Haydn enjoyed his first sight of the waves.'Haydn enjoyed his first sight of the waves.'ToList
'Haydn enjoyed his first sight of the waves.'ToList
The night of his arrival in London was passed at Bland's music warehouse, No. 45, High Holborn,[8]butthe following day he went to live with Salomon at the latter's lodgings, No. 18, Great Pulteney Street, Golden Square.[9]Salomon had by no means overestimated the warmth of the welcome which London was prepared to give to the composer whose works were already familiar to English music-lovers. From every quarter admiration and attentions were lavished upon him; all the most celebrated people besought his acquaintance, and he was invited everywhere. Yet his equanimity never deserted him. He took everything very simply, and as if it were his due, and thoroughly enjoyed theriver parties and picnics which were arranged in his honour. Not so, however, the lengthy dinners or evening entertainments in town, where his ignorance of the language and customs of his hosts made him feel less at his ease. The incessant noise of the streets was a source of great discomfort to one who had been so long accustomed to the silence of the country; and he positively refused to fashion himself to the late hours of London. When, later on, he removed his lodging to Lisson Grove, he writes in a strain of rejoicing to a Vienna friend that he has at length found himself in the country amid lovely scenery, where he lives as if he were in a monastery! It is difficult for us to imagine the Lisson Grove of a century ago, when the road stretched away through green fields and woodland spaces.
The first of Salomon's concerts was held on March 11, 1791, at the Hanover Square Rooms. The hall was crowded, and the performance of Haydn's 'Symphony' (Salomon, No. 2) was received with great applause; nor would the audience remain satisfied until theadagiomovement had been repeated—an event of such rare occurrence in those days as to call for comment in the newspapers. This marked the beginning of a most successful series of concerts, at each of which Haydn received a great ovation. His benefit took place on May 16, and realized £350.
The Handel Commemoration Festival—the fifth and last of the century—was held in Westminster Abbey during this visit, and it must have been a moving sight to Haydn to observe the crowds flocking to the Abbey early on that summer morning in order to hear the master's greatest work. Haydn had secured a seat close to the King's box—a position which commanded a view of the nave and the vast concourse of listeners. Rarely had those venerable walls looked down upon sucha sea of expectant faces as that which was turned towards the distant bank of musicians and singers when the moment drew nigh for the performance to begin. There was reverence expressed in the hushed silence which pervaded every nook and corner of the Abbey at that supreme moment—a befitting reverence both for the dead composer whose immortal work was to be celebrated, and for the sacredness of the subject which he had chosen for illustration. As the oratorio proceeded Haydn became more and more impressed. He had never heard the 'Messiah' performed on so grand a scale before, and when the opening chords of the 'Hallelujah Chorus' rang through the nave and the entire audience sprang to their feet, he burst into tears, exclaiming to those around him, 'He is the master of us all!'
Lisson Grove a century ago.'Lisson Grove a century ago.'ToList
'Lisson Grove a century ago.'ToList
The first week in July found him at Oxford, at Commemoration, whither he had gone to receive the honorary degree of Doctor of Music. Three grand concerts were given in his honour, the principal singers and performers having been brought from London, andon each occasion his compositions were greeted with great applause. He appeared at the third concert clad in his Doctor's gown, and met with an enthusiastic reception. It was evident, however, that he was not feeling quite at home in his new vestment, for when the students clapped their hands and shouted he raised the gown as high as he could, exclaiming as he did so, 'I thank you,' whereupon the applause was redoubled. Haydn writes to a friend that he had to walk about for three whole days clad in this guise, and he only wishes that his Vienna friends could have seen him.
Amidst the wealth of incident which signalised his visit two little scenes found a cherished corner in Haydn's memory. He was invited by the Prince of Wales to visit Oatlands Park as the guest of the Duke of York, who was spending his honeymoon there with his young bride, the Princess of Prussia. The seventeen-year-old bride welcomed the sight of Haydn's kindly face and the familiar sound of the German tongue, and in one of his letters he describes how theliebe Kleinesat beside him as he played his 'Symphony,' humming the well-known airs to herself, and urging him to go on playing until long past midnight. The Princess also sang and played to him, whilst the Prince of Wales played the violoncello, their attention being entirely given to Haydn's works. It was during this visit that the portrait by Hoppner was painted, which hangs in the gallery at Hampton Court.
The second picture, though one of a very different kind, he himself described as having afforded him one of the greatest pleasures of his visit. He went to St. Paul's to witness the gathering of the charity children at their anniversary meeting, and the sight of the children's faces and the sound of their young voices echoing through the vast building touched him deeply,and no doubt recalled to his mind the singing of the choristers in St. Stephen's Cathedral in bygone days.
Frau Haydn had evidently heard reports of her husband's successes, for she troubled him with a letter at this time, in which she related how she had found a small house and garden in the suburbs of Vienna, which she felt would exactly suit her requirements when she became a widow. She therefore begged that he would send her the money—a matter of two thousand gulden—to complete the purchase. Haydn did not comply with this simple request, but on his return journey to Vienna he inspected the house, approved it, and bought it for himself!
It was in passing through Bonn, on his homeward journey, that Haydn met Beethoven, and praised the composition which the young assistant Hof-organist submitted to him.[10]The reception accorded to the composer on his arrival at Vienna was in every way worthy of the fame which his London visit had added to his reputation, and every one was anxious to hear the symphonies which had taken the Londoners by storm.
The success of this visit led to a repetition in 1794. On this occasion Haydn was accompanied by his faithful copyist and servant, Johann Elssler, a son of the copyist to Prince Esterhazy, to whom, since his birth, Haydn had acted as benefactor. Elssler's attachment to his master was coupled with the greatest veneration for his genius, and it was even reported that at such times as he thought himself unobserved he would stop with the censer before his master's portrait, as if it were an altar.
Once more Haydn was to pass through a series of successes under Salomon's direction. His symphonies formed part of all the London programmes. His popularity reached a height that rendered him the 'lion'of the season. He was frequently invited to Buckingham Palace to perform to the King and Queen, and he was not allowed to depart without a pressing request on the part of her Majesty that he would settle in England. When London went to Bath, Haydn went there too, in company with Dr. Burney, the eminent musician, and at once became the centre of fashion and interest.
A description of all the incidents which this second visit comprised would extend our story to an undue length. We will therefore content ourselves by describing a touching little incident that marked his homeward journey in August of the following year. To Haydn's complete surprise he was invited by Count Harrach and a party of noblemen and gentlemen to accompany them to the Count's park, situated close to Rohrau, where a monument and bust of himself had been erected. He was next taken to Rohrau itself, to inspect his old home and birthplace, which had been preserved with every mark of loving care by those who held the composer in such high esteem.
Haydn's emotions were deeply stirred by this action on the part of his countrymen, as well as by the sight of his dear old home. Memories of his happy childhood crowded upon him as he stood before the door, and, prompted by a sudden impulse, he stooped and imprinted a kiss upon the threshold; then, bidding his friends enter the cottage, he pointed to the settle which stood beside the stove, and told them that it was when seated on that settle, listening to his parents' singing, that his musical career had begun. What, after all, were the grand palaces, in which he had passed so many years of his life, with their costly furniture and troops of servants, compared with that dear old cottage home in which he had dreamed his childish dreams of music,and listened to the hammers in the workshop beating out the time as he played on his toy violin?
During his London visits Haydn had often expressed his admiration for the English 'God save the King,' and he regretted that his own country had no National Anthem of its own. This thought weighed the more with him after his return because war had broken out with France, and he felt that the people needed a means of giving expression to their loyalty. He accordingly wrote the song 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser,' or 'The Emperor's Hymn,' which was performed for the first time simultaneously at the Vienna National Theatre and the principal theatres of the country on the Emperor's birthday, February 12, 1797. This beautiful air was always a favourite one with Haydn during the remainder of his life.
A portrait of Haydn at this time shows a man of short, substantial build, and a somewhat ill-proportioned frame. The face, of which the aquiline nose, projecting under-lip, and massive jaw were strongly marked features, was very dark, and its habitual expression was dignified and earnest, with an inclination to sternness. The dark grey eyes, however, shone with a benevolent light that afforded an insight into their owner's true nature—indeed, he used to say of himself humorously that 'anyone could see by the look of him that he was a good-natured sort of fellow.' He always wore a wig, with side-curls and a pigtail, and the wig partly concealed his broad forehead. His dignified expression relaxed in conversation, but although he was not at all averse to joking, his laughter was always moderate and controlled. Towards children he showed a love and sympathy that never failed to win their confidence and affection. The title of 'Papa Haydn,' by which he was known both to young and old duringhis lifetime and with which his memory has ever since been coupled, was the natural outcome of the universal affection in which he was held by all classes. He was the 'father' of his chapel, sympathising with them in their difficulties, and interceding in their behalf with the Prince whenever occasion arose. In the same way his interest went out to all young and struggling men of talent, to whom he gave advice and help. But the title 'Papa Haydn' may claim to possess a further significance in its use at the present time, 'as if musicians of all countries claimed descent from him.'
Along with his indomitable industry went a love of order and method by which every action was ruled, every habit framed. He rose very early to begin work, for Nature seemed sweetest to him in her waking hours; but he would never put a pen to paper or see a visitor until he was fully dressed; and even when old age prevented his leaving the house he maintained the same degree of punctiliousness in regard to his appearance. His devoutness formed an indissoluble part of his nature, and he regarded his genius as a gift of God which he was bound to use thankfully for the benefit of mankind and to the glory of Him who gave it. He never wrote a score without the words 'In nomine Domini' appearing as an inscription, whilst 'Laus Deo' came at the end.
Haydn's love of humour is brought out in many of his compositions, notably in the 'Surprise Symphony,' where the drums come in with a tremendous bang at the end of theandantemovement. He is said to have invented this part in order to arouse the attention of the audience and make the ladies scream. Again, in the 'Toy Symphony,' he shows a child-like appreciation of drollery in producing genuine music out of such toy instruments as tin whistles, jew's-harps, toy trumpets, etc.The 'Toy Symphony' was composed at Eisenstadt, where, having visited a village fair and purchased a number of toy instruments, Haydn was seized with the idea of making his orchestra play upon them—an order which upset their gravity so much that they could hardly keep time for laughing. A little story illustrative of his love of fun may be told here. During his second visit to London he came in contact with a certain amateur violinist whose professed fondness for the extreme upper notes of his instrument was such as to incite Haydn to perpetrate a joke at his expense. He therefore wrote a seemingly simple sonata for piano and violin, which he called 'Jacob's Dream,' and dispatched it anonymously to the conceited violinist. The player was charmed with the manner in which the piece began. It was apparent that the composer thoroughly understood the instrument! As he proceeded, however, the notes rose higher and higher, like the steps of a ladder, and at length, seeing that there was no prospect of their ever descending again, the perspiration broke out on his forehead, and, flinging the music from him with disgust, he declared that the writer knew nothing whatever of the violin!
Haydn was now sixty-five, but the crowning work of his life had yet to be achieved. Whilst in London Salomon had shown him a poem, founded upon 'Paradise Lost,' which had been written many years before, in the hope that Handel would have set it to music. Haydn carried the poem home, and later on conceived the idea of writing an oratorio on the subject. From the moment of its inception the task of composing the 'Creation,' as the new work was called, became a labour of increasing love with Haydn. 'Never was I so pious,' he writes, 'as when composing the "Creation."I knelt down every day and prayed God to strengthen me for the work.' The oratorio was first publicly performed in Vienna on March 19, 1799, and created a profound impression. Haydn himself was almost overcome by the sensations which the occasion aroused. In a short time the 'Creation' was heard in every principal city of Europe. In places where no means existed for its production choral societies were formed for this special object, so that for many years the work took equal rank in popular favour with the 'Messiah.' As a work of art, however, the 'Creation' differs essentially, both in character and style, from Handel's masterpiece. We have here none of the declamatory passages which are so prominent in the 'Messiah,' the story of the Creation being unfolded to us in a series of wonderful tone-pictures—strengthened where necessary by choruses, but keeping throughout to the epic character of the poem. Many of the passages are strikingly beautiful. Who that has heard them can ever forget the airs, 'With Verdure Clad,' and 'In Native Worth,' or the splendid chorus, 'The Heavens are telling the Glory of God'?
Whilst music-lovers were descanting on the beauties of the 'Creation,' Haydn was busily composing a second oratorio founded upon Thomson's famous poem, 'The Seasons.' The desire for work was as strong as ever, but his health was declining, and the strain involved by so great an undertaking proved too much for his strength. '"The Seasons" gave me my finishing stroke,' was Haydn's often-repeated remark to his friends after the oratorio had left his hands. But no trace of diminished power is visible in the work itself, and the success which attended its production was such as to place it on a level with the 'Creation.'
With these two great works the flow of composition from the master's pen fittingly closed. Upon thesubject of his life-work as a whole we may not dwell in this brief story. The history of music has accorded to Haydn the high position which his works entitled him to occupy, and the feeling of gratitude for those great gifts having been vouchsafed to us is one that has grown deeper and deeper with the passing years. Musicians and music-lovers all the world over give expression to this gratitude by pointing to what he has accomplished for the symphony, the quartet, and the sonata—to mention the three branches of composition to which his genius was specially directed. Acknowledged on every hand as the father of instrumental music, Haydn compels our admiration by 'his inexhaustible invention as shown in the originality of his themes and melodies; the life and spontaneity of the ideas; the clearness which makes his compositions as interesting to the amateur as to the artist; the child-like cheerfulness and drollery which charm away trouble and care.' His insistence on the importance of melody was a marked characteristic. 'It is the air which is the charm of music,' he once remarked to the composer Kelly, 'and it is that which is most difficult to produce. The invention of a fine melody is a work of genius.'
The honourable peace which should have been the companion of his old age was marred by much physical suffering, through which, however, at intervals his genial nature forced its way like sunshine through clouds. Nor were his declining years without the solace of numerous friends—indeed, by none to whom his great gifts and kindly personality had brought pleasure and instruction was the old composer forgotten, and nothing gave him keener delight than to gather his friends about him to talk over the chief events of his life, and to exhibit his collection of diplomas, souvenirs,and other mementoes, which had been presented to him by his royal and noble patrons.
Perhaps no more touching example could be given of the affectionate esteem in which Haydn was held by all classes of music-lovers than that afforded by the last occasion on which he appeared in public. He had been for a long time living in retirement in the house which he purchased on the outskirts of Vienna, but having expressed a wish to be present at a performance of the 'Creation' at the University on March 27, 1808, he was carried to the hall in his arm-chair. The enthusiasm evoked by the spectacle of the aged composer being borne into the arena was in itself a convincing proof that his popularity had not lessened. But the emotions of the audience were more deeply stirred when, at the passage 'And there was light,' Haydn lifted his hand and, pointing upwards, exclaimed, 'It came from thence!' At this point his agitation was so great that it was deemed prudent to remove him to his home; and as the carriers lifted him up and bore him towards the door, the people flocked about his chair to touch his hand and bid him farewell. At the door itself the crowd was denser than ever, and pressing through the throng came Beethoven, who, bending over his old master, kissed him fervently on the hand and forehead. As he passed through the exit Haydn turned to take a last look at those who were standing and waving their farewells, and as he did so he raised his hands as if in the act of blessing them. The next moment the heavy portière fell, and Haydn passed for ever from the public sight.
A year later the old musician lay stretched upon his bed listening to the booming of the French cannon, which were bombarding the city. Presently the crash of a ball which fell close to his house caused the servantsto utter a cry of fear, whereupon their master called out to them, 'Children, don't be frightened. No harm can happen to you while Haydn is by.'
One day, shortly after this event, when Vienna was in the occupation of the French, the faithful Elssler reported that a French officer desired to pay his respects to the composer whom France held in such veneration. The interview was granted, and the officer, before taking his leave, sang 'In Native Worth,' from the 'Creation,' with so much feeling and expression that Haydn's eyes filled with tears, and he embraced the singer with warmth and tenderness.
Haydn's eyes filled with tears.'Haydn's eyes filled with tears.'ToList
'Haydn's eyes filled with tears.'ToList
The end was now very near, and Haydn awaited the dread summons with the resignation that was born of his implicit and child-like faith in God. On May 26,1809, he summoned the members of his household to his presence, and, having been carried to the piano, he played his favourite composition, 'The Emperor's Hymn,' three times over, with great solemnity. There was something inexpressibly touching in the master's selection of this air, which had been inspired by his love of country and his loyalty to his Sovereign; for none knew better than they who now stood around his chair how deeply he had suffered by reason of the indignities which had been offered to his country. These faithful friends realised that this solemn expression of devotion to his King was intended to be a personal farewell, and as the familiar strains of their noble anthem rang through the apartment, their silent tears gave expression to the love and reverence in which the master was held. Five days later, as dawn hovered on the sable fringe of night, Haydn sank to rest.
Owing to the fact that Vienna at the time of Haydn's death was in the hands of the French, his funeral was conducted without the ostentation by which, under happier circumstances, it would have been marked. Nevertheless, there were many mourners, and amongst them a number of French officers of high rank, whilst a guard of honour was formed around the coffin by the French soldiers. A performance of Mozart's 'Requiem' was given in his honour at the Schotten-Kirche, and as the news of his death spread abroad funeral services were held in all the principal cities of Europe. The burial took place in the Hundsthurm churchyard, near the suburb in which he lived; but in 1820 Prince Esterhazy commanded the remains to be exhumed and reinterred, with fitting ceremonial, in the upper parish church at Eisenstadt, where 'a simple stone with a Latin inscription is inserted in the wall over the vault, to inform the passer-by that a great man rests below.'
Operas:The Devil on Two Sticks. 1752 (?)Acis und Galatea. 1762.La Vera Costanza. 1776.Orfeo ed Euridice. 1793.Oratorios:Il Ritorno di Tobia. 1775.[The well-known motet 'Insanæ et vanæ curæ' is taken from this oratorio.]The Seven Words from the Cross. 1794.[Originally composed as a series of pieces for orchestra in 1787.]The Creation. 1798.The Seasons. 1801.Masses:Mass in F (Novello, No. 11). 1751 (?)Mass of B.V.M. in E♭(No. 12). 1766.Mass of St. Nicholas in G (No. 7). 1772.Mass of St. John in B♭(No. 8). 1778.Mass of St. Cecilia in C (No. 5). 1780.Mass of Mariazell in C (No. 15). 1782.Mass in C (No. 2). 1790.Mass in B♭(No. 1). 1796.Imperial Mass in D (No. 3). 1798.[Known in Germany as the 'Nelson Mass.']Mass in B♭(No. 4). 1801.Mass in B♭(No. 6). 1801.Mass in B♭(No. 16).Two other Masses not printed.The four Masses, No. 9 (in C), No. 10 (in C minor), No. 13 (in C), and No. 14 (Kyrie and Gloria only, in D), are not authentic.Stabat Mater. 1773.2 Te Deums.12 Canzonets. 1790.142 Symphonies.[It will be sufficient to mention the 12 'Grand' Symphonies, composed for Salomon's concerts, and a few others with distinguishing names.]Grand No. 1 in C. 1791-1792.Grand No. 2 in D. 1791.Grand No. 3 in G (The Surprise). 1791.Grand No. 4 in B♭. 1791-1792.Grand No. 5 in C minor. 1791.Grand No. 6 in D. 1791.Grand No. 7 in D minor. 1795.Grand No. 8 in E♭. 1795 (?)Grand No. 9 in B♭. 1795.Grand No. 10 in E♭. 1793.Grand No. 11 in D minor (The Clock). 1794.Grand No. 12 in G (Military). 1794.Symphony in C (Le Midi). 1761.Symphony in G (Le Soir). 1761 (?)Symphony in D (Le Matin). 1767 (?)Symphony in A (The Farewell—Letter B). 1772.Symphony in E minor (Trauer-symphonie—Letter I). 1772 (?)Symphony in D minor (Lamentations). 1772.Symphony in C (Maria Theresa). 1773.Symphony in E♭(The Schoolmaster). 1774.Symphony in A (Feuer-symphonie). 1774.Symphony in C (Roxelane). 1777 (?)Symphony in D (La Chasse). 1781 (?)Symphony in C (L'Ours). 1784-1786.Symphony in G minor (La Poule). 1784-1786.Symphony in B♭(La Reine de France). 1786 (?)Symphony in G (Letter V). 1787.Symphony in C (Letter R). 1788.Symphony in G (Letter Q—The Oxford). 1788 (?)Symphony in C (Toy Symphony). 1788 (?)83 Quartets for strings.[The earliest were composed in 1753. The quartet including variations on Haydn's 'Emperor's Hymn' (Op. 76, No. 3) was composed in 1797.]21 Trios for strings.31 Trios for clavier and strings.3 Concertos for pianoforte and orchestra. 1790.9 Concertos for violin and orchestra.22 Concertos for other instruments.8 Sonatas for clavier and violin.34 Sonatas for clavier solo.
Operas:
The Devil on Two Sticks. 1752 (?)
Acis und Galatea. 1762.
La Vera Costanza. 1776.
Orfeo ed Euridice. 1793.
Oratorios:
Il Ritorno di Tobia. 1775.
[The well-known motet 'Insanæ et vanæ curæ' is taken from this oratorio.]
The Seven Words from the Cross. 1794.
[Originally composed as a series of pieces for orchestra in 1787.]
The Creation. 1798.
The Seasons. 1801.
Masses:
Mass in F (Novello, No. 11). 1751 (?)
Mass of B.V.M. in E♭(No. 12). 1766.
Mass of St. Nicholas in G (No. 7). 1772.
Mass of St. John in B♭(No. 8). 1778.
Mass of St. Cecilia in C (No. 5). 1780.
Mass of Mariazell in C (No. 15). 1782.
Mass in C (No. 2). 1790.
Mass in B♭(No. 1). 1796.
Imperial Mass in D (No. 3). 1798.
[Known in Germany as the 'Nelson Mass.']
Mass in B♭(No. 4). 1801.
Mass in B♭(No. 6). 1801.
Mass in B♭(No. 16).
Two other Masses not printed.
The four Masses, No. 9 (in C), No. 10 (in C minor), No. 13 (in C), and No. 14 (Kyrie and Gloria only, in D), are not authentic.
Stabat Mater. 1773.
2 Te Deums.
12 Canzonets. 1790.
142 Symphonies.
[It will be sufficient to mention the 12 'Grand' Symphonies, composed for Salomon's concerts, and a few others with distinguishing names.]
Grand No. 1 in C. 1791-1792.
Grand No. 2 in D. 1791.
Grand No. 3 in G (The Surprise). 1791.
Grand No. 4 in B♭. 1791-1792.
Grand No. 5 in C minor. 1791.
Grand No. 6 in D. 1791.
Grand No. 7 in D minor. 1795.
Grand No. 8 in E♭. 1795 (?)
Grand No. 9 in B♭. 1795.
Grand No. 10 in E♭. 1793.
Grand No. 11 in D minor (The Clock). 1794.
Grand No. 12 in G (Military). 1794.
Symphony in C (Le Midi). 1761.
Symphony in G (Le Soir). 1761 (?)
Symphony in D (Le Matin). 1767 (?)
Symphony in A (The Farewell—Letter B). 1772.
Symphony in E minor (Trauer-symphonie—Letter I). 1772 (?)
Symphony in D minor (Lamentations). 1772.
Symphony in C (Maria Theresa). 1773.
Symphony in E♭(The Schoolmaster). 1774.
Symphony in A (Feuer-symphonie). 1774.
Symphony in C (Roxelane). 1777 (?)
Symphony in D (La Chasse). 1781 (?)
Symphony in C (L'Ours). 1784-1786.
Symphony in G minor (La Poule). 1784-1786.
Symphony in B♭(La Reine de France). 1786 (?)
Symphony in G (Letter V). 1787.
Symphony in C (Letter R). 1788.
Symphony in G (Letter Q—The Oxford). 1788 (?)
Symphony in C (Toy Symphony). 1788 (?)
83 Quartets for strings.
[The earliest were composed in 1753. The quartet including variations on Haydn's 'Emperor's Hymn' (Op. 76, No. 3) was composed in 1797.]
21 Trios for strings.
31 Trios for clavier and strings.
3 Concertos for pianoforte and orchestra. 1790.
9 Concertos for violin and orchestra.
22 Concertos for other instruments.
8 Sonatas for clavier and violin.
34 Sonatas for clavier solo.
[7]The drums on which Haydn performed on this occasion are still preserved in the choir of the church at Hainburg.
[7]The drums on which Haydn performed on this occasion are still preserved in the choir of the church at Hainburg.
[8]Since included in the building of the First Avenue Hotel.
[8]Since included in the building of the First Avenue Hotel.
[9]The house has since been rebuilt to form the warehouse of Messrs. Chatto and Windus.
[9]The house has since been rebuilt to form the warehouse of Messrs. Chatto and Windus.
[10]See story of Beethoven, p. 233.
[10]See story of Beethoven, p. 233.
I
In a small, barely-furnished apartment in the Archbishop's palace at Salzburg, in Austria-Hungary, on a winter's morning in the year 1766, a boy of ten years of age was seated at a table, his head resting upon his hand and his eyes turned towards the window. Before him were scattered a number of sheets of manuscript music-paper, several of which were covered with notes, which his childish fingers had patiently traced amidst a plentiful sprinkling of blots and smears.
There was something pathetic about the appearance of the motionless little figure, with its pale face, surmounted by a profusion of brown curls, and the fixed, earnest expression in the large dark eyes—a pathetic seriousness that implied a depth of reflection far beyond his years, and to which the work upon which he was engaged lent additional significance. Thus absorbed, the child paid no heed to the entry of a servant bearing a tray, upon which was spread a simple breakfast; and, following the instructions which he had received, theman laid the tray on the table and quitted the room in silence. Outside the door, however, the old servant paused for a moment in a listening attitude, as if to catch the chink of moving cup and platter, and thus be assured that the child had begun his meal. But as no sound came from within, old Hans shook his head gravely, turned the key in the lock, and, muttering to himself, descended the stairs.
He paid no heed to the entry of a servant.'He paid no heed to the entry of a servant.'ToList
'He paid no heed to the entry of a servant.'ToList
The old servitor was puzzled, and somewhat troubled in mind as well, by the boy's deep abstraction. That his master the Archbishop cherished any feelings of harshness or resentment towards the solitary little prisoner Hans refused to believe. Indeed, the Archbishop had confided to him that he merely desired to test the child's powers of writing original music. But to the old man's mind such a test was far too severe to be applied to one so young, and something in the boy's far-away look had touched his heart and tempted him to disobey the stringent command which he hadreceived not to converse with the little writer. Even now, as he was descending the stairs, he felt almost like a criminal in leaving the boy locked in his room without a word of comfort or encouragement, and he was half inclined to turn back on some excuse to speak with the prisoner and inquire how he felt. At that moment, however, the ringing of a distant bell summoned him to his master's presence.
MozartFrom PhotoRischgitz.Mozart.ToList
From PhotoRischgitz.
Mozart.ToList
Archbishop Sigismund was pacing to and fro in the dining-room when his servant entered, his forehead puckered with a frown, and his eyes fixed on the carpet. But he at once checked himself in his walk, and, turning to Hans, said abruptly: 'Have you taken the child his food?' 'Yes, your Grace,' was the reply. 'And—er—how did he seem—well, eh?' 'Quite well, your Grace.' 'You are sure of that?' a trifle anxiously. 'Perfectly sure, your Grace,' replied the old man, though he would have liked to have added a word as to his doubts concerning the child's happiness; but the Archbishop dismissed him with a wave of the hand, and, turning away, seated himself at the breakfast-table.
Several floors above that on which Archbishop Sigismund was eating his breakfast the little captive sat patiently toiling at his allotted task. In a sense the old man was right; for the test was as severe a one as the mind of a man who was a good judge of music, and who doubted the truth of what he had heard concerning his little captive's astonishing genius, could well have devised. The boy was required to set to music the first part of a sacred cantata founded upon the 'First and greatest Commandment'—'Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind, and with all thy strength' (Mark xii. 30). The Archbishop fully realised themagnitude of the test, and he expected failure—he looked for the child to break down. The time allotted for its fulfilment was one week, at the expiration of which he would find a few boyish attempts at composition, and nothing more.
And why was Archbishop Sigismund so desirous of testing the boy's powers of composition? A short time before the date at which our story opens Leopold Mozart, Vice-Capellmeister at the Archbishop's court, had related to his master some wonderful stories of his little son Wolfgang—how the child had astonished and delighted every one by his playing; how, when the father carried him and his sister Marianne to Vienna and Paris and London, they had been invited to play at the Courts, and how little Wolfgang had been praised by the royal families and loaded with presents; and how he had already composed some wonderful things, including several sonatas for the pianoforte, and a symphony—the latter when he was only eight years old.
There was no exaggeration in Leopold Mozart's description of his child's powers, as to which, indeed, accounts from less partial sources had already reached the Archbishop's ears. None the less, however, was the old ecclesiastic inclined to attribute to a parent's pardonable pride the anticipations which the father had formed with regard to the boy's future, and more especially as those anticipations rested upon the assumption that the child was a miraculous genius. That Wolfgang could play remarkably well for a child of his age was sufficient in itself to justify the extraordinary praise which he had received; but that he was gifted to the extent of writing original music of a sort worthy to be recorded the Archbishop may be excused for doubting. At any rate, he resolved to settle the matter to his own satisfaction by setting the boy to work underconditions which precluded every chance of his being enabled to copy from the works of other composers, and also—and this was a great point with the Archbishop—of his being helped by his father. Leopold readily assented to the conditions of the test proposed by his master, and so little Wolfgang was duly installed as a close prisoner in the palace, and supplied with music-paper, pens, and ink, and a subject on which to write, in the manner in which we have already described.
And now we must leave him for a space weaving harmonies in his attic chamber whilst we recount his history up to the present point.
Born on January 27, 1756, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart had attained his third year when the father's attention was first drawn to his fondness for music. In his little daughter Marianne, who was five years older than Wolfgang, he had rejoiced to discover an extraordinary gift for playing, and it was not long ere her music-lessons from her father became a source of attraction for her little brother, who would cast aside his toys and take his stand beside the piano as soon as he perceived that Marianne's lesson was about to begin. There he would remain until the lesson was finished, listening intently to everything that was played or spoken. At other times he would amuse himself by finding simple chords on the instrument, striking them over and over again, and bending his head to catch the harmonies thus produced. At length Leopold Mozart began to teach him, half in fun at first, but very soon in earnest, for it was apparent that the child regarded the lessons seriously.
The father could not conceal his joy at the discovery of such early promise on the part of his little son, whose progress, indeed, was so rapid as to call for special careto prevent his learning too fast. Marianne had a manuscript book in which her father used to write simple pieces for her to learn, and very soon he was entering in the book similar pieces for Wolfgang.[11]The rapidity and ease with which the boy mastered these tasks opened his father's eyes to the fact that Wolfgang possessed capacities far above those of an ordinary child. In a short time the boy began to write in the book little compositions of his own, some of them plainly showing that his skill in composing had forged beyond the point at which his tiny fingers had the power to express his ideas.
One day, when Leopold Mozart had brought Herr Schachtner, the Court trumpeter, home to dinner, they found Wolfgang busily employed with his pen. In answer to his father's inquiry what he was doing, Wolfgang replied that he was writing a concerto for the pianoforte. Leopold asked to see it, but the boy was not anxious to have his work inspected, and objected that it was not finished. 'Never mind,' said Leopold, 'let me see it. It must be something very fine.' Taking the paper into his hand, the father and his friend glanced at it curiously. The sheet was bedaubed with ink-smears which almost concealed the notes; the child had dipped his pen each time to the bottom of the ink-bottle, so that when it reached the paper it had dropped a huge blot. This had not disturbed him in the least, however, for he had merely rubbed his hand over the offending blot and proceeded with his writing.
At first sight both Leopold and his friend laughed tosee the manner in which the composer had traced the notes over the smudges, but soon Schachtner observed the father's eyes fill with tears of delight and wonderment as he began to follow out the theme. 'Look, Herr Schachtner!' he cried. 'See how correct and orderly it is! Only it could never be of any use, for it is so extraordinarily difficult that no one in the world could play it.'
Wolfgang at this looked up quickly into his father's face. 'That is why it is a concerto,' he explained, with flushed cheeks. 'People must practise until they can play it perfectly. Look! This is how it goes;' and he began to play it on the piano, but only succeeded in bringing out sufficient to show his hearers what he meant it to be.
His ear for music was wonderfully fine, for when only seven years old he could detect the difference of half a quarter of a tone between two violins. It was an ear of such extreme delicacy, in fact, that anything in the shape of rude or harsh sounds caused him positive distress. On one occasion Schachtner, at the request of Leopold Mozart, who imagined that Wolfgang's aversion to loud sounds was a mere childish fancy, blew a blast upon the trumpet towards the child, but he regretted it the next moment, for the boy nearly fainted away at the shock.
'What took others months of practice to achieve came to him as a gift of God,' his father used to say; and truly there seems to have been something of the miraculous about Wolfgang's powers. His violin lessons had hardly begun when one evening, as Leopold Mozart, Herr Schachtner, and Herr Wentzl were about to play a set of six trios composed by the last-named musician, Wolfgang put in a plea that he might be allowed to play second violin! Needless to say, his request was refusedas a matter of course. The child, however, persisted, and at length he was told that if he were careful to make no sound he might sit beside Herr Schachtner with his violin and bow, to make believe that he was playing.
The first trio began, but it had not proceeded far ere Schachtner's attention was drawn to the boy at his side. He was actually playing the part—and playing it correctly! The second violin ceased bowing in astonishment, and allowed Wolfgang to go on alone, which he did to the end. Schachtner and the father exchanged glances, and the former perceived that Leopold's eyes were full of tears. After this trial the boy was allowed to play in the remaining pieces, unaccompanied by Schachtner. At the conclusion, emboldened by success, he volunteered to play the first violin's part—an offer which was greeted with laughter; but, nothing daunted, he seized his violin and began, and although he made many mistakes, and was on the point of breaking down several times, he persisted to the end.
With his devotion to music and all that concerned the art, Wolfgang possessed a lovable, affectionate nature that yielded a ready obedience to his parents' wishes. For his mother, Anna Maria, and his sister Marianne he showed great fondness, but before either of these he placed his father. 'Next to God comes papa,' he used to say. He could be very merry on occasions, but a natural seriousness which showed itself in connection with his love for music gave rise to fears that he would not survive his childhood. Music to him was all-absorbing—everything else had to yield to it, and nothing could take its place. When Herr Schachtner, who had grown very fond of the child, carried him from one room to another the march had to be accompanied by the beating of a drum, and the only toys he cared for were such as could make music. When musical soundswere not actually forthcoming the rhythmical movements of his body and limbs implied their existence beneath the surface.
The family were in poor circumstances, for Leopold Mozart had no means beyond the salary which he received from the Court. The discovery of his children's gifts, therefore, offered the father a strong inducement to turn their powers to advantage, both for the supply of the family's needs and to provide for Wolfgang and Marianne a sound education in music. With this object he determined to travel with the children, as Salzburg itself offered no facilities for making their talents known. A first experiment in January, 1762, proved so successful that in the following September they set out for Vienna with the object of playing before the Imperial Court. Wolfgang was at this time six years old, and Marianne eleven. At Linz, where they stopped for several days, they gave a successful concert under the patronage of the Governor-General of the province. Every one was delighted with the playing of the children, and they were fortunate in securing the presence of a young nobleman who happened to be visiting at the Governor's house on his way to Vienna, for he was sure to carry the news of what he had heard to the capital. From this point they continued their journey by water as far as the monastery of Ips, where they purposed resting for the night.
The grey old building, seated on the banks of the Danube, with the waters of the river lapping the base of its walls, looked invitingly restful to the travellers who sought its seclusion on that sultry September afternoon. Three friars who formed part of the travelling party entered the monastery at the same time, and on their retiring to say Mass in the chapel Wolfgang contrived to slip in behind them unperceived and to make his way into the organ-loft. Shortly afterwards theFranciscan monks, who were entertaining a party of guests in the refectory, were startled at hearing the organ pealing forth from the chapel. One of the hosts left the table to ascertain who the player could be, and, hastily returning, beckoned the company to follow him. On reaching the chapel they paused to listen, holding their breath, as their companion pointed to the tiny figure of a child seated in the loft. Was it possible, they asked themselves, that a child could produce such beautiful music? They remained standing, rooted to the spot by the enchanting strains which poured from the organ, until Wolfgang, happening to espy them, brought his voluntary to a close and crept meekly down from his perch.