Now he sent for her decision a formidable document, an appeal to the court, to compel the father's consent. Clara wrote her father an ultimatum on the subject, and received a long letter in reply, in which he consented to the marriage under such terms that they were better off before. For his consent was to be made on the following six stipulations: 1. That Robert and Clara, so long as Wieck lived, should not make their residence in Saxony; but that Schumann must none the less make as much money in the new home as his Zeitschrift brought him in Leipzig. 2. That Wieck should control Clara's property for five years, paying her, during that time, five per cent. 3. That Schumann should make out a sworn statement of his income which he had given Wieck in Leipzig in September, 1837, and turn it over to Wieck's lawyer. 4. That Schumann should not communicate with him verbally or by letter, until he himself expressed the wish. 5. That Clara should renounce all claims as to her inheritance. 6. That the marriage should take place September 29, 1839.

This insolent and mercenary protocol drove Clara to bay. She wrote her father from the depths of grief, and declared to him finally that she would wed Schumann on the 24th of June. Schumann wrote a short note to the old man, telling him that if he did not hear in eight days, silence would be taken as the last refusal. The answer was simply a letter from Frau Wieck, acknowledging Schumann's "impertinent letter," and saying that Wieck would not hold any communication with him.

Then the lawsuit began. On the 16th of July he made his appeal and wrote to Clara that she must be personally present in six or seven weeks. She had written him a letter of great cheer and sent him from Paris a portrait she had had painted and a cigar case she had made with her own hands.

On her way home Clara stopped at Berlin, where her own mother lived as the wife of Bargiel.

Clara's life under her father's guardianship had gradually drifted almost out of the ken of her own mother. Her stepmother had done everything possible to make her life miserable, spying upon her and making it impossible to be alone long enough to write Schumann a letter. Now, in her loneliness, Clara turned to the woman whose flesh she was; and she found there an immediate and passionate support.

From Wieck and the Wieck family, Clara had received while in Paris not one penny of money and not a single trinket. They always wrote her: "You have your own money." This grieved her deeply, and her father's sending her to Paris without a chaperon of any kind and writing her never a word of tenderness but only and always reproaches, had orphaned her indeed. Her heart was doubly ripe for a little mothering, and Frau Bargiel seized the moment. She wrote letters of greatest warmth and sweetness to her child in Paris, and to Schumann she wrote an invitation to come to Berlin. He accepted and spent several pleasant days. Frau Bargiel wrote Clara how she had delighted in the talent and person of Schumann, and Robert wrote her how fine a mother she had. On the 14th of August, Clara and her friend Henrietta Reissman left Paris.

Meanwhile Schumann had sunk into another awesome abyss of melancholia. The humiliation of having to go to law for his wife, and airing the family scandal in public, crushed him to the dust. He wrote his friend Becker: "I hardly think I shall live to hear the decision of the court." As soon as Clara left Paris he hastened toward her and met her at Altenburg. It was a blissful reunion after a year of separation, and they went together to Berlin, where they knew the bliss of sitting once more at the piano together, playing Bach fugues. She found his genius still what it was,—"er fantasiert himmlisch"—but his health was in such serious condition that she was greatly frightened.

Now her father proceeded to destroy every claim he may ever have had on her sympathy by his ferocity toward a daughter who had been so patient and so gentle toward him. He not only neglected her in Paris, except to write her merciless letters, but when she returned and he saw himself confronted with the lawsuit for her liberty, he offered a revision of his terms, which was in itself worse than the original. Clara describes the new offer:

"I must surrender the 2,000 thalers (about $1,500) which I have saved from seven years' concerts, and give it to my brothers.

"He would give back my effects and instruments, but I must later pay 1,000 thalers and give this also to my brothers.

"Robert must transfer to me 8,000 thalers of his capital, the interest of which shall come to me, also the capital, in case of a separation—What a hideous thought! Robert has 12,000 thalers, and shall he give his wife two-thirds?"

Robert had already given her four hundred thalers in bonds. The new terms being rejected, Wieck put everything possible in the way of a speedy termination of the lawsuit. He made it impossible for Clara to get back to Paris, as she wished, to earn more money before the marriage. He demanded that she should postpone her wedding and take a concert tour for three months with him for a consideration of six thousand thalers. Clara declined the arrangement.

One day she sent her maid to the house of her father, and asked him for her winter cloak. He gave this answer to the maid: "Who then is this Mam'selle Wieck? I know two Fraeulein Wieck only; they are my two little daughters here. I know no other!" As Litzmann says: "With so shrill a dissonance ended Clara's stay at Leipzig." He compares this exile of the daughter by the father to the story of King Lear and Cordelia. But it was the blind and tyrannical old Lear of the first act, driving from his home his most loving child. On October 3d, Clara went back to Berlin to her mother. Her father moved heaven and earth to make Clara suspect Schumann's fidelity, and he gave the love affair as unpleasant a notoriety as possible. For an instance of senile spite: Clara had always been given a Behrens piano for her concerts in Berlin. Wieck wrote to a friend to go to Behrens, and warn him that he must not lend Clara his pianos, because she was used to the hard English action, and would ruin any others! He wrote that he hoped the honour of the King of Prussia would prevent his disobedient daughter from appearing in public concerts in Berlin. It need hardly be said that Clara was neither forbidden her piano nor her concerts; indeed, the king appeared in person at her concert and applauded the runaway vigorously. By a curious chance at the end of her piece de resistance, a string broke on the piano; but as a correspondent of Schumann's paper wrote, it came "just at the end, like a cry of victory." After this, Wieck wrote to Behrens protesting against his lending a hand to "a demoralised girl without shame." Clara learned that such of her letters as had gone through the Wieck home were opened, and she received an anonymous letter which she knew must have been dictated by her father. Her suspicions were later proved. The worst of the affair was the diabolical malice that led Wieck to have the letter put into her hand just before her chief Berlin concert.

Next, he announced that his reason for not granting his consent was that Schumann was a drunkard. Robert found witnesses enough to be sponsors for his high respectability, but the accusation was a staggering blow in the midst of the deep melancholia into which the endless struggle and the recent death of Henrietta Voigt had plunged him. Clara had the rare agony of seeing him weep. It was now the turn of the strong Clara to break down, and only with the doctor's aid she continued her concerts. Her father's effort to undermine her good name extended to the publication of a lithographed account of his side of the story. But while certain old friends snubbed her, the lies that were told against her met their truest answer in the integrity of her whole career, and in the purity and honour of her life. This her own father was the first and the last ever to slander.

It is noteworthy, in view of the lightness of so many of the love affairs of the musicians, such as the case of Liszt, who twice eloped with married women and discussed the formality of divorce afterward, that through the long and ardent and greatly tormented love story of the Schumanns there never appears a line in any of their multitudinous letters which shows or hints the faintest dream of any procedure but the most upright. Always they encouraged each other with ringing beautiful changes on the one theme of their lives: Be true to me as I am true to you. Despair not.

The lawsuit dragged on and on. Wieck exhausted all the devices of postponement in which the law is so fertile. Schumann found himself the victim of a pamphlet of direct assault and downright libel, but all these things were only obstacles to exercise fidelity. The lovers felt that no power on earth could cut them apart. They began to dream of their marriage as more certain than the dawn. Schumann writes to Clara—"Mein Herzensbrautmaedchen"—that he wishes her to study and prepare for his exclusive hearing a whole concert of music, the bride's concert. She responds that he too must prepare for her music of his own, for a bridegroom's concert. He writes and begs her to compose some music and dedicate it to him; he implores her not to ignore her genius. She writes that she cannot find inspiration; that he is the family's genius for original work. Always they mingled music with love.

The composer Hiller gave a notable dinner to Liszt, who, after toasting Mendelssohn, toasted Schumann, "and spoke of me in such beautiful French and such tender words, that I turned blood-red." January 31, 1840, Schumann had taken up his plan to gain himself a doctor's degree to match Clara's titles. He had asked a friend to appeal to the University of Jena to give him an honorary degree, or set him an examination to pass; for his qualifications he mentioned modestly:

"My sphere of action as editor on a high-class paper, which has now existed for seven years; my position as composer and the fact of my having really worked hard, both as editor and musician."

He began an essay on Shakespeare's relation to music, but without waiting for this the University of Jena granted him his doctorate on February 24, 1840, a bit of speed which must have been marvellously refreshing to this poor victim of so much delay.

The very day the degree was granted, he had decided to take legal steps for libel against the attack of Wieck's, which had been printed in pamphlet form and distributed. Toward Wieck he is still pitiful, "The wretched man is torturing himself; let it be his punishment." The libel suit was not prosecuted and his anger vanished in the rapture of being made a doctor of philosophy in flattering terms. As he confesses:

"Of course the first I did was to send a copy to the north for my betrothed; who is exactly like a child and will dance at being engaged to a doctor."

In May he went to Berlin and visited Clara's mother for a fortnight; here he had two weeks' bliss listening to Mendelssohn's singing to Clara's accompaniment some of the manifold songs that were suddenly beginning to bubble up from Schumann's heart. It was to his happiness that he credited this lyric outburst, for he had hitherto written only instrumental music.

"While I was composing them I was quite lost in thoughts of you. If I were not engaged to such a girl, I could not write such music."

Songs came with a rush from his soul, and he exclaims:

"I have been composing so much that it really seems quite uncanny at times. I cannot help it, and should like to sing myself to death like a nightingale."

He begged Clara to come to him and drag him away from his music. Yet all he wished was to be "where I can have a piano and be near you."

On July 4, 1840, he made her a present of a grand piano as a surprise, taking her out for a long walk until the piano could be placed in her rooms and hers taken to his.

It will not be possible to tell here in detail the story of the process of law, or its many postponements or disappointments. Long ago they had set their hearts upon marrying on Easter Day, 1840; they had determined not to permit their father to drive them past this date. But they went meekly enough under the yoke of the law and passed many a month until it seemed to the litigants that the condition of waiting for a decision was to be their permanent manner of life. But suddenly, as Litzmann says, "there stood Happiness, long besought, on the stoop, and knocked with tender fingers on the door."

On the 7th of July, 1840, Clara was told the good news that the father had withdrawn the evidence upon which he based his opposition. The case was not ended, but the lovers immediately began to hunt for a place to live. On the sixteenth of July they found a little, but cosy, lodging on the Insel Strasse. Grief had not yet finally done with them, however, for Clara must write in her journal:

"I have not for my wedding what the simplest girl in town has, a trousseau."

On the 1st of August the case reached a stage where the father had but ten days more to make his final appeal. Worn out and lacking in further weapons of any kind, he let the occasion pass, and rested on the decision of the court. Clara went for one last concert tour as Clara Wieck.

On the 12th of August, the super-deliberate court handed down its awesome verdict. It was a verdict of reward for the lovers. Since Wieck had withdrawn his evidence, the verdict was strongly worded in favour of the lovers. Schumann wrote Clara, "On this day, Clara, three years ago, I proposed for your hand."

There was no delay in crying the banns, and the lovers went about as in a dream of rapture.

On September the 12th, between ten and eleven o'clock of a Saturday, at Schoenefeld, a village near Leipzig, they were married by an old school friend of Schumann's. On the 13th, a Sunday, and Clara's birthday—her twenty-first—she was the wife of the man who had for four years made her possession his chief ambition, and who had loved her better than he knew, long years before that.

Thus the lovers gained only one day by their lawsuit, for Clara was now of age. But who could estimate the value of the struggle in strengthening and deepening their love for each other and their worthiness for each other? It is the struggle for existence and the battle with resistance that bring about the evolution of strength in the physical world, and in the mental. Can we not say the same of the sentimental?

Would it not be a great pity if there were never such a gymnasium as parental resistance for lovers to exercise their hearts in? Shall we not, then, thank old Wieck for his fine lessons in psychical culture? His daughter Marie, by the way, Clara's half-sister, has only this year (1903) published a defence of the old man in answer to the first volume of Litzmann's new biography.

On Clara's marriage-day she wrote in her diary a little triumph song of joy. The wedding had been very simple and—

"There was a little dancing. Though no hilarity reigned, still in every face there was an inner content; it was a beautiful day, and the sun himself, who had been hidden for many days, poured his mild beams upon us in the morning as we went to the wedding, as if he would bless our union. There was nothing disturbing on this day, and so let it be inscribed in this book as the most beautiful and the most important day of my life. A period in my existence has now closed. I have endured very many sorrows in my young years, but also many joys which I shall never forget. Now begins a new life, a beautiful life, that life which one loves more than anything, even than self; but heavy responsibilities also rest upon me, and Heaven grant me strength to fulfil them truly and as a good wife. Heaven has always stood by me and will not cease now. I have always had a great belief in God, and shall always keep it."

As for the old Wieck, his bitterness must have been almost suicidal. He did not forgive his daughter even after the birth of her first child, on September 1, 1841, the year also of Schumann's first symphony. It was only after a second child was born, in April, 1843, that Schumann could write to a friend:

"There has been a reconciliation between Clara and old Wieck, which I am glad of for Clara's sake. He has been trying to make it up with me too, but the man can have no feelings or he could not attempt such a thing. So you can see the sky is clearing. I am glad for Clara's sake."

But the cherishing of such a grudge even with such foundation was not like Schumann, and a year later, from Petersburg, where he had accompanied Clara on a triumphal tour and where they had the most cordial recognition from the Czar and Czarina, he addressed old Wieck as "Dear Father," and described to him with contagious pride the immense success of his wife. A little later he reminded him that "It is the tenth birthday Of our Zeitschrift, I dare say you remember." And yet again he writes to him as "Dear Papa," adding "best love to your wife and children, till we all meet again happily." And so ended the feud between the two men.

The romance of Robert and Clara did not end at the little village church, but rather they seemed to issue thence into a very Eden of love and art commingled. The gush of song from his heart continued, he dedicated to her his "Myrthen" and collaborated with her in the twelve songs called "Love's Springtime." As Spitta, his biographer, writes:

"As far as anything human can be imagined, the marriage was perfectly happy. Besides their genius both husband and wife had simple domestic tastes and were strong enough to bear the admiration of the world, without becoming egotistical. They lived for one another and for their children. He created and wrote for his wife, and in accordance with their temperament; while she looked upon it as her highest privilege to give to the world the most perfect interpretation of his works, or at least to stand as mediatrix between him and his audience, and to ward off all disturbing or injurious impressions from his sensitive soul, which day by day became more irritable. Now that he found perfect contentment in his domestic relations, he withdrew from his intercourse with others and devoted himself exclusively to his family and work. The deep joy of his married life, produced the direct result of a mighty advance in his artistic progress. Schumann's most beautiful works in the larger forms date almost entirely from the years 1841-5."

He went with her on many of her tours. They even planned an American trip. Once they were received with a public banquet; these two whom Reissman calls "the marvellous couple." In his letters there are always loving allusions to "my Clara," and though he could not himself play because of his lame finger, she was to him his "right hand." Once in referring to a prospective concert he even wrote, "We shall play" such and such numbers.

In 1853 he and Clara went to the Netherlands, where he found his music well known and himself highly honoured, though they say that the King of Holland, after praising Clara's playing, turned to Robert and said: "Are you also musical?" But then one does not expect much from a king. The musicians knew Schumann's work, and he rejoiced at finding friends of his art in a far-away country. "But," says Reissman, "this was destined to be his last happiness."

For the dread affliction which throws a spell of horror across his life and his wife's devotion, did not long delay in seizing upon him after his marriage. As early as 1833, the ferocious onslaughts of melancholia had affected him at long intervals. In 1845, on the doctor's advice, he moved to Dresden. His trouble seems to have been "an abnormal formation of irregular masses of bone in the brain." He was afraid to live above the ground floor, or to go high in any building, lest he throw himself from the window in a sudden attack. He was subject to moods of long, and one might almost say violent, silence. In 1845 he described it as "a mysterious complaint which, when the doctor tries to take hold of it, disappears. I dare say better times are coming, and when I look upon my wife and children, I have joy enough."

Later he wrote to Mendelssohn, that he preferred staying at home, even when his wife went out.

"Wherever there is fun and enjoyment, I must still keep out of the way; the only thing to be done is hope ... hope ... and I will!"

His wife was still "a gift from above," and his allusions to her were affectionate to the utmost. In 1846, and again in the summer of 1847, he suffered a violent melancholia. In these periods he experienced an inability to remember his own music long enough to write it down. He saw but few friends, among them the charming widow of Von Weber, Ferdinand Hiller, Mendelssohn, Joachim, and a few others. Wagner wrote some articles for Schumann's journal and was highly thought of at first, but Schumann soon lost sympathy with him; the final sign of the break-up of his wonderful appreciation of other men's music.

His life was more and more his home, and that more and more a voluntary prison. In 1853 he presented his wife on her birthday with a grand piano, and several new compositions. He took great delight in his family, and could even compose amid the hilarity and noise of his children. Concerning children he had written in 1845 to Mendelssohn, whose wife had presented him with a second child, "We are looking forward to a similar event, and I always tell my wife, 'one cannot have enough.' It is the greatest blessing we have on earth."

Clara bore him eight children, and at her concerts there was usually a nurse with a babe in arms waiting for her in the wings. Schumann wrote three sonatas for his three daughters, and other compositions for them. His famous "Kinderscenen" were, however, composed before his marriage.

It was in 1853 that his old enthusiasm for new composers broke forth in his ardent welcome to Brahms (who was then twenty years old), who became a devoted friend and was of much comfort to Frau Schumann after Schumann's death. This was not far off, but before life went, he must suffer a death in life.

Worst of all in that final disintegration of his great soul was the interest he took in the atrocious frauds of spiritualism. He was even duped into believing in the cheap swindle of table-tipping. The bliss of Robert Browning's home was broken up in this same form, of all-encompassing credulity, only it was Mrs. Browning who was the spiritualist in this case and resisted Browning's sanity in the matter.

Schumann fancied that he heard spirit voices rebuking and praising him, and he rose once in the night to write down a theme given him by the ghosts of Schubert and Mendelssohn, on which he afterward wrote variations which were never finished and were the last pathetic exercise of his magnificent mind.

He was also distracted by hearing one eternal note ringing in his ears—the same horror that drove the composer Smetana mad, after he had embodied the nightmare in one of his compositions. Clara herself in later life was long distressed by hearing a continual pattern of "sequences" in her head, and Bizet's early death was a release from two notes that dinned his ears interminably.

Schumann's eccentricities became a proverb. Alice Mangold Diehl tells of meeting Robert and Clara, and finding him peevish and her a model of meekness and patience. Poor Schumann realised his failings and his own danger, and often suggested retirement to an asylum. But the idea was too ghastly to endure.

On February 27, 1854, after an especial attack of the bewilderment and helpless terror that thrilled him, he stole away unobserved, and leaped from a bridge into the Rhine. He was saved by boatmen and taken home. He recovered, but it was now thought best that he should be placed under restraint, and he passed his last two years in a private asylum, near Bonn. Periods of complete sanity, when he received his friends and wrote to them, alternated with periods of absolute despair. Under the weight of his affliction, his soul, like Giles Corey's body in the Salem witchcraft times, was gradually crushed to death, and at the age of forty-six he died. Clara, who had been away on a concert tour to earn much-needed funds, hastened back from London just in time to give him her own arms as his resting-place in his last agony.

After his funeral she and her children went to Berlin to live with her mother. She found it necessary to travel as a performer and to teach until 1882, when her health forbade her touring longer. She had shown herself a woman worth fighting for, even as Schumann fought for her, and she had given him not only the greatest ambition and the greatest solace his life had known, but she had been also the perfect helpmeet to his art.

Schumann's music was not an easy music for the world to learn, and it is to Clara Wieck's eternal honour, that she not only inspired Schumann to write this music, and gave him her support under the long discouragement of its neglect and the temptations to be untrue to his best ideals; but that she travelled through Europe and promulgated his art, until with her own power of intellect and persuasion she had coaxed and compelled the world to understand its right value, and his great messages.

She never married again, but devoted her long widowhood to his memory personally as well as artistically. She edited his works and published his letters in 1885, with a preface, saying that her desire was to make him known for himself as well as he was loved and honoured in his artistic importance. As she had written in 1871, "the purity of his life, his noble aspirations, the excellence of his heart, can never be fully known except through the communication of his family and friends."

In return for her devotion he never made genius an excuse for infidelity or selfishness. It seems actually and beautifully true, as Reissman says, that "Schumann's devotions were as chaste and devout as those of the soul of a pure woman."

Such a love, such a courtship, and such a wedlock as that of Robert and Clara Schumann ennoble not only the art and history of music, but those as well of humanity.



CHAPTER VII.

MUSICIANS AS LOVERS

"Et le cortege chantait quelque chose de triste des oh! et des ah!"—ZOLA, L'Assommoir.

And now at the end of all this gossip, to see if it has served any purpose, and if the multitude of experiences totals up into any definite result:

Of course, as you were just going to say, he said, "If music be the food of love." But then you must not fail to remember that in another play he hedged by saying, "Much virtue in an 'if.'" For music is not the food of love, any more than oatmeal or watermelons. And yet in a sense, music is a love-food—in the sense I mean, that there is love-nourishment in tubes of paint, which can perpetuate your beauty, my fair readeress; or in ink-bottles all ebon with Portuguese sonnets and erotic rondeaux; or in tubs of plaster of Paris, or in bargain-counterfuls of dress goods to add the last word to a woman's beauty. In such a sense, indeed, there is materia amorofica in music, for with music one can—or at least one did—show forth the very rhythm of Tristanic desire, and another portrayed in unexpurgated harmonies the garden-mood of Faust and Marguerite.

But as there are in those same tubes of oozy paint horrific visions like Franz Stuck's "War," or portraits of plutocrats by Bonnat, and as there are in ink-bottles sad potencies of tailors' bills and scathing reviews of this very book, so it is possible under the name of music to write fugues and five-finger exercises, and yet more settings of "Hiawatha," or "Du bist wie eine Blume"

Now, there is only one thing easier than a generalisation, and that is a generalisation in the opposite direction. You can prove anything by statistics, if you can only choose your statistics and stop when you want to. But statistics are like automobiles. Sometimes if you hitch yourself up with a statistic, you meet the fate of the farmer who put his fool head in the yoke with a skittish steer.

There was a time when I could have written you an essay on the moral effect of music, and been convinced, if not convincing. A little later, I could have done no worse with a thesis to the effect that music is an immoral influence. But that time is gone now, after a time spent in gathering material from everywhichway for this book on musicians' love affairs. For, to repeat, with a few statistics you can prove anything; with a complete array you can usually prove nothing, or its next-door neighbour.

The way to test any food is to observe its effects on those addicted to it. To study the true workings of music, then, you would not count the pulse of one of those "Oh-I'm-passionately-fond-of-music" maidens who talk all through even dance-music. Nor would you take for your test one of those laymen who are fond of this tune or that, because it reminds them of the first time they heard it—"that night when Sally Perkins sang it while I was out in the moonlit piazza hugging Kitty Gray, now Mrs. van Van,—or was it Bessie Brown? who buried her husband two years ago next Sunday."

These are people to whom music is as much a rarity as Nesselrode to a newsboy.

The true place, surely, to test the effect of music is in the souls of the people who live in it, breathe it, steep themselves in it, play it,—and what is worse,—work it.

To the great musicians themselves, then, we have turned. What could have been better for the purpose than to have made them parade before us in historic mardi-gras? wearing their hearts on their sleeves, or in their letters, their music, their lives, as they trooped forth endlessly from the tomes of Burney, Hawkins, Fetis, Grove, Riemann, and from their biographies and memoirs innumerable?

A motley crew they have formed, and you perhaps have been able to find a unity, if not of purpose, at least of result, in the music they have made, and the music that has made them. Let them pass again, only this time as soldiers go by at a review—the second time at the double-quick. Here they come—watch them well.

Leading the rout are those stately or capering figures, who, from being the great virtuosi of their time, were finally idolised into gods in the Golden Age, when musical critics had no columns to perpetuate their iconoclasms in.

Mark him with the stately stride—Apollo, smiting his lyre with a majesty hardly supported by the seven small notes he could get out of it. The gossips said he loved Daphne, and madly withal, but she took to a tree.—No, let the gods pass as they will. It is with men we deal, not gods.

Note especially the cluster of those wonderful musickers, who, at the end of the Middle Age, went from Flanders and thereabouts, into Italy and all around Europe, weaving their Flemish counterpoint like a net all over the world of music. They seem all to have been marrying men, some of them super-romantical, others as stodgily domestic and workaday as any village blacksmith. There is Marc Houtermann, called the Prince of Musicians. He lived at Brussels, and died there aged forty, and the same year he was followed to his grave by his musically named Joanna Gavadia, who knew music well, and who, let us still hope, died of a broken heart. Cipriano de Rore, De Croes, and Jacques Buus were all married men, and begot hostages to fortune. Philippe de Monte may or may not have married; we only know that a pupil of his wrote him a Latin poem forty-six lines long, and we can only trust that he did not marry her.

Orlando di Lasso, "one of the morning stars of modern times," whose music was so beautiful that once at Munich a thunder-storm was miraculously hushed at the first note of one of his motets, lived a love-life much like Schumann's, save that he seems to have had no hard-hearted parents to strengthen and purify his resolve. The only court he went to, to win her, was the court at Munich, where his Regina was a maid of honour. She bore him six children, and they lived ideally, it seems. But his health gave way now and then before his hard work, and finally, when he had reached his threescore and ten, his wife came home to find him gone mad, and unable even to recognise her, who had been at his side for thirty years. She guarded him tenderly, and strove hard to cheer his last days, but melancholy surrendered him only to death.

Adrien Willaert had a wife, and loved her long and well, and wrote many wills, in which he grew more and more affectionate toward his helpmeet, yet strangely he never mentioned his daughter, who was herself a composer, and had perhaps a romance of her own, down there in Juliet's country where her Flemish father took her.

How otherwise is the domestic life of Jacques de Wert, whose wife conspired against him heinously, and put his very life in danger! When he was well rid of this baggage, he fell into an intrigue with a lady of the court of Ferrara. Her name was Tarquinia Molza, and she was a poetess, but her relatives frowned upon the alliance of her poetry and his music, and forced her to go back to her mother at Mantua, where she outlived De Wert some twenty-seven years.

His is such a life as one would take to prove the unsettling effects of music; yet what shall we say then of Josse Boutmy, who lived ninety-nine years and raised twelve children, spending the greater part of his life with his faithful spouse in one long struggle against poverty, one eternal drudgery for the pence necessary to educate his family? Shall we not say that he was as truly influenced by music as Jacques de Wert?

De Wert had gone to Italy as a boy, and you might be after blaming those soft Italian skies for his amorous troubles. But then you'll encounter such a life as that of Palestrina spent altogether in Italy. He married young. Her name was Lucrezia, and their life seems to have been one of ideal devotion. She bore him four sons, and stood by him in all his troubles, brightening the twilight of poverty, adorning that high noon of his glory, when the Pope himself turned to Palestrina, and implored him to reform and rescue the whole music of the Church from its corruptions. It was well that Lucrezia could offer him solace, for unwittingly she had once brought him his direst distress. When he was recovered and well, a better post was offered him, and things ran smoothly till, twenty-five years later, Lucrezia died, leaving him broken-hearted with only one worthless son to embitter the last fourteen years of his widowed life. His most poignantly impressive motets seem to have been written under the anguish of Lucrezia's death. The finest of them is his setting of the words:

"By the River of Babylon we have set us down and wept, Remembering Thee, oh, Zion; Upon the willows we have hung our harps,"

which, as E.H. Pember says, "may well have represented to himself, the heart-broken composer, mourning by the banks of the Tiber, for the lost wife whom he had loved so long."

Close upon so noble a life, artistic and personal, comes the career of Georges de la Hele, who, being a priest, gave up his lucrative benefice to wed the woman he wished.

And yet again with disconcerting effect comes the story of Ambrosio de Cotes, who was a gambler and a drunkard, who kept a mistress, and was rebuked publicly for howling indecent refrains to the tunes in church. Which of these is fairly typical as a musician?

Then comes the most notable man in all English music, Harry Purcell, who wrote the best love-songs that ever melted the reserve of his race. He must have been a good husband, and his married life a happy one, seeing how ardent his wife was for his memory, and how she celebrated him in a memorial volume, as the Orpheus of Great Britain, and how eager she was that the two sons that survived out of their six children, should be trained to music.

And speaking of types, what shall we say of this cloud of witnesses, bearing the most honoured name in music, the name of Bach?

There were more than twenty-five Bachs, who made themselves names as makers of harmony, and they earned themselves almost as great names as family makers; all except Wilhelm Friedemann Bach, who was as lacking in virtue as he was abundant in virtuosity. He was notoriously immoral, and yet the greatest organist of his time, as his father had been before him; and it was this father, Johann Sebastian Bach, who by his life and preeminence in music, offers the biggest obstacle to any theory about the immoral influences of the art. For surely, if he, who is generally called the greatest of musicians, led a life of hardly equalled domesticity, it will not be easy to claim that music has an unsettling effect upon society. And yet there are his great rivals, Handel and Beethoven, whose careers are in the remotest possible contrast.

It is neither here nor there, that "Father" Bach left little money and many children when he died, and that the sons seized upon his MSS. and drifted away to other cities, leaving the mother and three daughters to live upon the charity of the town. It is unfortunate to have to include among the ungrateful children the stepson, Carl Philip Emmanuel Bach, who seems otherwise to have been a pleasant enough fellow, a fair family man, and a great composer. He first too much eclipsed his father's fame, and has since been too much eclipsed thereby. He had family troubles, too, and left a wife and children to mourn him. So much for the Bachs.

A family of almost equal fame was the group of violin makers of Cremona, the Stradivari. The founder of the house, Antonio, began his life romantically enough. When he was a youngster of seventeen or eighteen, he fell in love with Francesca Capra, a widow of a man who had been assassinated. She was nine or ten years older than Stradivari, and they were married on July 4, 1667. In the following December the first of their six children was born. Two of his sons took up their father's trade. Both of them died bachelors, and the third son became a priest.

At the age of fifty-eight Francesca died. After a year of widowerhood, he wedded again; this time, a woman fourteen or fifteen years younger than he. She bore him five children, and he outlived her less than a year. His descendants dwelt for generations, flourishing on his fame, at Cremona.

The Amati were also a numerous family of luthiers, as were the Guarnieri, but I have not been able to poke into their private affairs, though he who called himself "Jesus," was addicted to imprisonment, and is said to have made violins out of bits of wood brought him by the jailer's daughter. She sold the fiddles to buy him luxuries.

But now, lest we should too firmly believe that music exerts an amorous and domestic effect, we are confronted with the ponderous majesty of one of the proudest spirits that ever strode the creaking earth, Georg Friedrich Haendel, who was born the very same year as the much-married Bach, but led a life as opposite as North Pole from South. The first snub he dealt to Cupid, was when he was eighteen, and sought the post of organist held by the famous old Buxtehude, who had married years before the daughter of an organist to whose post he aspired, and had left behind him a daughter thirty-four years old as an incumbrance upon his successor. Haendel could have got the job, if he would have had the girl. But she was almost twice his age, and he left her for another musician to marry in. Then he went to Italy, and was pursued in vain under those bewitching skies by no belated German spinster, but by a beautiful and attractive Italienne. Her, he also spurned. When he was in England, he seems to have come very near falling in love with two different women. The mother of the first objected to him as a mere fiddler. After she died, the father invited him into the family, only to be told that the invitation was too late. The other woman, a lady of high degree, offered herself as a substitute for his career, only to be declined with thanks and possibly with a formal statement that "rejection implied no lack of merit." Seeing that these things happened in the eighteenth century, I need not add that both women were romantic enough to go into a decline, and die beautifully.

Whatever food music may have been to Haendel's greatness, there was another food that rivalled it in his esteem; and that food was the symphonic poetry of the cook. For Haendel was almost equally famous both as a composer and a digester. In this he was rivalled by the father of French opera, Lully, who was a gourmand, in spite of the fact that he spent his early life as a kitchen boy. He led his wife a miserable existence on account of his hot temper, his brutality, and his excesses in solid and liquid food. After him came Rameau, who, like Stradivari, fell in love with a widow while he was still in his teens and she well out of hers. He did not wed, however, until he was forty-three, and then he wed an eighteen-year-old girl, who was, they say, a very good woman, and who did her best to make her husband very happy. But he was taciturn, and rarely spoke even to his own family, and spent on them almost less money than words. Another opera composer of the time was Reinhard Keiser. He married a woman who, with her wealth and her voice, rescued his operatic ventures from bankruptcy. These make a rather sordid and unromantic group.

But again there stalks forth, to confound all our theories, the superb figure of Gluck, who fell in love but once, and then for all time, with Maria Anna Pergin, who loved him, and whose mother approved of him, but whose purse-proud father despised him for a musician. The lovers accepted the rebuff as a temporary sorrow only, and Providence, like a playright, removed the stern parent in the next act. Gluck flew back from Italy to Vienna to his betrothed, "with whom to his death he dwelt in happiest wedlock." She went with him on his triumphal tours, and spent her wealth in charities. They had no children of their own, but adopted a niece. The devoted wife used to play his accompaniment as he sang his own music, and when he died he took especial pains that she should be his sole and exclusive heir, even leaving it to her pleasure whether or not his brothers and sisters should have anything at all.

Plainly we should be thinking that music has a purifying, ennobling, and substantial effect upon society, if only Gluck's friend and partisan, the successful composer and immortal writer, Jean Jacques Rousseau, would not intrude upon the picture with his faun-like paganisms and magnificently shameless "Confessions."

Jostling elbows with him comes Gluck's chiefest rival, Piccinni, one of the most beautiful characters in history, a man who could wage a mortal combat in art, without bitterness toward his bitter rivals. He could, when Gluck died, strive to organise a memorial festival in his honour, and when his other rival, Sacchini, was taken from the arena by death, he could deliver the funeral eulogy. This Sacchini, by the bye, was a reckless voluptuary, who seems never to have married.

Piccinni was the very beau ideal of a father and a husband. He and his wife, who was a singer of exquisite skill and a teacher of ability, gave little home concerts, which were events. They and their many children went through more vicissitudes than have fallen to the lot of many musicians; but always they loved one another and their art, and there always remains that picture which the Prince of Brunswick stumbled upon, when he knocked at Piccinni's door, and found him rocking the cradle of one of his children, while another tugged at his coat in boisterous fun, and the mother beamed her enjoyment.

Hardly less ideal, though far more picturesque and dramatic, was the romance of Mozart.

This goldenhearted genius was a composer at an age when many children have not commenced to learn their ABC's; he was a virtuoso before the time when most boys can be trusted with a blunt knife. Kissed and fondled by great beauties, from the age of five, it is small wonder that Mozart began to improvise upon the oldest theme in the world precociously. His first recorded love affair is found in his letters at the age of thirteen. He loved with the same radiant enthusiasm that he gave to his music, and while some of his flirtations were of the utmost frivolity, such as his hilarious courtship of his pretty cousin, the "Baesle," he was capable of the completest altruism, and could turn aside from the aristocracy to lavish his idolatry upon the fifteen-year-old daughter of a poor music copyist, whose wife took in boarders. For this girl, Aloysia Weber, he wanted to give up his own career as a concert pianist; he wanted to give up the conquest he had planned of Paris, and devote himself to the training of her voice, to writing operas for her exploitation, and to journeying in Italy for the production of these operas and the promulgation of her talents. Yet after breaking his heart, as he supposed, for the gifted and fickle woman who became a successful prima donna,—after losing her, he did that most impossible thing which could never happen in real fiction, and sought his consolation in the arms and in the heart of Aloysia's younger sister, who was not especially pretty, and was only modestly musical. But her name was Constanze, and she lived up to it.

Constanze could always read to him, and tell him stories as he liked to have her do while he composed, and she could cut up his meat for him lest in his absent-mindedness he carve off one of his valuable fingers. And when she was ill, as she frequently was, there could be no gentler nurse than he. Besides, when winter was upon them, it was no winter of discontent, for if the fire gave out and the fuel could not be afforded, could they not always waltz together?

Twice Mozart must make concert tours for money, and twice he came home poorer than he went, but at least he left the world some of the gentlest and most hearty love-letters in its literature. When he was at home, Vienna was busy with anecdotes of his devotion. He was indeed so good a husband that Constanze could not even withhold forgiveness for certain occasions when he strayed from the narrow path of absolute fidelity; for she knew that his heart had its home with her. When he died, supposedly of malignant typhus, she tried to catch his disease and die with him, and her health broke so completely that she could not attend his funeral; and when she was recovered enough to visit the cemetery, she could not discover, what no man has since found out, in just what three-deep pauper's grave Mozart was buried.

All in all, in spite of certain ficklenesses in which this immortal musician has been surpassed by lovers of all walks of life, from blacksmiths to bishops, music has created one of tenderest, most honest of all romances.

But then there was a man whose life encompassed Mozart's, as a long brace encompasses a stave of music. For Joseph Haydn was born twenty-four years before Mozart, and died eighteen years after him. And this man's love affairs were of altogether different fabric.

While Mozart died in his poverty at thirty-five, Haydn, dying at seventy-seven, was worried over the endowment he should leave to a discarded mistress, whose name, strangely enough, was also Aloysia. And Haydn, more than strangely enough, had begun his life the same way by proposing to an older sister, and marrying a younger; but with results how unlike!

Haydn also found his inamorata in the home of a poor man who had been kind to him. His wife, however, led him a dog's life. The only interest she seemed to have in his music was to keep him writing numbers for the priests, who clustered around her, eating Haydn out of house and home. Frau Haydn was a shrew, and he finally gave up trying to live at home, seeking his consolation at court with a young and beautiful Neapolitan singer, who was unhappily married to a poor fiddler, named Polzelli. The two lovers made little secret of their hope that one or both of their ill-favoured spouses would pass away. But they both declined to "die by request," as Artemus Ward has it.

After a time the lovers drifted apart, until finally Aloysia married again, though to the last she held Haydn to an agreement he had made years before, to marry no other woman, and to leave her a pension. Meanwhile, in London, Haydn was having a quaint alliance, sub rosa, with a widow. Her letters to him, as doubtless his to her, were full of gentle idolatry. She had been writing these to him while he had been writing ardent letters of yearning to Polzelli. Altogether Haydn does not shine as the beau ideal of single-hearted fidelity.

Was it from him that Beethoven caught his own fickleness along with so much of his musical manner? Beethoven had one of the busiest hearts in history.

We cannot say that he might not have been a marrying man if disease and deafness had not harrowed his volcanic soul, and made his life so largely one of tempestuous tragedy, in which he wandered through the world, and found it as homeless and as bleak as did the Wandering Jew, whose quarrels with Fate were no more fierce, more majestic, nor more vain than Beethoven's. Among the multitudinous agonies that throng his letters and rave through his music, are many cries of wild longing for a homelife in a woman's heart.

But these "diminished sevenths" of unrest and yearning are often resolved in a cold minor of resignation or of cynicism in which he claims to be willing, and at times even glad, to pass his life alone. We are not justified, then, in taking Beethoven as a man of domestic inclinations. The most confirmed bachelors have their moments of doubt, and Beethoven had every qualification for driving a wife even madder than he himself could be on occasions. His most intimate and unswerving friends were the victims of spasms of suspicious hatred and maltreatment that surely no wife worth having could ever have endured through the honeymoon.

And yet in his love-letters there is a notable absence of jealousy or whim, and we can only accept his life as we find it, and regard him as a great genius who rushed from love to love, and never tarried for wedlock. As to the quality of those love affairs,—we meet a conflict of authority; some of his friends recording him as a wonder of chastity, and others treating him as a never-tiring flirt.

Among the thirty or more women who accepted his attentions, he could easily have found a wife, had he been at heart a marrying man. He has perpetuated in his dedications all these flames, and it was in the furnace of these flames that much of his music was forged. But how shall we blame or praise music for its effect upon Beethoven's heart, in the face of the antipodal life of such a fellow bachelor as Haendel? And to these two bachelors there belongs a third great bachelor of music, Schubert, who is said never to have loved a woman. Even the paltry anecdote or two of his hopeless love for a very young countess is dismissed by the cautious as a fable. Schubert was a pauper to the nth degree. But he found his joy in the hilarity of the Vienna cafes with boisterous friends, working up a maximum enthusiasm on a minimum of food, living a life of much art and equal beer. He seems never to have truly cared for women, nor to have been cared for by them.

There are all sorts of bachelorhoods, and there is a wide distinction between the womanless splendour of Haendel's life at court, and the unilluminated garret of Schubert's obscurity. There is a difference also in the busy, promiscuous courtship of Beethoven, who dedicated thirty-nine compositions to thirty-six women, and that of Chopin, who, though he could conduct three flirtations of an evening, seems to have loved but thrice, and to have planned marriage but once.

Chopin, only half-Polish, and finding his true home in Paris, had been loved by the tiny musicienne, hardly so big as her name, Leopoldine Blahetka, but his first true love was for the raving beauty, Constantia Gladkovska, whom he mourned for in prose as highly coloured as his nocturnes, wishing that after his death his ashes might be strewn under her feet. She married elsewhere. The Polish Maria Wodzinska was his next flame, and he wished to marry her, but he, who had the salons of Paris at his princely behest, could not hold this nineteen-year-old girl. Then he fell into the embrace of George Sand, that mysterious sphinx who clasped him to her commodious heart, and held him as with claws, though little he cared to escape; and yet, her claws drew blood, and at length it was the sphinx herself who struggled for release from the embrace of the fretful genius, whom consumption was claiming with her own clammy arms. Every one knows all there is to know about the Chopin-Sand affair, all and a great deal more, but who could draw from it any inference as to the effect of music?

Sand was attracted to Chopin by his art. With her as nurse, his genius accomplished much of its greatest, and it held her enthralled for a time. To Chopin, music was both a medicine and a disease, torment and solace. But that he would have lived his life differently in any way had he been a painter, a poet, an architect, a man of affairs, or an idler, with the same effeminate nature, the same elegance of manner, the same disease, the same women about him, I can find no reason to believe. Is it not the man and the environment rather than the music that makes such a life what it is?

There is another brilliant consumptive, Carl Maria von Weber, a member of a long line of musicians. At seventeen he had formed "a tender connection with a lady of position," whom he lost sight of later and forgot in the race with fast young noblemen, whose dissipation he rivalled. A mad entanglement with a singer ruined him in purse, and almost in career. His frivolities ended in an arrest and punishment which sobered him with the abruptness of a plunge into a stream of ice. But his gaiety was as irrepressible as Chopin's melancholy, and he gave Germany some of its most cheerful music. His heart was restless, and still at the age of twenty-seven he was writhing in an infatuation for a worthless ballet-girl. Then his affection for a singer and soubrette, Caroline Brandt, steadied him. After a long period of effort to establish a firm position they married, and the soubrette became a "Haus-frau." He was thirty-one, however, before this point was reached, and the honeymoon consisted of a concert tour.

The glory of his later life fought against the gloom of his disease, but the ferocious rake had made, as the proverb has it, an ideal husband and father. His letters to his wife are full of ardour. It was a tour through England that exhausted Chopin's last strength, and it was Weber's fate to die alone in London in the midst of eager preparations and vast hunger to reach his home. He was not quite forty when he died, and his life had been two lives, one of unchecked libertinism, and the other all integrity of purpose. But it was in the latter half that he wrote his best music.

The domestic and home-establishing influences of music might be pleaded even more strongly from the life of Mendelssohn. A more musical home than that in which Mendelssohn grew up, could hardly exist, nor one in which family life reached a higher level of comfort and delight. Like Mozart, Mendelssohn was especially devoted to his sister. Her death indeed grieved him so deeply, that he died shortly after. A man of the utmost cheer and wholesomeness, revelling in dancing, swimming, riding, sketching, and billiards; he was idolised in the circle around him, though his life was not without its enmities. He had many slight flirtations, but seems to have been even engaged but once, to Cecile Jeanrenaud, whom he married. His home life was a repetition of that ideal circle in his father's house. A busier life or a more pleasantly respectable can hardly be found in the history of men, nor yet a more truly musical.

A life of similar brilliance and similar musical immersion was that of Liszt, whose domestic career was nevertheless as different as possible. A soul of greater generosity, and more zealous altruism in many respects, it would be hard to find, and yet his relations to women were, in the conventional view, a colossal and multifarious scandal. Have we any more right to blame his domestic outrages to the music that was in him, than to the almost equally intense religious ardour that fought for him, leading him again and again to seek to enter a monastery, and finally actually to take orders? Abelard was a sufficiently tempestuous and irregular lover, yet he was a priest, and not a musician. Can we then blame harmony and melody for the humming-bird "amours" of the Abbe Liszt,—for the many women he made material love to from his early youth,—for the very dubious honesty of his bearing toward the Comtesse d'Agoult and the Princess Wittgenstein, with whom he debated the formalities of marriage without hesitating over the actualities?

There is a strange cluster of domestic infelicities centring about Liszt. The Comtesse d'Agoult loved him so ardently that she braved the world for him, driving even her complacent husband to divorce her; but even then, though they lived together, Liszt did not marry her. He even brought George Sand, the ex-mistress of so many men, including Liszt himself, to live at the house with the comtesse, who had borne him three children out of wedlock. One of these children became the wife of Hans von Buelow, who was driven to divorce her that she might marry his teacher, Richard Wagner, whose first wife had endured twenty-five years of his irregularities in everything, except poverty, and who separated from him during the last five years of her life.

Shall we blame all this to music, and if so, shall we say that music has atoned sufficiently in the devotion of Wagner and his second wife to each other, and their lofty theories of art? And in any case, how shall we explain the influence of music in the life of Wagner's rival for supremacy, Johannes Brahms, a confirmed bachelor; or his other contemporary, Tschaikovski, who, after a normal love affair with a singer, Desiree Artot, who jilted him, eventually married a girl by whom he seemed to have been deeply loved, without feeling any return? He claimed to have explained to the enamoured girl that he would marry her if she wished, but that he could not love her. On these terms she accepted him, and the bridegroom endured all the agonies of heart ordinarily ascribed to bartered brides. A burlesque honeymoon of a week was soon followed by a separation. Tschaikovski regarded his wife with a horror bordering on insanity, finding what little consolation life had for him in the devotion of a widow, who furnished him liberally with funds and admiration, with an affection which, for lack of better information, we can only call, for lack of a better word, Platonic.

There are other musicians whose private affairs I need not repeat here, and yet others' that I have not poked into. There is no lack of curious entanglements, especially in the matter of the men and women who have played upon the human voice, but we have surely collected enough material for forming a judgment, especially when we have turned an additional glance upon the life of one other composer.

Now, the influence of music might be modified beyond recognition by the fact that one of the lovers might not be musical; but surely, when both man and woman are professional musicians, there can be no doubt of the governing power of music. In recent musical history there is one eminent composer who married a woman also prominent in music. In fact, Clara Wieck has been called the most eminent woman who ever took up music as a profession. It would be hard to deny Robert Schumann a place among the major gods of creative art. Every one knows how he began to love Clara, and she him, when he was first leaving his teens and she entering her fame as an eleven-year-old prodigy. Their fidelity through the storm and stress of their courtship, their lifelong sympathy and collaboration in conserving a humanly perfect home, and in achieving a dual immortality, both as lovers and as musicians—these certainly indicate music as a solidifying and enriching force in society.

And now, finally, in the procession that has filed past you, you have seen almost every imaginable form of love and lover, of husband and Lothario, or woman-hater. There have been cool-blooded bachelors like Haendel, Schubert, and Brahms; there have been passionate pilgrims like Chopin, Beethoven, and Liszt, who loved many women, and married none. There have been the home-keeping breeders of children, and contentment, such as Willaert, Orlando di Lasso, Palestrina, the Bachs, Gluck, Piccinni, Weber, Mendelssohn, and Schumann; and Bizet, whose wife said after his death, that there was not a moment of their six years' honeymoon she could regret or would not re-live. There have been the unhappily wed, who, through the fault of themselves, or their wives, found and made misery at home, and sought nepenthe elsewhere, such as Haydn, Berlioz, and Tschaikovski. There have been married lives of mixed nature, neither failure nor success, such as the careers of Lully, Rameau, Stradivari, and Wagner.

If any one lives who could extract from this medley a theory as to the effect of music upon the human heart,—a theory that will satisfy himself alone, to say nothing of the world in general,—he is welcome to his conclusion. To me it is a chaos wherethrough I cannot pretend to trace any thread of unity. I can only fall back upon this agnosticism: if any man argue to the effect, that music has a moral influence on life, I will hurl at his head some of the most brilliant rascals in domestic chronicle; and equally, if any man will deny that music has a moral effect, I will barricade his path with some of the most beautiful lives that have ever bloomed upon earth. It is, after all, a matter of time, tide, and temperament. If a man of amorous nature happens to lead a life of much leisure, his idle mind will turn one way; and if the tide of opportunity concur, he will be dissipated, whether he be composer, clergyman, business man, bravo, soldier, sailor, carpenter, king, plumber, poet, pope, or peasant.

The long and the short of it is, perhaps, that music, being a universal art, like a universal watch-key, will set going the complicated cogs and springs of every soul and yet not regulate or assure its rhythm. Music stimulates and satisfies the mind in any of its whims, and you can tune it to a softly chanted prayer, or to a dance orgy; to a hymn of exultation, or a tinkling serenade; a kindergarten song, to the bloodthirst of armies; to voluptuous desires that cannot or dare not be worded, or to raptures distilled of every human dross; to cynical raillery, or the very throb of a young lover's heart; to the hilarity of a drinking song, or the midnight elegies of ineffable despair. How is such an art as this to compel, or to deny anything or anybody?

Musicians, then, are only ordinary clay, who happened to make music, instead of other things of more or less beauty or value. They are every-day puppets of circumstance and of inner and outer environment, who might have been happier, and might have been unhappier, with the women they wed or did not wed, had those women died younger, or lived longer—or with other women, or with none at all.

THE END.



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* * * * *

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FERRIS (GEO.T.)

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Wagner and His Works. 2 vols. New York, 1893.

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Notice sur la vie et les oeuvrages de Nicolas Piccinni. Paris, 1800.

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GOUNOD, CHARLES.

Autobiographical Reminiscences. London.

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The Mendelssohn Family, 1729-1847. Translated by C. Klingmann. 2 vols. New York, 1882.

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Chopin. Sein Leben und sein Schaffen. Warsaw, 1903.

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Life of Mozart, including his correspondence. New York, 1845.

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The Troubadours. London, 1878.

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Portraits et Etudes. Lettres inedites de Georges Bizet. Paris, 1894. JAHN (Otto).

Life of Mozart. Translated by P.D. Townsend. 3 vols. Original edition, Leipzig, 1856.

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The Life of Robert Schumann, told in his letters. Translated by May Herbert. 2 vols. London, 1890.

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Wagner in Paris. 1849. Article in Paris Journal des Debats. Translated in New York Musical Courier, 1902.

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Richard Wagner. His Life and Works. Translated by Florence P. Hall. 2 vols. Boston, 1892.

KARAJAN (TH.G. VON).

J. Haydn in London. Vienna, 1861.

KARASOWSKI (MORITZ).

Frederic Chopin, His Life, Letters, and Works. Translated by Emily Hill. 2 vols. London, 1879.

KARLOWICZ. See Revue Musicale.

KASHKIN (N.).

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Famous Singers of To-day and Yesterday. Boston, 1898.

LA MARA (Pseudonym of MARIE LIPSIUS).

Franz Liszt's Briefe. Baende. Leipzig, 1893-1899.

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Letters of Franz Liszt. Collected and edited by "La Mara." Translated by Constance Bache. 2 vols. London, 1894.

LENZ (W. VON).

The Great Piano Virtuosos of Our Time from Personal Acquaintance. Translated by M.R. Baker. New York, 1899.

LERNE (EMMANUEL DE).

Amoureux et grands Hommes. Paris, 1854.

LISZT (FRANZ).

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Life of Chopin. Translated by Martha Walter Cook. Philadelphia, 1863.

LITZMANN, BERTHOLD.

Clara Schumann, Ein Kuenstlerleben nach Tagebuechern und Briefen. 2 vols. Vol. I., Leipzig, 1902.

MAINWARING (DOCTOR).

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MATTHEW (JAS. E.)

The Literature of Music. London, 1896.

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Roland de Lattre. Mons, 1840.

MENDEL (HERMANN).

Giacomo Meyerbeer. Eine Biographie. Berlin, 1868.

MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY (FELIX).

Letters of. Edited by Paul and Carl Mendelssohn. Translated by Lady Wallace. New York, 1864.

MILLS (CHARLES).

History of the Crusades. London.

MIROMENIL (M.C. DE).

Le genie de l'amour ou dissertation sur l'amour profane et religieux et de son influence sur les sciences et les arts. Paris, 1807.

MOERIKE (EDWARD).

Mozart auf der Reise nach Prag. (A novel.) Stuttgart, 1856.

MOZART'S LETTERS. See Nohl.

NEWMARCH (ROSA).

Tschaikovski. London, 1880.

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Frederick Chopin as a Man and Musician. 2 vols. London, 1888.

NIGGLI (A.).

Robert Schumann. Sein Leben und Seine Werke. For this and other biographies see Waldersee.

NISSEN (GEORG NIKOLAUS VON).

Biographie W.A. Mozart's. Nach dessen Tode herausgegeben von Constanze, Witwe von Nissen, frueher Witwe Mozart. Leipzig, 1828.

NlEMTSCHEK (FRANZ).

Leben des K.K. Kapellmeister's Wolfgang Gottlieb Mozart. Prag, 1798.

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Beethoven's Letters. Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. London, 1867.

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Beethoven Depicted by His Contemporaries. Translated by E. Hill. London.

NOHL (LUDWIG).

Life of Wagner. Translated by Geo. P. Upton. Chicago, 1892.

NOHL (LUDWIG).

Life of Haydn. Translated by Geo. P. Upton. Chicago, 1883.

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Musiker-Briefe. Translated by Lady Wallace, 2d ed. London, 1867.

NOHL (LUDWIG).

The Letters of W.A. Mozart. Translated by Lady Wallace. 2 vols. New York, 1866.

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Neue Briefe Beethovens. Stuttgart, 1867.

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Ludwig Beethoven. Reminiscences of the Artistic and Home Life of the Artist. Translated by A. Wood. London (undated).

NOHL (LUDWIG).

Life of Liszt. Translated by G.P. Upton. Chicago.

NOHL (LUDWIG).

Life of Mozart. Translated by G.J. Taylor.

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Memoirs of Musick. Edited by E.F. Rimbault. Extra illustrated. London, 1846.

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Mozartiana. Leipzig, 1880.

PERL (HENRY).

Richard Wagner in Venedig. Augsburg, 1883.

POHL (C.F.).

Mozart und Haydn in London. 2 vols. in 1. Vienna, 1867.

POHL (C.F.).

Joseph Haydn. 2 vols. Leipzig, 1828.

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Musical Sketches. Translated by Fanny Fuller. Philadelphia, 1864.

POLKO (ELISE).

Reminiscences of Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy. Translated by Lady Wallace. New York, 1869.

PRAEGER (FERDINAND).

Wagner as I Knew Him. London.

RAMANN (L.).

Franz Liszt, Artist and Man. 1811-1840. Translated by E. Cowdrey. 2 vols. London, 1882.

RAU (HERBERT).

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Joseph Haydn, sein Leben und seine Werke. Berlin, 1879.

REISSMANN (AUGUST).

Christoph Willibald von Gluck, sein Leben und seine Werke. Berlin, 1882.

REISSMANN (AUGUST).

The Life and Works of Robert Schumann. Translated by A.L. Alger. London, 1886.

REVUE MUSICALE, LA.

Paris 1903. (F. Chopin. Souvenirs inedites, publies par M. Karlowicz.)

RIEMANN (HUGO).

Dictionary of Music. New edition. Translated by J.S. Shedlock. London (undated).

RODET (EDOUARD).

Lully, homme d'affairs, proprietaire et musicien, Paris, 1891.

ROUSSEAU (JEAN JACQUES).

Les Confessions.

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Autobiography, 1829-1889. Translated by A. Delano. London.

RUNCIMAN (JOHN F).

Old Scores and New Readings. London, 1899.

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Histoire de ma Vie. Paris.

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SCHINDLER (A).

Life of Beethoven. Edited by Moscheles. 1841. Translated by H. Dowing. London.

SCHMID (ANTON).

Christoph Willibald Ritter von Gluck, dessen Leben und tonkuenstlerisches Wirken. Leipzig, 1854.

SCHMIDT (LEOPOLD).

Joseph Haydn. Berlin, 1898.

SCHOELCHER (V.).

The Life of Handel. New York, 1875.

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Music and Musicians. Essays and Criticisms. Translated by Fanny R. Ritter. 1st and 2d series. London, 1877-1880.

SCHUMANN (ROBERT).

Early Letters. Published by his wife in 1885. Translated by May Herbert. London, 1888.

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The Life of Robt. Schumann, told in his Letters. Translated by May Herbert. London.

SCHURE (EDOUARD).

Souvenirs sur Richard Wagner. Paris, 1900.

SPITTA (PHILIPP).

J.S. Bach. Translated by Clara Bell, and J.A. Fuller Maitland. 3 vols. London, 1884.

SPOHR (Louis).

Autobiography. Translated from the German. London.

STRATTON (STEPHEN S.)

Mendelssohn. London, 1901.

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1897.

TENGER (MARIAM).

Recollections of Countess Theresa Brunswick (Beethoven's "Unsterbliche Geliebte"). Translated by G. Russell. London, 1898.

TOWNSEND (PAULINE D.).

Joseph Haydn. New York, 1884.

TSCHAIKOVSKI (MODESTE).

Das Leben Peter Iljitsch Tschaikovski. Translated into German by P. Juon. Leipzig, 1902-3.

ULUIBUISHEV, or ULIBISCHEFF (ALEXANDER).

Mozart's Leben und Werke. 4 vols. Stuttgart, 1859.

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Woman in Music. Chicago, 1849.

VAN DAM.

Great Amours. 2 vols. New York.

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VAN DER STRAETEN (EDMOND).

Les Menestrels aux Pays-Bas du 13e-18e siecle. Brussels, 1878.

WAGNER.

Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt. Translated into English by Francis Hueffer. New York, 1889.

WALDERSEE (PAUL GRAF VON).

Sammlung Musikalischer Vortraege. 5 vols. Leipzig, 1879-1884.

WALDERSEE (PAUL GRAF VON).

Giovanni Pierluigi Palestrina, und die gesammte Ausgabe seiner Werke. 1884.

WASIELEWSKI (W.J. VON).

Life of Robert Schumann. Translated by A.L. Alger. Boston, 1871.

WEBER (BARON MAX MARIA VON).

Carl Maria von Weber. The Life of an Artist. Translated by J.P. Simpson. 2 vols. London, 1865.

WILLEBY (CHARLES FRANCOIS).

Frederick Chopin. London, 1892.

WURZBACH.

Mozart-Buch. Wien, 1869.



INDEX

Abelard, Pierre Adonis AEsculapius Agoult, Comte d' Agoult, Marie Sophie, Comtesse d' Amati, family of violin-makers Anfossi, Pasquale Anhalt-Koethen, Prince of Anne, Queen Aphrodite Apollo Arco, Count Arion Arne, Dr. Thomas Arnim, Bettina Brentano von Artignon, D' Artot, Desiree Auber, D.F.E. Aurnhammer Austen, Jane

Bacchylides Bach, Johann Ambrosius Bach, Johann Christoph Bach, Johann Michael Bach, Johann Sebastian Bach, Karl Philip Emmanuel Bach, Maria Barbara Bach, Regina Bach, Wilhelm Friedemann Baillot, Pierre M.F. Baini, Abbate Giuseppe Balfe, Michael William Banck, Carl Baranius, Henrietta Barcinska, Isabella Barezzi, Margarita Bargiel, Madame, mother of Clara Wieck Bargiel, Woldemar Barisani, Doctor Barre, Leonardo Bartalozzi, Madame Beard, John Beatrice (Portinari), Dante's muse Becker, Konstantin J. Beethoven, Ludwig von Behrens, S. Belart, Hans Belderbusch, Count von Bellington, Mrs. Bellini, Vincenzo Belonda, Fraeulein von Bennett, Sterndale Berenclow Beriot, Charles Auguste de Berlioz, Hector Berlioz, Madame Betz, Franz Beyle, Marie Henri Bianchi, Antonia Bizet, Georges Blackburn, Vernon Blahetka, Leopoldine Blow, John Boetius, Anicius Boehler, Christine Boieldieu, Francois A. Boileau-Despreaux, Nicolas Bonnet, J. Bononcini, Giovanni M. Bora, Catherina von Boswell, James Bourdelot Boutmy, Josse or Jodocus Boutmy, Laurent Brahms, Johannes Brandt, Carolina Bray, Mrs Brebos, Gilles Brebos, Jean Brenner, Genofeva von Breunig, Eleanora von Breunig, Stephan von Bridgetower, George Augustus Polgreen Broschi, Carlo (see Farinelli) Browne, Countess von Browning, Robert and Elizabeth Brunetti, Theresa Brunswick, Charlotte, Countess von Brunswick, Therese von Brutus, Marcus Junius Bull, Dr. John Buelow, Cosima von (see also Wagner) Buelow, Daniela von Buelow, Hans von Buelow, Isolde von Buononcini (see Bononcini) Burney, Charles Buus, Jacques Buxtehude, Dietrich Byrd, William Byron, Lord

Cabestanh, Guillem de Caccini, Francesca Calina Cannabich, Rosa Capra, Francesca Carlyle, Thomas Carpani, G Carus, Professor Czetwertynska, Ludvika, Duchess Charles X., King Charpentier, Madame Chaucer, Geoffrey Cherubini, M.L.Z.C.S. Chopin, Frederick Chopin, Louise, his sister Chrysander, Fr. Cimarosa, Domenico Clementi, Muzio Cleopatra Closset, Doctor Colbran, Isabella Copperfield, David Cordelia Corelli, Marie Corey, Giles Cornaro, Cardinal Cornelius, Peter von Coronis, nymph Cotes, Ambrosio de Coucy, Chatelain Regnault de Couwenhoven, Adrien Coxe, Dr. William Cristofori, B. Croes, H.J. de Crowest, F.W. Cummings, W.H. Cupid Custine, Countess de Cuzzoni, Francesca

Dante Daphne David David, Leah Delmotte Delorme, Marian Desmarets, Henri Despres, Josquin Devrient, Wilhelmine Schroeder Dickens, Charles Diderot, Denis Diehl, Alice Mangold Dies, Albert K. Droszdick, Baron von Dubufe, Edward Dubufe, Guillaume "Duchess," The Dudevant, Aurore (see Sand, George) Du Maurier, George Dunciad

Eck, Francis Egeria, nymph "Eliot, George" Erard, The family Erdoedy, Countess Marie Ertmann, Baroness Espinosa, Juana de Esterhazy, Prince Esterhazy, Carolina Estrades, Abbe d'

Farinelli (properly Carlo Broschi) Faustina (see Hasse) Fechner, Clementine Ferdinand VII. of Spain Ferrabosco, Domenico Fetis, Fr. J. Field, John Filaretovna, Nadeschda Finck, Henry T. Flavigny, Comte Fleury, Duchesse de, Flotow, Fr. von Fontana Fortini Fournier, Madame Franci, Luigi Franck, Cesar Franz, Robert Fricken, Ernestine von Fumaroli, Judge Fumetti, Maria Anna Fuerstenau, A.B.

Galatea Galilei, Galileo Gallenberg, Count Garella, Lydia Gastoldi, Doctor Gautier, Theophile Gavadia, Joanna Geminiani, Francesco Genast, Doris Genzinger, Maria Anna Sabina von Giannatasio Giannatasio, Fanny del Rio Ginguene, Pierre Louis Giorgione, Giorgio Gladovska, Constantia Glasenapp, Karl Fr. Gleichenstein, I. Gleichenstein, Mathilde, Baroness Glinka, Michail Ivanovitch Gluck, Christoph Willibald, Ritter von Goethe, Johann Wolfgang Gounod, Charles Grabowski, Joseph Gregorius Grieg, Edvard Griesinger, G.A. Gretry, Andre E.M. Gretry, Lucille Grimm, Baron Grob, Theresa Grove, Sir George Guabaelaraoen, Madalena Guadagnini, J.B. Guarnieri, Andreas, Pietro, and Giuseppe Gublitz Guicciardi, Giulietta

Halevy, Genevieve Hamilton, Lady Emma Haendel, Georg Friedrich Hanmann, Fraeulein von Haslinger, Tobias Hasse, J.A. and Faustina Hawkins, Sir John Haydn, Joseph Heim, Emilie Heine, Heinrich Helen of Troy Heloise, Abbess Henderson, W.J. Hensel, Fanny Herbert, Lady Henrietta Herold, L.J.F. Herschel, Fr. Wm. Hiller, Ferdinand Hinrichs, Marie (see Franz) Hodges, Mrs. Hoesick, Ferdinand Hofdaemmel Hohenlohe, Cardinal Honrath, Jeannette d' Hortensia Houtermann, Marc Howard, Lady Elizabeth Hubbard, Elbert Huber, Fraeulein Hueffer, Francis Hugo, Victor and Madame Hummel, J.N. Humphries, Pelham Huneker, James Hunter, Mrs. John

Ibbetson, Peter Irisi Ivanof, Maria Petrovna Ivanovska, Carolina von

Jahn, Otto James, Henry Jeanrenaud, Cecile Sophie Charlotte Jeanrenaud, Madame Jennings, Catherine Joachim, Josef Jonah Julius III., Pope

Kablert, August Karajan, T.G., Ritter von Karasovski, M. Karlovics Kashkin, N. Kayser, Hofrath von Keats, John Keglevitch, Babette, Countess von Keiser, Reinhard Keiserin, Mile Keller Keller, Anna Kind, J.F. Kinsky, Countess von Klopstock, Fr. G. Koch, Barbara Koechel, Ludwig Koerner, Th. Koler, Katharina Koschak, Frau Marie L. Pachler Krause, Justice Counsellor Krehbiel, Henry Edward Kreisler, Reinhard Kreutzer, Conradin Kreutzer, Rudolphe Kurer, Clara von

Lablache, Madame (widow of Boucher) Lacombe, Paul "La Mara," (see Bibliography) Laidlaw, Mrs. Lambert, Madeline Lamennais, Abbe Lampi, painter Lang, Margarethe Lang, Peppi Lange, Laprunarede, Adele, Countess de Lassus, Ferdinand de Lassus, Orland di Lattre, Roland de (see Lassus) Lear, King Lefebure-Wely, Louis J.A. Leitgeb, Madame Lelia Leoni, Leone Leporello, Lichnovsky, Prince Carl Lichnovsky, Countess Lichtenstein, Princess Lichtenstein, Karl A. von "Liddy" Lincoln, Abraham List, Emily Liszt, Blandine Liszt, Daniel Liszt, Franz Litzmann, Berthold Lorelei Lortzing, Albert Lucifer Ludvig, King of Bavaria Lully, Jean Baptiste de Luther, Martin

Mafleuray, Clotilda Mainwaring, Doctor Malfatti, Therese von Malibran, Maria Felicita Malibran, New York merchant Manfrotti, Eliade Manfrotti, Leonora Marcello, Benedetto Marcellus, Pope Marie Antoinette, Queen Mark, King Marlborough, The Duchess of Marmontel, Antoine Fr. Marschner, Heinrich Mattheson, Johann Matuszinski Maupin, Mile, de Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria Maximilian, Emperor Maximilienne, Princess Mary, Queen of Scots Meck, Frau von Medici family Medici, Lorenzo dei Mendelssohn, Carl Mendelssohn, Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn, Marie Mendelssohn, Paul Mercury Merelli Mermann, Doctor Meyerbeer, Giacomo Meyers Michelangelo Milder, Anna Miljukova, Antonina Ivanovna Milton, John Moliere Molza, Tarquinia Mombelli, family Monteverde, Claudio Montpensier, Mlle. de Moretto, Count de Moriolles, Countess Alexandra Moscheles, Ignaz Mosson, Minna Mozart, Anna or "Nannerl" Mozart, Carl Mozart, Leopold Mozart, Marianne Mozart, Wolfgang Mueller, Elise Musset, Alfred de

"Nanni" "Nanny" Negri, Christine Neimtschek Nelson, Horatio, Admiral Newmarch, Rosa Newton, Sir Isaac Niecks, Frederick Nietzsche, Friedrich Nissen, George Nicolaus von Nohl, Louis (or Ludvig) Nossig, Alfred

Odeschalchi, Princess Olivier, Emile Orpheus

Pachler, Marie Paderewski Padilla y Ramos Paer, Ferdinando Paesiello, Giovanni Paganini, Achille Palestrina, Angelo Palestrina, Doralice Palestrina, Giovanni Pier Luigi Palestrina, Igino Palestrina, Lucrezia Palestrina, Rodolfo Palestrina, Silla Pan Pasetti Paul IV., Pope Pecht, painter Pelissier, Olympe Pember, E.H. Pergin, Joseph Pergin, Marie Anna Pergolesi, G.B. Peri, Jacopo Perl, Henry Pepys, Samuel Peyermann, Frau Pfeiffer, Marianne Philidor, Fr., Andre Danican Piccinni, Madame Piccinni, Nicola Pitoni, G.O. Pius IX., Pope Planer, Wilhelmine or Minna Plater, Countess Plato Playford, John Poe, Edgar Allen Pohl, Louis Pohl, Richard Poliziano, Angelo Polko, Elise Polovna, Marie, Grand Duchess of Weimar Polzelli, Anton Polzelli, Luigia Potocka, Countess Praeger, Fd. C. Wm. Prometheus Prudent, Emile Psyche Purcell, Edw. Purcell, Frances Purcell, Henry Purcell, Mary Peters Pygmalion

Rackerman, Louis Raff, Joachim Ramann, Lina Rameau, Jean Philippe Rameau, Marie Louisa Mangot Raphael, painter Ravina, Jean Henri Reade, Charles Reinken, Johann Adam Reissman, August Reissman, Henrietta Reynolds, Sir Joshua Ricci or Rizzio, David Richard III. Richardson, Samuel Richter, Hans Richter, Jean Paul Riemann, Hugo Ries, Ferdinand Riese, dancing master Rinucini, Ottavio Ritter, Julie Rocheaud, De Rochis Rockstro, Wm. S. Roeckel, Elizabeth, wife of Hummel Roeckel, Joseph L. Rollet, Adele Elise Romeo Rore, Ciprien de Rossi, Count Rossi, Countess (see Sontag) Rossini, Gioacchino A. Roth Rousseau, Jean Jacques Rubinstein, Anton Rubinstein, Nikolai Rudel, Geoffrey Rue, Pierre de la Runciman, John F. Ruskin, John

Sacchini, Antonio M.G. Salieri, Antonio "Sand, George" Sarti, Giuseppe Saul Savoy, Duchess of Sayn-Wittgenstein (see Wittgenstein) Scarlatti, Alessandro Scarlatti, Domenico Schanzer, Marie Schauroth, Delphine von Scheffer, Ary Scheidler, Dorette Schieferdecker, J.C. Schiller, Friedrich Schillingfurst-Hohenlohe, Prince Constantin Schindler, Anton Schmidt, Anton Schober, Franz von Schoelcher, Victor Schopenhauer, Arthur Schroeter, Corona Schroeter, Johann Samuel Schroeter, Mrs. R. Schubert, Franz Schumann, Clara (see also Wieck) Schumann, Robert Schure, Edouard Scott, Sir Walter Sebald, Amalia Senesino (rightly Francesco Bernardi) Seranzo, Paolo Seyfried, Ignaz X. von Shakespeare Sibilla, Vicenza (see Piccinni) Slovaki, Julius Smetana, Friedrich Smith, J.C. Smithson, Miss Socrates Sontag, Henrietta Souvaroff, Prince Spaun, Baron Spitta, Aug. Ph. Spohr, Louis Spontini, Gasparo L.P. St. Criq, Caroline Steibelt, Daniel Stendahl, De (pen name of Beyle) "Stern, Daniel" Sterndale, Sir William Stradella, Alessandro Stradivari, Antonio Stradivari, Francesco Stradivari, Paolo Stratton, S.S. Strauss, D.F. Strauss, Johann Strauss, Josef Streite, postmaster Strepponi, Signora Stuck, Franz Swedenborg, Emanuel Swift, Jonathan Syrinx, nymph

Tannhaeuser Tausig, Karl Tenger, Miriam Tesi, Vittoria Thalberg, Sigismund Thayer, Alexander W. The de Thomas, Georgina Tolstoi, Leo Towers, Duchess of Townsend, Pauline D. Treffy, Jetty Tripoli, Countess of Tromlitz, Johann G. Tschaikovski, Anatol Tschaikovski, Modeste Tschaikovski, Peter Iljitsch Tschekonanof, Vera Turette, Cecile "Twain, Mark"

Uhlig, Theodor Upton, George P.

Vandam Van der Straeten, Edmond Van Quickelberg Venus Verdi, Giuseppe Verocai Vidal, Pierre Vigitill, Elise Villars, Marquis de Villon, Francois Vogler, Abbe Voigt, Henrietta

Wagner, Eva Wagner, Richard Wagner, Siegfried Waldegrave, Earl of Walker, Elizabeth Wallace, Lady Grace "Ward, Artemus" Weber, Aloysia Weber, Carl Maria von (see Mozart) Weber, Constanze Weber, Doctor Weber, Franz Anton von Weber, Josepha Weber, Madame, mother of Constanze W. Weber, Max Maria, Baron von Weber, Sophia Weckinger, Regina Wert, Jacques de Wegeler, Dr. Franz G. Weimar, Grand Duke of Weldon, Captain and Mrs Wendling, Fraeulein Wesendonck, Mathilde Wesendonck, Otto Westerhold, Fraulein Wickerslot, Ana Wieck, Carl Wieck, Clara (see also Schumann) Wieck, Edouard Wieck, Friedrich Wieck, Marie Wildeck, Christian Wildeck, Magdalena Willaert, Adrien Willaert, Catherine Willaert, Susanna Wille, Frau Elise William, Duke of Bavaria Winchester, Lady Marchioness Wittgenstein, Princess Caroline Wittgenstein, Princess Marie Wittgenstein, Prince Nicolaus Sayn Wittgenstein, Prince Fuerst Wodzinska, Maria Wodzinski, Count Wolf-Metternich, Countess von Wood, Mary Wotan Wuelken, Anna Magdalena Wuertemberg, Duchess

Xantippe

Young, Cecilia

Zambelli, Antonia Zarlino, Gioseffo Zelter, Carl Zimmerman, Mlle. Anna Zingarelli Zola

THE END