Anecdotes of Great Musicians

Front matter

ANECDOTES

OF

GREAT MUSICIANS.

Table of Contents

CONTENTS.

|NO. | |PAGE

|88. | A Basso's Wit, | |86

1.—The Gregorian Chant

1.—THE GREGORIAN CHANT.

There have been musical antagonisms in all ages of the world. Church and State have joined in them as well as individuals. But not all of them had as judicious an arbiter as had the dispute between the French and Roman singers on the occasion of a visit of Charlemagne to Rome to celebrate Holy Week, about the year 803, A.D. This most Catholic magnate had taken with him his choir; and the Gallic singers soon started a controversy with the choristers of the Roman Church, claiming to sing better and more agreeably than the Italians.

But the Roman choristers knew that their style of music was in direct descent from St. Gregory, and accused the Gauls of corrupting and disfiguring the true ecclesiastical style.

Finally this dispute between the singers of the good King Charles and those of Pope Adrian waxed so warm that the King thought it time to take a hand and end the hostilities. He called his singers before him and asked them whether they thought the water of a fountain would be purest at its source, or after it had run a good distance and been mixed with other streams. Of course, they answered that the nearer to the source the purer the water. The King then exclaimed, "Mount ye then up to the pure fountain of St. Gregory, whose chant ye have manifestly corrupted."

On his return to France, Charlemagne took with him, at his request and by the appointment of Pope Adrian, two singers learned in the true ecclesiastical mode. He stationed one at Metz and the other at Soissons. The Pope also sent choral books which had been written by Gregory, so that these teachers, who had themselves studied under him, could correct the French books. The King ordered all singing masters in the kingdom to be taught by these Roman monks and to conform their books and teaching to the Gregorian antiphonal.

2.—The Bach Revival

2.—THE BACH REVIVAL.

One of Mendelssohn's ardent friends in his youthful days was Edward Devrient, a thorough musician and an excellent singer. These friends used to delve into the music of "Old Bach" and revel in the learning displayed there. One day they resolved to take up the old cantor's "Passion Music," which had not been heard for a hundred years and which was, even to such good musicians as they, known by name only.

They became enchanted with the beauties of this lofty masterpiece, and Devrient enthusiastically declared it ought to be given in public. Mendelssohn at first ridiculed the suggestion, saying the public would not give it a cordial reception and that it was sure to be a failure. But after talking it over, Mendelssohn became as enthusiastic on the subject as was his friend. So the two young fellows—for Mendelssohn was then only eighteen—went to see Zelter, Mendelssohn's teacher, the most influential musician in Berlin.

After considerable argument, they convinced Zelter of the feasibility of their plan, and, securing his promise of co-operation, went home to begin the arduous labors that such a performance entails on manager and conductor. They had to secure the soloists, the double chorus, and the double orchestra demanded by the score. Dev himself sang the part allotted to "Christ," and Mendelssohn conducted.

It is needless to say that the performance (given in 1829) was a success. A repetition was demanded; and not Berlin alone, but the whole musical world began to realize that in Sebastian Bach's great works there was a mine of wealth that would be unexhausted for ages. And it was to these young men, Mendelssohn especially, that we owe our knowledge and appreciation of the Leipzig cantor's masterwork of sacred music.

But Mendelssohn did not stop with this. Through his efforts there was erected a fine monument to Bach's memory, which perpetuates the face and figure of this fountain head of modern music. It was erected in 1842, in front of the "Thomas Schule" in which Bach taught, and facing the windows of his study.

3.—Why We Should Sing

3.—WHY WE SHOULD SING.

It is generally admitted that there is a beneficial physiological side to the matter of singing as well as that of entertainment and musical pleasure. Long and learned articles on this subject come from erudite pens; but we venture that it would be hard to find anything more unique in this line than the "Reasons briefely set downe by th' auctor, to perswade euery one to learne to sing," given in William Byrd's "Psalmes, Sonets, and songs of Sadnes and Pietie," published in England in 1588.

These reasons that are "briefely set downe" are as follows:—

First, It is a knowledge easily taught, and quickly learned, when there is a good Master and an apt Scoller.

2. The exercise of singing is delightfull to nature, and good to preserue the health of Man.

3. It doth strengthen all parts of the brest, and doth open the pipes.

4. It is a singuler good remedie for a stutting and stamering in the speech.

5. It is the best means to procure a perfect pronunciation, and to make a good Orator.

6. It is the only way to know when Nature hath bestowed the benefit of a good Voyce which guift is so rare, as there is not one among a thousand, that hath it; and in many, that excellent guift is lost, because they want Art to expresse Nature.

7. There is not any Musicke of Instruments whatsoeuer, comparable to that which is made of the Voyces of Men, where the voyces are good, and the same well sorted and ordered.

8. The better the voyce is, the meeter it is to honor and serue God therewith; and the voyce of man is chiefly to be employed to that ende.

Since singing is so good a thing I wish all men would learne to singe.

4.—Glimpses of Cherubini

4.—GLIMPSES OF CHERUBINI.

Cherubini was a gruff old fellow, but occasionally a bit of kindness or humor came to the surface, and then he showed the better side of his nature. He was one day met, at the Paris Conservatoire, of which he was the head, by a father who came bringing his talented son to gain admission to the institution. Cherubini exclaimed, when the man had told his errand, "What do you want? I do not take infants to nurse!"

The father was about to give up his attempt, but was told to take the boy to a certain room and have him play whatever he could think of, and not to stop when Cherubini came into the room. Soon the Director came in. Hearing the boy play, he was astonished at the talent and youth of the performer, and proceeded to question him on the principles of music. The result was that he at once admitted the boy to the Conservatoire. Cherubini afterward, in telling others about the affair, said, "I had to be very careful about pushing the questions too far; for the baby was beginning to prove to me that he knew more about music than I do myself."

When Berlioz was a student in the Conservatoire, he was generally at sword's points with the crusty director. Once, on examination day, Cherubini was running over a piece which Berlioz had submitted, when he came upon a complete rest of two measures.

"What is that?" he asked, in his usual ill-natured tone.

"Mr. Director," said the pupil, "I wish to produce an effect which I thought could best be produced by silence."

"Ah, you thought it would produce a good effect upon the audience if you suppressed two measures?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good. Suppress the rest; the effect will be better still!"

As an instance of Cherubini's curt wit, the following little conversation is cited:—

One day a friend handed a score to Cherubini, saying it was by Mehul. After looking it over he exclaimed:—

"It is not Mehul's; it is too bad to be his."

"Then will you believe me if I tell you it is mine?" said the visitor, and Cherubini replied:—

"No! It is too good to be yours."

5.—Discovering a Nightingale

5.—DISCOVERING A NIGHTINGALE.

Many years ago, in 1827, there lived in an almshouse in the old city of Stockholm a little six-year-old girl, who had been put in charge of an old woman who, by the way, was none too kind to the orphan in her care. When her guardian went out to earn her daily pittance, this little maid was locked in the house to prevent her wandering about; and so the lonesome little Johanne was deprived of the bright sunshine and the sight of the beautiful trees and flowers so beloved by every Swedish heart.

One day she had worked over the little tasks assigned her until she was tired, and oh! how she longed to get out into the open air. But no, the door was locked. No wonder she poured out her childish grief in tears. Soon her sole companion caught her eye, and, taking up her half-starved pussy, she rocked her pet until they both fell asleep. When she awoke the sun had gone well down. Fearing the scolding she was sure to get when the old dame came home, the child caught up her work and began to sing in a sweet voice that seemed far too old for a girl of her age.

While she went on with her singing it happened that a lady of high rank was passing the house; and so struck was she by the clear, sweet tones, that she stopped her carriage to listen. On caroled the little songstress, perfectly unconscious of her audience, till she was startled by a knock at the door. She could not open it, but some kind neighbor told the fair visitor about the little prisoner. The kind-hearted lady came back afterward and secured the child admission to a school and later to the Royal Theater classes. As the girl grew older her talent developed, until as the "Swedish Nightingale" she was known the world over. Do you recognize in her—Jenny Lind?

6.—Balfe's Strange Room Mate

6.—BALFE'S STRANGE ROOM MATE.

The composer of the popular "Bohemian Girl" once had an experience that he did not care to duplicate. Landladies are not supposed to be very sentimental beings, at least toward their lodgers, but have the reputation of being business-like and matter-of-fact; but the one who caused this peculiar occurrence, in which Balfe was an interested party, certainly stood at the head of the procession in her delight in silver rather than sentiment.

Balfe and other musicians were engaged for a short time in some musical doings on the outskirts of London, and rather than go back and forth from the city each day, they decided to take rooms for the time in that neighborhood. But apartments were scarce, and the genial Irishman was compelled to take what offered at a house not any too prepossessing in its external appearance. It was quite late. The landlady was uncertain whether there were any spare rooms or not, but left him standing in the hall-way while she went to see if she could arrange a room for him. Finally she returned and told him in a confused way that his apartment was ready.

Tired by the day's labor, he soon fell asleep without examining the room, but early the next morning proceeded to make a tour of his apartment. He had not gone far before he discovered in a closet opening from his room—a corpse, which had evidently been put in its cramped quarters in great haste.

Balfe stopped not on the order of his going, but took his departure, thankful, however, that he had not made the discovery in the moonlight of the night before. The old lady had evidently been unable to withstand the temptation to make a little ready cash, and summarily deprived the body of her deceased relative of its temporary resting place, and Balfe had calmly stepped in and taken its place. He used to joke over the landlady's eye to business, but that experience so impressed him that he never occupied a strange room without making an examination prior to sleeping in it.

7.—Berlioz and Paganini

7.—BERLIOZ AND PAGANINI.

Berlioz was no exception to the majority of composers in the matter of finances. In fact, it was a continual struggle for him to keep the pot boiling, and he could only do so by his literary work. But his genius and need were recognized in other quarters. He gave a concert in which he conducted his great "Childe Harold" Symphony and achieved much success. After the concert, when the composer had sat down to rest, there came to him a tall, dark man, thin as a skeleton, and, kneeling down before the whole orchestra, he kissed Berlioz's hand. It was Paganini!

The next morning Paganini's son brought to Berlioz a letter, saying, "Papa wants you not to read this letter until you are alone," and then the little fellow vanished. When Berlioz opened the letter he found it to be from Paganini, saying that, Beethoven being dead, Berlioz alone could revive him, and asked Berlioz to accept the enclosure as Paganini's homage to his greatness. The enclosure was an order on the firm of Rothschild for 20,000 francs. Berlioz was delighted with this princely gift, and wrote and tore up four letters before he could get one that would sufficiently express his thanks. The eight hundred pounds served him a good turn, even if he never found out that it was not out of Paganini's pocket-book. He had the money and the violinist the credit of giving it.

8.—History Repeats Itself

8.—HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF.

This old saying is particularly true of musical anecdote and story. Of course, it must be that history really does repeat itself, for certainly no one could be so heartless as to charge the enterprising manager or the penny-a-liner, sadly in need of copy, with hunting among old tales for one to apply to modern favorites. Munsey's Magazine for December ('93) gives the following incident:—

"A touching incident is recorded among the experiences of Madame Melba (now singing in New York) last year at Palermo. It was during a performance of 'Lucia.' The diva was changing her costume between the acts, when a lady appeared in her dressing-room. After complimenting her on her singing, the stranger took up in one hand some strands of Madame Melba's hair, which was flowing loose over her shoulders, and asked:—

Is this all your own?'

"Upon being satisfied on this point the visitor continued:—

Allow me, Madame Melba, since I have no wreath of flowers to offer you, to twine you one with your own beautiful tresses.'

"This she did, trilling a bar or two of music meanwhile, for the visitor was none other than Christine Nilsson."

It seemed to me that the above incident had about it the flavor of antiquity, and turning to an English work published several years ago, I find the following: "On the occasion of her second visit to Naples in 1835, an incident occurred which afforded Madame Persiani deep gratification. During the representation of 'Lucia' she was one evening changing her costume between the acts, when a lady entered her dressing-room, and after a few general compliments on her singing, took in her hands the long, fair tresses which floated in wild profusion over the shoulders of the cantatrice, asking if they were really her own.

"Madame Persiani laughingly invited her to satisfy herself on this point, when the visitor said with a smile, 'Allow me, Signora, since I have no wreath of flowers to offer you, to twine you one with your own beautiful tresses,' and she did so.

"Madame Persiani's heart beat with pride and joy, for it was Malibran, 'the greatest singer of the day,' who spoke."

9.—The Greatest Musical Prodigy

9.—THE GREATEST MUSICAL PRODIGY.

The receipt from London of a musical work edited many years ago by Dr. William Crotch calls to mind the fact that nowhere do we find record of a more remarkable exhibition of musical genius in a mere baby than in the case of this same person in his early years. He was born in 1775, and when but two years of age showed a great enjoyment in music, and could pick out on the organ keys such tunes as "God Save the King." He would also play little melodies of his own, supplying them with a simple but correct harmony.

He played before the King, royal family, and other titled personages of England, and was greeted with admiring wonder wherever his talents were displayed by his proud parents. At the age of four years he had frequently appeared in public. He could name any tone heard by him, and took great delight in pleasant harmonies, though he could not hear a discord without expressing disgust. Mozart was, in his youth, a great prodigy, but his genius was not of so early development as that of little William Crotch. Mozart became one of the greatest composers; but Crotch, though he was granted the degree of Doctor of Music in 1799 by Oxford University, and though regarded as a great musician in his day, is now almost unknown to the musical world.

10.—A Test of Precocity

10.—A TEST OF PRECOCITY.

The youthful Mozart was not the greatest prodigy known to history, but he was one of the few whose early precocity did not lead to expectations which were disappointed in later life. His musical life was a continual growth. Great stories were told of his marvelous abilities, and some of them were doubtless exaggerated. But every claim that was put forth by himself or by the parents of this wonder-child he could fulfill.

The Archbishop of Salzburg had it in his power to benefit the art of all succeeding time by granting proper patronage to Mozart, but this the churlish old fellow declined to do. He even declared that the boy Mozart was a fraud, and in the interests of art and religion he would unmask him. His plan was to confine the young genius in a closed room, give him pens, ink, paper and the necessary words, and to hold him prisoner there until he should have composed a mass. The Mozarts, father and son, consented to the trial, knowing it was entirely within the boy's powers. For more than a week did he stay in that room, seeing no one save the servant who brought his meals: At the end of this time he sent to the bishop his composition, which, after trial by the court band, the bishop ordered to be placed in the repertoire of the cathedral choir. But even after this display of genius the prelate was lacking in that appreciation of art which would have led him to become a beneficent patron.

11.—Irish Enthusiasm

11.—IRISH ENTHUSIASM.

On the last night of her series of performances at Dublin, in 1868, Mdlle. Titiens was the recipient of such an ovation as is seldom given even to those petted beings, operatic prime donne.

At the close of the aria, "Ocean, Thou Mighty Monster," in Weber's "Oberon," the audience rose en masse, some calling for a repetition and others for favorite Irish songs. The uproar continued for ten or fifteen minutes before quiet could be restored, and then the diva decided to sing the favorite, "Last Rose of Summer." But the orchestra had no music for the song and a further delay ensued. Finally, Signor Bettini was seen pushing a small piano out on the stage, and meanwhile Titiens assisted the conductor to climb up out of the orchestra. In turning the piano around the slant of the stage caused it to tip over. Now, behind the wings were the rest of the company waiting to go on with the next scene. Among them were several attired as demons. On the upsetting of the piano out rushed half a dozen devils to set things straight—an unusual occupation for the satanic brood.

Again silence was secured, and this time Titiens finished her song. At its close the uproarious applause was again indulged in.

But after the opera came the climax. The crowd of students who had filled the gallery hastened to the stage entrance, cut the traces of her carriage, and tied in their places two long ropes. These were grasped by two files of shouting students. The prima donna entered her carriage and was in this way escorted down the street, the crowd continually being augmented by new arrivals. Several had supplied themselves with fireworks, and the whole thing had the effect of a triumphal procession.

When the strings of volunteer horses arrived at a corner, owing to there being no agreement concerning the route, one set turned one way, and the other in an opposite direction. The result was that the carriage containing Titiens, and her escorts came to a sudden and forcible stop against a building. But after some parley both teams agreed to unite on the same direction.

When, finally, they arrived at her hotel the enthusiastic students threw their coats on the pavement from the carriage to the doorway, over which the diva passed to her rooms. The crowd remained around the hotel for over an hour, making continual calls for a song, and their numbers were so great that the police were unable to disperse them.

Though Titiens darkened her rooms to give the impression that she had gone to bed, still they remained.

Finally a police official came up and said that unless Madame would assist in dispersing the crowd the consequences might be disastrous. So Titiens consented to try. She went to her window and motioned for silence. Then, addressing the crowd, she said:—

"I will sing you the 'Last Rose of Summer' providing you will promise to go home at once and be as quiet as mice."

Then, a second time for that evening, did she sing the old song; and, to the surprise of the people in the hotel, the mob melted away like magic, without another sound.

The police official declared that if ever a mob broke out in Ireland he should send for Mdlle. Titiens as the person who would most probably be successful in quelling it. The manager, Colonel Mapleson, and the prima donna had to pay well for the enthusiasm of their admirers, for the jolly Irishmen forgot to return the horses they took from the carriage, and the owner sent the bill to the manager.

12.—Playing Like "Zwei Gotts"

12.—PLAYING LIKE "ZWEI GOTTS."

De Pachmann, the pianist, is so full of whimsicalities, of grimaces and odd doings, and withal is such a superb player, that he has been characterized by one epigrammatic writer as "having the soul of an angel in the body of an ape," and by another as "a combination of specialized wisdom and undifferentiated dam-foolism."

An instance of this latter element of his character took place after a recent recital of his in New York. A pianist of some note went on the stage to congratulate him on his brilliant performance. He found De Pachmann pacing up and down the stage exclaiming in fury:—

"Ach Gott! Dese Ameriken beeples, how dey do—dey know not museek! I vill go back to my Jermamie. Here dey know notings. I blay like von Gott and vat dey do?"

Taking his hand, the visitor tried to assuage his wrath by saying, "Yes, yes, Mr. Pachmann, you did play like a god."

Whereupon the irrepressible combination of egotism and genius burst forth:—

"Blay like von gott! I blay like zwei gotts, and dey do notings!"

13.—A Sudden Cure

13.—A SUDDEN CURE.

He who undertakes to manage an opera troupe chooses a road beset by thorns. Opera singers, especially if their salaries be high and they feel they can afford to follow their own sweet wills, generally do about the exact opposite of what a sensible person would predict. The manager must be ready for any emergency and be surprised at nothing.

Some years ago when Mme. Gerster was billed to sing in St. Louis, she suddenly sent word to the manager that she was ill and unable to sing her part in "Lucia," which must be given that evening. He suspected the indisposition to be not very serious, but requested a medical certificate to put before the public to satisfy them for the non-appearance of the songstress. Gerster declined to be seen by a physician, saying her word was as good as her bond, and that when she said she was ill, that settled it.

The manager insisted upon calling in a physician, who asked to see her tongue. So, as she was leaving the room, she derisively stuck out her tongue at him, with the exclamation, "There!" The doctor at once wrote out a certificate, saying that the epiglottis was irritated, the uvula contracted, and the tonsils inflamed.

When Gerster was shown this certificate she grew quite angry, and insisted upon singing that night, "just to show what an ass that doctor was."

All the same, the doctor sent in his bill for $60.

14.—Ole Bull at "Rouge et Noir"

14.—OLE BULL AT "ROUGE-ET-NOIR."

Ole Bull first visited Paris in 1831. He was then twenty-one years of age, and had left his native country to make his journey to the French capital on foot, feeling that he must get a hearing, if possible, in some of the musical centers if he was to be successful in his musical life. He arrived tired, with little money and no letters of introduction. In a few days his clothes and his violin were stolen. In his despair, he was ready to seek relief in the Seine; and had it not been for a chance acquaintance who suggested a plan by which he might better his fortunes, he might have come to the same end which has overtaken so many discouraged artists in Paris. The stranger, who turned out to be Vidocq, the great detective, directed Ole to go to a gambling establishment where they played "rouge-et-noir," and to continually place his money on the rouge. The young fellow did so, placing his last francs on the red. He won. He played again. Again he was winner. And he continued until a large sum of money was before him.

Fearing to lose what he had won, he retired from the table and watched the play for a few moments, just long enough to see that, had he continued playing the red, he would have won a fortune. But though he was on the verge of starvation, the money thus obtained was not without its sting. He wrote a friend, "What a hideous joy I felt—what a horrible pleasure it was to have saved one's own soul by the spoil of others."

The young Norwegian soon purchased another violin, and, being invited to play at a private concert, succeeded in attracting attention to himself in spite of the fact that all Paris was then worshiping Paganini.

15.—Outspoken Admiration

15.—OUTSPOKEN ADMIRATION.

Here is a case of admiration of one artist for another that deserves mention. When the English musician, Rosengrave, was in Italy, at an evening company, a quiet and unassuming young man, who was present, was asked to play. "When he began," writes Rosengrave, "I thought ten hundred devils were at the instrument, for never had I heard such passages and effects before. So far did he surpass my own playing that had I but had a knife within my reach I would have cut off my fingers. So ashamed was I, that I declare I could not touch an instrument for a month afterward."

The quiet young Italian was Scarlatti, the celebrated Italian composer and performer.

16.—Whims of Composers

16.—WHIMS OF COMPOSERS.

Composers get peculiar ideas into their heads as to the circumstances under which they must work, or the surroundings that must be at hand if they are to get the best results in composition. No doubt after the habit is once formed, the regular accompaniments to composition are necessary. But the question is as to the necessity of forming the habit.

Haydn thought he could not compose unless he had on the ring which Frederick the Great sent him; and, besides this, the paper on which he wrote must be white and of the best quality. Glück wrote best when seated out in the middle of a field. Rossini was most productive of good music when "lined within with good sack wine;" and he and Paesiello both enjoyed composing while in bed.

Sacchini enjoyed having a pretty woman by his side—by the way, several of the great composers had no aversion to such an accompaniment, whether composing or not—and his pet cats must be playing around him. Mozart could compose beautiful music while playing billiards or bowls. Zingarelli prepared himself for writing music by reading the Scriptures or some classic author, and Sarti liked best a funereal gloom lighted only by a single taper.

Beethoven could compose best during or after a brisk walk in the woods and fields, and many of his greatest works were inspired by the beauties of nature.

Cimarosa and Mehul were opposites in this matter. The former wished to be surrounded by a dozen gabbling friends. The light conversation and flow of spirits (probably of two kinds) seemed to inspire his music. On the other hand, Mehul once went to the Chief of Police of Paris and asked to be imprisoned in the Bastile. That personage in surprise inquired the reason. Mehul said he desired to get away from the noise and bustle of the city, and to escape from the good graces of his friends for a time, that he might give his whole mind uninterruptedly to composition. It is needless to say that his wish was not granted. Few would wish to be surrounded by the walls of the Bastile unless it were to write a tragic overture or a funeral anthem.

Wagner thought he must be clothed in the costume of the age and place in which was laid the plot that he was then working on. He also desired a perfectly quiet and uninterrupted time in which to write. His family was denied admission to his study and he would not even see any letters that came for him; his meals were passed in to him through a trap door.