to wake, and every morning only brings back the torment of the day
before.... I have composed two operas for nothing.'
Thus sadly he wrote in the hour of bitterness, but happily for
Schubert, and still more fortunately for us, there were brighter days
yet in store for him, and the enthusiasm for the beautiful, which he
speaks of as 'fast vanishing,' returned in all its accustomed force.
No disappointment, however great, seemed to have the power to check
the flow of production--that is the one great point which we notice
about Schubert's life; we find him at one moment despairing, but at
the next his troubles appear to be forgotten, and he is immersed in
the writing of another song, another symphony, or another sonata, as
the case may be; but it is always work, work in the face of every
obstacle that fortune can throw in his way. 'His life is all summed up
in his music.' 'Music and music alone was to him all in all. It was
not his _principal_ mode of expression, it was his _only_ one; it
swallowed up every other. His afternoon walks, his evening amusements,
were all so many preparations for the creations of the following
morning.'[28] And so it continued until the end. The very last year of
his busy life, far from exhibiting any diminution of his powers, is
marked by the production of some of his very finest works.
It was not until the end of October, 1828, that the signs of serious
illness made themselves apparent in attacks of giddiness, accompanied
by a marked loss of strength. Schubert was at this time living with
his brother Ferdinand at the latter's house in the Neue Wieden
suburb--the house is now known as No. 6, Kettenbrücken Gasse--having
removed thither on the advice of his doctor for the sake of the fresh
air and the adjacent country. Although he rallied somewhat during the
first week of November, and was able to resume his walks and discuss
his plans for the future, the weakness increased, and on the 11th he
wrote to his friend Schober what was destined to be his last letter:
'DEAR SCHOBER,
'I am ill. I have eaten and drunk nothing for eleven days, and
I am so tired and shaky that I can only get from the bed to the
chair, and back. Rinna is attending me.... In this distressing
condition be so kind as to help me to some reading. Of Cooper's
I have read the "Last of the Mohicans," the "Spy," the "Pilot,"
and the "Pioneers." If you have anything else of his I entreat
you to leave it with Frau von Bogner at the Coffee-house. My
brother, who is conscientiousness itself, will bring it to me
in the most conscientious way. Or anything else. Your friend,
'SCHUBERT.'
On the 14th he took to his bed, but for two days more he was able to
sit up and correct the proofs of some of the songs in the
'Winterreise.' He grew rapidly weaker, however, and by the 17th he was
quite delirious. On the evening of the next day he called Ferdinand to
his side, and, bidding him put his ear close to his mouth, he
whispered: 'Brother, what are they doing with me?' 'Dear Franz,' was
the reply, 'they are doing all they can to get you well again, and the
doctor assures us you will soon be all right, only you must do your
best to stay in bed.' For a space the sick man lay quiet, then, as the
delirium increased, his mind reverted to the same idea: 'I implore you
to put me in my own room, and not to leave me in this corner under the
earth. Don't I deserve a place above ground?' 'Dear Franz,' cried his
brother, 'be calm--trust your brother Ferdinand, whom you have always
trusted, and who loves you so dearly. You are in the room which you
always had, and lying on your own bed.' 'Ah, no,' replied the dying
composer, 'that cannot be true, for Beethoven is not here!' Thus in
his last moments his poor, wandering mind was dwelling upon the master
whom he reverenced; to be near him, even in death, was the last wish,
the last hope to which he clung!
When, later on, the doctor came, he tried to reassure the sufferer
with hopes of recovery; but Schubert gazed at him with earnestness
without speaking, and then, turning himself away, he beat the wall
with his hands, saying in slow, earnest tone: 'Here, here is my end,'
At three o'clock in the afternoon of the following day, November 19,
1828, he breathed his last. Thus passed away, in comparative youth, a
composer of whom it has been written: 'There never has been one like
him, and there never will be another.'
The funeral took place on November 21, and a large number of friends
gathered to pay their last respects to the dead composer as he lay in
his coffin, dressed in accordance with the prevailing custom, like a
hermit, with a crown of laurel about his brows. The poor old father,
still drudging as schoolmaster in the Rossau district, where he had
been labouring ever since he had left the old home in the
Himmelpfortgrund, would have buried his dear son in the cemetery near
at hand; but Ferdinand told him of Franz's last wish, and, like the
noble brother that he was, gave a sum out of his own scanty earnings
in order to defray the extra cost of removing the body to the
Währinger burial-place. Thither, accordingly, it was taken, and
committed to the ground in a grave close to that occupied by the
master he loved so well. The monument which was erected over the grave
in the following year, by the efforts of his friends and admirers,
bears the following inscription:
MUSIC HAS HERE ENTOMBED A RICH TREASURE,
BUT MUCH FAIRER HOPES.
FRANZ SCHUBERT LIES HERE.
BORN JAN. 31, 1797;
DIED NOV. 19, 1828,
31 YEARS OLD.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] The Symphony in D, performed from manuscript at the Crystal
Palace, on February 5, 1881.
[23] The opera was never performed, and in 1848 the manuscript of the
second act was accidentally destroyed by a servant who used it for
lighting the fires.
[24] For the following extract from this letter the author expresses
his acknowledgments to Sir G. Grove's 'Dictionary of Music and
Musicians' (article 'Schubert'), in which the letter was for the first
time published.
[25] His brother Carl, the landscape painter.
[26] His stepmother; the father had married again soon after the first
wife's death.
[27] Of the 'Wanderer'--second only in popularity to the 'Erl
King'--the publishers are said to have realised, since the time of its
appearance up to the year 1861, the sum of 27,000 florins, or more than
£1,100.
[28] Sir G. Grove, 'Dictionary of Music and Musicians.'
SCHUBERT'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS
OPERAS AND DRAMATIC WORKS:
Des Teufels Lustschloss. Comp. 1813-1814, pub. 1888.
Die Zwillingsbrüder. Comp. 1818-1819, pub. 1872.
Alfonso und Estrella. Op. 69. Comp. 1821-1822, pub. 1827.
Die Verschworenen, oder Der Häusliche Krieg. Comp. 1823, pub. 1862.
Fierabras. Op. 76. Comp. 1823, pub. 1827.
Rosamunde (Overture and Incidental Music). Op. 26. Comp. 1823,
pub. 1824.
6 MASSES:
No. 1, in F, Comp. 1814, pub. 1856.
No. 2, in G, Comp. 1815, pub. 1846.
No. 3, in B-flat, Op. 141. Comp. 1815, pub. 1838.
No. 4, in C, Op. 48. Comp. 1818, pub. 1826.
No. 5, in E-flat, Comp. 1828, pub. 1865.
No. 6, in A-flat, Comp. 1819-1822, pub. 1876.
Deutsche Messe in F. Comp. 1826, pub. 1870.
Lazarus (cantata--unfinished). Comp. 1820, pub. 1866.
Psalm XXIII., for female voices, Op. 132. Comp. 1820, pub. 1831.
The Song of Miriam, Op. 136. Comp. 1828, pub. 1838.
8 SYMPHONIES:
No. 1, in D, Comp. 1813.
No. 2, in B-flat, Comp. 1814-1815.
No. 3, in D, Comp. 1815.
No. 4, in C minor, The Tragic. Comp. 1816, pub. 1870.
No. 5, in B-flat, Comp. 1816, pub. 1870.
No. 6, in C, Comp. 1818.
No. 8, in B minor, The Unfinished. Comp. 1822, pub. 1867.
No. 9, in C, Comp. 1828, pub. 1840.
Overture in the Italian Style in D. Comp. 1817, pub. 1872.
Overture in the Italian Style in C, Op. 170. Comp. 1817, pub. 1872.
Octet for strings and wind in F, Op. 166. Comp. 1824, pub. 1854.
Quintet for strings in C, Op. 163. Comp. 1828, pub. 1854.
Quintet for pianoforte and strings in A, Op. 114. Comp. 1819, pub. 1829.
8 Quartets for strings:
In D. Comp. 1814, pub. 1871.
In B-flat, Op. 168. Comp. 1814, pub. 1865.
In G minor, Comp. 1815, pub. 1871.
In E-flat, Op. 125, No. 1. Comp. 1824, pub. 1830.
In E, Op. 125, No. 2. Comp. 1824, pub. 1830.
In A minor, Op. 29. Comp. 1824, pub. 1825.
In D minor, Comp. 1826, pub. 1831.
In G, Op. 161. Comp. 1826, pub. 1852.
2 Trios for pianoforte and strings:
Op. 99, in B-flat, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.
Op. 100, in E-flat, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.
4 Sonatas. } For
Fantasia in C, Op. 159. Comp. 1827. } pianoforte
Rondeau Brilliant in B minor, Op. 70. Comp. 1826. } and violin.
2 Sonatas (in C minor and B-flat), Comp. 1814 and 1824. }
Fantasia in F minor, Op. 103 }
Marche Héroïque in A minor, Op. 66. Comp. 1826. }
Marche Funèbre in C minor, Op. 55. Comp. 1825. } For
25 Marches. } pianoforte
2 Divertissements. } duet.
Variations on a French Air in E minor, Op. 10. }
Comp. 1821, pub. 1822. }
2 Rondos. }
10 Polonaises. }
Grand Duo in C, Op. 140. Comp. 1824. }
Overture in F, Op. 34. Comp. 1824. }
10 Sonatas for pianoforte solo.
[We must mention the Sonata in A minor, Op. 42, and that in A
major, Op. 120, both composed in 1825.]
Fantasia in C, Op. 15. Comp. 1820. }
Fantasia Sonata in G, Op. 78. Comp. 1826. }
4 Impromptus, Op. 90. Comp. 1828. } For
4 Impromptus, Op. 142. Comp. 1827. } pianoforte
6 Moments Musicals, Op. 94. } solo.
2 sets of Variations. }
44 Part Songs for male voices.
6 Part Songs for female voices.
21 Part Songs for mixed voices.
457 Songs have been published. We may mention:
Die Schöne Müllerin (20 songs), Op. 25. Comp. 1823.
Die Winterreise (24 songs), Op. 89. Comp. 1827.
Der Schwanengesang (14 songs). Comp. 1828.
And the following single Songs:
An Sylvia, Op. 106, No. 4. Comp. 1826.
Ave Maria (Scott's words), Op. 52, No. 6. Comp. 1825
Der Tod und das Mädchen, Op. 7, No. 3.
Der Wanderer, Op. 4, No. 1. Comp. 1816.
Der Zwerg, Op. 22, No. 1. Comp. 1823.
Die Forelle, Op. 32. Comp. 1818.
Geheimes, Op. 14, No. 2. Comp. 1821.
Gretchen am Spinnrade, Op. 2. Comp. 1814.
Ständchen (Hark, hark! the Lark!). Comp. 1826.
Erlkönig, Op. 1. Comp. 1815.
For a fuller account of Schubert's life the reader is advised to
consult:
COLERIDGE (A.D.): Life of Schubert (translation of Kreissle
von Hellborn's _Franz Schubert_). 2 vols. Longmans, 1869.
MENDELSSOHN
MENDELSSOHN
The short winter afternoon was drawing to a close, and a grey mist had
already begun to blot out the canal and the trees which were studded
along its banks, accentuating the prevailing cheerlessness and
silence, and throwing into yet stronger relief the animated scene
presented within the comfortable, well-warmed dining-room of a house
standing on the further side of the broad street which ran parallel
with the canal. A large company was gathered in this room for the
enjoyment of music and conversation, and it was evident from the
whispered remarks which passed between the guests that something out
of the common was expected at the hands of the youthful player who, in
obedience to his father's request, now advanced to take his place at
the pianoforte.
Peculiarly winning, both in manner and appearance, was the boy who
modestly seated himself at the instrument. He was about thirteen years
of age, of slight build, with a handsome face, in which strong traces
of Jewish descent were apparent. His black hair clustered thickly
above a high forehead, while the dark, lustrous eyes, with their
continuous play of expression, imparted to the face an indescribable
charm such as no degree of beauty in itself could have exercised. It
was, in a word, the sensitive face of an artist, reflecting the varying
imagery of a mind attuned to lofty and beautiful thoughts; and as such
its power and charm could be felt even by those to whom as yet his
thoughts were a sealed book. The temperament which we designate by the
term 'artistic' resembles the ocean in its varying moods, and in the
surprising swiftness with which one mood or aspect gives place to
another. Just before he was called upon to play, the boy's eyes had
been sparkling with merriment, and his spirits had so infected the rest
of the company as to cause the intervals separating the performances to
be filled with laughter and merry chatter. Yet no one watching his face
now, as his fingers swept over the keys, could have failed to be struck
by the change in its expression. Every trace of fun had vanished, and
to the sparkle of the eyes had succeeded an expression of deep
earnestness that showed how readily the mind had adapted itself to the
character of the music he was playing, and as the performance
progressed one could have read in his face every shade of feeling which
the music was intended to express. No self-consciousness marred the
spontaneity of the player's interpretation. Everything seemed to come
direct from his soul, as if that soul had found the voice by which
alone it could be heard and understood, and revelled in its freedom.
And as he played on, weaving fresh melodies out of the original theme,
ever and anon breaking through the web of harmony to recall the simple,
plaintive air with which he had begun--his face at one moment lighted
up with radiant happiness and at the next shaded with quiet
sadness--his listeners almost held their breath, fearful of losing
any portion of the music which was passing away from them, perhaps for
ever. And as he played, the shadows of the December afternoon crept
into the room, enveloping the slight figure seated at the instrument,
until his outline became lost to view, and the melody pouring forth
from beneath his fingers seemed to come from heaven itself.
[Illustration: MENDELSSOHN.
From photo RISCHGITZ.]
* * * * *
To those who visited the home of Abraham Mendelssohn, the wealthy
Berlin banker, the fact that his son Felix had a remarkable genius for
music did not admit of a doubt. The capacity for learning music had
begun very early, but his wonderful gift of extemporisation, which
gave his genius wings as well as voice, had only lately revealed
itself at the time at which our story opens. Nevertheless, it had made
great strides, and opened up all sorts of possibilities with regard to
the future. And withal there was such an unaffected modesty and
simplicity about the boy, so complete an absence of anything like a
desire to show off his talents, as sufficed to disarm any tendency
towards captiousness on the part of his hearers. Felix's whole wish
was to satisfy himself as to his progress in music, and, young as he
was, he had the sense and determination to pursue his bent without
regard to the plaudits of his father's friends. Abraham Mendelssohn,
notwithstanding his business capacities, was himself a great lover of
the arts, and especially of music, in regard to which, indeed, he
showed considerable judgment. That his children should exhibit similar
tastes to his own was, therefore, to him a matter of delightful
satisfaction, for he shared with his wife Leah a deep interest in all
that affected his children's education. He watched Felix with peculiar
care, for it seemed to him that he inherited many of the traits as
well as the capacity for learning which had distinguished the
grandfather and philosopher, Moses Mendelssohn. Felix undoubtedly
possessed the bright dark eyes and the humorous temperament of his
grandfather, for he was one of the brightest and merriest of children.
The family was not a large one. Jakob Ludwig Felix (to give the
subject of our story his full names), who was born February 3, 1809,
ranked second in age, the eldest child being Fanny Cäcilie; after
Felix came Rebekka, and, lastly, little Paul. The three elder children
were born in Hamburg, where the family continued to reside until the
occupation of the town by the French soldiers in 1811 made life there
so miserable for the German inhabitants that as many families as could
contrive to do so escaped to other towns of Germany which were free
from the presence of the invading army. Amongst those who successfully
eluded the watchfulness of the French guards by resorting to disguise
was the family of Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, the head of which had
followed the example of his wife's brother in adopting the latter name
as a means of distinguishing his own from other branches of the
Mendelssohn family. With his wife and children Abraham fled to Berlin
to make his home in the house of the grandmother, situated beside the
canal in the north-east quarter of the town, to which we have been
already introduced.
No happier surroundings could have been imagined than those amidst
which Felix Mendelssohn's childhood was passed. The residence was in
the Neue Promenade, a broad, open street, bounded on one side only by
houses, and extending on the other side to the banks of the canal.
Here a wide stretch of grass-land, with a plentiful dotting of trees,
imparted a pleasant suggestion of the country, whilst the waters of
the canal reflected the blueness of the sky, or, when rippled by the
breeze, lapped the grassy banks with a murmuring sound that was half
sigh, half song. To this spot daily resorted the Mendelssohn children
in company with the occupants of other nurseries in the promenade, and
here amongst the rest might often have been seen little Felix, his
eyes sparkling with merriment, and his black curls tossed by the wind,
as, with surprising quickness of movement and ringing peals of
laughter, he joined with his sister Fanny in the excitement of the
game.
Every encouragement was given to the development of Felix's musical
talent as soon as his fondness for the art made itself apparent. In
company with Fanny he began to receive little lessons on the
pianoforte from his mother when he was about four years old. Then came
a visit to Paris, when Abraham Mendelssohn, taking the two children
with him, placed them under the care of a teacher named Madame Bigot.
Their progress was so satisfactory--for the lady was an excellent
musician and quick to recognise the abilities of her pupils--that on
their return to Berlin it was decided to engage the services of
professional musicians to carry on the instruction in the pianoforte,
violin, and composition as a regular part of the children's education.
There was a continual round of lessons in the Mendelssohn home at this
time, for in addition to music the children were taught Greek, Latin,
drawing, and other subjects; and with so much to get through it was
necessary to begin the day's work at five o'clock. As a consequence of
this close application to study, the children used to long for Sunday
to come round, in order that they might indulge themselves a little
longer in bed. No amount of lessons, however, could detract from the
happiness of a home wherein love was the dominant note, and in which
each strove for the good of all; whilst as for Felix himself, no name
could have been more symbolical of his true nature than that by which
he was called. Nothing served to check the flow of his spirits. Both
in work and play he was thoroughly in earnest--indeed, he regarded
both in the same enjoyable light. He and Fanny were inseparables, and
very soon after he began to compose they were often to be found
laughing heartily together over Felix's attempts at improvisation upon
some incident of a comical nature which had occurred during their
play-hours.
Such beginnings, though small in themselves, soon led to more
ambitious attempts being made to set to music short humorous
dialogues, so as to make little operas. To write an opera, however,
was not enough--it must be performed, in order to ascertain how it
would go. This was a serious matter, and one calling for the services
of several performers--a miniature orchestra, in fact--with singers to
undertake the various parts. But Felix, as we have seen, was
thoroughly in earnest about all that he undertook, and his earnestness
enabled him to surmount even so great a difficulty as was here
presented. The appearance in his character of this love of
completeness must be noted, as, later on, it became one of his most
strongly-marked characteristics. 'If a thing is worth doing at all, it
is worth doing well,' was the saying which, even as a child,
controlled all his actions; and so Felix would have his orchestra.
Love and money combined can accomplish the apparently impossible, and
hence the orchestra was duly selected and engaged by the indulgent
father from the members of the Court Band. To his delight--yet nowise
to his embarrassment--Felix found himself in command of a company of
sedate and experienced musicians, ready to follow the lead of his
baton when it pleased him to take his place at the music-desk.
Everything was now furnished for the performance, but the sense of
completeness was not yet satisfied. There must be a better judge than
the composer himself present to pass judgment on the merits of the
piece, and so no less a person than Carl Zelter, the director of the
Berlin Singakademie, and Felix's professor for thorough-bass and
composition, was induced to undertake this delicate office, whilst a
large number of friends of the family were invited for the occasion.
This was the beginning of a long and regular series of musical parties
at the Mendelssohn house--parties to which, as time went on, it became
a privilege to be invited, at which, indeed, hardly a musician of any
note who happened to be passing through Berlin failed to put in an
appearance. The picture is before us as we write--and as it must often
have been recalled by those who frequented the house beside the
canal--of the child-musician standing on a footstool before his
music-desk, baton in hand, gravely conducting his orchestra. 'A
wonder-child indeed,' as one has described him, 'in his boy's suit,
shaking back his long curls, and looking over the heads of the
musicians like a little general; then stoutly waving his baton, and
firmly and quietly conducting his piece to the end, meanwhile noting
and listening to every little detail as it passed.'
The performance of these operettas was not accompanied by action, the
rule being for some one to read the dialogue at the piano, whilst the
chorus were seated round the dining-table. It must not be supposed
that Felix's compositions monopolised the entire time of the
orchestra; though it rarely happened that the weekly concert failed to
include one or more of his productions. At some of the performances
all four children took part--Fanny taking the pianoforte when Felix
conducted at the desk, Rebekka singing, and Paul playing the 'cello.
Zelter, who was generally averse to praising any of his pupils, and,
indeed, was regarded as a very grumpy personage, was a regular
attendant at these performances, and never failed at the finish to
speak a few words of praise or criticism. The old musician was
secretly very proud of his pupil, and despite his habitual roughness
of manner, Felix had a sincere affection for his master, as well as a
deep respect for his judgment.
Felix was by this time composing a great deal, and, though little more
than twelve years old, work of a more serious kind than the writing of
operettas had been claiming his attention. To such a degree, in fact,
had the flow of ideas and the facility of giving them expression
developed, that within the space of a twelve-month from the completion
of his twelfth year he had composed between fifty and sixty pieces,
including a trio for pianoforte and strings, containing three
movements (an ambitious work for a child!), several sonatas for the
pianoforte, some little songs, and a comedy piece in three scenes for
pianoforte and voices. Now, too, he began to collect his writings into
volumes, each piece being written out with the greatest care and in
the neatest of hands, with the date at which it was written, and any
other note which might serve to identify the work or to show how it
came to be written. Nor was this care and neatness confined to his
compositions. It soon showed itself in regard to everything which he
undertook--his letters, memoranda, sketches, and so forth--and the
strangest part of it all is that the more he wrote and the harder he
worked, the more clearly this habit of orderliness and accuracy
exhibited itself. It would seem, indeed, as if for Felix Mendelssohn
time was as truly elastic as some other busy folk would fain have it
to be.