When they arrived, Goethe was walking in his garden. He greeted both with kindness and affection, and it was arranged that Felix should play for him next day. Zelter had told Goethe much about his pupil's unusual talents, but the poet wished to prove these accounts by his own tests. Selecting piece after piece of manuscript music from his collection, he asked the boy to play them at sight. He was able to do so with ease, to the astonishment of the friends who had come in to hear him. They were more delighted when he took a theme from one of the pieces and improvised upon it. Withholding his praise, Goethe announced he had a final test, and placed on the music desk a sheet which seemed covered with mere scratches and blotches. The boy laughingly exclaimed, "Who could ever read such writing as that?" Zelter rose and came to the piano to look at this curiosity. "Why, it is Beethoven's writing; one can see that a mile off! He always wrote as if he used a broomstick for a pen, then wiped his sleeve over the wet ink!"

The boy picked out the strange manuscript bit by bit; when he came to the end he cried, "Now I will play it through for you," which he did without a mistake. Goethe was well pleased and begged Felix to come every day and play, while he was in the city. The two became fast friends; the poet treated him as a son, and at parting begged he would soon return to Wiemar, that they might again be together. During the following summer the whole family made a tour through Switzerland, much to the delight of Felix, who enjoyed every moment. There was little time for real work in composition, but a couple of songs and the beginning of a piano quartet were inspired by the view of Lake Geneva and its exquisite surroundings.

When Felix returned to Berlin, he had grown much, physically as well as mentally. He was now tall and strong, his curling locks had been clipped, and he seemed at a single bound to have become almost a man. His happy, boyish spirits, however, had not changed in the least. About this time the family removed from their home on the Neue Promenade, to a larger and more stately mansion, No. 3 Leipsiger Strasse, then situated on the outskirts of the town, near the Potsdam Gate. As those who know the modern city realize, this house, now no longer a private residence, stands in the very heart of traffic and business. The rooms of the new home were large and elegant, with a spacious salon suitable for musicals and large functions. A fine garden or park belonged to the house, where were lawns shaded by forest trees, winding paths, flowering shrubs and arbors in shady nooks, offering quiet retreats. Best of all there was a garden house, with a central hall, which would hold several hundred people, having long windows and glass doors looking out upon the trees and flowers. Sunday concerts were soon resumed and given in the garden house, where, on week days the young people met, with friends and elders, to play, and act and enjoy the social life of the home. The mansion and its hospitality became famous, and every great musician, at one time or another, came to pay his respects and become acquainted with this art-loving family.

At a family party in honor of Felix's fifteenth birthday, his teacher Zelter saluted him as no longer an apprentice, but as an "assistant" and member of the Brotherhood of Art. Very soon after this the young composer completed two important works. The first was an Octet for strings. He was not yet seventeen when the Octet was finished, which was pronounced the most fresh and original work he had yet accomplished. It marked a distinct stage in the gifted youth's development. The composition which followed was the beautiful "Midsummer Night's Dream" music. He and his sister Fanny had lately made the acquaintance of Shakespeare through a German translation, and had been fascinated by this fairy play. The young people spent much of their time in the lovely garden that summer, and amid these delightful surroundings the music was conceived.

The Overture was first to spring into being. When it was written out, Felix and Fanny often played it as a duet. In this form the composer-pianist Moscheles heard it and was impressed by its beauty. The fascinating Scherzo and dreamy Nocturne followed. When all were elaborated and perfected, the complete work was performed by the garden house orchestra for a crowded audience, who abundantly expressed their delight. Sir G. Macfarren has said of it: "No one musical work contains so many points of harmony and orchestration that are novel yet none of them have the air of experiment, but all seem to have been written with a certainty of their success."

And now a great plan occupied Mendelssohn's mind, a project which had been forming for some time; this was nothing less than to do something to arouse people to know and appreciate the great works of Johann Sebastian Bach. Two years before Felix had been presented with a manuscript score of Bach's "Passion according to St. Matthew," which Zelter had allowed to be copied from the manuscript preserved in the Singakademie. The old man was a devoted lover of Bach's music, and had taught his pupil in the same spirit. When Felix found himself the possessor of this wonderful book, he set to work to master it, until he knew every bit of it by heart. As he studied it deeply he was more and more impressed with its beauty and sublimity. He could hardly believe that this great work was unknown throughout Germany, since more than a hundred years had passed since it had been written. He determined to do something to arouse people from such apathy.

Talking the matter over with musicians and friends, he began to interest them in the plan to study the music of the Passion. Soon he had secured sixteen good voices, who rehearsed at his home once a week. His enthusiasm fired them to study the music seriously, and before very long they were anxious to give a public performance. There was a splendid choir of nearly four hundred voices conducted by Zelter, at the Singakademie; if he would only lend his chorus to give a trial performance, under Mendelssohn's conducting, how splendid that would be! But Felix knew that Zelter had no faith in the public taking any interest in Bach, so there was no use asking. This opinion was opposed by one of his little choir, named Devrient, who insisted that Zelter should be approached on the subject. As he himself had been a pupil of Zelter, he persuaded Mendelssohn to accompany him to the director's house.

Zelter was found seated at his instrument, enveloped by a cloud of smoke from a long stemmed pipe. Devrient unfolded the plan of bringing this great work of Bach to the knowledge of the public. The old man listened to their plea with growing impatience, until he became quite excited, rose from his chair and paced the floor with great strides, exclaiming, "No, it is not to be thought of—it is a mad scheme." To Felix argument then seemed useless and he beckoned his friend to come away, but Devrient refused to move, and kept up his persuasive argument. Finally, as though a miracle had been wrought, Zelter began to weaken, and at last gave in, and besides promised all the aid in his power.

How this youth, not yet twenty, undertook the great task of preparing this masterpiece, and what he accomplished is little short of the marvelous. The public performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took place March 11, 1829, with every ticket sold and more than a thousand persons turned away. A second performance was given on March 21, the anniversary of Bach's birth, before a packed house. These performances marked the beginning of a great Bach revival in Germany and England, and the love for this music has never been lost, but increases each year.

And now it seemed best for Felix to travel and see something of other countries. He had long wished to visit England, and the present seemed a favorable time, as his friends there assured him of a warm welcome. The pleasure he felt on reaching London was increased by the enthusiastic greeting he received at the hands of the musical public. He first appeared at a Philharmonic concert on May 25, when his Symphony in C minor was played. The next day he wrote to Fanny: "The success of the concert last night was beyond all I had ever dreamed. It began with my Symphony. I was led to the desk and received an immense applause. The Adagio was encored, but I went on; the Scherzo was so vigorously applauded that I had to repeat it. After the Finale there was lots more applause, while I was thanking the orchestra and shaking hands, till I left the room."

A continual round of functions interspersed with concerts at which he played or conducted, filled the young composer's time. The overture to "Midsummer Night's Dream" was played several times and always received with enthusiasm. On one occasion a friend was so careless as to leave the manuscript in a hackney coach on his way home and it was lost. "Never mind, I will write another," said Mendelssohn, which he was able to do, without making a single error.

When the London season closed, Mendelssohn and his friend Klingemann went up to Scotland, where he was deeply impressed with the varied beauty of the scenery. Perhaps the Hebrides enthralled him most, with their lonely grandeur. His impressions have been preserved in the Overture to "Fingal's Cave," while from the whole trip he gained inspiration for the Scottish Symphony.

On his return to London and before he could set out for Berlin, Felix injured his knee, which laid him up for several weeks, and prevented his presence at the home marriage of his sister Fanny, to William Hensel, the young painter. This was a keen disappointment to all, but Fanny was not to be separated from her family, as on Mendelssohn's return, he found the young couple had taken up their residence in the Gartenhaus.

Mendelssohn had been greatly pleased with his London visit, and though the grand tour he had planned was really only begun, he felt a strong desire to return to England. However, other countries had to be visited first. The following May he started south, bound for Vienna, Florence and Rome. His way led through Wiemar and gave opportunity for a last visit to Goethe. They passed a number of days in sympathetic companionship. The poet always wanted music, but did not seem to care for Beethoven's compositions, which he said did not touch him at all, though he felt they were great, astonishing.

After visiting numerous German cities, Switzerland was reached and its wonderful scenery stirred Mendelssohn's poetic soul to the depths. Yet, though his passionate love of nature was so impressed by the great mountains, forests and waterfalls, it was the sea which he loved best of all. As he approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the sun lighted bay, he exclaimed: "To me it is the finest object in nature! I love it almost more than the sky. I always feel happy when I see before me the wide expanse of water." Rome, of course, was a center of fascination. Every day he picked out some special object of interest to visit, which made that particular day one never to be forgotten. The tour lasted until the spring of 1832, before Mendelssohn returned to his home in Berlin, only to leave it shortly afterwards to return to London. This great city, in spite of its fogs, noises and turmoil, appealed to him more than the sunshine of Naples, the fascination of Florence or the beauty of Rome.

The comment on Mendelssohn that "he lived years where others only lived weeks," gives a faint idea of the fulness with which his time was occupied. It is only possible to touch on his activities in composition, for he was always at work. In May 1836 when he was twenty-seven, he conducted in Duesseldorf the first performance of his oratorio of "St. Paul." At this period he wrote many of those charming piano pieces which he called "Songs without Words." This same year brought deepest happiness to Mendelssohn, in his engagement to Cecile Jean-Renaud, the beautiful daughter of a French Protestant clergyman. The following spring they were married, a true marriage of love and stedfast devotion.

The greatest work of Mendelssohn's career was his oratorio of "Elijah" which had long grown in his mind, until it was on the eve of completion in the spring of 1846. In a letter to the famous singer Jenny Lind, an intimate friend, he writes: "I am jumping about my room for joy. If my work turns out half as good as I fancy it is, how pleased I shall be."

During these years in which he conceived the "Elijah," his fame had spread widely. Honors had been bestowed on him by many royalties. The King of Saxony had made him Capellmeister of his Court, and Queen Victoria had shown him many proofs of personal regard, which endeared him more than ever to the country which had first signally recognized his genius.

It was Leipsic perhaps which felt the power of his genius most conclusively. The since famous Leipsic Conservatory was founded by him, and he was unceasing in his labors to advance art in every direction. He also found time to carry out a long cherished plan to erect, at the threshold of the Thomas School, Leipsic, a monument to the memory of Sebastian Bach.

Let us take one more glimpse of our beloved composer. It was the morning of August 26, 1846. The Town Hall of Birmingham, England, was filled with an expectant throng, for today the composer of the "Elijah" was to conduct his greatest work, for the first time before an English audience. When Mendelssohn stepped upon the platform, he was greeted by a deafening shout; the reception was overwhelming, and at the close the entire audience sprang to its feet in a frenzy of admiration. He wrote to his brother Paul that evening: "No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance, or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians and public." During April the following year, four performances of the "Elijah" took place in Exeter Hall, the composer conducting, the Queen and Prince Albert being present on the second occasion. This visit to England which was to be his last, had used his strength to the limit of endurance, and there was a shadow of a coming breakdown. Soon after he rejoined his family in Frankfort, his sister Fanny suddenly passed away in Berlin. The news was broken to him too quickly, and with a shriek he fell unconscious to the floor.

From this shock he never seemed to rally, though at intervals for a while, he still composed. His death occurred November 4, 1847. It can be said of him that his was a beautiful life, in which "there was nothing to tell that was not honorable to his memory and profitable to all men."

Mendelssohn's funeral was imposing. The first portion was solemnized at Leipsic, attended by crowds of musicians and students, one of the latter bearing on a cushion a silver crown presented by his pupils of the Conservatory. Beside the crown rested the Order "Pour le Merite," conferred on him by the King of Prussia. The band, during the long procession, played the E minor "Song without Words," and at the close of the service the choir sang the final chorus from Bach's "Passion." The same night the body was taken to Berlin and placed in the family plot in the old Dreifaltigkeit Kirch-hof, beside that of his devoted sister Fanny.



XI

ROBERT SCHUMANN

Many of the composers whose life stories we have read were surrounded by musical atmosphere from their earliest years; Robert Schumann seems to have been an exception. His father, August Schumann, was the son of a poor pastor, and the boy August was intended to be brought up a merchant. At the age of fifteen he was put into a store in Nonneburg. He was refined in his tastes, loved books, and tried even in boyhood to write poetry. He seemed destined, however, to live the life marked out for him, at least for a time. It grew so distasteful, that later he gave it up and, on account of extreme poverty, returned to his parents' home, where he had the leisure to write. At last he secured a position in a book store in Zeitz. In this little town he met the daughter of his employer. The engagement was allowed on the condition that he should leave the book store and set up his own business. But where was the money to come from? He left the store, returned home and in a year and a half had earned a thousand thalers, then quite a handsome sum.

He now claimed the hand of his chosen love and established in the book business, labored so unceasingly, that the business increased. Then he moved to a more favorable location, choosing the mining town of Zwickau, in Saxony.

Here, this industrious, honorable man and his attractive, intelligent, but rather narrow and uneducated young wife lived out their lives, and brought up their children, of whom Robert, born June 8, 1810, was the youngest; before him there were three brothers and a sister. All passed away before Robert himself.

He was the so-called "handsome child" of the family, and much petted by the women. Besides his mother there was his god-mother, who was very fond of him, and at her home he would spend whole days and nights. As his talents developed, the boy became the spoilt darling of everybody. This lay at the foundation of his extreme susceptibility, even the obstinacy of his riper years.

Little Robert at six was sent to a popular private school and now for the first time mingled with a number of children of his own age. The first symptoms of ambition, the source of much of his later achievement, began to show itself, though quite unconsciously. It made him the life of all childish games. If the children played "soldiers," little Robert was always captain. The others loved his good nature and friendliness, and always yielded to him.

He was a good student in the primary school, but in no way distinguished himself in his studies. The following year he was allowed to take piano lessons of an old pedantic professor from Zwickau High School. This man had taught himself music, but had heard little of it. The kind of instruction he was able to give may be imagined, yet Robert was faithful all his life to this kind old friend.

In spite of inadequate guidance, music soon kindled the boy's soul. He began to try to make music himself, though entirely ignorant of the rules of composition. The first of these efforts, a set of little dances, were written during his seventh or eighth year. It was soon discovered that he could improvise on the piano; indeed he could sketch the disposition of his companions by certain figures on the piano, so exactly and comically that every one burst out laughing at the portraits. He was fond of reading too, much to his father's delight, and early tried his hand at authorship. He wrote robber plays, which he staged with the aid of the family and such of his youthful friends as were qualified. The father now began to hope his favorite son would become an author or poet; but later Robert's increasing love for music put this hope to flight.

The father happened to take his boy with him to Carlsbad in the summer of 1819, and here he heard for the first time a great pianist, Ignatz Moscheles. His masterful playing made a great impression on the nine year old enthusiast, who began now to wish to become a musician, and applied himself to music with redoubled zeal. He also made such good progress at school that at Easter 1820 he was able to enter the Zwickau Academy.

The love for music grew with each day. With a boy of his own age, as devoted as himself to music, four-hand works of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, as well as pieces by Weber, Hummel and Czerny, were played almost daily. The greatest ecstasy was caused by the arrival of a Steck piano at the Schumann home, which showed that father Schumann endeavored to further his boy's taste for music. About this time Robert found by chance, the orchestral score of an old Italian overture. He conceived the bold idea of performing it. So a bit of an orchestra was gathered among the boys he knew, who could play an instrument. There were two violins, two flutes, a clarinet and two horns. Robert, who conducted with great fervor, supplied as best he could the other parts on the piano.

This effort was a great incentive to the boys, principally to Robert, who began to arrange things for his little band and composed music for the one hundred fiftieth Psalm. This was in his twelfth year.

August Schumann was more and more convinced that Providence had intended his son to become a musician, and though the mother struggled against it, he resolved to see that Robert had a musical education. Carl Maria von Weber, then living in Dresden, was written to, and answered he was willing to accept the boy as a student. The plan never came to anything however, for what reason is not known. The boy was left now to direct his own musical studies, just when he needed an expert guiding hand. He had no rivals in his native town, where he sometimes appeared as a pianist. It was no wonder he thought he was on the right road, and that he tried more than ever to win his mother's consent to his following music as a life work.

And now a great change took place in the lively, fun-loving boy. He seemed to lose his gay spirits and become reflective, silent and reserved. This condition of mind never left him, but grew into a deeper reserve as the years passed.

Two events deeply stirred Robert's nature with great force—the death of his father in 1826, and his acquaintance with the works of Jean Paul. The Jean Paul fever attacked him in all its transcendentalism, and this influence remained through life, with more or less intensity.

After his father left him, Robert found he must make a choice of a profession. His mother had set her heart on his making a study of law, while his heart was set on music. Yielding to her wishes for a time he went to Leipsic in March 1828 to prepare to enter the University as a student of law. He also gained consent to study piano at the same time, and began lessons with Frederick Wieck. The desire to study with Wieck was inspired by the piano playing of his little daughter, Clara, then nine years old, who had already gained a considerable degree of musical culture and promised to make her mark as a pianist.

Under his new teacher, Robert for the first time was obliged to study a rational system of technic and tone production. He was also expected to learn harmony correctly, but strangely enough he seemed to take no interest in it, even saying he thought such knowledge useless. He held to this foolish idea for some time, not giving it up till forced to by realizing his total ignorance of this branch of the art.

Robert now became greatly impressed by the genius of Franz Schubert. He eagerly played everything the master had composed for the piano, both for two and four hands, and Schubert's death during this year, filled him with profound grief. The young musical friends with whom Robert had become intimate, while living in Leipsic, shared his enthusiasm about his hero of German song, and they desired to enlarge their knowledge of Schubert's work. They did more, for they decided to take one representative composition and practise together till they had reached the highest perfection. The choice fell on the Trio in B flat major, Op. 99, whose beauties had greatly impressed them. After much loving labor the performance was well nigh perfect. Schumann arranged a musical party at which the Trio was played. Besides students and friends, Wieck was invited and given the seat of honor.

This musical evening was the forerunner of many others. Weekly meetings were held in Robert's room, where much music was played and discussed. The talk often turned to grand old Bach and his "Well-tempered Clavichord," to which in those early days, he gave ardent study.

With all this music study and intercourse with musical friends there was very little time left for the study of law. Yet he still kept up appearances by attending the lectures, and had intended for some months to enter the Heidelberg University. This decision was put into execution in May 1829, when he started by coach for Heidelberg.

We find Robert Schumann at nineteen domiciled in the beautiful city of Heidelberg, and surrounded by a few musical friends, who were kindred spirits. With a good piano in his room, the "life of flowers," as he called it, began. Almost daily they made delightful trips in a one-horse carriage into the suburbs. For longer trips they went to Baden-Baden, Wurms, Spires and Mannheim. Whenever Robert went with his friends he always carried a small "dumb piano" on which he industriously practised finger exercises, meanwhile joining in the conversation. During the following August and September, Robert and two or three chosen companions made a delightful journey through Italy, the young man preparing himself by studying Latin, in which he became so fluent that he could translate poems from one language to the other.

The next winter Robert devoted himself to music more than ever—"played the piano much," as he says. His skill as a pianist gradually became known in Heidelberg and he frequently played in private houses. But he was not content with the regular study of the piano. He wanted to get ahead faster and invented some sort of a device to render his fourth finger more firm and supple. It did not have the desired effect however, but was the means in time of injuring his hands so that he never could attain the piano virtuosity he dreamed of.

Before starting on the trip to Italy just mentioned, he felt that a decision must be reached about his music. It had become as the breath of life to him. He wrote his mother and laid bare his heart to her. "My whole life has been a twenty years struggle between poetry and prose, or let us say—between music and law. If I follow my own bent, it points, as I believe correctly, to music. Write yourself to Wieck at Leipsic and ask him frankly what he thinks of me and my plan. Beg him to answer at once and decisively." The letter was duly written to Wieck, who decided in favor of Robert and his plans.

Robert on hearing his decision was wild with joy. He wrote an exuberant letter to Wieck promising to be most submissive as a piano pupil and saying "whole pailfuls of very very cold theory can do me no harm and I will work at it without a murmur. I give myself up wholly to you."

With a heart full of hope, young Schumann returned to Leipsic, which he had gladly left more than a year before. It was during this early resumption of piano lessons with Wieck that he began the treatment which he thought would advance his technic in such a marvelously short time. He fastened his third finger into a machine, of his own invention, then practised unceasingly with the other four. At last he lost control over the muscles of the right hand, to his great distress. He now practised unremittingly with the left hand, which gained great facility, remarkable long after he had given up piano playing.

Under these difficulties piano lessons with Wieck had to be given up and were never resumed. He studied theory for a short time with Kupach, but soon relinquished this also. He was now free to direct his own path in music and to study—study, and compose.

One of the first pieces he wrote was "The Papillons"—"Butterflies,"—published as Op. 2. It was dedicated to his three sisters-in-law, of all of whom he was very fond. In the various scenes of the Butterflies there are allusions to persons and places known to the composer; the whimsical spirit of Jean Paul broods over the whole.

Robert began to realize more and more his lack of thorough theoretical knowledge and applied to Dorn, who stood high in the musical profession in Leipsic. On his introduction, in spite of his lame hand he played his "Abegg Variations," published as Op. 1, and Dorn was willing to accept the timid quiet youth as pupil. He studied with great ardor, going from the A.B.C. to the most involved counterpoint.

Thus passed two or three busy years. Part of the time Schumann had a room in the house of his teacher Wieck and thus was thrown more or less in the society of Clara Wieck, now a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. Later he gave up his room—though not his intimate relations with the family—and moved to a summer residence in Riedel's Garden, where he spent the days in music and the evenings with his friends.

The year 1833, was one of the most remarkable in his life so far. Not the least important event was the establishment of the "Neue Zeitschrift fuer Musik." Schumann himself says of this:—

"At the close of the year '33, a number of musicians, mostly young, met in Leipsic every evening, apparently by accident at first, but really for the interchange of ideas on all musical subjects. One day the young hot heads exclaimed: 'Why do we look idly on? Let's take hold and make things better.' Thus the new Journal for music began.

"The youthful, fresh and fiery tone of the Journal is to be in sharp contrast to the characterless, worn-out Leipsic criticism. The elevation of German taste, the encouragement of young talent must be our goal. We write not to enrich tradespeople, but to honor artists."

Schumann took up arms in favor of the younger generation of musicians and helped make the fame of many now held in the world's highest esteem. Sometimes, he admits, his ardor carried him too far in recognition of youthful talent, but in the main he was very just in his estimates. We do not forget how his quick commendation aided Brahms.

The young musicians who founded the paper had formed themselves also into an alliance, which they called the Davidsbuendlerschaft. The idea of this alliance, which was derived from David's war with the Philistines, seemed to exist only in the mind of Schumann himself. It gave him a chance to write under the name of different characters, chief of whom were Florestan and Eusebius, between whom stood Master Raro. In Florestan Schumann expressed the powerful, passionate side of his nature, and in Eusebius the mild and dreamy side.

He wrote to a friend: "Florestan and Eusebius are my double nature, which I would gladly—like Raro—melt down into one man." As time passed however, he made less and less use of these fanciful images until they finally seemed to fade out of his mind.

An important event of 1834, was Schumann's acquaintance with Ernestine von Fricken, who came to Leipsic from the little town of Asch, on the Bohemian border. She lived at the Wiecks', expecting to become a pianist under Papa Wieck's tuition. Schumann became greatly interested in Ernestine and for some time he had in mind an engagement with her. The noble "Etudes Symphoniques" were written this year. The theme was suggested by Ernestine's father. The "Carnival" was partly written in this year, but not completed till the following year. In this collection of charming short pieces he brings in the characters of his dreams,—Florestan, Eusebius, Chiarina (Clara), Estrella (Ernestine). There is the March against the Philistines, and the titles of many other of the little pieces are characteristic. It is a true Schumann composition, full of his traits. Here we have the sweet, graceful, elegant and the very humorous and comical finale.

The tone creations of 1835 consist of the two Sonatas, F sharp minor, Op. 11 and G minor, Op. 22, which are held by pianists to be among his most interesting and poetical works.

By the next year Schumann had suffered a deep sorrow in the loss of his mother, and also his love for Ernestine began to cool, until the partial bond was amicably dissolved. Meanwhile his affection for Clara Wieck, who was just budding into womanhood, began to ripen into devoted love. This, too, was the beginning of the long struggle for the possession of his beloved, since the father had opposed such a connection from beginning to end. Schumann wrote a friend in 1839: "Truly from the struggle Clara has cost me, much music has been caused and created; the Concerto, Sonatas, Davidsbuendler Dances, Kreisleriana and Novellettes are the result." Beyond the compositions just mentioned, he relieved his oppressed heart by a composition rich in meaning—nothing less than the great Fantaisie, Op. 17. He meant to contribute the profits from its sale to the fund for the erection of a monument to Beethoven. The titles to the three movements were "Ruins," "Triumphal Arch," "Starry Crown." He afterwards gave up the whole idea, and dedicated the work to Franz Liszt.

Schumann lived a quiet, busy life, and if he could have gained the consent of Clara's father for their union, he would have been supremely happy. He feared the principal reason of Wieck's refusal was that the young man should earn more money first, before thinking of settling down with a wife. Robert therefore reverted more seriously to a plan he had thought of, to go to Vienna, and move his paper to that city, hoping to better his fortunes. He felt, too, that he ought to travel, as he had remained in Leipsic for eight years without change.

Thus, by the end of September, 1838, Schumann started for Vienna with many high hopes. A friend invited him to remain at his house, which was of much advantage. He made many calls and visits, saw musicians and publishers, and really learned to know the city for itself. He found it would not be profitable for him to publish the Journal there, also that the Austrian capital was a no more propitious place to make one's fortune than the smaller town of Leipsic. However he was able to compose a number of works which have become among the best known and beloved of all, including the "Arabesque," "Faschingsschwank," or "Carnival Strains from Vienna," the "Night Pieces," Op. 24, and other short compositions.

When Robert discovered Vienna was not the city to prosper in, he thought of a return to Leipsic, to win his bride. He came back in April, and succeeded, with the help of legal proceedings, in securing Clara's hand in marriage. This was in 1840. From now on Schumann began to write songs. In this one year he composed as many as a hundred and thirty-eight songs, both large and small. He writes at this time: "The best way to cultivate a taste for melody, is to write a great deal for the voice and for independent chorus."

He now began to express himself not only in song but in orchestral music. His first effort was the beautiful B flat major Symphony, which, with the songs of that time seems to embody all the happiness he enjoyed in winning his Clara. She proved a most admirable helpmate, trying to shield him from interruptions and annoyance of every sort, so he should have his time undisturbed for his work. Thus many of his best compositions came into being in the early years of wedded happiness.

This retirement was interrupted in 1844, by a long concert tour planned by Clara. She was firmly decided to go and made Robert solemnly promise to accompany her to St. Petersburg. He was loath to leave the quiet he loved, but it had to be done. Clara had great success everywhere, as a pianist, giving many recitals during their travels from place to place. From Russia the artist pair went to Helsingfors, Stockholm and Copenhagen. They started on their tour in January and did not reach home till the first of June.

Schumann now seemed to lose interest in the Journal and expressed a wish to withdraw from it and live only for his creative art. An alarming state of health—both mind and body—seemed to make this retirement desirable. Perhaps owing to this condition of health he decided to leave Leipsic for good and make his home in Dresden. He and his wife took formal leave of Leipsic in a Matinee musical given on the eighth of December.

But life in Dresden became even more strenuous and more racking than it had been in Leipsic. He threw himself into the labor of composing the epilogue of Goethe's "Faust" with such ardor that he fell into an intensely nervous state where work was impossible. However, with special medical treatment he so far recovered that he was able to resume the work, but still was not himself. We can divine from brief remarks he let drop from time to time, that he lived in constant fear—fear of death, insanity or disaster of some kind. He could not bear the sight of Sonnenstein, an insane asylum near Dresden. Mendelssohn's sudden death in November, 1847, was a great shock and preyed on his mind.

Schumann had intervals of reprieve from these morbid dreams, and he again began to compose with renewed—almost abnormal—vigor and productiveness.

The artist pair took a trip to Vienna where Clara gave several concerts. They spent some weeks there and before returning to Dresden, gave two splendid concerts in Prague, where Schumann received a perfect ovation for his piano quintette and some songs. A little later the two artists made a trip north. In Berlin Robert conducted a performance of "Paradise and the Peri" at the Singakademie, while Clara gave two recitals.

This year of 1847 was a very active one outside of the musical journeys. The master composed several piano trios, much choral music, and began the opera "Genevieve," which was not completed however, until the middle of 1848. All the compositions of the previous year were perfectly lucid and sane. The opera unfortunately had a text from which all the beauty and romance had been left out.

The music, however, revealed a rare quality of creative power, combined with deep and noble feeling. Schumann's nature was more lyric than dramatic; he was not born to write for the stage. The lyric portions of his opera are much the best. He did not realize that he failed on the dramatic side in his work, indeed seemed quite unconscious of the fact.

"Genevieve" was given in Leipsic in June 1850, directed by the composer. Two more performances were given and then the work was laid away.

In 1848, Schumann, who loved children dearly and often stopped his more serious work to write for them, composed the "Album for the Young," Op. 68, a set of forty-two pieces. The title originally was: "Christmas Album for Children who like to play the Piano." How many children, from that day to this have loved those little pieces, the "Happy Farmer," "Wild Rider," "First Loss," "Reaper's Song," and all the rest. Even the great pianists of our time are not above performing these little classics in public. They are a gift, unique in musical literature, often imitated, but never equaled by other writers. Schumann wrote of them: "The first thing in the Album I wrote for my oldest child's birthday. It seems as if I were beginning my life as a composer anew, and there are traces of the old human here and there. They are decidedly different from 'Scenes from Childhood' which are retrospective glances by a parent, and for elders, while 'Album for the Young' contains hopes, presentments and peeps into futurity for the young."

After the children's Album came the music to Byron's "Manfred." This consists of an overture and fifteen numbers. The whole work, with one exception, is deep in thought and masterly in conception. The overture especially is one of his finest productions, surpassing other orchestral works in intellectual grandeur.

A choral club of sixty-seven members, of which Schumann was the director, inspired him to compose considerable choral music, and his compositions of this time, 1848-9, were numerous.

The intense creative activity of 1849 was followed by a period of rest when the artist pair made two trips from Dresden, early in 1850. Leipsic, Bremen, and Hamburg were visited. Most of the time in Hamburg was spent with Jenny Lind, who sang at his last two concerts.

The late summer of 1850 brought Schumann an appointment of director of music in Duesseldorf, left vacant by the departure of Ferdinand Hiller for Cologne. Schumann and his wife went to Duesseldorf the first week of September and were received with open arms. A banquet and concert were arranged, at which some of the composer's important works were performed. His duties in the new post were conducting the subscription concerts, weekly rehearsals of the Choral Club and other musical performances. He seemed well content with the situation and it did not require too much of his physical strength.

Outside of his official duties his passion for work again gained the ascendent. From November 2, to December 9, he sketched and completed the Symphony in E flat in five parts, a great work, equal to any of the other works in this form.

From this time on, one important composition followed another, until increasing illness forshadowed the sad catastrophe of the early part of 1854. He wrote in June 1851, "we are all tolerably well, except that I am the victim of occasional nervous attacks; a few days ago I fainted after hearing Radecke play the organ." These nervous attacks increased in 1852. He could not think music in rapid tempo and wished everything slow. He heard special tones to the exclusion of all others.

The close of 1853, brought two joyful events to Schumann. In October he met Johann Brahms, whom he had introduced to the world through his Journal, as the "Messiah of Art." In November he and his wife took a trip through Holland, which was a triumphal procession. He found his music almost as well known in Holland as at home. In Rotterdam and Utrecht his third symphony was performed; in The Hague the second was given, also "The Pilgrimage of the Rose." Clara also played at many concerts.

Just before Christmas the artist pair returned to Duesseldorf.

The hallucinations which had before obsessed him now returned with alarming force. He could no longer sleep—he seemed to be lost in mental darkness.

One day in February 1854, his physician made a noon call upon him. They sat chatting when suddenly Schumann left the room without a word. The doctor and his friends supposed he would return. His wife went in search of him. It seems he had left the house in dressing-gown, gone to the Rhine bridge and thrown himself into the river. Some sailors rescued him.

He now received constant care, and it was found best to place him in a private hospital near Bonn. Here he remained till the end of July, 1856, when the end came.

In his death the world of music lost one of the most highly gifted spirits. His life was important and instructive for its moral and intellectual grandeur, its struggles for the noblest, loftiest subjects as well as for its truly great results.



XII

FREDERIC CHOPIN

What would the piano playing world do without the music of Frederic Chopin? We can hardly think of the piano without thinking of Chopin, since he wrote almost exclusively for the universal instrument. His music touches the heart always rather than the head, the emotional message far outweighs the intellectual meaning. It is vital music—love music, winning the heart by its tenderness, voicing the highest sentiments by its refinement, its purity, its perfection of detail and finish.

And the man who could compose with such refinement, with such appealing eloquence, must have possessed those qualities which shine out in his music. He must have been gentle, chivalrous, high-thoughted. We cannot avoid expressing ourselves in our work—in whatever we do.

The father of this beloved composer was a Frenchman, born in Nancy, Lorraine, in 1770, the same year Beethoven saw the light in Bonn. He was carefully brought up, well-bred and well-educated. When a friend of his in Warsaw, Poland, in the tobacco and snuff trade, then in high repute with the nobility, needed help with his book-keeping, he sent for the seventeen-year-old lad. Thus it happened that Nicholas Chopin came to Warsaw in 1787. It was a time of unrest, when the nation was struggling for liberty and independence. The young man applied himself to master the language, and study the character and needs of his adopted country, that he might be well informed. During the period of insecurity in political affairs, the tobacco factory had to be closed and Nicholas Chopin looked for other activity. A few years later we find him in the household of Countess Skarbek, as a tutor to her son, Frederic. Here he met his bride, Justina de Krzyzanowska, a young lady of noble but poor family, whom he married in 1806. She became the mother of his four children, three girls and a boy.

The boy Frederic Chopin, was born on March 1, 1809, in the little village of Zelazowa Wola, belonging to the Countess Skarbek, about twenty-eight miles from Warsaw. It is probable the family did not remain here long, for the young husband was on the lookout for more profitable employment. He was successful, for on October 1, 1810, he was appointed Professor of French in the newly founded Lyceum in Warsaw. He also soon organized a boarding school for boys in his own home, which was patronized by the best Polish families of the country.

Surrounded by refined, cultivated people, in an atmosphere at once moral and intellectual, little Frederic passed a fortunate childhood. He soon manifested such fondness for music, especially for the piano, that his parents allowed him to have lessons, his teacher being Adalbert Zywny, the best-known master of the city. It is related that Zywny only taught his little pupil first principles, for the child's progress was so extraordinary that before long he had mastered all his teacher could impart, and at twelve he was left to shape his own musical destiny.

He early gave proofs of his talents. Before he was eight years old he played at a large evening company, with such surprising cleverness that it was predicted he would become another Mozart. The next year he was invited to take part in a large concert given under distinguished patronage. The boy was a simple, modest child, and played the piano as the bird sings, with unconscious art. When he returned home after this concert, his mother asked: "What did the people like best?" and he answered naively: "Oh, mama, every one was looking at my collar."

After this, little Frederic became more than ever the pet of the aristocracy of Warsaw; his charming manners, his unspoiled nature, his musical gifts made him welcome in princely homes. He had also begun to compose; indeed these efforts started soon after he began piano lessons, and before he could handle a pen. His teacher had to write down what the little composer played. Among those early pieces were mazurkas, polonaises, valses and the like. At the age of ten he dedicated a march to Grand Duke Constantine, who had it scored for band and played on parade. He started lessons in composition with Joseph Eisner, a celebrated teacher, who became a life-long adviser and friend.

Up to the age of fifteen, Frederic was taught at home, in his father's school. He now entered the Warsaw Lyceum, and proved a good student, twice carrying off a prize. With this studiousness was joined a gaiety and sprightliness that manifested itself in all sorts of fun and mischief. He loved to play pranks on his sisters, comrades and others, and had a fondness for caricature, taking off the peculiarities of those about him with pose and pen. Indeed it was the opinion of a clever member of the profession, that the lad was born to become a great actor. All the young Chopins had a great fondness for literature and writing; they occasionally tried their hand at poetry, and the production of original one-act plays, written for birthday fetes and family parties.

The most important event of Frederic's fifteenth year was the publication of his first composition for piano, a Rondo in C minor. This was soon followed by a set of Variations, Op. 2, on an air from Mozart's "Don Giovanni." In these early pieces, written perhaps even before he was fifteen, we find the first stages of his peculiar style. Even at this early time he was pleased with chords that had the tones spread apart in extended harmony. As his hands were small he invented a contrivance which separated the fingers as far apart as possible, in order that he might reach the new chords more easily. This he wore even during the night. The contrivance however, did not result in injury to his hands, as did Schumann's efforts to strengthen his fourth finger.

In 1827, Chopin finished his studies at the Lyceum and determined to adopt music as his profession. He was now seventeen, of slender figure, finely cut features, high forehead, delicate brows above dreamy, soulful eyes. Though not weak or sickly, as some accounts make out, he was never very robust; he would far rather lie under beautiful trees in delightful day dreams, than take long excursions afoot. One of his aversions was smoking or tobacco in any form; he never used it in his whole life. He was vivacious, active, hard working at music and reasonably healthy in early youth, but not of a hardy organism. His mother and sisters constantly cautioned him to wrap up in cold or damp weather, and like an obedient son and good brother, he obeyed.

Young Chopin greatly wished to travel and see something of the world. A much longed-for opportunity to visit Berlin came to him the following year. An old friend of his father's, Dr. Jarocki, Professor in the Warsaw University, was invited to attend a Philosophic Congress, presided over by Alexander von Humboldt, to be held in that city. The good Professor was willing to take his friend's son under his wing, and Frederic was quite beside himself with joy, for now he believed he could meet some of the musical celebrities of Berlin, and hear some great music. As to the latter his hopes were realized, but he did not meet many musicians, and could only gaze at them from a distance. It may have been a certain shyness and reticence that stood in the way, for he wrote home about a concert in the Singakademie: "Spontini, Zelter and Felix Mendelssohn were all there, but I spoke to none of these gentlemen, as I did not think it becoming to introduce myself." Music and things connected with music, music-shops and piano factories, took up most of his time, as he declined to attend the meetings of the Congress.

"At the time of the Berlin visit," writes Niecks, his biographer, "Chopin was a lively, well-educated, well-mannered youth, who walked through life, pleased with its motley garb, but as yet unconscious of the deeper truths, the immensities of joy and sadness, of love and hate, which lie beneath the surface."

After a stay of two weeks in the Prussian capital, Professor Jarocki and Frederic started on their return to Poland. During the journey they were obliged to halt an hour for fresh horses. Chopin began to look about the little inn for some sort of amusement to while away the time. He soon discovered in a corner, an old piano, which proved to be in tune. Of course he lost no time, but sat down and began to improvise on Polish melodies. Soon his fellow passengers of the stage-coach began to drop in one after another; at last came the post master with his wife and pretty daughter. Even when the hour was up and the horses had been put to the chaise, they begged the young musician to go on and on. Although he remonstrated, saying it was now time to go, they protested so convincingly that the boy sat down again and resumed his playing. Afterwards wine was brought in and they all drank to the health of the young master. Chopin gave them a mazurka for farewell, then the tall post master caught him up and carried him out to the coach, and all travelers started away in high spirits.

About the middle of July, 1829, Chopin with three young friends, started out for Vienna. In those days an artist, in order to make himself and his work known, had to travel about the world and arrange concerts here and there, introduce himself to prominent people in each place and make them acquainted with his gifts. The present journey had for its object Vienna, the city of Beethoven and Schubert and other great masters.

Of course the young musician carried many letters of introduction, both to publishers and influential persons, for whom he played. Every one told him he ought to give a concert, that it would be a disgrace to parents, teachers and to himself not to appear in public. At last Frederic overcame his hesitation. In a letter home he writes; "I have made up my mind; they tell me I shall create a furore, that I am an artist of the first rank, worthy of a place beside Moscheles, Herz and Kalbrenner," well-known musicians of the day. One must forgive the nineteen year old boy, if he felt a little pride in being classed with these older and more famous musicians.

The concert took place in the Imperial Opera House, just ten days after his arrival, and from all accounts was a great success. Chopin was more than satisfied, he was delighted. Indeed his success was so emphatic that a second concert was given the following week. In both he played some of his own compositions and improvised as well.

"It goes crescendo with my popularity here, and this gives me much pleasure," he wrote home, at the end of the fortnight, and on the eve of starting to return. On the way back the travelers visited Prague, Teplitz and Dresden. A couple of days were spent in each, and then the party arrived safely in Warsaw.

With such an intense nature, friendship and love were two vital forces controlling life and action. Chopin was devoted to his friends; he clung to them with effusive ardor, incomprehensible to those less sensitive and romantic. With Titus Woyciechowski he was heart to heart in closest intimacy, and wrote him the most adoring letters when they chanced to be separated. Titus was less demonstrative, but always remained devoted.

Love for women was destined to play a large part in the inner life of Chopin. The first awakening of this feeling came from his admiration of Constantia Gladowska, a beautiful girl and vocal pupil at the Conservatory at Warsaw. Strangely enough he admired the young lady for some time at a distance, and if report be true, never really declared himself to her. But she filled his thoughts by day, and he confessed to dreaming of her each night. When she made her debut in opera, he hung on every note she sang and rejoiced in her success but did not make his feelings known to her. All this pent-up emotion was confined to his piano, in impassioned improvisations.

Seeing no suitable field for his genius in Warsaw and realizing he ought to leave home and strike out for himself, he yet delayed making the break. He continued putting off the evil day of parting from home and friends, and especially putting a wide distance between himself and the object of his adoration, Constantia.

The two years of indecision were fruitful in producing much piano music and in completing the beautiful E minor Concerto, which was rehearsed with orchestra and was performed at the third and last concert he ever gave in Warsaw. This concert was arranged for October 11, 1830. Chopin requested Constantia Gladowska, whom he had never met, to sing an aria. In the success of the evening sorrow was forgotten. He wrote to his friend: "Miss Gladowska wore a white gown with roses in her hair and was wondrously beautiful; she had never sung so well."

After this event, Chopin decided the time had come for him to depart. His trunk was bought, his clothing ready, pocket-handkerchiefs hemmed; in fact nothing remained but the worst of all, the leave-taking. On November I, 1830, Elsner and a number of friends accompanied him to Wola, the first village beyond Warsaw. There they were met by a group of students from the Conservatory, who sang a cantata, composed by Elsner for the occasion. Then there was a banquet. During this last meal together, a silver goblet filled with Polish earth was presented to Chopin in the name of them all.

We can imagine the tender leave-takings after that. "I am convinced," he said, "I am saying an eternal farewell to my native country; I have a presentiment I shall never return." And so indeed it proved.

Again to Vienna, by way of Breslau, Dresden and Prague. In Vienna all was not as rosy as it had been on his first visit. Haslinger was unwilling to publish more of his compositions, though there were the two concertos, etudes and many short pieces. The way did not open to give a concert. He was lonely and unhappy, constantly dreaming of home and the beloved Constantia. From graphic letters to one of his dearest friends, a few sentences will reveal his inner life.

"To-day is the first of January (1831). Oh, how sadly this year begins for me! I love you all above all things. My poor parents! How are my friends faring? I could die for you all. Why am I doomed to be here so lonely and forsaken? You can at least open your hearts to each other. Go and see my parents—and—Constantia."

Although it did not seem advisable to give concerts in Vienna, yet Chopin made many pleasant acquaintances among the musicians and prominent people, and was constantly invited. He had planned to go from Vienna to either Italy or France. As there were political troubles in the former country, he decided to start for Paris, stopping on the way at a few places. In Munich he gave a morning concert, in the hall of the Philharmonie, which won him renown. From Munich he proceeded to Stuttgart, and during a short stay there, heard the sad news of the taking of Warsaw by the Russians. This event, it is said, inspired him to compose the C minor Etude, Op. 10, No. 12.

The Poles and everything Polish were at that time the rage in Paris. The young Polish master found ready entrance into the highest musical and literary circles of this most delightful city of the world. All was romance, fantasy, passion, which fitted with Chopin's sensitive and romantic temperament. Little wonder that he became inspired by contact with some of the greatest in the world of arts and letters.

There were Victor Hugo. King of the romanticists, Heine, poet and novelist; De Musset, Flaubert, Zola, Lamartine, Chateaubriand, Baudelaire, Ary Scheffer, Merimee, Gautier, Berlioz, Balzac, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Hiller, Nourrit, to mention a few. Liszt was there too, and George Sand, Mendelssohn and Kalkbrenner. Chopin called on the last named, who was considered the first pianist of the day, and played for him. Kalkbrenner remarked he had the style of Cramer and the touch of Field. He proposed that Chopin should study three years with him, and he would then become a great virtuoso. Of course the young artist might have learned something-on the mechanical side, but at the risk of injuring the originality and style of his playing. His old friend and teacher Elsner, kept him from doing this.

The first year in Paris Chopin played at a number of concerts and functions, with ever increasing success. But in spite of the artistic success, his finances ran low, and he began to consider a trip to America. Fortunately he met Prince Radziwill on the street at this time, and was persuaded to play at a Rothschild soiree in the evening. From this moment, it is said, his prospects brightened, and he secured a number of wealthy patrons as pupils. Whether this be true or not, he came to know many titled personages. One has only to turn the pages of his music to note how many pieces are dedicated to Princess This and Countess That. This mode of life was reflected in his music, which became more elegant and aristocratic.

During the season of 1833 and 1834, Chopin continued to make his way as composer, pianist and teacher. A letter to friends in Poland, says: "Frederic looks well and strong; he turns the heads of all the French women, and makes the men jealous. He is now the fashion."

In the spring of 1834 Chopin had been persuaded by Ferdinand Hiller to accompany him to Aix-la-Chapelle, to attend the Lower Rhine Music Festival. Before they started Chopin found he had not the money to go, as it had been spent or given to some needy countryman. Hiller did not like to go alone, and asked if his friend could think of no way out of the dilemma. At last Chopin took the manuscript of the E flat Valse, Op. 18, went with it to Pleyel the publisher, and returned with five hundred francs. They could now go and enjoy the trip they had planned.

In July, 1835, Chopin met his parents at Carlsbad, where his father had been sent by the Warsaw physicians to take the cure. The young musician, now famous, had not seen his parents in nearly five years, and the reunion must have been a happy one. From here he went to Dresden and Leipsic, meeting Schumann and Mendelssohn. Schumann admired the young Pole greatly and wrote much about him in his musical magazine. Mendelssohn considered him a "really perfect virtuoso, whose piano playing was both original and masterly," but he was not sure whether his compositions were right or wrong. Chopin also stopped in Heidelberg on the way to Paris, visiting the father of his pupil Adolph Gutman. He must have been back in Paris about the middle of October, for the papers mention that "M. Chopin, one of the most eminent pianists of our epoch, has just made a tour of Germany, which has been for him a real ovation. Everywhere his admirable talent obtained the most flattering reception and excited much enthusiasm."

The story of Chopin's attraction for Marie Wodzinski and his reported engagement to her, is soon told. During his visit in Dresden, after leaving his parents in Carlsbad, he saw much of his old friends, Count Wodzinski and his family. The daughter, Marie, aged nineteen, was tall and slender, not beautiful but charming, with soft dark hair and soulful eyes. Chopin spent all his evenings at their home and saw much of Marie. The last evening the girl gave him a rose, and he composed a valse for her.

The next summer the two met again at Marienbad, and resumed their walks, talks and music. She drew his portrait, and one day Chopin proposed. She assured him she would always remain his friend, but her family would never consent to their marriage. So that brief romance was over.

An attachment of a different sort was that with Mme. Dudevant, known in literature as George Sand. Books have been written about this remarkable woman. The family at Nohant where she had spent her childhood, where her two children, Maurice and Solange, lived, and where her husband sometimes came, became distasteful to her; she wanted to see life. Paris offered it. Although possessing ample means, she arranged to spend six months in Paris each year, and live on two hundred and fifty francs a month. She came in 1831. Her menage was of the simplest—three small rooms, with meals from a near-by restaurant at two francs; she did the washing herself. Woman's attire was too expensive, so, as she had worn man's attire when riding and hunting at Nohant, she saw nothing shocking in wearing it in Paris.

Her literary student life, as she called it, now began. She went about the streets at all times, in all weathers; went to garrets, studios, clubs, theaters, coffee-houses, everywhere but the salons. The romance of society-life as it was lived in the French capital, were the studies she ardently pursued. From these studies of life grew the several novels she produced during the years that followed.

It is said that Chopin met Mme. Sand at a musical matinee, given by the Marquis of C, where the aristocracy of genius, wealth and beauty had assembled. Chopin had gone to the piano and was absorbed in an improvisation, when lifting his eyes from the keys he encountered the fiery glances of a lady standing near. Perhaps the truer account of their first meeting is that given by Chopin's pupil Gutman. Mme. Sand, who had the faculty of subjugating every man of genius she came in contact with, asked Liszt repeatedly to introduce her.

One morning, early in the year 1837, Liszt called on his brother artist and found him in good spirits over some new compositions. He wished to play them to some friends, so it was arranged that a party of them should come to his rooms that evening. Liszt came with his special friend, Mme. d'Agoult and George Sand. Afterwards these meetings were frequently repeated. Liszt poetically describes one such evening, in his "Life of Chopin."

The fastidious musician was not at first attracted to the rather masculine-looking woman, addicted to smoking, who was short, stout, with large nose, coarse mouth and small chin. She had wonderful eyes, though, and her manners were both quiet and fascinating.

Her influence over Chopin began almost at once; they were soon seen together everywhere. Sand liked to master a reserved, artistic nature such as that of the Polish musician. She was not herself musical, but appreciated all forms of art.

In 1838 Mme. Sand's son Maurice became ill, and she proposed a trip to Majorca. Chopin went with the party and fell ill himself. There were many discomforts during their travels, due to bad weather and other inconveniences.

Chopin's health now began to be a source of anxiety to his friends. He had to be very careful, gave fewer lessons during the season, and spent his vacations at Nohant. He played rarely in public, though there were two public concerts in 1841 and '42 at Pleyel's rooms. From 1843 to 1847 he lived quietly and his life was apparently happy. He was fond of the Sand children, and amused himself with them when at Nohant.

But the breach, which had started some years before, between Mme. Sand and Chopin, widened as time passed, and they parted in 1847. It was the inevitable, of course. Chopin never had much to say about it; Sand said more, while the students asserted she had killed their beloved master. Probably it all helped to undermine the master's feeble health. His father passed away in 1844, his sister also, of pulmonary trouble; he was lonely and ill himself. He gave his last concert in Paris, February 16, 1848. Though weak he played beautifully. Some one said he fainted in the artist's room. The loss of Sand, even though he had long wearied of her was the last drop.

To secure rest and change, he undertook a trip to London, for the second and last time, arriving April 21, 1848. He played at different great houses and gave two matinees, at the homes of Adelaide Kemble and Lord Falmouth, June 23, and July 7. These were attended by many titled personages. Viardot Garcia sang. The composer was thin, pale, and played with "wasted fingers," but the money helped replenish his depleted purse.

Chopin visited Scotland in August of the same year, and stayed with his pupil Miss Jane Stirling, to whom he dedicated the two Nocturnes, Op. 55. He played in Manchester, August 28; his playing was rather weak, but retained all its elegance, finish and grace. He was encored for his familiar Mazurka, Op. 7, No. 1, and repeated it with quite different nuances. One survivor of this audience remarked subsequently in a letter to a friend: "My emotion was so great I was compelled to retire to recover myself. I have heard all the celebrated stars of the musical firmament, but never has one left such an impression on my mind."

Chopin returned to London in November, and left England in January 1849. His purse was very low and his lodgings in the Rue Chaillot, Paris, were represented as costing half their value, the balance being paid by a Russian Countess, who was touched by his need. The generous hearted Miss Stirling raised 25,000 francs for the composer, so his last days were cheered by every comfort. He passed away October 17, 1849, and every writer agrees it was a serene passing. His face was beautiful and young, in the flower-covered casket, says Liszt, for friends filled his rooms with blossoms. He was buried from the Madeleine, October thirtieth. The B flat minor Funeral March, orchestrated by Reber, was given, and during the service Lefebure Wely played on the organ the E and B minor Preludes. His grave in Pere Lachaise is sought out by many travelers who admire his great art. It is difficult to find the tomb in that crowded White City, but no doubt all music lovers seek to bring away at least a leaf—as did the writer—from the earthly resting place of the most ideal pianist and composer who ever lived.

Chopin was preeminently a composer for the piano. With the exception of the Trio, Op. 8 and a book of Polish songs, everything he wrote was for his favorite instrument. There are seventy-one opus numbers in the list, but often whole sets of pieces are contained in one opus number, as is the case with the Etudes, of which there are twelve in Op. 10, and the same in Op. 25. These Etudes take up every phase of piano technic; each one has a definite aim, yet each is a beautiful finished work as music. They have been edited and re-edited by the greatest masters.

The twenty-four Preludes were composed before the trip to Majorca, though they were perfected and polished while there. Written early in his career, they have a youthful vigor not often found in later works. "Much in miniature are these Preludes of the Polish poet," says Huneker.

There are four Impromptus and four Ballades, also four Scherzos. In them the composer is free, fascinating, often bold and daring. The great Fantaisie, Op. 49, is an epic poem, much as the Barcarolle is a poem of love. The two Sonatas, not to mention an early effort in this form, are among the modern classics, which are bound to appear on the programs of every great pianist of the present, and doubtless of the future. The two Concertos are cherished by virtuosi and audience alike, and never fail to make an instant and lasting appeal.

And think of the eleven Polonaises, those courtly dances, the most characteristic and national of his works; the fourteen Valses, beloved of every young piano student the world over; the eighteen Nocturnes, of starry night music; the entrancing Mazurkas, fifty-two in number. One marvels, in merely glancing over the list, that the composer, who lived such a super-sensitive hectic life, whose days were so occupied with lesson giving, ever had the time to create such a mass of music, or the energy to write it.

When one considers the amount of it, the beauty, originality and glory of it, one must acknowledge Frederic Chopin as one of the greatest piano geniuses of all time.



XIII

HECTOR BERLIOZ

In the south of France, near Grenoble, is found a romantic spot, La Cote Saint-Andre. It lies on a hillside overlooking a wide green and golden plain, and its dreamy majesty is accentuated by the line of mountains that bounds it on the southeast. These in turn are crowned by the distant glory of snowy peaks and Alpine glaciers. Here one of the most distinguished men of the modern movement in French musical art, Hector Berlioz, first saw the light, on December 11, 1803.

He was an only son of a physician. His father, a learned man, with the utmost care, taught his little boy history, literature, geography, languages, even music. Hector was a most romantic, impressionable child, who peopled nature with fairies and elves, as he lay under great trees and dreamed fantastic day dreams. Poetry and romantic tales were his delight and he found much to feed his imagination in his father's large library.

His mother's father lived at Meylan, a little village not far from Grenoble, and there, in this picturesque valley, the family used to spend a part of each summer.

Above Meylan, in a crevice of the mountain, stood a white house amid its vineyards and gardens. It was the home of Mme. Gautier and her two nieces, of whom the younger was called Estelle. When the boy Hector saw her for the first time, he was twelve, a shy, retiring little fellow. Estelle was just eighteen, tall, graceful, with beautiful dusky hair and large soulful eyes. Most wonderful of all, with her simple white gown, she wore pink slippers. The shy boy of twelve fell in desperate love with this white robed apparition in pink slippers. He says himself:

"Never do I recall Estelle, but with the flash of her large dark eyes comes the twinkle of her dainty pink shoes. To say I loved her comprises everything. I was wretched, dumb, despairing. By night I suffered agonies—by day I wandered alone through the fields of Indian corn, or, like a wounded bird, sought the deepest recesses of my grandfather's orchard.

"One evening there was a party at Mme. Gautier's and various games were played. In one of them I was told to choose first. But I dared not, my heart-beats choked me. Estelle, smiling, caught my hand, saying: 'Come, I will begin; I choose Monsieur Hector.' But, ah, she laughed!

"I was thirteen when we parted. I was thirty when, returning from Italy, I passed through this district, so filled with early memories. My eyes filled at sight of the white house: I loved her still. On reaching my old home I learned she was married!"

With pangs of early love came music, that is, attempts at musical composition. His father had taught him the rudiments of music, and soon after gave him a flute. On this the boy worked so industriously that in seven or eight months he could play fairly well. He also took singing lessons, as he had a pretty soprano voice. Harmony was likewise studied by this ambitious lad, but it was self taught. He had found a copy of Rameau's "Harmony" among some old books and spent many hours poring over those labored theories in his efforts to reduce them to some form and sense.

Inspired by these studies he tried his hand at music making in earnest. First came some arrangements of trios and quartettes. Then finally he was emboldened to write a quintette for flute, two violins, viola and 'cello. Two months later he had produced another quintette, which proved to be a little better. At this time Hector was twelve and a half. His father had set his heart on the boy's following his footsteps and becoming a doctor; the time was rapidly approaching when a decision had to be made. Doctor Berlioz promised if his son would study anatomy and thoroughly prepare himself in this branch of the profession, he should have the finest flute that could be bought. His cousin Robert shared these anatomical lessons; but as Robert was a good violinist, the two boys spent more time over music than over osteology. The cousin, however, really worked over his anatomy, and was always ready at the lessons with his demonstrations, while Hector was not, and thus drew upon himself many a reprimand. However he managed to learn all his father could teach him, and when he was nineteen consented to go to Paris, with Robert, and—though much against his will—become a doctor.

When the boys reached Paris, in 1822, Hector loyally tried to keep his promise to his father and threw himself into the studies which were so repugnant to him. He says he might have become a common-place physician after all, had he not one night gone to the opera. That night was a revelation; he became half frantic with excitement and enthusiasm. He went again and again. Learning that the Conservatoire library, with its wealth of scores, was open to the public, he began to study the scores of his adored Gluck. He read, re-read and copied long parts and scenes from these wonderful scores, even forgetting to eat, drink or sleep, in his wild enthusiasm. Of course, now, the career of doctor must be given up; there was no question of that. He wrote home that in spite of father, mother, relations and friends, a musician he would be and nothing else.

A short time after this the choir master of Saint Roch, suggested that Hector should write a mass for Innocents' Day, promising a chorus and orchestra, with ample rehearsals, also that the choir boys would copy the parts. He set to work with enthusiasm. But alas, after one trial of the completed work, which ended in confusion owing to the countless mistakes the boys had made in copying the score, he rewrote the whole composition. Fearing another fiasco from amateur copyists, the young composer wrote out all the parts himself. This took three months. With the help of a friend who advanced funds, the mass was performed at Saint Roch, and was well spoken of by the press.

The hostility of Hector's family to music as a profession, died down a bit, owing to the success of the mass, but started up with renewed vigor when the son and brother failed to pass the entrance examinations at the Conservatoire. His father wrote that if he persisted in staying on in Paris his allowance would be stopped. Lesueur, his teacher, promised to intercede and wrote an appealing letter, which really made matters worse instead of better. Then Hector went home himself, to plead his cause in person. He was coldly received by his family; his father at last consented to his return to Paris for a time, but his mother forbade it absolutely. In case he disobeyed her will, she would disown him and never again wished to see his face. So Hector at last set out again for Paris with no kind look or word from his mother, but reconciled for the time being with the rest of the family.

The young enthusiast began life anew in Paris, by being very economical, as he must pay back the loan made for his mass. He found a tiny fifth floor room, gave up restaurant dinners and contented himself with plain bread, with the addition of raisins, prunes or dates. He also secured some pupils, which helped out in this emergency, and even got a chance to sing in vaudeville, at the enormous sum of 50 francs per month!

These were strenuous days for the eager ardent musician. Teaching from necessity, in order to live, spending every spare moment on composing; attending opera whenever he got a free ticket; yet, in spite of many privations there was happiness too. With score under arm, he always made it a point to follow the performance of any opera he heard. And so in time, he came to know the sound—the voice as it were, of each instrument in the orchestra. The study of Beethoven, Weber and Spontini—watching for rare and unusual combinations of sounds, being with artists who were kind enough to explain the compass and powers of their instruments, were the ways and means he used to perfect his art.

When the Conservatoire examinations of 1827, came on, Hector tried again, and this time passed the preliminary test. The task set for the general competition was to write music for Orpheus torn by the Bacchantes. An incompetent pianist, whose duty it was to play over the compositions, for the judges, could seem to make nothing of Hector's score. The six judges, headed by Cherubini, the Director of the Conservatoire, voted against the aspirant, and he was thrown out a second time.

And now came to Berlioz a new revelation—nothing less than the revelation of the art of Shakespeare. An English company of actors had come to Paris, and the first night Hamlet was given, with Henrietta Smithson—who five years later became his wife—as Ophelia.

In his diary Berlioz writes: "Shakespeare, coming upon me unawares, struck me down as with a thunderbolt. His lightning spirit opened to me the highest heaven of Art, and revealed to me the best and grandest and truest that earth can give." He began to worship both the genius of Shakespeare and the art of the beautiful English actress. Every evening found him at the theater, but days were spent in a kind of dumb despair, dreaming of Shakespeare and of Miss Smithson, who had now become the darling of Paris.

At last this sort of dumb frenzy spent itself and the musician in him awoke and he returned to his normal self. A new plan began to take shape in his mind. He would give a concert of his own works: up to that time no French musician had done so. Thus he would compel her to hear of him, although he had not yet met the object of his devoted admiration.

It was early spring of the year 1828, when he set to work with frantic energy, writing sixteen hours a day, in order to carry through the wonderful plan. The concert, the result of so much labor, was given the last of May, with varying success. But alas, Miss Smithson, adsorbed in her own affairs, had not even heard of the excitable young composer who had dared and risked so much to make a name that might attract her notice.

As Berlioz pere again stopped his allowance, Hector began to write for musical journals. At first ignorant of the ways of journalism, his wild utterances were the despair of his friends; later his trenchant pen was both admired and feared.

For the third time, in June of this year, he entered the Conservatoire contest, and won a second prize, in this case a gold medal. Two years later he won the coveted Prix de Rome, which gives the winner five years' study, free of expense, in the Eternal City.

Before this honor was achieved, however, a new influence came into his life, which for a time overshadowed the passion for Shakespeare and Miss Smithson. It happened on this wise.

Ferdinand Hiller, composer, pianist and one of Hector's intimate friends, fell deeply in love with Marie Moke, a beautiful, talented girl who, later on, won considerable fame as a pianist. She became interested in the young French composer, through hearing of his mental suffering from Hiller. They were thrown together in a school where both gave lessons, she on the piano and he on the—guitar! Meeting so constantly, her dainty beauty won a warm place in the affections of the impressionable Hector. She was but eighteen, while her admirer was twenty-five.

Hiller saw how things were going and behaved admirably. He called it fate, wished the pair every happiness, and left for Frankfort.

Then came the Prix de Rome, which the poor boy had struggled so long to win, and now did not care so much for, as going to Italy would mean to leave Paris. On August 23, 1830, he wrote to a friend:

"I have gained the Prix de Rome. It was awarded unanimously—a thing never known before. My sweet Ariel was dying of anxiety when I told her the news; her dainty wings were all ruffled, till I smoothed them with a word. Even her mother, who does not look too favorably on our love, was touched to tears.

"On November 1, there is to be a concert at the Theater Italien. I am asked to write an Overture and am going to take as subject Shakespeare's Tempest; it will be quite a new style of thing. My great concert, with the Symphonie Fantastique, will take place November 14, but I must have a theatrical success; Camille's parents insist on that, as a condition of our marriage. I hope I shall succeed."

These concerts were both successful and the young composer passed from deepest anxiety to exuberant delight. He wrote to the same friend;

"The Tempest is to be played a second time at the opera. It is new, fresh, strange, grand, sweet, tender, surprising. Fetis wrote two splendid articles about it for the Revue Musicale.—My marriage is fixed for Easter, 1832, on condition that I do not lose my pension, and that I go to Italy for one year. My blessed Symphonie has done the deed."

The next January Berlioz went home to his family, who were now reconciled to his choice of music as a profession, and deluged him with compliments, caresses and tender solicitude. The parents had fully forgiven their gifted son.

"There is Rome, Signore."

It was true. The Eternal City lay spread out in purple majesty before the young traveler, who suddenly realized the grandeur, the poetry of this heart of the world. The Villa Medici, the venerable ancient palace, centuries old, had been reserved by the Academie of France as home for her students, whose sole obligation was to send, once a year, a sample of their work to the Academie in Paris.

When Hector Berlioz arrived in Rome he was twenty-seven, and of striking appearance. A mass of reddish auburn hair crowned a high forehead; the features were prominent, especially the nose; the expression was full of sensitive refinement. He was of an excitable and ardent temperament, but in knowledge of the world's ways often simple as a child.

Berlioz, who was welcomed with many humorous and friendly jests on his appearance among the other students, had just settled down to work, when he learned that his Ariel—otherwise Marie Moke—had forsaken him and had married Pleyel. In a wild state of frenzy he would go to Paris at once and seek revenge. He started, got as far as Nice, grew calmer, remained at Nice for a month, during which time the Overture to "King Lear" was written, then returned to Rome by the way of Genoa and Florence.

By July 1832, Berlioz had returned to La Cote Saint Andre for a home visit. He had spent a year in Italy, had seen much, composed a number of important things, but left Rome without regrets, and found the familiar landscape near his home more fascinating than anything Italy could show.

The rest of the summer was spent in the beautiful Dauphiny country, working on the "Damnation of Faust." In the fall he returned to Paris. The vision of his Ophelia, as he used to call Miss Smithson, was seldom long absent from his thoughts, and he now went to the house where she used to live, thinking himself very lucky to be able to find lodging there. Meeting the old servant, he learned Miss Smithson was again in Paris, and would manage a new English theater, which was to open in a few days. But Berlioz was planning a concert of his own compositions, and did not trust himself to see the woman he had so long adored until this venture was over. It happened, however, that some friends induced her to attend the concert, the success of which is said to have been tremendous. The composer had the happiness of meeting the actress the same evening. The next day he called on her. Their engagement lasted nearly a year, opposed by her mother and sister, and also by Hector's family. The following summer Henrietta Smithson, all but ruined from her theatrical ventures, and weak from a fall, which made her a cripple for some years, was married to Hector Berlioz, in spite of the opposition of their two families.