrated Miserere by Allegri was performed. Wolfgang had been looking forward to this moment all through the latter part of his journey. His father had told him how jealously guarded this music was; it could never be performed in any other place, and the singers could never take their parts out of the chapel. He was intensely eager to hear this work. And indeed it would be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful and impressive than the singing of the Miserere, which means "Have Mercy." It follows the solemn service called Tenebrae, (Darkness) during which the six tall candles on the altar are extinguished one by one,--till but one is left, which is removed to a space behind the altar. Then in almost complete darkness the Miserere begins. A single voice is heard singing the antiphon, or short introduction,--and then comes silence, a silence so profound that the listener scarcely dares to breathe for fear of disturbing it. At length the first sad notes of the supplication are heard, like the softest wailing of an anguished spirit; they gradually gain force till the whole building seems to throb with the thrilling intensity of the music.

The young musician was profoundly moved; the father too was much affected by the solemn service. Neither spoke as they left the chapel and sought their lodgings. After they had retired the boy could not sleep; his thoughts were filled with the wonderful music he had heard. He arose, lit the lamp, and got out pens and music paper. He worked industriously the long night through. When morning dawned the boy sat with his beautiful head upon his folded arms, asleep, while before him on the table lay a score of the Miserere of Allegri, entirely written from memory.

The next day, Good Friday, the Miserere was performed for the second time. Wolfgang, the boy of fourteen, who had performed the wonderful feat of writing this work out after one hearing, again attended the service, keeping the score in his hat, and found his work was nearly perfect, needing but a couple of trifling corrections.

The news of this startling feat gained for the young musician a cordial welcome into the houses of the great in Rome; during their stay father and son were fêted to their hearts' content.

At Naples, their next stopping place, Wolfgang played before a brilliant company, and excited so much astonishment, that people declared his power in playing came from a ring he wore on his finger. "He wears a charm," they cried. Mozart smiled, took off the ring and played more brilliantly than ever. Then the enthusiasm was redoubled. The Neapolitans showed them every attention and honor. A carriage was provided for their use, and we have an account of how they drove through the best streets, the father wearing a maroon-colored coat with light blue facings, and Wolfgang in one of apple green, with rose-colored facings and silver buttons.

It was indeed a wonderful tour which they made in Italy, though there is not time to tell of many things that happened. On their return to Rome, the Pope gave him the order of the Golden Spur, which made him Chevalier de Mozart. Arriving at Bologna the young musician was made a member of the Accademia Filharmonica. The test for this admission was setting an antiphon in four parts. Wolfgang was locked in a room till the task should be finished. To the astonishment of everybody he asked to be let out at the end of half an hour,--having completed the work.

The travelers now proceeded to Milan, where Mozart was to work on his first opera, for which he had received a commission. It was a great task for a boy to accomplish and we find the young composer writing to his mother and sister to pray for his success. The opera was called "Mitridate," and was finished after three months' hard work. The first performance was given in Milan, December 26, 1770, and was conducted by Wolfgang himself. It was a proud, happy day for the father, indeed for the whole family. "Mitridate" succeeded beyond their hopes; it was given twenty times before crowded houses; and its success brought an election to the Accademia, and also a commission to write a dramatic Serenata for an approaching royal wedding. This work also was a great success. The Empress who had commissioned Mozart to compose the work was so pleased, that besides the promised fee, she gave the composer a gold watch with her portrait set in diamonds on the back.

Sunshine and success had followed the gifted boy through all his travels; but now shadows and disappointments were to come, due to jealousy, intrigue and indifference of those in power who might have helped him but failed to recognize his genius. Shortly after the return of the father and son to their home town of Salzburg, their protector and friend, the good Archbishop of Salzburg, died. His successor was indifferent to art and held in contempt those who followed it as a profession. He persistently refused to appoint the young musician to any office worthy his talent or to recognize his gifts in any way. While Mozart remained at home in Salzburg, hoping his prospects would improve, he worked at composing with untiring diligence. By the time he was twenty-one he had accumulated a mass of music that embraced every branch of the art. He had a growing reputation as a composer but no settled future. He had the post of concertmaster, it is true, but the salary was but a trifle and he was often pressed for money. Leopold therefore decided to undertake another professional tour with his son. The Archbishop however prevented the father leaving Salzburg. So the only course left open was to allow Wolfgang and his mother to travel together. They set out on the morning of September 23, 1777. Wolfgang's spirits rose as the town of Salzburg faded into the haze of that September morning; the sense of freedom was exhilarating; he had escaped the place associated in his mind with tyranny and oppression, to seek his fortune in new and wider fields.

At Munich where they first halted, Wolfgang sought an engagement at the Elector's Court. He had an audience at the Nymphenburg, a magnificent palace on the outskirts of the city. The Elector said there was no vacancy; he did not know but later it might be possible to make one, after Mozart had been to Italy and had made a name for himself. With these words the Elector turned away. Mozart stood as if stunned. To Italy, when he had concertized there for about seven years, and had been showered with honors! It was too much. He shook off the dust of Munich and he and his mother went on to Mannheim. Here was a more congenial atmosphere. The Elector maintained a fine orchestra, and with the conductor, Cannabich, Mozart became great friends, giving music lessons to his daughter. But he could not seem to secure a permanent appointment at Court, worthy his genius and ability. Money became more scarce and the father and sister must make many sacrifices at home to send money to maintain mother and son. With the best of intentions Wolfgang failed to make his way except as a piano teacher. The father had resorted to the same means of securing the extra sums required, and wrote quite sharply to the son to bestir himself and get something settled for the future.

For the young genius, Mannheim possessed a special attraction of which the father knew nothing. Shortly after their arrival in the city, Wolfgang became acquainted with the Weber family. The two oldest daughters, Aloysia, fifteen, and Constanza, fourteen, were charming girls just budding into womanhood. Aloysia had a sweet, pure voice, and was studying for the stage; indeed she had already made her début in opera. It was not at all strange that young Mozart, who often joined the family circle, should fall in love with the girl's fair beauty and fresh voice, should write songs for her and teach her to sing them as he wished. They were much together and their early attraction fast ripened into love. Wolfgang formed a project for helping the Webers, who were in rather straitened circumstances, by undertaking a journey to Italy in company with Aloysia and her father; he would write an opera in which Aloysia should appear as prima donna. Of this brilliant plan he wrote his father, saying they could stop in Salzburg on the way, when the father and Nannerl could meet the fair young singer, whom they would be sure to love.

Leopold Mozart was distracted at news of this project. He at once wrote, advising his son to go to Paris and try there to make a name and fame for himself. The son dutifully yielded at once. With a heavy heart he prepared to leave Mannheim, where he had spent such a happy winter, and his love dream came to an end. It was a sad parting with the Weber household, for they regarded Wolfgang as their greatest benefactor.

The hopes Leopold Mozart had built on Wolfgang's success in Paris were not to be realized. The enthusiasm he had aroused as a child prodigy was not awarded to the matured musician. Three months passed away in more or less fruitless endeavor. Then the mother, who had been his constant companion in these trials and travels, fell seriously ill. On July 3, 1778, she passed away in her son's arms.

Mozart prepared to leave Paris at once, and his father was the more willing, since the Archbishop of Salzburg offered Wolfgang the position of Court organist, at a salary of 500 florins, with permission to absent himself whenever he might be called upon to conduct his own operas. Leopold urged Wolfgang's acceptance, as their joint income would amount to one thousand florins a year--a sum that would enable them to pay their debts and live in comparative comfort.

To Mozart the thought of settling down in Salzburg under the conditions stated in his father's letter was distasteful, but he had not the heart to withstand his father's appeal. He set out from Paris at once, promising himself just one indulgence before entering the bondage which lay before him, a visit to his friends the Webers at Mannheim. When he arrived there he found they had gone to Munich to live. Therefore he pushed on to Munich. The Weber family received him as warmly as of old, but in Aloysia's eyes there was only a friendly greeting, nothing more. A few short months had cooled her fickle attachment for the young composer. This discovery was a bitter trial to Wolfgang and he returned to his Salzburg home saddened by disappointed love and ambition.

Here in his old home he was cheered by a rapturous welcome; it was little short of a triumph, this greeting and homage showered on him by father, sister and friends. In their eyes his success was unshadowed by failure; to them he was Mozart the great composer, the genius among musicians. He was very grateful for these proofs of affection and esteem, but he had still the same aversion to Salzburg and his Court duties. So it was with new-kindled joy that he set out once more for Munich, in November, 1780, to complete and produce the opera he had been commissioned to write for the carnival the following year.

The new opera, "Idomeneo," fulfilled the high expectations his Munich friends had formed of the composer's genius. Its reception at the rehearsals proved success was certain, and the Elector who was present, joined the performers in expressing his unqualified approval. At home the progress of the work was followed with deepest interest. The first performance of "Idomeneo" took place on January 29, 1781. Leopold and Marianne journeyed to Munich to witness Wolfgang's triumph. It was a proud, happy moment for all three; the enthusiastic acclaim which shook the theater seemed to the old father, who watched with swimming eyes the sea of waving hands around him, to set the seal of greatness on his son's career.

The Archbishop, under whom Mozart held the meager office we have spoken of, grew more overbearing in his treatment; he was undoubtedly jealous that great people of Vienna were so deferential to one of his servants, as he chose to call him. At last the rupture came; after a stormy scene Mozart was dismissed from his service, and was free.

Father Mozart was alarmed when he heard the news of the break, and endeavored to induce Wolfgang to reconsider his decision and return to Salzburg. But the son took a firm stand for his independence. "Do not ask me to return to Salzburg," he wrote his father; "ask me anything but that."

And now came a time of struggling for Mozart. His small salary was cut off and he had but one pupil. He had numerous friends, however, and soon his fortunes began to mend. He was lodging with his old friends the Webers. Aloysia, his former beloved, had married; Madame Weber and her two unmarried daughters were now in Vienna and in reduced circumstances. Mozart's latest opera, "The Elopement," had brought him fame both in Vienna and Prague, and he had the patronage of many distinguished persons, as well as that of Emperor Josef.

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

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

Mozart now thought seriously of a journey to London and Paris, but his father's urgent appeal that he would wait and exercise patience, delayed him. Meanwhile he carried out an ardent desire to pay a visit to his father and sister in Salzburg, to present to them his bride. It was a very happy visit, and later on, when Mozart and his wife were again settled in Vienna, they welcomed the father on a return visit. Leopold found his son immersed in work, and it gladdened his heart to see the appreciation in which his playing and compositions were held. One happy evening they spent with Josef Haydn who, after hearing some of Mozart's quartets played, took the father aside, saying: "I declare before God, as a man of honor, that your son is the greatest composer I know, either personally or by reputation. He has taste, but more than that the most consummate knowledge of the art of composition."

This happy time was to be the last meeting between father and son. Soon after Leopold's return to Salzburg, he was stricken with illness, and passed away May 28, 1787. The news reached the composer shortly after he had achieved one of the greatest successes of his life. The performances of his latest opera, "The Marriage of Figaro," had been hailed with delight by enthusiastic crowds in Vienna and Prague; its songs were heard at every street corner, and village ale house. "Never was anything more complete than the triumph of Mozart and his 'Nozze di Figaro,'" wrote a singer and friend.--"And for Mozart himself, I shall never forget his face when lighted up with the glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describe as to paint sunbeams."

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

Mozart was inclined to be somewhat extravagant in dress and household expenditure, also very generous to any one who needed assistance. These trials, added to the fact that his wife was frequently in ill health, and not very economical, served to keep the family in continual straits. Occasionally they were even without fire or food, though friends always assisted such dire distress. Mozart's father had declared procrastination was his son's besetting sin. Yet the son was a tireless worker, never idle. In September, 1787, he was at Prague, writing the score of his greatest opera, "Don Giovanni"; the time was short, as the work was to be produced October 29. On the evening of the 28th it was found he had not yet written the overture. It only had to be written down, for this wonderful genius had the music quite complete in his head. He set to work, while his wife read fairy tales aloud to keep him awake, and gave him strong punch at intervals. By seven o'clock next morning the score was ready for the copyist. It was played in the evening without rehearsal, with the ink scarcely dry on the paper.

Even the successes of "Don Giovanni," which was received with thunders of applause, failed to remedy his desperate financial straits. Shortly after this his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed he should accompany him to Berlin. Mozart gladly consented, hoping for some betterment to his fortunes. The King of Prussia received him with honor and respect and offered him the post of Capellmeister, at a salary equal to about three thousand dollars. This sum would have liberated him from all his financial embarrassments, and he was strongly tempted to accept. But loyalty to his good Emperor Josef caused him to decline the offer.

The month of July, 1791, found Mozart at home in Vienna at work on a magic opera to help his friend Salieri, who had taken a little theater in the suburb of Wieden. One day he was visited by a stranger, a tall man, who said he came to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem. He would neither give his own name nor that of the person who had sent him.

Mozart was somewhat depressed by this mysterious commission; however he set to work on the Requiem at once. The composing of both this and the fairy opera was suddenly interrupted by a pressing request that he would write an opera for the coronation of Leopold II at Prague. The ceremony was fixed for September 6, so no time was to be lost. Mozart set out at once for Prague. The traveling carriage was at the door. As he was about to enter it, the mysterious stranger suddenly appeared and enquired for the Requiem. The composer could only promise to finish on his return, when hastily entering his carriage, he drove away.

The new opera, "La Clemenza di Tito," was finished in time and performed, but was received somewhat indifferently. Mozart returned to Vienna with spirits depressed and body exhausted by overwork. However, he braced himself anew, and on September 30th, the new fairy opera, the "Magic Flute," was produced, and its success increased with each performance.

The Requiem was not yet finished and to this work Mozart now turned. But the strain and excitement he had undergone for the past few months had done their work: a succession of fainting spells overcame him, and the marvelous powers which had always been his seemed no longer at his command. He feared he would not live to complete the work. "It is for myself I am writing the Requiem," he said sadly to Constanza, one day.

On the evening of December 4, friends who had gathered at his bedside, handed him, at his desire, the score of the Requiem, and, propped up by pillows he tried to sing one of the passages. The effort was too great; the manuscript slipped from his nerveless hand and he fell back speechless with emotion. A few hours later, on the morning of December 5, 1791, this great master of whom it was prophesied that he would cause all others to be forgotten, passed from the scene of his many struggles and greater triumphs.

VII

LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN

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

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

The father, though harsh and stern, wished his boy to have as thorough a knowledge of music as his means would permit. The boy was also sent to the public school, where he picked up reading and writing, but did not make friends very quickly with the other children. The fact was the child seemed wholly absorbed in music; of music he dreamed constantly; in the companionship of music he never could be lonely.

When Ludwig was nine his father, regarding him with satisfaction and some pride, declared he could teach him no more--and another master must be found. Those childhood years of hard toil had resulted in remarkable progress, even with the sort of teaching he had received. The circumstances of the family had not improved, for poverty had become acute, as the father became more and more addicted to drink. Just at this time, a new lodger appeared, who was something of a musician, and arranged to teach the boy in part payment for his room. Ludwig wondered if he would turn out to be a more severe taskmaster than his father had been. The times and seasons when his instruction was given were at least unusual. Tobias Pfeiffer, as the new lodger was called, soon discovered that father Beethoven generally spent his evenings at the tavern. As an act of kindness, to keep his drunken landlord out of the way of the police, Tobias used to go to the tavern late at night and bring him safely home. Then he would go to the bedside of the sleeping boy, and awake him by telling him it was time for practice. The two would go to the living room, where they would play together for several hours, improvising on original themes and playing duets. This went on for about a year; meanwhile Ludwig studied Latin, French, Italian and logic. He also had organ lessons.

Things were going from bad to worse in the Beethoven home, and in the hope of bettering these unhappy conditions, Frau Beethoven undertook a trip through Holland with her boy, hoping that his playing in the homes of the wealthy might produce some money. The tour was successful in that it relieved the pressing necessities of the moment, but the sturdy, independent spirit of the boy showed itself even then. "The Dutch are very stingy, and I shall take care not to trouble them again," he remarked to a friend.

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

Neefe was ordered to proceed with the Elector and Court to Münster, which meant to leave his organ in Bonn for a time. Before starting he called Ludwig to him and told him of his intended absence. "I must have an assistant to take my place at the organ here. Whom do you think I should appoint?" Seeing the boy had no inkling of his meaning, he continued: "I have thought of an assistant, one I am sure I can trust,--and that is you, Ludwig."

The honor was great, for a boy of eleven and a half. To conduct the service, and receive the respect and deference due the position, quite overwhelmed the lad. Honors of this kind were very pleasant, but, alas, there was no money attached to the position, and this was what the straitened family needed most sorely. The responsibilities of the position and the confidence of Neefe spurred Ludwig on to a passion of work which nothing could check. He began to compose; three sonatas for the pianoforte were written about this time. Before completing his thirteenth year, Ludwig obtained his first official appointment from the Elector; he became what is called cembalist in the orchestra, which meant that he had to play the piano in the orchestra, and conduct the band at rehearsals. With this appointment there was no salary attached either, and it was not until a year later when he was made second organist to the Court, under the new Elector, Max Franz, that he began to receive a small salary, equal to about sixty-five dollars a year. We have seen that the straits of the family had not prevented Ludwig from pursuing his musical studies with great ardor. With his present attainments and his ambition for higher achievements, he longed to leave the little town of Bonn, and see something of the great world. Vienna was the center of the musical life of Germany; the boy dreamed of this magical city by day as he went about his routine of work, and by night as he lay on his poor narrow cot. Like Haydn, Vienna was the goal of his ambition. When a kind friend, knowing his great longing, came forward with an offer to pay the expenses of the journey, the lad knew his dream was to become a reality. In Vienna he would see the first composers of the day; best of all he would see and meet the divine Mozart, the greatest of them all.

Ludwig, now seventeen, set out for the city of his dreams with the brightest anticipations. On his arrival in Vienna he went at once to Mozart's house. He was received most kindly and asked to play, but Mozart seemed preoccupied and paid but little attention. Ludwig, seeing this stopped playing and asked for a theme on which to improvise. Mozart gave a simple theme, and Beethoven, taking the slender thread, worked it up with so much feeling and power, that Mozart, who was now all attention and astonishment, stepped into the next room, where some friends were waiting for him, and said, "Pay attention to this young man; he will make a noise in the world some day."

Shortly after his return home he was saddened by the loss of his good, kind, patient mother, and a few months later his little sister Margaretha passed away. No doubt these sorrows were expressed in some of his most beautiful compositions. But brighter days followed the dark ones. He became acquainted with the Breuning family, a widow lady and four children, three boys and a girl, all young people. The youngest boy and the girl became his pupils, and all were very fond of him. He would stay at their house for days at a time and was always treated as one of the family. They were cultured people, and in their society Beethoven's whole nature expanded. He began to take an interest in the literature of his own country and in English authors as well. All his spare time was given to reading and composition. A valuable acquaintance with the young Count Von Waldstein was made about this time. The Count called one day and found the composer at his old worn out piano, surrounded by signs of abject poverty. It went to his heart to see that the young man, whose music he so greatly admired should have to struggle for the bare necessities of life while he himself enjoyed every luxury. It seemed to him terribly unjust. He feared to offend the composer's self-respect by sending him money, but shortly after the call Beethoven was made happy by the gift of a fine new piano, in place of his old one. He was very grateful for this friendship and later dedicated to the Count one of his finest sonatas, the Op. 53, known as the "Waldstein Sonata."

With a view of aiding the growth of the opera, and operatic art, the Elector founded a national theater, and Beethoven was appointed viola player in the orchestra besides still being assistant organist in the chapel. In July, 1792, the band arranged a reception for Haydn, who was to pass through Bonn on his way from London, where he had had a wonderful success, to his home in Vienna. Beethoven seized the opportunity to show the master a cantata he had just composed. Haydn praised the work and greatly encouraged the young musician to go forward in his studies. The Elector, hearing of Haydn's words of praise, felt that Beethoven should have the chance to develop his talents that he might be able to produce greater works. Therefore he decided to send the young composer, at his own expense, to study strict counterpoint with Haydn. He was now twenty-two and his compositions already published had brought him considerable fame and appreciation in his vicinity. Now he was to have wider scope for his gifts.

He bade farewell to Bonn in November of this year and set out a second time for the city of his dreams--Vienna. He was never to see Bonn again. He arrived in Vienna comparatively unknown, but his fine piano playing and wonderful gift for improvising greatly impressed all who heard him. He constantly played in the homes of the wealthy aristocracy. Many who heard him play, engaged lessons and he was well on the road to social success. Yet his brusque manners often antagonized his patrons. He made no effort to please or conciliate; he was obstinate and self-willed. In spite of all this, the innate nobleness and truth of his character retained the regard of men and women belonging to the highest ranks of society. With the Prince and Princess Lichnowsky Beethoven shortly became very intimate, and was invited to stay at the Palace. The Princess looked after his personal comfort with as motherly an affection as Madame Breuning had done. The etiquette of the Palace however, offended Ludwig's love of Bohemianism, especially the dressing for dinner at a certain time. He took to dining at a tavern quite frequently, and finally engaged lodgings. The Prince and his good lady, far from taking offense at this unmannerly behavior, forgave it and always kept for Beethoven a warm place in their hearts, while he, on his part was sincere in his affection for his kind friends.

Beethoven began his lessons with Haydn, but they did not seem to get on well together. The pupil thought the master did not give him enough time and attention. When Haydn went to England, about a year after the lessons began, Beethoven studied with several of the best musicians of the city, both in playing and composition. Albrechtsberger, one of these, was a famous contrapuntist of his time, and the student gained much from his teaching. The young musician was irresistible when he seated himself at the piano to extemporize. "His improvisating was most brilliant and striking," wrote Carl Czerny, a pupil of Beethoven. "In whatever company he might be, he knew how to produce such an effect upon the listeners that frequently all eyes would be wet, and some listeners would sob; there was something wonderful in his expressive style, the beauty and originality of his ideas and his spirited way of playing." Strange to say the emotion he roused in his hearers seemed to find no response in Beethoven himself. He would sometimes laugh at it, at other times he would resent it, saying, "We artists don't want tears, we want applause." These expressions however only concealed his inner feelings--for he was very sympathetic with those friends he loved. His anger, though sharp, was of short duration, but his suspicions of those whose confidence he had won by his genius and force of character, were the cause of much suffering to himself and others.

Beethoven in appearance was short and stockily built; his face was not at all good looking. It is said he was generally meanly dressed and was homely, but full of nobility, fine feeling and highly cultivated. The eyes were black and bright, and they dilated, when the composer was lost in thought, in a way that made him look inspired. A mass of dark hair surmounted a high broad forehead. He often looked gloomy, but when he smiled it was with a radiant brightness. His hands were strong and the fingers short and pressed out with much practise. He was very particular about hand position when playing. As a conductor he made many movements, and is said to have crouched below the desk in soft passages; in Crescendos he would gradually lift himself up until at the loudest parts he would rise to his full height with arms extended, even springing into the air, as though he would float in space.

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

Beethoven loved nature as much or more than any musician ever did. How he hailed the spring because he knew the time would soon come when he could close the door of his lodgings in the hot city, and slip away to some quiet spot and hold sweet communion with nature. A forest was a paradise, where he could ramble among the trees and dream. Or he would select a tree where a forking branch would form a seat near the ground. He would climb up and sit in it for hours, lost in thought. Leaning against the trunk of a lime tree, his eyes fixed upon the network of leaves and branches above him, he sketched the plan of his oratorio "The Mount of Olives"; also that of his one opera "Fidelio," and the third Symphony, known as the "Eroica." He wrote to a friend, "No man loves the country more than I. Woods, trees and rocks give the response which man requires. Every tree seems to say 'Holy, holy.'"

Already, as a young man, symptoms of deafness began to appear, and the fear of becoming a victim of this malady made the composer more sensitive than ever. He was not yet thirty when this happened, and believing his life work at an end, he became deeply depressed. Various treatments were tried for increasing deafness; at one time it seemed to be cured by the skill of Dr. Schmidt, to whom out of gratitude he dedicated his Septet, arranged as a Trio. By his advice the composer went for the summer of 1820 to the little village of Heiligenstadt (which means Holy City) in the hope that the calm, sweet environment would act as a balm to his troubled mind. During this period of rest and quiet his health improved somewhat, but from now on he had to give up conducting his works, on account of his deafness.

It may be thought that one so reticent and retiring, of such hasty temper and brusque manners, would scarcely be attracted to women. But Beethoven, it is said, was very susceptible to the charm of the opposite sex. He was however, most careful and high-souled in all his relations with women. He was frequently in love, but it was usually a Platonic affection. For the Countess Julie Guicciardi he protested the most passionate love, which was in a measure returned. She was doubtless his "immortal beloved," whose name vibrates through the Adagio of the "Moonlight Sonata," which is dedicated to her. He wrote her the most adoring letters; but the union, which he seemed to desire so intensely, was never brought about, though the reason is not known. For Bettina von Arnim, Goethe's little friend, he conceived a tender affection. Another love of his was for the Countess Marie Erdödy, to whom he dedicated the two fine Trios, Op. 70, but this was also a purely Platonic affection. The composer was unfortunate in his attachments, for the objects were always of a much higher social standing than himself. As he constantly associated with people of rank and culture, it was natural that the young girl nobly born, with all the fascinations of the high bred aristocrat, should attract him far more than the ordinary woman of his own class. And thus it happened that several times he staked his chances of happiness on a love he knew could never be consummated. Yet no one needed a kind, helpful, sympathetic wife more than did our poet-musician. She would have soothed his sensitive soul when he suffered from fancied wrongs, shielded him from intrusion, shared his sorrows and triumphs, and attended to his house-keeping arrangements, which were always in a sad state of confusion. This blissful state was seemingly not for him. It was best for the great genius to devote himself wholly to his divine art, and to create those masterpieces which will always endure.

In 1804 Beethoven completed one of his greatest symphonies, the "Eroica." He made a sketch, as we have seen, two years before. He had intended it to honor Napoleon, to whose character and career he was greatly attracted. But when Napoleon entered Paris in triumph and was proclaimed Emperor, Beethoven's worship was turned to contempt. He seized the symphony, tore the little page to shreds and flung the work to the other end of the room. It was a long time before he would look at the music again, but finally, he consented to publish it under the title by which it is now known.

When we consider the number and greatness of Beethoven's compositions we stand aghast at the amount of labor he accomplished. "I live only in my music," he wrote, "and no sooner is one thing done than the next is begun. I often work at two or three things at once." Music was his language of expression, and through his music we can reach his heart and know the man as he really was. At heart he was a man capable of loving deeply and most worthy to be loved.

Of the composer's two brothers, one had passed away and had left his boy Carl, named after himself, as a solemn charge, to be brought up by Uncle Ludwig as his own son. The composer took up this task generously and unselfishly. He was happy to have the little lad near him, one of his own kin to love. But as Carl grew to young manhood he proved to be utterly unworthy of all this affection. He treated his good uncle shamefully, stole money from him, though he had been always generously supplied with it, and became a disgrace to the family. There is no doubt that his nephew's dissolute habits saddened the master's life, estranged him from his friends and hastened his death.

How simple and modest was this great master, in face of his mighty achievements! He wrote to a friend in 1824: "I feel as if I had scarcely written more than a few notes." These later years had been more than full of work and anxiety. Totally deaf, entirely thrown in upon himself, often weak and ill, the master kept on creating work after work of the highest beauty and grandeur.

Ludwig van Beethoven passed from this plane March 26, 1827, having recently completed his fifty-sixth year, and was laid to rest in the Währing Cemetery near Vienna. Unlike Mozart, he was buried with much honor. Twenty thousand people followed him to his grave. Among them was Schubert, who had visited him on his deathbed, and was one of the torch bearers. Several of the Master's compositions were sung by a choir of male voices, accompanied by trombones. At the grave Hummel laid three laurel wreaths on the casket.

VIII

CARL MARIA VON WEBER

As we have already seen in the life stories of a number of musicians, the career they were to follow was often decided by the father, who determined to form them into wonder children, either for monetary gain or for the honor and glory of the family. The subject of this story is an example of such a preconceived plan.

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

Little Carl Maria Friedrich Ernst, to give his full name, was born December 18, 1786, at Eutin, a little town in Lower Saxony. He was the first child of a second marriage, and before the baby boy could speak, his career had been planned; the father had made up his mind to develop his son into an extraordinary musical genius. It is not recorded what his young mother, a delicate girl of seventeen, thought about it; probably her ideas for her baby son did not enter into the father's plan. Mother and child were obliged to follow in the train of the wandering comedians, so baby Carl was brought up amid the properties of stage business. Scenery, canvas, paints and stage lights were the materials upon which Carl's imagination was fed. He learned stage language with his earliest breath; it is no wonder he turned to writing for the stage as to the manner born.

As a child he was neither robust nor even healthy, which is not surprising, since he was not allowed to run afield with other children, enjoying the sweet air of nature, the flowers, the sunshine and blue sky. No, he must stay indoors much of the time and find his playmates among cardboard castles and painted canvas streets. This treatment was not conducive to rosy cheeks and strong, sturdy little legs. Then, before the delicate child was six years old, a violin was put into his hand, and if his progress on it was thought to be too slow by his impatient father, he was treated to raps and blows by way of incentive to work yet harder. His teachers, too, were continually changing, as the comedians had to travel about from place to place. After awhile he was taken in hand by Michael Haydn, a brother of the great Josef. Michael was a famous musician himself and seldom gave lessons to any one. But he was interested in Carl and took charge of his musical education for some time.

It was not long before Carl Maria's genius began definitely to show itself, for he started to write for the lyric stage. Two comic operas appeared, "The Dumb Girl of the Forest," and "Peter Schmoll and his Neighbors." They were both performed, but neither made a hit.

When Carl was seventeen, the father decided he should go to Vienna, for there he would meet all the great musicians of the time. The boy was at the most impressionable age: he was lively, witty, with pleasant manners and amiable disposition; he soon became a favorite in the highest musical circles. It was a gay life and the inexperienced youth yielded to its allurements. In the meantime he did some serious studying under the famous Abbé Vogler. The following year the Abbé recommended him to the conductorship of the Breslau Opera House. This was a very difficult post for a boy of eighteen, and he encountered much jealousy and opposition from the older musicians, who did not relish finding themselves under the leadership of such a youth. A year served to disgust him with the work and he resigned. During the year he had found time to compose most of his opera "Rubezahl."

For the next few years there were many "ups and downs" in Carl's life. From Breslau he went to Carlsruhe, and entered the service of Prince Eugene. For about a year he was a brilliant figure at the Court. Then war clouds gathered and the gay Court life came to an end. Music under the present conditions could no longer support him, as the whole social state of Germany had altered. The young composer was forced to earn his livelihood in some way, and now became private secretary to Prince Ludwig of Wurtemburg, whose Court was held at Stuttgart. The gay, dissolute life at the Court was full of temptation for our young composer, yet he found considerable time for composition; his opera "Sylvana" was the result, besides several smaller things. During the Stuttgart period, his finances became so low, that on one occasion he had to spend several days in prison for debt. Determined to recruit his fortunes, he began traveling to other towns to make known his art. In Mannheim, Darmstadt and Baden, he gave concerts, bringing out in each place some of his newer pieces, and earning enough at each concert to last a few weeks, when another concert would keep the wolf from the door a little longer.

In 1810, when he was twenty-four, he finished his pretty opera "Abu Hassan," which, on the suggestion of his venerable master, Vogler, he dedicated to the Grand Duke. The Duke accepted the dedication with evident pleasure, and sent Carl a purse of gold, in value about two hundred dollars. The opera was performed on February 6, 1811, and its reception was very gratifying to the composer. The Grand Duke took one hundred and twenty tickets and the performance netted over two hundred florins clear profit. It was after this that Carl Maria went on a tour of the principal German cities and gave concerts in Munich, Prague, Berlin, Dresden and other places. He was everywhere welcomed, his talents and charming manners winning friends everywhere. Especially in Prague he found the highest and noblest aristocracy ready to bid him welcome.

Weber paid a visit to Liebich, director of the Prague theater, almost as soon as he arrived in town. The invalid director greeted him warmly.

"So, you are _the_ Weber! I suppose you want me to buy your operas. One fills an evening, the other doesn't. Very well, I will give fifteen hundred florins for the two. Is it a bargain?" Weber accepted, and promised to return the next spring to conduct the operas. He kept his promise, and the result was much better than he ever dreamed. For beyond the performance of his operas, he was offered the post of music director of the Prague theater, which post was just then vacant. The salary was two thousand florins, with a benefit concert at a guaranteed sum of one thousand more, and three months leave of absence every year. This assured sum gave young Weber the chance of paying his debts and starting afresh, which, he writes "was a delight to him."

The composer now threw himself heart and soul into improving the orchestra placed in his charge. Before long he had drilled it to a high state of excellence. Many new operas were put on the stage in quick succession. Thus Weber worked on with great industry for three years. The success he achieved created enemies, and perhaps because of intrigues, envy and ill feeling which had arisen, he resigned his post in 1816. The three years in Prague had been fruitful in new compositions. Several fine piano sonatas, a set of "National Songs," and the Cantata, "Kampf und Sieg," (Struggle and Victory). This last work soon became known all over Germany and made the gifted young composer very popular. During this period Weber became engaged to Caroline Brandt, a charming singer, who created the title rôle in his opera of "Sylvana."

Weber had many kind, influential friends in Prague, who admired his zeal and efficiency as music director. One of them, Count Vitzhum, did all he could to secure Weber for Dresden. On Christmas morning, 1816, he received the appointment. He wrote to Caroline: "Long did I look on Count Vitzhum's letter without daring to open it. Did it contain joy or sorrow? At length I took courage and broke the seal. It was joy! I am Capellmeister to his Majesty the King of Saxony. I must now rig myself out in true Court style. Perhaps I ought to wear a pigtail to please the Dresdeners. What do you say? I ought at least to have an extra kiss from you for this good news."