_A Chapter for Composers and Music Lovers_
Music is a greater revelation than all science and philosophy!—L. VAN
BEETHOVEN.
Mozart’s Affection
Mozart loved his parents tenderly. When quite a little fellow, he
composed a song, which he sang with his father every night before going
to bed, while standing on a chair where his father had to put him. This
ceremony over, he would kiss them and retire in peace and contentment.
This nightly performance he kept up until he reached his tenth year.
Mozart Before the Emperor
When Mozart was six years old, his father took him to the palace, to play
before Emperor Francis I. Taking him to the piano the Emperor started to
turn the leaves for him, when the boy said: “No, you let Wagenseil (the
leader of the orchestra) do that, he knows how.”
A Rapid Composer
The evening before the first performance of “Don Juan” at Prag, Mozart
told his wife that he intended to write the overture during the night,
and asked her to make a punch for him and stay with him, to keep him
awake. But exertion and sleepiness made the work so hard, that his wife
begged him to rest on the sofa, promising to waken him in an hour. He
slept so soundly that she let him sleep two hours. It was five o’clock
when she wakened him. At seven the copyist was to come. Mozart worked now
so rapidly, that in two hours the overture was finished.
Criticised the Emperor
One day Mozart and his wife were walking in the Augarten near Vienna.
His wife was telling him about her dog’s devotion, and said: “You just
pretend to strike me and see how he will jump at you!” Just as Mozart
playfully struck his wife on the shoulder, the Emperor stepped from his
summer-house.
“Well, well,” said he; “just three weeks married, and fighting already!”
Mozart explained, and the Emperor laughing, asked:
“Do you remember the anecdote of Wagenseil? and how, when I played the
violin, you called from among my audience, sometimes ‘Pshaw! that was
wrong!’ sometimes, ‘bravo!’”
Mozart’s Generosity
Mozart was very generous. An old and honest piano repairer had put some
new strings on his beloved instrument.
“What do I owe you, old friend?” asked Mozart. “I am going away to-morrow
and wish to pay you now!”
The old man, who always grew dreadfully embarrassed if any one spoke to
him, stammered:
“To be sure—your Honor—I have been here—several—times I beg—a thaler.”
“What, a man like you, come to me for one thaler?” With that he put
several ducats into the old man’s hand and fled.
George Friedrich Händel
For a number of years after Händel settled in London he was financially
very unlucky. His operas did not take, and when his friends complained
that the house was so empty, he would comfort them by saying:
“That does not matter at all, the music will sound so much the better!”
Reading at Sight
On a trip to Ireland, Händel was detained for a few days at Chester. As
he wished to try some of the choruses that he intended to bring out in
Ireland, he asked the organist of the Cathedral, Backer, whether he had
any singers in his choir who could sing by sight. Backer named some of
his best singers, among them a printer, Janson, who sang bass very well.
Händel appointed the time for a private rehearsal at his hotel; but poor
Janson, after repeated trials, made so many mistakes in the chorus of
The Messiah, “And through his wounds” that Händel grew furious and after
swearing at him in four or five languages, cried in broken English: “You
villain, you, didn’t you say you could read by sight?”
“So I can, sir,” replied Janson, “only not the very first time!”
About as Well as the Cook
When Gluck came to England the first time, in 1745, Händel was asked what
he thought of him. His answer, preceded by an oath was:
“He knows and understands counterpoint about as well as my cook!”
Home Again
One evening while Händel was at Dublin, a certain Mr. Dubourg was to sing
a solo to an aria, with a cadence _ad libitum_. For some time he strayed
about in different keys, but at last he commenced the trill with which
the cadence closed and Händel cried loud enough for the whole house to
hear, to the great amusement of the audience: “Welcome home, Mr. Dubourg!”
Too Particular
In 1749, Händel had such poor success with his oratorio “Theodora” that
he was pleased when some musicians, who did not play in it, accepted
tickets. Later on some of these gentlemen begged permission to hear The
Messiah, but Händel said: “Oh, I am your humble servant, gentlemen; you
are too infernally particular! You did not care to hear Theodora, when
there was room enough to dance, now there is none left for you!”
The Villain
Händel was holding the last rehearsal of his incomparable and difficult
“Te Deum Laudamus” to be rendered at the celebration of the Peace of
Utrecht. Before starting, he cried, full of enthusiasm: “Gentlemen!
Whoever makes a mistake to-day, is a villain!”
The sublime composition, the excellent rendition, carried him away to
such an extent, that at the end of a phrase, forgetting everything
around him, he stood like one inspired, and when spoken to, shivered and
was unable to control his emotion. With the last note, he cried, tears
streaming down his face: “Gentlemen, I am the villain!”
F. Joseph Haydn
While Haydn lived in Ungarn (Hungary) gunning and fishing were his
favorite recreations. He never forgot that he once killed three pheasants
at one shot, which afterwards graced the dinner table of the Empress,
Maria Theresa.
Haydn’s Strategy
In 1770, Haydn was very ill with a malignant fever, and during his
convalescence his physician strictly forbade his doing any work or
touching the piano. Soon after, Haydn’s wife went to church, but before
going impressed on the maid the necessity of watching her master closely
so that he could not get at the piano. Haydn pretended not to have heard
a word of this order, but his wife had hardly left the house, when he
sent the maid on an errand. He hurried to the piano, and at the first
touch the whole idea of a sonata came to him. The first part was finished
while his wife was at church. When he heard her returning, he quickly
went back to bed and finished it there.
These Brought Contentment
Haydn owned a case filled with snuff-boxes, watches, rings, medals, and
other presents from all the crowned heads of Austria, Russia, Prussia,
Spain, France, and Naples. He said: “When life seems sometimes hard to
bear, I look at all these things, and feel content and pleased to have
been honored by all Europe.”
Haydn and the Ship-Captain
One day a ship-captain came to Haydn’s room. “Are you Haydn?”
“Yes, sir; what can I do for you?”
“I’ll give you thirty guineas if you compose a march for my ship’s
band; but it must be done to-day, for to-morrow morning we set sail for
Calcutta.”
Haydn promised to have it ready early the following morning; went to the
piano as soon as the captain had left him, and was soon done with it. It
seemed to the composer that he had earned his money too easily, so during
the evening he composed two more marches, to give the captain his choice
or make him a present of the other two. It was barely daylight when the
captain appeared.
“Captain, the march is finished.”
“Very good, play it for me!”
Haydn played.
The Englishman put the thirty guineas on the piano, and without saying
another word took up his march and walked to the door. Haydn followed him
saying: “I composed two more, which I think are better. Let me play them
for you and take your choice.”
“The first march pleases me, so that ends it!”
“But listen to the others, perhaps——”
“No, that is impossible!”
The captain hurried down the stairs, Haydn ran after him saying: “Sir,
I’ll make you a present of them. You paid me very generously. Do take
them!”
The captain hurried still more saying: “It is impossible. I don’t want
them!”
“Do let me play them for you!”
“Not for a thousand devils,” cried the captain, who had reached the
street by this time, and disappeared quickly. Haydn went at once to learn
both the captain’s and his ship’s name, and having succeeded, packed
up both marches and, with a note, sent them to the musical salt. He,
however, returned the package without opening the note, and Haydn was so
furious about it that he tore it to shreds, marches and all.
Had No Use for Haydn’s Music
Another time, while Haydn was sauntering about the streets, he stepped
into a music store and asked if they had a selection of good music.
“As much as you wish,” said the proprietor. “Here are some excellent
things of Haydn’s!”
“Have no use for them,” said Haydn, curtly.
“What, you have no use for it? For Haydn’s music! What fault have you to
find with it?”
“Quite enough! At any rate, I don’t want any of it. Show me some other
compositions!”
The merchant, a devoted admirer of Haydn’s, said, indignantly: “It is
not necessary, though I have plenty of excellent music, I have none for
you!” and turned his back on the composer. At the same moment a gentleman
entered who knew Haydn, and spoke to him. The merchant coming up to them
said to the Englishman: “What do you think! This old gentleman here has
no use for Haydn’s music!” Great was his embarrassment when the gentleman
explained.
Haydn’s Kindness
The following story proves what a noble, generous man Haydn was. In 1780
the daughter of an army officer from Coburg wrote to him of a little
adventure, asking him to set it to music. This is the story: She and
her intended husband, a captain of the army, together with a friend and
a poodle were taking a walk. The captain had been praising his dog’s
talents, and made a bet with his friend that the dog would find a thaler
laid under a bush now, he being sent back for it after their return home.
The bet was accepted. Directly after returning home the captain sent his
dog back for the money.
Now it so happened that a traveling tailor sat down to rest under that
very bush where the thaler was deposited, found the money and put it in
his pocket. When the poodle arrived he smelled the coin and fawned upon
the tailor. The man, highly pleased at having found a thaler and such an
amiable dog within an hour, took him to his stopping place in the town.
The poodle watched the tailor’s clothes all night, and when, early the
next morning, the door of the room was opened, he stole out, carrying the
tailor’s trousers with him and brought both them and the thaler to his
master.
This little adventure had been put into verse under the title: “The
Cunning and Serviceable Poodle,” and Haydn was asked now to put the text
to music. The lady added that she was poor, but having heard so much
of his generosity, she hoped the enclosed ducat would be considered
sufficient pay.
Haydn went to work at it at once, but returned the ducat to the young
lady in a letter, saying that as a punishment for not knowing him better,
and sending any money at all, she should knit him a pair of garters.
These garters, made of white silk with a hand-painted wreath of violets,
Haydn kept with his jewels in his treasure box.
Franz Schubert
For years Schubert could not find a publisher for even his most famous
compositions, such as the “Erlkoenig,” for instance. In 1823 some friends
and patrons published, at their own expense, the first twelve books of
songs—the same books that afterwards were to be found all over the world
and brought him thousands.
Schubert’s Facility
Schubert composed his songs with amazing facility. He composed his
charming “Serenade” on the window sill of a country tavern in less than
an hour. He was there on an excursion with a party of gay friends, who
were clamoring for something new. As soon as he had finished, they sang
it to the delight of all who were fortunate enough to be within hearing
distance.
Orpheus and His Followers
Several young wags were making fun of a musician, and said, among other
things, that he played like Orpheus.
“Very true,” said the musician, “I, too, seem to have a following of
beasts.”
Carpenter and Weber
Some time ago I asked B, my carpenter, why he was so downhearted.
“Well,” said he, “you know, sir, that my son Franz was to have been a
carpenter. He showed a good deal of talent for it, but now it’s all over.”
“How so?” I asked.
“It happened this way: We went to hear an opera the other night, and
such music as we heard! The angels in heaven could not sing any better,
and that music they said was made by one Weber. And now my boy won’t be
anything else but just such a Weber” (Weaver).
Singing by Sight
To the manager of the opera at K. came one day a young girl to be
examined for a position in the chorus. After she had sung a scale, he
asked her among other questions if she could sing by sight, to which she
replied: “Oh yes, if I know it by heart.”
“Are you at all musical?”
“Oh no; I am Catholic!”
Shoes Versus Music
The younger Pixis was to play at Hanover a concert of Mozart’s. His
father kept him hard at practicing, but he seemed listless and paid very
little attention to his playing. The elder Pixis, very anxious that all
his sons should succeed, chided him and said: “There is still time for
you to learn something else. If you do not care to make a virtuoso of
yourself, you might make a cobbler.”
“Well, what loss would that be,” replied the little fellow. “Anybody can
do without music, but not without shoes!”
They Knew Nothing
One time it occurred to a village organist, that by having some new
church music, he might not only glorify a coming festival, but cover
himself also with glory before his congregation. Telemann, the well-known
composer of sacred music, who lived in the near-by city of Gotha, should
compose it, and his colleagues from the surrounding villages with their
choirs, should help in the rendition of it. So to Telemann the ambitious
organist betook himself, and explained his errand. Now the composer
knew him and his _confrères_ as miserable bunglers, and made all sorts
of excuses, but the organist was persistent and would not be refused.
Telemann, partly angry, partly amused, asked at last what the text for
the cantata was to be. That the organist said he would leave to Telemann
to choose, a Bible text or something equally appropriate would do. The
composer finally consented, and asked him to arrange for the rehearsal,
to which he promised to come himself and bring some friends.
The morning of the festival brought Telemann and his friends. The scores
were distributed. For the text the composer had chosen the line: “We know
nothing against the Lord!” and had put it into a fugue.
“Now,” whispered Telemann to his friends, “listen to those fellows
confessing their sins!” The rehearsal began, and from all throats came,
like a tremendous wailing, “We—we—we know nothing—nothing—nothing—we
know nothing—know nothing—no”—until at last, the whole company having
shouted away for dear life—without suspecting anything wrong—was awakened
from their dream, by shouts of laughter from Telemann and his friends.
Then there was general consternation, the poor organist stood completely
crushed. “To be sure, this does not sound very well, gentlemen,” said
Telemann, and to comfort the crestfallen organist he drew from his pocket
another small cantata, which he and his friends rendered at the church.
A Lucrative Position
Goldmark, the composer of “The Queen of Saba,” while traveling one day,
found himself in a railway _coupé_ with a strange lady. A conversation
was soon started, and the composer introduced himself with these words:
“I am Goldmark, the composer of The Queen of Saba.”
“Ah,” replied the lady, who was not much versed in musical or theatrical
matters, “that must be a very lucrative position.”
Ludwig van Beethoven
Beethoven’s parents had him instructed in music at a very early age. When
he was only eight years old he played the violin so well as to astonish
all his hearers. In the little room under the roof, where he practiced,
he noticed one day a very large spider, leaving her web and coming close
to him to listen. By and by she grew so tame, that she came and sat first
on his desk, then on the artist, and finally made herself at home on
the arm which held the bow. Her interest spurred on the boy to do his
best, and helped not a little in his progress. One day, his aunt, who
filled his mother’s place, came into the little room, bringing a friend
who wished to hear the boy play. As he began, the spider came from her
corner and settled upon his arm. The aunt seeing the insect, pounced upon
her, and crushed her under her foot. Beethoven, horror-stricken at his
comrade’s fate, fell fainting to the floor.
He Beat the Emperor
Once while at court, Beethoven forgot himself so far as to beat the time
on the back of Emperor Francis. The monarch was not the least angry, and
often said smilingly, that one of his subjects had beaten him, without
being punished for it.
Brains Versus an Estate
Beethoven’s younger brother had, by extreme economy, saved enough to
purchase a country estate. One time he sent to his famous brother, just
to anger him, a New Year’s card with: “Johann van Beethoven, possessor
of a country estate;” to which polite action, he received the answer:
“Ludwig van Beethoven, possessor of brains.”
Forgot to Eat
Beethoven dined now and then at an inn on the flour-market at Vienna. One
day he came at half past two, and sat down in his lonely corner, without
greeting any of the guests present, a courtesy he had never before
omitted. The waiter who knew him, brought him a bottle of the ordinary
table wine which Beethoven usually drank, and put the menu before him.
The great composer broke his roll, pulled a notebook from his pocket,
leaned his head on his hand and remained in this attitude, writing now
and then in the book, until six o’clock in the evening. Suddenly he
jumped up and cried: “Waiter, I wish to pay my bill!”
“Oh, but your Honor has not eaten a thing to-day!”
“Haven’t I? Well, all right!” said Beethoven, and took his hat and went
out.
Beethoven’s Poverty
The great composer’s gruff, even repulsive manner, during the last years
of his life, was partly owing to his deafness and partly to the utter
ruin of his finances. He was not a good manager, and had the misfortune
to be robbed by those in his employ. He often lacked the necessities of
life. Ludwig Spohr, in the early days of his acquaintance with Beethoven
asked him once why he had not been to dinner at the inn for some days.
Had he been ill?
“No, but my boot was, and as I own only one pair, I had to stay at home.”
Beethoven’s Domestic Troubles
The best idea of his domestic misery is given in his diary, an extract
from which is here presented.
1819. January 31:
Dismissed the housekeeper, on account of her quick tongue and
quicker temper.
February 15:
The new cook arrives.
March 8:
The cook has given two weeks’ notice. On the 22d the new
housekeeper takes charge.
April 14:
Engaged a waitress at six gulden per month.
April 20:
The housekeeper gives notice, because she is no good.
April 24:
Bad day. Could not eat anything,—that is, there was nothing fit
to eat, everything being spoiled, standing too long.
May 16:
Cook has given notice, because she ruined the dinner again.
July 1:
Enter a new cook. I wonder if she is good for anything!
Such was the great master’s domestic life.
Indifference to Dress and Fashion
That Beethoven paid no heed whatever to the world, its fashions or
its follies, during the time when he worked hardest, showed in his
appearance. For instance, he had not noticed that it had become the
fashion for men to wear lace frills on the front of their shirts. A
friend ordered some for him, so that he should appear well dressed. When
Beethoven saw the frills he wondered what they were for. “Oh,” he said,
“I suppose they are meant to keep me warm,” and tucked the beautiful
frills inside his vest.
Remedy for Ennui
When Liszt made his first trip to St. Petersburg, Russia had no
railroads, and he traveled over badly neglected roads in a heavily loaded
coach, with his secretary and valet. One day, not far from the small town
of P—— the coach broke down. Examination showed that it would take at
least two days to repair it. This forced Liszt to go to the hotel of the
town, a place that could neither offer him his accustomed comforts nor
luxuries nor anything in the way of amusements.
Liszt was then at the height of his triumphant career, and all the joys
and pleasures of life were his. To such a man the enforced rest in such
a poor place, must have been depressing. Under these circumstances it
was a happy thought that came to the secretary while reading a poem of
Alfred de Musset. In it the poet says: “La reméde au melancolique c’est
la musique.” “The remedy for melancholy is music.”
The artist was lying in an easy chair by the fire, watching the smoke
from his Havana, when the secretary proposed to kill time by giving some
concerts. Solely in the hope of getting a change and some diversion out
of it, Liszt laughingly consented. Quickly the necessary arrangements
were made and the concert was to be given on the following night in the
dancing hall of the hotel.
Now either the virtuoso’s fame had not penetrated so far, or else they
doubted that he was the genuine, great Liszt, for when the artist stepped
on the platform, he looked at a yawning gulf of empty chairs. About
fifteen persons were present.
Taking off his gloves, he looked smilingly at the little band of faithful
ones, then came forward and, in the amiable, merry way he had of talking,
he pointed out to them that the hall was cold and uncomfortable, while
his own sitting-room was warm and cozy. He took the liberty therefore to
ask those present to follow him and to take a little supper with him. And
offering his arm to the young lady sitting next to him he led the way,
while the rest followed not a little surprised, but full of curiosity.
With the help of his secretary and valet, he gave them quite a supper
with champagne, Liszt making a most fascinating host, and sitting down
to the piano unasked, he played for the mixed company some national
airs, which were jubilantly applauded. It was a highly enjoyable evening
for the guests and even more so for the host, who thanked his secretary
warmly.
The next evening the second concert took place, and the hall was crowded.
Whether they came in the hope of being invited to supper or whether
their interest in music was aroused is hard to decide. Liszt laughingly
inclined to the former. At any rate, the concert was a brilliant success,
the whole aristocracy of the neighborhood was present, greeting him
with storms of applause. After the concert, they overwhelmed him with
invitations, so that the great artist was obliged to extend his stay
to a week. He always recalled this as one of his merriest traveling
experiences.
Paganini and the Cab Driver
Among the great _maestro’s_ papers was found the following amusing story:
“One day,” Paganini begins, “I was wandering about the streets of Vienna,
when all of a sudden a thunder-storm came up. The rain came down in
torrents and seemed to increase every minute. For once I was alone, which
happened very rarely, as my valet generally accompanied me. I was very
far from my lodgings and already so wet, that I was beginning to fear for
my health. So I looked about for a cab. Three passed me, as the drivers
did not understand Italian, and I did not speak German. The fourth
stopped at my call, the driver was a countryman of mine.
“Before entering I asked his price. ‘Five gulden, the price of a ticket
to Paganini’s concert,’ he said.
“‘You rascal,’ I cried indignantly, ‘to ask five gulden for such a short
ride! Paganini plays on one string of his violin; you could hardly run
your cab on one wheel.’
“‘Oh, it isn’t so difficult as people think, to play on one string. I am
musical too, and I doubled the price of my fares to-day, in order to hear
the great violinist they call Paganini.’
“I said nothing more, entered the cab, and in ten minutes was at my
hotel. I gave the man the five gulden and also a ticket to my concert.
The next day just before the concert began, a great crowd was at the door
of the concert hall when I arrived, and one of the ushers called to me:
‘There is a dirty, uncouth-looking man at the door, who insists on being
admitted.’
“It was my driver of the day before, whom I permitted to enter in spite
of his appearance, hoping that he would lose himself in the crowd. But
when, at the beginning of the concert, I stepped on the platform, there
he was as close to me as he could get, among the elegantly dressed women
of the first row. The applause was enthusiastic; my driver’s knew no
bounds. Several times he had to be severely reproved for disturbing the
rest of the audience. I never had a more appreciative listener.
“Early the next morning he came to my rooms. ‘Sir,’ he said, in the most
respectful tone, ‘you can do me a great favor. I have a family, am poor,
and your countryman; you are wealthy and famous. You hold my fortune in
your hand.’
“‘What do you mean by that?’
“‘Permit me to put at the back of my cab the two words: “Paganini’s
cabriolet.”’
“‘Very well,’ said I laughingly, ‘you may put on it whatever you like.’
“That man was smarter than I thought. In a few months he was better known
at Vienna than myself; his Paganini cab created a sensation. He had great
good luck with it, for everybody wanted to ride in it and he charged good
prices.
“When I returned to Vienna two years later, my driver was the owner
of the hotel at which I had stayed, and an Englishman had bought the
cabriolet for one thousand pounds.”
Meyerbeer’s Preference
Meyerbeer’s nephew came to Rossini, to beg of him to listen to a funeral
march he had composed on the death of his uncle, and to pass his judgment
upon it.
After Rossini had listened patiently he said:
“That is all very well. Yet, I should like it better if you had died and
your uncle had composed the funeral march.”
Rossini and His Watch
The famous composer possessed a magnificent watch that his king had
presented to him. It was a repeater and also a musical watch, for it
played the _maestro’s_ prayer from “Moses in Egypt.” But not until after
he had owned it for six years, did he understand it fully. Rossini took
a boyish delight in showing it and making it play, and one day he did so
while in a café.
A stranger who sat near was attracted by the music, and just as Rossini
was going to put it back in his pocket, he stepped up to him and said:
“You have a very valuable watch there, sir, but I’ll wager that you do
not know all its capabilities.”
Rossini, much surprised said: “I have carried it now for six years, in
honor of my king. It has never varied one minute, it repeats the hour,
quarter-hour, tells the minutes and the day of the month, and plays as
you have just heard, the prayer from ‘Moses.’”
“And yet, I insist,” said the stranger smilingly, “that you do not know
your watch wholly. I’ll wager anything you like,—your watch against ten
thousand francs!”
“Oh, well, if you have ten thousand francs too many, I’ll take the bet,”
cried Rossini; “but now give me the proof of your assertion.”
“Very well,—the watch plays another piece of yours, master, and contains
your portrait besides.”
Speechless, Rossini saw that when the stranger touched a spring a lid
flew back, disclosing his portrait, while at the same time it played “Di
Tanti Palpiti” from “Tancred.”
“Good gracious!” he exclaimed, looking at his lost watch, “it is true,
you have won the wager; but how could I know?”
The stranger, laughing heartily, handed him back his treasure saying:
“I am the maker of this watch, Michel Plivée. The wager was made in fun,
but I am delighted, that you, the great _maestro_, take such pleasure in
my work.”
He Didn’t Mean It
The well-known pianist, Sophie Menter, delighted everybody with her
simple, natural ways. One day in Pesth, while in a company of artists
and lovers of art, Liszt among them, a young count, carried away by her
playing, cried enthusiastically,
“Mein Fräulein, I lay myself at your feet!”
“Well,” said Sophie Menter, stepping back and smiling roguishly, “go on,
lie down!”
“Oh, I did not mean it literally like that,” replied the count in
consternation.
“Now you see,” said the young girl seriously, “that you should never say
what you do not honestly mean.”
How a Fugue Was Made
Kirnberger, the son of a carpenter, was taught music at an early age. One
day he sat in a corner of his father’s workshop, poring over a task his
teacher had set him. Every now and then the boy would sigh deeply, and
rub his forehead vigorously. His father who had been watching him for
some time, at last asked:
“Well, my boy, what is the trouble?”
“Oh, father, I am to make a fugue, and I do not know how to begin!” Now
fugue, in German, means also the groove in a board.
“You silly fellow, why couldn’t you ask me. Come right here and I’ll show
you.” The good man took up a board, put his plane to it, and tried to
show to his son how a fugue was made.