A Popular History of the Art of Music / From the Earliest Times Until the Present

CHAPTER XXVI.

NE of the most engaging personalities, and at the same time one of the most highly gifted, versatile and richly endowed geniuses who ever adorned the art of music, was that of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791). He was a son of the violin player and musician, Leopold Mozart, living at Salzburg. At an extremely early age he showed his love for music by listening to the lessons of his sister. By the time he was four, his father commenced to give him lessons, and when he was less than five years old he was discovered one day making marks upon music paper, which he stoutly maintained belonged to a concerto. The statement was received with incredulity, but upon carefully examining the manuscript it was found correctly written, and sensible; but so difficult as to be impossible to play. Upon the boy's attention being called to this, he replied, "I call it a concerto because it is so difficult; they should practice it until they can play it." In childhood, and indeed all through life, his ear was very sensitive. He could not bear to hear the sound of a trumpet, and upon his father seeking to overcome his nervousness by having a trumpet blown in the room, it threw him into convulsions. The boy was of a most active mind, interested in everything that went on about him, and eager to learn in every direction. Nothing came amiss, arithmetic, grammar and language—he was immediately at home in any subject which he took up. Music was intuitive to him. So remarkable was his progress, that when he was yet but six years old his father began to travel with him. Their first journey was to Munich, where the elector received them kindly. The programmes consisted of improvisations by the youthful Mozart upon themes assigned by the audience; pieces for violin and piano, the father taking the violin part, and the sister in turn played piano pieces. The father was a good violinist and the author of an excellent school for that instrument. He also composed many ambitious works, which rise above the capellmeister average. Highly gratified with their reception at Munich, they went on to Vienna, where again they were cordially received, the emperor especially being highly delighted with the "little magician," as he called the promising boy. Even at this early age Mozart had a distinct idea of his own authority in music, although no one could be freer than he from the charge of self-conceit. In Vienna, he asked expressly for Wagenseil, the court composer, that he might be sure of having a real connoisseur among his hearers. "I am playing a concerto of yours," he said, "you must turn over for me." The ladies of the aristocracy went wild over the fascinating young fellow, but presently he had an attack of scarlet fever, which brought the tour to an end. After the return to Salzburg, the practice went on every day, and regular lessons in books, as they had during the journey; and, when he was still less than nine years of age, the family undertook a longer tour to Paris, playing at all the important towns on the way. In several of the cities, Wolfgang played the violin, and also the organ in the churches. At Paris they had a remarkable success, playing before the court at Versailles, and in many of the houses of the nobility. Here the father had four of the boy's sonatas for piano and violin engraved and published. The stay at Paris lasted five months, until November 10, 1764, when they departed for London. Here they met a favorable reception at court, the king, George III, taking a great interest in the wonderful young master. He put before him pieces of Bach, Wagenseil and Händel, which he played at sight. On the fifth of June they gave a concert in Spring Gardens, where their receipts were as much as 100 guineas. His next appearance was as an organist for the benefit of a charity. The father having taken cold, was ill for some time, during which time, as the boy was unable to play on the piano, he wrote his first symphony, and the year following three others. Before leaving London they visited the British Museum, and in memory of his visit Wolfgang composed a four-part quartette, and presented the autograph to the museum.

Fig. 54.

CONCERT BY THE MOZART FAMILY. THE LITTLE WOLFGANG AT THE PIANO.

[From a painting by Carmontil, 1763.]

Without pausing to trace the concert career of the young virtuoso it must suffice to say, that by the time he was twelve years old, he had become favorably known in every court of southern Europe. His talent had been illustrated in many different ways, and tested by the most severe masters. One of the most celebrated cases of this kind happened at Bologna, where the Philharmonic Academy received him as a member, after his passing the usual severe test, over which the famous master, Padre Martini, presided. The conditions of membership required the candidate to write an elaborate motette in six parts, founded upon a melody assigned from the Roman Antiphonarium, the work to conform to the strictest rules, with double counterpoint and fugue. In consequence of the nervous feeling due to the limit of time allowed, candidates very often failed. Mozart, however, took his paper in the cheerful frame of mind which everywhere distinguished him, and was duly locked up. In less than three-quarters of an hour he rapped at his door and asked to be let out. The authorities sent him word not to be discouraged, but to keep on trying, as he had yet three hours, and might accomplish it. They were greatly astonished on finding that he had already finished, having produced a complete master work, abundantly up to all requirements, the whole written in his peculiarly neat and accurate manner.

His compositions had already reached the number of eighty, including a number of symphonies. It was now late in the year 1771, and at Milan Wolfgang set seriously to work upon his opera, which was produced December 26 and repeated to full houses twenty times, the author himself conducting it. This was "Mitridate, Re di Ponto." The year following he composed two other operas for Italy, and several symphonies, so that when his new opera of "Lucio Silla" was performed in Milan October 24, 1772, the number of his works had reached 135. From 1773 to 1777 Mozart remained at Salzburg, with occasional journeys to Vienna and other cities, always pursuing a life of unflagging industry. The number of his works had increased by the end of this period to upwards of 250, including an immense variety of pieces of chamber music, symphonies, two or three operas, a number of masses, and the like. He was now twenty-one years old, and since the age of fourteen he had been assistant conductor at Salzburg in the service of the prince archbishop, who was a small-souled man, wholly unworthy the service which Mozart rendered him. There is at least a small satisfaction in remembering that the archbishop himself had a distinct impression of the dis-esteem in which he was held by his talented young musical conductor.

With the attainment of his majority the second period in the life of this great genius began. Unable to obtain permission from the shabby prelate for father and son to go together upon an artistic tour, the father at length decided to send the young man out with his mother, and in September, 1777, the two started for Paris, traveling in their own carriage with post horses. Their plan was to give a concert at every promising town, taking whatever time might be necessary for working it up in due form. In this way their journey was considerably prolonged by delays at Munich, Mannheim and Augsburg. At Mannheim, especially, the incidents of the tour were varied by Mozart's falling in love with the charming daughter of the theatrical prompter and copyist, a promising singer, who afterward married happily in quite a different quarter. At Paris things did not turn out quite so favorably as the father had anticipated. Most afflicting of all, the mother fell sick there, and died, so that the son left Paris in September for home with a far heavier heart than when he entered it. During the most of 1779 and 1780 he remained at Salzburg, fulfilling his duties as assistant conductor. Then came his first opera in Germany, "Idomeneo, Re di Creta," produced at Munich January 29, 1781. The success of this work was so decided that it determined Mozart's career as an operatic composer. A few months later he quarreled with the archbishop, and the unpleasant connection came to an end. His second opera, "Die Entführung aus dem Serail" ("The Elopement from the Seraglio"), was produced at Vienna July 16, 1782. This was his first opera in German. In August of this year he was married to Constance Weber, younger sister of her who had first enchanted him. The marriage was congenial in many ways, but as the wife was incapable in money matters and administration, and Mozart himself careless as a business man, and in receipt of a small and irregular income, they soon found themselves in a sea of little troubles, from which the struggling artist was nevermore free. Only at the last moment, when indeed his life was all but extinct, did the clouds disappear, and a prospect open before him, which if he had lived to enjoy it, would have placed his remaining days in easy circumstances. In 1785 the father visited his son in Vienna, and upon one of the first days of his stay, there was a little dinner party at Mozart's house, with Haydn and the two Barons Todi. In his letter home, Leopold Mozart says that Haydn said to him: "I declare to you, before God, as a man of honor, that your son is the greatest composer that I know, either personally or by reputation; he has taste, and beyond that the most consummate knowledge of composition." In return for this compliment Mozart dedicated to Haydn six string quartettes, with a laudatory preface, in which he says that it was "but his due, for from Haydn I first learned to compose a quartette." Mozart was an enthusiastic Freemason, and through his influence his father, who had always previously opposed the order, became a member, during this visit at Vienna. Soon afterward the father died. For the lodge Mozart wrote much music, both of a liturgical character and for concerts, and special entertainments, and in the "Magic Flute" there are many reminiscences of the order.

A year later he made the acquaintance of the celebrated librettist, Lorenzo da Ponte, who proposed to adapt Beaumarchais' comedy, "The Marriage of Figaro," which after some difficulty in obtaining the consent of the emperor, on account of the objectionable character of the story, was done, and the work produced at Vienna, May 1, 1786. The theater was crowded, and many airs were repeated, until at later performances the emperor prohibited encores. A pleasing scene took place at the last dress rehearsal. Kelly, who took the parts of Don Basilio and of Don Curzio, writes: "Never was anything more complete than the triumph of Mozart and his 'Marriage of Figaro,' to which numerous overflowing audiences bore witness. Even at the first full band rehearsal, all present were roused to enthusiasm, and when Benucci came to the fine passage 'Cherubino Alla Vittoria, Alla Gloria Militar,' which he gave with stentorian lungs, the effect was electric, for the whole of the performers on the stage, and those in the orchestra, as if actuated by one feeling of delight, vociferated 'Bravo, Bravo, Maestro. Viva, Viva, grande Mozart.' Those in the orchestra I thought would never have ceased applauding, by beating the bows of their violins against their music desks. And Mozart, I never shall forget his little animated countenance. When lighted up with the glowing rays of genius, it is as impossible to describe it as it would be to paint sunbeams." Yet the success did not improve his position in money affairs. Soon afterward, however, he was invited to Prague, to see the success his beautiful work was making there. He was entertained handsomely, and found the town wild with delight, at the novelty, the spontaneity and charming quality of his music. He also gave two concerts there, which were brilliantly successful, and having been many times recalled he sat down at the piano and improvised for half an hour, the audience resisting every effort he made to stop. After returning to Vienna he obtained another libretto from Da Ponte, that of "Don Giovanni," which was produced at Prague, October 29, 1787. It is told, as a characteristic incident of Mozart's method of working, that the overture of this opera had not been written until the night before the performance. At every suggestion Mozart answered, tapping his forehead, "I have it all here." But not a line had been written. Late at night he set about writing it. His wife made him some punch, of which he was very fond, and sat with him telling him fairy stories, in order to keep him awake. Early in the morning the overture was finished, and after being copied it was played prima vista at night, with grand success. In response to repeated appeals for court recognition, Mozart was made chamber composer, with a salary of about $400, which he pronounced, "Too much for what I produce; too little for what I might produce." "Don Giovanni" was not given in Vienna until May, 1788.

Fig. 55.

MOZART, AT THE AGE OF THIRTY-THREE.

[From a drawing by Dora Stock, a friend of Schiller, 1789. (Grove.)]

His pecuniary circumstances continued desperate but there were certain incidents of an artistic kind which afforded the struggling genius a meager consolation. One Van Swieten, director of the royal library, who was a great amateur of classical chamber music, held meetings every Sunday for the rehearsal of works of this class. Mozart sat at the piano. For these occasions he arranged several of the fugues of Bach's "Well Tempered Clavier," for string quartette. The year following the practices took on larger proportions, a subscription having been made to provide for giving oratorios with chorus and orchestra. Mozart conducted, and Weigl took the pianoforte. It was for performances of this club, that Mozart added the wind parts to certain works of Händel. They gave "Acis and Galatea" (November, 1778), the "Messiah" (March, 1779), "Ode to St. Cæcilia's Day" and "Alexander's Feast" (July, 1790). Space forbids our following his later career beyond mentioning the chief incidents in a life where sadness had larger and larger place, when nevertheless the great master was pouring out his most noble and beautiful strains of melody and tonal delight. A visit to Berlin resulted in receptions at court, at Potsdam, where the truthful composer replied to the king's question, how he liked his band, that: "It contains great virtuosi, but if the gentlemen would play together they would make a better effect"—a remark which has been appropriate to many later orchestras. The king apparently laid the remark to heart, and offered Mozart the post of director, with a salary of 3,000 thalers, almost equal to the same number of our dollars. It would have been well for Mozart if he had accepted this liberal offer; but his answer was, "How can I abandon my good emperor?"—certainly an affection most misplaced.

Fig. 56.

MOZART.

[From the Lange painting.]

The list of the Mozart operas was closed with the "Magic Flute," produced September 30, 1783, which at first was not so successful as most of his previous works, but which continued to improve upon hearing, until at length it reached the estimation which it has ever since held, as one of the most characteristic and interesting of all his works. He had already begun upon his "Requiem," which had been mysteriously ordered of him by a messenger, who declined to state the object for which the work was intended. It is now ascertained that the unknown patron was a Count Walsegg, an amateur desirous of being thought a great composer. It was his intention to have performed the work as his own. Mozart was now in low spirits, worn out with work, late hours and financial worry. The mystery of the "Requiem" preyed on his imagination none the less that he felt that in it he was writing some of his noblest and best thoughts. He said: "I am sure that this will be my own requiem." Nothing could dissuade him from the idea. It returned again and again. At length he fell ill, poisoned, as he thought, by some envious rival. No one knows whether there was anything in the notion that actual poison had been administered, although there were rivals who had been heard to wish that he were out of the way. Without having quite finished the "Requiem" he breathed his last December 5, 1791. His premonition proved correct. The "Requiem" was given at his own funeral.

This account of the life of Mozart has hardly the merit of an outline, for within the short thirty-five years of his earthly existence this great master produced a variety of works in every province of music, greater than that produced by any other of the great masters, scarcely excepting the indefatigable and long-lived Händel.

It is extremely difficult to assign Mozart a definite place in the musical Pantheon without praising him too highly on the one hand, or going to the other extreme and belittling his genius by pointing out the evident fact that noble, beautiful, sprightly, sweet and charming as were his compositions, he has not left so large an influence upon the later course of music as quite a number of artists apparently his inferiors. His influence in music was largely temporary, but none the less indispensable to musical progress. To the neat and symmetrical periods of the Haydn symphony and sonata, with their fresh, thematic treatment, Mozart added a tender grace and sweetness like the conceptions of a Raphael in painting. He was the apostle of melody. If he had never written, the art of music would have remained something quite different from what we know it. And wherever there are lovers of refined, noble melody, there will the music of Mozart be loved. Moreover, in his best symphonies, such as the one in G minor, and the "Jupiter" in C, there is a boldness and freedom of flight which Beethoven scarcely surpassed. He was at his best as a composer of operas. He was one of the fathers of the artistic song, with music for every stanza differing according to the sentiment of the words; and while the dramatic coloration is not forgotten in his operas, they are a constant flow of charming, inexhaustible melody, which sings most divinely. In short, taking his works through and through, Mozart was what, in the words of Mr. Matthew Arnold, we might call the composer of "sweetness and light." His music glows with the radiance of immortal beauty.

CHAPTER XXVII.

HE labors of Haydn and Mozart in the rich field of instrumental music were followed immediately by those of Ludwig van Beethoven, who was born at the little town of Bonn, on the Rhine, about twenty miles above Cologne, in 1770. He died at Vienna, 1827. The years between these dates were filled with labor and inspiration, beyond those of any other master. Beethoven's place in music is at the head. Whether he or Bach ought to be reckoned the very greatest of all the great geniuses who have appeared in music, is a question which might be discussed eternally without ever being settled. Considered merely as an artist capable of transforming musical material in an endless variety of ways, he would perhaps be placed somewhat lower than Bach; but considered as a tone poet gifted with the faculty of making hearers feel as he felt, and see as he saw (with the inner eyes of tonal sense), no master ought to be placed above him. This is the general opinion now, of all the world. Taine, the French critic, in his work on art, names four great souls belonging to the highest order of genius—Dante, Shakespeare, Michael Angelo and Beethoven. The company is a good one, and Beethoven rightfully belongs in it. His early life was wholly different from that of the gifted Mozart. He was the son of a dissipated tenor singer, and his mother was rather an incapable person. When the boy was about eleven years old he began to play the viola in the orchestra. He was already a good pianist, and it was said of him that he was able to play nearly the whole of the "Well Tempered Clavier" by heart, and at the age of eleven and a half he was left in charge during Neefe's absence, as deputy organist. His improvisations had already attracted attention, and when he was a little past twelve he was made assistant musical conductor (cembalist), having to prepare the operas, adapt them to the orchestra and the players of the theater, and sometimes to train the whole company for several months together, while Neefe, the director, was away. All this without salary. In this practical school of adversity the boy grew up, arranging continually, training the orchestra, adapting music and composing—for he began this very soon; in fact, we have certain sonatinas of his, composed while he was but ten years old.

He was direct in his speech, almost to rudeness, not, like Mozart, attractive in his personal appearance, and rather awkward in society, where he was continually breaking things, upsetting the water, the ink, or whatever liquid was in his way. Nevertheless, there must have been something attractive about this young man of independent manners, for very early in life, and all the way through it, he made friends with the aristocracy. Count Waldstein, a few years his senior, to whom he afterward dedicated the so-called "Waldstein" sonata, Opus 53, in C, early became interested in him, hired a piano for him and sent it to his room, that he might have opportunity to practice. There was a family of Von Breunings in Bonn, consisting of the mother, three boys and a daughter, where the young Beethoven often stayed for several days together. This was one of the most refined families in town, and it was here that the unfortunate young Beethoven got his first glimpses of a true home life, and his first realization of the refining influence of woman's society. He learned English in order that he might be able to read Shakespeare in the original. He also learned a little Italian and French. In short, the boy appears at good advantage from every point of view, except from that of mere appearance. This life of labor and responsibility was broken in upon when he was about seventeen (in 1787). He was sent to Vienna, and there is a tradition that he played there before Mozart, who is reported to have prophesied favorably concerning him. There is very little left us concerning his first visit to the great Austrian capital, then, as ever since, the home of music. He was soon back again in Bonn, and there for yet another year and a half he went on with his work. His mother dying, he had no longer any responsibility to retain him there, so when he was about twenty-one he set out again for Vienna, where all the remainder of his life was spent. At Vienna he immediately began to give concerts, in which his piano playing was the main feature, and his improvising upon themes presented by the audience. This art always remained one of his great distinctions—the surest proof of genius, the possession of musical fantasy, in which every thought immediately suggests something else. He devoted himself to serious study of counterpoint and composition under the instruction of Haydn at first, but later with Albrechtsberger. His two great elements of power at this period were his playing and his improvising. Czerny says: "His improvisation was most brilliant and striking; in whatever company he might chance to be, he knew how to produce such an effect upon every hearer that frequently not an eye remained dry, while many would break out into loud sobs; for there was something wonderful about his expression, in addition to the beauty and originality of his ideas, and his spirited manner of rendering them."

The limits of the present work do not admit of following the career of this great master in the detail which would otherwise be desirable. It must suffice to mention the more salient features. Contrary to the precedent established by Mozart, Beethoven was in no hurry to appear as a composer of ambitious pieces. After the early practical experiences above described, and the further advantage of studies in Vienna under the best teachers at that time living, it was not until 1795 that he appeared as composer of his first concerto for pianoforte and orchestra, a Mozart-like work, but with an Adagio of true Beethovenish flavor. A year later he published his first three sonatas for pianoforte, dedicated to Haydn. These three works are in styles totally unlike each other, and there is little or no doubt that each one of them was modeled after some existing work, which at that time was highly esteemed in Vienna. The first in F minor, is plainly after one by Emanuel Bach in the same key. The Adagio of this is especially interesting, not only because it shows a freedom and a pure lyric quality totally foreign to Emanuel Bach, and beyond Mozart even, but because it was taken out of a quartette which he had written when he was fifteen years old. This shows that even at that early age Beethoven had arrived at the conception of his peculiar style of slow movements, which differed from those of Mozart in having a more song-like quality, and a deeper and more serious expression. The impression of a deep soul is very marked in the Largo of the first concerto, and there are few of his later works which carry it more plainly. In all, some sixty works precede this Opus 2, which is the modest mark affixed to these three sonatas. The third, in C, is still different from the other two, and was fashioned apparently after some composition of Clementi or Dussek. The Adagio takes a direction which must have been regarded as not entirely successful, for nowhere else does the composer follow it out. Then followed a succession of pieces of every sort, not rapidly, like Mozart's compositions, as if they represented the overflowing of an inexhaustible spring, but deliberately, as if the world were not ready for them too rapidly, one after another, each in succession carrying the treatment of the pianoforte to a finer point, and each different from its predecessor, whether of contemporaneous publication or of a former year, until by the end of the century he had reached the "Sonata Pathetique," a work which marked a prodigious advance in expression and boldness over anything that can be shown from any other master of the period. Mention having been made of the slow movements in these works, in which point they were perhaps more strikingly differentiated from those of the composers previous—the Largo of the sonata in D major, Opus 10, may be mentioned as an example of a peculiarly broad and dramatic, almost speaking rhapsody, or reverie, for piano, which not only calls for true feeling in the interpreter, but also for technical qualities of touch and breadth of tone, such as must have been distinctly in advance of the instruments of the day. Meanwhile a variety of chamber pieces had been composed, many of them of decided merit. This was a great period of activity with the young composer. He had found his voice. Within two years from the "Sonata Pathetique," he had composed all the sonatas up to the two numbered Opus 27, in which the so-called "Moonlight" stands second, and between these a variety of variations, and several important chamber pieces, not forgetting the oratorio, "Christ on the Mount of Olives"—a work which although not fully successful, nevertheless contained many beautiful ideas, and one chorus which must be ranked among the best which the repertory of oratorio can show—"Hallelujah to the Father." The year 1800 also saw the first performance of the beautiful and romantic third concerto for pianoforte and orchestra. The first symphony had been performed in 1800, and by 1804 we have the great heroic symphony, the "Kreutzer Sonata," and the "Appassionata" with all that lie between. Never did tone poet give out great inspirations like these so freely. Each is an advance upon the previous, distancing all works of similar composers, and each one surpassing his own previous efforts. This activity continued with little or no interruption until 1812, after which there is quite a break, Beethoven occupying himself with pot-boilers for the English market, in the way of arrangements of songs for instrumental accompaniment. Of these there are many, Scotch and other, besides masses, canons for voices and the like. In 1814 we have the lovely sonata in E minor for piano, Opus 90, and in 1818 the great sonata for hammer klavier, Opus 106. Then in 1821 and 1822 the last of the sonatas, which carry this form of pianoforte writing to a point which it had never previously reached, if since; and then the "Messe Solennelle," and the ninth symphony, the latter having been composed in 1822-1823. After this came the last quartettes for strings, compositions which have been much written about, but which time has shown to be among the most beautiful and understandable of all that great master produced.

Fig. 57.

BEETHOVEN.

Meanwhile, as a man Beethoven had been subject to his vicissitudes, but upon the whole, while no longer the popular composer of the day (his seriousness prevented that) he was in comfortable circumstances, but annoyed by the care of a nephew of irregular habits and reprehensible character. For many years now Beethoven had been getting deaf, and for the past ten or twelve he had been unable to hear ordinary conversation, so that communication had to be carried on with him by writing. Superficial observers inferred from this fact that the inability to hear his compositions must have reacted unfavorably upon them, and probably accounted for many passages which were unlike his early works, and unintelligible or unlovely to the critics aforesaid. It is true that between the early and the latest compositions of Beethoven there is a greater difference in intelligibility than between the early and the late compositions of any other master. But the difference is not one of judgment on his part, but purely one of different conception, different melodic structure and deeper effect. The ninth symphony, which the first players called impossible, has lived to be counted not simply the greatest of all of Beethoven's works, but the greatest of all instrumental music. It has been named as an impassable barrier beyond which no later composer might pass and compose an instrumental symphony. Nothing could be more unjust or mistaken. Every composition of Beethoven is a fantasia, which in his earlier work indeed has the form of the sonata, the accepted serious form of the day; but in the works of the middle period, the limits of the sonata form were crossed in many directions, and in the latest the sonata is forsaken entirely. But this is not to say that Beethoven had gone beyond the sonata form. Beethoven was an improviser in music, quite as surely as his wildest successor, Schumann, and he wrote as he felt at the time. He lost nothing in being deaf. His inner tonal sense was as acute as ever, and had been trained as the tonal sense of few composers ever was. In point of fact the compositions of the later period are as sweet as those of any former period whatever. The last sonata for the pianoforte is one of the most advanced compositions that exist for the instrument. It is a tone poem which will outlast most other things that Beethoven wrote for this instrument. In fact, the accuracy with which the capacity of the instrument is gauged is one of the most striking peculiarities of the last sonatas and other late works of this master. Meanwhile, piano technique has advanced to a point where these great works no longer present the insurmountable difficulties that they did when first composed. Their general acceptance has been delayed by the foolish notion that there was about them something sacred and secluded from the apprehension of ordinary readers. This is not the case. They are within reach, and repay study.

Beethoven's last days were not pleasant. He lived the life of a bachelor, and his nephew was a source of trouble. It is thought by many that the neglect of his nephew to order a physician in time, when requested to do so by his uncle, was the immediate occasion of the death of the great man. Beethoven died March 27, 1827, after a serious illness, in which dropsical symptoms were among the most troublesome. There was a grand funeral, in which impressive exercises were held, and the body was deposited in consecrated ground in the cemetery at Wahring, near Vienna.

The allusions to the compositions of this composer in the preceding pages are very fragmentary, and, in fact, are expected merely to direct attention to those mentioned. There are many others almost equally worthy of attention. But upon the whole, the reputation of Beethoven as a tone poet must rest first upon the nine symphonies; then upon the string quartettes and other chamber music; next upon the concertos, of which the third and fourth for pleasing beauty, and the fifth for deep poetical meaning, have never been equaled by those of any other composer. There remain the sonatas for pianoforte and for piano and violin, three large volumes, containing a multitude of exquisite strains, which the world would be poor indeed to lose.

In personal appearance Beethoven was rugged rather than pleasing. He was rather short, five feet five inches, but very wide across the shoulders, and strong. His ruddy face had high cheek bones, and was crowned by very thick hair, which originally was brown, but in later life perfectly white. His eyes were black and rather small, but very bright and piercing. His natural expression was grave, almost severe, but his smile was extremely winning, and he was jovial in humor. He was very fond of the country, walking in the fields, where under a tree he would lie for a half day together, humming the melodies which occurred to him, and making notes in the bits of blank paper which he always carried. These pocket note books have been preserved, and we find in them themes in crude form which he used for some important movement or other, often several years later. Among the works produced while this habit was strongest were the sixth and seventh symphonies, than which no works in music are more charming.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HE three masters, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, in relation to the symphony stand upon a plane of substantial equality, whether we estimate their merits according to the absolute worth of the compositions they produced in this form, or in the value of the additions which each in turn made to the ideal of his predecessor. Naturally, as the latest of the three, though so far contemporaneous with them as to form part of a single moment in the progress of art, the symphonies of Beethoven are greater in certain respects, and, as also was to have been expected from his general depth of mind and seriousness of purpose, they are perhaps somewhat more severe—or elevated—in style and sentiment. Nevertheless, the ideal of the three writers was but slightly different. All alike sought to weave tones into a succession of agreeable and beautiful combinations, related as representing a continued flight of spirit—a reverie of the beautiful. Haydn has the honor of having created the form. His fortunate innovation upon the traditions of his predecessors, by adding the second and contrasting theme, and his happy faculty of working out the middle part of the first movement thematically in a style of free fantasy based upon the various devices of counterpoint and canonic imitation, not only suggested to the later composers a way in which an endless variety of pleasing tone pictures might be created—but established, and demonstrated by the clearness with which he did it, and the ever fresh variety and charm of his works, that this was the way in which symphonic material must be put together. For further particulars relating to the sonata form, as such, the student is referred to my "Primer of Musical Forms" (Arthur P. Schmidt, Boston, 1891).

The form thus established by Haydn, Mozart accepted, and followed in all his symphonies, with few and unimportant variations. His additions to the general ideal of orchestral effect were in the direction of a sweeter cantilena, a vocal and song-like quality, which pervades every movement, and which in the slow movement rises to a height of refined and exquisite song never surpassed by any composer. Beethoven is often more impassioned; at times more forcible. But it is never possible to say of the pure spirit of Mozart, that this refined and gentle soul might not have broken mountains and shaken the hills if he had chosen to do so. His refinement is like that of a seraph, as we see it illustrated in the feminine-looking faces of the Greek Apollos, and the St. Michaels and archangels of Guido Reni and Raphael. It is free from passion and toil; but no man dares set a limit to the strength therein concealed. In the slow movements of the pianoforte sonatas of Mozart we do not find this quality so plainly manifested. The instrument was still too imperfect, and did not invite it. Moreover, the greater portion of these compositions bear the appearance of having been written for the use of amateurs. But in the string quartette and the symphonies it is different. Here the spirit of Mozart has free course, and he goes from one beauty to another, with the sure instinct of a master before whom all tonal kingdoms are wide open. This can be seen even in the pianoforte arrangements of the greater symphonies. The melodies, apparently so simple and diatonic, are susceptible of being sung with heartfelt fervor under the fingers of the violinist, or by the voice of the great singer, and when so sung they become transfigured with beauty—luminous from within, like lovely angel faces, glowing with radiance from the higher realms of bliss. Without this idea of singing, and more than this, of a pure spirit singing, the Mozart adagios are open to the charge often made against them in these later days by the unthinking, who find in them only the external peculiarities of simplicity and diatonic quality, with the unsensationalism which technical reserve implies.

Nor is it true that Beethoven is incapable of this elevated soaring in the higher realms of the merely beautiful in song. There is generally an undercurrent of deeper pathos in all his sustained slow movements, but in the earlier symphonies, especially in the second, there is a long slow movement of heavenly depth and quality. Indeed, without pausing to individualize we may say once for all that the slow movements of Beethoven are nearly as sweet and as forgetful, as rapturous, as those of Mozart. Even when he takes the lower key of the minor, with its implication of suffering and pain, there is still a sweetness, which once heard can never be forgotten. Think of the lovely allegretto of the seventh symphony, with its persistent motive of a quarter and two-eighths. Even in an arrangement for the pianoforte this is still impressive; upon the organ yet more so; but how much more so when given by the orchestra, with the lovely changing colors of Beethoven's instrumentation! The progress from Haydn's slow movement to that of Beethoven is in the direction of depth, self-forgetfulness, and elevated reverie, having in it a quality distinctly church-like, devotional, worshipful and reposeful in the heavenly sense. The finest example of this is in the slow movement of the ninth symphony of Beethoven, where the composer has one of those lofty moods, which even in his younger times Mrs. Von Breuning used to call his "raptus"—rapture of song.

In a technical point of view the handling of the themes becomes more masterly in Beethoven than even in Mozart—mainly perhaps because the symphonies of Beethoven represent a more mature point in his mental and artistic career than do those of Mozart. The third symphony of Beethoven was written in 1803, the composer being thirty-three years old; the fourth waited until he was thirty-five or six. Mozart died at the age of thirty-five, and whatever we have from his lofty pen came to the young Mozart, not yet having reached middle life. Observe also the rapidity with which these great works followed one another from the pen of Beethoven, when once he had found his voice. The fifth symphony was written in 1808. In the same year he wrote also the sixth; four years later, in 1812, the next two symphonies, the seventh and eight. Then a long pause, filled up with other works, and at length when the composer was fifty-three years of age, in 1823, the mighty ninth. If Mozart's life had been spared to enter into the more comfortable and dignified openings which his death prevented, what might we not have had from him!

In one sense there is a distinct difference between the symphonies of Mozart and those of Beethoven. The passionate ideal, the picture of a deep soul, tossed yet triumphant, is nearer to the latter. Whatever Mozart may have experienced in the way of "contradiction of sinners" (as St. Paul calls it), he never allows the fact to find entrance into his music, and especially into his symphonies. Whether he felt that these moments did not belong to a high ideal of orchestral pieces, or whether he was glad to find in the tone world forgetfulness of sorrows and troubles, we do not know. But Beethoven came nearer to the great time of the romantic. The inherent interest of whatever belongs to the human soul was an idea of his time, and unconsciously to himself, perhaps, it entered into and colored his work. The ninth symphony belongs to the period when Hegel was delivering his lectures upon the deepest questions of philosophy, and laying it down as a fundamental principle that it is the place of art to represent everything whatever, which sinks or swells in the human spirit; not alone all the noble and the lovely, but also the ignoble, the vicious, the unworthy, and particularly the tragic—to the end that the soul may learn to know itself, and awaken to a deeper and better self-consciousness. Beethoven felt the mental movement of his day. While his acquaintance with other prominent literary men of his time made little headway, owing in part to his deafness, and in part to his very strong self-consciousness, he read and thought, and felt himself akin with the whole human race. He was a socialist and a republican by instinct. "Man stands upon that which he really is," was a form of self-assertiveness, which, if not actually enunciated by him, at least represents his attitude toward the conventionalities and superficialities of the courts, the social orders, and the general movement of mind into which he entered. Moreover this was the time when the romantic poets of Germany had already set the world thinking their new ideas. Close by the great composer, in the same city in fact, worked a young man, worshiping almost the very ground upon which Beethoven walked, but for the most part unknown to him—Franz Schubert, who in the symphony was classic to the very highest degree, and a tone poet gifted lyrically not less than Mozart himself, a composer whose ideas have equal refinement and grace with those of Mozart, together with a certain charm peculiarly their own, and an instinct for musical coloration, which has never found its superior. This obscure young man, whose lofty genius was recognized only after his soul had taken its flight from earth, was the founder of the modern romantic school of music—the musical commentator upon the productions of all the best of German poets; a composer of such inexhaustible fertility and melodic inspiration that Schumann said of him, that if he had lived he would have set to music the whole German literature. Thus by the combined efforts of all these composers, of Schubert no less than of the three great masters of whom we are more particularly speaking, the symphony came to its full expression.

In their relation to the sonata, these three great masters do not stand in the same position of quasi-equality. Haydn is here the first, as already in the symphony. But in his sonatas he is always rather hampered, and never attains the flow of his slow melodies for the violin. Mozart, also, while a beautiful player upon the pianoforte of his day, did not possess the prescience of Beethoven, who was able to see over the pianoforte of his time and write as if he felt the assurance of the nobler and yet nobler instruments of these later times. Here he stands with Bach, who in his great Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue requires and confidently expects the breadth of tone and the power of the modern piano. It was Beethoven's fortune to live during the early days of the modern instrument. Just after his death the era of virtuoso piano playing began, the first appearances of Thalberg having been made as early as about 1830. He was himself a great pianist, as we see in the concertos which he wrote, always intending to play them at some concert or other in near prospect. Occasionally indeed he overshot his mark, as notably in the fifth, which, being finished just before his concert in 1809, he found too difficult for his fingers, whereupon he was obliged to fall back on the third. Moreover, the pianists Hummel and Dussek were already before the public, and Clementi had made his concert tours, and established the lines of the classical technique upon its brilliant side. All these influences find their illustration in the music of Beethoven, and especially find illustration in the last and greatest of his pianoforte sonatas. These beautiful tone poems were long regarded as impossible. But the genius of Schumann and Liszt came to their rescue by introducing a new style of touch and technique, which, when once found, proved to be the link missing for the proper interpretation of these till then obscure works.

Moreover, Beethoven occupied a different attitude toward the sonata form from that which he held to the symphony. He deviated from the sonata form in every direction, and this not alone in his later works, when we might suppose he had become wearied with the repetition of his ideas in the same order, but in his works of middle life, when as yet he might apparently have gone on writing sonatas indefinitely, so fresh, so novel and so varied were the tone pictures which he gave the world under this name. He seems to have regarded music as an improvisation, not to be held to some one fixed type of expression, but free to go wherever the fancy of the poet took him, to the end that the entire heavens of the tone world might in time be visited. He expects of his readers an element of the devotee. It is not for amateurs that he writes, still less for the votaries of fashionable society, with its emptiness and repeated insincerities. There is a suggestion of entering into the closet, and of shutting the door, as a prerequisite to the full enjoyment of these ineffable pictures and images which come from his revelation.

In the present full-grown faith in the doctrine of the capacity of man for a development continually progressive, it would be presumptuous to say that the three composers, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, have reached the limit of art, so far as instrumental music goes. In the nature of the case, there is not, nor can there be an Ultima Thule in art. Whatever the splendor of color, the nobility of conception, or the sincerity and loyalty of purpose, and however resplendent the works created by these exceptional talents, there is reason to hope that better works still may yet be in store. Stronger and yet stronger imaginations, more perfect technique of expression and finer inspiration, may yet be the lot of fortunate individuals of the twentieth century, inheriting the richly diversified musical experiences of the present time. But in one direction there is little doubt that these three great masters did carry the art of instrumental music to a pinnacle beyond which no one as yet has been able to soar. They represent the climax of classical art. In the nature of the case, the term classical itself is subject to an element of uncertainty. According to the philosopher Hegel, the classical is that art in which the form is beautiful and wholly satisfactory in symmetry, while the content exactly matches it in fullness and beauty. Or, in ordinary usage, the classical is the first-class, the superior, the highly finished, the standard. And since music is a matter of sense perception, and the impressions resulting from it are in some degree dependent upon the ability of the hearer to find the principles of unity (in other words, "the sense of it"), every generation extends the list of the classical, and includes much which the preceding one found imperfect and strained. So far as our knowledge and experience have yet gone, however, there is a sense in which the productions of these great masters are likely to remain long unmatched in beauty and worth.

Nothing has been done since that surpasses the sustained beauty of the Beethoven adagios, of which we find the most beautiful specimens naturally among the orchestral pieces and in the chamber music, where he could depend upon the long phrases and sustained tones of the violins. But in the sonatas for pianoforte he is equally at home. He seems to have foreseen the possibilities of the modern piano. In his latest sonatas there are passages which foresee the modern technique, and suggest effects which only the pianoforte of the past thirty years has been capable of attaining. This is the prophetic element in the writings of this great master.

The same difference in the sweep of mind shows itself in the lighter movements. In the minuets Haydn is playful, Mozart is occasionally tender and arch; Beethoven alone is vigorous and humoristic in the modern sense. And, in the finales of the sonatas there is a movement in those of Beethoven which we look for in vain in those of the older composers. It was not in Haydn, nor yet in Mozart, to play with tones in this masterly spirit.

Hence the true relation of these great masters might be summed up without intending to be disrespectful to either, as the following: Haydn provided the form, the order of keys and the general character of the contrasts between the two subjects. Mozart invented a myriad of tender nuances which illustrated the fine points of music, and imparted to the works a sweetness and pleasing quality which everybody recognized as irresistible. Beethoven added to these ingredients of popular music a depth, a soulful quality, an earnestness and a universal intelligibility to spirits of the necessary depth, which have stood to all the world ever since as models. Such, in general, are the points of relation and of contrast.

It is not to be overlooked, however, that the tendency of musical taste is to leave the works of Mozart behind. Haydn is gaining ground, relatively, through the admiration of musicians for the cleverness with which he treats themes. Beethoven holds his own by reason of his vigorous personality, which is to be felt in every page of his music. Mozart, however, appeals less to the taste of the present time, and his pianoforte works are now cultivated chiefly for technical purposes, in the earlier stages of study.

CHAPTER XXIX.

PON the musical side, and in one instance upon the dramatic side as well, there were three great forces in opera during this century. The first of these in order of time was Karl Heinrich Graun (1701-1759). A native of Dresden, he was educated there, and having early a beautiful voice became treble singer to the town council—a curious name for a position in the leading church. He profited by the instruction of the official directors of the choir and the church, Petzold and Schmidt, and very early he was an enthusiastic student of the compositions of the Hamburg director, Keiser, whose style influenced his own in his later work. Lotti, the Italian composer, who conducted a series of performances in Dresden with a picked company of Italian singers, was another force operative in his development. He early commenced to write cantatas and motettes for the seminary, of which he was a member, all of which show traces of the Italian influences. In particular his biographer speaks of a Passion cantata, in which an opening chorus, "Lasset uns aufsehen auf Jesum," is singularly forcible for the work of a boy of fifteen. His first entrance upon operatic work was as tenor, when he was scarcely twenty-four years of age. Being dissatisfied with the music of his part (written by one Schurmann, a local director), he substituted other airs of his own composition, which were so popular that he was commissioned to write an opera, and was appointed assistant director. His first opera, "Polliodoro," was successful, and he was commissioned to write five others, some in Italian, some in German. Besides these he composed several cantatas for church use, and several instrumental pieces. In 1735 he was invited to the residence of the crown prince of Prussia, afterward Frederick the Great. This powerful potentate remained Graun's friend and patron until his death. Here, among other works, he composed fifty Italian cantatas, usually consisting of two airs with recitative. In 1740 Frederick came to the throne, and gave Graun the post of musical director, with a salary of $2,000. Selecting his singers in Italy, where his singing was very highly appreciated, he returned to Berlin and assumed the duties of his position. Here he composed no less than twenty-seven operas, the last being in 1756, all in the Italian style, in so far as a German might master it, and all making the singer the prime person of consideration, and the listener next. The poet took whatever of opportunity these two might not have needed. His best talent both as singer and as composer lay in his power of expressing emotion in adagios. In this respect he had, no doubt, more influence upon the development of the lyric slow movement than he has generally been credited with. Later in his life he turned once more to church music, and in his cantatas, and especially in his oratorio, "Der Tod Jesu" ("The Death of Jesus"), a Passion oratorio, he made a distinct impression upon the practices of his successors. In Germany this work is held in nearly the same affection as the "Messiah," of Händel, in England. Graun's influence upon the later course of opera, besides the adagio aria already mentioned, lay principally in his accompaniments, which were often strong and highly dramatic.

Fig. 60.

The great operatic mind of this century, and one of the greatest of all time, was that of Christopher Willibald von Gluck (1714-1785). By the middle of the eighteenth century the influence of the Italian composers, helped out by the superficial German composers, such as Graun and Hasse, had reduced the Italian opera to a collection of mere showpieces of singing, the arias having indeed an excuse in the story, but the action of the drama had been lost entirely, owing to the long stretches of time needed for these elaborate arias and the recalls to which they inevitably gave rise. During these pauses the action ceased entirely, as we see at the present day in many Italian operas still current—as in the "mad scene" from "Lucia," for instance. In that scene where everything ought to be wild excitement, the chorus singers, representing the relatives and friends of poor Lucia, stand around while she sings long cadenzas with the flute, in such trying relationships as would test the vocal technique of a sane person. In the time of Gluck this abuse had reached about the same height, and to make the matter less bearable, the Italian composers had not yet attained the art of expressing sentiment simply and directly, but were intent upon sweet-sounding trivialities calculated to please the groundlings, but of little or no relation to the drama. Gluck sought to restore the ideal of the original inventors of opera, with such unconscious modification as had been made meanwhile. But before undertaking this he had to undergo the usual long and severe apprenticeship of reformers. In his time the rules for a composer had become well settled, every personage must have his or her aria immediately upon their first entrance. The character of the arias had been well settled. There was the aria cantabile, a flowing melody, very lightly accompanied, affording opportunity for embellishments; the aria di portamento, introducing long swelling notes, affording the singer opportunity for illustrating his length of breath and sustaining power. And so on with several other forms of aria. The part of hero, whether male or female, was assigned to a man, an artificial soprano, although it might be a hero—like Hercules, for example. The subject had to be classical, and the dénouement happy. There were invariably six principal characters, three men and three women. The first woman was always a high soprano; the second or third a contralto; the first man, always the hero of the piece, an artificial soprano. The second man might be an artificial soprano or a contralto. The third man might be a bass or tenor. But it was not at all unusual to confide all the male parts to artificial sopranos. Each principal character claimed the right to sing an aria in each of the three acts of the drama. Each scene ended with an aria of some one of the classes already mentioned, but no two arias of the same class were permitted to follow each other. Gluck was the reformer destined by the fates to rectify some of these artificial traditions. He was educated at the Jesuit seminary in Komotow, and later in Prague. He was engaged in the musical forces of Prince Melzi, who took him to Italy, where he became a pupil of the famous Italian composer and teacher, Sammartini. To this fact, no doubt, is due his early attachment to the Italian opera.

Here he wrote several operas, all more or less in the Italian style as he had been taught it, and as he heard it upon every hand. His first work, "Artaserse," the book by Metastasio, was produced with such success in Milan, in 1741, that he presently wrote several others for other Italian theaters. For Venice in 1741, "Demetrio," and "Ipermestra"; for Cremona, "Artamene" (1743); for Turin, "Alessandro nelle Indie" (1745); for Milan, "Demofoonte," "Siface" and "Fedra" (1742-1744); in all, eight operas in five years. None of these works in their complete form are now in existence; fragments alone have been preserved. If any inference is justified from these extracts the style throughout was that of the Italian opera of the day.

The fame of Gluck had now extended to England, and in 1745 he was invited to London to compose operas for the Haymarket theater. He came and wrote the year following (1746) "La Caduta de Giganti," after which he produced the Cremona opera. Händel assisted at the production of these two operas, and is reported to have said that the author knew no more of counterpoint than a pig. Naumann thinks that Gluck learned much from hearing Händel's oratorios in England, and that his subsequent deeper and nobler dramatic style was formed upon these great models. The two operas produced in London made but a moderate success, and Gluck was commissioned to write a "pasticcio" or medley of styles. He did so, imitating all styles according to the best of his ability, but it made no better effect than the works before it. This was the turning point in his career. The failure mortified him deeply, and led him to reflect concerning the nature of dramatic music. On his way back to Vienna he passed through Paris, where he heard certain operas of Rameau, which also influenced his style later. The declamation and the dramatic treatment of the recitative were the points upon which his attention principally dwelt. Upon reaching Vienna he wrote a number of instrumental pieces, bearing the name of symphonies, pieces which in no way differed from the conventional music of the day. The Haydn symphony had not yet been invented, and the form was wholly indeterminate. There was an opera in this year; also a love affair. Gluck was deeply in love with the beautiful and charming daughter of a rich merchant, who upon no account would consent to her marriage with a musician. So Gluck went back to Italy, and there he wrote another opera, rather better in quality than his previous ones. Early in 1750 the inexorable parent died, and late in the year Gluck married the woman of his choice, who made him a model wife, being educated above the average of her times, and entering into his ideals and aspirations with ever ready sympathy. Her wealth also placed the composer in an easy position as regarded the world, and permitted him to devote himself to study. For nearly ten years following Gluck produced occasionally an opera, but as yet the man had not arrived; all these were early and apprentice works. At length in 1762 was produced his first master work, "Orpheus and Eurydice," the libretto having been written by the imperial councillor Calzabigi. The novelty of this great work was not above the appreciation of the Viennese public of the day. "Orpheus" made a decided success. Its principal innovations consisted in its more powerful instrumentation, the introduction of a chorus having an integral part in the movement of the piece, and in the highly dramatic treatment of the second act, where Orpheus descends into the lower world to seek his lost love. Nevertheless, the composer had not reached true self-consciousness. A retrogression followed. He went back to Metastasio, and in conjunction with him produced three or four small operas, all in his earlier style. But in 1767 he returned to Calzabigi, and upon a libretto of his wrote "Alceste" which was produced at the Vienna opera house in 1767 with vastly more success than "Orpheus." The story is that of the tragedy of Euripides, and the music is exclusively severe and tragic. The public was divided concerning the merit of the new work. Already the notion of a music of the future had been conceived, and the notion suggested that only in a more self-forgetful future would a work of such severity and of such lofty aim find acceptance.

In the dedicatory epistle to the duke of Tuscany, prefixed to the score, Gluck defines his intentions. He says: "I seek to put music to its true purpose; that is, to support the poem, and thus to strengthen the expression of the feelings and the interest of the situation, without interrupting the action. I have therefore refrained from interrupting the actor in the fervor of his dialogue by introducing the accustomed tedious ritournelle; nor have I broken his phrase at an opportune vowel that the flexibility of his voice might be exhibited in a lengthy flourish; nor have I written phrases for the orchestra to afford the singer opportunity to take a long breath preparatory to the accepted flourish; nor have I dared to hurry over the second part of an aria, when such contained the passion and the most important matter, to find myself in accord with the conventional repeat of the same phrase four times. As little have I permitted myself to close an aria where the sense was incomplete, solely to afford the singer an opportunity of introducing a cadenza. In short, I have striven to abolish all these bad habits, against which sound reasoning and true taste have been struggling now for so long in vain."

There were several numbers in "Alceste" which exercised an influence upon subsequent composers, among the more notable being the speech of the oracle, which Mozart must have had in mind in writing the commandatore's reply to Don Giovanni; and the sacrificial march, which probably influenced the priests' march in the "Magic Flute." Gluck was forty-eight when he wrote "Orpheus," and fifty-three when "Alceste" appeared.

Galled by the criticisms of his countrymen, and encouraged by the friendship of the French ambassador, Gluck now went to Paris, where his operas were presently brought out, but with the same varying favor as at home. Marie Antoinette, who had been his pupil, befriended him and granted him a pension of 6,000 francs. Thus supported, he brought out still another grand opera in the French language, "Iphigenie en Aulide," produced at Paris in 1774. In this work classical severity was scrupulously observed, and the opera is full of telling points of dramatic musical coloration. In "Armide," 1777, he endeavored to show that he was equally at home in richly conceived sensuous music, and succeeded so well that the famous controversy was precipitated with the Italian composer, Piccini, who had just arrived in Paris, preparatory to bringing out his opera of "Roland." Volumes were written in praise of Italian music, and in disparagement of the roughnesses of that of Gluck. On the other hand, the friends of Gluck stood up for him manfully, and the contest raged fiercely—with the usual result of thoroughly advertising the music of both. Gluck's last opera for Paris was "Iphigenie en Tauride," 1779, the same subject already having been treated by his rival Piccini. The superiority of Gluck's was incontestable. He died at Vienna, of apoplexy, November 15, 1787.

Gluck's place in art has been well summed up by Padre Martini, and the opinion is all the more worthy of attention from the general charge of Gluck's enemies that his music had overturned the traditions of pure Italian art. He says: "All the finest qualities of Italian, and many of those of French music, with the great beauties of the German orchestra, are united in his work." This is tantamount to crediting Gluck with having created a cosmopolitan music—which is precisely the position which posterity has assigned him. For the time when he wrote, his music is wonderfully fine. It still retains its vitality, as has been vividly shown in several revivals of his "Orpheus" within recent years, in two of which (in America and in Italy) the American prima donna, Mme. Helène Hastreiter, has nobly distinguished herself.

The third force alluded to at the outset of the chapter, as having been mainly influential in German opera during the eighteenth century (and until our own time, it might be added), was Mozart, whose works have already received attention in former pages of the narrative. It must suffice here to remind the reader of the successes and qualities of his operas, in order that he may be remembered in this connection; for, like Gluck, his art was cosmopolitan, having in it the sweetness of the Italian, the richness of the German, and occasional traces of the declamation of the French.