the cathedral there. This man was an excellent teacher and a sound
musician. Before the pupil was nine years old his instructor used to
set him to write fugues and motets as exercises, and before long the
boy was allowed to play the organ at the cathedral services on Sunday,
whenever the elder musician was inclined to linger over his breakfast
or to take a holiday. At last, when young Handel was nine years old,
the master honestly confessed that his pupil knew more music than he
himself did, and advised that he should be sent to Berlin for a course
of further study there. Thither he accordingly went in the year 1696.
In Berlin the boy of eleven years was soon recognized as a prodigy.
There he met two Italian composers of established reputation,
Bononcini and Attilio Ariosti, both of whom he was to encounter in
after-life, though under very different circumstances, in London.
Bononcini, who was of a sour and jealous disposition, soon conceived
a dislike for the gifted little fellow, and attempted to injure him by
composing a piece for the harpsichord full of the most extraordinary
difficulties, and then asking him to play it at sight. The boy,
however, at once executed it without a mistake, and thus the malicious
schemer was foiled by his own device. Attilio was of a different
disposition; he praised the young musician to the skies, and was never
weary of sitting by his side at the organ or harpsichord, and hearing
him improvise for hours. The Elector of Brandenburg also conceived a
great admiration for the boy's talents, and offered to send him to
Italy. On old Handel being consulted, however, he pleaded that he was
now an old man, and wished his son to remain near him. In consequence
of this, probably much to the boy's disappointment, he was brought
back to Halle, and there set to work again under his old master,
Zachau.
Soon after this return his father died, in 1697, leaving hardly
anything for his family, and young Handel had now to seriously bestir
himself to make a living. With this object he went to Hamburg, where
he obtained a place as second violin in the Opera-house. Soon after
arriving there, the post of organist at Luebeck became vacant, and
Handel was a candidate for it. But a peculiar condition was attached
to the acceptance of the office; the new organist must marry the
daughter of the old one! And, as Handel either did not approve of the
lady, or of matrimony generally (and in fact he never was married), he
promptly retired from the competition. At first, no one suspected the
youth's talents, for he amused himself by pretending to be an
ignoramus, until one day the accompanyist on the harpsichord (then the
most important instrument in an orchestra) was absent, and young
Handel took his place, astonishing everybody by his masterly touch.
Probably this discovery aroused the jealousy of some of his
brother-artists, for soon afterward a duel took place between him and
Matheson, a clever composer and singer, who one night, in the midst of
a quarrel on leaving the theatre, gave him a box on the ear; swords
were drawn, and the duel took place there and then under the portico
of the theatre. Fortunately Matheson's weapon was shivered by coming
in contact with a metal button on his opponent's coat. Explanations
were then offered, and the two adversaries became friends--indeed,
close friends--afterward. "Almira, Queen of Castile," Handel's first
opera, was brought out in Hamburg in 1705, and was followed by two
others, "Nero," and "Daphne," all received with great favor, and
frequently performed.
[Illustration: Handel's River-Concert for George I.]
But the young musician determined to visit Italy as soon as possible,
and after staying in Hamburg three years, and having, besides the
money he sent his mother, saved two hundred ducats for travelling
expenses, he was able to set off on the journey, then one of the great
events in a musician's lifetime. He visited Florence, Venice, Rome,
and Naples, in almost every city writing operas, which we are told
were produced with the most brilliant success. At Venice an opera was
sought for from him, and in three weeks he had written "Agrippina."
When produced, the people received it with frantic enthusiasm, the
theatre resounding with shouts of "Viva il caro Sassone!" (Long live
the dear Saxon!) The following story illustrates the extraordinary
fame he so quickly acquired in Italy. He arrived at Venice during
the middle of the carnival, and was taken to a masked ball, and there
played the harpsichord, still keeping on his mask. Domenico Scarlatti,
the most famous harpsichord player of his age, on hearing him,
exclaimed, "Why, it's the devil, or else the Saxon whom everyone is
talking about!" In 1709 he returned to Hanover, and was appointed by
the Elector George of Brunswick, afterward King George I., of England,
his Court Capellmeister.
Handel's wanderings next led him to England, where he was treated with
so much honor that he showed no great hurry to return to Hanover, and,
in fact, he remained in England and coolly ignored his engagement as
Capellmeister. But an awkward piece of retribution was at hand. The
Elector of Hanover, on the death of Queen Anne, came to England as the
new king, and Handel, his delinquent Capellmeister, could hardly
expect to receive any share of the royal favor in future. With the
help of a friend of his, Baron Kilmanseck, he determined, however, to
make an attempt to conciliate the king, and accordingly he wrote
twenty-five short concerted pieces of music, and made arrangements for
these to be performed by musicians in a boat following the royal barge
on the Thames, one day when the king went on an excursion up the river
for a picnic. The king recognized the composer at once by his style,
and spoke in terms of approbation of the music, and the news was
quickly conveyed by his friend to the anxious musician. This is the
story of the origin of the famous "Water Music." Soon afterward the
king allowed Handel to appear before him to play the harpsichord
accompaniments to some sonatas executed by Geminiani, a celebrated
Italian violinist, and finally peace was made between them, Handel
being appointed music-master to the royal children, and receiving an
additional pension of L200. In 1726 a private Act of Parliament was
passed, making George Frederick Handel a naturalized Englishman.
In the year 1720 a number of noblemen formed themselves into a company
for the purpose of reviving Italian opera in London, at the Haymarket
Theatre, and subscribed a capital of L50,000. The king himself
subscribed L1,000, and allowed the society to take the name of the
Royal Academy of Music, and at first everything seemed to promise the
most brilliant success. Handel was appointed director of the music.
Bononcini and Attilio Ariosti, his old acquaintances in Berlin, were
also attracted by this new operatic venture to London, and their
arrival was followed by a competition of a very novel character. The
libretto of a new opera, "Muzio Scaevola," was divided between the
three composers. Attilio was to put the first act to music, Bononcini
the second, and Handel the third. We need hardly wonder that the
victory is said to have rested with the last and youngest of the trio,
although at this time the cabals against him, which afterward were to
do him such grievous harm, had already commenced.
Handel still clung to the operatic speculation; and when he had to
leave the Haymarket Theatre, which was given up to another Italian
company with the famous Farinelli, from Lincoln's Inn Fields,
undauntedly he changed to the Lincoln's Inn Fields Theatre, and there
commenced again. More operas were produced, with the one unvarying
tale of fiasco, and at last, in 1737, having lost the whole of his
hardly earned money, Handel was compelled to close the theatre, and,
worse than all, to suspend payment for a time. Happily he now turned
his thoughts to oratorio. "Saul" and "Israel in Egypt" were composed
in quick succession; the last gigantic work being written in the
almost incredibly short space of twenty-seven days. How great it is
everyone now knows, but, at the time the colossal choruses were
actually considered a great deal too heavy and monotonous; and Handel,
always quick in resource, at the second performance introduced a
number of operatic songs to make them go down better, and after the
third performance the piece was withdrawn altogether. Fortunately,
opinions have changed since then. These works were followed by his
fine setting of Dryden's "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day," and Milton's
"L'Allegro" and "Il Penseroso;" but it cannot be said that his
pecuniary affairs were materially improved by their production.
The first performance of his greatest oratorio, the "Messiah," took
place at Neale's Music Hall, in Dublin, on April 18, 1742, at mid-day,
and, apropos of the absurdities of fashion, it may be noticed that the
announcements contained the following request: "That ladies who honor
this performance with their presence, will be pleased to come without
hoops, as it will greatly increase the charity by making room for more
company." The work was gloriously successful, and L400 were obtained
the first day for the Dublin charities. Handel seems always to have
had a special feeling with regard to this masterpiece of his--as if it
were too sacred to be merely used for making money by, like his other
works. He very frequently assisted at its performance for the benefit
of the Foundling Hospital, and he left the score as a precious gift to
the governor of that institution. This work alone brought no less a
sum than L10,299 to the funds of the hospital. In this connection a
fine saying of his may be repeated. Lord Kinnoul had complimented him
on the noble "entertainment" which by the "Messiah" he had lately
given the town. "My Lord," said Handel, "I should be sorry if I only
entertained them--I wish to make them better." And when someone
questioned him on his feelings when composing the "Hallelujah Chorus,"
he replied in his peculiar English, "I did think I did see all heaven
before me, and the great God himself." What a fine saying that was of
poor old George III., in describing the "pastoral symphony" in this
oratorio--"I could see the stars shining through it!"
The now constant custom of the audience to rise and remain standing
during the performance of this chorus, is said to have originated in
the following manner: On the first production of the work in London,
"the audience were exceedingly struck and affected by the music in
general; but when that chorus struck up, 'For the Lord God Omnipotent'
in the 'Hallelujah,' they were so transported that they all together,
with the king (who happened to be present), started up and remained
standing till the chorus ended." "This anecdote I had from Lord
Kinnoul." So says Dr. Beattie, the once famous poet, in one of his
letters.
The "Messiah" was commenced on August 22, 1741, finished on September
12th, and the orchestration filled up two days afterward--the whole
work thus being completed in twenty-three days. Handel was fifty-six
years old at the time.
The next ten years of the life of the "Goliath of Music," as he has
been called, are marked by some of the most splendid achievements of
his genius. "Samson," the "Dettingen Te Deum," "Joseph," "Belshazzar,"
"The Occasional Oratorio," "Judas Maccabeus," "Joshua," "Solomon,"
and, "Theodora," being composed by him during this time, when, already
an old man, it might have been thought that he would have taken some
repose after the labors of so toilsome and troubled a life. But,
oak-like, he was one of those who mature late; like Milton, his
greatest works were those of his old age.
But a terrible misfortune was approaching--his eyesight was failing.
The "drop serene," of which Milton speaks so pathetically, had fallen
on his eyes, and at the time when, in February, 1752, he was composing
his last work, "Jephtha" (the one containing "Deeper and Deeper
Still," and "Waft her, Angels"), the effort in tracing the lines is,
in the original MS., very painfully apparent. Soon afterward he
submitted to three operations, but they were in vain, and henceforth
all was to be dark to him. His sole remaining work was now to
improvise on the organ, and to play at performances of his oratorios.
There is a pathetic story told of an incident that occurred on one
occasion, when "Samson" was given. While the magnificent air,
Total eclipse! no sun, no moon!
All dark, amidst the blaze of noon.
O glorious light! no cheering ray
To glad my eyes with welcome day.
Why thus deprived thy prime decree?
Sun, moon, and stars are dark to me--
was being sung by Beard, the tenor, the blind old man, seated at the
organ, was seen to tremble and grow pale, and then, when he was led
forward to the audience to receive their applause, tears were in the
eyes of nearly everyone present at the sight. It was like the scene
that is described in Beethoven's life on the occasion of that
composer's appearance, when almost totally deaf, to conduct his great
Choral Symphony at Vienna.
One night, on returning home from a performance of the "Messiah" at
Covent Garden, Handel was seized with sudden weakness and retired
hurriedly to bed, from which he was never to rise again. He prayed
that he might breathe his last on Good Friday, "in hope of meeting his
God, his sweet Lord and Saviour on the day of his resurrection." And
strangely enough his wish was granted, for on Good Friday, April 13,
1759, he quietly passed away from this life, being then seventy-four
years of age. His remains were laid in Poets' Corner in Westminster
Abbey, and the place is marked by a statue by Roubilliac, representing
him leaning over a table covered with musical instruments, his hand
holding a pen, and before him is laid the "Messiah," open at the
words, "I know that my Redeemer liveth."
MOZART
By C. E. BOURNE
(1756-1791)
[Illustration: Mozart.]
Leopold Mozart was a violinist in the band of Archbishop Sigismund,
the reigning Prince of Salzburg, and it was probably in compliment to
his master that he bestowed on the youngest of his seven children the
name of Joannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Sigismundus. Born
on January 27, 1756, this child was destined to make the name of
Mozart famous wherever music is known; and surely no more beautiful
life--beautiful in itself and in the works of immortal beauty which in
its short course were produced--has ever been lived by anyone of those
to whom the crown of inspired singers and an enduring monument in the
temple of art has been given. "Look around," was the epitaph on a
great architect. "Listen," is the most fitting tribute to the
wonderful genius of a Mozart.
Infant prodigies very often turn out to be nobodies in after-life. But
Mozart was an exception; and though he might well have been called
"the marvellous boy," his latest works--and he died at the early age
of thirty-five--were undoubtedly his grandest and most perfect. He
began very early to compose. One of these first attempts was a
concerto so difficult that no one could play it; but the child
undauntedly said, "Why, that's the very reason why it is called a
concerto; people must practise it before they can play it perfectly."
Wolfgang and his sister, Nannerl, as he used to call her, had been
taken by their father, in 1762, to Vienna, where the children played
the piano before the Empress Maria Theresa and her husband. Little
Wolfgang was here, as everywhere, perfectly at his ease, with a
simplicity and childish grace that won every heart. When he had been
playing for some time, he jumped without ceremony on the lap of the
empress, and kissed her heartily for being so good to him. Little
Marie Antoinette, her daughter, afterward the ill-fated wife of Louis
XVI., and then about the same age as Wolfgang, he treated in almost
the same way. He had slipped on the polished floor, to which he was
unaccustomed, and the little princess had hurried forward to raise him
up, on which he promptly said, "You are good; I will marry you." The
empress asked why he wished this, to which he answered, "Out of
gratitude; she was kind, while her sister took no notice of me" (she
had not come forward to help him). After returning to Salzburg,
Leopold Mozart, in the spring of 1763, took his children on a more
lengthy tour to Munich, Paris, London, and The Hague, and everywhere
their playing, especially Wolfgang's performances on the organ, which
he had now learned, were listened to with delight and astonishment. At
Heidelberg the priest of the Church of the Holy Ghost engraved on the
organ the boy's name and the date of his visit, in remembrance of
"this wonder of God," as he called the child. At London, old Mozart
says, they were received, on April 27th, by King George III. and Queen
Caroline, at the palace, and remained from six to nine o'clock. The
king placed before the boy compositions of Bach and Handel, all of
which he played at sight perfectly; he had also the honor of
accompanying the queen in a song. "On leaving the palace," the careful
father says, "we received a present of 24 guineas."
A great delight was now before him, for his father had resolved on a
journey to Italy, then far more than now the land of music. How much
this visit did for the young maestro it is impossible to say; he has
not, like Mendelssohn, left us an "Italian Symphony," recording the
impressions which that sunny spot of classic beauty had made upon him,
but there can be little doubt of the great influence it had on the
whole of his after-life. There are some significant words which he
wrote eight years later to his father from Paris: "You must faithfully
promise to let me see Italy again in order to refresh my life. I do
entreat of you to confer this happiness upon me." In Mantua, Milan,
Bologna (where he had the good fortune to meet the learned Padre
Martini, one of the soundest musicians of his age, and for whom he
ever afterward maintained a warm attachment), Florence, Rome, and
Naples, the young genius was received everywhere with enthusiasm by
the crowds who came to hear him. In Naples the superstitious people
believed that there was magic in his playing, and pointed to a ring on
his left hand as the cause of his wonderful dexterity; and it was only
when he had taken this off, and gone on playing just the same, that
they had to acknowledge it was simply the perfection of art.
There is something sad in contrasting these brilliant early days with
the anxious times that came later on, when the great Mozart was
compelled to wait in the ante-chambers of the great, dine with their
lacqueys, give lessons to stupid young countesses, and write begging
letters to his friends; yet, in reality, those later days, when "Don
Giovanni," "Die Zauberfloete," and the "Requiem," were composed, were
the truly brilliant ones. And it may be that the very greatness came,
in some measure, from the sorrow and pain; that Mozart, like so many
others of the world's great singers, "learnt in suffering what he
taught in song."
On his return to Munich, after composing a comic opera in the Italian
style, "La Finta Giardiniera," which had a great success, young
Mozart, who had been very shabbily treated by Archbishop
Hieronymus--of whose spiteful conduct we shall hear more
hereafter--the successor of Sigismund, determined to resign his
situation in the court band, and to set out on his travels again,
giving concerts from place to place, and everywhere looking out for
some suitable appointment that might afford him a permanent income.
This time his father was refused permission to travel, and, as on his
exertions depended the support of the whole family, he remained
behind, while Frau Mozart, the mother, accompanied young Wolfgang. In
1777, now a young man of twenty-one, he set out upon his second great
artistic tour, buoyant with hope, and with all the beautiful audacity
of young genius determined to conquer the world. This time it was not
the infant prodigy whom men listened to, but the matured musician and
the composer of melodies sweeter than men had ever listened to before.
But the tale is changed now. True, there are triumphs to be spoken of,
flattery from the great, and presents sent in recompense for his
marvellous playing (he tells one day of his chagrin in receiving from
a certain prince a gold watch, instead of money that he sorely
wanted--and, besides, he had five watches already!); but rebuffs,
intrigues, and all sorts of petty machinations against him, make the
tale a sadder one; and so it continued to be to the end.
From Munich--where it had been hoped that the elector would have given
him an appointment at court, but he was only told to go to Italy and
become famous, "it was too early yet to think about becoming a
Capellmeister"--he went to Augsburg, spending some pleasant days there
in the society of a cousin, Marianne, nicknamed by him Baesle, a merry,
open-hearted girl of nineteen.
Thence, he went on to Mannheim, a town that is memorable as the place
where he first met the Webers, and made the acquaintance of Herr
Cannabich, the director of the music at the elector's court, and one
who proved a stanch friend through everything to the young composer.
Cannabich had a daughter named Rosa, a girl of thirteen, exceedingly
pretty and clever, and Wolfgang appears to have admired her very much,
and perhaps for a time to have flirted and been in love with her. He
wrote her a sonata, and was delighted with the way in which she played
it; the andante, he said, he had composed to represent her, and when
it was finished he vowed she was just what the andante was. But this
little love affair, if it existed, soon was forgotten in a more
serious one with Aloysia Weber. Her father was a theatre copyist in
poor circumstances. There were a number of children, and she was a
beautiful girl of fifteen, with a magnificent voice. She was cousin,
by the way, to Weber, afterward composer of the "Freischuetz." Mozart
was so charmed with her voice that he undertook to give her lessons,
and we soon hear of him composing airs for her and meditating a
concert tour in Italy in company with her, and her father and sister.
In writing of it to his own father he sets out the advantages to be
gained by co-partnership, and very prosaically says: "Should we stay
long anywhere, the eldest daughter [Josepha, afterward Frau Hofer, for
whom Mozart wrote the part of Astrafiammente in the "Zauberfloete"]
would be of the greatest use to us; for we could have our own menage,
as she understands cooking." But papa Mozart decidedly objected. "Your
proposal to travel about with Herr Weber--N. B., two daughters--has
driven me nearly wild," and he straightway orders his son off to
Paris, whither, with a parting present of a pair of mittens knitted
for him by Mlle. Weber, he reluctantly sets out in company with his
mother.
His stay in Paris during the next year was not very eventful, and a
symphony produced at the Concerts Spirituels seems to have been his
most successful work at this time. It was clever and lively, full of
striking effects, and was most warmly applauded. He says: "The moment
the symphony was over I went off in my joy to the Palais Royal, where
I took a good ice, told my beads, as I had vowed, and went home, where
I am happiest and always shall be happiest." A great sorrow came to
him here in the death of his mother. Owing to the great expense of
living in Paris, they had been compelled to live together in a small,
dark room, so cramped for space that there was not even room for the
indispensable piano. Here she was taken ill, and though for fourteen
days Wolfgang most devotedly attended to her wants, she died in his
arms. The letters in which he breaks the news to his father and sister
are full of the most beautiful tenderness and forgetfulness of his own
grief in solicitude for theirs. Things did not indeed prosper with him
in Paris; he tried to give lessons, but the ladies whom he taught paid
him very shabbily, and the labor of getting from one part of the city
to another to teach was so great that he found it difficult to give
the time he wished to composition.
Music in Paris, just then, was at a low ebb. Vapidly pretty Italian
operas were in fashion, and Piccinni was the favorite composer. It was
some years afterward that the great contest between the Piccinnists
and Gluckists culminated in the victory of the latter, though
"Alceste," had already been produced, and "Iphigenia" was soon to
follow. Mozart was a fervent admirer of Gluck, and the music of the
older master had evidently an important influence on that of the
younger and more gifted composer.