sick and needy so much relief as that which the 'Messiah' has effected
by its frequent performances in various parts of England and on the
Continent. Handel, as we have seen, gave the proceeds of its first
performance to help the sick and miserable, and his good example has
been followed by many others. Later on his compassion was aroused by
the poor, helpless little inmates of the Foundling Hospital. We all
know the Foundling Hospital, in Guilford Street, Russell Square, but
perhaps we do not all know why it is that Handel's portrait is there
accorded the place of honour, or why the foundlings should hold the
composer's memory in such reverence. Handel did not, it is true,
establish the hospital; it was founded in 1741 by one Captain Coram,
out of the profits of a trading vessel of which he was the master. But
nine years later (in 1750) he presented the hospital with a fine
organ, and, in order to inaugurate the opening of the instrument, he
announced that he would perform upon it the music of the 'Messiah.' So
great was the demand for seats upon this occasion that it was found
necessary to repeat the performance. Handel afterwards presented a
manuscript score of the oratorio to the Foundling, and undertook to
give an annual performance of the work for the benefit of the charity.
Eleven performances under his direction were given at the Foundling
before his death, by which a sum of £6,955 was added to the hospital
funds. Nor did this good work cease with the composer's death, for we
learn that the annual performances continued to be given, and that
seventeen of these brought the total amount by which the 'Messiah'
benefited the hospital up to £10,299, a fact which of itself speaks
volumes for the appreciation in which the oratorio was held.
In connection with the gift of the 'Messiah' score to the Foundling an
amusing story is told, which serves to illustrate the imperiousness of
Handel's temper. The directors of the hospital were desirous of
retaining for themselves the exclusive right to perform the 'Messiah,'
and with this idea they sought to obtain an Act of Parliament
confirming their rights. When Handel heard of the proposal, however,
he burst out in a rage with, 'Te teufel! for what sall de Foundlings
put mein moosic in de Parliament? Te teufel! mein moosic sall not go
to de Parliament!' And it is hardly necessary to add that 'de moosic'
did not go to 'de Parliament.'
It is difficult, within the compass of this little story, to convey a
just idea of the extraordinary amount of work which Handel's life
comprised. One oratorio after another followed the 'Messiah,' none of
them entitled to rank with that great work for either loftiness of
subject or grandeur of expression, yet many containing passages of
unrivalled beauty. 'Jephtha,' which was the last oratorio he composed,
contains the magnificent recitative, 'Deeper and deeper still,' and
the beautiful song, 'Waft her, angels.' It was while writing 'Jephtha'
that Handel became blind, but, though greatly affected by this loss,
it did not daunt his courage or lessen his power of work. He was then
in his sixty-eighth year, and had lived down most of the hostility
which formerly had been so rife against him. Who, indeed, could for
long withstand so imperious a will, backed by such unquenchable
genius? With increased fame, moreover, his fortunes had built
themselves up once more, so that when he died he left £20,000 to be
disposed of by his executors.
The range of Handel's compositions was gigantic; there was no branch
of the art which his genius did not penetrate and adorn, but it is as
a writer of choruses that his power is seen at its best. 'No one,'
writes Mr. Julian Marshall, in his biography of the composer, 'before
or since has so well understood how to extract from a body of voices
such grand results by such artfully simple means as those he used.' No
master, we may add, has given us music which expresses with greater
clearness, beauty, or force the passages of Scripture it is intended
to illumine than that which is to be found in the choral parts of
Handel's oratorios. Handel was the greatest master of counterpoint the
world has ever seen, and this power enabled him to give musical
expression to written words with an ease and fluency which can only be
described as marvellous. Yet it is not its marvellous character which
strikes us when we hear his work for the first time so much as its
oneness with the subject it portrays; we feel that it is like some
grand painting, in which colour and form are so charmingly blended as
to make a perfect and indivisible whole.
It is often alleged that Handel copied from other composers, and that
such was the case there is abundant evidence to show. It must be
remembered, however, that in his day people did not attach to
originality of ideas the value which we allow to them now. Handel,
however, did more than this: he not only borrowed ideas or themes
which--to a great extent, at least--were regarded as common property,
but he actually embodied in some of his works _entire passages_ taken
from the compositions of comparatively unknown composers. For this no
justification is possible; nor, on the other hand, can it be urged
that Handel stole other men's brains because he lacked power to use
his own. The only thing that it seems possible to say by way of
explaining a practice which must be condemned as dishonest is that
Handel in all probability did not realise his offence or view it in
the light in which we view it at the present day. Everything in his
life and character argues against the idea of his committing an action
which he held to be mean or dishonest. No man could have been more
fearlessly independent, either in thought or action, and, whatever
other faults he possessed, his character has always been regarded as
strictly honourable.
Handel was a big man, with a very commanding presence and a fiery
temper, which, as we have seen, was apt to explode at trifles. He did
not hesitate to launch the most virulent abuse at the heads of those
who ventured to talk whilst he was conducting, and at such times not
even the presence of royalty could make him restrain his anger. But
when Handel raved the Princess of Wales would turn to her friends, and
say softly, 'Hush, hush! Handel is angry.' He had a rooted dislike to
hearing his orchestra tune up in his presence, and he gave strict
orders that the performers were to get this business over before he
arrived. One night, however, when the Prince of Wales was to be
present, a wag gained access to the orchestra and secretly untuned
every instrument. When the Prince arrived and the audience were all
seated, Handel 'gave the signal to begin _con spirito_, when such a
discord arose that the enraged musician started from his seat,
overturned the double-bass, seized a kettledrum, threw it at the
leader of the orchestra, and lost his wig. He advanced bareheaded to
the front of the orchestra, but was so choked with passion that he
could not speak. Here he stood, staring and stamping, amidst general
convulsions of laughter, until the Prince presently, with much
difficulty, appeased his wrath, and prevailed on him to resume his
seat.'
Handel's fondness for the pleasures of the table was one of the
weaknesses which his enemies did not fail to make the most of, and
which has given rise to more than one story. For instance, it is told
that he went into a dining-house one day and ordered 'dinner for
three.' The waiter, having received the order, disappeared, and was
absent so long that Handel lost patience, and, ringing the bell,
demanded to know why the meal was delayed. 'Sir,' replied the waiter,
'I was awaiting the arrival of the company.' 'De gompany!' cried the
famished musician, in a voice which made the glasses jingle, and
caused the waiter to start back in dismay, 'I am de gompany!'
Dr. Burney, the eminent musician and friend of Handel, has described
the composer's countenance as having been 'full of fire and dignity.'
'His general look,' continues the doctor, 'was somewhat heavy and
sour, but when he did smile it was the sun bursting out of a black
cloud. There was a sudden flash of intelligence, wit, and good humour
beaming in his countenance which I hardly ever saw in any other.' His
sense of humour was keen, and he could relish a joke--especially when
it was not directed towards himself. When visiting Dublin he was
accompanied by the celebrated violinist Dubourg, who was engaged to
play at his performances. One evening Dubourg was delighting the
audience with an extempore cadenza, and wandered so far away from the
original key that he found it no easy matter to return to it. At
length, after some moments of suspense, the shake was heard which
announced that the violinist was about to return to the theme; Handel
thereupon looked up from the harpsichord, and, in a voice loud enough
to be heard throughout the hall, exclaimed, with significant emphasis,
'Velcome _home_ again, Mr. Dubourg!'
In bringing our story of Handel's life to a close, we are tempted to
make a brief comparison between Handel and that other great master who
lived and worked at the same time--Sebastian Bach. When we compare the
two men we perceive this marked difference between them--namely, that,
while Bach evinced a complete indifference with regard to public
praise, but a very deep interest in the works of other musicians,
Handel cared a great deal for what the public thought of his works,
and was too much absorbed in his own music to give much attention to
the compositions of others. The one wrote for posterity; he published
but little, and it was only when half a century had passed since his
death that the musical world awoke to a sense of the inestimable value
which attached to the works which that life had produced. Handel, on
the other hand, studied the tastes of his own day as regards both
sacred and secular music, and devoted the whole of his life to the
supply of that demand on the part of the public which he had done so
much to create and develop.
Full as was Handel's life as regards the fulfilment of its great
object, it was in other ways extremely simple. Few things outside his
incessant round of work interested him, but he was fond of going to
the theatre, and he had a passion for attending picture sales. Of his
charity we have spoken, but we may add that he was always ready to
help those in distress, and he helped to found the Society for Aiding
Distressed Musicians. The last occasion in which he appeared in public
was at a performance of the 'Messiah' at Covent Garden, on April 6,
1759. On the 14th of the same month his death took place at the house
in Brook Street where he had resided for many years. He was buried in
Westminster Abbey, where a grand monument was later on erected to his
memory. His chief manuscripts came into the possession of King George
III., and are preserved in the musical library at Buckingham Palace.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Rockstro's 'Life of G.F. Handel,' 1883.
[4] Grove's 'Dictionary of Music.'
[5] It is a fact that this stupendous work was completed in twenty-four
days!
[6] In the manuscript score preserved at Buckingham Palace the symphony
is marked 'Pifa,' a shortening of the Italian word 'Pifferare,' to play
on the fife.
HANDEL'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS
8 ORATORIOS, etc.
La Resurrezione (1708); two Passions (1704 and 1716); Acis and
Galatea (1720); Esther (1720); Deborah (1733); Athalia (1733);
Alexander's Feast (1736); Saul (1738); Israel in Egypt (1738);
Ode for St. Cecilia's Day (1739); L'Allegro, il Penseroso, ed
il Moderato (1740); The Messiah (1741); Samson (1741); Joseph
(1743); Semele (1743); Belshazzar (1744); Hercules (1744);
Occasional Oratorio (1746); Judas Maccabæus (1746); Alexander
Balus (1747); Joshua (1747); Solomon (1748); Susanna (1748);
Theodora (1749); The Choice of Hercules (1750); Jephtha
(1751); The Triumph of Time and Truth (1757).
Utrecht Te Deum and Jubilate. 1713.
12 Chandos Anthems. 1718-1720.
2 Chandos Te Deums. 1718-1720.
4 Coronation Anthems (Let thy Hand be Strengthened, My Heart is
inditing, The King shall Rejoice, and Zadok the Priest). 1727.
Funeral Anthem (The Ways of Zion do Mourn). 1737.
Dettingen Te Deum. 1743.
40 OPERAS, mostly remembered only by a single aria. The following may
be named:
Almira (1705); Rodrigo (1707); Agrippina (1709); Rinaldo (1711);
Radamisto (1720); Muzio Scævola (Act III. only--1721); Ottone
(1722); Scipione (1726); Admeto (1726); Ezio (1732); Serse (1738).
Water Music. 1715.
17 Suites de Pièces for the clavecin.
40 Concertos for various instruments.
HAYDN
HAYDN
The Cathedral of St. Stephen, standing in the central square of
Vienna, looked grey and cheerless in the misty atmosphere of a
November evening. Evensong had just concluded, the worshippers had
dispersed, and the great square itself was silent and deserted, save
for one or two hurrying pedestrians crossing it on their homeward way.
One of these, however, formed an exception to the rest, for he seemed
to be in no hurry to leave the square. On reaching the further side he
hesitated, glanced up at the clock, and then, turning about, paced
listlessly up and down, as if uncertain whether to go or remain. Not
even the rain, which now began to fall in that silent, hopeless
fashion which predicts a thoroughly wet evening, appeared to assist
the wanderer in coming to a decision. He was a mere stripling, short
of stature, shabbily clothed, and with a keen look on his pale face
that betokened a want of food and rest.
The square was dimly lighted by lamps stationed at wide intervals, and
the shadows cast by the great building effectually concealed the form
of the youth as he entered them in the course of his restless walk.
It was evident that he was in a state of acute distress, and equally
evident that this spot held some peculiar attraction for him, for now
and again he cast a glance at the church walls, or lingered beside the
closed door which was used by the members of the choir. Presently, as
he was passing, the door opened, emitting a stream of yellow light
across the wet pavement, and a number of youths sallied forth, talking
and laughing together as they came. At the sound of the creaking
hinges the destitute boy shrank back into the shadow, as if he were
afraid of being recognised--which, indeed, was the case. Nevertheless,
on catching a glimpse of one young face, as the figure of its owner
almost brushed against him, he could not refrain from exclaiming under
his breath, 'Michael!'
So low was the tone in which the name was uttered, that, although the
chorister's face, with the light from the doorway falling upon it, was
turned for a second in the speaker's direction, the boy failed to
grasp the meaning of the sound, and hurried on with his companions;
and with a deep sigh the poor wanderer turned away.
At that moment a young man who was crossing the square from the
opposite side paused to turn up the collar of his coat. In so doing he
became aware that a pair of eyes was regarding him with a sorrowful,
appealing gaze from the depths of the shadows. In another moment he
had advanced to the youth's side and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
'Joseph! can it be you? Man, how wet you are!' The outcast shivered
under the friendly touch. 'What are you doing? Where have you been
living?' continued the questioner, drawing the youth into the light of
a lamp, and regarding his pale, tired face with astonishment.
[Illustration: HAYDN.
From photo RISCHGITZ.]
'Nothing--nowhere. I am starving, that is all,' was the reply.
'Starving--you! This is Reutter's handiwork,' said the other angrily.
'Have you seen your brother Michael? I met them coming out just now.
Was he not with the rest?' he added in a gentler tone, still keeping
his hand on the lad's shoulder.
'Yes, he was there; but he didn't see me,' replied the wanderer
hesitatingly, adding, 'I was afraid the others might notice my
distress.'
The friend bit his lip and seemed to be meditating. At last he spoke.
'Well, see here, Joseph, we cannot stand longer in the rain; come home
with me. You know I haven't a palace to offer you, but such as it is
you are welcome to a share of it for one night at least.' And so
saying he drew Joseph's arm within his own, and, bidding him walk
fast, the pair quitted the square.
Well might honest Franz Spangler, who held no higher or more lucrative
post than that of tenor singer in the choir of St. Michael's Church,
warn his young friend not to expect the luxury of a home replete with
comforts. Indeed, anyone comparing the two young men as they threaded
the narrow streets leading to Spangler's abode would have found it no
easy matter to determine which presented the shabbier appearance;
though, having decided this point to his satisfaction, he would have
been at no trouble in estimating the sort of house to which the
chorister would be likely to introduce his friend.
Situated in the poorest quarter of the town, the house presented a
sufficiently poverty-stricken appearance to warrant the meanest
opinion being entertained with regard to Spangler's powers of
hospitality. The kind-hearted singer was, in fact, almost as poor as
the youth whom he had befriended, with the additional responsibility
entailed by a wife and child. Nevertheless, to the homeless, starving
lad who now followed his protector up the crazy stairs leading to the
garret which comprised the latter's home, the chorister seemed by
comparison prosperous and well-to-do. Was it not luxury to be invited
to seat himself beside the scanty fire burning in the stove, and to
feel its warmth slowly penetrating to his chilled bones? Was it not
luxury to one who had tramped the streets--those endless, pitiless
streets--during the past eight-and-forty hours, without food or
shelter, to taste the warm bread-and-milk which his kindly hostess had
contrived to eke out of her small stock? Finally, was it not the
height of luxury to such an one to stretch his weary limbs beside the
dying embers, and sleep the sleep which exhausted nature demanded?
The heart of Spangler might well have been touched by the distress
into which his young friend had fallen, seeing that he was already
acquainted with some of the circumstances to which his forlorn
condition was due. And life had promised so differently for poor
Joseph but a short while ago! When, some four years prior to this
meeting, he had welcomed the coming of his younger brother Michael to
the Cantorei, or choir-school of St. Stephen's, he could not have
divined that this brother would, indirectly, be the cause of his being
turned adrift into the streets. Yet such was the melancholy fact, and
as to the manner in which this was brought about we may properly
inquire while the subject of this history lies wrapped in slumber
beside the garret stove.
About fifteen leagues to the southward of Vienna, and amidst the
marshy flats bordering upon the River Leitha, lies the little village
of Rohrau, which derives its name from its situation. At the extreme
end of the long, straggling street which comprises the village
stands, close to the river banks, a low, thatched building--half
house, half cottage--with a wheelwright's shop adjoining. The house
stands back a little way from the road, with a patch of greensward
before it, on which, in the days to which our story belongs, one might
have seen a waggon or two in process of repair, and possibly have
caught a glimpse of the worthy wheelwright himself at his work.
Mathias Haydn, master wheelwright, and sexton of the little church
standing on the hill outside the village, was in the fullest sense
entitled to rank as a worthy: he was not only a deeply religious man,
but one who was looked up to and respected by every one in the village
and for many a mile around. There was an air of refinement about his
home which raised it far above the level of the homes by which it was
surrounded. A strong taste for music formed a part of Mathias's
nature, and it was shared to a great extent by his wife Maria.
Regularly each Sunday evening, when the duties of the day were
finished, he would bring out his harp, which he had learnt to play by
ear, and accompany himself in songs and hymns. He had a pleasing tenor
voice, and sang with great expression. The wife also sang well, and,
joining in with her husband on these occasions, their example soon
induced the children to add their voices to the concert.
The long winter evenings were those specially devoted to music. It was
at one of such times, when the village street was deserted, and the
keen wind was sweeping it from end to end, sporting with the snow,
lifting it in whirling clouds, and building up drifts at every corner;
whilst away on the lonely marshes the ice-bound river lay shimmering
in the frosty moonlight, and the blast soughed through the tall reeds
and grasses, that the following little scene was being enacted within
the kitchen of the wheelwright's cottage.
[Illustration: '_He was imitating the playing of a violin._']
On the oaken settle next the stove sat a child of about five years of
age, following with the closest attention his father's performance on
the harp. In his hands were two sticks, with which he was imitating
the playing of a violin, keeping accurate time with his bow to the
rhythm of the music. The rapt expression on the boy's face was not
lost upon the father, and thoughts which more than once had occupied
Mathias's mind as he watched his child's clever imitation of the
village schoolmaster's playing of the violin were recurring with
redoubled force on this occasion. And when the boy lifted up his sweet
treble voice in unison with the rest its beauty sent a thrill through
the father's heart. His own life had been a keen disappointment with
respect to his passionate love for music--a love which had made him
yearn to know more of the art for which he had so profound a
reverence. Hence the determination that his child should have every
chance that he could afford of developing such talents as he possessed
gathered strength as he perceived the manifestations of delight on the
part of little Joseph every time the harp was produced, and as he
noted the quickness and accuracy with which the boy learnt the simple
melodies that were played to him. And as time went on these thoughts
kindled a hope in the father's breast that his little Joseph might one
day become a musician, and perhaps--who could tell?--he might even
rise to be a Capellmeister!
Joseph Haydn, the subject of our story and the centre of his father's
hopes, was born on March 31, 1732, and had attained his sixth year
when the first step towards the settlement of his future was taken by
his parents. Previous to this event Mathias had confided to his wife
the hopes which he entertained with regard to Joseph's musical career,
in the expectation that she would share them. Maria, however, did not
incline to her husband's views on the subject. She cherished a strong
desire that Joseph should eventually join the priesthood, and fancied
that she detected in the boy's reverence for sacred music a natural
leaning in that direction.
Matters were at this juncture when an unexpected visit was paid to the
cottage by a distant relative named Johann Mathias Frankh, the
schoolmaster of Hainburg, a small town about four leagues from Rohrau.
Frankh, who was himself a fair musician, happened to visit the family
at the moment when they were engaged in their evening concert, and the
sight of Joseph with his toy violin at once attracted his attention.
The purity and accuracy of the child's singing, moreover, soon
convinced the schoolmaster that he had in him the makings of a good
musician, and without knowing anything of the parents' wishes or
intentions, he immediately proposed that Joseph should be placed under
his instruction. 'If you will let Sepperl (the Austrian diminutive for
Joseph) come to me,' said he, 'I will take care that he is properly
taught. I can see that he promises well.'
Mathias gave a willing consent to the proposition, and Maria's
objections having been overruled (she kept to herself the hope that
this might, after all, prove to be but a stepping-stone to the
fulfilment of her wishes), in a very short time Joseph and his father
were seated in the waggon and jogging on their way to Hainburg.