""Whom have you got there, then?" continued she.
""A bandmaster," replied the other.
""A musician? they"re a poor lot; then I"ve no more money to look for to-day. It is to be hoped we shall have better luck in the morning."
"To which the driver said, with a laugh, "I"m devilish thirsty, too--not a kreutzer of drink-money have I had."
"After this curious colloquy the coffin was dismounted and shoved into the top of the grave already occupied by the two paupers of the morning; and such was Mozart"s last appearance on earth."
To-day no stone marks the spot where were deposited the last remains of one of the brightest of musical spirits; indeed, the very grave is unknown, for it was the grave of a pauper.
IV.
Mozart"s charming letters reveal to us such a gentle, sparkling, affectionate nature, as to inspire as much love for the man as admiration for his genius. Sunny humour and tenderness bubble in almost every sentence. A clever writer says that "opening these is like opening a painted tomb.... The colours are all fresh, the figures are all distinct."
No better ill.u.s.tration of the man Mozart can be had than in a few extracts from his correspondence. He writes to his sister from Rome while yet a mere lad:--
"I am, thank G.o.d! except my miserable pen, well, and send you and mamma a thousand kisses. I wish you were in Rome; I am sure it would please you. Papa says I am a little fool, but that is nothing new. Here we have but one bed; it is easy to understand that I can"t rest comfortably with papa.
I shall be glad when we get into new quarters. I have just finished drawing the Holy Peter with his keys, the Holy Paul with his sword, and the Holy Luke with my sister. I have had the honour of kissing St. Peter"s foot; and because I am so small as to be unable to reach it, they had to lift me up. I am the same old
"Wolfgang."
Mozart was very fond of this sister Nannerl, and he used to write to her in a playful mosaic of French, German, and Italian. Just after his wedding he writes:--
"My darling is now a hundred times more joyful at the idea of going to Salzburg, and I am willing to stake--ay, my very life, that you will rejoice still more in my happiness when you know her; if, indeed, in your estimation, as in mine, a high-principled, honest, virtuous, and pleasing wife ought to make a man happy."
Late in his short life he writes the following characteristic note to a friend, whose life does not appear to have been one of the most regular:--
"Now tell me, my dear friend, how you are. I hope you are all as well as we are. You cannot fail to be happy, for you possess everything that you can wish for at your age and in your position, especially as you now seem to have entirely given up your former mode of life. Do you not every day become more convinced of the truth of the little lectures I used to inflict on you? Are not the pleasures of a transient, capricious pa.s.sion widely different from the happiness produced by rational and true love? I feel sure that you often in your heart thank me for my admonitions. I shall feel quite proud if you do. But, jesting apart, you do really owe me some little grat.i.tude if you are become worthy of Fraulein N----, for I certainly played no insignificant part in your improvement or reform.
"My great-grandfather used to say to his wife, my great-grandmother, who in turn told it to her daughter, my grandmother, who again repeated it to her daughter, my mother, who repeated it to her daughter, my own sister, that it was a very great art to talk eloquently and well, but an equally great one to know the right moment to stop. I therefore shall follow the advice of my sister, thanks to our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and thus end, not only my moral ebullition, but my letter."
His playful tenderness lavished itself on his wife in a thousand quaint ways. He would, for example, rise long before her to take his horseback exercise, and always kiss her sleeping face and leave a little note like the following resting on her forehead--"Good-morning, dear little wife! I hope you have had a good sleep and pleasant dreams. I shall be back in two hours. Behave yourself like a good little girl, and don"t run away from your husband."
Speaking of an infant child, our composer would say merrily, "That boy will be a true Mozart, for he always cries in the very key in which I am playing."
Mozart"s musical greatness, shown in the symmetry of his art as well as in the richness of his inspirations, has been unanimously acknowledged by his brother composers. Meyerbeer could not restrain his tears when speaking of him. Weber, Mendelssohn, Rossini, and Wagner always praise him in terms of enthusiastic admiration. Haydn called him the greatest of composers. In fertility of invention, beauty of form, and exactness of method, he has never been surpa.s.sed, and has but one or two rivals. The composer of three of the greatest operas in musical history, besides many of much more than ordinary excellence; of symphonies that rival Haydn"s for symmetry and melodic affluence; of a great number of quartets, quintets, etc.; and of pianoforte sonatas which rank high among the best; of many ma.s.ses that are standard in the service of the Catholic Church; of a great variety of beautiful songs--there is hardly any form of music which he did not richly adorn with the treasures of his genius. We may well say, in the words of one of the most competent critics:--
"Mozart was a king and a slave--king in his own beautiful realm of music; slave of the circ.u.mstances and the conditions of this world.
Once over the boundaries of his own kingdom, and he was supreme; but the powers of the earth acknowledged not his sovereignty."
_BEETHOVEN._
I.
The name and memory of this composer awaken, in the heart of the lover of music, sentiments of the deepest reverence and admiration. His life was so marked with affliction and so isolated as to make him, in his environment of conditions as a composer, an unique figure.
The princ.i.p.al fact which made the exterior life of Beethoven so bare of the ordinary pleasures that brighten and sweeten existence, his total deafness, greatly enriched his spiritual life. Music finally became to him a purely intellectual conception, for he was without any sensual enjoyment of its effects. To this Samson of music, for whom the ear was like the eye to other men, Milton"s lines may indeed well apply:--
"Oh! dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon!
Irrecoverably dark--total eclipse, Without all hope of day!
Oh first created Beam, and thou, great Word, "Let there be light," and light was over all, Why am I thus bereaved thy prime decree?
The sun to me is dark."
To his severe affliction we owe alike many of the defects of his character and the splendours of his genius. All his powers, concentrated into a spiritual focus, wrought such things as lift him into a solitary greatness. The world has agreed to measure this man as it measures Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. We do not compare him with others.
Beethoven had the reputation among his contemporaries of being harsh, bitter, suspicious, and unamiable. There is much to justify this in the circ.u.mstances of his life; yet our readers will discover much to show, on the other hand, how deep, strong, and tender was the heart which was so wrung and tortured, and wounded to the quick by--
"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune."
Weber gives a picture of Beethoven--"The square Cyclopean figure attired in a shabby coat with torn sleeves." Everybody will remember his n.o.ble, austere face, as seen in the numerous prints: the square, ma.s.sive head, with the forest of rough hair; the strong features, so furrowed with the marks of pa.s.sion and sadness; the eyes, with their look of introspection and insight; the whole expression of the countenance as of an ancient prophet. Such was the impression made by Beethoven on all who saw him, except in his moods of fierce wrath, which towards the last were not uncommon, though short-lived. A sorely tried, sublimely gifted man, he met his fate stubbornly, and worked out his great mission with all his might and main, through long years of weariness and trouble. Posterity has rewarded him by enthroning him on the highest peaks of musical fame.
II.
LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN was born at Bonn in 1770. It is a singular fact that at an early age he showed the deepest distaste for music, unlike the other great composers, who evinced their bent from their earliest years. His father was obliged to whip him severely before he would consent to sit down at the harpsichord; and it was not till he was past ten that his genuine interest in music showed itself. His first compositions displayed his genius. Mozart heard him play them, and said, "Mind, you will hear that boy talked of." Haydn, too, met Beethoven for the first and only time when the former was on his way to England, and recognised his remarkable powers. He gave him a few lessons in composition, and was after that anxious to claim the young t.i.tan as a pupil.
"Yes," growled Beethoven, who for some queer reason never liked Haydn, "I had some lessons of him, indeed, but I was not his disciple. I never learned anything from him."
Beethoven made a profound impression even as a youth on all who knew him. Aside from the palpable marks of his power, there was an indomitable _hauteur_, a mysterious, self-wrapped air as of one constantly communing with the invisible, an unconscious a.s.sertion of mastery about him, which strongly impressed the imagination.
At the very outset of his career, when life promised all fair and bright things to him, two comrades linked themselves to him, and ever after that refused to give him up--grim poverty and still grimmer disease. About the same time that he lost a fixed salary through the death of his friend, the Elector of Cologne, he began to grow deaf.
Early in 1800, walking one day in the woods with his devoted friend and pupil, Ferdinand Ries, he disclosed the sad secret to him that the whole joyous world of sound was being gradually closed up to him; the charm of the human voice, the notes of the woodland birds, the sweet babblings of Nature, jargon to others, but intelligible to genius, the full-born splendours of _heard_ music--all, all were fast receding from his grasp.
Beethoven was extraordinarily sensitive to the influences of Nature.
Before his disease became serious he writes--"I wander about here with music-paper among the hills, and dales, and valleys, and scribble a good deal. No man on earth can love the country as I do." But one of Nature"s most delightful modes of speech to man was soon to be utterly lost to him. At last he became so deaf that the most stunning crash of thunder or the _fortissimo_ of the full orchestra were to him as if they were not. His bitter, heart-rending cry of agony, when he became convinced that the misfortune was irremediable, is full of eloquent despair--"As autumn leaves wither and fall, so are my hopes blighted.
Almost as I came, I depart. Even the lofty courage, which so often animated me in the lovely days of summer, is gone forever. O Providence! vouchsafe me one day of pure felicity! How long have I been estranged from the glad echo of true joy! When, O my G.o.d! when shall I feel it again in the temple of Nature and man? Never!"
And the small-souled, mole-eyed gossips and critics called him hard, churlish, and cynical--him, for whom the richest thing in Nature"s splendid dower had been obliterated, except a soul, which never in its deepest sufferings lost its n.o.ble faith in G.o.d and man, or allowed its indomitable courage to be one whit weakened. That there were periods of utterly rayless despair and gloom we may guess; but not for long did Beethoven"s great nature cower before its evil genius.
III.
Within three years, from 1805 to 1808, Beethoven composed some of his greatest works--the oratorio of "The Mount of Olives," the opera of "Fidelio," and the two n.o.ble symphonies, "Pastorale" and "Eroica,"
besides a large number of concertos, sonatas, songs, and other occasional pieces. However gloomy the externals of his life, his creative activities knew no cessation.
The "Sinfonia Eroica," the "Choral" only excepted, is the longest of the immortal nine, and is one of the greatest examples of musical portraiture extant. All the great composers from Handel to Wagner have attempted, what is called descriptive music with more or less success, but never have musical genius and skill achieved a result so admirable in its relation to its purpose and by such strictly legitimate means as in this work.
"The "Eroica,"" says a great writer, "is an attempt to draw a musical portrait of an historical character--a great statesman, a great general, a n.o.ble individual; to represent in music--Beethoven"s own language--what M. Thiers has given in words, and Paul Delaroche in painting." Of Beethoven"s success another writer has said--"It wants no t.i.tle to tell its meaning, for throughout the symphony the hero is visibly portrayed."
It is anything but difficult to realise why Beethoven should have admired the first Napoleon. Both the soldier and musician were made of that st.u.r.dy stuff which would and did defy the world; and it is not strange that Beethoven should have desired in some way--and he knew of no better course than through his art--to honour one so characteristically akin to himself, and who at that time was the most prominent man in Europe. Beethoven began the work in 1802, and in 1804 it was completed, and bore the following t.i.tle:--
Sinfonia grand "Napoleon Bonaparte"
1804 in August del Sigr Louis van Beethoven Sinfonia 3.