And so in December, 1769, Mozart, who was now thirteen years of age, came to Italy to listen to the brightly-clad peasants singing at their work in the sunny fields; to watch them dancing on the vine-trellised terraces that overlooked the deep blue waters of the lakes; to witness the wonderful processions of the priests through the narrow streets of the towns; and, above all, to hear the grand music in the cathedrals.

Mozart's bright, happy nature was never more in evidence than on the occasion of this journey, which he seemed to regard as having been planned solely for pleasure. His merry jokes and light-hearted conversation served to ingratiate him in the affections of all. Leopold kept up a regular correspondence with those at home, but Wolfgang never failed to add a little letter of his own, addressed either to his mother or to Marianne, in which he joked about the incidents of the journey, the people whom they met, or the friends they had left behind. The letters were a mixture of German and Italian, with an occasional bit of Salzburg patois thrown in to make Marianne laugh. But he relapsed into a serious style whenever he referred to his playing or the performers whom they had heard in the course of their travels.

The young musician had, indeed, no lack of work before him, for, in addition to the regular performances which formed the chief business of the tour, he was set difficult problems to solve at sight by the various professors who desired to test his powers. The fame of his playing preceded him everywhere, so that the further they penetrated into Italy the more numerous became the demands to hear him. At Roveredo, where it was announced that he would play the organ at St. Thomas's Church, the crowd was so great that the monks of the adjoining monastery had to form a circle around Mozart to keep back the press until the steps leading to the organ-loft had been gained. The vast audience listened spellbound to the performance, and then refused to disperse until they had gained a glimpse of the boy-player. At Verona, where another triumph awaited him, and where one of his symphonies was performed, the Receiver-General ordered his portrait to be painted, and wrote a letter to the mother full of warm praise of her wonderful son.

On reaching Milan the chief musician of the city subjected Mozart to the severest tests, from which he emerged victorious, and after astonishing everybody by his playing and improvisation, he was commissioned to write an opera for the ensuing season. It was at Bologna, however, that he met with the most flattering reception. The city contained many artists of the highest rank, over whom Padre Martini, the famous composer of Church music and the first connoisseur of the country, reigned like a king. Martini was, in fact, worshipped by Italian lovers of the art, who deferred to his opinion in all questions affecting music. But the Padre was very old, and had given up attending concerts, so that every one was astonished when the coming of Mozart brought the aged musician from his retirement to form one of the brilliant gathering assembled at Count Pallavicini's mansion to witness the boy's playing. It was a great compliment to Mozart, but an even greater compliment to the country from which he came, and Wolfgang put forth his best powers, with the result that he earned the judge's warmly expressed commendation. Leopold was overjoyed at Wolfgang's success, and opined that Bologna would form a centre from which the boy's fame would spread all over Italy, an opinion that was justified by the results. As for Martini, he took to Wolfgang at once, insisted that he should visit him regularly whilst they remained in Milan, and gave him fugue subjects to work out at his lodgings. Mozart worked hard at these tasks, and the Padre expressed himself as perfectly satisfied with the boy's knowledge of composition.

The journey to Rome, in fact, was a succession of triumphs, which it would require a volume by itself to attempt to describe in detail. At Florence he was invited to play before the Court of the Archduke Leopold, and solved, 'as easily as if he were eating a bit of bread,' the difficult problems proposed by the Court music-director, who was regarded as one of the best contrapuntists of the day. Here he met Thomas Linley, a boy of about his own age, the son of the English composer, who was studying the violin under Nardini. Linley's playing was already exciting much attention, and as he showed great promise in his compositions as well, people were building high hopes as to his future. Mozart and he instantly became close friends, and when the time came for parting neither could restrain his tears. They were destined never to meet again, for a few years later poor Linley was drowned through the upsetting of a boat whilst on a pleasure excursion in Lincolnshire. Mozart never forgot the bright friendship which had flashed into his life during those few days spent at Florence, and many years afterwards he would refer in terms of endearment to the young genius whose career had been thus untimely cut off.

It was Holy Week when Mozart and his father reached Rome, and the city lay under the spell of that solemn time. The travellers at once bent their steps to the Sistine Chapel in order to hear the celebrated Miserere, written by Allegri, performed. Wolfgang had been looking forward to this moment during the latter stages of his journey with the deepest interest. He had heard from his father of the jealous guarding of this wonderful work by the Romans; how it was expressly forbidden to be performed in any other building than the Sistine; and how the choristers were under strict injunctions not to remove their parts of the score from the chapel. His anxiety, therefore, to hear a work of which the fame had spread throughout the whole of Europe, had hastened his progress to the Holy City.

It would, indeed, be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful and impressive than the singing of this wonderful Miserere.[12] It is introduced into the solemn service called 'Tenebrae' (Darkness), during which the six tall altar candles, by which the chapel is illuminated, are extinguished one by one, until only a single candle is left, and this is removed to a space behind the altar. Then, in almost complete darkness, the Miserere begins. A single voice is heard singing the beautiful antiphon, as the short piece which ushers in the Miserere is called; the sweet notes die away into silence—a silence so profound that the listener hardly dares to breathe lest he should disturb it. Then at length the first sad notes of the Supplication are heard, like the softest wailing of an anguished spirit; they gradually increase in force until the whole building is ringing with the plaintive melody in all its thrilling intensity.

The solemnity of the service and the beauty of the music left a deep impression on the mind of the young musician who heard it for the first time. Leopold Mozart, too, was greatly affected by what he had heard, and when they left the chapel to seek their lodgings neither of them spoke a word. Once within doors, however, Wolfgang asked for pen and paper, and, sitting down there and then, he wrote out the whole of the Miserere from memory. On Good Friday, when the work was to be performed for the second time, he took his copy with him to the Sistine, and, concealing it in his cocked hat, he made one or two corrections in pencil as the service proceeded. It was not long before the news of this extraordinary feat reached the ears of the Papal musicians, and Wolfgang received orders to perform his version in the presence of Christoforo, the principal soprano of the Sistine, who could not conceal his amazement at finding it correct in every particular.

No better introduction than this was needed to secure for Mozart a cordial welcome at the houses of the great, and during their stay in Rome they were feted to their hearts' content.

At Naples, which was their next stopping-place, Wolfgang played at the Conservatorio alla Pieta before a brilliant gathering, and excited so much astonishment that several of the audience openly declared that his powers were derived from a ring which he wore upon his finger. 'He wears a charm!' they cried; and when Mozart, hearing their remarks, smilingly laid aside the supposed magic ring, and played even more brilliantly than before, the enthusiasm was redoubled. After this the Neapolitans vied with one another to show them honour and attention. A carriage was provided for their use, in which they drove about amongst the fashionable crowds on the Strada Nuova and the quay, on which occasions Leopold wore a maroon-coloured coat of watered silk, with sky-blue facings, and Wolfgang one of apple-green, with rose-coloured facings and silver buttons.

We have not space, however, in which to describe all the events of Mozart's wonderful tour, and so we may only mention how they returned to Rome at the instance of the Pope, who not only granted Wolfgang a private audience, but bestowed upon him the Order of the Golden Spur, thus entitling him to be styled 'Signor Cavaliere Amadeo'; how, when next he wrote to Marianne, he jokingly concluded his letter as follows: 'Mademoiselle, j'ai l'honneur d'etre votre tres-humble serviteur et frere, Chevalier de Mozart'; and how his portrait was once more painted in Rome by Battoni. A still greater distinction was conferred upon him on his arrival at Bologna, for the Accademia Filarmonica admitted him to their ranks as 'compositore,' notwithstanding that their statutes required that members should be at least twenty years of age. To test his qualifications for election he was given an antiphon to set in four parts, and locked up in a room to fulfil his task. At the expiration of half an hour he asked to be let out, to the astonishment of the officials, who could scarcely credit that he had completed the work in so short a time. The composition was then examined by the professors, who next voted upon it, and finally, amidst clapping of hands, it was declared that Mozart had been duly elected.

After some further intercourse with Padre Martini, who, before leaving, presented Mozart with a testimonial, the travellers proceeded to Milan, where Wolfgang set to work at once on the opera which he had been commissioned to write. It was a great task, and we find him writing to his mother and sister, begging them to pray for its success, 'so that they may all live happily together again,' 'Mitridate,' as the work was called, was at length finished, after three months' hard labour, some of which was devoted to fighting the opposition emanating from both singers and rivals. The first performance took place on December 26, 1770, and was conducted by Wolfgang, whose appearance in the orchestra was the signal for a great outburst of cheering, to be repeated again and again as the opera proceeded. Then came loud cries of 'Evviva il Maestro! Evviva il Maestrino!' in response to which Mozart gravely bowed his acknowledgments, and at the same time bent his glance towards the spot where his father sat with his eyes covered with his hand, in order to hide the tears of pride and joy which filled them to overflowing. Mingled with these feelings, however, Leopold felt a deep thankfulness in his heart that he had been spared to watch over his son's career, and to be a witness of his success.

'Mitridate' had indeed succeeded even beyond their utmost hopes; it was repeated twenty times before crowded houses, and its success brought with it the honour of election as 'Maestro di Capella' (the Italian equivalent of the German title 'Capellmeister') by the Accademia Filarmonica. Mozart's position was now assured, and he had nothing more to fear from intrigues or cabals. So that when, in August, 1771, we find him once more in Milan, he is on cordial terms with all his fellow-artists, and hard at work composing a dramatic serenata for the approaching marriage of the Archduke Ferdinand with Princess Beatrice of Modena. He is working amidst a Babel of sounds, for in the room above dwells a violinist, in the room below another, whilst a singing-master lives next door, and an oboist opposite. But he is not dismayed. 'It is capital for composing,' he writes to Marianne; 'it gives one new ideas.'

The serenata, 'Ascanio in Alba'—an allegorical pastoral play—was a great success, and Hasse, a master of opera, who had also composed a work for the occasion, was fain to admit that he stood nowhere compared with Mozart. 'This boy,' he exclaimed, 'will cause us all to be forgotten.' The Empress, who had commissioned Mozart to write the work, was so pleased with the result that, in addition to the stipulated fee, she presented the composer with a gold watch with her portrait set in diamonds at the back.

Our story of Mozart's life has now reached the point which marks the beginning of a series of misfortunes and trials of a far more serious character than those with which his earlier struggles for fame had been associated. There was no foreshadowing of these troubles at the moment when the travellers set out on their return journey to Salzburg, whither they were carrying the hopes which had been built upon their successes in Milan. Shortly after their return, however, to their great grief the good Archbishop Sigismund died, and both Leopold and Wolfgang realised that they had lost their best protector and friend. The news of the appointment of Hieronymus, Count von Colloredo, as his successor was received by the townspeople with feelings of displeasure and even dismay, for it was well known that the character of Hieronymus was almost entirely opposite to that which had made Sigismund beloved by his subjects. The Mozarts, father and son, were soon made to taste the bitterness of the change. Appreciation for art formed no part of the new Archbishop's nature, and he lost no opportunity of showing his contempt for those who followed it as a profession. Notwithstanding the fame which had now gathered about Mozart, whose latest opera, 'La finta Giardiniera,' had been produced in Munich, at the carnival of 1775, with the greatest success, the Archbishop persistently refused to recognise his genius, or to grant any facilities for enabling his dependents to better their condition of life. Once, during his master's absence in Vienna, Leopold had gone to the capital with Wolfgang, hoping to be able to secure some appointment at the Court which might relieve them of their necessities, but the effort was in vain. To his wife he wrote: 'Things will and must alter; take comfort, God will help us.' But they returned empty-handed.

Despite the fact that monetary anxieties were daily growing more pressing, and the aspect of affairs at the Salzburg Court remained as hopeless as ever, Wolfgang worked at his compositions with untiring diligence, and by the time he had attained his twenty-first year he had accumulated a mass of music that embraced every branch of the art, in addition to numberless carefully worked out studies of other masters. But Hieronymus viewed his Concertmeister's industry with disdain. Even when, by happening to be in Vienna shortly after 'La finta Giardiniera' had taken the Viennese by storm, he had been made the unwilling recipient of congratulations at the hands of the nobility upon the possession of so gifted a composer, he had contrived to evade an admission of Mozart's genius by protesting, with a sardonic smile and outspread hands, that he knew nothing about such matters. Even this disclaimer, however, did not prevent the Archbishop from making use of Wolfgang's powers whenever their display could be made to add to his own glorification. But nothing softened his ill-nature; no degree of praise which was justly awarded either to Mozart as a composer, or to his father for the care with which he had conducted his son's musical training, availed to remove or even to mitigate the deeply-rooted dislike which Hieronymus bore to father and son. He professed to regard them both in the light of professional beggars, and he never lost an opportunity of speaking slightingly of Wolfgang's compositions.

It was not long before the relations with the Archbishop became strained to breaking-point. Wolfgang was now twenty-one, with a reputation as a composer, but with no settled future; it was clear that nothing was to be hoped for by his remaining in Salzburg, and Leopold therefore resolved to undertake a professional tour with his son. For this purpose a prolonged leave of absence was necessary; but the Archbishop met Leopold's application with a curt refusal.

Even Wolfgang's docile nature would bend no further under such treatment, and he forthwith requested to be relieved of his duties. The salary connected with his post of Concertmeister was trifling in amount, and Hieronymus was fully aware of the value of the services which he professed to estimate so lightly. But that one for whom he had expressed contempt should thus presume to take action on his own behalf rendered him furious. He would have nothing to do with either father or son. 'After the Gospel, you are both free to seek your fortunes wherever you please!' was his reply to Wolfgang's application. This hasty decision, however, he afterwards retracted with respect to Leopold, and the father realised that the only course left open to him was to allow Wolfgang and his mother to travel together.

Arrangements were accordingly made, and early in the morning of September 23, 1777, the carriage which was to convey the travellers drew up at the door of Leopold's house. Now that the actual moment of parting had arrived the father could with difficulty restrain his emotion, and it was only when the carriage had driven off that he remembered that he had forgotten to bestow a blessing on his dear ones. Rushing to the window, he stretched forth his hand, to find that he was too late—the travellers were already out of sight.

Wolfgang's spirits, however, rose as the towers of Salzburg faded into the haze of that September morning. No sorrow of parting could stifle the sense of freedom that was springing up in his breast; he had escaped from a town which was intimately associated in his mind with tyranny and oppression, to seek his fortune in a new and wider world, where he was confident that his gifts would meet with the recognition they deserved. Thus buoyed with hope and confidence he entered upon a sea of difficulty and trouble.



At Munich, where they first halted, Wolfgang endeavoured to secure an engagement at the Elector's Court; but there was no vacancy, and although his playing brought forth many promises of future help in addition to applause, the prospect of obtaining immediate engagements fell empty to the ground. 'Fine words and bravissimos pay neither the postboy nor the host,' wrote the practical Leopold Mozart, when Wolfgang applied to him for advice, and so mother and son went on to Mannheim. Here, indeed, the prospects seemed to be much brighter. Mannheim was a thoroughly musical town, and Mozart soon won both esteem and admiration at the hands of the musicians. The Elector, Karl Theodor, maintained an excellent orchestra, and with Cannabich, the conductor, Wolfgang soon became great friends, giving music-lessons to his daughter Rose. Nevertheless, albeit so gifted, and capable of winning applause wherever he played, Mozart was constantly looking for work that would bring in sufficient ready-money to maintain himself and his mother, until something of a permanent nature could be found for him. But here again disappointment followed disappointment. He was desirous of staying the winter in Mannheim, in order to join some friends who were leaving for Paris in the spring, but he must first find something to do. He seized upon the opportunity of playing before the Elector and the Electress as a possible means of securing their children as pupils, and for some time success in this direction seemed imminent. But his application was put off from day to day; weeks passed over, and nothing was settled.

Amidst these hopes and delays Leopold Mozart was writing from Salzburg urging Wolfgang to decide upon a course of action. He reminded him that he had put his time to but little use up to the present, and that it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to supply the money for their maintenance. Wolfgang must give him longer notice of their change of plans, as 'otherwise all will go wrong'; and he warns his son to be careful lest he be stranded without money—and 'no money meant no friends.'

There was justice in these urgings and warnings, for it was a fact that to Wolfgang life in Mannheim had become so pleasant and easy-going that it was time that he should be reminded of the call of duty. In the midst of intercourse with friends, who were only too willing to second his wishes to remain in Mannheim, Mozart was in danger of forgetting the sacrifices which were being made for him at home. Both father and daughter were indeed denying themselves and working hard to keep up the supplies of money. In addition to being heavily in debt on Wolfgang's account, Leopold had increased his labours by giving music-lessons at a small fee, whilst Marianne was practising all manner of shifts to make ends meet. Each fresh disappointment which her brother's letters conveyed caused 'Nannerl's' tears to flow with sympathy and vexation, and added to her father's anxieties.

The latest letter had brought the depressing intelligence that, after tedious delays, the Elector had decided that he could not see his way to offering Mozart the engagement which he sought. Nothing remained to be done, therefore, but to relinquish the idea of wintering in Mannheim. But coupled with this announcement of failure, Wolfgang had let drop some complaints on the subject of lesson-giving which aroused his father to the pitch of administering a severe rebuke. Wolfgang's protest was to the effect that so long as he was called upon to seek work in the shape of music-lessons at small fees, the time which he felt ought to be given to composition must suffer serious curtailment, with the result that his progress would inevitably be hindered, if it were not brought to an actual standstill. There was doubtless sound sense behind this protest, for who could deny that Wolfgang's aims were high, or that he possessed the power to accomplish great things with his art? It is, however, easy to understand that his expressed disinclination to give music-lessons touched his father on a tender point. 'And so,' Leopold writes, with more bitterness than he has ever shown before in his letters—'and so you will throw away chances of earning money, whilst your old father has to run from house to house for a wretched pittance in order to support himself and his daughter, and to send the little that remains to you, instead of paying his debts!' He begs Wolfgang to reflect whether he was not treating him as hardly as the Archbishop himself. Then follows a remark which refers to Mozart's proneness to place undue reliance on promises, instead of using his own judgment. 'You have judgment,' says Leopold, 'but a trifle too much of conceit and self-love, and you are inclined to be over-confiding, and to open your heart to every one you meet.'

However, Wolfgang's stay in Mannheim was, after all, prolonged over the winter, through the efforts which his friends made to procure him work; but when the spring came round, and the three musicians whom he had promised to accompany to Paris were ready to start upon their journey, he found an excuse for letting them go without him. Leopold Mozart was a deeply religious man, and when he learnt from Wolfgang that his reason for breaking off his intended journey was that his three companions had not a particle of religion in them, he approved his son's judgment without expressing any surprise at the tardiness of his discovery.

But Mozart had a deeper reason, which he was not so anxious to disclose, and which perhaps he could not, without knowing his mind exactly at the time, have explained. Be this as it may, however, Mozart could never have been surer of anything than that his father would have disapproved in the strongest manner of the feelings which were swaying him at that moment. Yet if Leopold had but read between the lines of his son's letters he must have seen why it was that Wolfgang was seemingly so blind to his own interests, and so forgetful of his duty to those who loved him at home. The fact is Wolfgang was in love. And if the vigilant eye of the kindest and tenderest father that ever watched with unremitting care over the welfare of a gifted son could have pierced the space that separated him from Wolfgang at the moment when he was perusing that letter of excuse, it might have lighted upon the following little scene which was being enacted in the parlour of a small house in Mannheim.

A young man is seated at the harpsichord playing the accompaniment of a song from the manuscript before him. Every now and then he lifts his eyes from the music-sheet to let them rest upon the fair young face of the maiden standing beside him, and that oft-repeated glance reveals more than admiration for the singer's notes, pure and melodious as her singing is—more than a recognition of the singer's charms, sweet beyond question as those charms are; it reveals, in a word, the love which is burning within the player's breast, a love as yet unspoken, but beside which even art herself must for the time sink her supremacy.

Aloysia Weber, the fifteen-year-old maiden for whom Mozart had conceived this attachment, was the second daughter of Fridolin Weber, a member of the Elector's band. The young composer had been attracted first by her voice, and later by her personal beauty, and both of these gifts had gained in power through the sympathy he felt for the family who were in poor circumstances. He longed to be able to help them; Aloysia's singing was of a high order, and only needed to be heard in public to secure the approval of the connoisseurs; he had already written a song specially for her, and she sang it as well as he could wish. Thus he wrote to his father, in the hope of enlisting the latter's interest in his protege, adding that he only wished his father could hear her sing. But he gave no indication in the letter of those deeper feelings which animated his desire to be of use to the family.

The father, however, was soon to receive a communication which startled him into a knowledge of the true state of affairs. Wolfgang had formed a project for helping the Webers by undertaking a journey to Italy in company with Aloysia and her father, with the object of writing an opera in which Aloysia should appear as prima donna. Their plans would embrace, with Leopold's sanction, a visit to Salzburg by the way, when Wolfgang would have the pleasure of introducing the fair singer to his parent and 'Nannerl,' by whom he was sure she would be welcomed and beloved. Leopold was distracted by the proposal. 'What!' he writes, in reply to Wolfgang's letter, 'are you so mad as to prefer a vagabond life to Mannheim and fame! Away with you to Paris, and that immediately. Take up your position among those who are really great—aut Caesar aut nihil. From Paris the name and fame of a man of talent spreads throughout the world.' The father wisely refrained from making any direct allusion to the subject of Mozart's attachment, trusting to the latter's sense of what was due to one who had made such sacrifices on his behalf. His trust was not misplaced; duty and affection prevailed, and with a heavy heart Mozart yielded to his father's wishes, and his love-dream came to an end. His ready compliance brought a most affectionate letter from Leopold, in which he assures his dear Wolfgang that he does not entertain the least mistrust of him; on the contrary, he has perfect confidence and hope in his filial love. His good judgment, if he will only listen to it, will direct him how to act. As for himself, he is resigned to separation, and he adjures Wolfgang to live the life of a good Catholic Christian. 'Love God and fear Him,' he continues; 'pray to Him sincerely and devoutly, and let your conduct be such that, should I never see you again, my death-bed may be free from anxiety. From my heart I bless you.'

The departure for Paris was now fixed, but the leave-taking with the Webers was not accomplished without tears, for the family insisted on regarding Wolfgang as their 'greatest benefactor.' Aloysia was encouraged to hope for better things, for she had already been heard in public on several occasions through Mozart's influence, and now she was to be placed under the care of a celebrated singer named Raaff, who had undertaken to carry on the training of her beautiful voice, and to assist in bringing her out.

The hopes which Leopold Mozart had built upon Wolfgang's prospects of success in Paris were not destined to be fulfilled. The enthusiasm which he had evoked as a marvellous prodigy was not to be elicited by his matured powers as a young man, and the influence necessary to enforce his claims to be recognised as a composer of standing was lacking. Three months passed away in more or less unsuccessful endeavour, and then the mother, who had been his companion and comforter throughout this long period of trial and travel, was struck down by serious illness, and on July 3, 1778, she breathed her last in her son's arms. Wolfgang's first thought in the hour of sorrow was for his father, and he wrote to an old friend at Salzburg, begging him to break the sad news as gently as possible. When he knew that this had been done he himself wrote a letter to his father, full of sympathy and affection.

Mozart now determined to leave Paris at once, and his father was the more willing to acquiesce in this step because an offer had been made by Archbishop Hieronymus to instal Wolfgang in the place of the Court organist, who had just died, and to give him a salary of five hundred florins, with permission to absent himself whenever he might be called upon to conduct one of his own operas. The offer had also attached to it the near prospect of being made full Capellmeister at the Archbishop's Court. Leopold urged Wolfgang's acceptance, pointing out that their joint income would in such case amount to one thousand florins a year—a sum that would enable them to discharge their debts and live in comparative comfort.

Mozart, it must be owned, viewed the prospect of a return to Salzburg under the implied conditions with positive dismay, but he could not withstand his father's appeal. He set out from Paris immediately, promising himself only one indulgence before entering upon the bondage which lay before him—and that was to take Mannheim on his homeward journey. Arrived at Mannheim, however, he found that the Webers had migrated to Munich, whither the Elector had already gone to take up his new residence. After exchanging greetings with a few old friends, therefore, he bent his steps to Munich, hoping to find consolation in a brief renewal of the happy hours which had left so strong an impression on his memory. But, alas! his disappointments found their crown within the Webers' dwelling. The family, it is true, received him as warmly as of old; but she to whom his glance was first directed showed in her eyes nothing more than a friendly welcome, and Mozart was quick to perceive that his hopes had here no abiding-place. Aloysia was fickle, and her affection had so far waned as to be unable to withstand even the test afforded by Mozart's change of dress. When he appeared before her with black buttons sewn upon his red coat, after the French fashion, to indicate that he was in mourning, she resented the innovation; and, after a brief intercourse, in which she plainly showed that she had forgotten him for whom her tears had flowed some months before, they parted.

It was with a mind stored with invaluable experience, but with a heart saddened and sore by disappointed love and ambition, that Mozart once more entered the portal of his Salzburg home. If anything could have cheered him at that moment and served to dispel the clouds which seemed to obscure his future, it would have been the warmth of the welcome bestowed upon him by the inmates of that home which he had left nearly two years before filled with the brightest anticipations. And, indeed, it was little short of triumphant, this greeting and homage which poured in upon him from father, sister, and friends. In their eyes, at least, his successes were unshadowed by his failures; to them he was still the Mozart, the genius amongst musicians, who was yet to leave his mark upon the roll of fame. But, grateful as he felt for these proofs of sincere affection and esteem, his aversion to Salzburg and his duties at the Court remained in full force, and it was with a new-kindled joy that he set forth once more for Munich, in November, 1780, to complete and produce the opera which he had been commissioned to write for the carnival of the following year.

To the realisation of these the first-fruits of his previous sojourn at Munich Mozart was to owe the establishment of his fame as a dramatic composer of the first rank. 'Idomeneo,' as the new opera was called, fulfilled the high expectations which his Munich friends had formed from the composer's powers. Its reception at the rehearsals rendered success a certainty, and the Elector, who was present, joined with the performers in expressing his unqualified approval. At home the progress of the work was watched with the deepest interest. 'The universal subject of conversation here,' writes Leopold to his son, 'is your opera.' The first performance took place on January 29, and as the Archbishop was then staying in Vienna, Leopold and Marianne journeyed to Munich to witness Wolfgang's triumph. It was a proud and happy moment for all three, and the enthusiastic applause which shook the theatre at the close of the performance must have seemed to the old father, who stood gazing with swimming eyes at the sea of waving hands around him, to set the seal of greatness upon his son's career.

Mozart was soon, however, to taste the bitterness of his bondage by receiving orders from the Archbishop to attend him in Vienna. From the moment of his arrival the arrogant ecclesiastic gave him to understand that, except when his services were required for his master's glorification, he would be expected to take his place amongst the servants of the household, to dine at their table, and to receive the like treatment and consideration. The indignities to which he was subjected beneath the Archbishop's roof, however, did not for a time prevent Mozart from feeling happy, for the aristocracy as a body welcomed him with enthusiasm, and invited him to their houses to dine. To Hieronymus, on the other hand, who was cordially detested by the nobility, and especially by the Emperor Joseph, the fact that one of his musicians—a mere domestic of his establishment—was made the object of all this attention on the part of the great people of Vienna, was in itself sufficient to rekindle the hatred which he had always felt towards Mozart. It was a purely selfish feeling which had induced the Archbishop to reattach Mozart to his Court; and now, when he found that requests were flowing in from the nobility to be allowed to hear the composer play at their own houses, where Hieronymus himself was far from being a welcome guest, he gave full rein to his spite, with the result that Mozart's life speedily became unbearable.

The culminating point was reached when the Emperor purposely left the Archbishop out of the list of guests invited to his summer residence at Laxenburg. Enraged at the slight thus offered to him, Hieronymus before leaving Vienna sought to gratify a portion of his revenge by turning Mozart from his doors. Mozart had just before made up his mind to quit the Archbishop's service, for his treatment had of late become unendurable, and there was every prospect of his being able to make a living in Vienna. He now requested an audience for the purpose of ascertaining his position. Hieronymus seized the occasion for showering upon the head of his Concertmeister all the abuse which he could summon to his aid. Calling him 'villain,' 'low wretch,' 'low fellow of the streets,' the Archbishop declared that none of his servants treated him so badly. 'Your Grace is dissatisfied with me, then?' said Mozart. 'What! you dare to employ threats! Fex! there is the door! I will have nothing more to do with such a vile wretch!' 'Nor I with, you,' was Mozart's retort, as he quitted the room.

Mozart was now virtually free from the intolerable burden under which he had suffered, but his actual discharge was not obtained without further indignity and insult. Leopold Mozart received the news of the rupture with alarm, and endeavoured to induce Wolfgang to reconsider his decision not to return to Salzburg. But even though an official acceptance of his resignation was not then forthcoming, Mozart made a stand for his independence. 'Do not ask it,' he wrote to his father in reply. 'Demand of me anything but that. The very thought of it makes me tremble with rage. I hate the Archbishop almost to frenzy!'

We must pass over the time of struggle which followed the severance of Mozart's connection with the Archbishop, when he found himself with only a single pupil as a visible means of support, but, fortunately, not without friends, and come to the point when, for the second time, he fell in love. He was lodging with his old friends the Webers. Fridolin Weber was dead; Aloysia had married, and was well known as a professional singer; and Madame Weber, with her two unmarried daughters, was living, in reduced circumstances, in Vienna. Mozart's prospects had greatly improved, for his latest opera, 'Entfuehrung aus dem Serail,' had brought him increased fame, both in Vienna and in Prague, and he had secured the patronage of many distinguished personages, in addition to that of the Emperor Joseph. Bachelorhood to him now seemed insupportable. 'To my mind,' he says in a letter to his father, 'a bachelor lives only half a life,' and so he had determined to marry. The object of his choice was Constanze Weber, the third daughter, and, despite Leopold's remonstrances, Mozart made her his bride on August 16, 1782.



His marriage marked the beginning of a new era of struggle, for Constanze, though a devoted wife, was incapable of managing a home, and as their means were uncertain to start with, they were soon involved in a sea of monetary troubles, from which there seemed to be no prospect of their extricating themselves. An unpropitious note had been struck on the very day of the wedding, when it must have appeared to Mozart that he had committed a crime in robbing the family of one of its members. 'As soon as we were married,' he wrote to his father, 'my wife and I both began to weep. All present, even the priest, were touched at seeing us so moved, and wept too.'

With the friends and influence which Mozart's genius had ranged upon his side it was hoped that a post of importance would by this time have been found for him in Vienna. The bestowal of a Court appointment would have relieved him of much of the drudgery of teaching and the anxiety of tiding over periods when pupils and engagements were scarce, but the Emperor, despite his sincere interest in all that concerned the composer, showed a seeming disinclination to make a proposal. Yet there could be no doubt of the appreciation in which Mozart was held at the Court, for in a letter to his father at this time he quotes a remark made by Prince Kaunitz to the Archduke Maximilian on the subject of the Emperor's inaction with regard to retaining Mozart's services: 'That men of that stamp only came into the world once in a hundred years, and that they ought not to be driven out of Germany, especially when, as good luck would have it, they were already in the capital.'

Mozart was, indeed, seriously contemplating a journey to London and Paris, and had even begun to make his preparations, but his father's urgent appeals for patience and further effort had the effect of postponing for the time the carrying out of his schemes. In the meantime Mozart seized the opportunity for which he had been longing of paying a visit to Salzburg to present Constanze to his father, and at the same time of fulfilling a vow which he had made that, if Constanze became his wife, he would have a Mass composed by him for the occasion performed in her honour. It was, on the whole, a very happy visit, and later on, when Mozart and his wife had once more settled down in Vienna, they had the pleasure of welcoming the father on a return visit. Leopold found his son immersed in work, and it gladdened his heart to witness the appreciation in which his playing and compositions were held. One never-to-be-forgotten evening they spent together in the company of Haydn, when, after hearing several of Mozart's quartets performed, Leopold was made the happy recipient of a testimony to his son's greatness, which he treasured above all else that had been spoken or written in his favour, and which came as a fitting reward for the unremitting care and solicitude which he had bestowed upon Mozart's welfare and training. Haydn took the old man aside at the close of the evening, and said: 'I declare to you before God as a man of honour that your son is the greatest composer that I know, either personally or by reputation. He has taste, and, beyond that, the most consummate knowledge of the art of composition.'

This pleasant time was rendered the happier by the fact that Leopold found Wolfgang and his wife in somewhat better circumstances, and their home brightened by the presence of a little grandson, Karl, who clambered upon his grandfather's knee, and filled the old man's mind with tender recollections of a little son whom he had lost before Wolfgang's birth. But it was destined to be the last meeting between Mozart and his father, for shortly after Leopold's return he was seized with illness, on hearing of which Wolfgang wrote to him a letter, in which he expressed his own views on death. 'As death, strictly speaking, is the true end and aim of our lives, I have accustomed myself during the last two years to so close a contemplation of this, our best and truest friend, that he possesses no more terrors for me—nothing but peace and consolation. And I thank God for enabling me to discern in death the key to our true blessedness. I never lie down in bed without remembering that, perhaps, young as I am, I may never see another day, and yet no one who knows me can say that I am melancholy or fanciful. For this blessing I thank God daily, and desire nothing more than to share it with my fellow-men.'

The news of his father's death, which occurred on May 28, 1787, reached Mozart shortly after he had accomplished one of the greatest successes of his life. The name of his latest opera, 'Le Nozze di Figaro,' was on every one's lips; its performances in Vienna and Prague had been hailed with enthusiastic delight by crowded audiences; its songs were to be heard in every street, and wandering minstrels in the country, as they halted at the village alehouses, were compelled to satisfy their groups of listeners with selections from its entrancing airs. Michael Kelly, the singer and friend of Mozart, who took part in the opera, has thus described its reception by the orchestra and performers: 'Never was anything more complete than the triumph of Mozart, and his "Nozze di Figaro," to which numerous overflowing audiences bore witness. Even at the first full-band rehearsal all present were roused to enthusiasm, and when Benucci came to the fine passage, "Cherubino, alla vittoria, alla gloria militar," which he gave with stentorian lungs, the effect was electric, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated, "Bravo! bravo! Maestro! Viva, viva, grande Mozart!" Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding by beating the bows of their violins against the music-desks.' As for Mozart himself: 'I never shall forget his little animated countenance when lighted up with the glowing rays of genius; it is as impossible to describe it as it would be to paint sunbeams.'

Despite the success of 'Figaro' Mozart still remained a poor man—still was he compelled to earn a living by the hated drudgery of teaching. 'You happy man,' he said to a young musician who was leaving for a tour in Italy; 'as for me, I am off now to give a lesson to earn my bread.' The desire to visit England was once more uppermost in his mind, and when the Emperor, with a view to retaining him in Germany, appointed him Kammer-compositor at a salary of eight hundred gulden (about eighty pounds sterling), it must have occurred to many besides Mozart himself that such a 'beggarly dole' but poorly represented the value which his Majesty professed to set upon the composer's services to art. This feeling was accentuated in Mozart when he discovered how trivial were the requirements of his royal master in connection with the position. 'Too much for what I produce, too little for what I could produce,' were the bitter words which he penned on the official return stating the amount of his salary.

The 'beggarly dole,' indeed, brought small relief to the domestic anxieties which now more than ever oppressed Mozart and his wife. The latter's ill-health necessitated frequent change of air, and in this way tended to increase their embarrassments. Applications to friends for assistance became more and more numerous. 'I am still most unfortunate,' he writes in one of these appeals. 'Always hovering between hope and anxiety.' Repeated attempts were made at reform. Mozart even commenced to keep strict accounts of their expenditure, but they came to nothing, for the want of management was always apparent in every detail of his domestic life. Yet, despite all, the merry side of Mozart's nature refused to succumb to the stress of adversity; amidst his difficulties he retained the sunshine of his boyish days, being as merry-hearted, and full of jokes, and as open as a child. One winter day an old friend found him and his wife dancing madly about the room; knowing Mozart's fondness for this pastime—his favourite of all forms of amusement—the friend expressed his pleasure at finding them so light-hearted, when Mozart, pointing to the empty stove, explained that they were dancing in order to keep themselves warm, as they had no money to purchase fuel. Horror-struck, the caller darted from the house, and returned in a few minutes with his arms laden with logs.

To some extent a natural leaning to extravagance may be held accountable for Mozart's embarrassments, for he was extremely fond of dress, and had a great weakness for lace and watch-chains. But if he indulged his tastes overmuch in this particular, he was no less lavish in regard to giving where he thought help was needed. He could never turn a deaf ear to the appeal of a beggar, and his kindness was frequently imposed upon; even when monetary help was not forthcoming to meet the request of a brother-musician, he would contrive to find time amidst the pressure of his own work to compose a concerto for the latter's benefit. To the animal world, also, his affectionate nature went forth in no small degree, and he became deeply attached to a starling, which had learnt to pipe the subject of the Rondo of his 'Pianoforte Concerto in G Major.'

And if his distresses failed to diminish his joy in the very fact of living, even less did they affect his powers of work. His father had declared that 'procrastination was his besetting sin,' and Mozart was certainly given to putting off the evil day as far as possible; but no one knew better than Leopold Mozart himself how tireless was Mozart's industry, or how boundless his powers of coping with a gigantic task which he had set his mind to accomplish. When, in September, 1787, he was at Prague, writing the score of 'Don Giovanni,' his favourite resort was the vineyard belonging to his friend Duschek, situated close to the city; here he would be seated at his work[13] whilst conversation or skittle-playing went on around him, often quitting his task to join in one or the other. The time was short, for the opera was to be produced on October 29, and when the evening of the 28th arrived it found the overture still unwritten. Nothing daunted, however, Mozart bade his wife brew him some punch, and bring her book of fairy-stories, and then, for hour after hour, he wrote on, whilst Constanze read aloud to keep him awake. When sleep could no longer be resisted he lay down for an hour or two, but when the copyist came for the score at seven o'clock in the morning it was ready for him. His musical memory was so marvellous that the merest scraps of notes, jotted down whilst driving, conversing, or soothing his wife in her pain, were sufficient to recall to mind without the slightest effort the exact ideas which he desired to reproduce. An entire work would thus be completed in his brain before he began to write a single note on paper, and it was no unusual thing for him to be thinking out a second part whilst writing down the first. 'He never composed at the clavier,' says his wife, in speaking of his manner of work, 'but wrote music like letters, and never tried a movement until it was finished.'

The limits of our story forbid even a mention of the compositions which made up the life-work of Mozart; the few to which we have found space to refer are those connected with the chief episodes of his career. Much less can we convey an idea of his powers of improvisation. Hours snatched from sleep would be spent at the piano, and into the silence of the night drifted many a divine melody which no ear but his own was destined to hear. One who lived to be eighty, speaking of those wonderful improvisations, says: 'I still, in my old age, seem to hear the echo of those heavenly harmonies, and I go to my grave with the full conviction that there can never be another Mozart.'

It was at such times that the inspiration of true genius shone forth in his expression. Ordinarily there was nothing distinguished about his appearance; the head, with its profusion of fine hair, was somewhat too large for the body, which was short and slim; the face was pale, and the nose a rather too prominent feature; the eyes were large, well-shaped, and shaded by long lashes and bushy eyebrows, but the expression was absent and restless. When seated at the piano, however, the whole countenance changed; the eye became calm and fixed, and every movement of his muscles spoke the emotion which his playing expressed.

Even the success of 'Don Giovanni'—at the performance of which the Prague audience greeted Mozart's appearance in the orchestra with thunders of applause and a triple flourish of trumpets—failed to remedy the desperate condition into which his affairs had fallen; and when his pupil and patron, Prince Karl Lichnowsky, proposed that he should accompany him to Berlin, Mozart gladly accepted the invitation. The visit, however, was productive of much honour, but very little money, and at its conclusion he wrote to his wife: 'On my return you must be glad to have me, and not think about money.' The King of Prussia received Mozart with every mark of kindness and respect, and being himself very musical, and desirous of having the best musicians about him, he sought Mozart's advice regarding the proficiency of his band. 'It contains some great players,' replied Mozart; 'but if the gentlemen would play together they would make a better effect.' The King was evidently much impressed by this remark, for before Mozart left he offered him the post of Capellmeister, with a salary of three thousand thalers (equal to about six hundred pounds sterling). Mozart was deeply affected by the munificent offer, and for the moment he hardly knew how to reply; then, reflecting how much he owed to the Emperor Joseph for the latter's friendship and interest, he said: 'How could I abandon my good Emperor?'

Though his loyalty had thus withstood the temptation of an offer which, if accepted, would have ensured his liberation from the 'net of embarrassments' in which he was so hopelessly entangled, the feeling of resistance weakened later on, when his return to Vienna revealed no improvement in the situation of affairs. Yielding therefore to the advice of others, he told the Emperor of the King of Prussia's offer, and at the same time tendered his resignation. Dismayed by this unlooked-for resolution, the Emperor exclaimed: 'What, Mozart, do you mean to forsake me?' The tone in which this remonstrance was uttered, and the expression which accompanied it had their effect upon the tender-hearted, grateful Mozart, and with emotion he answered: 'Your Majesty, I throw myself upon your kindness—I remain.'

Thus perished the only chance which was destined to fall within Mozart's grasp of freeing himself from his troubles, for soon afterwards the Emperor fell ill and died, and no renewal of the Berlin offer was forthcoming.

The coronation of the Emperor Joseph's successor, the Emperor Leopold, took place at Frankfort, on October 9, 1790, and Mozart journeyed thither for the occasion, having first pawned all his valuables in order to raise the necessary funds. Whatever hopes Mozart may have built upon the results of this tour were doomed to disappointment, for though he visited and played at several towns on his return journey, and was the recipient of numerous honours, his efforts produced no permanent fruit, and the horizon remained as dark as ever. His arrival in Vienna was timed with the departure of Haydn, whom Salomon, the impressario, had come to carry off to London, and it was with a heart heavy with gloomy forebodings that Mozart said good-bye to his truest friend.

The month of July, 1791, found Mozart hard at work writing a magic opera to help a friend who had taken a little theatre in the suburb of Wieden. Whilst thus engaged he was visited by a stranger, 'a tall, thin grave-looking man, dressed from head to foot in grey,' who refused to divulge his name, but stated that his business was to commission Mozart to compose a Requiem for a personage whose identity must likewise remain concealed.[14] After a brief colloquy the terms were arranged, and the mysterious stranger rose to take his leave. As he did so he looked fixedly at Mozart, and said warningly: 'Make no effort to discover the identity either of myself or your patron; it will be in vain.'

Though somewhat disconcerted by the stranger's mysterious injunction, Mozart felt all his love for Church music reawakened by the new commission, and he set to work upon the Requiem without delay. His labours on this composition, as well as on the magic opera, however, were interrupted by a pressing request from the Estates of Bohemia that he would compose an opera for the coronation of Leopold II. at Prague. As the ceremony was fixed for September 6 no time was to be lost, and, banishing every other thought from his mind, Mozart prepared to set out at once for Prague. The travelling carriage was at the door, and he was about to step into it when the mysterious stranger suddenly appeared, and inquired after the Requiem. Startled by the suddenness of the man's appearance, and at a loss to explain his remissness, Mozart could only promise to fulfil the commission on his return, and, hastily entering his carriage, he drove away.

The strain involved by his arduous labours at Prague was increased by the indifference with which his opera, 'La Clemenza di Tito,' was received, and Mozart returned to Vienna with spirits depressed, and mind and body exhausted by overwork. Nevertheless, he braced himself anew, and on September 30 the new opera, 'Die Zauberfloete' (the Magic Flute) was produced. Though somewhat coldly received at first, the work increased in popularity at each subsequent representation, until its success was everything that could be desired. A friend who had a place in the orchestra on the first performance relates that he was so enchanted with the overture that he crept up to the chair in which Mozart sat conducting, and, seizing the composer's hand, pressed it to his lips. Mozart glanced kindly at him, and, extending his right hand, gently stroked his cheek.

The Requiem was still far from finished, and to this work Mozart now turned his attention. But it was too late; the strain and excitement which he had undergone during the past few months had done their work, a succession of fainting fits followed, and it was evident that the marvellous powers which he had controlled in the past were no longer under his command. With fast-fleeting strength came the oppressive thought, haunting him from day to day, that he would not live to complete the work. 'It is for myself that I am writing this Requiem,' he said one day to Constanze, whilst his eyes filled with tears. Vainly she endeavoured to comfort him; he declared that he felt his end approaching, and, indeed, death—the 'best and truest friend'—was very near him now, far nearer than they who gathered about his bed, and sought to cheer him with the news that his freedom from anxiety was at last to be assured by the combined action of the nobility in securing to him an annuity—far nearer than they, or other well-wishers, whose tardy recognition of his claims had come too late, imagined. He who had 'always hovered between hope and anxiety' was now hovering between life and death, soon to be released from all earthly travail.

On the evening of December 4 they brought the score of the Requiem to him at his request, and, propped up by pillows, he began to sing one of the passages, in company with three of his friends. They had not proceeded far, however, before Mozart laid the manuscript aside, and, bursting into tears, declared that it would never be finished. A few hours later, at one o'clock in the morning of December 5, 1791, he passed away in sleep.

The body was removed from the house on the following day,[15] and taken to St. Stephen's Church, where it received benediction. The hearse, with the few mourners, then proceeded to St. Mark's Churchyard, but before the burial-place was reached a terrific storm of snow and rain burst overhead, and with one accord the followers turned back, and left the hearse to proceed alone. And thus the master of whom it was prophesied that he would cause all others to be forgotten—he whose triumphs had caused him to be acclaimed by thousands as 'grande Mozart'—was left to be buried by the hands of strangers in a pauper's grave, without even a stone to mark the spot where he was laid.

And to this day no one knows exactly which is the resting-place of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This manuscript book is preserved in the Mozart Museum at Salzburg, and beneath several of the pieces may be seen the notes made by the father at the time. For example, 'Wolfgang learnt this Minuet and Trio in half an hour, when he was five.' or 'Wolfgang learnt this Minuet when he was four.'

[12] 'Have mercy'—a psalm of supplication.

[13] The room and the stone table at which he worked are still shown to visitors at the Villa Bertramka, Koschirz.

[14] It was ascertained after Mozart's death that this personage was a certain Count Walsegg, who desired a Requiem to be performed in memory of his wife. The messenger was his steward. The reason for secrecy was that the Count intended to pass off the Requiem as his own composition, and in this he actually succeeded.

[15] Mozart died of malignant typhus fever.



MOZART'S PRINCIPAL COMPOSITIONS

OPERAS, ETC.: Bastien und Bastienne. 1768. La finta Semplice. 1768. Mitridate, Re di Ponto. 1770. Ascanio in Alba. 1771. La finta Giardiniera. 1774. Il Re Pastore. 1775. Zaida. 1780. King Thamos. 1780. [The three motets, 'Splendente Te Deus,' 'Ne pulvis et cinis,' and 'Deus Tibi laus et honor,' are adaptations from this work.] Idomeneo, Re di Creta. 1781. Die Entfuehrung aus dem Serail. 1782. Der Schauspieldirector. 1786. Le Nozze di Figaro. 1786. Il Don Giovanni. 1787. Cosi fan tutte. 1790. Die Zauberfloete. 1791. La Clemenza di Tito. 1791. 15 Masses (1768-1783) and 1 Requiem (1791). [The masses published by Novello as No. 7 (B-flat), No. 8 (C), No. 9 (G), No. 12 (G), Nos. 13 and 16 (E-flat—one Mass), and No. 17 (C), are not considered authentic. The same may be said of the Requiem in D minor (No. 18). The celebrated Requiem (also in D minor, Novello, No. 15) was completed by Suessmayer after Mozart's death. The well-known Novello No. 1 (in C) and No. 2 (also in C) were composed in 1779 and 1776.] 4 Litanies. 2 Vespers. 1779 and 1780. [The 'Laudate Dominum' (in A) of the earlier setting is well known.] Te Deum in C. 1772. Motet, Ave verum. 1791. Cantata, Davidde Penitente. 1785. 41 Arias for different voices. 6 Vocal Trios and 1 Quartet. 41 Symphonies. [The earliest symphony was in E-flat (1764). Mention may also be made of three in the key of D—the Parisian (1778), the Haffner (1782), and the Prague (1786)—and of his three last and greatest—in E-flat, G minor, and C, the Jupiter—all composed in 1788.] 31 Divertimenti, Serenades, etc. Masonic Dirge in C minor. 1785. 8 Quintets for strings. 1 Quintet for clarinet and strings. 1789. 26 Quartets for strings. 1770-1790. [The six quartets dedicated to Haydn were composed in 1782-85.] 6 Concertos for violin. 4 Concertos for horn. 1 Concerto for clarinet. 1791. 25 Concertos for pianoforte. [We may mention the Concerto in D (1773), in D minor (1784), that in G (1784), two in C (1784 and 1786), and one in C minor (1786).] Concerto for two pianofortes in E-flat. 1780. Concerto for three pianofortes in F. 1776. 2 Quartets for pianoforte and strings. 7 Trios for pianoforte and strings. 42 Sonatas for pianoforte and violin. [The sonata in B-flat, dedicated to Mlle. Strinasacchi, was composed in 1784.] 17 Sonatas for pianoforte solo. 5 Sonatas for pianoforte, four hands. Rondo in A minor for pianoforte. 1787. 17 Sonatas for organ, with accompaniment.



BEETHOVEN



BEETHOVEN

It was a beautiful spring morning; the sun shone in a cloudless sky, and the birds were singing blithely on the branches of the trees just outside the window, as if inviting the child who stood within to come out into the sunshine and be as free and happy as themselves. But he could not respond to their call, for he was not yet half-way through his long task. A pitiful little figure he made, mounted on a footstool in front of the pianoforte, with his head resting wearily on his hand, and his absent, dreamy gaze fixed upon the window. Scarcely five years old, and yet condemned to practise endless finger-exercises until his eyes grew dim with straining over the notes; kept a prisoner indoors, apart from his playmates, when the sun was shining and the birds were singing—and all because he happened to possess a great gift for music, and because his father, realising this fact, had determined to use the child's talents for the support of the family.

Suddenly the door of the sitting-room opened, and a stern face was thrust inside.

'Ludwig!'—the tone was harsh and severe, and at the well-known sound the boy awoke from his reverie—'Ludwig! what are you doing? Go on with your exercise at once, and remember there will be no soup for you until it is finished.'

Then the door closed again, and Ludwig turned with a sigh to his monotonous task. Why should his life be made so much harder than that of other children? he might have asked himself bitterly. It was not that he disliked music—no, he loved it—but he yearned for the brightness and sympathy which seemed to be given freely to others, and yet were denied to him. And as he strove to master his long exercise his eyes wandered from the music to a portrait which hung over the piano. It represented an elderly gentleman with a kindly face, bushy dark hair, and large dark eyes. It was a humorous face, not handsome, yet frank and pleasant, and decidedly clever. How clearly Ludwig could recall the bright blue coat, with its large gilt buttons, which the artist had faithfully portrayed! As the boy's glance rested upon the portrait the recollection of the merry times he had spent with his grandfather was presented to his mind. Once more he heard the old man's genial laugh, and felt the gentle pressure of his hand upon his curls. And then his playing! How little Ludwig had listened enrapt whilst Grandfather Ludwig charmed forth those mysterious melodies which seemed to be locked up at other times in the silent, prim little clavier! Those were delicious day-dreams that Grandfather Ludwig had the power to conjure up in his grandson's mind. But two years had passed since the kindly old musician had gone to his rest, and during those years the surroundings of Ludwig's childhood had changed for the worse.

The parents of Ludwig van Beethoven, as the boy was named, were extremely poor. Johann Beethoven, the father, was a member of the Court band of the Elector of Cologne, at Bonn, in which town Ludwig was born on December 16, 1770. The German Princes of those days maintained companies of musicians for the performance of Divine service in their chapels, as well as for their private entertainment, and such companies frequently comprised musicians of considerable ability. Johann's position as tenor singer was but a humble one, bringing in not more than L25 a year. The grandfather, who also belonged to the band, first as bass singer, and later as music director, had, on the other hand, achieved a considerable reputation, both as performer and composer, and during his latter years his earnings had gone far to support Johann's family, with whom he lived. With the old man's death, however, this help ceased, and the family means became greatly reduced.

It was, no doubt, in consequence of the privation felt at this time that the father was induced to keep Ludwig so hard at work. Mozart as a boy had exhibited marvellous powers, and his performances in public at an early age were attended by success. Johann, therefore, seemed to think that his little son would have a chance of earning money by his forced capacities for music. That a child of such tender years should have been regarded in the light of a bread-winner for the family appears unreasonable and hard; and it is not to be wondered at that Ludwig failed to understand the necessity which led to such pressure being put upon him. In his mother, Marie Magdalena, however, he could always find a ready sympathy and a tenderness which must have served to counteract, to some degree, the unhappiness occasioned by the father's severity. But not even a mother's love could make up for the loss the child had sustained by his grandfather's death, for the excellent qualities of head and heart which the old man had exhibited were just those which the boy missed in his father. To Ludwig music meant everything—or, rather, it would have meant everything, even at that early time, had its development only been continued under the same kindly influence.

Despite his severity and unreasonableness, however, Johann must be credited with the determination that his boy's knowledge of music should be as thorough as it was possible to make it with the means at his command, and to this end he spared no pains. Moreover, in order that Ludwig should not grow up in complete ignorance of subjects which lay outside his art, he was sent to the public school of Bonn to pick up what learning he could, though this chiefly comprised reading and writing. With his schoolfellows Ludwig had little in common. They thought him shy, because he kept to himself, and showed no desire to join in their games. The truth was his mind was almost wholly absorbed by music, and the consciousness that this great love had taken possession of his soul, and was growing stronger day by day may have made him inapt for games or boyish society, and thus may have led to his taking refuge in his own thoughts. In the companionship of music he could never have felt lonely, and in his walks between school hours he found plenty to interest him. He never tired of sounding Nature for her harmonies, and as he pursued his way through the fields and lanes he listened to the peasants singing at their work, and then, catching up the simple tunes, he fitted his own notes to them, so as to produce beautiful and subtle effects of harmony. Many of those old folk-tunes were closely connected with the history of the country to which they belonged; they were often the musical expression of the feelings, struggles, and passions of the people, and to Beethoven's sensitive ear they conveyed a deeper meaning than they did to the simple peasants who hummed or carolled them to the whirr of the spinning-wheel, the blows of the forge-hammer, or the speeding of the plough.

Thus, with the drudgery of unremitting toil and constant reproof, the years passed away until Ludwig was nearly nine. Hard as the lessons of those years had been, there could be no doubt as to the progress which he had made. Not even the severity and harshness of his father could lessen or abate his yearning for musical knowledge; and so it came about that one day Johann, regarding him with an expression more akin to pride and satisfaction than that which Ludwig was accustomed to read in his father's face, said, 'I can teach you no more; we must see about finding you another master.'

But how this was to be accomplished it is as difficult for us as it must have been to Johann himself to imagine; for, so far from the family circumstances having improved, the poverty was even more acute than before, and such further efforts as the father may have been induced to make to increase their comforts were negatived by his growing addiction to drink—a fact which must of itself have caused a further reduction in their resources. Fortunately, at this critical period help was forthcoming in the shape of a musician boarder, who agreed to give instruction to Ludwig in part return for his accommodation.

The coming of Tobias Pfeiffer, as the new boarder was named, must have been regarded by Ludwig with some curiosity. Would he turn out an even harder task-master than his own father had been? This question was soon settled by the glimpse which Tobias early gave to his pupil of his peculiar method of imparting instruction. Johann's evenings were now chiefly spent at some tavern resort, whither it became the custom for Tobias to repair at a very late hour, in order that he might give his drunken landlord a safe convoy home. By this friendly help the erring Johann escaped falling into the hands of the police—an eventuality which would have resulted in his losing his employment. Having fulfilled his friendly mission, Pfeiffer would betake himself to Ludwig's bedside, and, with a shake which soon became familiar, would arouse the boy with, 'Now then, Ludwig, time for practice!' At this gentle admonition the sleepy child would rise obediently, rubbing his eyes, and master and pupil descended to the sitting-room, where they would play together till the early hours of the morning—Pfeiffer giving out a theme, and Beethoven extemporising upon it, and then Ludwig in his turn giving the lead to Pfeiffer. Extemporisation would be followed by duets, until the approach of day gave warning that it was time to retire to bed. Such music as these two players made in the still hours of the night was, no doubt, but rarely heard in the district in which they lived, and on the other side of the open window, in the early dawn of the summer morning, a small knot of listeners frequently gathered, attracted by the unusual performance proceeding within.



For about a year this curious mode of instruction continued, and during this time Ludwig's education received a stimulus in the shape of lessons in Latin, French, Italian, and Logic, given by a man named Zambona. This Zambona was an eccentric personage, whose peculiarities would appear to have been well adapted to the condition of things prevailing in the Beethoven home. He apparently considered himself qualified to fill a variety of posts, as he had acted as innkeeper, chamber-porter at the Court, and book-keeper, in addition to being a teacher of languages; but his worth was proved by the fact that Beethoven made good progress under his tuition. Hitherto Ludwig's playing had been confined to the pianoforte and violin, but at this point a friendly hand was held out to him by an old friend of his grandfather, named Van den Eeden, who for many years had held the post of organist at the Court. 'Come to me, and I will teach you the organ,' the kindly old musician said to Ludwig, and the boy's heart leapt with pleasure at the generous offer. No doubt Van den Eeden saw in the young player the signs of genius such as his old friend had exhibited in no small degree in past years, and felt drawn towards him in consequence. A new field was thus opened to Beethoven, and when, at the end of a year, Van den Eeden resigned on account of ill-health, and the post was given to Christian Neefe, Ludwig was happy in the discovery of a new friend, who not only expressed his willingness to carry on the instruction, but was quick to recognise the boy's extraordinary talent. At this point of our story we get our first glimpse of the fruits of Beethoven's work at composition. The death of a friend who had assisted the family with money gifts inspired him to write a cantata in his honour; but though it was performed at the funeral, no trace exists for us of this little outcome of gratitude on Beethoven's part.

Ludwig was now ten years old, and in the winter of 1781 he made his first essay at bread-winning for the family. The state of things at home was wretched in the extreme, and the hopelessness of looking to the father to retrieve the condition into which they had fallen decided Ludwig's mother upon undertaking a tour through Holland with the boy, in the hope that his playing at the houses of the rich might bring in money. We may well believe that sheer necessity alone impelled the gentle, ailing woman to such a step. Her faith in her son's powers was evidently of a higher order than that of Johann, and she must have seen that this exhibition of his talents at so early an age not only implied an interruption to his studies, but also, to some extent, a debasing of the art which she felt that he loved for its own sake. The tour produced money—that chiefest need of the moment—and, so far, it was a success; but Ludwig himself did not carry away any pleasing recollections of his visit. 'The Dutch are very stingy, and I shall take care not to trouble them again,' he afterwards remarked to a friend; and there was no repetition of the experiment.

In the following year a notice appeared in Cramer's Magazine, calling the attention of music-lovers to a young player who, though not more than eleven years old, could play with force and finish, read well at sight, and—most remarkable of all—play the greater part of Bach's 'Wohltemperirte Klavier' (Well-tempered Clavier), 'a feat,' declared the writer, 'which will be understood by the initiated.' 'This young genius,' the article went on to say, 'deserves some assistance that he may travel. If he goes on as he has begun, he will certainly become a second Mozart.'

The writer of this notice was Christian Neefe, and the subject of his praise was none other than his pupil, Ludwig Beethoven. That the boy should have mastered a work of such extraordinary difficulty as Bach's collection of preludes and fugues may well have excited the astonishment of his friend and teacher, whose praise was thus deservedly given. But Neefe's confidence in his pupil's abilities was shown in a more substantial manner during this same year. Van den Eeden's death took place in June, and when the Court band had played the old organist to his last resting-place Neefe received orders to proceed with the rest of the performers to Muenster, whither the Elector had already gone. Two days before the band left Bonn Neefe called Beethoven to his side, and told him that he was going away for a time. 'I must have a deputy to take my place at the organ here,' continued the organist, looking keenly into his pupil's face as he spoke. 'Now, tell me, who do you think I ought to appoint to the post?'

Ludwig's face was crossed by a shade of trouble. If his kind tutor was going away, how did he know whether he would find his deputy equally willing to teach him? But Christian Neefe was waiting for his answer, and his eyes were shining with a kindly, half-amused light. 'I do not know,' Ludwig began hesitatingly. But Neefe's eyes had grown serious, and he now spoke with earnestness.

'I have thought of a deputy, Ludwig, and I think I can trust him—yes, I am sure I may trust him. The deputy shall be yourself!'

Beethoven's surprise and delight may be imagined. But Neefe knew what he was about, and in this preferment we may mark the first step in the recognition of Beethoven's genius. The honour was great. To be entrusted with the conduct of Divine service at the chapel, and to receive the deference due to the position of organist—it must have seemed incredible to Ludwig at first; and he was only eleven and a half! To his mother he must first have carried the good news, and if the father's expression had in it less of joy and thankfulness than hers it must be attributed to the fact that no pay was attached to the exalted position which Ludwig had obtained.

Beethoven had now practically the choice of three instruments to select from; but his heart did not waver for long, ere it became fixed upon the pianoforte as the fittest interpreter of his genius, and he was true to his first love to the end. His 'Three Sonatas for the Pianoforte,' written about this time, gives us the first record of his published works. Evidently those terrible finger exercises were beginning to bear fruit, for the young musician had acquired considerable command over the instrument of his choice—indeed, his musical life was now beginning to open itself before him, and the longing to do great things had taken possession of his soul. There were no more tears at being forced to work, for the greatest incentives to work—love and ambition—were now swaying him and impelling him onwards at a speed which nothing could check. Neefe's confidence and praise were more than justified, and before he had completed his thirteenth year Beethoven received his first official appointment at the hands of the Elector. He could now sign himself 'Ludwig van Beethoven, Cembalist im Orchester,' and his duties comprised not only the playing of the pianoforte in the orchestra, but the conducting of the band at rehearsals. With this accession, however, there was still the fact staring him in the face of no money coming in. Just at this time, too, the Elector Max Friedrich died; and it was not until a year later, when Beethoven was appointed second organist to the Court, under the new Elector Max Franz, that he began to receive a small salary in return for his services. Thirteen pounds a year sounds very little for so much work and responsibility, but Ludwig was overjoyed to think that he could back up his announcement to his parents with so substantial a fact as the receipt of an income. For the poverty at home was keener than ever; Johann's earnings did not exceed L25 a year, and as his voice was steadily declining, the outlook for the family had become exceedingly black.

The time would not appear to have been propitious for joking; nevertheless, Beethoven sat in the organ-loft one day planning a joke. He had just had a conversation with one of the chief singers of the band—a tenor named Heller—and the latter had been boasting that his knowledge of singing was so great that he could easily surmount any difficulty as it presented itself. Beethoven inherited from his grandfather a love of joking, and the temptation to lower the singer's vanity was too great to be resisted. Accordingly, on the following Sunday, whilst Heller was singing a solo to Ludwig's accompaniment, the latter adroitly introduced a modulation of his own. Heller unsuspectingly followed his lead, and fell into the trap devised for him, with the result that, after attempting to keep up with the organist, he lost himself entirely and, to the astonishment of the congregation, came to a dead stop; and it was only when Beethoven returned to the original key that the disconcerted singer could proceed. Heller was naturally furious at the trick played upon him, and lodged a complaint with the Elector. The latter, however, was too good a musician himself to be angry at this exhibition of skill on the part of his youngest performer, and he contented himself with admonishing Beethoven not to attempt any more clever tricks.

There was a dream which had taken possession of young Beethoven's mind at this time. It was constantly recurring during the hours of work, and when he lay down to sleep in his poorly-furnished attic it was with the hope that the dawning of a new day might bring him nearer to its realisation. Yet for some time the dream remained only a shadowy companion to his working thoughts, ever present, it is true, and sometimes glowing in brighter colours that seemed to give to it the semblance of reality—but still, only a dream. But the vision seen afar off was to be realised at length—Beethoven was to visit Vienna! It was the city of his dreams, the centre of his longings, this Vienna, just as it was the centre of the musical world of Germany at that time. A kind friend had come forward with the offer to pay his expenses for the journey, and Ludwig knew that his dream had come true.

As we have seen, the dire straits into which the family had fallen had not hindered Beethoven's pursuit of musical knowledge. His genius had steadily asserted itself under the most adverse conditions; and now we are to picture the young musician, at the age of seventeen, full of fire and energy, setting out on a journey which must have been fraught with the brightest anticipations. He was to meet in Vienna the greatest composer of the day. Mozart—the divine Mozart—was staying in the city, planning the production of his opera, 'Don Giovanni,' and it had been arranged that he should receive Beethoven and put his powers to the test.

On reaching Vienna, Ludwig made his way to Mozart's house, and with a heart beating high with expectancy, and a face aglow with excitement, he was ushered into the presence of the maestro. Mozart received him kindly, but it was evident that his thoughts were preoccupied, for, after desiring Beethoven to play, he began to turn over his papers in a listless fashion. 'Ah!' thought Beethoven; 'he imagines that I have merely come to play him something which I have practised for the occasion.' Dismayed by this reflection, he took his hands from the keyboard and, turning to Mozart, said, 'Will you give me a theme on which to extemporise?' Aroused by his appeal, and the earnest look which accompanied it, Mozart sat down and played a simple theme; and then Beethoven, taking up the slender thread, improvised so finely—allowing his feelings to flow into the music as he went on—that a bystander could not fail to have been struck by the change which came over Mozart's face as he listened. The abstracted look gave place to one of pure astonishment. Then he arose from his seat, and, stepping softly into an adjoining room, where a number of his friends were waiting to see him, he exclaimed, 'Pay attention to this young man, for he will make a noise in the world some day.' Beethoven, meanwhile, played on and on, lost in the intricate melodies which he was weaving out of the single thread, until the touch of Mozart's hand upon his shoulder recalled him to earth to hear the master's praises sounding in his ear.

Vanished in a moment were the memories of the trials and hardships which he had undergone in order to perfect himself for this day of trial, for Beethoven realised that he possessed the power of impressing so great a judge as Mozart; and praise and encouragement were needed at that time, when he was trying to do his best, rather than later on, when his powers were assured. Nor was this the only recognition which his talents received on his visit. The fame of the young player had reached the ears of royalty itself, and he was granted an audience of the Emperor Joseph, whose love of music had made him desirous of hearing for himself what the Bonn performer could do.



Beethoven's happiness, however, was soon to be clouded by sorrow, for shortly after his return to Bonn his mother died—the mother to whom he owed so much gentleness and sympathy in his childhood; she who was always ready to forgive his outbursts of temper and impatience, and to cheer and encourage him to further effort. How deeply he felt her loss may be gathered from the letter which he wrote to a friend at the time. 'She was, indeed, a kind, loving mother to me, and my best friend. Ah! who was happier than I, when I could still utter the sweet name of mother, and it was heard? But to whom can I now say it? Only to the silent form resembling her, evoked by the power of imagination.' That her death inspired some of his most beautiful compositions we may suppose, for it is natural that his grief should have found its best expression in music. A few months later his little sister Margaretha died, and the sense of loneliness deepened.

And then something bright came into his life. He made the acquaintance of a family named Breuning, comprising a widow lady and her four children—three boys and a girl—all of about his own age. The youngest boy and the daughter became his pupils, and a close friendship sprang up between them. He stayed at the house for several days at a time, joined in their excursions, and in every way was treated as one of the family. As the Breunings were intellectual people, their friendship was a great help to Beethoven; his whole nature expanded in the sunshine of their society, and very soon he found himself taking a deep interest in the literature of his country—a subject of which he had previously been ignorant. An affection for English authors likewise grew from this intimacy with a family of wide tastes and acquirements—indeed, new interests and fresh paths of pleasant intercourse were opening to him every day, whilst the separation from the miserable surroundings of his own home invigorated him for work. Every hour that could be spared from his official duties or his teaching was devoted to study and composition. Most of his composing was done in the open air; and for this purpose he provided himself with rough sketch-books, one of which he always carried with him, so that he might jot down in it such musical ideas as occurred to him during his rambles through the lanes and fields.



It was during this happy intercourse with the Breuning family that Beethoven made the acquaintance of a generous young nobleman, with whom he not only became on the most friendly terms, but who both helped him and encouraged his talents. Count von Waldstein, as the nobleman was named, called one day on Beethoven in his poor room, and found the composer, whose works he so much admired, seated before an old, worn-out piano, on which he was elaborating one of his compositions. The Count said nothing at the time, but shortly afterwards Beethoven was astonished and delighted at receiving a fine new instrument, accompanied by a message from his friend praying his acceptance of the gift. It went to the Count's heart to observe the poverty-stricken conditions under which the composer worked. That he himself should be surrounded by every luxury, whilst the gifted musician who laboured for his enjoyment was driven to practise all manner of shifts to maintain himself in food and clothing, seemed intolerably unjust. Yet Waldstein knew and respected Beethoven too well to offend his pride by offering presents of money where no service was required in return; and so he hit upon the harmless device of helping his poor friend under the pretence that the Elector was making him an allowance. But though he opened his purse in another's name, he took care to let Beethoven see into his own heart, in order that he might there read the sympathy and affection for which, happily, no cloak was needed.

How deeply Beethoven was moved by this friendship we may understand when we listen to the grand sonata which, though it was not composed until some years later, he dedicated to the Count. We want no better title for this exquisitely beautiful work than that by which it is known to the world—the 'Waldstein Sonata.' As the grand chords which follow the opening bars strike the ear it seems as if Beethoven were speaking to his friend—speaking to him out of the fullness of his heart, out of his poverty and mean surroundings—and rising by the strengthening influence of love to a height of eloquence and grandeur which no spoken words could have attained.

The conditions at home, meanwhile, were growing worse. Carl and Johann, Beethoven's two younger brothers, of whom no previous mention has been made, were engaged, the one in studying music, and the other as apprentice to the Court apothecary, but neither was bringing grist to the mill. The father had sunk still deeper under the degrading influence of drink, and his voice was almost ruined by his excesses, so that it had become increasingly difficult to maintain for the family even the appearance of respectability. On more than one occasion Beethoven, in returning home at night, had encountered his drunken father in the hands of the police, from whose custody he had succeeded in rescuing him only after much persuasion, and it seemed as if his discharge from the band must be merely a question of time. The state of affairs, in fact, could no longer be concealed from the Elector, who, knowing the circumstances with which Beethoven had to contend, finally ordered that a portion of the father's salary should be paid over to Ludwig, in order that the money might be properly expended for the support of the family.