notably in the 'Surprise Symphony,' where the drums come in with a
tremendous bang at the end of the _andante_ movement. He is said to
have invented this part in order to arouse the attention of the
audience and make the ladies scream. Again, in the 'Toy Symphony,' he
shows a child-like appreciation of drollery in producing genuine music
out of such toy instruments as tin whistles, jew's-harps, toy
trumpets, etc. The 'Toy Symphony' was composed at Eisenstadt, where,
having visited a village fair and purchased a number of toy
instruments, Haydn was seized with the idea of making his orchestra
play upon them--an order which upset their gravity so much that they
could hardly keep time for laughing. A little story illustrative of
his love of fun may be told here. During his second visit to London he
came in contact with a certain amateur violinist whose professed
fondness for the extreme upper notes of his instrument was such as to
incite Haydn to perpetrate a joke at his expense. He therefore wrote a
seemingly simple sonata for piano and violin, which he called 'Jacob's
Dream,' and dispatched it anonymously to the conceited violinist. The
player was charmed with the manner in which the piece began. It was
apparent that the composer thoroughly understood the instrument! As he
proceeded, however, the notes rose higher and higher, like the steps
of a ladder, and at length, seeing that there was no prospect of their
ever descending again, the perspiration broke out on his forehead,
and, flinging the music from him with disgust, he declared that the
writer knew nothing whatever of the violin!
* * * * *
Haydn was now sixty-five, but the crowning work of his life had yet to
be achieved. Whilst in London Salomon had shown him a poem, founded
upon 'Paradise Lost,' which had been written many years before, in the
hope that Handel would have set it to music. Haydn carried the poem
home, and later on conceived the idea of writing an oratorio on the
subject. From the moment of its inception the task of composing the
'Creation,' as the new work was called, became a labour of increasing
love with Haydn. 'Never was I so pious,' he writes, 'as when composing
the "Creation." I knelt down every day and prayed God to strengthen
me for the work.' The oratorio was first publicly performed in Vienna
on March 19, 1799, and created a profound impression. Haydn himself
was almost overcome by the sensations which the occasion aroused. In a
short time the 'Creation' was heard in every principal city of Europe.
In places where no means existed for its production choral societies
were formed for this special object, so that for many years the work
took equal rank in popular favour with the 'Messiah.' As a work of
art, however, the 'Creation' differs essentially, both in character
and style, from Handel's masterpiece. We have here none of the
declamatory passages which are so prominent in the 'Messiah,' the
story of the Creation being unfolded to us in a series of wonderful
tone-pictures--strengthened where necessary by choruses, but keeping
throughout to the epic character of the poem. Many of the passages are
strikingly beautiful. Who that has heard them can ever forget the
airs, 'With Verdure Clad,' and 'In Native Worth,' or the splendid
chorus, 'The Heavens are telling the Glory of God'?
Whilst music-lovers were descanting on the beauties of the 'Creation,'
Haydn was busily composing a second oratorio founded upon Thomson's
famous poem, 'The Seasons.' The desire for work was as strong as ever,
but his health was declining, and the strain involved by so great an
undertaking proved too much for his strength. '"The Seasons" gave me
my finishing stroke,' was Haydn's often-repeated remark to his friends
after the oratorio had left his hands. But no trace of diminished
power is visible in the work itself, and the success which attended
its production was such as to place it on a level with the 'Creation.'
With these two great works the flow of composition from the master's
pen fittingly closed. Upon the subject of his life-work as a whole we
may not dwell in this brief story. The history of music has accorded
to Haydn the high position which his works entitled him to occupy, and
the feeling of gratitude for those great gifts having been vouchsafed
to us is one that has grown deeper and deeper with the passing years.
Musicians and music-lovers all the world over give expression to this
gratitude by pointing to what he has accomplished for the symphony,
the quartet, and the sonata--to mention the three branches of
composition to which his genius was specially directed. Acknowledged
on every hand as the father of instrumental music, Haydn compels our
admiration by 'his inexhaustible invention as shown in the originality
of his themes and melodies; the life and spontaneity of the ideas; the
clearness which makes his compositions as interesting to the amateur
as to the artist; the child-like cheerfulness and drollery which charm
away trouble and care.' His insistence on the importance of melody was
a marked characteristic. 'It is the air which is the charm of music,'
he once remarked to the composer Kelly, 'and it is that which is most
difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is a work of
genius.'
The honourable peace which should have been the companion of his old
age was marred by much physical suffering, through which, however, at
intervals his genial nature forced its way like sunshine through
clouds. Nor were his declining years without the solace of numerous
friends--indeed, by none to whom his great gifts and kindly
personality had brought pleasure and instruction was the old composer
forgotten, and nothing gave him keener delight than to gather his
friends about him to talk over the chief events of his life, and to
exhibit his collection of diplomas, souvenirs, and other mementoes,
which had been presented to him by his royal and noble patrons.
Perhaps no more touching example could be given of the affectionate
esteem in which Haydn was held by all classes of music-lovers than
that afforded by the last occasion on which he appeared in public. He
had been for a long time living in retirement in the house which he
purchased on the outskirts of Vienna, but having expressed a wish to
be present at a performance of the 'Creation' at the University on
March 27, 1808, he was carried to the hall in his arm-chair. The
enthusiasm evoked by the spectacle of the aged composer being borne
into the arena was in itself a convincing proof that his popularity
had not lessened. But the emotions of the audience were more deeply
stirred when, at the passage 'And there was light,' Haydn lifted his
hand and, pointing upwards, exclaimed, 'It came from thence!' At this
point his agitation was so great that it was deemed prudent to remove
him to his home; and as the carriers lifted him up and bore him
towards the door, the people flocked about his chair to touch his hand
and bid him farewell. At the door itself the crowd was denser than
ever, and pressing through the throng came Beethoven, who, bending
over his old master, kissed him fervently on the hand and forehead. As
he passed through the exit Haydn turned to take a last look at those
who were standing and waving their farewells, and as he did so he
raised his hands as if in the act of blessing them. The next moment
the heavy portière fell, and Haydn passed for ever from the public
sight.
A year later the old musician lay stretched upon his bed listening to
the booming of the French cannon, which were bombarding the city.
Presently the crash of a ball which fell close to his house caused the
servants to utter a cry of fear, whereupon their master called out to
them, 'Children, don't be frightened. No harm can happen to you while
Haydn is by.'
One day, shortly after this event, when Vienna was in the occupation
of the French, the faithful Elssler reported that a French officer
desired to pay his respects to the composer whom France held in such
veneration. The interview was granted, and the officer, before taking
his leave, sang 'In Native Worth,' from the 'Creation,' with so much
feeling and expression that Haydn's eyes filled with tears, and he
embraced the singer with warmth and tenderness.
[Illustration: '_Haydn's eyes filled with tears._']
The end was now very near, and Haydn awaited the dread summons with
the resignation that was born of his implicit and child-like faith in
God. On May 26, 1809, he summoned the members of his household to his
presence, and, having been carried to the piano, he played his
favourite composition, 'The Emperor's Hymn,' three times over, with
great solemnity. There was something inexpressibly touching in the
master's selection of this air, which had been inspired by his love of
country and his loyalty to his Sovereign; for none knew better than
they who now stood around his chair how deeply he had suffered by
reason of the indignities which had been offered to his country. These
faithful friends realised that this solemn expression of devotion to
his King was intended to be a personal farewell, and as the familiar
strains of their noble anthem rang through the apartment, their silent
tears gave expression to the love and reverence in which the master
was held. Five days later, as dawn hovered on the sable fringe of
night, Haydn sank to rest.
Owing to the fact that Vienna at the time of Haydn's death was in the
hands of the French, his funeral was conducted without the ostentation
by which, under happier circumstances, it would have been marked.
Nevertheless, there were many mourners, and amongst them a number of
French officers of high rank, whilst a guard of honour was formed
around the coffin by the French soldiers. A performance of Mozart's
'Requiem' was given in his honour at the Schotten-Kirche, and as the
news of his death spread abroad funeral services were held in all the
principal cities of Europe. The burial took place in the Hundsthurm
churchyard, near the suburb in which he lived; but in 1820 Prince
Esterhazy commanded the remains to be exhumed and reinterred, with
fitting ceremonial, in the upper parish church at Eisenstadt, where 'a
simple stone with a Latin inscription is inserted in the wall over the
vault, to inform the passer-by that a great man rests below.'
FOOTNOTES:
[7] The drums on which Haydn performed on this occasion are still
preserved in the choir of the church at Hainburg.
[8] Since included in the building of the First Avenue Hotel.
[9] The house has since been rebuilt to form the warehouse of Messrs.
Chatto and Windus.
[10] See story of Beethoven, p. 233.
HAYDEN'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS
OPERAS:
The Devil on Two Sticks. 1752 (?)
Acis und Galatea. 1762.
La Vera Costanza. 1776.
Orfeo ed Euridice. 1793.
ORATORIOS:
Il Ritorno di Tobia. 1775.
[The well-known motet 'Insanæ et vanæ curæ' is taken from this
oratorio.]
The Seven Words from the Cross. 1794.
[Originally composed as a series of pieces for orchestra in 1787.]
The Creation. 1798.
The Seasons. 1801.
MASSES:
Mass in F (Novello, No. 11). 1751 (?)
Mass of B.V.M. in E-flat (No. 12). 1766.
Mass of St. Nicholas in G (No. 7). 1772.
Mass of St. John in B-flat (No. 8). 1778.
Mass of St. Cecilia in C (No. 5). 1780.
Mass of Mariazell in C (No. 15). 1782.
Mass in C (No. 2). 1790.
Mass in B-flat (No. 1). 1796.
Imperial Mass in D (No. 3). 1798.
[Known in Germany as the 'Nelson Mass.']
Mass in B-flat (No. 4). 1801.
Mass in B-flat (No. 6). 1801.
Mass in B-flat (No. 16).
Two other Masses not printed.
The four Masses, No. 9 (in C), No. 10 (in C minor), No. 13 (in C),
and No. 14 (Kyrie and Gloria only, in D), are not authentic.
Stabat Mater. 1773.
2 Te Deums.
12 Canzonets. 1790.
142 Symphonies.
[It will be sufficient to mention the 12 'Grand' Symphonies,
composed for Salomon's concerts, and a few others with
distinguishing names.]
Grand No. 1 in C. 1791-1792.
Grand No. 2 in D. 1791.
Grand No. 3 in G (The Surprise). 1791.
Grand No. 4 in B-flat. 1791-1792.
Grand No. 5 in C minor. 1791.
Grand No. 6 in D. 1791.
Grand No. 7 in D minor. 1795.
Grand No. 8 in E-flat. 1795 (?)
Grand No. 9 in B-flat. 1795.
Grand No. 10 in E-flat. 1793.
Grand No. 11 in D minor (The Clock). 1794.
Grand No. 12 in G (Military). 1794.
Symphony in C (Le Midi). 1761.
Symphony in G (Le Soir). 1761 (?)
Symphony in D (Le Matin). 1767 (?)
Symphony in A (The Farewell--Letter B). 1772.
Symphony in E minor (Trauer-symphonie--Letter I). 1772 (?)
Symphony in D minor (Lamentations). 1772.
Symphony in C (Maria Theresa). 1773.
Symphony in E-flat (The Schoolmaster). 1774.
Symphony in A (Feuer-symphonie). 1774.
Symphony in C (Roxelane). 1777 (?)
Symphony in D (La Chasse). 1781 (?)
Symphony in C (L'Ours). 1784-1786.
Symphony in G minor (La Poule). 1784-1786.
Symphony in B-flat (La Reine de France). 1786 (?)
Symphony in G (Letter V). 1787.
Symphony in C (Letter R). 1788.
Symphony in G (Letter Q--The Oxford). 1788 (?)
Symphony in C (Toy Symphony). 1788 (?)
83 Quartets for strings.
[The earliest were composed in 1753. The quartet including
variations on Haydn's 'Emperor's Hymn' (Op. 76, No. 3) was
composed in 1797.]
21 Trios for strings.
31 Trios for clavier and strings.
3 Concertos for pianoforte and orchestra. 1790.
9 Concertos for violin and orchestra.
22 Concertos for other instruments.
8 Sonatas for clavier and violin.
34 Sonatas for clavier solo.
MOZART
MOZART
In a small, barely-furnished apartment in the Archbishop's palace at
Salzburg, in Austria-Hungary, on a winter's morning in the year 1766,
a boy of ten years of age was seated at a table, his head resting upon
his hand and his eyes turned towards the window. Before him were
scattered a number of sheets of manuscript music-paper, several of
which were covered with notes, which his childish fingers had
patiently traced amidst a plentiful sprinkling of blots and smears.
There was something pathetic about the appearance of the motionless
little figure, with its pale face, surmounted by a profusion of brown
curls, and the fixed, earnest expression in the large dark eyes--a
pathetic seriousness that implied a depth of reflection far beyond his
years, and to which the work upon which he was engaged lent additional
significance. Thus absorbed, the child paid no heed to the entry of a
servant bearing a tray, upon which was spread a simple breakfast; and,
following the instructions which he had received, the man laid the
tray on the table and quitted the room in silence. Outside the door,
however, the old servant paused for a moment in a listening attitude,
as if to catch the chink of moving cup and platter, and thus be
assured that the child had begun his meal. But as no sound came from
within, old Hans shook his head gravely, turned the key in the lock,
and, muttering to himself, descended the stairs.
[Illustration: '_He paid no heed to the entry of a servant._']
The old servitor was puzzled, and somewhat troubled in mind as well,
by the boy's deep abstraction. That his master the Archbishop
cherished any feelings of harshness or resentment towards the solitary
little prisoner Hans refused to believe. Indeed, the Archbishop had
confided to him that he merely desired to test the child's powers of
writing original music. But to the old man's mind such a test was far
too severe to be applied to one so young, and something in the boy's
far-away look had touched his heart and tempted him to disobey the
stringent command which he had received not to converse with the
little writer. Even now, as he was descending the stairs, he felt
almost like a criminal in leaving the boy locked in his room without a
word of comfort or encouragement, and he was half inclined to turn
back on some excuse to speak with the prisoner and inquire how he
felt. At that moment, however, the ringing of a distant bell summoned
him to his master's presence.
[Illustration: MOZART.
From photo RISCHGITZ.]
Archbishop Sigismund was pacing to and fro in the dining-room when his
servant entered, his forehead puckered with a frown, and his eyes
fixed on the carpet. But he at once checked himself in his walk, and,
turning to Hans, said abruptly: 'Have you taken the child his food?'
'Yes, your Grace,' was the reply. 'And--er--how did he seem--well,
eh?' 'Quite well, your Grace.' 'You are sure of that?' a trifle
anxiously. 'Perfectly sure, your Grace,' replied the old man, though
he would have liked to have added a word as to his doubts concerning
the child's happiness; but the Archbishop dismissed him with a wave of
the hand, and, turning away, seated himself at the breakfast-table.
* * * * *
Several floors above that on which Archbishop Sigismund was eating his
breakfast the little captive sat patiently toiling at his allotted
task. In a sense the old man was right; for the test was as severe a
one as the mind of a man who was a good judge of music, and who
doubted the truth of what he had heard concerning his little captive's
astonishing genius, could well have devised. The boy was required to
set to music the first part of a sacred cantata founded upon the
'First and greatest Commandment'--'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God
with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and
with all thy strength' (Mark xii. 30). The Archbishop fully realised
the magnitude of the test, and he expected failure--he looked for the
child to break down. The time allotted for its fulfilment was one
week, at the expiration of which he would find a few boyish attempts
at composition, and nothing more.
And why was Archbishop Sigismund so desirous of testing the boy's
powers of composition? A short time before the date at which our story
opens Leopold Mozart, Vice-Capellmeister at the Archbishop's court,
had related to his master some wonderful stories of his little son
Wolfgang--how the child had astonished and delighted every one by his
playing; how, when the father carried him and his sister Marianne to
Vienna and Paris and London, they had been invited to play at the
Courts, and how little Wolfgang had been praised by the royal families
and loaded with presents; and how he had already composed some
wonderful things, including several sonatas for the pianoforte, and a
symphony--the latter when he was only eight years old.
There was no exaggeration in Leopold Mozart's description of his
child's powers, as to which, indeed, accounts from less partial
sources had already reached the Archbishop's ears. None the less,
however, was the old ecclesiastic inclined to attribute to a parent's
pardonable pride the anticipations which the father had formed with
regard to the boy's future, and more especially as those anticipations
rested upon the assumption that the child was a miraculous genius.
That Wolfgang could play remarkably well for a child of his age was
sufficient in itself to justify the extraordinary praise which he had
received; but that he was gifted to the extent of writing original
music of a sort worthy to be recorded the Archbishop may be excused
for doubting. At any rate, he resolved to settle the matter to his own
satisfaction by setting the boy to work under conditions which
precluded every chance of his being enabled to copy from the works of
other composers, and also--and this was a great point with the
Archbishop--of his being helped by his father. Leopold readily
assented to the conditions of the test proposed by his master, and so
little Wolfgang was duly installed as a close prisoner in the palace,
and supplied with music-paper, pens, and ink, and a subject on which
to write, in the manner in which we have already described.
And now we must leave him for a space weaving harmonies in his attic
chamber whilst we recount his history up to the present point.
Born on January 27, 1756, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had attained his
third year when the father's attention was first drawn to his fondness
for music. In his little daughter Marianne, who was five years older
than Wolfgang, he had rejoiced to discover an extraordinary gift for
playing, and it was not long ere her music-lessons from her father
became a source of attraction for her little brother, who would cast
aside his toys and take his stand beside the piano as soon as he
perceived that Marianne's lesson was about to begin. There he would
remain until the lesson was finished, listening intently to everything
that was played or spoken. At other times he would amuse himself by
finding simple chords on the instrument, striking them over and over
again, and bending his head to catch the harmonies thus produced. At
length Leopold Mozart began to teach him, half in fun at first, but
very soon in earnest, for it was apparent that the child regarded the
lessons seriously.
The father could not conceal his joy at the discovery of such early
promise on the part of his little son, whose progress, indeed, was so
rapid as to call for special care to prevent his learning too fast.
Marianne had a manuscript book in which her father used to write
simple pieces for her to learn, and very soon he was entering in the
book similar pieces for Wolfgang.[11] The rapidity and ease with which
the boy mastered these tasks opened his father's eyes to the fact that
Wolfgang possessed capacities far above those of an ordinary child. In
a short time the boy began to write in the book little compositions of
his own, some of them plainly showing that his skill in composing had
forged beyond the point at which his tiny fingers had the power to
express his ideas.
One day, when Leopold Mozart had brought Herr Schachtner, the Court
trumpeter, home to dinner, they found Wolfgang busily employed with
his pen. In answer to his father's inquiry what he was doing, Wolfgang
replied that he was writing a concerto for the pianoforte. Leopold
asked to see it, but the boy was not anxious to have his work
inspected, and objected that it was not finished. 'Never mind,' said
Leopold, 'let me see it. It must be something very fine.' Taking the
paper into his hand, the father and his friend glanced at it
curiously. The sheet was bedaubed with ink-smears which almost
concealed the notes; the child had dipped his pen each time to the
bottom of the ink-bottle, so that when it reached the paper it had
dropped a huge blot. This had not disturbed him in the least, however,
for he had merely rubbed his hand over the offending blot and
proceeded with his writing.
At first sight both Leopold and his friend laughed to see the manner
in which the composer had traced the notes over the smudges, but soon
Schachtner observed the father's eyes fill with tears of delight and
wonderment as he began to follow out the theme. 'Look, Herr
Schachtner!' he cried. 'See how correct and orderly it is! Only it
could never be of any use, for it is so extraordinarily difficult that
no one in the world could play it.'
Wolfgang at this looked up quickly into his father's face. 'That is
why it is a concerto,' he explained, with flushed cheeks. 'People must
practise until they can play it perfectly. Look! This is how it goes;'
and he began to play it on the piano, but only succeeded in bringing
out sufficient to show his hearers what he meant it to be.
His ear for music was wonderfully fine, for when only seven years old
he could detect the difference of half a quarter of a tone between two
violins. It was an ear of such extreme delicacy, in fact, that
anything in the shape of rude or harsh sounds caused him positive
distress. On one occasion Schachtner, at the request of Leopold
Mozart, who imagined that Wolfgang's aversion to loud sounds was a
mere childish fancy, blew a blast upon the trumpet towards the child,
but he regretted it the next moment, for the boy nearly fainted away
at the shock.