FRANZ SCHUBERT LIES HERE.

August 24, 1818.'Dear Brother Ferdinand,'It is half-past eleven at night, and your Requiem is ready. It has made me sorrowful, as you may believe, for I sang it with all my heart. What is wanting you can fill in, and put the words under the music and the signs above. And if you want much rehearsal you must do it yourself, without asking me in Zelész. Things are not going well with you; I wish you could change with me, so that for once you might be happy. You should find all your heavy burdens gone, dear brother; I heartily wish it could be so. My foot is asleep, and I am mad with it. If the fool could only write it wouldn't go to sleep!'Good morning, my boy, I have been asleep with my foot, and now go on with my letter at eight o'clock on the 25th. I have one request to make in answer to yours. Give my love to my dear parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and acquaintances, especially not forgetting Carl.[25]Didn't he mention me in his letter? As for my friends in the town, bully them, or get some one to bully them well, till they write to me. Tell my mother[26]that my linen is well looked after, and that I am well off, thanks to her motherly care. [After asking for some articles of clothing, for which he will send the money very soon, he proceeds.] For July, with the journey-money, I got 200 florins [about £8].... Though I am so well and happy, and every one so good to me, yet I shall be immensely glad when the moment arrives for going to Vienna. Beloved Vienna, all that is dear and valuable to me is there, and nothing but the actual sight of it will stop my longing! Again entreating you to attend to all my requests, I remain, with much love to all, your true and sincere.'Franz Mpia.'

August 24, 1818.

'Dear Brother Ferdinand,

'It is half-past eleven at night, and your Requiem is ready. It has made me sorrowful, as you may believe, for I sang it with all my heart. What is wanting you can fill in, and put the words under the music and the signs above. And if you want much rehearsal you must do it yourself, without asking me in Zelész. Things are not going well with you; I wish you could change with me, so that for once you might be happy. You should find all your heavy burdens gone, dear brother; I heartily wish it could be so. My foot is asleep, and I am mad with it. If the fool could only write it wouldn't go to sleep!

'Good morning, my boy, I have been asleep with my foot, and now go on with my letter at eight o'clock on the 25th. I have one request to make in answer to yours. Give my love to my dear parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and acquaintances, especially not forgetting Carl.[25]Didn't he mention me in his letter? As for my friends in the town, bully them, or get some one to bully them well, till they write to me. Tell my mother[26]that my linen is well looked after, and that I am well off, thanks to her motherly care. [After asking for some articles of clothing, for which he will send the money very soon, he proceeds.] For July, with the journey-money, I got 200 florins [about £8].... Though I am so well and happy, and every one so good to me, yet I shall be immensely glad when the moment arrives for going to Vienna. Beloved Vienna, all that is dear and valuable to me is there, and nothing but the actual sight of it will stop my longing! Again entreating you to attend to all my requests, I remain, with much love to all, your true and sincere.

'Franz Mpia.'

The story of Schubert's life, from the time when by the powerful aid of his friend Vogl the musical public of Vienna were awakened to the fact that a composer of rare quality was working in their midst unknown, unfolds itself to us as a record of continuous struggle, relieved by occasional success. It is true that as he became better known the appreciation of his works spread far beyond the confines of his native city; at the same time it must be remembered that his poverty was extreme. As yet his works had brought him little or nothing; add to this his native bashfulness, together with the fact that his marvellous productive powers were animated by no desire to push himself where, as a composer, he had every right to be; that he was always retiring, and always modestly undervaluing everything he produced; that even when he had finished a fine composition it was often put aside in some receptacle and forgotten; that, in a word, he wrote, not for the public eye, not for praise, but simply and solely because he was impelled by the spirit within him. When we consider all this it need not surprise us to learn that Schubert's progress in a worldly sense was slow and halting. Again, his physical strength was by no means adapted to bear the immense strain which this continuous labour involved; and when we learn that his mode of living was most irregular (when he was not staying with friends he would be living from hand to mouth in poor lodgings by himself), and that his sensitive overstrung nature was denied the nourishment which it so sorely needed—a result due in part to his distresses, but partly also to his improvidence—we can form a tolerably clear picture of the manner in which his days were passed.

Yet if his distresses and anxieties were so many dense clouds shutting out, for months together, the sunshine and warmth from his life, that life itself, taken as awhole, was by no means destitute of happiness. The musical temperament is one which cannot be cast down for long; let the cloud-rift be ever so small, it suffices to let in a flood of sunshine to such a nature as that which Schubert possessed. But how much happier might his life have been if, in the absence of the ability to manage his own affairs to better advantage, some one had been at hand to take this responsibility off his shoulders. Alas! not one of his friends seems to have assumed this important part, notwithstanding the affection they professed for him. Left to himself, no sooner had his songs attained a marketable value than, pressed by hunger and the other necessaries of life, he consented to part with the copyright of the first twelve of his published songs—including in this number the 'Erl King' and the 'Wanderer'—for the sum of eight hundred silver gulden (equal to eighty pounds sterling), and this in face of the fact that more than eight hundred copies of the 'Erl King' had already been sold![27]

Of his improvidence there is much that could be told; his inherent good nature was never proof against imposition, and he gave away as freely as he earned. Moreover, he was regarded by a certain set of his friends as a Crœsus, or, rather, as a never-failing coiner of money, and two of these so-called friends were not ashamed to live openly upon his easy-going, careless ways, under the pretence of sharing the expenses of a joint lodging. The partnership, if such it could be called where one was called upon to find the money, extended even to articles of clothing—boots, hats, coats, cravats, etc., being regarded as common property—whilst ifone of the trio found himself unable to pay his reckoning, it fell to the lot of the 'man of wealth' to discharge his obligation. Needless to say, this friendly office was cheerfully filled by Schubert for either or both of his companions. Great was the jubilation when the composer brought back the news that he had sold a piece of music. For the time being he was regarded by the others as literally swimming in money, and expected to spend right and left so long as it lasted, and then they would all go short until the next piece of luck came along. One day, when the trio were in very low water, Schubert and one of the others met at a small coffee-house and surprised each other in the act of ordering coffee and biscuits, because neither could summon from his pockets the requisite amount—namely, eightpence halfpenny—wherewith to pay for a dinner!

But no amount of distress could check his capacity for work. Save during the hours of sleep, his pen would seem never to have been idle; even whilst talking to a friend who was waiting to take him for a walk, he was jotting down at great speed one of his most beautiful dramatic ballads, the 'Zwerg.' Another friend, Carl Umlauff, has related how he used to go to Schubert's lodgings in the mornings, and find him lying in bed jotting down musical ideas; at other times he would be out of bed, clad in his dressing-gown, composing at his standing-desk. Writing would go on till two o'clock. 'When I have done one piece I begin the next,' was his own way of describing the continuity of his work, and it is known that a single morning produced no fewer than six songs. The afternoon would be devoted to music-making at the house of a friend, or to a walk in the suburbs, whilst the evening would be divided between a pipe at the Gasthaus with his companions, and a visit to the theatre or the house of a musical friend.The hours reserved for sleep were constantly being curtailed by the encroachments of nightly pleasures, and yet he was always ready to seize his pen and begin work directly he was awake. The story even goes that he slept in his spectacles in order to save the trouble and time of putting them on in the morning!

His omnivorous appetite for setting to music every poem which struck his fancy—whether it were suited for the purpose of a song, or, what is far more important, in any way worthy of the setting which he proposed to give to it—was one of Schubert's most marked characteristics. Another was the rapidity with which, having once grasped the sense of the words, he translated them into music, and such music, let it be remembered, as was destined in many cases to live for ever. Like the 'Erl King,' the beautiful song the 'Wanderer' was composed in the space of a few hours; again, with respect to the strikingly beautiful collection of songs known as the 'Schöne Müllerin,' the poems were lighted upon quite by accident. Schubert was visiting a friend, and when the latter was called away he picked up a volume of Müller's poems which was lying upon the table; he grew interested in them, the friend delayed his return, and finally Schubert put the book in his pocket and went home. The next morning, when the friend called to apologise for his detention and to inquire for the missing volume, he found that Schubert had already set several of the poems to music. What Schumann the composer wrote of Schubert was true: 'Everything that he touched he turned into music.' One day in the month of July, 1826, he was returning with his friends from a Sunday walk through the village of Währing, and, passing by a beer-garden, he espied an acquaintance seated at one of the tables. On joining him Schubert found he was reading a volume of Shakespeare; he seized thebook, and began turning over the pages, and then, drawing his friends' attention to the line, 'Hark, hark, the lark,' he exclaimed: 'Such a lovely melody has come into my head, if I had but some music-paper!' One of his companions seized a bill-of-fare, and on the back of it scribbled a few staves, and then, upon the spot, 'amid the hubbub of the beer-garden, that beautiful song, so perfectly fitting the words, so skilful and so happy in its accompaniment, came into perfect existence.' Later on in the evening of the same day he added to this creation two more songs from Shakespeare—the drinking-song from 'Antony and Cleopatra,' and the well-known 'Who is Sylvia?' In the instances just given Schubert's choice could not have been more happily made; but this does not render it less difficult for us to understand why in so many cases he should have elected to immortalise by his music poems devoid of merit both in feeling and expression.

We have seen something of Schubert's veneration for Beethoven as a grand personality, even before the latter's music had begun to take hold of him. At first there is no doubt that the music of Mozart had the greatest fascination for him; there is evidence of this in Schubert's early instrumental works, and in the following passage from his diary, penned after he had heard one of Mozart's quintets played in 1816: 'Gently, as if out of the distance, did the magic tones of Mozart's music strike my ears. With what inconceivable, alternate force and tenderness did Schlesinger's masterly playing impress it deep, deep into my heart! Such lovely impressions remain on the soul, there to work for good, past all power of time or circumstance. In the darkness of this life they reveal a clear, bright, beautiful prospect, inspiring confidence and hope. O Mozart, immortal Mozart! what countless consolatory images of a brightbetter world hast thou stamped on our souls,' Beethoven was a great personality then, but as time went on the influence of his music grew ever stronger. So far, however, Schubert had been content to worship his hero at a distance, for which purpose he would haunt the restaurant at which Beethoven usually dined. But in 1822 he published a set of Variations on a French Air, which he dedicated to Beethoven 'as his admirer and worshipper,' and his longing to present these in person to the composer was so great as to overcome his natural timidity. Accordingly, accompanied by the publisher, Diabelli, he called at Beethoven's house; they found the composer at home, and a courteous but somewhat formal welcome was accorded them. This in itself was bad enough for poor Schubert, whose courage straightway forsook him; but when Beethoven proceeded to hand to him the bundle of paper and the carpenter's pencil which, owing to his deafness, he kept in readiness for his visitors, Schubert's shyness prevented him writing a single word. The production of the Variations afforded a welcome relief to his confusion, and as Beethoven was in an uncommonly good humour the dedication pleased him very much. The effect of the diversion, however, was only momentary, for Beethoven, looking through the composition, lighted upon something to which he took exception, and forthwith proceeded to point it out to his visitor. This was the last straw, and Schubert, losing his presence of mind altogether, fled from the room. On reaching the street his courage returned, and too late he thought of all that he might have said. Let us complete the anecdote by relating that Schubert derived some consolation from the knowledge that Beethoven not only retained the Variations, but was very pleased with them, and often played them over with his nephew.

Schubert fled from the room.'Schubert fled from the room.'ToList

'Schubert fled from the room.'ToList

It was not until five years after this event that Beethoven realised how great a singer had been uttering his sweet notes within the span of the city in which he lived, and then the master lay upon his death-bed. Into his hands had been placed a collection of Schubert's songs, some sixty in all, and as he turned them over his attention was arrested by their beauty, and he uttered frequent expressions of surprise and delight. But even greater was his astonishment when he learned that there were more than five hundred of such songs extant. 'How can he have found time,' he asked, 'for the setting of such long poems, many of them containing ten others?' (by which he meant to convey thatthey were as long as ten ordinary poems). For several days the collection occupied his attention. 'Ah, if I had had this poem I would have set it myself!' he would exclaim. 'Truly, Schubert has the Divine fire in him!' He made frequent references to Schubert, expressing his regret that he had not sooner known him for the composer he was, and prophesying a great future for him in the world of music. Schubert himself longed to pay his respects to the master he revered so highly, and one day, in company with his friends Anselm Hüttenbrenner and Schindler (both of whom were well known to Beethoven), he presented himself at the door of the sick man's chamber. Schindler informed Beethoven of their arrival, and asked who he would like to see first. 'Schubert may come in first,' was the reply. Before they left, Beethoven, regarding them with a smile, said: 'You, Anselm, have my mind, but Franz has my soul.' When for the second time Schubert found his way to the bedside of the master death was very near, and though as they stood around the bed he made signs to them with his hand to show that he recognised their presence, he could not speak, and, overcome with emotion, Schubert quitted the room.

A little more than three weeks after the second visit Schubert was walking as one of the torch-bearers beside the coffin of his loved master, as the latter was borne to his last resting-place in the Währinger cemetery. On the way back Schubert and his friends passed through the Himmelpfortgrund, close to the old home, and, entering a tavern, called for wine. Schubert, having filled his glass, raised it aloft: 'I drink,' said he, 'to the memory of Beethoven.' Then once more filling the glass, he drained it to the first of the three friends then present, who was destined to follow the master to his grave.

Little did Schubert dream that he was emptying his glass to his own memory! Nor in the eyes of his friends would there seem to have been anything in his appearance at that moment which could be taken as foreshadowing the early closing of that eager, active life. Gazing at him then, as he sat drinking his grim toast, the picture presented to his companions was that of a short, stout, thick-set man of about thirty, with a head of thick, black hair, disposed in crisp curls, bushy eyebrows, and a pair of bright black eyes which beamed through his spectacles. The face was round with full cheeks, the complexion pasty, the nose short and insignificant, the lips full and protruding, the jaw broad and strong; the hands, like the rest of the body, were plump, and the fingers thick and short. There was nothing striking about his general expression; but when the conversation turned upon music, and especially if Beethoven were the topic of discussion, his eyes would brighten at once, and the whole face light up with animation.

As he sat in the dingy parlour of the little tavern, beaming upon his friends, whilst the minds of all three were rapt by the solemn event which they had just witnessed, the proximity of death within that circle was not contemplated. Yet the story of his life shows us that the period which had elapsed between the date of his presenting his Variations to Beethoven and that of his first visit to the composer on his death-bed had been full of anxieties and bitter disappointments; and there is no doubt that the continuous struggle for existence, coupled with the strain of unceasing work, had only too surely undermined a constitution which could never have been robust.

One of Schubert's greatest longings was to write for the stage. The longing was evident almost at the first, and it grew with his strength and the consciousness ofhis powers as a composer. As the finger of fame beckoned him forward it had directed his steps to the theatre as the goal of his aspirations, and it was upon the attainment of this object that he lavished all the later powers of his genius—only, alas! to reap the bitter fruit of disappointment. One after another of his operas was rejected, even, as in the case of 'Fierabras,' when at the very point of production—the reasons assigned in each case being either the unsuitableness of the libretto or the difficulties presented by the music, and the door which he hoped to enter was closed against him during his lifetime. The score of 'Fierabras' comprised no fewer than one thousand pages, and the mournful state into which he was thrown by its rejection may be gathered by an extract from a letter penned just after the fate of the opera had been sealed. He refers to himself as 'the most unfortunate, most miserable being on earth,' and proceeds: 'Think of a man whose health can never be restored, and who from sheer despair makes matters worse instead of better. Think, I say, of a man whose brightest hopes have come to nothing, to whom love and friendship are but torture, and whose enthusiasm for the beautiful is fast vanishing, and ask yourself if such a man is not truly unhappy.

'My peace is gone, my heart is sore,Gone for ever and evermore.

This is my daily cry; for every night I go to sleep hoping never again 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 hisprincipalmode of expression, it was hisonlyone; 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.'

'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 whomhe 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.

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♭, Op. 141. Comp. 1815, pub. 1838.No. 4, in C, Op. 48. Comp. 1818, pub. 1826.No. 5, in E♭, Comp. 1828, pub. 1865.No. 6, in A♭, 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♭, Comp. 1814-1815.No. 3, in D, Comp. 1815.No. 4, in C minor, The Tragic. Comp. 1816, pub. 1870.No. 5, in B♭, 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♭, Op. 168. Comp. 1814, pub. 1865.In G minor, Comp. 1815, pub. 1871.In E♭, 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♭, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.Op. 100, in E♭, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.4 Sonatas.For pianoforte and violin.Fantasia in C, Op. 159. Comp. 1827.Rondeau Brilliant in B minor, Op. 70. Comp. 1826.2 Sonatas (in C minor and B♭), Comp. 1814 and 1824.For pianoforte duet.Fantasia in F minor, Op. 103Marche Héroïque in A minor, Op. 66. Comp. 1826.Marche Funèbre in C minor, Op. 55. Comp. 1825.25 Marches.2 Divertissements.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.For pianoforte solo.Fantasia Sonata in G, Op. 78. Comp. 1826.4 Impromptus, Op. 90. Comp. 1828.4 Impromptus, Op. 142. Comp. 1827.6 Moments Musicals, Op. 94.2 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. 1825Der 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'sFranz Schubert). 2 vols. Longmans, 1869.

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♭, Op. 141. Comp. 1815, pub. 1838.

No. 4, in C, Op. 48. Comp. 1818, pub. 1826.

No. 5, in E♭, Comp. 1828, pub. 1865.

No. 6, in A♭, 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♭, Comp. 1814-1815.

No. 3, in D, Comp. 1815.

No. 4, in C minor, The Tragic. Comp. 1816, pub. 1870.

No. 5, in B♭, 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♭, Op. 168. Comp. 1814, pub. 1865.

In G minor, Comp. 1815, pub. 1871.

In E♭, 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♭, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.

Op. 100, in E♭, Comp. 1827, pub. 1828.

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.]

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'sFranz Schubert). 2 vols. Longmans, 1869.

[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.'

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 clusteredthickly 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 listenersalmost 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.

MendelssohnFrom PhotoRischgitz.Mendelssohn.ToList

From PhotoRischgitz.

Mendelssohn.ToList

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 heinherited 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 canalreflected 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 thedominant 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 experiencedmusicians, 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 timewas as truly elastic as some other busy folk would fain have it to be.

Hand in hand with this thoroughness in regard to work went, as we have intimated, a love of frolic and games and every species of fun that the mind of a healthy and spirited boy could devise; and with all, permeating all, was a lovability that won its way to every heart. Rarely has such a perfect combination of light-heartedness and seriousness—capacity for the hardest work and the keenest enjoyment of life—been seen as that which burst upon the world in the person of Felix Mendelssohn. The quickness with which he made friends, the firmness with which he bound those friends to himself, the constancy and affection which he lavished upon those nearest and dearest to him, were alike extraordinary.

One day a famous composer, named Carl von Weber, was walking in Berlin in company with his young friend and pupil, Jules Benedict, when the pair observed a slightly-built youth of about twelve years of age, with long, dark curls and bright, dark eyes, advancing towards them. Suddenly the boy's keen eyes sparkled with the joy of recognition, for Carl Weber had lately visited his father's house, and he had taken a great liking to him at first sight; and now, without giving the composer time to realise the fact that they had met before, Mendelssohn, with a run and a spring, had thrown his arms about Weber's neck, and was entreating him to accompany him home. As soon as the astonished musician could speak he turned to his friend, and with a comical air, half apologetic and half proud, said, 'This is Felix Mendelssohn.' The friend held out his hand with a smile. Felix gave him a quick glance, then seized the hand in both of his own. The glance and the action that followed it settled the matter—JulesBenedict and he must be friends henceforth. Weber stood by, laughing at his young friend's enthusiasm, and Felix turned to him sharply and once more begged that he and Benedict would favour him with their company. But Weber shook his head. He had to attend a rehearsal—he had come to Berlin for that purpose. 'A rehearsal!' exclaimed Felix disappointedly, and then the next moment his eyes flashed. 'Is it the new opera?' he asked excitedly. Weber nodded. 'Oh,' said Felix thoughtfully; then, indicating Mr. Benedict, 'Doesheknow all about it?' he inquired. 'To be sure he does,' assented the composer laughingly—'at least, if he doesn't he ought to, for he has been bored enough with it already.' Felix passed unnoticed the last part of Weber's speech. It was enough for him that young Benedict was familiar with what he himself was dying to know. He therefore seized Benedict by the arm, exclaiming, 'You will come to my father's house with me, will you not?' There was no refusing the appeal in those eyes, and the young man acquiesced willingly. Then Felix dragged Weber down for a parting embrace, and, taking his new friend by the hand, as if fearful that he might change his mind, he pulled him away.

The distance to the house was short, but Mendelssohn's impatience could only be met by his companion's consenting to race him to the door. On entering he retained Benedict's hand tightly in his grasp, conducted him at once upstairs, and, bursting into the drawing-room, where his mother was seated at her knitting, he exclaimed, 'Mamma, mamma! Here is a gentleman, a pupil of Carl Weber's, who knows all about the new opera, "Der Freischütz!"'

If Benedict had expected a more formal introduction to Madame Mendelssohn he had reckoned without aknowledge of Felix's enthusiasm. But the mother knew and understood, and the young musician not only received a warm welcome, but found it impossible to take his leave until he had complied with his new friend's request that he would seat himself at the piano and play as many airs from the great opera as he could remember at such short notice, Felix listening, meanwhile, with rapt enjoyment.

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