RE-WRITING COMPOSERS’ LIVES: CRITICAL HISTORIOGRAPHY AND MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY CHRISTOPHER MARK WILEY VOLUME I ROYAL HOLLOWAY, UNIVERSITY OF LONDON PhD Copyright © 2008, Christopher Mark Wiley RE-WRITING COMPOSERS’ LIVES: CRITICAL HISTORIOGRAPHY AND MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY Recent musicological discourse, while frequently considering issues of historiography and canonicity, has seldom critically engaged with biography as a genre of documentary significance to reception history for its attempts to shape public opinion of its subjects. In consequence, modern musicology has often taken for granted many tendencies and preoccupations that accumulated in musical biography in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This thesis presents a historiographical examination of the precedents for and accretions of these assumptions, in terms of the role played by biography both in the establishment and maintenance of ideological canons and in the resultant ‘top-down’ conception of music history as dominated by an elite handful of exalted composers. Exploration of the ways in which biographies constructed their subjects as ‘great’ and ‘exemplary’ – insofar as these concepts were idealized within the communities of readers for whom they were originally written – is conducted through two major studies of the published texts to c.1950 on canonical composers including J. S. Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Schumann, Wagner, Brahms, and Tchaikovsky. The first investigates the elaboration and distortion of a set of some twenty-five of the most famous myths of musical biography, from their origins in late eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century Continental European texts to their fullest development (and, in many cases, their refutation) in English-language biographies up to the mid-twentieth century. In contrast, the second critically analyzes the twelve volumes of the original ‘Master Musicians’ series (1899-1906) as exemplars of the biographical and musical paradigms of composer life-writing, and as late Victorian period pieces of significance to canon formation for their conception as a closed set of monographs of historically-important subjects appropriated to English ends. The conclusion provides a preliminary assessment of the implications to modern musicology of the findings of this thesis through re-evaluation of elements of recent biographical and hermeneutical scholarship, and proposes that the discipline might usefully adopt a more inclusive, self-reflexive approach to the study of musical biography in the future. TABLE OF CONTENTS Vol., page 1 INTRODUCTION: BIOGRAPHY AND MUSICOLOGY I, 1 PART I: MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY 2 Introduction I, 20 3 From Childhood to Maturity I, 36 4 Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers I, 88 5 Final Years and Death I, 125 6 Epilogue I, 168 PART II: THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906 7 Introduction I, 180 8 Life and Character I, 207 9 The Music and Musical Connections I, 258 10 Conclusion I, 293 11 CONCLUSION I, 314 BIBLIOGRAPHY I, 352 APPENDIX I: MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY II, APPENDIX II: THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906 II, 129 2 to ELSIE ANNIE CHADWICK (1915-) and to the memory of OLIVE KATHLEEN WILLEY (1922-2001) KENNETH CHADWICK (1914-2004) REGINALD DOUGLAS WILLEY (1918-1988) my grandparents ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks to… Pauline and Graham Willey Laura Laakso Karine Varley Matthew Mills Anne Widén Sheena Cleaton Deborah Lee Lorna Gibson Sarah Howe Helen Jeffries Joe Broad Richard Devitt Stephen and Jessica Wiley Adrian Wiley and Esther Rousay Tess, McGinty, and Sinta Professor Katharine Ellis and all the staff at Royal Holloway, University of London My colleagues at City University London and the Guildhall School of Music and Drama The Arts and Humanities Research Board The composers and their biographers …there is often much to be learned about a particular period by studying the ways it tells lives and the purposes it conceives for biography. – Catherine N. Parke, Biography: Writing Lives (1996), page 9 1 INTRODUCTION: BIOGRAPHY AND MUSICOLOGY Biography has been of the utmost significance to music history and historiography since their modern origins in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. Such sources as Walther’s musical lexicon (1732) and Mattheson’s biographical dictionary (1740) placed portions of music history in the public domain decades in advance of the first single-composer studies. The earliest music histories were not only indebted to the biographical approach but also produced by active biographers, such as Hawkins (1776) and Burney (1776-89) in England, and Forkel (1788-1801, unfinished) in Germany; the latter author is also profoundly significant for his early contribution to musical biography in the form of a volume on Bach (1802). The symbiotic relationship between music history and biography at this time is likewise demonstrated by the ‘Sommaire de l’histoire de la musique’ with which Choron and Fayolle prefaced their co-authored dictionary (1810-1: I, xi-xcii), and which was translated in its entirety (by Nicholas Charles Bochsa) for inclusion within Sainsbury’s English lexical counterpart (1827: v-lxxii). The research undertaken for biographies of past musical masters, such as those of Baini on Palestrina (1828) and Winterfeld on Giovanni Gabrieli (1834), afforded greater insights into earlier epochs of music history than had previously been available. And Fétis, best known for his landmark dictionary of musicians (1835-44, 1860-5), subsequently produced a general history of music (1869-76, unfinished). But it was in the increasingly hagiographical climate of the later nineteenth century that musical biography truly flourished. The hero-worship promoted by Romantic biography found much resonance in the field of music in the emerging aesthetic of the idolized Great Composer: the creative genius who ruled the concert hall and (in exceptional Introduction circumstances) the opera house, and whose pieces continued to be popularly performed even after their own day, while those of more minor individuals lay essentially forgotten to history. This environment witnessed the emergence of such enduring multi-volume works as Jahn’s on Mozart (1856-9), Chrysander’s on Handel (1858-67), Thayer’s on Beethoven (1866-79), Spitta’s on Bach (1873-80), and Pohl’s on Haydn (1875-82). Nor did these endeavours emerge independently of one another; for instance, the material that Jahn had collected for his aborted writings on Beethoven and Haydn was inherited by Thayer and Pohl respectively, while Thayer’s German translator, Hermann Deiters (himself an important biographer of Brahms), also prepared the third and fourth editions of Jahn’s text. That the enormous scale of these projects led to no fewer than three remaining unfinished by their original author testifies to their conceived monumentality, which ironically resulted in a low rate of completion. Two of the three were subsequently realized in their entirety, Thayer’s biography by Deiters and Riemann (1907-8) and Pohl’s by Botstiber (1927), while Jahn’s work was substantially revised by Abert (1919-21) and Thayer’s, more recently, by Forbes (1964). Hence a tradition of emulation of older scholarship, and consequently of perpetuating outdated values and preoccupations, became established soon after the advent of mature musical biography. 1 The genre served ideally to foster the emergent domination of the field of music by an elite handful of exalted figures and their works, which in turn led to the construction and subsequent perpetuation of canons of wider historical and ideological importance, over and above mere practical significance as a reinforcement of the repertories at the height of fashion within a particular time and place. And although the Western musical canon came to encompass the broad period from J. S. Bach to Brahms (the so-called 1 A helpful historical outline of musical biography from its modern origins to the present is given by Solomon 2001; for a more detailed (albeit discontinuous) survey, see Lenneberg 1988. 2 Introduction ‘common-practice period’) and to comprise the masterworks of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries now familiarly recognized as ‘classical’, its core constituency was by no means established even by the end of the nineteenth century. Thus the claims of certain composers and their works to the available cultural ground continued to be fervently debated through the time-honoured method of promotion through the written word, in such forms as music criticism and, of course, biography. In addition to enduring multi-volume works written by antiquarians (whether professional writers on music or interested amateurs) endeavouring to write ‘definitive’ lives for posterity, another type of biography – that represented by smaller, accessible volumes intended for the entertainment and education of wider, and more immediate, reading communities – also proliferated in the nineteenth century. At the forefront of these endeavours were populist writers such as Marie Lipsius (writing under the name ‘La Mara’) and, to some extent, Ludwig Nohl. The hagiographical nature of nineteenth-century biography also led to the emergence of the notion of the ‘exemplary life’, in that its subjects were championed as paragons of professional and moral conduct for the purpose of educating the common reader. 2 Within this context, establishing composers’ entitlement to inclusion within a musical canon involved demonstrating that they consistently exhibited behaviour of the highest standard in all walks of life. In practice, that meant both that the stories that were included in biographies on such subjects were romantically embroidered in key respects in order to strengthen their claims to greatness, and that any corners of their lives that were not in accordance with preconceived ideals became the source of substantial unease. Since these texts portrayed their subject in a specific (generally positive) light – 2 The premise that the reading public can learn from exemplary geniuses has, indeed, retained currency up to the present time; see, for example, Bloom 2002. 3 Introduction informed by the values and sensibilities of a given time and place – they necessarily represent an act of re-writing, rather than merely writing, those lives. Accordingly, the study of biography (like that of all historical narrative) can reveal as much about the assumptions of its writers and readers, and the reception accorded to its subjects within a given cultural milieu, as factually about the subjects themselves. Such enquiry hinges not so much on the information offered by the authors and the veracity of their claims (telling though it is when discrepancies with the historical record arise) as on the precise ways in which these details are expressed. Though modern musicology has seen the frequent exploration of issues of historiography and canonicity, biography itself has largely eluded critical investigation. The discipline has lately challenged the aesthetic of musical canon (for example, Kerman 1983, Bergeron and Bohlman 1992, and Weber 1999), for many decades a largely uncontested phenomenon, as well as that of the Great Composer (see Samson 2001b). Recent scholarship has similarly addressed the issue of the writing of music history from a critical standpoint (notably Dahlhaus 1983), and examined the relationship between canonicity and such literary sources as music criticism (for example, Ellis 1995). Yet despite musical biography’s having provided something of a firm foundation for music history, current musicological discourse has seldom engaged with the genre for its documentary significance to reception history as a record of attempts to shape public opinion of its subjects. Conversely, the present trend within the so-called ‘New Musicology’ towards the exploration of musical contexts, prompted by Joseph Kerman’s renowned critique of the discipline (1985) and the anti-formalist stance cultivated thereafter, has encouraged its practitioners to take into account issues of biography in relation to music for the purposes of critical and hermeneutical studies. But the ideologies of musical biography themselves have remained essentially 4 Introduction unexplored, even though many of the questions most fundamental to the discipline are deep-rooted therein. As a result, musicology may now have unwittingly absorbed wholesale many of the tendencies and preoccupations that have accumulated within the genre in the course of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The general omission on the part of modern scholars to subject musical biography to critical scrutiny is unsurprising given that it was only comparatively recently that the academy at large has embraced the genre for its literary and historiographical value, coupled to musicology’s notorious tendency to lag some years behind developments elsewhere in the arts and humanities. Having long been rejected by Anglo-American literary trends such as New Criticism, which asserted its dominance in the mid-twentieth century, biography has come under fire more recently both from the ‘death of the author’ movement and from thought-provoking critiques such as Janet Malcolm’s The Silent Woman: Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes (1993). The genre has also suffered in the past from being considered an inferior, simplistic form of educational writing, produced for the populus as a commercial venture rather than for the advancement of scholarship, and hence supposedly unworthy of academic interest. Among the factors that have led to this opinion becoming outmoded are the more inclusive outlook developed within academia in consequence of the impact of postmodernism (and its concomitant validation of populist works as warranting serious study), and an increasingly scholarly approach taken within the genre itself. Moreover, while the origins of modern biographical theory extend as far back as early twentieth-century writers such as Virginia Woolf and Lytton Strachey, 3 critical research on the subject has only truly flourished in the last two decades or so, primarily within the fields of literature and history. The numerous studies that have appeared to date can 3 For a dedicated study on early theories of biography, see Novarr 1986. 5 Introduction be broadly divided into two categories: edited collections of essays that crystallize around biographers’ critical assessments of the methodological difficulties encountered in researching and writing their volumes; 4 and full-length projects that theorize biography as a genre through comparative examination of a large number of texts and subjects. 5 In consequence, certain humanities disciplines presently possess a much greater understanding of such matters as the ways in which biography handles aspects of its subjects’ lives, the aetiological strategies by which their conduct was explained, the impact of the different stages of the history of the genre, its relationship to the culture of the day, and its consequent development over time. Many of the issues explored within these bodies of literature, especially the former, have wider application to other kinds of factual narrative as well and hence receive articulation elsewhere, notably in the domains of the practice and philosophy of history. 6 Biographer and historian alike are plagued by such epistemological problems as lost or otherwise inaccessible evidence, sources that are unreliable or contradictory, and the impossibility of definitively determining all the facts. Both are thoroughly implicated within their own texts: they establish causality and provide explanation; they make decisions concerning the selection and presentation of available material; they extrapolate from sketchy or absent information; they link their material together in particular ways to create eloquent narrative; they provide interpretations of the available evidence; and most importantly, they inevitably impose their own subjectivities and 4 5 6 These anthologies include Meyers 1985; Homberger and Charmley 1988; Donaldson, Read, and Walter 1992; Batchelor 1995; Rhiel and Suchoff 1996; Salwak 1996; and Gould and Staley 1998. Of recent theoretical studies on auto/biography, too numerous to cite individually, I have found Parke 1996, Backscheider 1999, Eakin 1999, and Ellis 2000 especially instructive. Other sources worthy of note include Edel 1984, Epstein 1987, Honan 1990, Epstein 1991, Olney 1998, Evans 1999, and a multitude of studies devoted to related issues such as the theory of autobiography and the writing of women’s lives. The literature on these interrelated subjects is itself vast; amongst the most important texts are Carr 1961, Elton 1967, Marwick 1970 and 2001, White 1973, White 1978, Tosh 1984, White 1987, Jenkins 1991, Jenkins 1995, Evans 1997, Munslow 1997, and Fairburn 1999. 6 Introduction assumptions upon their field of study. Essentially, the responsible historian or biographer can only hope to offer one of a number of valid versions of the truth, conditioned by the questions they ask of their subject, the issues they opt to explore, the values and preoccupations of the day, and the ways in which their narrative has been constructed. However, there is certainly a case to be made (as the theorists implicitly do) for biography’s distinctiveness in this respect, given the uneasy position it occupies between fact and fiction. 7 While self-evidently grounded in reality, biography is at the same time essentially a popular genre that offers an engaging story accessible to the lay reader, in a manner analogous to the novel. Its authors are required to transform the bare bones of established fact into appealing narratives that bring alive the various scenes, characters, and events, and stimulate the reader’s imagination; and, since biography typically follows its subjects from birth to death, a certain amount of creative extrapolation is necessarily undertaken to compensate for under-documented lacunae in their lives. The resulting blend of historical basis and authorial invention therefore makes knowledge of the writer doubly important for an assessment of their texts. As various scholars have noted, the discipline of musicology has long possessed its lone voices interested in theoretical issues in biography, including Hermann Abert (1920), J. H. Elliot (1934), Jacques Barzun (1939), and Walther Vetter (1959). 8 Carl Dahlhaus’s groundbreaking study in the philosophy of music history (1983) made limited consideration of biography, largely confined to the evaluation of historical approaches that have sought to enhance understanding of composers’ works through knowledge of their lives and vice versa (: 26-7, 45-6). However, it is only in recent years that the frequency of critical studies in musicology on aspects of biography has notably 7 8 On this issue, see especially Siebenschuh 1983 and Nadel 1984. A later volume of collected essays by Barzun (1982) also brought together biographical issues and musical ones, though the extent of their discussion in tandem is somewhat limited. 7 Introduction increased. Without wishing to imply rigid taxonomic classification, this research would appear to fall into five main areas (here illustrated by citing representative examples parenthetically, rather than through an exhaustive list). Firstly, studies surveying the changing ways in which specific subjects have been depicted, the legends with which they have been associated, or the development of their biographies (Wolff 1985 on Bach, Samson 1992a on Chopin, Gibbs 1997a on Schubert, Fauquet and Hennion 2000: 93-115 on Bach, Stafford 2003 on Mozart). Secondly, those that investigate the cultural significance of the stories and images of a composer that are presented within a given time and place (Gramit 1993 on Schubert, Kimber 2002a on Mendelssohn, Painter 2002 on Mozart). Thirdly, studies that explore a particular biographical issue through close analysis of available accounts (Solomon 1979 on Schubert and Beethoven, Webster 1984 on Haydn and Beethoven, select chapters of Landon 1989 on Mozart, Knittel 2003 on contemporaries of Beethoven). Fourthly, those that challenge popularly-held misconceptions in the biography of a particular composer, and attempt to set the historical record straight (Poznansky 1988 on Tchaikovsky, Stafford 1991 and Moore 1992 on Mozart). 9 Finally, the exploration of issues of biography within the specific context of feminist or gay and lesbian musicology (Solie 1993a on feminist biography, Kimber 2002b on Fanny Mendelssohn, Wood 1993 on Smyth, Thomas 1994 on Handel). Many of these studies essentially represent scholarship focussed on a single composer, or within a particular area of musicology; while they raise a multitude of valuable insights that may legitimately be transferred to other areas of research, the nature of their enquiry is such that their value in examining the genre of biography of itself is often limited. 9 Though some years before the studies under discussion, mention might also be made here of Harasowski’s survey of biographies of Chopin (1967). 8 Introduction Three studies deserve particular mention for their contribution to a greater understanding of musical biography. The first is the one full-length project that has appeared to date, Hans Lenneberg’s Witnesses and Scholars: Studies in Musical Biography (1988). While frequently cited as a standard text on the subject, scholars also recognize that (its many fascinating insights notwithstanding) the value of Lenneberg’s volume lies primarily in its historical, rather than critical, approach to biography. As its subtitle suggests, it offers a series of viewpoints on the various forms of musical biography (including lexicography, autobiography, and documentary biography, in addition to fully-fledged biography) rather than a systematic study; in consequence, the period of the nineteenth century to which modern musical thinking is so strongly indebted is given relatively short shrift. The second source is the article ‘Thoughts on Biography’ (1982) by Maynard Solomon, whose biographical scholarship on a number of different composers (including Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Ives) over the years has yielded fresh perspectives that have shaken the very foundations of musicology. His essay represents a preliminary exploration of the relationship between the life and the work, the impossibility of reading one from the other with any certainty, and the implications of biographical knowledge (or lack of it) to interpretive engagement with the music. These fundamental questions are probed as deeply as the scope of a ‘Viewpoint’ in the journal 19th-Century Music allows; that discussion revolves almost exclusively around the example of Beethoven is confirmed by the article being reprinted in a dedicated volume on the composer (Solomon 1988). Finally, Jolanta Pekacz’s ‘Musical Biography and Its Discontents’ (2004) calls into question the traditional conception of the genre and incorporates a useful exposition of its relationship with the discipline of musicology from its modern origins. While generally challenging the long-standing assumptions of musical biography, Pekacz’s study provides only limited demonstration (within the scope of a journal article) of the ways in which they function 9 Introduction at the textual level and the historical processes by which they evolved. The essay instead focuses on methodological issues in the current writing of musical biography raised in view of recent developments elsewhere in the humanities, and on possible ways forward for the genre. These and other fruitful avenues of enquiry receive further exploration in Pekacz’s editorial introduction (2006a) to her essay collection Musical Biography: Towards New Paradigms (2006c), a valuable addition to scholarship in the field that unfortunately appeared only once this thesis had already reached an advanced stage. Much of the content of this anthology overlaps only tangentially with my own project (for example, it includes case studies on nineteenth-century German women’s autobiographies, Ravel’s biographical portrayals in relation to his works, and an epic film biography of Verdi); nonetheless, its contributors raise many important points that have wider implications for the research presented in the following chapters, and will therefore be discussed in the appropriate places. 10 While a number of scholars have recently turned their attentions towards studying aspects of musical biography, much work remains to be conducted in the area. Crucially, as indicated, musicology presently suffers from a dearth of critical-historical research in which biography itself (as opposed to writings on a specific individual) is given extended comparative investigation. 11 It is this need to which my thesis endeavours to respond. Although shedding much new light on the biographies of a variety of composers, its focus is not on the actual figures whose lives are chronicled so much as on the texts themselves: the myths they recount and the tropes they exemplify, 10 11 For a more comprehensive account of my critical reaction to this volume, readers are referred to my review in the journal Biography (Wiley 2007a). One preliminary article (Wiley 2003) condenses much of the material presented in this thesis, drawing especially upon Part II. Two other projects on musical biography, both of which combine studies from Part I and the Conclusion, have been delivered as papers at international conferences (Wiley 2004b and 2007b), while many of the findings of this thesis are to be delivered as the keynote lecture at a major conference in 2008 (publication forthcoming). 10 Introduction the development of both across time, and the relationships constructed across the biographies of a number of different subjects. This research therefore permits a much broader understanding of musical biography than has previously been possible, as well as establishing a theoretical framework appropriate to its critical examination. Its overriding purpose is to investigate the assumptions that have accrued within the genre over the decades, and their precedents, in terms of the paradigms through which its practitioners constructed their subjects’ claims to greatness in accordance with the ideals of the communities of readers for whom they were writing. This line of enquiry thereby enables the assessment of the role of biography in establishing and perpetuating musical canons and in the resultant ‘top-down’ conception of music history. In addition, the theoretical literature to which I have referred above – in common with much scholarship on biography beyond (and within) the field of music – primarily considers the continuing legacy of these assumptions within the narrow context of life-writing itself, rather than taking into account the wider perspective of other research that incorporates biographical elements, such as modern hermeneutical readings of the works. This is an imbalance that my study seeks to go some way towards redressing. The primary focus of this thesis is full-length biographies and other biographical writings published in England in the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. By way of establishing the origins for the claims made within these texts, I also examine relevant major biographies and biographical dictionaries that appeared in Continental Europe and England from the mid-eighteenth century onwards, as well as relevant sources such as obituaries, personal reminiscences, witness testimonies, correspondence, and contemporary newspaper reports. Finally, in order to enrich these investigations as well as to survey continuing trends in modern scholarship, I draw upon biographical and musicological research conducted closer to the present. More specific 11 Introduction information about the research context for each section of my thesis is given in their separate introductions. Although autobiographical writings are considered where relevant in the course of this project, specific exploration of the nature of autobiography and its relationship to the musical canon has not been possible; this issue has instead been addressed in a separate, dedicated study (Wiley 2004a). In centralizing the English strain of musical biography within my timeframe and taking into account the contributions of France, Germany, and to a lesser extent Italy to its formation, I hope to set straight the commonly-held belief that the genre and its corresponding assumptions are in essence Germanic inventions – a misconception presumably attributable to Austria and Germany’s domination of the musical scene at the time. The first book-length musical biography (Mainwaring 1760), anomalous though it may have been, actually originated in England and travelled to Germany (via Mattheson’s 1761 translation), rather than the other way round. Nor is this a stray example, explicable only by Handel’s unique standing within the country; as Peter Gay (1996: 152) has noted, the first major biography of Goethe – surely one of the greatest German artistic heroes of the early nineteenth century – was actually written by an Englishman, G. H. Lewes (1855). In addition, some of the tropes discussed in the course of this thesis were already quite developed by the time of their emergence in fully-fledged musical biography. One may convincingly speculate that they were imported from other literary modes including biographical dictionaries, histories, reminiscences and memoirs, fictional life-writing in its various forms, and biographies in related disciplines. Lenneberg (1988: 38-45) has pointed towards Vasari’s collective biography of Italian artists (1550) as a potential precursor for lexicography in music, while one obvious contemporary point of comparison between musical biography and fiction is the Bildungsroman, given the tradition of imaginary stories of musicians’ lives 12 Introduction initiated at the turn of the nineteenth century and continued well into the twentieth. 12 The relationship between historical, fictional, and biographical writing is doubtless a symbiotic one; a recent study by David Amigoni (1993), for example, has demonstrated the notable part played by Victorian biography in shaping the modern academic disciplines of history and literature. However, and while certain indications have indeed been offered as to relationships between musical biography and wider cultural arenas so as not to imply that it evolved in a historical vacuum, pursuit of such points lies essentially beyond the scope of an already ambitious study, and would inevitably deflect its focus away from the genre in ways quite alien to the scholarship on biographical theory on which it is modelled. Several reasons lay behind my choice of principal research context, not least the fact of its direct intersection with one of the most significant stages in the evolution of biography, from reticent Victorian hagiography to the candid, intimate texts of the twentieth century (where it also began to adopt new methodologies, notably psychoanalysis). By the 1800s, English biography had already established a rich tradition, with recent monumental classics such as Samuel Johnson’s Life of Savage (1744) and James Boswell’s Life of Johnson (1791), as well as canonically-central texts from earlier epochs including Isaak Walton’s Lives (1670) and John Aubrey’s Brief Lives (1669-96, first published in its entirety as Clark 1898). It is also a tradition characterized by a relatively unbroken chain of development to the present time, as against the genre’s discontinuous history in countries such as Germany. 13 In addition, since this thesis ultimately seeks to assess the continuing legacy of the unquestioned 12 13 Of many examples that could be cited, the fictional writings of E. T. A. Hoffmann that appeared in the earliest decades of the nineteenth century are of particular significance given the importance of Hoffmann’s music criticism to the foundations of modern musicology. For a particularly illuminating discussion comparing traditions of biography in England and Germany, see Schlaeger 1995. 13 Introduction preoccupations of musical biography within modern scholarship that has emerged in an Anglo-American context, the focus is necessarily on the English form of the genre. Finally, as Ira Bruce Nadel (1984: 13-66) has recently shown, later nineteenth-century England witnessed the elevation of biography to institutional status, exemplified by publications including the Dictionary of National Biography (1885-1900, edited by Sir Leslie Stephen and Sir Sidney Lee) and the ‘English Men of Letters’ series (1878-1919, edited by John Morley). In the field of music, these developments are directly mirrored in such projects as the Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1878-1890, edited by George Grove) and the ‘Master Musicians’ series (1899-1906, edited by Frederick J. Crowest). Nadel has drawn an explicit association between the two pairs of biographical undertakings in noting that Morley succeeded Grove as editor of Macmillan’s Magazine in 1883, thereby placing them among those people who together ‘shaped the character and continuity of collective and dictionary biography’ (1984: 33) in the closing decades of the nineteenth century. Both Grove’s project and Crowest’s have continued (in some guise) to the present time, and remain fundamental to the modern discipline; each features in my own study. This thesis falls into three sections of varying length, which examine musical biography respectively from the historiographical, literary, and critical perspectives. In order to establish a broad foundation for the study of the genre, Part I investigates the nature of mythology in biographies of canonical composers by following the development, elaboration, and distortion of a representative set of some twenty-five of its best-known and most enduring stories. Some of these episodes are drawn from specific areas of the subjects’ lives including childhood, initial recognition, later years, and death, while others are attached to particular works or to composers’ associations with one another. These myths are charted from their origins in late eighteenth- and early nineteenth14 Introduction century Continental European texts to their fullest development and (in some cases) ultimate refutation in major biographies and biographical dictionaries published in England and elsewhere to around 1950. I explore the accretions they gained – often unjustifiably, and sometimes even in direct contradiction of the documentary evidence – at the hands of biographers anxious to emphasize the case for their subjects’ inclusion within the musical canon, the cultural work they might therefore have performed in their day, and the different trajectories along which their associated stories were sent as a result. In contrast, Part II explores the paradigms of musical biography as they existed at a given point in time, critically analyzing the twelve volumes of the original Master Musicians series. These biographies are scrutinized for the homologies they demonstrate in their treatment of aspects of both the life and the works of their subjects, viewed within the contexts of late Victorian and early Edwardian values, and of nineteenth-century musical aesthetics. They are thus revealed as period pieces of significance to canon formation for their conception as a closed set of monographs of historically-important subjects appropriated to English ends. The large amount of textual data involved in the discussions presented in these first two sections has necessitated two Appendices of quotations, which will be explained to the reader in the appropriate places. While investigation has inevitably been restricted by the traditional structure of the biographies in question, including the cradle-to-grave teleology of its narrative and (in many cases) the deliberate separation of life and works, sufficient provision is made for the establishment of connections between my different analyses in the course of the cumulative discussions. Working within such a wide subject area and one with so many competing layers to consider, I soon discovered what Alessandra Comini (1987: 10) had previously noted in a project whose approach bears many similarities to my own (particularly in respect of my Part I): that I was in essence 15 Introduction pursuing two interrelated studies rather than one homogeneous study. There is a definite sense in which the diachronic approach taken by Part I functions to set out a broader context for Part II, in demonstrating through the lens of particular myths the prevalence of tropes in a variety of different musical texts that are then examined in depth as they apply to a single biographical series with particular aims and preoccupations. The two studies are therefore conceptually related in that the former reveals much consistency across composers, countries, and centuries in terms of the various themes of musical biography, whereas the latter investigates the matter in greater detail and from a locally-sensitive perspective. Nonetheless, as they fundamentally set out to analyze different aspects of musical biography, the reader should not expect to see the relationship between them rigidly woven into the fabric of the whole. In terms of the issues that they reveal and examine, however, the inclusion of both has proved crucial to laying the foundations for discussion in the conclusion to my thesis. In this final section, I offer a preliminary evaluation of the significance of the findings of the preceding studies to modern musicology, illustrating elements of the indebtedness of recent scholarship to various assumptions of traditional musical biography that have hitherto been accepted uncritically. To this end, the research context is again broadened to encompass scholarship that lies outside my timeframe as well as composers who were not incorporated into Parts I and II. This wider area of enquiry enables a fuller assessment of the extent to which the tendencies I have identified are encountered, as well as the reconsideration of some of the most significant biographical debates that have recently emerged. The Western musical canon has differed in two striking respects from that of certain other disciplines: it essentially excluded women as creative artists, as Marcia Citron’s recent study (1993) has demonstrated; and, at least in terms of the common-practice 16 Introduction period, it offered biography no major heroes of English origin. The field of music additionally poses the problem that it was extremely difficult, in relation to other disciplines, to engage in discussion of the works in terms meaningful to the general readers for whom biography is typically intended. Moreover, the nineteenth-century idolization of absolute music privileged works that were artistically self-contained, and hence unsullied by external referents such as texts and plots that were much more straightforward to express through prose writing. Additional tension arose in musical biography between the life and the works of the subject as an outcome of music’s ‘double history’, to borrow Jim Samson’s term (1990a): some pieces of music were (and continue to be) of significance for biographical rather than stylistic musical reasons, or vice versa, but these two factors do not necessarily converge. 14 With these further viewpoints in mind, I have aimed in the course of this thesis to situate musical biography within the wider context of life-writing in theory and practice, drawing principally on the mainstream (and much more widely theorized) discipline of literature, with which music has a strong tradition of association in terms both of historiography and analysis. In consequence, my research yields fresh perspectives on a number of critical questions of particular interest to music as compared with other arts and humanities disciplines. How did musical biography become complicit in the continuing historical effacement of women within sociohistorical contexts in which it was impossible to deny female creative genius in other fields, and how were female characters then discussed within these texts? How did Anglophonic practitioners resolve the problem of the absence of native classical heroes given the tendency to celebrate national subjects through 14 The above discussion presents a reformulation, for the specific purposes of biography, of Samson’s argument that music history comprises both ‘social’ and ‘stylistic’ elements. 17 Introduction biography in the later nineteenth century, not to mention the increasing visibility of the so-called English Musical Renaissance? What was the nature of the relationship between the life and the works in musical biography, in which the two might be deliberately separated? What strategies did its authors adopt for the discussion of music in non-specialist terms, in order to relate the works to the composer’s biography and effectively to convey their importance to the reader? Recalling the nineteenth-century ideal of absolute music, how did biographers approach works in which such extra-musical factors as politics and religion figured prominently? How were conflicts resolved between the historical and the artistic significance of a given piece of music, when they were at variance with one another? In short, what was the archetypal trajectory for the life and works of a Great Composer, and how did the authors circumvent areas in the biographies of canonical figures that could not easily be made to conform to the standard model? The following pages endeavour to respond to these fundamental questions and more. 18 PART I: MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY 2 MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY: INTRODUCTION Part I of this thesis investigates the issue of mythology in composer biography: those tales that have become particularly famous, the issues that crystallize around them, and the ways in which they have been told and retold across time. Musical biography offers a large number of stories that have functioned to exemplify particular aspects of subjects’ lives, such as the nature of their character, the gifts through which they achieved fame, and the laudability of their conduct. Some of its earliest texts were essentially anecdotal reminiscences, and the provision of such evidence has thereafter continued to function to situate authors’ claims within suitably illustrative contexts and to generate the novelized narrative characteristic of biography. However, the status of these stories is by no means fixed; they may, for example, exist concurrently in a number of different variants. Moreover, they often receive adjustment and embroidery at the hands of subsequent biographers, whether to accord with a particular portrayal of the subject or to adapt them to specific communities of readers. Comparison of different accounts of the same episode therefore reveals much glossing on the part of individual writers, enabling conclusions to be drawn both about changing perceptions of the subject, and about musical biography more widely. By charting the processes of perpetuation and elaboration of these stories from their origins to (in many instances) their refutation, then, this study seeks to identify which elements of these myths came to be emphasized at given points in history, in order to probe the cultural work they have performed and the trajectories they have followed. Using these stories and their accretions as lenses through which better to understand the texts in which they appeared, such analysis also enables illustration of the wider relationships of major biographical writings both to one another and to the culture of the day. Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction It may be advantageous to clarify my use of the term ‘myth’ at the outset, particularly in view of the absence of critical literature on mythology in biography per se. 1 Today, the word ‘myth’ popularly refers to something that is commonly believed but actually false (and hence liable to being ‘exploded’), an assumption that has regrettably permeated much of the key literature on both biographical theory and musical biography. 2 While there is some value in this understanding of the term, I instead follow the example of recent scholarship in which wider definitions have been attempted, ones that prioritize myths’ cultural roles above the limits of their factual basis; 3 as Eric Csapo has written, ‘that some stories are meant to be received as true is only a sign of their social importance.’ (2005: 9). Hence myths, whether grounded in truth or not, may instead be understood as narratives of particular importance to the cultures in which they are told, which fulfil specific functions within those communities and are consequently liable to later reinterpretation. As such, both the myths themselves and the accretions they acquire over time may yield much valuable information about their associated cultures; William Doty, for example, has written that ‘myths provide symbolic representations of cultural priorities, beliefs, and prejudices’ (2004: 18, original italicized). It is this understanding of mythology that is most helpful for the purposes of my study. Given that much of the scholarly literature on mythology focuses on classical antiquity and/or non-Western cultures, I might also usefully address the legitimacy of applying 1 2 3 One notable exception is Ernst Kris and Otto Kurz’s Legend, Myth, and Magic in the Image of the Artist (1979), an experimental study of biographies within the field of art history originally published in 1934 (with minor revisions for the English translation). However, the decision was made at an early stage that this book was simply too outdated to provide a basis for my own research, given the more recent proliferation of theories of biography and of myth (upon which it has alas had little impact), as well as the timeframe from which I have drawn texts for this study. Examples of the latter include Lenneberg 1980, Poznansky 1988, Stafford 1991, Solomon 1991a, Samson 1992a, and (to some extent) Head 1999, all of which centrally use the term ‘myth’ to refer to premises perpetuated through biography that require correction or adjustment on factual grounds. In terms of biographical theory, the perceived need to separate myth (sic) from fact is very apparent in, for example, Meyers 1985. Of the vast theoretical bibliography on mythology, I have found the discussions of Coupe 1997: 1-13, Doty 2004: 11-37, Segal 2004: 1-10, and Csapo 2005: 1-9 particularly useful. 21 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction these broad concepts to European literature of the last three centuries. While the myths of ancient and world cultures (notably Classical Greece and Rome) have been particularly well-theorized, recent authors who have explored the meaning of ‘myth’ have also considered those narratives that emerge from more modern Western contexts, for example, the American Frontier and Nazi Germany. Such scholarship has even accommodated myths that originate within modern literature, at the hands of a single writer; indeed, Laurence Coupe’s view is that ‘the mythic and the literary are not so far apart as is often supposed’ (1997: 4). The prevalence of similar mythological themes in biographies of (visual) artists of a number of different epochs has been demonstrated by Kris and Kurz’s early study (1934), while Joseph Campbell’s comparative analysis (1949) has revealed the consistency in generic structure across stories drawn from many world mythologies. Of more specific significance to my investigation is a recent study by Bruce Lincoln (1999) demonstrating that the concept of myth was revived in Continental Europe at the end of the eighteenth century, and employed thereafter to ideological ends in the service of Romanticism and nationalism. That Wagner was one of the writers involved in this project (: 57-66), through his prose writings, the mythological plots of his music dramas, and even his theorization of the Gesamtkunstwerk along the supposed lines of Ancient Greek art, provides a direct link to musical auto/biography. Another is offered by Otto Jahn, who, in addition to producing a composer biography of unprecedented scope with his monumental life of Mozart (1856-9), was a noted scholar of classics and archaeology whose specialisms included Greek mythology. Whatever definition of the term is adopted, there would appear to be general agreement that myths unfold as stories, often complex ones, which have become particularly widespread. My investigation centres on a representative set of some twenty-five of the 22 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction most celebrated of these stories drawn from the biographies of the Great Composers, as listed in Table I (page 35). In their selection, I have been guided not only by their relative fame and the frequency with which they are encountered, but also by the richness of the material they yield for my study, owing to the elements of tension or uncertainty that they incorporate and the revealing analytical commentary that they may prompt from the biographers. Recalling the above discussion, I have not confined myself to tales considered implausible from today’s viewpoint or demonstrated to have been fabricated; however, each exhibits development in terms of discernible patterns of embellishment in subsequent biographical accounts. Nor do I wish to imply that these trends necessarily follow a single trajectory; it is often the case that myths are pulled simultaneously in various directions. Discrepancies between different versions of the same episode may be the result of conflicting primary sources, witness testimonies, or scholarly opinions, or indeed of the absence of authoritative documentary evidence in its support. This issue notwithstanding, one point that emerges strongly from this study (and which will be explored in greater detail in Part II with regard to a specific series of monographs) is the striking level of consistency in terms of the tropes and motifs to be found within musical biography of different times and places, even despite the embellishments, bifurcations, and reversals that may emerge more locally in respect of particular stories. My set of myths is drawn from the biographies of only eight composers, a slightly smaller group than that of my case study of the original Master Musicians series. I have not endeavoured slavishly to include all twelve of the subjects in Part II since the stories developed in biographical texts on some of these figures have simply not yielded comparable levels of material to others. The observation that it is the earlier composers who feature warrants brief consideration. One reason, certainly, was the unreliability of 23 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction some of the stories told of eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century composers, given the length of time between the event itself and its being committed to paper, the relative dearth of corroboratory primary sources, and so forth. Conversely, events in the lives of later subjects were generally better documented, both at the time, and in the biographies that followed soon after. Some of the earlier texts on these figures are also invested with authority in other ways, examples of which include Wagner’s autobiography (publ. 1911) and the biography of Tchaikovsky written by his brother Modeste (1900-2). That is not to say that these texts were devoid of mythologizing by any stretch of the imagination, merely that the early appearance of such unified, authoritative sources meant that the mythology surrounding the subject quickly came to be stabilized, where that of earlier composers had been steeped in decades of embellishment, speculation, and hearsay. In addition, as the ensuing discussion will demonstrate, it was predominantly in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, when the myths and their associated composers rose to prominence, that they typically received embellishment, or at least that the seeds for their subsequent elaboration were planted. Conversely, in the later twentieth century, authors typically questioned or distrusted the many implausible stories that had come down to them, no doubt partly as a result of the mainstream adoption of ‘debunking’ biography, a reactionary movement to nineteenth-century hagiography initiated by such texts as J. A. Froude’s Carlyle (1882-4) and Edmund Gosse’s part-autobiographical Father and Son (anonymously published in 1907), and momentously pursued by Lytton Strachey in Eminent Victorians (1918) and other writings. Nonetheless, the trend did not receive widespread application within music – which is in itself telling for the reliance of its canons upon a relatively small set of great heroes – and in consequence, a number of the most famous myths of composer biography have never been rejected 24 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction outright. In many cases, the substitution of a simple, short account in place of the lengthy, extravagant narratives by which they had previously been retold provides evidence of an extensive, implicit mistrust of tales that biographers writing for a more historically-demanding public clearly found unconvincing, or at least of a concerted effort to privilege adherence to the demonstrable facts of the life story over such fanciful digressions. Correspondingly, the writing of the lives of later composers such as Brahms and Tchaikovsky largely avoided such embellished, speculative treatment in favour of more straightforward narrative. One early biographer remarked that Brahms ‘lived a quiet uneventful life unlike that of many of his predecessors’, and that upon reaching maturity (immediately following the episode discussed below as myth 3-A), the ‘history of Brahms’s life’ becomes ‘little but a chronicle of his works’ (M[aitland] 1904-10: 382, 383). Given the likely timeframe within which we would find the most elaborated accounts of particular myths, Part I examines their occurrences in biographical texts from their eighteenth- and nineteenth-century origins until approximately 1950. In keeping with the remainder of this thesis, there is a certain focus on musical biography in England. However, Continental European texts are considered here to a greater extent than elsewhere – placing emphasis on those that have subsequently been translated, or to which English authors might well have turned for the purposes of writing their own biographies – in order to trace the stories’ dissemination, especially prior to their arrival in the country. In selecting specific accounts for study, I have therefore consulted the classic English-, French-, and German-language biographies of the composers concerned, and others written by the renowned authors of the day, these being the ones most likely to have had both the impact and longevity necessary to influence the subsequent trajectory taken by a particular myth. For the same reason, I also include the 25 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction biographical articles that appear in the landmark international dictionaries by Gerber (1790-2, 1812-4), Choron and Fayolle (1810-1), Sainsbury (1825, 1827), Fétis (1835-44, 1860-5), and Grove (1878-90), including the first five editions of the latter. 4 To this core constituency, I add any further biographical (and other) documents that shed important light on specific myths under scrutiny, especially in terms of their origins. Finally, in order that the populist biographies investigated in Part II may be situated as fully as possible within the wider historical contexts offered by this study, I have included the relevant eight biographies of the original Master Musicians series, as well as the volumes with which each was superseded between 1934 and 1950. The point of termination of my timeframe is formally marked by the end of the publication of the second generation of Master Musicians biographies, and by the appearance of the fifth edition of Grove’s Dictionary in 1954. 5 To complement the analysis offered in the course of Part I, and for ease of reference, I have included an appendix of quotations of the accounts of each myth (Appendix I), taken from some of the biographies that I have consulted in the course of my research. 6 The accounts are grouped by the composer from whose biographies they are taken, identified by the numbers 1-8, and then by the story, identified by a letter: ‘myth 6-D’, for example, denotes the legend associated with Mozart’s Requiem. Within this grouping, the quotations are arranged in broad chronological order by date of publication, and numbered so that they may be easily cited in the text below; ‘quotation 6-D-10’ (or simply ‘6-D-10’), for instance, designates Edward Holmes’s account of the Requiem story (1845: 338-49). These excerpts are parenthetically referenced using sigla 4 5 6 These five editions (Grove 1878-90, Maitland 1904-10, Colles 1927-8, Colles 1940, and Blom 1954) are hereafter designated Grove 1-5 for ease of reference. The fifth edition (Blom 1954) represented a major turning point for the publication, being the last prior to its radical revision and expansion as The New Grove Dictionary (Sadie 1980). All textual excerpts preserve the orthography, punctuation, and use of italic typeface of the originals. The symbol ‘//’ is used throughout this thesis to indicate paragraph breaks in quotations. 26 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction explained in the bibliography at the end of Appendix I – which may be consulted for a complete list of the sources investigated as part of this study – together with the volume number (where applicable) in Roman numerals, and the page number(s) in Arabic numerals. In several cases, accounts of the same myth appear in two different places in Appendix I (cross-referenced accordingly) since they feature in the biographies of more than one of the Great Composers, as in the case of Haydn’s instruction of Beethoven (myth 2-B and 5-B). Exceptionally, there are a couple of further instances in which accounts drawn from writings on one composer have been tacitly grouped with those of another on the same story – for example, the quotations from the Mozart biographies by Holmes (1845), Jahn (1882), and Blom (1935) in myth 2-A on Beethoven – where there were too few to warrant their inclusion in a separate section. In providing an appendix that focuses on excerpts from biographical writings, I do not mean to suggest that the following study has been conducted devoid of reference to other crucial documents such as correspondence, newspaper reports, and obituaries, to which reference has been made where necessary. Nor has it even been my intention to quote from all the biographies listed on the bibliography in the case of every myth for a corresponding composer; some sources, for example, yield crucial information on particular stories only. Where a specific biography has not been quoted in respect of a given myth, it does not necessarily indicate that the episode went unmentioned. It may, for instance, be that it was recounted mainly via extensive quotation from an external source (such as a letter, witness testimony, or even another biography). Such instances have not been reproduced in Appendix I, which is concerned with original retelling and interpretation of the stories under scrutiny. However, some of the accounts, such as 2-G-7, incorporate small internal quotations, where they are integral to an episode that is sufficiently retold in the author’s own words to merit inclusion. Since my study is 27 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction principally concerned with English musical biography, the quotations in Appendix I are taken from standard translations where they exist; in other cases, I have reproduced the accounts in the language in which they were written, unless otherwise stated. While certain translations (especially those contemporary with the original) are characterized by expansions, omissions, and elaborations rather than being straightforward transliterations of the text into another language, I have satisfied myself that they are sufficiently faithful to support my interpretations. Many smaller quotations from Appendix I that are central to my argument have been reproduced in the main text, so that the reader may, if desired, follow the critical discussion of the myths without the need for cross-reference. 7 Recalling my aim to chart the shifting implications of myths over time, one of the guiding principles in the selection of material has been to include the historically-significant sources that subsequent biographers were likely to have consulted in writing their own versions of a given story. This endeavour has led to a disproportionate number of early accounts being included, as these are in many cases crucial to the myths’ origins; hence the excerpts that appear in Appendix I are in no way indicative of the frequency with which narratives on a particular episode appeared over time. In adopting this method, my aim has not been to privilege contemporary sources and initial biographical accounts or to imply that they necessarily represent a more trustworthy version of events, merely to lay a firm foundation by which to demonstrate that later authors have often elaborated upon or even contradicted the very documents from which it derives. In reality, most stories would be represented by a much greater number of later biographical writings were my appendix exhaustively systematic – 7 Any quotations for which a bibliographic citation is not provided are drawn from Appendix I, where the full reference may be found. 28 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction which would be near-impossible given the plethora of writings on the composers under scrutiny. However, the scope of my research is such that only a cross-section of representative literature has been considered, and a number of ancillary sources that add very little to the material presented in Appendix I have been omitted. My intention in this study has been not only to address the relationship between different versions of the same episode, but also to assess the extent of the discrepancies that exist between them and to provide some attempt to account for them. Within a somewhat different research context I follow the approach taken, for example, by the art historian Alessandra Comini in The Changing Image of Beethoven: A Study in Mythmaking (1987), which traces the nuances and accretions in visual and verbal representations of the image of the composer – whether factually accurate or not – in order to bring to light the cultural history underpinning Beethoven’s nineteenth-century transition from man to mythologized personage. Two key considerations throughout my research have been whether any particular explanations can be offered for the deviations, and what role they (and, more widely, the biographies in which they appear) might consequently have played within culture. While these are matters that it is often impossible definitively to determine, a certain amount of speculation as to possible causes located in the standpoints of specific writers, their target readership, the preoccupations of the time, and so forth may reasonably be offered while remaining within the boundaries of the responsible historian. Given that the motivations of the authors of the biographies and the readers for whom they were writing are two key considerations in interpreting the texts themselves, the 29 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction matter warrants further comment at this juncture. 8 Of various models that have recently been proposed for the understanding of different types of biography, that offered by Antony Alpers (1996: 12-3), while somewhat generalistic, is perhaps the most helpful to consider for present purposes. Alpers divided biography into three categories, ‘personal biography’, ‘proximate’ or ‘reported biography’, and ‘historical biography’, according to the temporal distance between subject and author. The former comprises anecdotal reminiscences by writers who had direct contact with the subject, as describes many of the earliest musical biographies such as the anecdotal reminiscences of Griesinger and Dies on Haydn (1810) and Wegeler and Ries on Beethoven (1838). Such personal recollections would doubtless have aimed to portray their subjects in a particularly positive light, and one that depended upon the recounting of larger-than-life stories as evidence of their exceptional nature. The second category, the ‘reported biography’, was that produced by authors who may not have been acquainted with the subject at firsthand, but who were temporally close enough to them to be able to draw upon a combination of witness testimony and documentary evidence; Forkel’s biography of Bach (1802), Nissen’s of Mozart (1828), and Kreissle’s of Schubert (1865), for instance, were all written on the authority of friends and family members. While the authors themselves are often less implicated in this type of biography, the relatively short time span between the death of the subject and the appearance of the text meant that there often remained a genuine need to exercise caution in order to protect both the subject and other characters (especially surviving ones) featuring in the life story – Marie Lapsius’s censoring of Liszt’s correspondence in her landmark editions (1893-1918), for example, is legendary – which understandably influenced their attitude 8 In addressing these points, information about particular biographers and their texts given in the course of Part I has been drawn from a variety of different sources, including the following: Krehbiel 1917; Klein 1943; King 1955: 66-77; Hatch 1956; Gotwals 1959; MacArdle 1963; Forbes 1964: I, v-xvii; MacKerness 1964; Doernberg 1965; MacArdle 1965; Coe 1972; Stevenson 1978; Tyson 1984; Badura-Skoda 1987; Lenneberg 1988; Hogwood 1991; Beeks 1995; Clarke 1997; Stafford 2003; and a large number of articles, too many to cite individually, appearing in Sadie 2001. 30 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction towards the anecdotal stories too. Only with what Alper calls ‘historical biography’, that based primarily on archival research and adopting a more historically-aware distance from the subject, could the genre hope to shed these contingencies completely and to start to become more objective. Recalling discussion in the Introduction to this thesis, some nineteenth-century biographers of this third category did indeed strive to produce ‘definitive’ lives that set the historical record straight for posterity as regards previous myth-making, Thayer’s life of Beethoven (1866-79) being perhaps the most obvious example. However, many others were producing more accessible texts for which engaging, much-loved stories of this nature were an invaluable means by which to breathe life into their subjects and entertain the reading masses, and were therefore celebrated within their pages. A related question concerns the consistency with which the ideologies encoded in biographical texts are understood within the reading communities for which they were intended. Literary theorist Stanley Fish has sought to explain what he calls the ‘stability of interpretation among different readers’ (1980: 15) with reference to his notion of ‘interpretive communities’, referring to a set of people whose shared ‘interpretive strategies’ condition a text at the writing stage, even before it is read, and hence determine the way in which it is read. Consequently, in Fish’s words, ‘members of the same community will necessarily agree because they will see (and by seeing, make) everything in relation to that community’s assumed purposes and goals’ (: 15). While Fish’s views are extreme, and not without their problems, they do have some resonance with recent studies of musical biography as reception history; to Karen Painter, for example, ‘“Reception” involves collective authorship – a transaction between the reader and the public, in the process of constructing an exemplary individual’ (2002: 187). Nonetheless, and recalling the findings of a number of modern reader-response studies, 31 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction one cannot altogether discount the possibilities for individual readers to derive their own meanings from (any) literary texts. 9 In adopting the approach outlined above – and mindful of my earlier observations as to the inevitability of authorial interpretation of the subject in the writing of historical narrative – I do not mean to imply that I am simply casting value-judgements on those biographers whose embellishments it is not possible to justify in terms of the documentary record. Nor is it my opinion that the fact (or suspicion) that a story has been embroidered by any means precludes study of its functions within culture. Indeed, implausible and fabricated myths can prove extremely revealing in this respect; if they are deemed worth repeating, even once they are considered or known to be untrue, they must surely continue to perform cultural work of some sort. Evidently some, at least, have been sufficiently prized in certain quarters that authors have been extremely reluctant to dismiss them, clinging onto them even at the risk of appearing old-fashioned or lacking in credibility. In view of the academic tenor that biography has assumed in recent decades and the importance that its practitioners presently place on establishing factual accuracy, it is perhaps difficult to appreciate that the genre was not always so. But, as Ira Bruce Nadel tellingly asked in his landmark study Biography: Fiction, Fact and Form, ‘To what extent is fact necessary in a biography? … To what degree does the biographer alter fact to fit [a particular] theme or pattern?’ (1984: 5). In short, the procedures outlined above should be regarded as nothing more than necessary interim stepping-stones in the study of the cultural importance of the myths: in order to analyze the significance of their development, one firstly has to establish the ways in which they have changed and why. That my research brings to the surface a number of 9 On the reader-text relationship see, for example, Iser 1974, Iser 1978, Suleiman and Crosman 1980, Hutcheon 1980, and Freund 1987, in addition to Fish 1980. 32 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction demonstrable errors that have permeated composers’ biographies in the past should be regarded as merely a felicitous side-effect of this wider project. As we shall see in the course of Part I, this was an era in which biographical accounts were typically based on one another, sometimes derivative to the point of what the modern-day observer would deem to be plagiarism, and in which authors too often accepted uncritically previous versions of a given story. 10 In consequence, myths were often simply perpetuated from one biography to the next, frequently retaining (or even augmenting) the inaccuracies, embellishments, and over-reaching claims of previous authors. As such, study of their development can yield much general information as to which biographies were influenced by, and influential to, others. Perhaps the speculation and elaboration in which subsequent writers engaged was in part an attempt to expand the stories in other ways, in order to give them new dimensions; however, it has merely extended the processes by which they were disseminated. Ironically, when attempts were made to redress previous mistakes – as in Spitta’s biography of Bach (1873-80), for example – the overall result was sometimes only that an old myth was set on a new trajectory. The dependence of some of the biographical writings on pre-existing literature is perhaps best demonstrated through the example of early musical dictionaries: the London-based litterateur John Sainsbury, for example, did not attempt to disguise the indebtedness of his publication to the standard biographies, dictionaries, and histories of the day, mentioning Gerber, Choron and Fayolle, Hawkins, Burney, and others by name on the frontispiece (though not William Bingley, upon whose Musical Biography of 1814 he was also heavily reliant). A cursory glance at the quotations from Sainsbury’s dictionary in Appendix I will confirm that much of his 10 Indeed, Sainsbury’s dictionary ran into plagiarism-related problems almost immediately after the publication of its first imprint in 1824; see Langley 2000: 87, and, on its consequences, Ritchey 1979. 33 Mythology in Musical Biography: Introduction work is merely a translation of earlier Continental sources. The preponderance of accounts by Sainsbury does, however, serve other important functions: it demonstrates that many of the myths would have been known in England in the 1820s if not before, as well as revealing the guise in which they were disseminated there. Though the myths are grouped together by composer in Appendix I, this study instead seeks to explore related stories together, by way of offering the greatest number of instructive perspectives on the data. In the three chapters that follow, they are placed into thematic categories that correspond to some extent to the analysis of life-paradigms in Part II, for ease of discussion and to maximize comparison. My investigation broadly follows a biographical outline, starting with childhood and ending with death, with each section unfolding in the most logical (not necessarily chronological) order in accordance with the direction of the overall argument. 34 TABLE I: MYTHS IN COMPOSER BIOGRAPHY TITLE OF MYTH Childhood/Early Adulthood The Young Bach’s Copying his Brother’s Manuscript by Night Bach’s Journey to Lübeck to Hear Buxtehude Play the Organ, 1705 The Young Handel’s Practising Secretly on the Clavichord Handel’s Discovery by the Duke of Saxe-Weissenfels The Subjects and Their Phenomenal Gifts Bach’s Contest with Marchand at Dresden, 1717 Mozart’s Memorization of Allegri’s Miserere, 1770 Myths Relating to Individual Works Mozart’s Defending Die Entführung aus dem Serail to Emperor Joseph II, 1782 The Removal of the Dedication of Beethoven’s Third Symphony to Napoleon, 1804 Recognition I: Great Composers Beethoven’s Early Meeting with Mozart in Vienna, 1787 Schumann’s Early Recognition of Brahms, 1853 Reinken’s Recognition of Bach’s Musical Abilities, 1720 Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers The Last Meeting of Haydn and Mozart, 1790 The Tuition Beethoven Received from Haydn, 1792-3 Schubert’s First Reported Visit to Beethoven, 1822 Schubert’s Reported Visit(s) to the Dying Beethoven, and his Toast to Beethoven after his Funeral, 1827 Beethoven’s Studying of Schubert’s songs on his Death-Bed, 1827 The Use of Lyrics Beethoven had Intended to Set, for Schubert’s Schwanengesang Schubert on His Death-Bed Observing Beethoven’s Absence, 1828 The Pen Found by Schumann on Beethoven’s Grave, 1839 Recognition II: Aristocrats Haydn’s Visit to his Monument at Rohrau, 1795 Bach’s Visit to the Court of King Frederick the Great at Potsdam, 1747 Final Years Haydn’s Last Public Appearance at a Performance of The Creation, 1808 Beethoven and the First Performance of his Ninth Symphony, 1824 Death Schumann’s Belief that he had Received a Musical Theme from Schubert and Mendelssohn, 1854 Haydn’s Death in the Midst of War, 1809 Mozart’s Requiem, 1791 COMPOSER(S) APPENDIX NO. Bach Bach Handel Handel 1-A 1-B 4-A 4-B Bach Mozart 1-C 6-A Mozart Beethoven 6-B 2-C Beethoven (Mozart) Brahms, Schumann Bach 2-A 3-A, 8-B 1-D Haydn, Mozart Beethoven, Haydn Beethoven, Schubert Beethoven, Schubert Beethoven (Schubert) Schubert (Beethoven) Schubert (Beethoven) Schumann (Beethoven, Schubert) 5-A, 6-C 2-B, 5-B 2-E, 7-A 2-F, 7-B 2-G 7-C 7-D 8-A Haydn Bach 5-C 1-E Haydn (Beethoven) Beethoven 5-D 2-D Schumann Haydn Mozart 8-C 5-E 6-D 3 MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY: FROM CHILDHOOD TO MATURITY Our survey of some of musical biography’s best-known stories commences with those that crystallize around the earlier periods of the subjects’ lives, extending broadly as far as the outset of their adult careers. The tales that present themselves from the literature for analysis in this chapter cumulatively yield a number of familiar mythic themes: pilgrimages, contests, displays of phenomenal artistic feats, accounts of insuppressible children driven to secrecy and transgression in pursuit of their destinies, prophetic or laudatory comments received from leading musical authorities, and so forth. To impose a rigid classification upon them has inevitably resulted in certain difficulties, and my guiding principle throughout Part I (while continually questioning my methods and assumptions) has been to group the stories mindful of what they offer for analysis in terms of their cultural functions and the issues they raise. In addition, when faced with a set of Great Composers whose life-shapes (as we shall see in the course of this thesis) do not always follow conventional trajectories, such concepts as ‘maturity’ and ‘early adulthood’ often themselves prove problematic. Accordingly, several stories that extend beyond this period have been knowingly included for their relevance to themes embraced in the course of this chapter, while two highly significant myths that did not immediately suggest themselves for inclusion within any other group have been incorporated in a dedicated section. Some blurring of boundaries is discernible throughout the categories into which Part I has been ordered, and connections will thus be drawn between them as they arise such that they are not merely seen to operate in isolation. Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Childhood In a discussion of the childhood myths of musical biography, the obvious place to begin would seem to be with Mozart, given the celebrity of the anecdotes of his formative years: his endeavours to write a clavier concerto at the age of four; the speed with which he learnt new keyboard pieces; his ability to detect and remember discrepancies of violin tuning as subtle as an eighth of a tone; and the feats of performance with which he entertained aristocrats while on tour. However, retellings of these stories are characterized by a striking level of consistency, and they are therefore unrepresentative as examples of the processes of embellishment and mythologization that occurred elsewhere in nineteenth-century musical biography – which rather precludes analysis of the cultural work they performed in different times and places. Prior to commencing this section in earnest, it may be fruitful briefly to examine why this is the case: life-writing on the composer’s childhood is indebted to the existence of two authoritative contemporary witness testimonies, those being a letter by Johann Andreas Schachtner dated 24 April 1792 (Deutsch 1965: 451-4) and the reminiscences of Mozart’s sister Maria Anna von Berchtold (Nannerl) written at around the same time (: 454-63). Schachtner, a court musician and friend of the Mozarts who had the opportunity to observe the subject as a child, was asked by Nannerl to furnish her with anecdotes that she was herself too young to recollect. Her own testimony was based on contemporary documentation including correspondence by Leopold Mozart, preserved zealously by him and subsequently passed to his daughter. Both reminiscences were written for the express purposes of biography, in response to a request for information from Friedrich Schlichtegroll with which to write an obituary of Mozart for his Nekrolog auf das Jahr 1791 (published 1793) as part of a recently-established series. 1 1 While Schlichtegroll’s obituary was written largely on the testimony of these two individuals, the necrologist also benefited from the input of a couple of other sources including Albert von Mölk, [continued] 37 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The stories were widely disseminated thereafter, not least through the plethora of anecdotal life-writing on Mozart that appeared in the years that followed; Schachtner’s recollections retained particular currency even in the longer term, being quoted verbatim in several of the later monumental biographies of the composer. 2 Mozart biography was thereby endowed with a robust set of engaging stories that came to be cherished by reading communities, and which resulted over time in the characteristic emphasis upon the composer’s childhood in accounts of his life. The consequences were not exclusively positive: as Maynard Solomon (1991a) has recently identified, the insistence upon the exceptional abilities of the young Mozart led to his portrayal as an ‘eternal child’ in many of the biographical writings on the composer, which proved detrimental in that his adult career was taken less seriously. Given the unprecedented proliferation of music-biographical writings on Mozart in the years around 1800, coupled to his enthusiastic reception in the nineteenth century and his popularity amongst its composers (see, for example, Daverio 2003), his life-writing became an important progenitor of the mythological themes that pervaded mature musical biography in general; we shall encounter various instances of the phenomenon in the course of this thesis. Owing to the exceptional nature of the documentation of the tales of his childhood and their widespread dissemination, I have been particularly concerned, in this section, to minimize cross-contamination with the motifs of Mozart biography brought about by authors’ implicitly measuring their own subjects against him. Hence I focus instead on a set of well-known episodes in the early lives of J. S. Bach and Handel, the earliest biographical writing on whom antedates that on Mozart. These stories are much more revealing in terms of their subsequent development, 2 whom Schlichtegroll had originally approached for information on his subject and who acted as an intermediary between him and Nannerl. See, for example, Nohl 1877: I, 13-9; Jahn 1882: I, 21-4; Abert 1919-21: I, 27-30. 38 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity elaboration, and distortion than those of Mozart’s childhood. Bach biography offers the added advantage of being remarkably clear-cut from the point of view of my study, in that five key episodes are yielded by the ‘Nekrolog’ (1754) generally held to have been written by C. P. E. Bach in conjunction with J. F. Agricola for inclusion in the Musikalische Bibliothek, an important music periodical published monthly between 1736 and 1754 by L. C. Mizler. That these five stories are recounted time and again in texts on Bach is surely due to the importance of the ‘Nekrolog’ to subsequent life-writing on the composer, which stems from the familiarity of both authors with the subject (for Agricola had been a pupil of J. S. Bach), the relative dearth of analogous documents on the composer’s life, and its temporal proximity to his death: David and Mendel (1998: 297) have suggested that the obituary notice was written in 1750, although it took a further four years to appear in print. Another equally fundamental, though much later, source was that by Johann Nicolaus Forkel (1802), whose contribution to historical writing on music has already been noted and whose importance to the Bach revival lies not just in his biography of the composer but also in his overseeing of Hoffmeister & Kühnel’s complete edition of his keyboard works. Forkel’s volume was similarly authoritative – he had been in contact with both W. F. Bach and C. P. E. Bach in the mid-1770s, when he first planned to write a biography of their father – though it was not completed until some fifty years after the ‘Nekrolog’, and included an element of championing of a German hero absent from the earlier text; its translation into English in 1820 is attributed to Stephenson, a banker by profession about whom little else is known. In this section, I consider the first two of the stories initially presented in the ‘Nekrolog’: Bach’s secret copying out of his brother’s manuscript by moonlight, aged around ten years old, when he was denied access to it (myth 1-A); and his long journey to Lübeck, undertaken as a young adult, to hear Buxtehude play the organ (myth 1-B). Subsequent retellings of the former in particular 39 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity tended to be based on Forkel’s version, the longevity of which is demonstrated in its being quoted wholesale as late as 1928 in the dedicated biography by the renowned English Bach scholar C. S. Terry (: 25), who also published his own translation of Forkel’s text in 1920. The Handel myths to be considered are his clandestine practice of the clavichord at night as a young child because his father had prevented him from studying music (myth 4-A); and his subsequent journey to the court of Saxe-Weissenfels, where the Duke was impressed by his playing of the organ and requested that his father educate him in music (myth 4-B). Each was first told in the life of the composer by the English theologian John Mainwaring, which was published anonymously in 1760 together with a catalogue of and commentary on the composer’s works by James Harris and Robert Price respectively, and which was disseminated in Continental Europe in German and (in abridged form) French translations shortly thereafter. Despite its title, Memoirs of the Life of the Late George Frederic Handel, Mainwaring may not have known his subject personally; its contents were at least partly recounted to him by John Christopher Smith, who had worked as amanuensis to Handel towards the end of his life. Nonetheless, it is essentially the only source of its kind for information on Handel’s childhood, although John Hawkins and Charles Burney, surely the two most celebrated music historians of eighteenth-century England, allude to these same stories in their own biographical sketches of Handel – the latter clearly expressing doubt as to their veracity (1785: 2). Indeed, both these episodes and those on Bach may be collectively called into question since their authors were reliant on second-hand information for events that had taken place some decades previously, recounted by people who were not even born at the time. This distance between the events and the biographers who retold them, coupled to the absence of witness testimonies, may indeed help to explain the level of subsequent 40 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity deviation from the early accounts relative to the uniformity with which the Mozart childhood myths are retold. In many respects, the stories of the young Mozart provide something of a foil to those of Bach and Handel. Mozart was undeniably a prodigious virtuoso and infant genius, and received great encouragement from his father – himself a musician of some historical significance – in his childhood musical activities. Conversely, both of the earliest episodes of Bach and Handel biographies (1-A and 4-A respectively) demonstrate their young subject’s attempts – which are successful in the short term – to overcome familial obstruction to the pursuit of music through secret night-time activity. Upon reading these stories together, however, a problem emerges in terms of conflicting notions as to the feasibility of surreptitious study in performance. Bach biographers are generally agreed that although their subject did indeed succeed in copying out his brother’s manuscript, he was ultimately discovered and his copy was confiscated; according to the ‘Nekrolog’, the earliest source for the episode, his subterfuge was revealed precisely when ‘he was trying to put [the manuscript] to use’ (1-A-1), the implication being that he gave himself away by endeavouring to play from it. In contradiction to this idea, the story pertaining to Handel hinges on the presumption that it would indeed have been possible to practise the clavichord undetected. Recalling the discussion in my introductory chapter about myths’ importance lying in their cultural functions rather than their factual basis or plausibility, whether they might have taken place is somewhat less important than what they symbolize within their subjects’ biographies: both tell tales of heroes in the making, driven to disobedience in pursuit of their higher calling, undeterred by opposition from lay people who could not (or did not wish to) comprehend their musical destiny. That one depends on the possibility of practising in secret and the other suggests its impossibility merely reinforces the point, not least since 41 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity the long-standing cultural tradition of drawing comparisons between Bach and Handel (to be explored in subsequent chapters) ironically falls down at such a chronologically early, and otherwise rather valuable, opportunity. The discovery of Handel’s musical abilities, as developed through his secret practice, is the subject of a second myth (4-B) typically recounted in biographies immediately after that of his night-time studies in the garret of his house. It is the later tale, however, that I shall discuss first. Its significance as the event in Handel’s life that made possible his early study of music is heightened by the episode’s very nearly not having happened at all; the intention had been for him not to travel with his father to the court of Saxe-Weissenfels, despite his having begged to be taken there. The first half of the story, in which the seven-year-old Handel supposedly pursued his father’s carriage on foot in a desperate attempt to be allowed to accompany him, was treated with some caution even as early as Mainwaring’s original account (4-B-1), and tended to be omitted altogether from twentieth-century biographies. At the same time, paradoxically, Mainwaring’s statement that Handel had caught up with the carriage ‘before it had advanced to any considerable distance from the town’ was embroidered in later accounts, in which he followed ‘for a considerable distance’ (Julian Marshall in Grove’s Dictionary, 4-B-6, 1878), ‘till it was well away from Halle’ (Williams, 4-B-8, 1901), and ‘too far… to be sent back alone’ (Streatfield, 4-B-9, 1909). But, as we shall see, the story transcends its own implausibility in functioning symbolically as another indication of a great life forced to transgress in the service of a higher principle, not least given the turn it took in bringing Handel’s talents to light once the travellers had reached their destination. 42 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The events at the court itself have been viewed with similar suspicion, which only serves to add to the emergent mythology. Biographers from Mainwaring onwards have observed that it simply would not have been appropriate to bring a child to an aristocratic court, especially without permission; that alone lends the tale the air of being an exceptional event, which therefore yields exceptional consequences. 3 Given its importance to Handel’s growth as a musician, subsequent versions sought to strengthen the story in certain respects. One of the most striking developments is demonstrated by the following sample of biographical excerpts, which I offer here partly as an effective illustration of how later retellings of a given episode can become modified by degrees until it assumes a form quite different from the original. It happened one morning, that while he was playing on the organ after the service was over, the Duke was in the church. (Mainwaring, 1760) …the boy stole off to the organ in the chapel as soon as the service was concluded, and was unable to resist the temptation of touching it. The Duke, not recognizing the style of his organist, made inquires… (Schœlcher, 1857) …after the conclusion of the Service, the Organist lifted him upon the stool, and permitted him to play upon the finest instrument he had as yet had the happiness of touching. The Duke listened attentively to the performance… (Rockstro, 1883) … the boy managed to get into the chapel, and was allowed to play the voluntary at the conclusion of the service. The Duke heard him… (Williams, 1901) It was a Sunday service which was the means of drawing the Duke’s attention to the child Handel. On this occasion the boy was allowed to attempt a voluntary at the end of the service. (Flower, 1923) For Mainwaring, the discovery of Handel’s musical abilities by the Duke was portrayed as a result of a propitious coincidence: the child was playing the organ some time after the church service, and, presumably unknown to him, the Duke just happened to be present. Victor Schœlcher’s biography, whose scholarly importance lies in its having been based on contemporary documents collected as a result of original research, lent the tale more immediacy. In this version, Handel used the organ as soon as the service 3 That notwithstanding, tales of the childhood discovery or manifestation of great talent are commonly encountered in biography, as Kris and Kurz (1979: 26-38) have shown with respect to art history. 43 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity ended; nonetheless, the youth was still seen to be acting alone, on instinct, unable to resist the opportunity of playing the instrument. That the three later accounts are all British in origin (unlike Schœlcher’s, which was originally written in French and was translated by James Lowe) is significant given that England was Handel’s adopted country and one for which he was keenly appropriated in nineteenth-century biography, a project in which all of the remaining authors were complicit. With the more hagiographical account by W. S. Rockstro, then, Handel’s display at the organ became deliberate. 4 He was placed at the instrument by the court organist; the Duke was said to have been actively listening, rather than merely chancing to hear Handel; and the boy was consciously performing (to the organist, if not to the Duke). C. F. Abdy Williams’s version, which appeared in his biography of the composer for the original Master Musicians series, extended these notions still further: Handel was not merely trying out the organ after the service, but actually playing the voluntary at its conclusion, thus performing to the Duke and the entire assembled company – including, we might reasonably assume, his father. Finally, with the Handel enthusiast Newman Flower, the episode is cast as a premeditated act by which to bring the young Handel’s musical gifts to the notice of the Duke by allowing him to perform a voluntary. This glimpse of the development of the myth reveals the progressive introduction of elements of will and motivation absent from the original, and, as noted, the ultimate result is far removed from Mainwaring’s innocent tale. That the organist of the story appears to have been tacitly credited with a knowledge of Handel’s musicianship (for why else would he have been allowed to contribute to the music of the service) in the latter three versions may contain resonances of the appropriation of Handel for England, which, as I discuss further in Part II, hinged upon notions that while the country possessed no composers of 4 A similar version of events was given slightly earlier in Julian Marshall’s article on Handel for Grove’s Dictionary (4-B-6). 44 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity a comparable stature, it nevertheless offered a place where foreign talent would be recognized and nurtured when such support was unavailable closer to home. One key function of the childhood myths retold in biographies was to provide early indications of the adult whom the subject was to become. 5 The story of Bach’s copying out of his brother’s manuscript, for example, served to legitimize Bach’s subsequent status as one of the greatest organists of the day as well as to pave the way for his construction as the head of the North German Baroque keyboard school, since it was said to have contained music by renowned composers including Froberger, Kerl, and Pachelbel (to which list Fischer, Buxtehude, Bruhns, and Böhm were added by Forkel). At the same time, this episode laid the biographical foundations for the long-standing cultural trope of the composer as learned, the continued relevance of which is demonstrated in its being newly validated in a recent biography by Christoph Wolff (2000). While earlier sources such as the ‘Nekrolog’ and Forkel insist upon the value of the ‘forbidden’ manuscript to Bach as a performer, the episode was significantly recast by Philipp Spitta, a leading scholar of music history in late nineteenth-century Germany whose two-volume life of the composer activated new directions for Bach biography. In Spitta’s account, the pieces that Bach’s brother had given him to learn were ‘quickly mastered and exhausted, as to their technical and theoretical difficulty; he demanded more difficult tasks and loftier flights’ (1-A-7, italics added). Spitta therefore offered a version in which Bach was revealed to have been explicitly concerned with the theoretical complexities of music, even as a child, and not merely with its execution in performance. This interpretation of the episode spread from Continental Europe to England, where it was further developed at the hands of C. Hubert H. Parry (1-A-11), 5 One useful discussion of the ways in which childhood episodes can function in biography as explanation for subjects’ experiences as adults is to be found in Ellis 2000: 56-75. 45 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity whose biography of Bach was first published in 1909 and whose significance as writer on music influenced by evolutionist theories will be further explored in Part II: …the story itself is especially notable as the first recorded instance of the practice, which was characteristic of John Sebastian from first to last, of studying the works of men of undoubted ability in different branches of art, and gaining insight thereby into the methods and principles of art in order to apply them to the higher purposes which his finer insight and more richly endowed disposition suggested. Similar processes of elaboration, though for somewhat different reasons, may be seen at work in the explanations cited by biographers for Bach’s journey to Lübeck in 1705. As mentioned, the story properly belongs to the subject’s early adulthood rather than his childhood, but it is discussed here for its synergy with the issues raised elsewhere in this section. Several authors have noted that one of Bach’s motives for the visit – and, indeed, that of Handel and Mattheson, who had made a similar journey together two years previously – may have been the possibility of taking up the post of organist in succession to the ageing Buxtehude. However, reading the versions given by different biographers in sequence reveals development in terms of other reasons put forward for Bach’s journey. The ‘Nekrolog’ (1-B-1) did not seek to present the episode as a momentous event, recounting it merely to exemplify a more general point about Bach’s desire to learn from the playing of other first-rate organists. Forkel (1-B-3) accorded it slightly more weight in noting that such study would have contributed to Bach’s development not just in the field of performance but also that of composition, and already we see the beginnings of the shift from one to the other that was characteristic, inter alia, of later insistence upon Bach’s scholasticism. Spitta (1-B-7, 1873), however, again introduced a new dimension, speculating that Bach might have been drawn to Lübeck by the Abendmusiken, the annual series of concerts for which the town was celebrated, thereby opening up the story from that of a specific visit to an esteemed organist to one that incorporated a much wider education in music. Even though Bach 46 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity had only been granted a month’s absence from his post – and hence his planned visit did not coincide with the Abendmusiken in its totality – Spitta’s suggestion was accepted by many subsequent biographers, surely in pursuit of its later, and more valuable, construction as a journey undertaken to enrich the artistic knowledge and experience of a learned genius. The personal importance of Buxtehude, and the exact nature of his relationship with Bach, was also strengthened as the story developed. Forkel wrote that Bach ‘remained a secret hearer’ in listening to Buxtehude, and this was the version adopted for much of the nineteenth century. His account was, however, based on a misreading of the ‘Nekrolog’, specifically the word ‘behorchen’, which may have been intended to indicate the attentiveness with which Bach listened to Buxtehude’s playing rather than actual secrecy. 6 In correcting Forkel’s error, Spitta implied that the opposite was true: that Bach had indeed made himself known to Buxtehude. Nor did embellishment of the tale end there; Terry, for instance, speculated in his article on Bach for the third edition of Grove’s Dictionary that his subject ‘probably’ took lessons from Buxtehude (1-B-12). While the story of the visit itself expanded to encompass the Abendmusiken, it retained value as a pilgrimage to Buxtehude too, as a means by which to maintain Bach’s connection with German predecessors initiated by the story of his brother’s manuscript (which, according to Forkel, had even included music by Buxtehude). The significance of the Lübeck sojourn to Bach’s musical development became vital in addressing an issue sidestepped by the earliest accounts: the repercussions of the composer’s having prolonged his leave from Arnstadt for sixteen weeks when he was granted only a month’s absence, and his appearance before the Consistory to explain his 6 See, for example, Terry 1928: 69, n. 4. 47 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity behaviour. (Most authors who raise the topic are quick to acknowledge that Bach did appoint a deputy, generally assumed to have been his cousin Johann Ernst, prior to his departure. Bach cited this fact in his defence, but it was insufficient to justify his neglect of his duties to the Consistory, and doubtless would have failed on its own to convince subsequent writers and readers of his life story. 7 ) In introducing this point to Bach biography, Spitta (1-B-7, 1873) understandably sought to justify his subject’s apparent disregard for his position, claiming that he so appreciated the superior musical environment in Lübeck that he ‘soon could think of nothing else’, and that ‘Week after week passed by’ before he realized that he needed to head back for home. The other major complaint levelled against Bach on his return – his habit of accompanying the hymns in a manner deemed too extravagant for the congregation – was similarly explained by the increased emphasis on the educational value of his visit to Lübeck. Terry (1-B-13, 1928), whose accounts of this episode were notably fanciful for their time, wrote that The congregation found instant opportunity to judge that their young organist, remote on his lofty seat, had returned [from Lübeck] with new virtuosity of disturbing power. Bach now accompanied the Chorals with an exaggerated freedom that closed the mouths of the congregation, groping blindly for the melody among his coruscations, or stupefied by the audacity of his improvisation between the verses. As Terry doubtless knew, this objection to Bach’s practice antedated his time in Lübeck. While Bach’s manner of hymn accompaniment may have become even more ostentatious upon his return, it was not solely the result of his showcasing new skills acquired during his time there, as was Terry’s implication. The various elaborations that this myth received in later accounts thus served not only to strengthen its illustration of Bach’s continued endeavours to further his musical development, but also to take 7 On the record of the Consistory hearing and Bach’s defence of his behaviour, see ‘Rebuke to Bach for his prolonged absence and improper playing: excerpt from the consistory proceedings’, in David and Mendel 1998: 46-7. 48 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity account of a problematic corner of his biography that arose from the episode itself, making a virtue of necessity just as his (and Handel’s) childhood transgressions had been a means to greater ends. The irony is that while the purpose of Bach’s journey underwent a shift from enhancement of his performance skills to the acquisition of a well-rounded musical education, authors nevertheless found themselves insisting upon the former in order to provide a positive explanation for the events that subsequently unfolded. Owing to the Herculean nature of the industry involved in such activities, often in the face of much opposition, the stories relating to the young Bach and Handel all illustrate a level of determination held to have been similarly indicative of their later lives. Spitta (1-A-7), for instance, wrote that Bach’s copying of his brother’s manuscript exemplified the ‘perseverance of true genius’ that could be seen throughout his biography in his pursuit of ‘the end on which he had set his heart’; Schœlcher (4-B-3) commented that Handel’s covert practice of the clavichord demonstrated the early ‘persistance [sic] which predicted the man of energy which he eventually proved to be’. Another idea that emerges with some consistency in the accounts of the childhood myths (especially those of Handel) is that of the insuppressible genius, whose determination was made stronger rather than weaker as a result of setbacks. Even in the earliest source under consideration, Bach’s ‘Nekrolog’, the subject’s childhood endeavours are linked directly to his death by invoking notions of industry and the relentless desire for self-improvement as having ultimately been responsible for his passing. As Part II demonstrates with respect to the Master Musicians series, similar paradigms associated with subjects’ unwavering determination to succeed are found in the biographies of a spectrum of composers. In exploring them here within the exclusive 49 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity context of childhood myths, my intentions are to establish a wider basis for later discussion by demonstrating their existence to be as long-standing as musical biography itself, since they are already well-developed in both Forkel’s life of Bach (1-A-3) and Mainwaring’s of Handel (4-A-1): the former wrote that ‘[Bach’s] desire… was increased by the refusal’, and the latter that ‘All this caution… instead of restraining, did but augment his passion’. That notions of determination were further strengthened in subsequent accounts is best illustrated by the tale of Bach’s visit to Lübeck. Early biographies such as the ‘Nekrolog’ (1-B-1) and Forkel (1-B-3) mentioned only that he travelled ‘on foot’, but do not otherwise identify the journey as particularly noteworthy; only when it came to assume greater significance was the actual distance given. Where Spitta (1-B-7) mentioned a figure of fifty miles, however, early twentieth-century biographers further elaborated the story. For example, Williams (1-B-9) spoke of ‘the journey of over 200 miles’, while in Terry’s biography (1-B-13), the distance had increased to 300 miles – so long, in fact, that the author expressed doubt that it had been undertaken entirely on foot as in the traditional myth. The embellishment is predominantly British because it arose from a misunderstanding over the German ‘Meilen’ on the part of English translators of Spitta’s biography (since a distance of 50 old German ‘miles’ was roughly equivalent to 200 English miles). Nonetheless, the end result was more than a simple matter of mathematical miscalculation: the increasing distances cited for the journey served to quantify, in ever stronger terms, Bach’s determination to advance his studies as organist and composer. The idea that episodes in the life of the child foreshadow the subject’s adult career inevitably resulted in the explicit invoking of notions of destiny, another issue that receives greater exploration in Part II for its prevalence in musical biography. Again, the trope extends back to the modern origins of the genre, given Mainwaring’s claim 50 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity that ‘Nature seemed to declare herself in so strong a manner’ (4-B-1) through the stories of Handel’s childhood. Similar views are expressed with some consistency in subsequent accounts, prompting extensive discussion of matters of providence and vocation in order to flesh out stories that, particularly in the case of the former, are essentially short and easily recounted. The myth correspondingly developed to emphasize Handel’s natural musical abilities in discerning how to play the clavichord. Mainwaring was unequivocal in saying that ‘He had made some progress before Music had been prohibited, and by his assiduous practice at the hours of rest, had made such farther advances’, which suggests that the young Handel knew at least the rudiments of keyboard-playing before the need to practise secretly arose. However, subsequent biographers departed from this position in favour of more impressive claims that Handel had taught himself from the outset. Schœlcher (4-A-4), for example, wrote that Nature is said to have been his first teacher. Without any guidance, finding out everything for himself, and merely by permitting his little fingers to wander over the key-board, he produced harmonic combinations; and at seven years of age he discovered that he knew how to play upon the spinet. Schœlcher’s biography of Handel (1857) antedated even Friedrich Chrysander’s pioneering (albeit unfinished) life of the composer, the initial volume of which was published one year later. It therefore represented a major advance in life-writing on the composer previously headed by Mainwaring’s Memoirs and the biographical sketches by Burney (who had known Handel) and Hawkins. Since Schœlcher’s account made explicit reference to those of his three English precursors, it is doubly significant that the tale received such reconfiguration so soon in the development of Handel biography. In contradiction to Mainwaring and the other early sources, it was this stronger version of events – in which Handel learnt to play the clavichord entirely in secret, thereby emphasizing his musical instinct and self-learning – that was typically recounted thereafter. Chrysander (4-A-5) even discussed the music that the young Handel might 51 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity have encountered in Halle (and from which his father could not possibly hope to shield him), specifically that of the Liebfrauenkirche. Mention of the town’s cathedral church proved particularly important to the biographers who followed Chrysander since Handel ultimately received tuition from its organist, Friedrich Wilhelm Zachau. Rockstro (4-A-8) even fancifully speculated that the youth might have endeavoured to reproduce at the keyboard the hymns whose strains he had heard from the street. While childhood stories of familial opposition to the study of music are commonly found in musical biography (several instances will be explored in Part II), the episodes under discussion in this section reveal its added significance within a mythic setting. In Handel’s case, his determination to be taken to the court of Saxe-Weissenfels emphasized that, even as a child, his true milieu was that of the professional music scene such as that offered by the court – and which his father, a surgeon, was obviously unable to offer. The story of Bach and his brother’s manuscript is even more important in this respect: in addition to connecting him to his German artistic heritage (as reinforced by his subsequent pilgrimage to Buxtehude) and demonstrating his reverence for his predecessors, it simultaneously disassociated him from his other musical lineage, his actual family. That enabled an understanding of the composer as the greatest member of the Bach dynasty, suggesting that it commenced with him rather than some generations earlier; in time, it also facilitated his construction as the chronological starting-point for the musical canon itself. Ultimately, then, the childhood tales of both Bach and Handel served to indicate that even at this tender age, they were destined to walk not with the mere mortals of their family, but with the wider musical world and its artistic heroes. 52 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The Subjects and Their Phenomenal Gifts By way of legitimizing their subjects, biographers have often insisted upon their extraordinary musical abilities, reinforcing their claims by recounting suitably illustrative stories. The result has been a large number of myths on themes of astonishing feats of performance, composition, and extemporization. Some of the more generic tales will be discussed in Part II; in this section, I shall examine in detail two of the most heavily mythologized episodes, one relating to the gift of performance and the other to memory. Since each probes a different, and ostensibly unrelated, aspect of its subject’s talents, I explore them in isolation, proceeding chronologically. The first is the story of the contest in 1717 between Bach and Louis Marchand, the celebrated French keyboardist and composer then active at the Dresden court (myth 1-C). Such competitions between great performers were common at the time, the best known perhaps being that between Handel and Domenico Scarlatti, which had taken place in Rome less than a decade earlier. In the case of the Bach-Marchand contest, no primary sources have survived and the secondary material is inconsistent: in addition to the ‘Nekrolog’ and the version given by Forkel, there are accounts by Johann Abraham Birnbaum, Jacob Adlung, and F. W. Marpurg, all of whom claimed to have received the story directly from Bach. 8 Bach himself was said by Forkel to have been too modest ever to mention the event without prompting (1998: 459), and thus contrasted starkly with his opponent’s damning construction within the myth as over-proud. Spitta, who undertook a full assessment of the available sources that redressed the balance of the previously one-sided narratives, described Marchand as ‘full of vanity, arrogance, and petty caprice’ (1-C-9). However, even Spitta overlooked two additional eighteenth-century accounts of the episode, in the histories by Burney (1-C-2) and 8 Birnbaum 1739 (repr. in Scheibe 1745: 899; trans. in David and Mendel 1998: 79-80); Adlung [1758], quoted in Dahms 1924: 40; [Marpurg] 1786: 292. For an assessment of these sources, see Spitta 1884-5: I, 644-7; see also Terry (1-C-15). 53 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Hawkins (1-C-3). The latter is particularly valuable, having been written on the authority of Johann Christian Bach, and differing from all other versions in several respects. Bach biographies prior to Spitta (1873) generally followed the accounts of the ‘Nekrolog’ (1-C-1) and Forkel (1-C-5), both of which held that Bach had been invited to Dresden by Jean-Baptiste Volumier, the court Kapellmeister, for the express purpose of standing against Marchand in contest. In this version of the story, Volumier apparently contrived for Bach secretly to hear Marchand’s playing prior to the competition, thus giving him advance knowledge of the abilities of his opponent. On the day itself, Marchand was said to have fled Dresden by express coach, leaving Bach to entertain the assembled crowd on his own. In this respect, the accounts of Burney and Hawkins differ, for in stating that Bach was victorious they both imply that the contest took place. Another discrepancy in this early version of the proceedings concerns the role of the King of Poland, who was also Elector of Saxony. Forkel wrote that Volumier’s invitation was made ‘With the King’s approbation’; Burney likewise suggested that the King endorsed Bach’s candidacy; Hawkins even claimed that he had sent for Bach in response to Marchand’s declaration that he would be prepared to stand against any player. Yet the earliest accounts, those of Birnbaum and Adlung, do not mention the King; and as Spitta (1884-5: I, 646-7) noted, if he had been involved, the event would surely have been held at the court itself rather than in the home of a state official whom Forkel identified as Marshal Count Flemming. Spitta’s consideration of a wider pool of sources gave rise to the turning-point for this myth. In Spitta’s version (1-C-9), the dubious roles played by both Volumier and the King were removed: instead, Bach was seen to be at Dresden ‘quite by chance’, 54 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity following the testimonies of Birnbaum and Adlung. Moreover, Spitta declared that Marchand had departed so suddenly (and secretly) because he knew that he would not win the competition, writing that ‘With certain prescience of defeat he had abandoned the field’. While this suggestion was implicit in previous accounts, Spitta’s could state it overtly, for no prior biographer had indicated Marchand’s foreknowledge of his opponent. Spitta, however, speculated that ‘Marchand must have heard him somewhere or other, and have convinced himself that the German musician was infinitely his superior’. This position is, of course, a complete reversal of previous versions of the story, in which it had been Bach who had heard Marchand prior to the contest. Spitta wrote of this very story that ‘by analysing [conflicting accounts] duly we can plainly detect the process by which a historical myth is gradually developed’ (1884-5: I, 646), thereby offering a fascinating, and rare, indication of past biographers’ being self-consciously aware of their own position in relation to the agencies of cultural myth-making whose fruits they had inherited. However, in attempting to provide a more rounded picture of the episode – and despite his having knowingly intervened in the mythologization to which it had historically been subjected – Spitta was himself responsible not just for some of its most over-reaching elaborations, but also for unwittingly setting the agenda for its subsequent evolution. Early twentieth-century accounts of Bach’s life have tended to follow Spitta’s version of events rather than those of the ‘Nekrolog’ or Forkel, extending elements he had introduced such as that Bach may have travelled to Dresden for reasons other than the competition with Marchand. Both Schweitzer (1-C-12) and Terry (1-C-15), for example, speculated that he was motivated by the desire to hear an organist of Marchand’s stature; the latter even suggested that the competition had probably emerged as a natural consequence of the presence of two esteemed performers in the same town, rather than being the reason for 55 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity their coming together. Spitta’s conjecture that Marchand had heard Bach before the contest, and fled because he was certain of defeat, is similarly adopted by twentieth-century biographies; by the time of the appearance of Parry’s biography in 1909, it had apparently ‘met with general endorsement’ (1-C-13). Whereas the childhood myths became strengthened over time by emphasizing the purpose underlying the subject’s actions (Bach’s reasons for turning to his brother’s manuscript, for example), here it is the removal of premeditation that makes the tale more effective. The switching around of which organist had investigated his rival’s playing in advance, meanwhile, recast Bach as the more confident – and by implication, more competent – performer. These aspects of the story assume an added significance since its overall function as a demonstration of Bach’s greatness is extremely limited: the contest did not actually take place (at least according to the majority of accounts), so Bach’s role in his perceived victory over Marchand is essentially passive. As the myth developed in these directions, so its value to biography as an illustration of Bach’s standing as an organist increased. In accounts after Spitta, it received a new codetta to this effect: Terry (1-C-15), for example, wrote that it ‘blazed Bach’s name throughout Germany’. If the story has come to exemplify Bach’s standing as the greatest organist of the day, it has also been appropriated to support the Austrogermanic hegemony of the musical canon against French philistinism. Illustration of the supremacy of German keyboard-playing permeates some of the early sources (notably Adlung), in keeping with the nationalities of their authors. However, the role played by Volumier calls this idea into question: being of Latin descent, Volumier would have nothing to gain from demonstrating Germany’s musical superiority. Nonetheless, both the ‘Nekrolog’ and 56 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Forkel present a story promoting Bach’s German school above Marchand’s Latin one (the latter even broadening his argument to encompass Couperin, the composer with the greatest claim to being Bach’s French Baroque counterpart). This was one aspect preserved by Spitta, for whom the dichotomy extended to the setting of the Dresden court itself, where opinion was largely divided between its members (who favoured French music) and its musicians (who were predominantly German, and therefore more inclined to side with Bach). This interpretation of the episode was understandably resisted in French biography. Fétis, whose musical writings (while opinionated, and not always factually reliable) were hugely influential in nineteenth-century Franco-Belgian circles, overtly criticized German biographies in his retelling of the story (1-C-8) for failing to acknowledge that even if the quality of Marchand’s compositions might have left something to be desired, his abilities in performance may nevertheless have been excellent. It could hardly have been otherwise, or there would have been no question as to whether Bach was a greater performer than Marchand; and according to André Pirro (1906: 52), Bach himself regarded Marchand’s compositions highly enough to set them for his pupils to study. There was, then, a certain tendency amongst Latin authors towards damage limitation in respect of those aspects of the episode that were so demeaning to a French musician, even one whose historical significance (as viewed from Pirro’s time, or even Fétis’s) was relatively minor. From the national perspective, Albert Schweitzer’s version (1-C-12) is even more revealing. As an Alsatian who lived at a time when the region oscillated between French and German control, Schweitzer’s sympathies might have straddled both countries; likewise, his monumental study of Bach, originally written in French in 1905 (though published in Leipzig), was in the ensuing years expanded for a German-language edition which was then translated into English by Ernest Newman. 57 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Schweitzer’s account, which (despite the echoes of Spitta’s reconfiguration of the myth) repeatedly cited Forkel as its source, shifted its focus to emphasize Germany’s musical opposition to Italy rather than to France, potentially in an effort to downplay conflicts closer to home: After his victory over Marchand in 1717[, Bach] was one of the celebrities of the fatherland. The German musicians were proud to be able to oppose a master of their own race to the French and Italian virtuosi. Let German musicians affect Italian ways if they would, in order to win a cheap renown, let the very existence of a German art be denied; the fact remained that there was such a thing, and that it had publicly triumphed over the other. According to Terry (1928: 112), the version of the story preferred in France was that originating with Marpurg (1786), in which one keyboard contest had taken place – and the two competitors adjudged equal – before Marchand took flight. It was also this form in which the episode found its way into Marchand biography, even though Marpurg’s account was at variance with all other eighteenth-century sources as well as subsequent writing on Bach. The conflict was particularly pronounced in biographical dictionaries such as those of Fétis and Grove, in which the version given in the article on Marchand co-existed with a completely different tale told elsewhere in the same publication. 9 For unlike the previously-discussed myths of familial obstruction, which tend to operate comfortably within the narrow bounds of the life story of a fledgling protagonist, those of contests between different musicians lend themselves ideally to appropriation beyond the competitors themselves as well as to allegorical interpretations. Likewise, as we have seen, the politics of nationality and of music reception can steer authors towards particular versions of a given episode in ways infrequently encountered in retellings of stories of a subject’s childhood. 9 See Fétis 1860-5: V, 445 and M[aitland] 1878-90: 213; cf. 1-C-8 and 1-C-10 respectively. 58 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The second story, that of Mozart’s memorizing Allegri’s Miserere while on tour to Italy in 1770 (myth 6-A), might itself legitimately be classed as a childhood myth since the protagonist was only fourteen years old at the time. 10 However, it is not one of the previously-mentioned set of anecdotes associated with Mozart’s earliest years, and seems more helpfully addressed alongside the themes of this section, especially given the tales of astounding feats of memory found elsewhere both in his biography and those of other composers. The fame of this particular episode is augmented by the iconic nature of the piece concerned; for instance, Burney, who had been lent a copy of the Miserere by Padre Giovanni Battista Martini (one of only three reputedly in existence prior to 1770), included a lengthy description of the work in the course of his writings on music history (1771b: 275-81) as well as printing a simplified score (1771a: 35-42). This fascination soon became incorporated directly within life-writing on Mozart, in that the retelling of the story led to the inclusion of a detailed interlude on the Sistine Chapel and Allegri’s Miserere largely based on Burney’s, in the 1814 biography published under the name Louis-Alexandre-César Bombet (Henri-Marie Beyle, whose most famous pseudonym was ‘Stendhal’). Stendhal’s text (which was combined with sections on Haydn and Metastasio to form a single volume) was heavily based on Théophile Frédéric Winckler’s biographical notice of 1801, which was itself greatly indebted to Schlichtegroll’s authoritative obituary and the so-called Rochlitz anecdotes (for which, see below). The interlude migrated to England three years later in a translation of Stendhal’s volume by Robert Brewin, from where it was absorbed wholesale into Sainsbury’s biographical dictionary – all the while retaining the detailed information about the piece and the place with which it was most associated. 11 10 11 As hinted in the introduction to this chapter, questions as to when childhood ends and adulthood begins are particularly problematized within the field of music, as Part II will further explore, since its greatest figures include both child prodigies (such as Mozart) and composers whose development was strikingly slow (notably Beethoven). Bombet 1814: 308-13; Brewin 1817: 357-60; Sainsbury 1827: II, 189-91. 59 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Resonances of this phenomenon may even be seen some decades later: Rockstro’s dedicated article on ‘Miserere’ for the first edition of Grove’s Dictionary centred on Allegri’s work and retold this very story (R[ockstro] 1878-90: 336). The episode itself was documented at the time by Mozart’s father Leopold, who accompanied him on his Holy Week pilgrimage to the Sistine Chapel. 12 His letter of 14 April 1770 has been quoted verbatim by several major nineteenth-century biographers by way of telling the story; 13 the precedent was set by Georg Nikolaus Nissen’s voluminous biography of 1828, which, despite its various shortcomings, retains great value for making publicly available many personal documents (albeit in censored form) pertaining to the composer’s life. Given the similarities between the two accounts, Leopold’s letter may also have been consulted by Nannerl in supplying information for Schlichtegroll’s obituary. Nannerl, however, offered more detail as to the particulars of the episode than had Leopold; presumably she was recollecting aspects that her father had simply not documented, though one cannot discount the possibility that an element of revisionism pervaded her version of events. She, unlike Leopold, explicitly identified that her young brother, knowing that it was forbidden by Papal law to make a copy of the Miserere, consciously ‘undertook to hear it and then copy it out’ (Deutsch 1965: 459). This is the view adopted by Schlichtegroll (6-A-1) and many of the early accounts. However, it seems to have been often skimmed over thereafter, doubtless because the myth is more impressive if it is cast as a spontaneous feat of memory rather than a pre-meditated exercise in musical dictation (and, as I shall presently discuss, so as not to draw too much attention to Mozart’s deliberately undertaking an act he knew to be prohibited). Given the proliferation of stories of Mozart’s composing complicated 12 13 Leopold Mozart to his wife, 14 April 1770, in Anderson 1985: 125-8, at 127. See further, Leopold Mozart to his wife, 19 May 1770, in Anderson 1985: 134-6, at 136. See, for example, Nissen 1828: I, 190-2; Holmes 1845: 66; Nohl 1877: 35-6. 60 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity music in his head before committing it to paper, it is easy to see why this childhood tale provided a valuable demonstration of an analogous faculty, as William Stafford (1991: 145) has hinted. One aspect of the episode that was progressively embellished over the years is the extent to which correction and completion of Mozart’s original copy was required on the repeat hearing on Good Friday. The point is variously reported by biographers. Er tat es und hielt darauf sein Manuskript im Hut, als dieses Miserere am Karfreitag wieder gegeben wurde, wodurch er noch einige Verbesserungen in seinem Aufsatz machen konnte. (Schlichtegroll, 1793) … he took the manuscript with him again on the Friday when there was another performance, so that he could make any corrections or fill in any omissions. (Niemetschek, 1798) He drew out a sketch on the first hearing, and attended the performance a second time on Good Friday, having his MS. in his hat for correction and completion. (Holmes, 1845) Wolfgang gave the well-known proof of his ear and memory, by writing down the entire work, after one hearing, merely correcting one or two passages during the repetition on Good Friday. (Grove 1, 1880) Wolfgang having, in his wonderful memory, retained every note of the sacred dirge, as he heard it, committing the whole to paper forthwith. (Breakspeare, 1902) …he sat down and wrote out the whole work, which was in four and five parts, with a final nine-part chorus, from memory immediately after the service. (Blom, 1935) In the earliest biographical account of the story, from Schlichtegroll’s obituary, Mozart contrived to allow himself the possibility for making some corrections by obtaining a second hearing with his manuscript secreted in his hat (though the author did not explicitly state that any such alteration was needed). The next significant contribution to Mozart biography was the monograph published in 1798 by the Prague-based music critic Franz Xaver Niemetschek and written largely on the authority of Constanze Mozart, who had provided him with various personal documents for this purpose; it thereby initiated the widow’s resistance to portrayals of the late composer perpetuated by his father and sister, which culminated three decades later with the major biography 61 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity by Nissen, whom Constanze had married in 1809. 14 However, Niemetschek – who had met Mozart towards the end of his life and became acquainted with Constanze in the years immediately following Mozart’s death when their son Carl became his residential pupil – was also indebted to Schlichtegroll, especially for information on the period prior to the last decade of the subject’s life; his rendering of this episode explicitly cited the earlier writer’s account as a source, though it is much elaborated. For instance, his phraseology shifted the ground subtly from Schlichtegroll’s position, suggesting through the use of the word ‘any’ that there might actually have been no need to make corrections, and thus hinting that the primary purpose of the repeat hearing was to check an already-complete copy. Subsequent biographers have extended this notion even further, the tendency being to maximize Mozart’s achievement by presenting a story in which he had essentially written down the entire work after his first hearing, merely requiring a few corrections in order to make it a perfect transcription. One anomalous rendering was that by Edward Holmes, an influential music critic of the mid-nineteenth century and author of the first major English biography on the composer (1845), which stated that Mozart had only sketched the work after the first performance. Certain biographers, indeed, have totally denied the necessity for a second hearing. Of the first two Master Musicians monographs on the composer, Eustace Breakspeare’s claimed that he ‘retained every note’ of the music after having heard it just once; while Eric Blom, who assumed editorship of the series in the 1930s and personally undertook to write a new Mozart volume to supersede Breakspeare’s, omitted mention of the repeat performance altogether – thereby effectively recounting only half the story. 14 The work was completed by Johann Heinrich Feuerstein, still under Constanze’s direction, following Nissen’s death in 1826. 62 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Another element that originated with Nannerl’s document rather than Leopold’s was Mozart’s subsequent performance of the Miserere for Cristofori, one of the Papal singers, who verified its accuracy. While the myth has come to be understood as an illustration of Mozart’s capacity for remembering and recalling music, an ability closely aligned with his compositional activity, this codetta enables an alternative interpretation as a demonstration of his skill in the assimilation and successful execution of a distinctive performing practice associated with the work. The story did, after all, state that Mozart’s achievement was verified not by consulting his transcription, but by inviting him to sing the piece at the keyboard; and Leopold’s original letter had said of the Miserere that ‘the manner of performance contributes more to its effect than the composition itself’. 15 Hinting at the latter interpretation, several nineteenth-century biographers followed Stendhal (Bombet 1814: 311-2), who discussed an earlier story connected to the work (itself gleaned from Burney 1771b: 279-81), namely its transplantation at the request of Leopold I to the imperial chapel at Vienna; it did not, however, flourish there because it was not sung in the same manner as at the Sistine Chapel, where a specific tradition of executing and embellishing its vocal lines had emerged. That there was some uncertainty among early writers as to whether to understand this episode as a performance-related, rather than work-based, anecdote is best seen in two French-language publications that appeared within years of one another: Stendhal, glossing Winckler (and, by extension, Schlichtegroll), wrote of Mozart’s performance that ‘Il s’en acquitta à ravir’ (6-A-4); whereas Choron and Fayolle’s dictionary (6-A-3, 1810-1) claimed that Cristofori ‘reconnut avec surprise que cette copie était aussi complète que fidèle’. 15 For citation, see n. 12. 63 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity One further point warrants exploration: since it was not permitted to make copies of the Miserere, Mozart’s actions are hardly exemplary. Indeed, this appears to have been the real reason that the episode created such shockwaves in Rome. His biographers have understandably been anxious to downplay the matter; even Holmes (6-A-7), who described Mozart’s actions as ‘unexampled theft’, rounded off his account with the whimsical comment that ‘The generous Italians were so much delighted [by the young Mozart’s performance of the work] that they forgot to call upon the pope to excommunicate the culprit.’ As we shall see in the following section, the trope of Mozart as subversive in the face of the authorities and those in positions of power has long permeated retellings of his life; nonetheless, such conduct evidently created problems for biographers even in this instance, when it could so easily have been dismissed as the actions of a child (albeit a prodigious one) too young to have known better. Had Mozart not been fourteen years old at the time, Rome might have viewed the whole affair rather differently, and that would have considerably changed the manner in which it was recounted through the medium of biography. Myths Relating to Individual Works The scope of Part I is such that it cannot hope to consider en masse the plethora of myths associated with individual pieces of music. Nevertheless, a small number of famous and frequently-encountered stories in which specific works figure prominently will be explored for the specific evidence they yield as to the biographers’ shifting priorities over time. Those associated with Bach’s Musikalisches Opfer and Mozart’s Requiem, amongst others, will be considered in later chapters; two additional episodes, which do not seem to fit easily into any other category, are the focus of this section. The first is Emperor Joseph II’s celebrated remark to Mozart that Die Entführung aus dem Serail contained ‘too many notes’, to which the composer reportedly replied that there 64 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity were exactly as many notes as were necessary (myth 6-B). There are no primary sources for this story, though one may reasonably assume that it took place (if at all) at around the time of the opera’s highly successful première in Vienna in 1782. It became well-known in the decade following the composer’s death, originating in Niemetschek’s biography and subsequently being reproduced as an addendum to Friedrich Rochlitz’s celebrated ‘Verbürgte Anekdoten’ in December 1798. 16 The ‘Rochlitz anecdotes’ were a series of 27 short articles contributed to the newly-founded Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, of which Rochlitz was editor; the majority were published in the last three months of 1798, together with an unsigned anecdote in April 1799 an additional four appearing in April and May 1801. Collectively they represent a significant early source for life-writing on Mozart, not least given their wholesale absorption into biographies including Winckler’s (1801), Nissen’s (1828), and perhaps Arnold’s (1803), as well as the French translations by Cramer (1801) and (in abridged form) Suard (1803-4). Rochlitz claimed to have written on the authority of Mozart’s widow Constanze and with personal knowledge of the subject himself, though given the author’s general track record for fabrication, their veracity has long been questioned – Otto Jahn being the first notable Mozart biographer to have done so, and Maynard Solomon (1991b) doubtless not the last. Niemetschek’s biography, which had appeared earlier in 1798 (and had also been published anonymously the previous year), could well have provided a basis for some of these anecdotes. In the aforementioned addendum, Rochlitz explained that Niemetschek’s work had come to his attention since commencing his own series; he then printed three excerpts from Niemetschek’s biography, which were assimilated into Rochlitz’s canon as of Cramer’s translation (6-B-2). 16 Some years later, Michael Kelly (1826: II, 72) was to claim that Mozart had personally recounted the story to him. 65 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The story stands as perhaps the most famous example of a number in which composers have expressed conviction that their scores must remain as originally written. Nissen (6-B-6), for example, drew parallels with another tale in which Napoleon had made a comment to Cherubini that prompted a similar response. While the two episodes bore striking resemblance to one another, Nissen’s comparison – which was subsequently followed by Jahn (1882: II, 212) – was less apposite in that from its earliest accounts, the story pertaining to Mozart has been appropriated to illustrate the supremacy of German music over Italian. In Niemetschek’s original version (6-B-1), the Italians at Joseph’s court were apparently jealous of Mozart, leading the Emperor to make the remark in spite of his personal enjoyment of the music of Die Entführung; moreover, Niemetschek identified that Mozart knew that the true origins of the opinion lay elsewhere. In emphasizing the conspiracy of the Italian composers and their prejudice against Mozart, the focus of the episode is shifted away from its most important figure, the aristocrat who had commissioned the work; while the criticism is seen as having been motivated by malice rather than legitimate concerns about the score of the opera. Jim Samson’s recent suggestion that Joseph’s reported remark likely referred ‘more to the thickness of the orchestration than to the profusion of ornamental detail’ (2003: 85, n. 66) accords with this interpretation as an expression (at least ostensibly) of imperial support for Italian opera, with its characteristic superficial decoration. It was, after all, just months after the first performance of Die Entführung that Joseph, through his closure of the Nationaltheater, reoriented Vienna to Italian opera while bringing analogous German cultural pursuits to an end; and the episode, apocryphal though it is, neatly encapsulates the wider tensions between the two operatic schools in which Mozart was thoroughly entwined. 66 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Since every retelling of this story in the earlier sources was indebted (directly or indirectly) to Niemetschek’s volume, the above themes appeared with much consistency; as the temporal distance from the original account increased, however, so the myth was enabled to develop. Holmes’s 1845 biography is especially interesting in this respect (6-B-8), for several of the spiteful Italians were explicitly named, including Salieri, who, as ‘The most active and inveterate against Mozart of all the Italian clique’, was cast as their ringleader. This mention of Salieri doubtless owes much to the notorious suggestion that he may have been Mozart’s killer, which came to public attention during the 1820s and to which we shall return in a later chapter. Another deviation notable in Holmes’s account is that the criticism of Die Entführung reached Joseph only via the Italian composers’ sway with the ‘ladies of the court’, who were presumably more susceptible; hence, in this version, they were turning not just a single person, but the court in general, against their Germanic rival. The mid-nineteenthcentury standpoint also facilitated retrospective assessment of Die Entführung in relation to Mozart’s career, leading to a greater understanding of its importance in bringing the composer to prominence throughout Europe as well as of the threat that such a successful German opera would have posed to corresponding Italian traditions. For example, Ludwig Nohl (6-B-10), whose well-known writings on Mozart, Beethoven, and other composers include a two-volume biography of the former first published in 1863, wrote that it was with this work that ‘He had become fully conscious of the strength of his abilities’, and that its reception ‘caused his soul to soar still higher, and his spirit acquired a fresh impetus.’ Historiographically speaking, a late eighteenth-century tale in which somebody whose status was little more than that of a servant (whatever his personal feelings on the issue) talked back to an aristocrat in such manner cannot be considered illustrative of 67 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity exemplary behaviour; and, unlike his breach of decorum in the previously-explored Miserere episode, Mozart’s age no longer provided mitigating circumstances. The matter was treated delicately in the earliest accounts: Niemetschek wrote that he spoke in the most respectful terms, ‘with that noble dignity and frankness which so often go with great genius’ (6-B-1), while any suggestion of impertinence was diffused by the glosses of subsequent authors such as Cramer (6-B-2) and Suard (6-B-3), both of whom commented upon Joseph’s understanding reaction. It has, however, proven less problematic in later biographical renderings, in which such justification did not appear to be necessary. One reason is surely that although the exchange between Mozart and the Emperor has undoubtedly become the most frequently recounted aspect of the myth, the composer’s insistence on the perfection of his score has turned out to be held more important than the issue of his conduct towards a superior. In addition, as Stafford (1991: 177-206) has identified, the trope of the rebellious Great Composer as disrupting social hierarchies has become relatively common in life-writing on Mozart; and while I see little evidence of anti-aristocratic sentiments being openly expressed in accounts of the myths under discussion in Part I, it is feasible that they implicitly factored into such interpretations. Even though Rochlitz did not include an original narrative of this story within his set of anecdotes, as noted, several contain motifs so similar as to warrant brief exploration. In Anecdote 1, Mozart was said to have ‘found that the singers were adding too many ornaments’ in a performance of Die Entführung (Solomon 1991b: 7); Anecdote 3 explored Joseph II’s opinion of the Italian composers in relation to Mozart (: 11); Anecdote 16 discussed Mozart’s discontent at some of the passages of the opera which he himself excised later (: 29). Recognizing the connection between the latter anecdote and the tale at the centre of this discussion, Winckler (1801: 34-5), followed by various 68 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity other authors, juxtaposed them such that Joseph’s ‘too many notes’ remark was immediately succeeded by a second episode in which the composer had abridged the original work, commenting that while certain passages sounded acceptable on the piano, they were unsuited to the stage – in other words, that there may indeed have been too many notes. While Rochlitz’s Anecdote 16 is called into question by the lack of evidence for revision of Die Entführung, as Solomon has noted (: 50), the suggestion that this criticism (although motivated by jealousy) might have had some foundation was thereby embedded in early Mozart biography. This association is ironic given that the very possibility of subsequent revisions to the opera runs contrary to the myth’s later function of insisting upon the score as originally written, in accordance with changing emphases from performance to text already observed elsewhere. 17 Such different interpretations of the story were made possible since despite the scale of its initial success, Die Entführung was less well known in the nineteenth century than other Mozart operas including Don Giovanni and Le nozze di Figaro; nor was it brought to public attention through scandal in the manner of Così fan tutte. For many years, then, the majority of readers would have been unable to pass judgement on the work for themselves. The other story to be considered in this section is Beethoven’s dramatic removal of the dedication of his Third Symphony to Napoleon in 1804, having been informed that he had proclaimed himself Emperor (myth 2-C). There were two eyewitnesses to the event: Ferdinand Ries, who provided the original account (2-C-1); and Count Moritz Lichnowsky, on whose authority Schindler wrote about the episode in his early life of Beethoven (2-C-2) (Schindler 1841: I, 90n.). Ries’s reminiscence biography was 17 Jahn’s position (6-B-9) is anomalous among later writers for having speculatively related the comment to another view reportedly expressed by the Emperor to Dittersdorf, namely that Mozart’s operatic accompaniments were too loud for the singers (Dittersdorf 1801: 237). 69 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity published in 1838 together with that by F. G. Wegeler, who was for some time intended to be one of the co-writers of Schindler’s work; that Schindler’s various plans for collaboration did not ultimately come to pass may have been a contributing factor in delaying the publication of his own text until 1840. All three offerings were of great significance to early Beethoven biography, not least because their respective authors wrote with the benefit of significant contact with their subject. 18 Ries and Schindler had both worked as Beethoven’s secretary at different times of his life (Ries had also been his piano pupil), and Schindler was thereby able to retain custody of many of the composer’s personal documents, including the Conversation Books, following his death. Perhaps owing to their different sources, these two initial versions of the episode are at variance in several respects. Ries stated that on hearing the news that provoked his rage, Beethoven delivered a monologue denouncing Napoleon as self-aggrandizing, ambitious, and autocratic, and then tore the dedication from his score. Schindler’s account, however, connected the report of Napoleon’s emperorship more immediately to Beethoven’s removal of the dedication: The first thing Beethoven did on receiving this intelligence was to tear off the title-leaf of this Symphony, and to fling the work itself, with a torrent of execrations against the new French Emperor, against the ‘new tyrant,’ upon the floor… Schindler’s biography has received much criticism over the years for being factually inaccurate to the point of outright fabrication, and for its consequent contribution to nineteenth-century myth-making about the composer. In this instance, looking beyond the story itself and towards its political resonances, certain indications may indeed be 18 The authoritative nature of these texts, and their substantial documentary value, has led to their having jointly provided the foundation for subsequent life-writing on Beethoven, eclipsing earlier endeavours (notably that published by Johann Aloys Schlosser in 1827) even despite the relatively long period between their subject’s death and their publication. 70 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity seen of the influence Schindler was to exert on Romantic perceptions of his subject. Ries offered a straightforward narrative largely uninflected by ideological concerns, and which downplayed Beethoven’s own convictions. However, Schindler, who had piqued Beethoven’s interest for his participation in a student demonstration in support of the Carbonari movement in 1814 and his pro-German reformist activities thereafter, wrote of the composer in explicitly political terms, as ‘a republican [with] the spirit of independence natural to a genuine artist’. The third edition of Schindler’s biography, which appeared in 1860 as a substantial re-write of the first, extended these notions further: there he described the composer as ‘personally inclined… towards unimpeded freedom and independence’ and holding a ‘belief in democratic constitutions’ (2-C-4), defending his earlier view that his subject’s sympathies originated in his passion for Plato and Plutarch in response to criticism he had received in the intervening period (Schindler 1966: 112-5). Accounts of this episode reveal that the explicit relation of art and politics in the biographies of the Great Composers often proved to be a source of substantial unease, as we shall see in Part II with respect to Wagner. The inextricable link between Napoleon and this supposed demonstration of Beethoven’s ideological sensibilities created additional problems in that Napoleon ultimately became a tyrant, as the composer reportedly foresaw, thus shifting the emphasis from art to artist – and specifically to the question of why Beethoven was so enamoured with his dedicatee as to create such a grand artistic monument to him. In his revised biography, for instance, Schindler took pains to explain to the reader that Beethoven respected Napoleon for his restoration of political stability after the Revolution rather than for his military conquests, and that he was attracted by the republican philosophy upon which that order was based even though it neither derived from Napoleon nor bore any similarity to that 71 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity of Beethoven’s classical ideals. He thereby clarified the nature of Beethoven’s political sensibilities by way of justifying his reverence for Napoleon, while emphasizing their distance from one another. Similarly, Schindler’s initial account identified that the suggestion that the composer should write a symphony about Napoleon originated with one of his officers, General Bernadotte, rather than with the composer. The biographer claimed to have acquired this information both from ‘several’ of the composer’s friends (1841: I, 88), and from a letter from Beethoven to Bernadotte, then King of Sweden, in 1823 (: I, 204-5). 19 While Napoleon’s conquests would have made him a deeply unpopular figure for nineteenth-century German reading communities, the episode continued to serve the function of separating Beethoven from his (Napoleon’s) politics far beyond its original context. Marion Scott, for instance, wrote in her 1934 Master Musicians biography that in tearing off the title page of his score, Beethoven ‘thus sunder[ed] himself from Bonaparte for ever’ (2-C-8). The irony is that the incident did not altogether remove the ties between them: as Barry Cooper has noted (2000: 141), Beethoven still considered the work to be named in Napoleon’s honour some months afterwards, and financial reasons underpinned its ultimate dedication to Prince Lobkowitz. 20 Tensions over Napoleon’s commemoration by the symphony also permeate descriptions of the music incorporated within accounts of this story. One particularly extended reading was provided by Ludwig Nohl (2-C-6, 1884), who claimed that Beethoven transcended the Napoleonic model in the course of the work, which he (Nohl) instead took to represent the ‘ever-living, ever-awakening hero of humanity, the genius of our 19 20 According to Donald MacArdle, editor of the English translation of the third edition of Schindler’s biography, no such letter has survived (Schindler 1966: 190, n. 76). In a letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of 26 August 1804, Beethoven wrote that ‘The title of the symphony is really Bonaparte’. See Anderson 1961: I, 117, italics in original. 72 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity race’. Fétis (2-C-3) even claimed that Beethoven had revised his score following his removal of the dedication, and that he included the funeral march – whose position as the symphony’s second movement has often perplexed commentators – in order effectively to kill off a hero previously honoured with music of a more glorious character: Sa pensée changea alors de direction : à l’héroïque mouvement, il substitua la marche funèbre qui forme aujourd’hui le second morceau de sa symphonie… Son héros lui semblait déjà descendu dans la tombe ; au lieu d’un hymne de gloire, il avait besoin d’un chant de deuil. While Napoleon might have been even less popular to an Inter-Revolutionary Franco-Belgian readership than to a Germanic one (which may account for Fétis’s extreme position), consideration of the relationship between the myth and the music itself raises another issue. Suggestions that the ‘Eroica’ incorporated external reference were at odds with the European aesthetic of absolute music, which came to be idealized in the nineteenth century even despite the muddying of the proverbial waters by various traditions (to be investigated further in the course of Part II) of supplying narratives for symphonic works in music criticism and biography. Within the more specific context of this episode, the matter was further problematized by Ries’s statement that ‘Beethoven frequently had a certain subject in mind’ when composing such pieces (2-C-1). The tale of the cathartic removal of the symphony’s dedicatory title conveniently severed this link and limited the possibilities for understanding the work as descriptive, thereby saving it from much of the unease that surrounded the ‘Pastoral’ Symphony; while Schindler’s promotion of Bernadotte as the origin of the idea (though it was by no means universally adopted) attempted to shift the burden even further away from its composer. This damage limitation notwithstanding, the residual danger to the reception of the ‘Eroica’ was sufficiently pronounced to have prompted Schindler to defend it at some length as absolute music in his revised biography of 1860 (1966: 116-7). 73 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Recognition I: Great Composers Some of the most significant stories in musical biography concern the recognition of composers’ worth by specific individuals in senior positions, thereby functioning to provide valuable exemplification both of their immediate reception and their wider historical import. For the purposes of this study, these episodes have been divided into two categories: recognition by leading composers of the potential of their junior contemporaries, as if to accept them as part of their own musical lineage; and recognition by aristocrats of composers’ achievements and artistic distinction. Those that fall into the former group are typically found early in the subjects’ biographies, often being of some importance to the start of their career; while those of the latter necessarily take place only much later in their lives. In order to preserve the overall chronology of the biographical outline around which Part I unfolds, only the first category of stories, that illustrating the opinions of Great Composers on their younger successors, will be discussed in this section; the other will be reserved for a later chapter. 21 Accounts of Beethoven’s visit to Mozart in the winter of 1787 yielded one such narrative (myth 2-A). The earlier Beethoven biographies that mention this episode did so only in passing, within the context of Haydn’s tuition of Beethoven (explored in the following chapter): Ries made only a parenthetical allusion (2-B-4), while Schindler, in the first edition of his biography, combined the two episodes (2-B-5). It is as though this particular event did not become sufficiently important to be acknowledged in its own right until later. The mythologized story itself famously originated in the brief 21 One celebrated tale not subject to in-depth analysis in the context of this study is that of the young Liszt’s receiving the Weihekuss from Beethoven following one of his early piano performances, both because it has already received significant treatment by Michael Saffle (2006: 101-7) and because Liszt does not otherwise feature prominently in my thesis. 74 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity biographical introduction to the edition of Beethoven’s counterpoint exercises by Ignaz von Seyfried (1832, 2-A-1), who was acquainted with the composer and had himself studied with Mozart. Its description of Beethoven’s extemporization of a piece of extraordinary contrapuntal intricacy was clearly of value in legitimizing the contents of the volume given Mozart’s laudatory response, and suggests that this aspect of the episode might have been exaggerated. That it was recounted in a footnote also indicates a certain keenness on the part of the author to distance himself from the anecdote, which was based on hearsay. While it was demonstrably incorrect in some of its details, notably the year in which the event took place, Seyfried’s text provided the basis for subsequent accounts. It was taken up by Schindler in the third edition of his Beethoven biography (2-A-5), in which it was claimed that Emperor Joseph II had himself contrived to bring the two protagonists together. Although the myth appeared almost exclusively in texts on Beethoven, it was actually Jahn’s Mozart biography (2-A-4, 1856-9) that explicitly called Seyfried’s account into question on grounds of over-embellishment. 22 Jahn’s lead was then followed by major Beethoven biographers including Thayer (who quoted the episode directly from that source) and Grove (who would have been familiar with both Thayer’s biography and Jahn’s, and wrote the preface to the English edition of the latter just a few years later). Nonetheless, the original form of the story occasionally resurfaced, notably in the earliest Master Musicians biography by Frederick Crowest (2-A-10, 1899), for whom the accumulating of anecdotes about the Great Composers (however far-fetched) was something of a preoccupation. 23 The suggestion that the meeting resulted in Beethoven’s briefly receiving instruction from Mozart, though it cannot be definitively 22 23 See Jahn 1882: II, 346, n. 76. See especially Crowest 1878 and 1902a. 75 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity proven, was longer-lasting. It was first voiced by Ries (2-B-4), whom subsequent life-writing has consistently deemed to be a reliable source, while Nohl (2-A-9) even speculated that more tuition would have been forthcoming had the elder composer not been occupied with other matters and the younger forced to return home. However, accounts prior to the twentieth century did not tend to identify the nature of the lessons; only with much later biographers, including Marion Scott (2-A-11, 1934) and William McNaught in the fifth edition of Grove’s Dictionary (2-A-13, 1954), was it explicitly stated that they were in composition. Yet Seyfried’s original narrative expressly held that Beethoven improvised at the piano rather than presenting previously-written pieces, and that Mozart put him to the test because he was suspicious that Beethoven’s impromptu performance had actually been prepared in advance. 24 It therefore seems more likely that any lessons received might have been in piano performance or extemporization rather than in composition, especially given Beethoven’s relatively late development in the latter field. Here we see another example of a tale that was originally connected to performance being recast to emphasize composition, again reflecting the privileging of text over performance in the later nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. This shift in priorities correspondingly facilitated the understanding of the episode as a passing of the torch from one generation of composers to the next, which was particularly important to biographers of Beethoven given the deeply inconvenient stories of his less positive contact with the other dominant figure of the late Classical Period, as we shall see in the following chapter. 24 The report of Mozart’s distrust of Beethoven’s abilities was, of course, at variance with the previously-mentioned stories of his own prowess in performance and extemporization at an even younger age. It seems plausible that it was this potential for contradiction that caused the myth to be called into question within the context of Mozart, rather than Beethoven, biography. 76 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity Of all the stories of recognition of one Great Composer by another, however, Schumann’s of Brahms is perhaps the best-known. In contrast with episodes such as the above, which are more frequently found in writings on the junior composer than those on the senior, this one played a special function in the biographies of both. Schumann represented the greatest of the musical authorities who supported Brahms (Liszt and Joachim included), while Brahms stood as the culminating example of those contemporary composers whose genius had been brought to public attention by Schumann. The nature of the tale’s appearance within biography is indicative of his enduring relationship with the Schumann family and, more importantly, of the increased importance of Brahms to music history. For example, the first major biography of Schumann, written by his friend Wilhelm von Wasielewski (partly on Clara Schumann’s authority) and published in 1858, made only a passing mention of Brahms (8-B-1). Conversely, Maitland’s article on Brahms for the second edition of Grove’s Dictionary (3-A-5, 1904) described the meeting as being ‘of the utmost importance in the life of Brahms and in the history of music’; and early twentieth-century Brahms biographies such as those by Max Kalbeck and Florence May, both of whom were acquainted with their subject, give much more extensive accounts of the contact between the two. The sense of lineage between Schumann and Brahms to which the story gave rise was doubtless also stressed by later writers on both in an attempt to deflect attention away from the competing musical axis represented by Wagner and Liszt. Nonetheless, biographers have varied in the emphasis placed on elements such as the initial meeting between Schumann and Brahms, the subsequent development of their relationship, and the actions that the elder composer took to publicize the younger. While this diversity means that direct comparison of different versions of the story is not as valuable as in other cases discussed in Part I, there are nonetheless some 77 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity illuminating tendencies to be observed, especially in terms of the light in which the episode has been differently cast in accounts of the lives of the two subjects. To Brahms biography, the encounter represented the recognition by a master of a little-known artist in young adulthood, as exemplified by Schumann’s zealous praise for Brahms in his prophetic ‘Neue Bahnen’ article (1853). Given its positive consequences for Brahms’s career, the essay was considered so momentous as to warrant extensive quotation in several lives of the composer, even when their scope was somewhat limited. 25 The ensuing friendship between the two was likewise emphasized for its immediate significance to Brahms: Schumann not only placed him before the public but also assisted in his early career, writing to Breitkopf & Härtel to recommend his compositions for publication and thereby generating opportunities for him. Their meeting led to Brahms’s assimilation within Schumann’s artistic circle, and to a strong affiliation with his family, who were to play a significant role in his biography up until his final years; essentially, it activated new directions for the remainder of his life story. The latter notion is found in the first canonical biography (by which I mean the earliest enduring, ‘definitive’ work) of the composer by Hermann Deiters, which originally appeared in 1880, and in which the ‘Neue Bahnen’ article is linked directly to Brahms’s subsequent relationship with Schumann and his family (3-A-3). As an authoritative source (the biographer had known Brahms personally), the tropes explored in Deiters’s text came to be embedded in much early life-writing on Brahms both in Germany and England (the latter by way of a translation by Rosa Newmarch, edited by Maitland and published in 1888). For example, the lengthy account by Max Kalbeck (3-A-4, 1904), whose multi-volume German-language work has become a cornerstone of Brahms 25 See, for example, Deiters 1898: 6-9; Kalbeck 1904-14: I, 132-3 (in German); May 1905: I, 126-7. 78 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity biography, compared Schumann’s eagerness to facilitate Brahms’s entrance into the world of music to the love of a father who wishes for his son to succeed. Conversely, the tale is more valuable to biographies of Schumann as a demonstration of his swift identification of Brahms’s gifts and of the immediacy of his enthusiasm upon hearing him perform one of his compositions at the piano, his Sonata in C major, Op. 1. In later nineteenth-century writings on the elder composer, such as Spitta’s article for Grove’s Dictionary (8-B-3, 1883), the episode is cast as the final stirring of an ageing genius: the presence of the young Brahms temporarily brightened Schumann, who had been suffering disappointments and ill health, and stimulated him to write one final, prophetic article. Writing in a later edition of Grove’s Dictionary, Gerald Abraham (8-B-7, 1954) even observed that Brahms’s visit ‘coincided almost exactly with Schumann’s last period of creative activity’, implying a direct connection between the two events that John Daverio has more recently described as ‘a distortion of the facts’ (1997: 454). The significance of ‘Neue Bahnen’ itself is enhanced by the fact that Schumann had not published in the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik for nine years, as he carefully reminded his readers; he effectively came out of retirement as a music critic in order to promote Brahms, as if passing on the metaphorical baton to a worthy successor. Where Brahms biographies emphasized the significance of this recognition and support from someone of Schumann’s standing, those on Schumann stress the extent of his foresight: his vision of Brahms’s place in music history came true. Schumann’s construction in the biographies as an aged prophet is taken even further through the explicit invocation of Christian imagery. The ‘Neue Bahnen’ article itself is popularly interpreted as having messianic overtones, as is Schumann’s letter to Joachim (who had furnished Brahms with a letter of introduction to him) following his first 79 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity meeting with Brahms, in which he famously wrote ‘this is he that should come’; 26 the former even earned Brahms the pejorative nickname ‘heiligen Johannes’ among his opponents. J. A. Fuller Maitland – whose many contributions to late nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century biography include monographs on both Schumann (1884) and Brahms (1911), as well as major work on the first two editions of Grove’s Dictionary – described the article as Schumann’s ‘Nunc Dimittis’ (8-B-2, 1884), thereby anticipating his death shortly after having witnessed the coming of the person whom he regarded as the salvation of music of the future. For Maitland, ‘Neue Bahnen’ was the apotheosis of Schumann’s critical output: he wrote that its final sentence ‘gives fullest expression to that principle which had always governed his own criticisms, and which is in the highest degree valuable for all criticism’. Accounts of the episode, particularly in Brahms biography, tended to crystallize around the benefits of ‘Neue Bahnen’ for the young composer; however, this was only half the story. The article alienated Brahms from other artistic circles by aligning him too closely with that of Schumann; it promoted him publicly at a time at which he might not have been truly ready, antedating even his first publication; it placed the burden of expectation upon him through its sycophantic tone; and it included passages that were certain to cause resentment among some of the greatest musicians of the day, and jealousy among junior contemporaries. That Brahms waited over two weeks after initially reading the article before penning Schumann a letter of gratitude may be indicative of mixed feelings even on his part. 27 While modern texts on Brahms are more 26 27 In a letter to Joachim of 8 October 1853, Schumann wrote that ‘I believe Johannes [Brahms] is another St. John the Apostle, whose revelations will puzzle many of the Pharisees, and every one else, for centuries. Only the other apostles will understand his message’ (Storck and Bryant 1907: 280). According to May Herbert (1890: II, 191n.), ‘In an undated letter, written about this time, Schumann says: “This is he who was destined to appear.”’ Brahms to Schumann, 16 November 1853 (May 1905: I, 131), first publ. in the Neue Freie Presse (7 May 1897). 80 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity inclined to explore in detail, and even-handedly, both the negative and positive outcomes of ‘Neue Bahnen’ (for example, Swafford 1998: 83-7), those of the later nineteenth century and the early years of the twentieth leant much more strongly towards the latter, for it was at this time that the subject required promoting most strongly. Some, such as Deiters’s early biography (3-A-3), ignored the negative aspects of the story altogether; others attempted to shift the responsibility away from ‘Neue Bahnen’ itself. For example, J. Lawrence Erb, in the earliest Master Musicians volume on the composer (1905), suggested that the opposition to Brahms arose only in a second-hand way, writing that ‘[Schumann’s] very enthusiasm was the cause of distrust in some quarters’ (3-A-6) since his predictions as to the merit of certain composers had not always been confirmed by their subsequent work. As Brahms’s position within the musical canon solidified, the drawbacks of ‘Neue Bahnen’ served a different purpose within his biography, presenting obstacles for the subject to overcome in his early career, demonstrating that his rise to fame was by no means made simple as a result of the article, and preparing for his subsequently mixed reception and the monumental debate as to the value of his music relative to that of Wagner. 28 However, evasion of the negative consequences of ‘Neue Bahnen’ persisted in life-writing on Schumann, where they could not be suitably recast in a more positive light. To close the chapter, one further story merits discussion, namely that of the recognition received by Bach from Johann Adam Reinken (or Reincken), the Dutch-German composer and organist, in 1720 (myth 1-D). In common with many of the stories of Bach biography, no contemporary accounts have survived; the earliest source is the ‘Nekrolog’ (1-D-1), where it is told at some length. While Reinken was hardly a figure 28 The application within musical biography of some of these more generic tropes will be further explored in Part II. 81 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity of the same historical standing as Mozart or Schumann, this episode represents the exception that proves the rule among those discussed in this section: even though it appeared in quite developed form from the earliest biographies, it also accrued various embellishments thereafter, some of which appeared relatively late. Reinken is cast in a similarly veteran light to Schumann in the ‘Neue Bahnen’ story: in order to enforce his status as an authority on music, accounts emphasize that he was nearly 100 years old and still active as a performer. 29 Terry (1-D-12), for example, described him as ‘the musical Nestor of his generation’, situated chronologically between two epoch-making Great Composers, Monteverdi and Haydn. Having heard Bach improvise extensively at the organ, Reinken is seen to speak as the voice of a century of German music history in praising the younger artist’s abilities. The story therefore functions, over and above the mere recognition of the talents of one composer by another, to enforce Bach’s popular construction as marking the birth of modern music (and, in time, the starting-point of the musical canon) as well as representing the bridge between old and new. For Spitta (1-D-7), again recalling the trope of the learned Bach, its significance also lay in the demonstration of his subject’s ‘extraordinary mastery over the whole realm of form in music’. Reinken’s words provided evidence that Bach had indeed succeeded in connecting to his musical heritage, in which respect the tale operated in partnership with that of his other celebrated visit to the church of a great German contemporary, his pilgrimage to Buxtehude of 15 years earlier (myth 1-B), to create a virtuous circle. Spitta even made the link between the two episodes explicit in writing that ‘Reinken had seen, in its full and glorious bloom what Buxtehude had only noted in its bud – the genius of the man who was destined to reach the summit to which they had so successfully opened the way.’ 29 There is little evidence to support the traditional belief that Reinken was 97 when this episode took place; modern scholarship suggests that he may have been twenty years younger (see Grapenthin 2001: 154). 82 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity The story concerns a performance of over two hours’ duration given by Bach at the Church of St Katharine in Hamburg, where Reinken held the post of organist. More specifically, it centres on Bach’s extemporization of a set of variations on the chorale ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’, which accounts generally agree lasted around half an hour. Reinken was said to have complimented Bach on this part of his performance in particular, despite the high regard in which he held his own extended composition based on the same chorale and his apparent tendency to express envy towards fellow composers. His reported statement to Bach, that ‘I thought that this art was dead, but I see that in you it still lives’, clearly referred to improvisation – a skill that, though related to composition, is essentially one of performance. In addition, the acknowledgement in the ‘Nekrolog’ that such practices had once been commonplace in Hamburg – a tradition so recent that Reinken, potentially its last exponent, survived to witness a worthy successor – somewhat downgraded the value of this story as a demonstration of Bach’s abilities as exceptional. However, much later versions – such as that previously discussed by Spitta (1873) – endeavoured to position it more firmly under the aegis of composition, as an indication of Bach’s complete command of the deep-rooted musical traditions with which he worked, and of the corresponding historical value of his output. Still later writers suggested an explicit connection between Bach’s extemporization of his chorale variations and his wider compositional activities. Following Spitta’s suggestion (1884-5: II, 16) that the Hamburg improvisation was subsequently written out in some form and offered to Reinken by way of homage, Terry speculated upon a possible link with Bach’s later setting of ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’ (a revision of BWV 653). 30 In their Master Musicians biography, Eva Mary Grew and Sidney Grew (1-D-13, 1947) even claimed that Bach’s performance was ‘no doubt thought out previously’, implying that it did not reflect 30 See Terry 1915-21: III, 104-5; Terry 1928: 132, n. 1; Forkel 1920: 21, n. 1. 83 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity spontaneous invention so much as a composition that already existed in his head. In pursuit of the shift from one to the other already encountered in a number of different contexts – not least the episode of Beethoven’s contact with Mozart, where ironically Mozart seems to have desired evidence of the musical spontaneity to which later biographers were averse – the myth developed to the stage at which it actually contradicted the original account: the ‘Nekrolog’ stated that the piece was extemporized ‘at the request of those present’ (1-D-1), so it could not have been planned in advance. This reordering of the tale, largely at the hands of early twentieth-century English biographers, yielded a number of distinctly late-flowering elaborations. It was an unusual trajectory when compared with that seen elsewhere of myths in (and beyond) life-writing on Bach, and demonstrates that fanciful glosses on such accounts are by no means exclusive to the nineteenth century. Though some of these accretions had their origins in Spitta’s work – for we have already seen that his biography sent Bach mythology in new directions – they were only now being positioned within the story itself. Terry’s account (1-D-12, 1928) is indicative of its new configuration. There was an added emphasis on the presence of Reinken, as against the magistrates and other important townsfolk whose presence was reported in the ‘Nekrolog’. Terry discounted the possibility that the occasion was this formal, stating that ‘the event is more impressive if we picture the two masters alone in the roomy [organ] loft’, and placing the elder composer literally (and no doubt, also metaphorically) ‘at his side’. Whereas Spitta’s account in particular portrayed Reinken as listening carefully to Bach’s treatment of ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’ and seeking the performer out only afterwards to pay his compliment, Terry wrote that Bach ‘extemporiz[ed] upon it in variation after variation till Reinken in amaze[ment] declared’ his praise for him, suggesting that the improvisation became progressively more ingenious until the elder composer was so 84 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity moved that he could contain his comments no longer. And while the fact that Reinken had written his own fantasia on ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’ was employed in earlier versions of the episode to heighten his praise of Bach, in these later ones it served instead as evidence of Bach’s reverence for Reinken, suggesting (in contradiction to the ‘Nekrolog’) that the choice of chorale was Bach’s own. On one level, the character of Reinken functioned within this tale as a symbol of Bach’s artistic lineage; on another, however, the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries witnessed an increasing awareness (through the work of such Bach scholars as Spitta, Schweitzer, and Terry) that Reinken himself represented a significant influence on Bach’s early compositional career. 31 That the tendency to centralize Reinken emerged in tandem with the story’s newfound emphasis on composition in accounts dating from this time is therefore no mere historical coincidence. The episode of Bach’s meeting with Reinken offers the most extensive example investigated in this chapter of the general trend from music as performance to music as composition, but, as we have seen, it was by no means the only one. This gravitation away from the spontaneity of extemporization and the transience of performance, and towards the immutability of the musical text as composed, was closely related to the European aesthetic of the work-concept, the modern emergence of which Lydia Goehr’s landmark study (1992) has placed around 1800. 32 That many of the other instances explored above centre on the figure of Mozart – his memorization of Allegri’s Miserere, the emphasis placed upon the stability of the score of Die Entführung, and even his 31 32 See, for example, Spitta 1894: 118-9; Schweitzer 1911: I, 197-8, 272; Terry 1928: 132-3. For a modern study of Reinken’s influence on Bach’s early output, see Wolff 1986. More recently, Reinhard Strohm (2000) has critiqued Goehr’s study by demonstrating the existence of analogous manifestations of the work-concept in Early Music; see further, Goehr’s response to Strohm (2000). 85 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity contact with the young Beethoven – is surely no accident given the advent of life-writing on the composer at exactly that time. Given its applicability to subsequent discussions, the significance of this shift as embodied in some of musical biography’s most famous myths will be taken up again in the final chapter of this thesis. Biographers’ shifting cultural priorities notwithstanding, other mythological themes that arose over time – while they were repeatedly embellished and strengthened – were perpetuated with notable consistency across different countries and decades. Comparison of the tales of Bach’s and Handel’s childhood, for example, has revealed a number of recurring motifs: familial opposition; determination to succeed despite repeated setbacks; destiny; fledgling geniuses whose pursuit of their calling apparently knew no bounds. Certain long-standing tropes in the biographies of the Great Composers similarly emerge strongly from analysis of their associated mythology, those of the learned Bach and the socially subversive Mozart being the two that have thus far presented themselves most clearly. Notions of artistic lineage were likewise foundational to musical biography, especially, as we shall see in the following chapter, in those instances in which two Great Composers were seen to cross paths; the direct link from Schumann to Brahms was particularly fundamental to music history and to the evolving nineteenth-century canon. Likewise, the stories of Bach’s ‘forbidden’ manuscript and his visits to Buxtehude and Reinken chart his progressive success, at various stages of his life, in absorbing his German musical heritage; that a disproportionately high number of episodes in this vein appeared within the ‘Nekrolog’ is surely significant in itself for its endeavours to identify its subject’s historical importance. 86 Mythology in Musical Biography: From Childhood to Maturity At the same time, the above study has unearthed some revealing locally-sensitive versions of specific stories, which, as the case of the competition between Bach and Marchand exemplifies, can result from a combination of differing interpretations and conflicting source material, and may even occur when the authors concerned (notably Spitta) were overtly aware that they were dealing with historical myths. The politics of nationality factor strongly into the equation, particularly for tales whose implications extend beyond the ostensible subject such as Mozart’s defence of Die Entführung, which connects to wider international debates between German and Italian musical pursuits. As both this instance and that of the Bach-Marchand contest reveal, such political leanings are typically encountered in episodes in which Germany is measured against its fiercest nineteenth-century competitors (Italy and France), either to enforce its hegemony or, conversely, in an attempt to provide relief for musicians who belonged to other national traditions. The English appropriation of Handel yields an example of rehabilitation on a grander scale; while the explicitly political resonances of Beethoven’s Third Symphony and its Napoleonic dedication generated significant tension, in different times and places, over and above the difficulties it created for understanding the work as absolute music. None of these local variants, however, significantly compromised the myths’ central functions: to activate directions for the subjects’ subsequent life story, to connect them to the wider musical world, to illustrate their exceptional nature, and above all, to aid their construction as great artistic heroes. 87 4 MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY: COCORRESPONDENCES RRESPONDENCES IN IN THE LIVES THE GREAT COMPOSERS LIVES OFOF THE GREAT COMPOSERS The stories of recognition discussed in the previous section represent examples of a larger category that emphasizes associations between two Great Composers, often (as with Schumann and Brahms) at crucial junctures in their lives. The purpose of this chapter is to undertake detailed examination of three further instances: those of Mozart and Haydn, Haydn and Beethoven, and Beethoven and Schubert. They exemplify, respectively, a pairing that was both commendably harmonious and mutually beneficial; one where the uneasy relationship between the two subjects created a great deal of tension; and one in which little direct evidence exists for the links claimed by biographers, and whose stories thus advance supposed, rather than founded, associations. In each case, the connections drawn between the composers concerned rest not on a single episode but on a set of myths that, in the last example especially, have evolved into a complex inter-related nexus. These tales have pervaded the life-writing on each subject, allowing for cross-reading between different composer biographies in addition to the exploration of their development within the context of one set in isolation. The first two couplings will be studied primarily through the lens of a single story, and the last with more extended reference to the web of mythology that has emerged over the decades. The four subjects under discussion are of course among the most central to the musical canon, particularly considering its constituency at the time of the proliferation of fully-fledged composer biography in the early to mid-nineteenth century. Since the tales that relate them collectively yield an unbroken chain from first to last, this chapter provides a firm basis for discussion towards the end of Part II of the wider implications to music history of such insistence upon real and imagined connections between Great Composers. Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers One consequence of the relatively limited space available within a musical canon (and the predication of its history on a small number of individuals) was that it naturally invited contrasts to be drawn between the dominant figures of a given period. The assumption that coincident historical occurrences necessarily admit comparison may appear fallacious when viewed from a modern critical standpoint; Carl Dahlhaus, for instance, has written that ‘it [might] be that events which are extrinsically contemporaneous are, intrinsically, anything but contemporaneous’ (1983: 19). Nonetheless, the tradition of historical writing framed around lives of important figures grouped into pairs is deeply embedded within Western biographical and historical traditions extending as far back as Plutarch’s The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans (c.45-c.120), generally considered the earliest canonical Western biography, whose constituent books discussed two subjects – one of each nationality – coupled together so as to illustrate the correspondences between their respective careers. The tendency has retained currency in more recent times too: Paula Backscheider (1999: 127) has pointed towards the comparisons between Dryden and Pope that were commonly found in eighteenth-century biography as being emblematic, while Ira Bruce Nadel (1984: 15-22) has explored the continuing importance of Plutarch to Victorian biography. The specific practice of setting two composers in opposition to one another doubtless also stems from the cultural fashions of their own day, whether manifested in competitions in performance (for example Bach and Marchand, Handel and Domenico Scarlatti, and Mozart and Clementi) or through more extended professional rivalries (such as Handel and Bononcini, or Gluck and Piccinni). Over time, definitive couplings came to be negotiated: while a strong case could be made for coupling Handel with any of Domenico Scarlatti, Bononcini, or Mattheson, for instance, history has ultimately 89 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers deemed Bach to have provided the most satisfactory ‘foil’ (particularly since the most famous element of Handel’s association with Mattheson was the duel that nearly resulted in his death). The wider historiographical tendency was established by the emergence of a plethora of biographical writing on Mozart and, in time, Haydn in the 1790s and 1800s in which each composer figured with some prominence in one another’s lives given the cordial relationship between them (and the Plutarchian idea of writing their biographies in parallel was quickly seized upon, by Ignaz Arnold in 1810). Similarly, it is surely more than historical coincidence that 1788 is the date of the celebrated letter (now attributed to C. P. E. Bach) providing the origin for the stories of the three occasions on which Bach and Handel might have met had circumstances been different. 1 A third example placing comparative life-writing at the advent of musical biography (albeit one that transcends the field of music) presents itself in the form of Friedrich Rochlitz’s influential essay on Raphael and Mozart, which first appeared in 1800 and was frequently reprinted in the nineteenth century, and which Karen Painter has described as ‘perhaps the most playful descendant of Plutarch’ (2002: 191).2 As Part II will explore in greater detail, the coupling of Haydn and Mozart is unique among the customary pairings of the greatest composers of the Western classical canon for the level to which it may be justified on biographical grounds, inasmuch as they made genuine appearances within one another’s life stories and forged a substantial and meaningful relationship. It has been much explored by authors from the earliest life-writing on Mozart: Niemetschek, whose biography was dedicated to Haydn (at least in the original version published in Prague), discussed Mozart’s admiration of his older 1 2 Letter of 27 February 1788, in David and Mendel 1998: 400-9, at 407-8. Cf. the parallel drawn by Rochlitz between Raphael’s Transfiguration and Mozart’s Requiem in the course of his anecdotes about the latter (6-D-2). Comparisons between Raphael and Mozart extend back to Niemetschek and were also explored by later writers such as Arnold. 90 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers contemporary in the strongest possible terms (1956: 31-4, 59-61, 68-9), while Rochlitz’s Anecdotes 6 and 7 (Solomon 1991b: 14-6) similarly testify to their mutual respect. It was Schlichtegroll (1793: 107-8), however, who first recounted the story of Haydn’s now-famous remark to Leopold Mozart, made in 1785 upon hearing a private performance of the last three quartets Mozart dedicated to him. The episode had reached the necrologist via Nannerl, having been recorded at the time by Leopold in his correspondence: On Saturday evening Herr Joseph Haydn and the two Barons Tinti came to see us and the new quartets were performed, or rather, the three new ones [K. 458, 464, and 465] which Wolfgang has added to the other three which we have already [K. 387, 421, and 428]. The new ones are somewhat easier, but at the same time excellent compositions. Haydn said to me: ‘Before God and as an honest man I tell you that your son is the greatest composer known to me either in person or by name. He has taste and, what is 3 more, the most profound knowledge of composition.’ The last chronological story that brought the two composers together was that of Mozart’s farewell to Haydn at the meal preceding his departure for England at the end of 1790 (myths 5-A and 6-C). It therefore yields the final opportunity to discuss their exemplary relationship, and provides a useful starting-point for the investigation of this biographical discourse. In addition, as the last episode prior to Haydn’s period in England, it represents a natural articulation point in stories of his life. 4 The biographical portion of the second of the volumes of C. F. Pohl’s life of Haydn (1875-82) ends with this very episode, the remainder of the subject’s story being written some decades later by Hugo Botstiber in an additional volume (1927). That Pohl was intimately aware of the life of Mozart as well as Haydn – he contributed the articles on both composers to Grove’s Dictionary, and was the author of Mozart und Haydn in London (1867) – served further to relate the two composers within the context of musical biography, 3 4 Leopold Mozart to his daughter, 16 February 1785, in Anderson 1985: 886. On the importance of Haydn’s journeys to England as giving rise to his greatest creative period, especially as far as British biographers were concerned, see the discussion in the concluding chapter of Part II. 91 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers especially given that his monumental text on Haydn (undertaken at the suggestion of none other than Otto Jahn) provided a firm foundation for subsequent scholarship. From the point of view of enforcing the musical canon, it was extremely convenient that Haydn had spent this final meal in Austria in the company of Mozart and Johann Peter Salomon, the impresario who secured Haydn’s visits to England. Their disappointment at being parted was emphasized in Haydn biography from the early accounts by Georg August Griesinger and Albert Christoph Dies, whose reminiscences were primarily based on their authors’ documented conversations with the composer during the final years of his life (by which time his memory was unreliable and his recollections sometimes fanciful); both appeared in 1810, though Griesinger’s had been published serially in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung the previous year. The episode was evidently considered an emotional one for the two composers, despite the brevity with which it was initially recounted: Dies even wrote that ‘Tears welled from the eyes of both’ (5-A-2). As retellings of the anecdote proliferated, so its importance as an illustration of the relationship between Haydn and Mozart was correspondingly enhanced. For example, Pohl (5-A-4) constructed Haydn as Mozart’s greatest friend, without whom the younger composer was effectively alone, suggesting a unique bond between them. The trope was clearly discernible in broadly contemporary Mozart biography too: Nohl (6-C-3) described Haydn as ‘the only artist in Vienna who thoroughly understood our Maestro, and whose intentions towards him were good’. Wider notions of Haydn as Mozart’s artistic father have also permeated the episodes that relate the two from the Rochlitz anecdotes onwards, and have retained their value into the twenty-first century. 92 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers While this particular story had found its way into Mozart biography by the mid-nineteenth century, it went unmentioned in earlier works up to and including Nissen’s (1828). This positioning of the story within the life-writing on one composer before the other has affected the interpretation of Mozart’s remark that (quoting from Dies’s biography) ‘We are probably saying our last farewell in this life.’ This sentiment – which has been variously reported, hinted at, and glossed over the years – was originally taken to refer to Haydn’s death: Griesinger (5-A-1) noted Mozart’s concerns at Haydn’s undertaking such a journey at his advanced age, while Dies (5-A-2) wrote that Haydn ‘applied Mozart’s words to himself’ and that ‘the possibility never occurred to him’ that he might outlive Mozart. After all, Mozart was just 34 at the time whereas Haydn was approaching 60, yet poorly-travelled and largely unaccustomed to foreign cultures. Nor did Mozart’s comment necessarily refer to Haydn’s death; it could instead have been taken to mean that he suspected Haydn would flourish in England and remain there, or that he might in time become too fragile to undertake the return journey. However, when the tale entered Mozart biography, its practitioners tended towards an altogether different interpretation. Where the earliest accounts on Haydn had made no link between Mozart’s words and his death the following year, those on Mozart understandably claimed a direct connection. Holmes’s biography (6-C-1) yielded an early example: describing Mozart’s utterance as a ‘presentiment’, Holmes wrote that his subject (whose health was already failing) saw in Haydn’s departure ‘only evil omens’ of ‘disaster and death’. This interpolation thus paved the way for Mozart’s forebodings of his own demise in connection with the story of the Requiem (myth 6-D), which will be discussed in the following chapter. That the year 1791 marked an important new period in Haydn’s life story, but the premature end of Mozart’s, was an irony by no means lost on their biographers. At face 93 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers value, one might reasonably expect this to have been the other way about, which is why the interpretation of Mozart’s words became so crucial. Mozart also seemed the more likely contender for a journey to England, and although it was never stated outright, there exists a tacit implication that had he travelled to the country in Haydn’s place, their lives might have turned out very differently. The Requiem commission has been popularly mythologized as the catalyst, if not the cause, of Mozart’s death; and that event would not have taken place (at least, not so soon in the composer’s life) had he been in a foreign country. Thus Holmes, for instance, speculated that had his subject travelled to London then he (like Haydn) would have produced ‘twelve grand symphonies for Salomon’s concerts’. A dozen such works composed in addition to his last three Symphonies (Nos. 39-41) would certainly have represented a substantial increase in his already great output in the genre, and would have brought considerable credit to England. The national agenda underpinning views such as that advanced by the London-based Holmes may easily be discerned, particularly since, as we shall see in Part II, the fruits of Haydn’s activities abroad in the 1790s were enthusiastically appropriated for the English through the medium of biography. Haydn’s relationship with Mozart was, as discussed, eminently commendable in that it demonstrated the mutual understanding and admiration between fellow artists that biography held dear. The same was not, however, true of his association with Beethoven, accounts of which were inflected with an element of tension absent from those of similar stories told of other Great Composers. This unease extends to the present time, in which it has been the subject of much discussion both in the context of biographies such as Maynard Solomon’s life of Beethoven (1998: 89-104) and dedicated studies such as James Webster’s (1984), which systematically examined the reports of early writers and their credibility, concluding that relations between the two 94 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers composers were strained only around the years 1800-4 and that suggestions of more extended animosity between them emerge largely from later sources rather than from reliable contemporaries. My interest, however, lies not with evaluating the period of their association so much as in analyzing the ways in which it has historically been addressed by biographers. Beethoven’s most significant and prolonged contact with Haydn was as his student in 1792-3, and it is accounts of this episode (myths 2-B and 5-B) upon which I focus as a way of exploring the wider discourse. Their affiliation began promisingly enough: as Wegeler (Wegeler and Ries 1987: 22) recounted, the cantata that Beethoven submitted to Haydn in the early 1790s elicited approval. But Haydn’s subsequent teaching of Beethoven furnished problems for the biographers of each, and not merely in terms of their vexed relationship. Webster’s proposition that tensions between the two had been exaggerated after Beethoven’s death suggests that the trope functioned to dissociate the younger composer from the elder, in an age that viewed Haydn as old-fashioned (see Webster 1984: 27-8); nonetheless, there were also other issues at stake. The mere suggestion that the teacher neglected the pupil, whether or not it caused ill-feeling between them, hardly presented Haydn in a positive light; conversely, the episode raised difficult questions as to why Beethoven still required rudimentary tuition in music theory comparatively late in his life. For example, it is difficult to understand how Schindler (2-B-5) could, in sincerity, have described the student Beethoven as ‘then but twenty-two’ in the very same sentence as Mozart is mentioned. Schindler’s myth-making agenda notwithstanding, he would have been aware that his suggestion that Beethoven ‘knew nothing of counterpoint and very little of the theory of harmony’ at the time was at variance with the previously-discussed story of his skilful extemporization for Mozart some years earlier (myth 2-A). Moreover, the tacit implication that Beethoven required formal instruction in the rules of harmony and counterpoint sits uneasily with other examples among the Great 95 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers Composers whose biographies portrayed them as having assimilated these principles intuitively or through self-learning, as discussed in Part II. The earliest accounts, which are found in Beethoven biography, suggested neither the friction in the relationship between Haydn and his junior contemporary nor the idea that, as teacher and student, they were totally unsuited to one another. Some, such as those in Gerber’s and Sainsbury’s dictionaries, may have been inflected by concerns about presenting a still-living subject in a potentially negative light; but even slightly later authors handled the issue with extreme caution. Seyfried (2-B-3), who had introduced to Beethoven biography the embellished story of his subject’s meeting with Mozart, rather glossed over that of his tuition from Haydn; he asserted instead that Beethoven was ‘first initiated into the mysteries of counterpoint’ by Albrechtsberger, with whom the composer was known to have subsequently studied. Seyfried would, however, have been well aware of the tension surrounding this episode, as he also wrote the biographical entry on Johann Schenk – who was said to have secretly adopted Beethoven as a student during his time under Haydn – for Schilling’s monumental Encyclopädie der gesammten musikalischen Wissenschaften (Seyfried 1835-42: 189-90). Conversely, Ries (2-B-4) dealt with the matter only tangentially, focussing not on the instruction that Beethoven received from Haydn but on the advice given, specifically his suggestion that Beethoven consider not publishing the third of his Trios Op. 1 as he felt that it might not be well-received. Writing on the authority of both composers, Ries commended Haydn’s conduct and drew upon the tale to emphasize his positive opinion of Beethoven; however, he also noted Beethoven’s belief that Haydn had been motivated by jealousy, as well as his feeling that he never learnt anything from him. In attempting to deflect the issue in this manner, then, the approach taken in early writings on Beethoven merely created additional problems for biographers of Haydn, in 96 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers that apparently the only means of rescuing one of the composers from suggestions of wrongdoing was to lay blame with the other. Only when a third party was introduced, in the form of Johann Schenk, did it become possible to present a version of the story that did not find fault with either Beethoven or Haydn. As a much more minor figure to music history, Schenk provided an acceptable means of exonerating the two main protagonists while preserving the sanctity of the musical canon. When he appeared in connection with this episode in the first edition of Schindler’s life of Beethoven (2-B-5), the biographer was careful to identify that it was Schenk who had caused Beethoven to become suspicious of Haydn (having noticed some obvious mistakes in work that Haydn had apparently already corrected), and that Beethoven remained Schenk’s student even when he had been transferred to Albrechtsberger. Schindler used this new information to indicate that the rift between the two Great Composers was caused by external intervention resulting from a chance encounter with Schenk, and that Beethoven’s private arrangement with Schenk was not exclusive to his time as Haydn’s pupil. Schindler even claimed to have been writing on Schenk’s authority, for he reported that teacher and pupil met again in 1824, in his presence, and reminisced about the events of some decades earlier. His account is largely corroborated by that of Schenk’s unpublished autobiography (the only major differences being that Schenk held that his introduction to Beethoven had been made through a mutual acquaintance, Abbé Gelinek, who ultimately revealed their subterfuge to Haydn). 5 Moreover, the introduction of Schenk within this episode altered its focus thereafter, in that it was impossible to include this aspect of the tale without explicitly 5 Schenk’s ‘Autobiographische Skizze’ (1830), written for the music collector and scholar Aloys Fuchs, existed in manuscript only for many years and has therefore not been included in Appendix I. It was introduced to Beethoven biography through wholesale quotation by Thayer (1921: I, 153-4), who had received it from Otto Jahn. For a modern translation of the relevant passage, see Landon 1970: 41-3. 97 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers acknowledging the unease surrounding Beethoven’s association with Haydn. Ironically, the character who provided biography with an explanation for their apparently strained relationship also forced the nature of that relationship to the fore. No doubt for this reason, the third edition of Schindler’s biography (2-B-7) included a new and lengthy justification for the perceived antagonism between Haydn and Beethoven. Its central tenet that the pair were fundamentally mismatched, and that the failure of their arrangement was therefore inevitable, has much in common with many other explanations that have appeared over the decades. Schindler’s suggestion that Beethoven was ‘unorthodox’ by Haydn’s standards paved the way for later notions of their incompatibility on grounds of belonging to different epochs of music history; his observation as to Haydn’s limited availability ultimately served to rationalize their split, brought about by the second of his journeys to England; while the understanding that great practitioners do not necessarily make effective teachers (especially at such an elementary level) is frequently-encountered within biography, and extends far beyond this single instance. 6 The idea that the two composers belonged to different generations was further problematized by the story of Beethoven’s more favourable encounter with Mozart (myth 2-A), particularly given the widespread supposition that Mozart also gave Beethoven instruction; nevertheless, several biographers retrospectively referred to the earlier episode within this context. That the reconciliation of Beethoven and Haydn was sufficiently important to the biographical project to have overridden other agendas is well demonstrated by Thayer’s approach to the issue. As an American who spent much time in Europe in the latter half 6 In musical biography, prominent examples include Bach (who was, famously, held in high regard as a teacher whilst also known for his difficulty in delivering basic tuition) as well as Schumann and others; see, for instance, trope 8-E of Appendix II. 98 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers of the nineteenth century, Thayer was sufficiently far removed from his subject to endeavour to free Beethoven biography from the mythologizing of Schindler and others in his own multi-volume work (which was translated into German by Hermann Deiters) of 1866-79, the final two volumes of which were added by Deiters and Hugo Riemann (1907-8). In the case of Beethoven’s relationship with Haydn, however, Thayer (2-B-8) actually extended Schindler’s tropes rather than resisting them, uncovering additional details about the pupil’s having bought his teacher coffee and chocolate, and using them to demonstrate that whatever ill feelings Beethoven secretly harboured, he nonetheless kept exemplary relations with Haydn throughout their year of study together. Conversely, Thayer’s observations that the master introduced his student to the court at Eisenstadt and had plans to take him to England were equally valuable to Haydn biographers as evidence that their subject was on sufficiently good terms with Beethoven at the end of the period of tutelage to have made an offer of that kind. Such was the desirability of biographers’ being able to present positive associations between canonically-central figures that the trend persists to the current time, with the surviving annotated counterpoint exercises becoming a particular focus. Barry Cooper, for example, has suggested that Haydn perhaps discussed Beethoven’s exercises with him orally rather than making corrections by hand alone, leading him to conclude that ‘The relationship between the two great composers was therefore more friendly throughout 1793 than has been assumed’ (2000: 49). 7 In such instances, the only real option available to authors appears to be one of attempting to extrapolate empirical truths from speculation. The question nonetheless remains as to whether, and to what extent, Haydn’s tuition benefited Beethoven. That he apparently composed only a relatively small amount of 7 See also Cooper 2000: 43-4. 99 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers music at this time was itself a source of unease among biographers even before the tension between teacher and student was given due acknowledgement, and suggested that their partnership was not particularly significant to his musical development. In seeking to reconcile this union of two composers of such great historical standing with their apparently unprofitable period of study, many later authors appealed to the explanation that Beethoven learnt much from Haydn by example rather than through formal instruction. In her important English-language monograph on Haydn for the Great Musicians series, for example, Pauline Townsend (5-B-2, 1884) wrote that ‘Haydn’s influence on Beethoven, though undoubtedly very great, was the indirect one resulting from the attraction always exerted upon genius by genius, to which Beethoven was perhaps more susceptible than any other composer.’ The importance of retrospectively demonstrating the value of Beethoven’s time under Haydn was evidently felt across Europe; Botstiber (5-B-4) even claimed that it had laid the foundations that led, some decades later, to such works as the Ninth Symphony and the Missa Solemnis. In view of such statements as to Haydn’s long-standing influence on Beethoven – not to mention their significance to musical biography and its corresponding canons – it was important to establish that ultimately, the younger composer did acknowledge his indebtedness to the elder. Schindler’s dubious story of Beethoven’s meeting with Schenk in 1824 was evidently insufficient to provide the much-needed resolution for the episode, as were other minor details such as Beethoven’s dedication of his Op. 2 piano sonatas to Haydn. Similarly, the story of a coincidental meeting between Haydn and Beethoven in the street around a decade later served merely to enforce the rift between them. 8 Take at face value, the apocryphal tale might have suggested that each had come 8 This episode was subsequently reported by Aloys Fuchs, writing in the Wiener Allgemeine Musik-Zeitung, XXXIX (1846) (Landon 1970: 79). 100 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers to admire a monumental work by the other: Haydn expressed his approval of Beethoven’s The Creatures of Prometheus, to which his former student replied that it was no ‘creation’, thereby making reference to Haydn’s The Creation. In practice, however, the exchange represented an intellectual slight on the part of the younger composer – hinging on a word-play between ‘Geschöpfe’ (creatures) and ‘Schöpfung’ (creation) – and was promptly rewarded by Haydn’s retort that Beethoven’s work would never be a ‘creation’, itself an allusion to the plot of Prometheus. While the sense intended by their dialogue was largely lost in translation, the episode did not provide the requisite indication (in any language) that the pair had, finally, reached an accommodation; worse still, it suggested that time had failed to heal old wounds. It is perhaps for the latter reasons as much as the former that historically it has not often been recounted in English biographies. However, two further episodes, each of which took place at a later point in the lives of the protagonists, are more valuable as manifestations of their ultimate reconciliation. The first, of Haydn’s last public appearance at a performance of The Creation in 1808 (myth 5-D), is to be examined in the following chapter, along with the telling historiography of the emergence of Beethoven as a character within it. The second, in which Beethoven was presented with a lithograph of Haydn’s birthplace in Rohrau – a gift from the music publisher Anton Diabelli – warrants further exploration here. Where the former tale assumed the guise of a pseudo-death scene in Haydn biography, the latter unfolded on Beethoven’s own death-bed (a juncture of his life that unsurprisingly prompted much mythologizing, as we shall later see). Both occasions are thus imbued with added significance for their position near the conclusion of the biographies of their respective subjects. Beethoven’s delight at receiving an etching of the peasant-hut where Haydn was born functions both to enforce his admiration, albeit lately-acquired, 101 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers for his teacher as well as to emphasize Haydn’s humble roots, since he was said to have remarked on the irony that such a great man originated in rather unassuming surroundings. The episode originated with Gerhard von Breuning, the son of Beethoven’s long-standing friend Stephan von Breuning; the teenage Gerhard had visited Beethoven throughout his last illness and, some decades later (1874), published his reminiscences of the composer’s final months in a volume whose documentary value remains unparalleled. Breuning’s account also entered into some detail as to Beethoven’s distress at the misspelling of Haydn’s name on the picture’s mounting (1992: 98-9), possibly in tacit response to reports that Beethoven deliberately misspelt Haydn’s name throughout his life (see Landon 1994: V, 359-60). While the level of detail given by Breuning has tended to be pared down in subsequent retellings, this story – like that of Beethoven’s supposed actions at the 1808 performance of The Creation – served to resolve the residual tension over the composers’ previously acrimonious relationship, conveniently towards the end of the biographies of both. Whereas Grove, in his celebrated essay on Beethoven for the first edition of his Dictionary (2-B-9), described their association as ‘thoroughly antagonistic’, Pohl’s corresponding contribution on Haydn (5-B-1) noted that ‘all doubts as to [Beethoven’s] latest sentiments are set at rest’ by the incident to which Breuning bore witness. The final relationship to be considered in this chapter is that between Beethoven and Schubert. This pairing is particularly distinctive within musical biography for the unprecedentedly rich set of inter-related stories that have emerged over the decades, which I have come to term the ‘Beethoven/Schubert mythology’, and which provide broad historical evidence of the increasing importance of their association. 9 Unlike the 9 Within the quotations given in Appendix I, some of these stories have been mentioned only in passing in accounts of another episode. In categorizing them, my policy has been to place any stray or [continued] 102 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers previously-studied cases, the correspondences advanced between these two figures are much more tenuous. There is, indeed, no definitive evidence that they ever met, even though they lived for many years in the same city. That poses a major problem to musical biography given their centrality within the musical canon. Much ink has again been spilt in assessing the conflicting documentary evidence of encounters between the two composers and the differing views to which they gave rise: one valuable survey is provided by Maynard Solomon (1979), while Alessandra Comini (1987: 124-9) has demonstrated the extension of the phenomenon into the realm of art history. My purpose in this discussion is to expand enquiry still further, embracing the multiplication of a larger set comprising any biographical myths that sought to associate Beethoven and Schubert, of which their reported meetings in 1822 and 1827 (while noteworthy) merely initiate a much wider trend. The stories of these encounters appeared comparatively late in Beethoven biography, being unmentioned in early writings on Beethoven such as the reminiscences by Wegeler and Ries, the entries on Beethoven in dictionaries before Grove, and even the first edition of Schindler’s biography; but that is not significant in itself. We have seen above a general trend for correspondences between Great Composers to be investigated in increased detail in later biographies, suggesting that they subsequently became more important than in the earlier accounts and doubtless reflecting the growing recognition of the musical canon as the nineteenth century progressed. Two very different stories have emerged of Schubert’s encounter with Beethoven in 1822 (myths 2-E and 7-A). One was introduced to musical biography in the third edition multi-faceted quotations into the group that most closely matches their content in terms of discussion of the same episode(s) and issue(s), even where such placement is at variance with the heading under which that group appears or, in exceptional cases, with the composer from whose biographies its other accounts are drawn. 103 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers of Schindler’s biography, presumably written on the authority of Beethoven himself (if anybody) since the author, according to Thayer’s biography (2-E-3), did not witness the incident. The other was first presented by Heinrich Kreissle von Hellborn (7-A-1), who wrote the first ‘definitive’ biography of Schubert, which, although it appeared over thirty years after the composer’s death, nonetheless benefited from contemporary witness testimony as well as a wealth of documentary material including that assembled for Ferdinand Luib’s aborted biography. Schindler’s story was that Schubert visited Beethoven, accompanied by Diabelli, in order to deliver his Variations on a French Air, Op. 10 for piano four hands, which he had dedicated to his senior contemporary. However, the nervous Schubert was reportedly petrified by the artistic stature of his host, and fled in panic when Beethoven pointed out a small error of harmony in his work. This version of events clearly drew on the stereotype of Beethoven as the great master of music and Schubert as the humbler, semi-public artist. It also conveniently explained the lack of documentary evidence in the Conversation Books where Schubert would have been directed to write his responses (elements of which have in any case been shown to have been retrospectively falsified by Schindler, while many others were destroyed altogether). 10 Kreissle, by contrast, offered a much less interesting account, written on the authority of Josef Hüttenbrenner (who had most likely received the story directly from Schubert) and apparently confirmed by the biographer with several of Schubert’s other surviving friends. In this version, Schubert did indeed call on Beethoven to present the Variations to him, but he was out at the time. Hence one of the versions of the 1822 episode originated in Beethoven biography, and the other in that of Schubert. There is a certain irony that the more positive of the two is found in the former, given that it would seem to be more valuable to the latter and that 10 See, for example, Stadlen 1977; Beck and Herre 1979. 104 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers the story in which Beethoven was not at home potentially yields problems for biographers of Schubert in its implicit suggestion that he had simply been snubbed. The reported meetings of 1827, by contrast, belong much more to accounts of Schubert’s life and are mentioned in passing (at best) within those of Beethoven’s. Cross-pollination between the life-writing on the two composers led to the rebutting of Schindler’s narrative by drawing on Kreissle’s alternative version, for instance in Thayer’s biography (2-E-3) as completed by Deiters and Riemann; but the matter was by no means laid to rest. Some authors, such as the anecdote-loving Crowest, retold and even further embellished the episode (2-E-2); while others, including Nohl, maintained a silence that was perhaps indicative of a fundamental distrust of the stories of the encounters between the two composers. As might be expected given the relative canonic importance of the protagonists, there was a greater tendency for writers on Schubert to subscribe to Schindler’s version of events – notwithstanding its origins in Beethoven biography – even as late as mid-twentieth-century volumes such as Arthur Hutchings’s for the Master Musicians series (1945). At the same time, suspicion over Schindler’s account was widespread amongst biographers. Those responsible for the completion of Thayer’s life of Beethoven might have been predisposed to believe Kreissle over Schindler, insofar as the agenda of its originator had filtered through to them; but Kreissle possessed none of the same motivation towards debunking the emergent mythology in nineteenth-century life-writing on Beethoven. Although Kreissle presented Schindler’s tale in addition to Hüttenbrenner’s, largely through wholesale quotation, he was clearly unconvinced by it, writing that ‘Beethoven’s biographer… must be held answerable for the correctness of this episode, with all its rather improbable details, so humiliating to Schubert’ (7-A-1). However, Hüttenbrenner’s version could be usefully summarized in a single sentence 105 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers whereas Schindler’s required more space, even in a brief outline, in order to narrate the chain of events. The accounts are therefore presented disproportionately in relation to their likelihood, and the less probable is the one that is effectively privileged, especially since it is the more valuable to musical biography as an engaging tale that actively associated two centrally-canonical composers (rather than an anticlimactic one in which, essentially, nothing happened). In introducing a more passive version, Kreissle utilized a number of other strategies in order to explore the correspondences between them as well as to extend an insubstantial and relatively trivial narrative. His comparison of the careers and characters of the two, and his assessment of the likely extent of Schubert’s knowledge of the life and works of Beethoven (and vice versa), thereby functioned to compensate for the absence of any actual contact between them. More importantly, Kreissle included a codetta that he had also received from Hüttenbrenner, namely that Beethoven had enjoyed and often played (in duet with his nephew Carl) the work that Schubert had dedicated to him and attempted to deliver to him in person, and that Schubert was gratified to learn of this. Not only did this addendum implicitly respond to Schindler’s version of the episode (specifically, Beethoven’s discovery of a harmonic solecism in Schubert’s score), but it also countered the widely-held idea that the former composer was at the time essentially unfamiliar with the output of the latter – an issue further addressed by some of the later myths. The fundamental problem that Hüttenbrenner’s story presented to musical biography was that it was hardly exemplary for two Great Composers effectively to have ignored one another for so many years, given the proximity in which they lived and worked. Thus Kreissle, and subsequent biographers who followed Hüttenbrenner’s version, mentioned various obstructive factors by way of justification for their not having met: 106 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers the age difference between them, the difficulties of communication brought about by Beethoven’s deafness and Schubert’s shyness, Beethoven’s limited accessibility owing to his flourishing career and his being preoccupied with some of his greatest music, the fact that Schubert was only just starting to gain public attention and to demonstrate the extent of his compositional greatness, and even Beethoven’s coming death. (The implication is that had Beethoven been more familiar with Schubert’s music at an earlier point in their lives, the two would indeed have become acquainted; as we shall presently see, the mythology did indicate that Beethoven ultimately recognized the greatness of the work of his junior contemporary.) Kreissle also made mention of the famous letter of 9 July 1822 from Friedrich Rochlitz to the publisher Gottfried Christoph Härtel, in which Rochlitz reported that Schubert suggested he dine in the Gasthaus that Beethoven habitually visited in order to witness the master in an unofficial setting, and then took him there himself: About a fortnight later [after a previous meeting with Beethoven], when I was just about to have a meal, I came across the young composer Franz Schubert, an enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven. The latter had mentioned me to him. If you wish to see him more unconstrained and happy, said Schubert, you need only this moment eat at the inn where he always goes for the same purpose. – He took me there. The chairs were mostly taken: Beethoven sat surrounded by several of his acquaintances, who 11 were strangers to me. In the absence of proof that the pair met in 1822, then, Kreissle instead offered evidence for the rather more tenuous connection that they might, at some point, have been in the same room together in a public place. 12 Given time and the successive mediation of biographers including Grove (1883), Newman Flower (1928), and Arthur Hutchings (1945), the episode became elaborated into one in which the two composers were often 11 12 Johann Friedrich Rochlitz to his wife and Gottfried Christoph Härtel, 9 July [1822], first publ. in September 1828 (Deutsch 1946: 228); see also Kreissle 1869: I, 264-5. See further, Rochlitz 1824-32: IV, 352, quoted in Landon 1970: 168. The original letter has not survived. Thayer’s biography (1921: II, 355) noted that Anselm Hüttenbrenner had also placed Beethoven and Schubert at the same publishing house, Steiner & Co., on several occasions. However, this apparent encounter of the two Great Composers does not seem to have been so consistently retold. 107 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers to be found in the same inn and had possibly even made one another’s informal acquaintance there. Rochlitz’s testimony yields one additional point of interest, though it appears largely to have been overlooked, perhaps because it is buried within the verbiage and hence easily missed. His claim that Beethoven had mentioned him to Schubert suggested that by 1822, the two composers had indeed spoken to one another. This conversation could not have taken place at the meeting recounted by Schindler as having taken place that year, for Schindler specifically stated that Schubert was frozen with fear and unable to communicate with Beethoven. As discussed, both Schindler and Rochlitz are untrustworthy sources, and both were implicated within Beethoven biography, although the claim that the dying composer had suggested that Rochlitz should be the one to write his life story is now believed to have been an invention of Schindler’s (1841: I, 1-10). Maynard Solomon has contended that Rochlitz ‘clearly embellished his recollections’ (1979: 120) in preparing this letter for publication; such a possibility has been considered at least since Thayer’s biography. 13 Rochlitz’s fabrications in his anecdotes on Mozart alone cast serious doubt on his reliability; and his earlier contribution to comparative life-writing, the essay on Raphael and Mozart, provides a direct link between the Beethoven/Schubert mythology and analogous phenomena elsewhere in musical biography. But had Rochlitz specifically intended to devise a connection between Beethoven and Schubert, he would surely have done so with less subtlety and more conviction. Confusion abounds over Schubert’s reported visits to the dying Beethoven in 1827 (myths 7-B and 2-F), for two separate events have been presented in the literature. The earliest biographical account by Kreissle (7-B-1), in which Schubert called upon Beethoven accompanied by Josef Hüttenbrenner and Josef Telscher, appears to have 13 Thayer 1921: III, 75; cf. Deutsch 1946: 228-9. 108 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers been the second such visit; Kreissle’s source was again Hüttenbrenner, whose presence as a witness lends authority to his narrative. However, Grove (7-B-3, though not 2-F-1) additionally reported a prior visit by Schubert to Beethoven on his death-bed, this time in the company of both Schindler and Anselm Hüttenbrenner, the brother of Josef and one of the sources for this additional episode. Grove wrote that Schindler announced Schubert and invited him in according to Beethoven’s instructions. 14 The presence of Schindler in Grove’s account calls into question why he did not himself tell the story in any of the editions of his Beethoven biography, especially given the important contributions that he made to other major myths associating the two composers. Conversely, Schindler (2-E-1) was adamant that following Schubert’s 1822 meeting with Beethoven – which, according to him, was quite disastrous – the younger composer ‘never regained the courage to present himself to the master again.’ Even more surprisingly, elsewhere in the same text he claimed ‘that Herr A[nselm] Hüttenbrenner was a complete stranger to Beethoven, and that unknown persons were not admitted during the last two weeks’ (1966: 325n.) – two suggestions flatly contradicted by Grove’s narrative of Schubert’s first 1827 visit. But Kreissle’s version of the tale is equally suspect when Grove’s account is taken into consideration. Would each of the brothers Josef and Anselm Hüttenbrenner, the sources for the episodes introduced by Kreissle and Grove respectively, really have omitted to mention the other? Of course, both were recollecting, no doubt imperfectly, an incident that had taken place over thirty years previously. The version of events given elsewhere by Josef Hüttenbrenner was that Schubert, Telscher, his brother Anselm, and presumably also Schindler (from whom the invitation originated) called upon Beethoven at the same 14 The story was placed in the public domain by Karl von Leitner (1868). See further, Anselm Hüttenbrenner to Ferdinand Luib, 23 February 1858 (Deutsch 1958: 66). 109 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers time, which would seem to conflate the two 1827 visits. 15 Indeed, it may have been the division of this event into two that was itself erroneous, perhaps arising as a joint result of the misinterpretation of Josef Hüttenbrenner’s accounts of the occasion by both of the aforementioned early writers on Schubert, coupled to Anselm Hüttenbrenner’s placing only Schindler and Schubert at the scene in addition to himself. Yet the testimonies of the two brothers are sufficiently different that they seem to refer to separate occasions: in one, Beethoven spoke to Schindler and Anselm Hüttenbrenner about Schubert, famously saying ‘You, Anselm, have my mind, but Franz has my soul’; in the other, according to Kreissle, he could only make incomprehensible gestures with his hands. Ironically, the first full-length canonical biography of Beethoven (in its third edition) presented the tale of the 1822 meeting between the two Great Composers while rejecting the possibility of similar events in 1827, whereas the equivalent volume on Schubert rebutted Schindler’s narrative in respect of the former but offered the story of a later visit instead. Both Schindler and Kreissle put forward an account, albeit a different one, in which their subjects encountered each other. Thus the trajectories of early Beethoven biography and Schubert biography – like those of the lives they chronicled – ran essentially parallel rather than converging, repelling one another like magnets whose poles should not be allowed to touch. It was as though if one of the episodes were to be accepted, the other could safely be cast aside, but that the association of the two composers was so fundamental to musical canonicity that biography apparently could not risk its outright denial. The story of Bach’s contest with Marchand (myth 1-C), discussed in the previous chapter, has demonstrated that contradictory paths may tacitly co-exist in different sets of composer biographies as 15 See, for example, Deutsch 1958: 75 (written 1858-61, for Ferdinand Luib) and 192 (written 1868, recipient unknown); see further ibid., 76, in which Hüttenbrenner (writing c.1858, again for Luib) placed Anselm and Schubert at Beethoven’s death-bed and implied that he was also present. 110 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers distorted echoes of one another. Even biographical dictionaries and other collective biographies sometimes provide little relief, despite their implicit exposition of such conflicts and the valuable opportunities they afford for cross-pollination. Schubert’s brother Ferdinand, when pressed on the point by Kreissle for the purposes of his biography, proffered the elusive response that the two composers ‘very seldom came together’ (Kreissle 1869: I, 268, n. 1). 16 Only Schubert’s long-standing friend Josef von Spaun (1864), in the course of writing a criticism of Kreissle’s volume that also drew on Schindler’s biography, went so far as to explicitly state that the pair had never spoken: Schindler’s story of Schubert’s visit to Beethoven is completely incorrect. Schubert often lamented, and especially at the time of Beethoven’s death, how much he regretted that the latter had been so inaccessible and that he had never spoken to Beethoven. But it certainly made him extremely happy when he learned that, during his last days, 17 Beethoven had derived great pleasure from his songs. The reason for their lack of contact, as Spaun elsewhere suggested, was that the younger composer considered his contemporary to be ‘unapproachable’. 18 Based on Spaun’s statement, Maurice Brown (1958: 258-60, 329, 332-3) concluded that the two composers had never met. Brown’s Schubert biography is important for its endeavouring to debunk many of the improbable myths that had been perpetuated by previous authors, drawing on the then recent research of Otto Erich Deutsch (1946, 1958) to demonstrate that they were fabrications unsupported or contradicted by documentary evidence. In the case of this episode, however, even Brown had arrived at 16 17 18 An altogether different view, however, was given by Ferdinand Schubert in a sketch of his brother for the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik (23 April-3 May 1839), in which he wrote that ‘Beethoven, whom he [Schubert] held sacred and who often expressed himself with great appreciation, especially about his songs, he met frequently, although he could not for that reason be called Beethoven’s pupil’ (Deutsch 1958: 37). Schindler documented that this claim was incorrect (: 39). Deutsch 1958: 366. Kreissle’s life of Schubert, though first published in December 1864, had its origins in a shorter ‘Sketch’ published serially in Signale für die musikalische Welt (1861), a Leipzig music journal, and it was this earlier biography to which Spaun’s criticism responded. ‘Schubert would have considered himself fortunate had it been possible for him to approach Beethoven, but during the last years of his life the latter was quite unbalanced and unapproachable’ (Deutsch 1958: 137). These notes were prepared by Spaun for Ferdinand Luib but apparently never sent to him. 111 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers this standpoint only after shifting his ground quite radically from that proposed just four years earlier in his article on Schubert for the fifth edition of Grove’s Dictionary (7-F-7), where, presumably following other of Josef Hüttenbrenner’s testimonies, he recounted a conflated version of the two 1827 meetings. Moreover, though Spaun explicitly rejected the 1822 episode, he by no means ruled out the 1827 visit(s). As John Reed (1959) was quick to point out in response, Spaun identified only that Schubert had never spoken to Beethoven, not that the two had never met. This position was entirely consistent with Grove’s account (7-B-3), the earliest in which both of the 1827 visits are mentioned, which indicated that Beethoven spoke to Schubert only via Schindler and Anselm Hüttenbrenner at the first, while ‘no words passed on either side’ at the second. Hence Brown’s endeavours to dispel this mythology merely served to extend it through claiming as definitive a position that was not only oppositional to that of preceding biographers, but also similarly less than watertight in relation to the historical record. If these stories functioned to aid the inclusion of Schubert within the musical canon by placing him at its heart, it is surprising that they presented such an unequal partnership with Beethoven: the 1822 myth in particular portrays him in a very weak light in both Schindler’s and Kreissle’s versions. Nevertheless, the importance of the stories to Schubert biography, relative to its Beethovenian counterpart, is abundantly evident from their treatment in Grove’s Dictionary, given that the editor himself contributed extended essays on both composers so historically significant that they were still in circulation some 70 years after their first appearance. 19 Grove’s article on Beethoven did not mention the 1822 meeting, and treated the corresponding events of 1827 only in passing (even though he had studied Schubert for some two decades at the time of writing). 19 When Grove’s three major articles – on Beethoven, Mendelssohn, and Schubert – were finally replaced in the dictionary’s fifth edition (Blom 1954), they were republished in book form (Grove 1951) so that they would remain in the public domain. 112 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers However, his essay on Schubert – which, as David Gramit (1993) has recently shown, represented a particularly significant act of promotion of the composer within Victorian England – discussed these various stories quite fully. Their importance to the musical canon itself is best demonstrated in that they have continued to appear in biographical accounts (if only in the form of passing allusions) even when their authors were aware both of their improbability and of contradictions in the evidence upon which they were based. And although they may have emerged slightly later than other myths in musical biography discussed in Part I, they have also remained culturally important for longer. As K. M. Knittel (2003) has recently shown, apocryphal stories (of an autobiographical nature) involving visits to Beethoven are both numerous and, in many cases, of questionable veracity. The irony here, especially given Schubert’s grand historical standing, is that while a relatively large number of pilgrimages were supposedly made to Beethoven by musicians from outside Vienna, the one who was local never notably established contact with him. However, the significance of the specific association of Beethoven and Schubert by far transcended that of their connections with other contemporaries, as revealed by the extent to which it has received discussion in biographies relative to analogous examples. The relationship between Schubert and Weber, for instance, is much less widely explored, though it directly parallels that between Schubert and Beethoven in that there is some confusion surrounding both, and in that their first meetings were in each case said to have taken place in 1822. 20 By way of establishing further correspondences between the two composers, biographers have often mentioned that Schubert was one of the torch-bearers at Beethoven’s funeral, though this is not in itself of particular significance given the large 20 See, for example, Flower 1928: 115-6; Hutchings 1945: 49-50. 113 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers number of people (36, according to a contemporary press report 21 ) who functioned in that capacity. However, a separate anecdote associated with the funeral, which typically appeared as a coda to the stories of the 1827 visits (exclusively in myth 7-B), related the passing of Beethoven directly to that of Schubert. This subsidiary episode involved the meeting of Schubert and his friends Franz Lachner and Benedikt Randhartinger at the ‘Mehlgrube’ tavern on the evening of Beethoven’s funeral, where Schubert is said to have proposed two toasts: one to the recently-departed Beethoven, and the other to the first of the three then present to follow him to the grave. That would, of course, be Schubert himself. According to Kreissle (7-B-1), whose biography provided the original account of the story, his subject ‘never suspect[ed]’ that he would be the first of the three to die, let alone that his premature demise would occur in the following year. Tellingly, this position was quickly adjusted: Grove (7-B-3), for example, described Schubert as being ‘destined’ to follow Beethoven to the grave, the implication being that his life shadowed that of the deceased composer in other respects too. The trope was not specific to England or even to Schubert biography: Breuning (7-B-2) described Schubert as ‘a prophet of his own death’. Although these fanciful interpretations were rejected in the twentieth century and ultimately the story was shown to have been fabricated, 22 the episode nevertheless remained particularly valuable to musical biography, perhaps because two of the few verifiable correspondences to be drawn between Beethoven and Schubert are that they died just one year apart and were buried in nearby graves. The concentration of attempts to associate Beethoven and Schubert towards the end of their lives was extremely convenient in that it allowed their biographers to present these occurrences as the ultimate outcome of the circumstance of 21 22 ‘From “Ludwig van Beethoven’s Funeral; and Historical Record of the Musical Works Performed Thereat”’, Deutsch 1946: 624. See Brown 1958: 331. As Deutsch (1946: 623) noted, the myth is contradicted by Fritz von Hartmann’s diary entry for 29 March 1827, the day of Beethoven’s funeral: ‘I went to the “Castle of Eisenstadt,” where I remained with Schober, Schubert and Schwind until almost 1 a.m.’ 114 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers the two Great Composers’ having lived and worked in the same city for so long. It thereby provided resolution to an element of tension that pervaded their biographies – as with the relationship between Haydn and Beethoven – happily in time for their respective conclusions. These suggestions would seem to be supported by the appearance of several further tales connected with the deaths of Beethoven and Schubert. The first (myth 2-G) is that of Beethoven’s studying some of Schubert’s songs on his death-bed, having reportedly been given them by Schindler. It was Schindler himself who first recounted the episode (2-G-1), not in any of the editions of his life of Beethoven – which are rather more sketchy on the matter – but in a newspaper article published some years earlier (1831). The story, like those of Schubert’s visits to Beethoven on his death-bed, represents the coming together of two contemporary geniuses tragically too late in their lives to have any lasting influence. Schindler’s report that Beethoven ‘expressed regret at not having got to know him earlier’, on the basis of having examined a selection of his songs, neatly responded to the wider problem of the relative absence of contact between the two. Moreover, according to Schindler, Beethoven was astounded by Schubert’s prolific output, given the length and quality of individual pieces, and his awareness that the works he had in front of him represented only a small proportion of his œuvre (some 60 songs, out of over 500 composed at the time). This tale therefore implicitly emphasized one of the traditionally-held differences between Beethoven and Schubert, to be further explored in Part II: the facility of composition of the latter versus the painful, laborious creative processes of the former. Another customary contrast raised by the episode was that Schubert excelled as a composer of songs and as a melodist, whereas Beethoven was better known for his larger-scale works. 115 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers Schindler claimed to have supplied Beethoven with Schubert’s music in order to provide him with a much-needed distraction from his illness (which prevented him from undertaking his usual compositional activities), and in order that he might assess the work of the younger composer for himself rather than merely hearing the opinions of devotees. Schindler’s original account portrayed the dying Beethoven as having been roused by Schubert’s songs for one final time prior to his own death: such was his enthusiasm that he studied them for ‘hours every day’, and ‘For several days on end he simply could not tear himself away from them’. In this respect, the story is strikingly similar to that of Schumann’s early recognition of Brahms (myths 3-A and 8-B), discussed in the previous chapter. The comparison is apposite in that the episode essentially represents Beethoven’s discovery of Schubert’s greatness, which was acknowledged by the wider musical world only many years afterwards. Schindler’s statement that Beethoven ‘prophesied “that he will still make a great stir in the world”’ (2-G-1), and repeatedly uttered the (variously translated) words ‘Truly in Schubert there is a divine spark’, certainly lent this tale the flavour of a recognition myth. Beethoven is also said to have asked to see more of Schubert’s music (specifically, his piano works and operas), though his ill health ultimately precluded their study. Schindler’s original account explicitly identified that Beethoven was not acquainted with certain of Schubert’s recently-published songs, mentioning ‘Die Bürgschaft’, ‘Elysium’, and ‘Der Taucher’ by name; however, in the various editions of his Beethoven biography (2-G-2, 2-G-3), he cited the very same works as having been among those he had indeed presented to his subject. Later writers have adduced this inconsistency as evidence that Schindler’s reports of the episode are unreliable; but the existence of such obvious discrepancies between his narratives at least demonstrates that they are not wholly based on one another. And even Thayer’s biography (2-G-6), 116 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers while suggesting that Schindler’s testimony may have been ‘a little high-pitched in expression’, did not go so far as to reject it outright. This acceptance of Schindler’s account of the words spoken by Beethoven of Schubert was itself made on the basis of some highly dubious evidence reminiscent of a game of Chinese whispers: that Luib was told by Anselm Hüttenbrenner that Beethoven had made a similar comment on another occasion. 23 Any concern stemmed merely from the agenda implicit in Schindler’s original article, in which he had apparently set out to demonstrate that Schubert was the better composer of song. Thus the practice of drawing upon the example of Beethoven in an attempt to champion Schubert – which, as this discussion demonstrates, was a general pattern in terms of the myths that attempted to draw correspondences between them – not only originated with the earliest major biographer of each, but was recognized as such soon thereafter. It is therefore unsurprising that substantial retellings of this story are mainly to be found in Schubert biographies from Kreissle onwards, though it continued to receive passing mention in volumes on Beethoven. Even Kreissle’s critic Spaun, who rejected with conviction the story of the 1822 visit, conceded that the younger composer had heard with delight the elder’s opinion of his work. Grove (7-B-3), moreover, speculated that Beethoven’s newly-formed opinion of his junior contemporary gave Schubert sufficient confidence to visit him on his death-bed – thus appropriating it to strengthen the very myth that Schindler denied. The story of Schubert’s supposedly having toasted himself after Beethoven’s funeral alone demonstrates that the death of one of the subjects by no means spelled the end for the far-reaching mythology that sought to relate them. Another contributing episode 23 See Hüttenbrenner’s letter to Luib of 21 February 1858 (Deutsch 1958: 66). The story was corroborated by Breuning in his later reminiscences of Beethoven (see account 7-B-2). 117 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers concerned the use in Schubert’s Schwanengesang of lyrics by Rellstab that Beethoven had himself intended to set to music (myth 7-C). Originating jointly in Schindler’s 1857 sketch of Schubert (Deutsch 1958: 319) and Rellstab’s memoirs published four years later (1861: II, 245; see Deutsch 1958: 303), the tale existed in two subtly different versions. Schindler’s was that he had given the poems to Schubert following Beethoven’s death; Rellstab, in contrast, stated that the younger composer received them directly from Beethoven. Both accounts are suspect: Schindler can hardly be regarded as an impartial witness given his supposed endeavours to introduce Beethoven to Schubert’s songs (myth 2-G), as reported in an article intended publicly to champion them. This agenda seems not to have extended to his various writings on Beethoven, which did not incorporate the story; it therefore remains very much the domain of Schubert biography. Rellstab’s testimony, on the other hand, contains an internal contradiction that alone renders it suspect. He wrote that Beethoven had given his poems to Schubert, and that they had ultimately been returned to him (Rellstab) from Beethoven’s estate by Schindler, only after having been set to music. Had these lyrics actually been passed to Schubert, however, they would not have formed part of Beethoven’s estate. Indeed, it was established some decades ago that the story is false, as the songs said to have been composed by Schubert after having received the poems (‘Liebesbotschaft’, ‘Kriegers Ahnung’, and ‘Aufenthalt’) were written in August 1828, when Schindler was not living in Vienna (see Deutsch 1958: 327; Brown 1958: 287-9, 333). Among the early biographers, there was some disagreement as to whether Beethoven had himself expressed a wish for Schubert to produce the songs, or whether the impetus to set the poems to music was Schubert’s own; the former position was adopted by Kreissle (7-C-1) but quickly rejected by Grove (7-C-2) in consultation with Thayer. 118 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers Whichever interpretation is followed, the tale performs obvious cultural work in enforcing the musical canon: that the poems were passed from one protagonist to the other alone marshalled notions of the continuation of the chain of Great Composers, with Schubert as the next in line to Beethoven, inheriting his artistic legacy and carrying on his work. Consistent with this idea, Grove even speculated that the volumes of Handel’s works that Schubert was said to have studied late in his life might have been the very same ones scrutinized by Beethoven on his deathbed – at the same time, of course, as he was discovering Schubert’s own songs – and auctioned after his passing (1878-90c: 353). For his part, Schubert was said to have worked with his usual celerity, reportedly composing three songs in the first two days after receiving the poems, as if inspired by Beethoven’s own greatness to devote his attention to this new project. In view of the previously-discussed notion that Beethoven’s death might have been a premonition of that of the younger composer, it is convenient to biography that the very poems that Beethoven had planned to set to music at the end of his life also formed part of Schubert’s final output, in the collection that was literally his swan-song. The mythology extended still further: the year after Beethoven’s passing, Schubert’s thoughts were said to have turned to his great contemporary while on his own death-bed (myth 7-D). The episode was recorded by Schubert’s brother Ferdinand in a letter to his father of 21 November 1828 (Deutsch 1946: 825), and was first retold in musical biography by Grove (7-D-1) over fifty years later. 24 According to Ferdinand Schubert, the dying composer refused to believe that he was lying in his own bed and in his own room, on the basis of his observation that ‘Beethoven is not here’ (his words have been variously translated). Just as Schubert had made several appearances in connection with 24 Kreissle mentioned this story only in the context of Ferdinand’s letter, which he quoted in its entirety (1869: II, 143-5). 119 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers Beethoven’s demise, so the figure of Beethoven resurfaced at the very end of life-writing on Schubert – notwithstanding that he had died some time previously. We have already seen that one of the points at which correspondences were commonly drawn between two Great Composers was close to the death of one or the other, and the case of Beethoven and Schubert offered a particularly extensive mythic lineage in this respect. Additional examples in Haydn and Schumann biography (the former involving Beethoven, the latter Schubert) are explored in the following chapter, while wider discussion of this phenomenon is to be found in Part II. The scenario suggested by this anecdote was one of the dying Schubert’s experiencing delusion: realizing that he was being kept in a room below ground level, he may have thought that he had already passed away and was being buried. The mention of the senior composer would then refer to Schubert’s ‘often-expressed wish to rest in a grave by Beethoven’s side’, to cite the words of Kreissle (7-B-1). Yet there is a contradiction inherent in this interpretation, for it hinges on Schubert’s belief that he was lying in his grave, and that, contrary to his wishes, he was not being buried beside Beethoven; but Ferdinand’s original account clearly identified that Schubert took Beethoven’s absence as proof that he was not in his room. For many biographers who included this slightly fantastical story, however, its importance lay primarily in the interpretive possibilities of Beethoven’s apparently having been prominent in Schubert’s thoughts in his final hours; ‘So strongly had the great composer taken possession of him’, remarked Grove (7-D-1). Conversely, Hutchings’s account (7-D-4) demonstrated that even when myths such as this were being rejected in the mid-twentieth century as being ‘of no significant value’, the name of Beethoven nevertheless continued to be mentioned for its cultural currency. 120 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers The interpretation of this incident offered by Ferdinand in his original letter – and that apparently followed by other members of the Schubert family – was that it illustrated a dying wish on his brother’s part to be buried close to Beethoven. As he (Ferdinand) wrote to his father, these funeral arrangements turned out to be quite expensive. Elizabeth McKay (1996: 329) has offered a different perspective on the episode: noting that Ferdinand never mentioned its occurrence in any of his subsequent accounts of his brother’s death, she held that it may actually have been an invention by Ferdinand in order to encourage his father to consent to Schubert’s more costly burial adjacent to Beethoven. Though it is not possible to say for certain whether it is fabricated (as McKay speculated) or has some grounding in events that actually took place, there is nevertheless a profound irony in that, as one of a number of apocryphal tales that sought to relate the two composers, it may actually have given rise to an indisputable link between them: their interment just a few graves apart in the cemetery at Währing. That, in turn, has paved the way for two additional stories, thus extending their essentially unfounded association still further. One of these episodes was the joint exhumation and reinterment of the remains of Beethoven and Schubert in 1863, reported by Breuning (1992: 116-8) at the end of his reminiscences of Beethoven. Breuning, who had been involved in the exhumation, seemed particularly fascinated by the skulls of the two composers, writing that ‘It was extremely interesting physiologically to compare the compact thickness of Beethoven’s skull and the fine, almost feminine thinness of Schubert’s, and to relate them, almost directly, to the character of their music’ (1992: 116; see further, Breuning 1886). The awkward parallel he constructed between the different biological constitutions of the two composers and the respective qualities of their works drew upon a popular comparison that (as various scholars have noted) has permeated music criticism from 121 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers the mid-nineteenth century to the present: that of Beethoven as the greater, masculine composer, versus the lesser and more feminine Schubert. We shall return to this point in the final chapter of this thesis. The other was the story of Schumann’s finding a steel pen on Beethoven’s grave during his visit to Vienna in 1838-9, which he subsequently used to write such historic documents as his famous article on Schubert’s Ninth Symphony for the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, as well as his own First Symphony (myth 8-B). That accounts of this episode are relatively infrequent is ironic as it is one of the clearest-cut of all the myths discussed in the course of Part I; it is also one of the most believable, and exceptionally, it originates at least in part with the published writings of the composer himself. Though it appears exclusively in Schumann biography rather than that of Beethoven or Schubert, it nonetheless serves to connect the latter two composers in a manner that simply would not have been brought about were it not for the proximity in which they were laid to rest. Since this correspondence may well have itself been the result of myth-making on the part of Ferdinand Schubert, as noted, we may see that the nexus of biographical mythology has the potential to spiral as older tales beget newer ones. Eminently in keeping with other associations constructed between Beethoven and Schubert in musical biography, this anecdote insists on a connection that is rather far-reaching, in that a pen found on Beethoven’s grave is linked only very tenuously to the composer himself. It is not as though there were an explicit relationship between the two, as might have been the case had (say) Beethoven himself presented Schumann with the pen; the object could have belonged to anybody. The link between Schumann’s acquisition of this mysterious pen and his discovery of Schubert’s Ninth Symphony did, at least, run deeper. During his visit to Vienna, 122 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers Schumann not only made a pilgrimage of sorts to the two deceased masters at the Währing cemetery, but also called upon Ferdinand Schubert, who presented him with the manuscript of his brother’s monumental work. Maitland’s biography (8-A-1) particularly emphasized the connection between them, stating that Schumann thus returned home with two ‘treasures’. Indeed, it was towards the end of Schumann’s critical essay on Schubert’s then unknown symphony that the episode was originally presented; Schumann wrote that ‘I found, on Beethoven’s grave, a steel pen, which I have treasured up carefully ever since. I never use it save on festal occasions, as to-day’ (Schumann 1877-80a: 56). But if the accounts of subsequent biographers are to be believed, he used the pen not just to write this article, but to compose his own First Symphony the following year as well. This tale, like that of Schubert’s inheriting lyrics for Schwanengesang from Beethoven (myth 2-G), therefore served the dual function of perpetuating the association of these two figures and of emphasizing notions of a continuing lineage of Great Composers, now extended to Schumann. It aligned symphonies by both Schubert and Schumann (the last of one, the first of the other) with the great symphonist whose works lay at very centre of the musical canon, and was particularly significant given that prior to Brahms, Schumann was the composer with the strongest claim to being Beethoven’s Viennese Classical successor. The latter notion is given fullest exegesis in Annie Patterson’s 1903 Master Musicians biography of Schumann (8-A-3), in which the author wrote that her subject used the pen for his own symphony ‘as if to propitiate his creative muse’. She further speculated that Schumann may have romantically imagined that Schubert had left the pen there while himself paying homage to the grave of Beethoven (a suggestion that stands up to little scrutiny once one considers that it would have to have lain there untouched for a decade or more). Patterson’s allusion to Schumann’s being near his thirtieth birthday at the time is 123 Mythology in Musical Biography: Correspondences in the Lives of the Great Composers likewise significant, given that Schubert would have been around the same age had such a pilgrimage ever taken place. The inter-related set of tales associating Beethoven and Schubert that have appeared over the years, while incomparable in terms of its magnitude and sophistication, is nonetheless illustrative of the historiographical importance of being able to establish biographical links between the greatest figures of the musical canon. Where such connections emerged naturally from their protagonists’ lives, as with Mozart and Haydn, they were keenly celebrated; when they resulted in a strained relationship, as in the case of Haydn and Beethoven, they became the source of considerable unease; and if they did not unambiguously present themselves, as we have seen with Beethoven and Schubert, they were imaginatively supplemented via biographical myth-making. The process by which the vague, unsubstantiated associations of the latter came to be embellished and perpetuated – and their multiplication to the extent of generating secondary stories that even, in one instance, migrated into life-writing on a third party – yields much insight into the ways in which music history’s fiercely ‘top-down’ arrangement was enforced through nineteenth-century biography. The prevalence of insistence upon such connections between canonical composers was previously seen (as noted) in the recognition myths of the previous chapter; and it will surely come as little surprise that additional examples will be encountered in the following chapter, in investigating stories that (like many of those explored above) are concerned with subjects’ later years and death. Even more illuminating is the development of several new branches of the Beethoven/Schubert mythology in recent years; but that discussion will be reserved for the final chapter of this thesis. 124 5 MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY: FINAL YEARS AND DEATH The tales associated with the subjects’ final years are among the most detailed in musical biography and often also the best supported by contemporary documentation, for this period was coincident, generally speaking, with that of their greatest appreciation and distinction. Hence this chapter crystallizes around a smaller cluster of stories (just seven in total) than previously, and it is surely no accident that those that recommend themselves for analysis are drawn predominantly from the biographies of composers whose lives were either uncharacteristically long or tragically short, and with a certain leaning towards eighteenth-century canonical figures. (In this respect, the absence of Handel is slightly curious; perhaps Mainwaring’s biography – which set the agenda for subsequent life-writing on the composer – appeared slightly too early to have exhibited such tendencies towards hagiography and myth-making.) In the three sections that follow, the first continues the previously-encountered theme of recognition, here examining illustrative stories of the acknowledgement that composers latterly received from members of the nobility as a result of the esteem they had attained in the course of their careers, where earlier discussions concerned stories of recognition from fellow composers that (with one exception consciously included by way of counterexample) concerned subjects in early adulthood prior to achieving fame and success. I then proceed to an analysis of other famous tales told of composers late in their lives and at their death, to investigate the ways in which their biographers sought to illustrate the grand reputation they had latterly acquired as well as to bring the life story to as satisfying a close as possible and to prepare the reader for the subject’s passing. Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Recognition II: Aristocrats Amid patronage and court entertainment there was much opportunity for Great Composers to receive recognition of their abilities from aristocrats throughout their lives. One example pertaining to childhood has already been encountered in the story of Handel’s time at the court of Saxe-Weissenfels (myth 4-B), to which I might add the tales of the young Mozart’s delighting members of the nobility with his prowess in performance. There is, however, an important difference to be made between aristocrats’ innocent encouragement of a child who shows promising ability, and acts that demonstrate their identification of a musician’s mature artistry in relation to contemporaries – which could only come at a much later point in the biography. The episodes under discussion in this section – Bach’s invitation to the court of King Frederick the Great at Potsdam (myth 1-E) and Haydn’s visit to the monument erected in his honour by Count Karl Leonhard Harrach at Rohrau (myth 5-C) – are distinctive in that they are associated with acts of recognition that took place independently of any prompting on the part of the subject, such as the extravagant dedication of a newly-written musical work. (Indeed, the apocryphal story of the unfortunate fate that befell Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos alone suggests that when composers endeavoured to bring themselves to the attention of the nobility in such manner, due recognition was not necessarily forthcoming; it had to be earned by other means.) Neither benefited the aristocrats concerned, except for satisfying their own pleasure, and each took place towards the end of the relatively long lives of their respective subjects, thus paving the way for the next section of this study on myths told of the composers’ final years. Several authors observed that Bach’s visit to Potsdam was his last significant journey, and the story is typically followed in biographies only by that of his demise three years later. It thus assumes something of the nature of a final act prior to death; Terry (1-E-12) even wrote that ‘[Bach] regarded it as the culminating pinnacle of his career’. 126 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death In contrast, several famous episodes are told of Haydn’s later years, of which the first is to be discussed here. Since news of the monument reached Haydn on returning from the second of his journeys to England, the story has functioned in biography as an illustration of the role of that country in bringing him to public attention closer to home. This trope, though it originated with the composer as recorded in Griesinger’s reminiscences (5-C-1), therefore became important to later English musical biography, being well-developed in accounts such as the one found in Rosemary Hughes’s volume for the Master Musicians series (5-C-9, 1950). Yet the evidence suggests that Harrach had not acted in response to the reception accorded to the composer in England: the monument was erected in 1793, during the period of Haydn’s interim return to Austria, although he was informed of its existence only two years later. Harrach later wrote to Dies – who would have been particularly interested in this episode, not just as Haydn’s early biographer but as a student of the fine arts who described himself as ‘Landschaftmahler’ (landscape painter) on the frontispiece of his volume – as follows: The reason for my placing a monument to Haydn in my garden was simply that, having come of age, I wished to transform the formal and kitchen gardens, the orchards and the pheasant preserve around my castle… into an orderly promenade… I considered it fitting and proper, as well as an honor for my park, to erect in the castle precincts surrounding his birthplace a stone monument to the laudably celebrated J. Haydn. Haydn himself was then in England, was only slightly known to me, and knew nothing of my undertaking… (Gotwals 1963: 161-2) Thus Harrach conceived the monument to Haydn during the composer’s first visit to England in 1791-2; and his mention of the composer’s being ‘slightly known’ to him suggests that Haydn had come to his attention through his musical activities in Austria, and partly through personal acquaintance, rather than through his subsequent success in England. Moreover, as Harrach indicated, the monument to Haydn was merely built as one aspect of the plans he then had for developing his garden, rather than specifically to honour the composer’s new-found fame; the timing would seem to be nothing more than felicitous biographical coincidence. 127 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The earlier sources merely described the monument; both Griesinger (Gotwals 1963: 36-7) and Dies (: 161-4) wrote at some length, noting Haydn’s awareness of its appearance. 1 However, with Pohl’s article on Haydn for Grove’s Dictionary (5-C-5, 1878) came a new story: that Haydn was taken by a company of aristocrats to his birthplace near Rohrau, where he visited both his monument and the house in which he grew up. Its origin is unclear; presumably, Pohl had uncovered it in the course of researching for his ‘definitive’ biography, though he died prior to writing the volume that would have incorporated this period of Haydn’s life. The episode functioned to illustrate two important tropes of musical biography. The first is Haydn’s pride in his humble origins: Pohl wrote that he was ‘Overcome by his feelings’ and ‘kissed the threshold’, even remarking that his musical career had started in that very house. As Part II will demonstrate, musical biography has traditionally placed much emphasis (and not always justifiably) on composers’ modest living standards, serving to indicate that greatness can flourish even within an underprivileged environment, as well as facilitating the lay reader’s identification with the subject. In confirmation of its cultural value, the notion received more extensive voice in retellings of Pohl’s story: just six years later, for instance, Pauline Townsend (5-C-6) elaborated it to emphasize Haydn’s indebtedness to his upbringing, writing that the composer ‘audibly expressed the gratitude due to [his parents] for those lessons of industry and rectitude which had never faded from his mind’. The second, related trope arises in respect of the constituency of the group who accompanied Haydn on his visit. In Grove’s Dictionary, Pohl described ‘a genial party of noblemen and gentlem[e]n’ led by Count Harrach, suggesting a predominantly 1 The monument had also been discussed some years earlier in an article in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung (‘Nachricht: Monumente deutscher Tonkünstler’, 12 March 1800, 417-23, at 419-20). For a modern description, see Head 2000: 191-3. 128 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death upper-class contingency. Taking this episode at face value, then, it would appear that an aristocratic company was obliged on this occasion to Haydn – in taking him to Rohrau, and (according to Townsend’s slightly later account) in waiting upon his presence in order to inaugurate the monument – rather than the other way around. In the volume later added to complete Pohl’s biography, Botstiber (5-C-8, 1927) identified the party as having included Harrach’s two brothers, Franz and Ludwig (i.e. Counts Franz Anton Harrach and Alois Leonhard Harrach), in addition to the head of the family himself. Moreover, Botstiber suggested that the impetus for visiting Haydn’s birthplace may have actually come from the composer, which similarly implies a reversal of the normative social hierarchy in that it was the nobility who accorded with Haydn’s wishes and not he with theirs. The point is especially important given that much of Haydn’s life had famously been spent in feudal employment, where his status had initially been little more than that of a servant. The role of the Harrach brothers within the episode emphasized this link with Haydn’s past in that their own father had been the overlord for the young Haydn’s household; the composer’s mother had even been in the service of his family. It thus served to demonstrate that Haydn, by token of his achievements as an artist, was now considered on equal terms with the very people who once governed him, thereby reinforcing the emancipation from aristocratic patronage heralded by his time in England. The irony is that the story as retold in Haydn biography was somewhat at variance with the testimony of the Count himself: Harrach wrote to Dies that ‘it was not until two or three years later that [Haydn] happened to hear that this monument in Rohrau existed and without my knowing it went to see it.’ 2 2 Quoted in Landon 1994: III, 201; italics added. Despite this obvious discrepancy and the general lack of documentation for the episode, Landon’s view is that it ‘no doubt took place’ (: IV, 55). 129 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The notion of obligation to composers on the part of aristocrats also arises from the story of Bach’s visit to the court of King Frederick the Great in 1747 (myth 1-E), in which his Musikalisches Opfer, BWV 1079 was said to originate. In neither instance do nineteenth-century interpretations show much evidence of explicit conditioning by historical revisionism concerning the relationship between employers and artists, even despite the shifting political climate across Europe, though this was doubtless a factor affecting the ways in which they were understood. As one of the best-documented tales in Bach biography, the episode that unfolded in Potsdam was supported by a contemporary newspaper article 3 and by the subject himself, in the dedication to Frederick that preceded the completed Musikalisches Opfer. 4 In addition, of the two of his sons who were present at the time, C. P. E. Bach co-authored the ‘Nekrolog’, while W. F. Bach (who had travelled with his father) was the authority for the account given by Forkel; hence both of the earliest major biographical writings essentially offer witness testimonies. The former followed just a few years after it had taken place, and is therefore comparatively reliable in relation to other sources for Bach biography; and even though the latter, much more extensive account was written only some decades afterwards, it retained sufficient currency that it was quoted wholesale in Schweitzer’s biography over a century after its original publication (1911: I, 176-7). That Frederick, himself a performer and composer, had invited Bach to his court several times served as an illustration of the extent of his reputation towards the end of his life; and its value was by no means negated by the fact that one of Frederick’s court musicians was Bach’s son, while (as Spitta observed) many others had either studied under him or at least made his acquaintance. Conversely, it gave biographers cause for concern that Bach had 3 4 ‘Bach Visits Frederick the Great: Report in the Spenersche Zeitung, Berlin, May 11, 1747’, in David and Mendel 1998: 224. ‘Bach Publishes the Musical Offering, Dedicated to Frederick the Great’, in David and Mendel 1998: 226, 228. 130 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death not accepted sooner an invitation that had been extended some years earlier and reiterated thereafter, given that it had originated with the King of Prussia (and particularly since the timing of Bach’s visit may have been at least partly motivated by his desire to meet his son’s wife of three years, for they had recently started their own family). In attempting to justify Bach’s earlier inaction, and to rescue him from the taint of disrespectful behaviour, biographers proposed explanations ranging from the composer’s immersion in his work to the general inaccessibility of Potsdam owing to Frederick’s military campaigns. Forkel’s account (1-E-3), which elaborated upon a sequence of events merely outlined in the ‘Nekrolog’ (1-E-1), emphasized the esteem in which Frederick held Bach, and his eagerness to make his acquaintance. Bach had not even been granted the time to change out of his travel clothes and into more appropriate dress, the implication being that Frederick was so anxious to meet him that he was summoned at once to court, even (according to Forkel) dispensing with the usual formalities according to which one is presented to a King. Having receiving a list of visitors to Potsdam and noticing Bach’s name, Frederick had supposedly cancelled his customary evening concert, presumably in order to spend time with the composer instead and to be able to welcome him properly to the court. In Forkel’s version, Frederick had changed his plans ‘just as he was getting his flute ready and his musicians were assembled’. While this might appear to have been rather an advanced stage at which to abandon the evening’s entertainment, subsequent biographers have ascribed it to a later point still, thereby demonstrating the significance of this rather improbable detail. Fétis (1-E-6), whose account is largely based on Forkel’s, wrote that the incident happened ‘au moment où il [Frédéric] allait commencer un concerto’; Spitta (1-E-8) that it took place ‘Just as the king was about to perform his flute solo’. That Frederick was so explicitly identified as a flautist and 131 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death patron of the arts within this episode is convenient in that it established him as musically knowledgeable; but it is hardly conceivable (yet biographically appropriate) that he should have without hesitation prioritized Bach’s music over his own performance. However, any turn of events involving selfishness, delay, or orderly protocol on Frederick’s part would have resulted in a much less powerful story than one in which Bach, socially empowered by the esteem his music had brought him, inadvertently dictated the King’s schedule for the evening. Forkel related that in place of the concert, Frederick invited Bach to play his Silbermann pianos, with the court musicians in attendance; the following day, Bach similarly performed on the organ. This tale, like several others found elsewhere in Bach biography, therefore functioned to confirm its protagonist as a great musical authority, on keyboard instruments in particular. Moreover, in the course of examining the King’s pianos, Bach reportedly extemporized two fugues. The theme for the first, in three parts, was apparently given to him by Frederick himself, presumably to satisfy his curiosity and by way of demonstration of Bach’s phenomenal abilities. According to the ‘Nekrolog’, Bach chose his own theme for the second, six-part fugue, the reason being, as Forkel clarified, that Frederick’s theme lay beyond the bounds of such complex polyphonic extempore treatment. Bach subsequently used the King’s theme in the trio sonata (for flute, violin, and continuo), the puzzle canons, and the ricercars in three and six parts that together comprised the Musikalisches Opfer; the latter piece was perhaps intended retrospectively to prove to Frederick that, given the time to rework the theme carefully in open score, he could indeed achieve what was deemed impossible within the more limited bounds of keyboard improvisation. While this suggestion was at least implicit in most accounts (not to mention Bach’s original dedication) – for ultimate success in such a sophisticated contrapuntal undertaking was eminently in keeping with 132 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death the previously-discussed understanding of Bach as a learned composer – Parry’s biography, published in 1909, represents a revealing departure. Since the same subject is used for the two ricercars, Parry (1-E-10) claimed that it was more likely that both of Bach’s extemporizations were on the subject supplied by Frederick, the implication being that the pieces in the Musikalisches Opfer were at the very least versions of those originally performed. On one level, Parry thereby deftly circumnavigated any suggestions that Bach’s extemporization skills had shortcomings; on another, the conclusion at which he arrived may be indicative of the intervention of the nineteenth-century aesthetic of the work-concept. If so, and although it has not been widely adopted in life-writing on Bach (unlike parallel manifestations discussed elsewhere), Parry’s proposition nonetheless provides another instance of the shifting cultural emphasis from performance to composition in retellings of musical biography’s most celebrated tales. Final Years Having examined above a pair of stories in which composers received recognition of their artistic distinction towards the end of their lives, the purpose of this section is to investigate two other celebrated tales that emerge from their subjects’ final years. Though essentially unrelated to death, the episodes discussed here are used within biography to epitomize the composer’s life, in terms of both the heights of genius that they had attained and the obstacles that they overcame on their path to success. The first (myth 5-D) concerns the homage paid to the aged Haydn at the last of a series of events given by the Viennese Society of Amateur Concerts on 27 March 1808, at which The Creation was performed to Giuseppe Carpani’s Italian translation. The event is documented in some detail in a number of contemporary accounts including Griesinger’s and Dies’s reminiscences (5-D-1, 5-D-2) and Carpani’s own, slightly later 133 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death (and less factually reliable) biography in the form of a series of letters (5-D-4, 1812), whose significance as an early source for the composer’s life is demonstrated by how quickly its contents were disseminated across Europe. Stendhal drew heavily upon it in his volume on Haydn, Mozart, and Metastasio (Bombet 1814), of which by far the most substantial section was that on Haydn; as noted, it travelled in this guise to England via Brewin’s translation (1817). Carpani’s account is particularly significant to this discussion as he was present at the occasion in question, while Griesinger and Dies would presumably have received their version of events directly from Haydn. 5 As somebody who was in any case known for going ‘one better’ than Griesinger and Dies (see Gotwals 1959: 441), with whose texts he was acquainted prior to the appearance of his own, Carpani offered a much more detailed report of the episode. Nevertheless, given the authority with which these various biographers were writing, it is unsurprising that they are in broad agreement with one another. The picture is painted of a glorious occasion that suitably illustrated the widespread recognition of Haydn’s lifetime of musical achievement. As the guest of honour, the composer made a triumphant entry accompanied by a trumpet fanfare, whereupon the assembled company (some 2,000 people, according to Carpani) rose to their feet, cheering loudly as he was carried in his armchair to his designated place at the front of the orchestra. That the story should crystallize around The Creation was opportune in that, as Part II will further explore, it was particularly significant to biography not just as a monumental late work (albeit, ironically, on the theme of a beginning rather than an end) but as one with religious associations too. 5 The event was reported in at least four periodicals between March and May 1808, which may also have informed Griesinger’s and Dies’s accounts; for citations, see Landon 1994: V, 364, n. 1. Landon speculated that the article that appeared in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung may even have been written by Griesinger, presumably given the similarity of its contents to his biography (which originally appeared serially in the same publication). 134 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The episode also serves to extend the trope of Haydn’s ascent to a superior social status through his artistic endeavours, identified in the previous section in connection with the story of the visit to his monument at Rohrau (myth 5-C). The earliest accounts identify that Haydn was seated among people from the highest echelons of society. Dies placed the French Ambassador, Count Andreossy, at the event, for he was said to have noticed that Haydn was wearing the medal given to him some years earlier by the Parisian Concert des Amateurs; while Prince Trautmannsdorf (the sponsor of the Society of Amateur Concerts) and Prince Lobkowitz (in whose palace the concert took place) were surely also present. Most significant of all, however, is the appearance in accounts of members of the Esterházy family, in whose service Haydn had spent much of his adult life. Dies wrote that Prince Esterházy sent his personal carriage to transport Haydn to the concert, and implied that the Prince would have himself attended had official court engagements not precluded his presence. Griesinger placed Princess Esterházy in the seat next to Haydn, and Dies wrote that she led the (presumably upper-class) ladies who removed their shawls and wrapped them around Haydn to keep him warm. There may have been other reasons underpinning the prominence given to this aristocratic family in Dies’s account since his biography had received the backing of Prince Esterházy, to whom it was humbly dedicated. Nonetheless, and particularly given the documentary value of Griesinger’s and Dies’s reminiscences to subsequent Haydn biography, these aspects of the story helped to establish the trope of aristocrats’ being obliged to the composer by the end of his life. The tale quickly came to function not merely as an indicator of the recognition of Haydn’s greatness as a composer, but also more explicitly as one of the final public appearance of an aged master whose fragile health gave some cause for concern, and for whom death was close. The original accounts identify that Haydn had found the whole 135 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death experience emotional to the extent that his health was at risk and it became necessary for him to leave the performance at the end of the first part, though they differ as to exactly why (Griesinger’s implied that the music itself had overwhelmed him, whereas Dies’s instead suggested that Haydn’s tearful state was the result of the display of homage and generosity that the occasion as a whole represented). Dies wrote that the audience had shouted ‘Long live Haydn!’ upon his entrance, which would seem to contradict the understanding of this scene as a foreshadowing of the composer’s demise; just days later, Dies (whose biography retained the format of his series of visits to Haydn) observed that the episode had revitalized him to the extent that ‘it was as if an electric current were flowing in [his] veins’ (Gotwals 1963: 180). But Griesinger and Dies had received the story from the still-living composer, who would obviously not have cast it in the guise of a death scene, whereas the more fanciful Carpani – while his acquaintance with Haydn (which extended back as far as Griesinger’s, and was significantly longer than Dies’s) doubtless enriched his biography – could be more independent in his retrospective retelling of an event he had witnessed at firsthand. Carpani’s account hence represented a turning-point since the author, while referring to the composer as ‘uomo immortale’, also offered hints that his demise was nearing in writing of his departure from the concert hall as follows: Circondato dai grandi, dagli amici, dagli artisti, dai poeti e dal bel sesso ; ascoltando le lodi di Dio, da lui stesso immaginate, e le lodi proprie confuse con quelle della divinità, il buon vecchio ha dovuto credersi in cielo, e noi stessi a giudicarne dalla dolcezza de’ sentimenti e della musica dovemmo crederlo al pari di lui. 6 Thereafter, the episode – complete with the premature exit of its protagonist – began to resemble the now more familiar scene that Matthew Head (2000: 215-7) has elegantly 6 (Surrounded by the nobility, his friends, the artists, the poets, and the women; listening to the praises of God, which he imagined, and his own praises confused with those of the divinity, the good old man had to believe himself [as being] in heaven, and we ourselves, judging from the sweetness of the feelings and the music, had to believe it as much as he did.) 136 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death described as a ‘dress rehearsal’ for Haydn’s actual death. Stendhal (5-D-6), for instance, altered Carpani’s words to become ‘Environné des grands, de ses amis, des artistes, des femmes charmantes dont tous les yeux étaient fixés sur lui, écoutant les louanges de Dieu, imaginées par lui-même, Haydn fit un bel adieu au monde et à la vie’ (italics added), and incorporated glosses about ‘un grand homme quittant la vie’ absent from Carpani’s original. Possibly the understanding of this episode as a pseudo-death scene was a predominantly French one in its early years, for it may similarly be found in the slightly earlier biographical notice by Joachim Le Breton, published in Paris in 1810 (5-D-3), in which Haydn had reportedly said upon entering the hall, ‘If I die in this moment, I shall enter in happiness into the next world!’. 7 Le Breton additionally stated that as Haydn was leaving the concert, the tender enthusiasm he had experienced was replaced with a presentiment of mourning (which explicitly anticipated his demise in the very next paragraph). The recasting of the tale as a biographical closing scene that epitomized Haydn’s life gave an added significance to its religious inflections. This trope has its seeds in two events reported in Griesinger’s, though not Dies’s, account: that at a poignant moment in the work, at the words ‘And there was light’, Haydn pointed heavenwards and said ‘It came from there’ (variously translated, and later embellished); and that the composer, on exiting the hall, extended his hand towards the musicians in a gesture interpreted by Griesinger, and consistently followed by subsequent biographers, as a quasi-religious act of blessing. The issue of religion was generally important to life-writing on Haydn, whose devout beliefs were well-known; as he habitually signed off his scores with phrases such as ‘Laus Deo’ or ‘Soli Deo Gloria’, his reported benedictory gesture even 7 Le Breton’s original has ‘Que je meure en ce moment… j’entrerai en bienheureux dans l’autre monde!’. 137 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death seemed to signal an analogous ending for the performance, as well as echoing The Creation’s sacred theme. It also intersected with more widely-held notions that great musical gifts were God-given, and with broader associations in musical biography (to be discussed in Part II) between religion and the subject’s approaching end, which this tale and that of Mozart’s Requiem (myth 6-D) had helped to establish. Certainly its religious implications were sufficiently culturally important to have been emphasized in subsequent accounts, not least in Carpani’s various allusions to heaven, divinity, and God. From Carpani’s perspective, indeed, the occasion had taken on such resonances even before it had happened, given the explicitly religious overtones of the sonnet he had written in praise of Haydn and which was presented (together with a separate poem by Heinrich von Collin) to the composer at the concert. 8 Nor did notable tensions between Protestantism and Catholicism appear to factor into such interpretations of this scene; given that The Creation was the work of a devoutly Catholic composer and that its libretto, which initially existed jointly in English and German versions, had its origins in Judeo-Christian sources (the books of Genesis and Psalms) as well as a non-Biblical text (Milton’s Paradise Lost), its precise religious positioning was already thoroughly problematized. Another indicator of the importance of this story as a conclusion to Haydn biography was the fascinating way in which Beethoven came to be progressively ‘written in’ to the episode as it developed in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Of the four contemporary accounts discussed so far, Griesinger was the earliest to note that Salieri was the conductor of the performance; Carpani also named the three vocal soloists; and Le Breton additionally alluded to the presence of a number of other ‘premiers hommes de l’art’ including Hummel. None made specific mention of Beethoven, although Dies 8 Carpani’s and Collin’s poems are reprinted and translated in Gotwals 1963: 178-9, 255-6. 138 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death documented that two other of Haydn’s former students (Baroness von Spielmann and Magdalena von Kurzbeck) played an active role in proceedings, while Carpani hinted at Haydn’s wider artistic lineage in describing those present as his sons. Beethoven first appeared in connection with this episode in two other contemporary sources, one being the second edition of Gerber’s influential Lexikon (5-D-5, 1812-4); even then, he was cited only in passing, in the course of listing a number of people who were in attendance. Gerber’s version of the story is anomalous in that it introduced information not found in other early biographical accounts and, conversely, omitted details otherwise retold with some consistency. The other, more important mention of Beethoven – and presumably the source for Gerber – occurred in a poem about the event written retrospectively by Collin in 1812 (quoted in Landon 1994: V, 362-4), in which the younger composer was said to have kissed Haydn on the head and hand upon his departure. While other testimonies do not discount the possibility that Beethoven was in attendance – Griesinger’s, for instance, reported the presence of unspecified ‘pupils’ – the point nevertheless stands that it was Gerber’s, and particularly Collin’s, explicit reference to Beethoven that laid the foundations for further mythologizing. Only much later was Beethoven brought to the fore within biographical accounts of this episode, one notable instance being Pohl’s article for Grove’s Dictionary (5-D-10, 1878). Having been thus introduced, the interpolation appears to have become fairly standard for some time thereafter in retellings of the story, 9 at least some of which obviously followed Pohl’s given their uncanny similarity. One exception, curiously, was the account written by Botstiber (5-D-13) in the course of completing Pohl’s own multi-volume biography (which nonetheless noted Beethoven’s presence at the 9 Even as recently as 1988, one scholarly biography tells us that ‘Beethoven, tears streaming down his face, bent and kissed the hand of his former teacher’ (Landon and Wyn Jones 1988: 313). 139 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death occasion). The detail of Beethoven’s actions towards Haydn on his exit from the concert hall recalled the description in Carpani’s account of Salieri’s having tenderly embraced the guest of honour, and taken his hand, upon his entrance; Le Breton had similarly written that ‘Un des hommes les plus qualifiés lui baisait la main’. The fact of Collin’s having named Beethoven – while one can only speculate as to whether it was the result of a simple error, a deliberate attempt to embroider the scene by augmenting the role of a junior composer with whom Collin was acquainted, or an element genuinely missed by all other writers – ultimately gave rise to an overall development of the tale in which one event (and its associated musician) effectively came to replace the other. Salieri received only limited mention in later retellings of the episode, principally as conductor of the performance and occasionally for having subsequently set Carpani’s laudatory sonnet to music. Carpani was evidently an advocate of Salieri as he staunchly defended him against the notorious theories that he might have been Mozart’s killer, which emerged in the 1820s; in a long letter to the journal Biblioteca Italiana, he stated plainly that there was no evidence that Mozart was poisoned (the reason being, he argued, that Mozart had actually died of natural causes), soliciting testimony from one of the doctors who had been consulted about Mozart’s final illness and death to support his case. 10 But Beethoven – as a former student of Haydn, a canonical composer of a much greater stature than Salieri, and one whose posthumous reputation was unsullied by allegations of jealousy and murder – was evidently the character whom music historiography ultimately favoured for inclusion within the story. Conversely, the edging out of Salieri over time reflects the precarious position he came to occupy at the canonic periphery, as a musical figure of only minor historical importance. 10 See, for example, Dalchow, Dyda, and Kerner 1971: 188-239; Carpani’s letter to Biblioteca Italiana, XXXV (1824) is quoted on pp. 198-214. The letter of 10 June 1824 from Court Councillor Eduard Vincent Guldener von Lobes, which Carpani reproduced as an appendix to his own, is translated in Deutsch 1965: 522-3. 140 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The prominence given to Beethoven in later retellings also made possible the migration of the episode into other major biographies such as Thayer’s (5-D-9). Ironically, the quotations that Thayer provided in the course of his own account were taken from Griesinger’s. That he perpetuated the placing of his subject at the concert, even as he quoted from a source that provided no evidence in its support, illustrates the cultural importance of the version of the tale in which Beethoven had indeed shared in such a significant event in Haydn’s life. Moreover, cross-pollination between different myths and composer biographies is crucial to an understanding of the accretions under discussion here, for The Creation was also one of the two works (the other being The Creatures of Prometheus) associated with the exchange between Haydn and Beethoven addressed in the previous chapter, which highlighted the continuing – and somewhat less than exemplary – rift between them. Prior to the emergence of Beethoven within the story of the performance of The Creation in 1808, this was chronologically the last episode featuring the two composers together, and it was hardly an ideal one in terms of bringing the contact between them to a satisfying conclusion. However, the presence of Beethoven at the scene of Haydn’s last public appearance – and, more importantly, the act of homage he supposedly paid to him – provided musical biography with the much-needed resolution to the problematic matter of their strained relationship, just in time for Haydn’s death. This point, which was only implied by Pohl, became rather more clearly stated in early twentieth-century accounts. Beethoven’s belated acceptance of his former teacher was doubly important given Haydn’s passing soon thereafter, for Beethoven was to inherit Haydn’s mantle as the greatest living composer, a lineage that was made more direct by virtue of his having once been his student. Nor was this an isolated example of the phenomenon explored above: one parallel instance, in which Schubert came to be implicated within a significant episode late in Beethoven’s life, will be discussed in the final chapter of this thesis. Another may be observed in the tale 141 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death of the kiss(es) Beethoven reportedly bestowed upon the young Liszt at a performance he had given in 1823, which, as Michael Saffle (2006: 101-7) has shown, has similarly been a source of much disagreement among biographers. The other episode under consideration in this section, the première of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony at the Kärntnertortheater, Vienna on 7 May 1824 (myth 2-D), concerns a much more advanced stage in the composer’s life than that of his last appearance within Haydn biography. While there were a number of significant items on the programme at this concert, including selected movements of the newly-composed Missa Solemnis, biographical accounts have come to crystallize around the Ninth Symphony and around Beethoven’s failure (apparently owing to his deafness) to acknowledge the applause that this music had generated. The story of the occasion has recently been comprehensively retold by Thomas Forrest Kelly (2000: 108-79), which provides a clear indication of its enduring importance; my interest, however, lies instead in the ways in which it has historically been reinterpreted by Beethoven’s biographers. Though a number of the contemporary press reviews of the concert at least alluded to the composer’s imperfect hearing, 11 the episode itself went unmentioned by both Wegeler and Ries, and was instead introduced to musical biography by Schindler in 1840 (2-D-1): The master, however, standing in the midst of this confluence of music… was not even sensible of the tumultuous applause of the auditory at the close of the Symphony, but was standing with his back to the proscenium, until Mademoiselle Ungher, by turning round and making signs, roused his attention, that he might at least see what was going on in the front of the house. This acted, however, like an electric shock on the thousands present, who were struck with a sudden consciousness of his misfortune; and, as the flood-gates of pleasure, compassion, and sympathy were opened, there followed a volcanic explosion of applause, which seemed as if it would never end. 11 Translated excerpts of the reviews that appeared in five periodicals in the months following the concert are given in Kelly 2000: 173-9. That entering into greatest detail on the particulars discussed above appeared in the Harmonicon in 1824, and was also quoted in the appendix to the first English edition of Schindler’s biography (1841: II, 275-82; cf. Kelly 2000: 178-9). 142 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Although Schindler did not explicitly refer to Beethoven’s deafness in the account given in the first edition of his life of the composer, that of the third edition (2-D-2, 1860) is unequivocal: in writing of the crowd’s response, Schindler stated that ‘the man to whom all this honour was addressed could hear none of it, for when at the end of the performance the audience broke into enthusiastic applause, he remained standing with his back to them’. By extension, Schindler’s narrative also exemplifies the tragedy of Beethoven’s lack of awareness not just of the enthusiastic reception of his work but also of the work itself, since somebody who failed to hear such a rapturous ovation could hardly have experienced the music (albeit under-rehearsed and poorly performed, if the accounts by contemporaries are anything to go by) that occasioned it. It is also indebted to the commonly-encountered biographical trope discussed in Part II of physical deficiency as a counterbalance to genius, of which Beethoven provides one of the clearest examples in musical biography. In the 1860s, the story was corroborated anew by two important witnesses in conversations with major Beethoven biographers: Caroline Unger, the vocal soloist who was said to have turned the composer towards the audience, relayed the episode to Grove in 1869; and the pianist Sigismond Thalberg (who, aged just twelve years old, had been present in the audience) told his version of events to Thayer, who recorded it in his unpublished papers, dated 23 November 1860. 12 Thalberg’s testimony differs from others in several respects – crucially, he placed the incident of Beethoven’s being unable to hear the applause after the Scherzo rather than at the close of the work – which may account for some of the discrepancies between the retelling of this tale in Thayer’s life of Beethoven (as completed by Deiters and Riemann) and those of Schindler. One deviation that cannot, however, be ascribed to Thalberg is the 12 See Thayer 1921: III, 166, n.1. 143 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death alternative, and rather speculative, explanation that Thayer’s biography (2-D-6) provided for Beethoven’s lack of acknowledgement of the ovation: that the composer (who had participated in the direction of the performance by supplying tempi) was ‘no doubt engrossed by the music which he was following in his mind’. In this version, indeed, Beethoven was ‘still gazing at his score’ at the point at which he had to be turned towards the jubilant crowd. Perhaps the motivation for this interpretation stemmed from anxiety to dissociate the story from Schindler’s suggestion that the renewed applause at the moment Beethoven was directed towards the audience was partly due to sympathy for the composer or (by implication) a need for the noise to be even louder so that he might hear it, rather than to a reaffirmation of the collective enthusiasm for the Ninth Symphony itself. As the nineteenth century progressed and the work came to assume the very highest place within the musical canon, exalted above all else by such influential figures as Wagner, the need for a tale that unequivocally told of its immediate and overwhelmingly positive reception became that much greater. Indeed, mention of the composer’s deafness is conspicuously absent in many later nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century retellings (one notable exception is Grove’s), while as late as 1954, William McNaught (2-D-8) wrote in the fifth edition of Grove’s Dictionary that the composer ‘remained wrapt in his thoughts’ as the applause erupted. Biographical accounts of the audience’s remarkable reaction to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony might well have led readers to the conclusion that the concert was a total success. The theatre had been crowded, the only free seats being those of the Emperor’s box, and even then merely because members of the imperial family had found that other engagements precluded them from fulfilling their promise to attend. Certainly the impression was consistently given of a historic occasion on a scale such that it could, in 144 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Schindler’s words, be ‘favourably compared to any event ever presented in that venerable theatre’ (2-D-2). But this was, quite literally, only half the story. The repeat performance of the concert (albeit with a slightly different programme), scheduled for later that same month (23 May), was much less well-attended than the first, which might have suggested that the immediate popularity enjoyed by Beethoven’s new music was rather short-lived. Moreover, neither event was a particular financial success. The venture had been so expensive that the majority of the money taken had been needed to cover costs, though the earlier concert had made a small profit of 420 florins (according to Schindler). Indeed, so serious was the financial situation that it brought about another, associated episode in Beethoven biography: the composer arranged dinner in a restaurant a few days afterwards for the two directors of the performance (Michael Umlauf and Ignaz Schuppanzigh) plus Schindler, at which he accused them of having swindled him out of his money, and would not be persuaded by compelling arguments to the contrary. Despite the offence that Beethoven had caused him, Schindler, who (as a witness to the event) was the first biographer to recount the story, nevertheless took great pains to preserve his subject’s character as exemplary: blaming the incident on ‘the gossiping tittle-tattle of certain persons, who put it into [Beethoven’s] head that he had been cheated at the first concert, and thus excited his suspicions’ (2-D-1), he wrote that the composer had visited him later that year to make amends (their reconciliation did not actually take place until late in 1826, though Schindler had a general tendency to exaggerate the extent of his contact with Beethoven). Doubtless he was concerned to minimize the episode’s potential to negate the value of the much more felicitous one to which it was inextricably tied. Despite the possibilities of the earlier of the tales to eclipse the later, however, the two could also be made to function positively within biography: when presented in tandem, they provided demonstration that even at the very height of his career, Beethoven did not meet with success equal to the greatness of his 145 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death work. They therefore resonated with more widespread cultural tropes of genius as failing to obtain due reward in its own day and as flourishing in the face of adversity, which will be further explored in Part II in the context of life-writing on a number of different composers. Like so many instances in which biography has retrospectively cast misfortune as a virtue, whether Beethoven was cheated by the event is ultimately a matter for history to judge. Death We now arrive at the point in biographical narrative that may legitimately be described as the culminating chapter: death. Paula Backscheider has noted the general expectation that ‘the death must be explained and dressed in momentous trappings’ (1999: 91, italics in original) almost as a prerequisite of biography. The field of music is no exception, offering a number of celebrated examples in which the demise of the subject (and the factors that led to it) has been heavily mythologized, hence bringing the story to an appropriately climactic conclusion and endeavouring to draw a lifetime’s work elegantly to a close while dwelling on the tragedy of such a historically momentous loss. The phenomenon extends as far back as the life-writing on Mozart and Haydn at the advent of mature musical biography in the years around the turn of the nineteenth century, thus accounting for the two episodes that form the basis of analysis in this section. Prior to these discussions, however, I shall turn briefly to one preliminary story, that of Schumann’s belief that during his last illness he received a musical theme from the spirits of Schubert and Mendelssohn (myth 8-C). At face value, this tale might be better grouped with the subject’s final years, having occurred in 1854, over two years before he died. Nonetheless, several of the notions that characterize a ‘death myth’ are present 146 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death in this story too, including the final descent into illness from which the subject never recovered, and the emphasis placed on the composer’s last work. Schumann’s prolonged demise – encompassing his decline into madness, an attempt to take his own life, voluntary committal to an asylum, and his ultimate passing – rather precludes the possibilities for a glorious closing scene in the manner of Mozart or Haydn; his final two years, indeed, offer relatively few events worthy of inclusion in biography. This episode, therefore, typically appears towards the end of accounts of Schumann’s life, often being immediately followed by that of his attempted suicide (for Haydn was not the only Great Composer whose biography yielded a ‘dress rehearsal’). Though unsuccessful, the latter is nevertheless deployed in lieu of the ‘expected’ death scene, and continuing fascination with the incident is demonstrated in its prominence in, for example, Peter Ostwald’s recent life of the composer (1985). Conversely, as early as Schumann’s first major biography, written by his friend Wasielewski (8-C-1), this period was tellingly described as ‘the last two weeks of his wretched existence’. The deterioration of Schumann’s sanity is characterized in biographical accounts by aural hallucinations: he was said to have heard the same note constantly, which gave rise to strange harmonies that (according to some authors) grew in organic fashion into full compositions. The fantastical story of his communion with the spirits of two Great Composers – Schubert, whom Schumann had himself helped to champion, and Mendelssohn, an almost exact contemporary of Schumann who had died just seven years previously – certainly has more than an air of biographical invention. It originated in Joachim’s contemporary correspondence, repeating a claim made by Schumann himself: 147 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Before his final collapse, Schumann had some intervals of peace during which he wrote some Variations on a theme brought to him during the first stages of his illness by 13 ‘angels as a greeting from Mendelssohn and Schubert’. Even though Joachim’s letter suggested that ‘angels’ had acted on behalf of Schubert and Mendelssohn, later nineteenth-century biographers soon came to place the two composers directly within a scene that presumably referred (if at all) either to a dream or a delusion. While the immediate cause may have been as simple as a misreading of the original source (or of a subsequent biographical writing in which the episode was ambiguously recounted), another consideration was doubtless the desirability of being able to draw connections between these different composers so close to the conclusion of Schumann’s life story, in a manner analogous to Beethoven’s surprise appearance at the scene of Schubert’s death (myth 7-D). The tale was particularly valuable for the possibilities it offered to relate Schubert and Mendelssohn directly to the subject’s own final act of composition: in lucid periods before and during his committal (including the day of his suicide attempt), Schumann had written a set of five variations for piano (WoO 24) on the theme he believed himself to have been given. That reinforced ideas of a continuing lineage of Great Composers previously encountered in Schumann biography in the episode of his discovery of Brahms (myth 8-B) and, less explicitly, in that of his pilgrimage to the graves of Beethoven and Schubert (myth 8-A). By the early twentieth century, accounts had typically come to mention only unspecified ‘angels’ as having supplied Schumann with the theme, in a version closer to the report of the event given in Clara Schumann’s diary (which had by then appeared in print), from which Schubert and Mendelssohn are absent: ‘after we had been in bed for some time, Robert suddenly got up and wrote down a theme, which, as he said, an angel had 13 Joachim to Woldemar Bargiel, 6 March 1854 (Joachim and Moser 1914: 62); the internal quotation (if indeed it is to be understood as such) is unreferenced. See further, Clara Schumann’s diary entry of 17 February 1854 (Litzmann 1902-8: II, 297). 148 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death sung to him.’ 14 The reason for this shift was surely not that later biographers were simply unconvinced by the supposed presence of the two departed composers – for it is difficult to see how the amended tale could be held much more probable – so much as that the musical canon had established itself in the intervening period to the extent that it was no longer necessary to insist so strongly upon Schumann’s connections with other major members of the post-Beethovenian Viennese Classical school. Notions of an unbroken chain of Great Composers were nevertheless maintained even in later accounts, though in ways more reliant upon demonstrable points of fact than upon fanciful stories of gifts from beyond the grave. For not only was Schumann’s theme purportedly a musical inheritance from Schubert and Mendelssohn, but it also passed from him to Brahms, who some years later (1861) used it as the basis of his own Variations for piano four hands, Op. 23, dedicated to Schumann’s daughter Julie; the trope of Brahms as Schumann’s musical successor had of course originated with the elder composer himself, as we have previously seen, in the ‘Neue Bahnen’ article (myths 3-A and 8-B). As noted, Schumann had also written his own set of piano variations on the theme, which matter yielded another potential problem for musical biography in that, as we shall see below, subjects’ last works were typically portrayed (however justifiably) as grand apotheoses of their entire compositional output. An insubstantial piano piece, written in intermittent periods by a waning genius, hardly fits the mould; and while Schumann’s œuvre did offer some suitable candidates, including his own Requiem, they are unfortunately not the subject of this myth. Yet the matter of the composer’s aural hallucinations strongly suggested that more music had yet to spring forth from his deteriorating mind; and, drawing upon the life-paradigms to be discussed in Part II of 14 Litzmann 1913: II, 56 (see above, n. 13). 149 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death this thesis, the expectation might well have been that any works produced as a result would have numbered among the greatest of his output. There is an ironic postscript to this story: in the fourth and fifth editions of Grove’s Dictionary, Schumann’s theme was revealed to be reminiscent of that of the second movement of his recently-rediscovered Violin Concerto, which Clara, Joachim, and Brahms had all agreed to suppress in order that the composer’s reputation not be sullied by the circulation of music that was deemed of an insufficiently high standard. 15 Joachim, at least, would surely have been aware of the relationship between the two, for he had rehearsed the Concerto with Schumann; and Brahms, ironically, placed the theme back in the public domain through the medium of his Op. 23 even as he was complicit in the withdrawing of its progenitor. Perhaps, then, this apocryphal tale also possessed an altogether different function, one of explaining the mystery appearance of a theme whose origins may have in reality lain elsewhere. Could this story therefore have been a deliberate fabrication on the part of Joachim and Clara, in collaboration with Brahms? The possibility certainly casts in a new light Wasielewski’s observation (8-C-1) that Schumann wrote down his new theme ‘in spite of his wife’s entreaties’. It is now time to consider the first of the stories associated with an actual death that are to be discussed in the course of this section, specifically, the events leading to Haydn’s passing in May 1809 (myth 5-E). Griesinger (5-E-1) pieced together his account of Haydn’s last days principally from two letters written to him, the first by Haydn’s valet and eyewitness to the episode, Johann Elssler, and the second (less reliable) letter by the 15 This information was introduced as ancillary material in the fourth edition of Grove’s Dictionary (see G[eiringer] and C[olles] 1940: Supplementary Vol., 580), and subsequently incorporated into Gerald Abraham’s article on Schumann for the fifth edition (8-C-9). 150 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death piano maker Andreas Streicher; 16 H. C. Robbins Landon (1994: V, 385) has speculated that since Griesinger was not in Vienna at the time, he may have arranged for Elssler to document the composer’s death accurately, should it take place during his absence. Anticipation of the composer’s demise on grounds of his advanced years alone was evidently considered by Griesinger, who wrote that ‘Without being in any real sense ill, Haydn nevertheless felt more every day that old age was an illness in itself, and that nature was inexorably asserting her rights to his body.’ His narrative is largely in agreement with Dies’s (5-E-2) on the main points, though there are also some curious discrepancies, doubtless largely the result of conflicts between the testimonies they solicited and the ways they corroborated them. Haydn’s end is also strongly linked to the second Napoleonic invasion of Austria, since it took place against the backdrop of the incursion of French troops into Vienna that Dies described as having ‘passed sentence’ on the composer’s life and ‘ma[king] him ripe for nearing death’. Griesinger ascribed the origin of this notion to Haydn himself, while both biographers followed Elssler’s account that Haydn’s dignified reaction (to be explored below) to the four cannon rounds that fell perilously close to his residence exhausted his strength, and thus initiated the decline in his health from which he never recovered. Carpani (5-E-4) – whose publicly-expressed criticism of the French had resulted in his relocation to Vienna over a decade earlier – similarly wrote that the war hastened Haydn’s death, causing him to become troubled and impatient, and to enquire as to its progress on an hourly basis. Such implicitly anti-Napoleonic sentiments served a clear short-term political agenda, particularly as Griesinger’s reminiscences were published in Leipzig (Saxony was at the time part of the French-allied Confederation of 16 Johann Elssler to Griesinger, 30 June 1809; Andreas Streicher to Griesinger, 2 July 1809, with a postscript of 12 July. (Both are repr. in Botstiber 1927, 385-90; Eng. trans. in Landon 1994: V, 385-7.) 151 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death the Rhine) and Carpani’s in Milan (then the capital of Napoleon’s Kingdom of Italy). 17 Notwithstanding the substantial repercussions of the Napoleonic Wars throughout nineteenth-century Europe, emphasis on their inextricable connection with Haydn’s demise evidently extended far beyond contemporary politics given the consistency with which these aspects of the story have been perpetuated across the decades and countries. It is deeply ironic that Haydn biography should relate the subject’s death so explicitly to the conflict in the midst of which it took place, given that his long life is traditionally characterized by security and tranquillity, as epitomized by his extensive period of employment in the service of the Esterházy family. Where peace was seen as the source of Haydn’s longevity, war brought only death. The episode also exemplified Haydn’s love of his country, in ways that threatened to call into question the previously-encountered trope that it was only his time in England that truly brought him fame in Austria (though there was doubtless also an element of the return of the prodigal child implicit in Haydn’s homecoming). So devoted was he that, according to Griesinger and Dies (following Elssler), he had taken to routinely playing his ‘Emperor’s Hymn’ (‘Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser’) at the piano. Carpani, who identified that vertigo precluded the aged composer from playing the instrument, modified the detail while preserving its essence, writing instead that his custom was to go to the piano and sing the hymn with what little voice he had remaining. While this appears to have been at least a daily occurrence, the final play-through before the composer’s death (which Griesinger placed on 26 May, and Dies the following day) was identified in all three accounts as having been significant, though for different reasons. For Griesinger, in accordance with Elssler’s letter, the hymn was performed 17 Milan had been the site of Carpani’s activities prior to his exile in 1796, while Griesinger’s relationship with Haydn was inextricably tied to Breitkopf & Härtel of Leipzig, for whom he acted as an intermediary with the composer. 152 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death three times consecutively rather than just once, ‘with an expressiveness at which [Haydn] himself was amazed’; in Dies’s narrative, Haydn gathered his servants around him at the piano, as if to share with them what was to be his final musical act. Carpani’s version of events, however, is perhaps the most fascinating among the early biographers. Where both Griesinger and Dies had indicated that Haydn’s final play-through of the hymn was separated by a period of time from his lapse into the comatose state from which he never recovered, Carpani (perhaps in another attempt to one-better his predecessors) wrote that Haydn fell into his stupor while still at the piano. Though subsequent biographers did not abandon the sequence of events given by Griesinger and Dies so explicitly, there is nevertheless a general trend towards retelling the tale such that Haydn’s demise essentially follows on from his playing of the ‘Emperor Hymn’, hence providing a more engaging and immediate story as well as one better loaded with patriotic symbolism. Similarly, later accounts tended tacitly to omit the information that Haydn habitually performed the hymn, in order that the last such event might be presented as unique. Another of Haydn’s pieces makes an earlier appearance in the story. Haydn received a pilgrimage-like visit from a French captain eager to speak to him, who sang him one of his arias. Griesinger and Dies differ as to the date on which this event took place and on a number of other details (and both, in turn, differ from the episode as originally documented in Streicher’s letter). Griesinger gave the soldier’s name as Clement Sulemy, the date as 17 May, and the aria sung as ‘Mit Würd’ und Hoheit angethan’ (‘In Native Worth and Honour Clad’) from The Creation (Gotwals 1963: 51); Dies that the episode took place nine days later, that the guest’s name was Sulimi, that he was one of several French soldiers who called upon Haydn at this time, and that he performed an unspecified tenor aria from the second part of The Seasons (: 193). In general, later 153 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death biographers have tended to privilege Griesinger’s factual and concise account over Dies’s more elaborate one, and this instance is no exception; but even when the discrepancies between them were acknowledged, such as by Botstiber (5-E-12), it is only ever the aria from The Creation that receives mention. Possibly Griesinger’s (and Streicher’s) version was of generally greater interest because the movement in question was named; and it is conceivable that Dies simply made an error in citing the wrong oratorio. 18 Nonetheless, there may also have been other reasons underpinning musical biography’s strong inclination towards The Creation, since it had been at the centre of another tale of a performance that had similarly moved Haydn deeply just over a year earlier (myth 5-D). This form of the story served to remind the reader of the previous occasion as well as bringing it some resolution, given that Haydn had made an unplanned exit after the first part of the concert and would not therefore have heard an aria that appeared as late in the oratorio as ‘In Native Worth’ (Part II No. 24). The Creation was also a more explicitly religious work than The Seasons and was undoubtedly regarded as the greater of the two, so may have found favour with subsequent authors on those counts as well, especially given that it apparently represented the last music that Haydn ever heard aside from his own playing (or singing) of the ‘Emperor Hymn’. Regardless of exactly which aria was performed, this aspect of the episode was also valuable as an illustration of the capacity of Haydn’s music to transcend boundaries of ideology and language, forming a bond between the composer and his French visitor even as he both disapproved of the war and felt it to be the harbinger of his own death. While such messages of the power of art to transcend the politics of war have remained globally relevant, notions of the common language of Haydn’s music have come to be particularly important to British biography given its 18 ‘In Native Worth’ would fit the remainder of Dies’s description, being a tenor aria from the second part of a Haydn oratorio. (The only tenor aria from The Seasons, ‘The Trav’ler Stands Perplex’d’, occurs in the fourth part, though the second does include a cavatina for tenor.) 154 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death appropriation (to be explored in Part II) of the composer and his works written for England. The story similarly brought closure to the trope of the composer’s rise upwards through the social strata, upon which Haydn biography (and its corresponding myths) repeatedly insists. As the cannon shots started to fall in the vicinity of his house, Haydn was portrayed from the earliest accounts (in accordance with Elssler’s letter) as having summoned his remaining strength to comfort his distressed servants, loudly proclaiming the variously-translated words, ‘Don’t be afraid, children; where Haydn is, no harm can reach you!’ Griesinger, Dies, and Carpani all agree that this exertion was too great for the aged composer, precipitating the first physical manifestations of his descent towards death. In exemplary fashion, then, Haydn had put the needs of others before his own, assuming responsibility for the wellbeing of his servants (rather than their taking care of him) even though his actions ultimately cost him his life. The episode recalled Haydn’s own roots in aristocratic employment given his empathy for his own domestic staff, while their recasting as his ‘children’ (reminiscent of the description of his artistic brethren in accounts of the 1808 Creation concert) substituted for the family that he never had, given his failed marriage. Likewise, Haydn’s servants were among those present at his bedside when he died; following Elssler, Botstiber (5-E-12) even wrote that his last conscious act was to take hold of the hand of his loyal cook Nannerl (Anna Kremnitzer). Dies’s codetta on the reading of the composer’s will, some weeks prior to his death, epitomized the reversed direction of his life: once little more than a servant, Haydn now had servants of his own, for whom he made generous provision to secure them a good future. 19 19 Gotwals 1963: 194-5; Dies even quoted the relevant sections of Haydn’s will. 155 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Haydn biography offers various episodes that each, in their own way, possess qualities of a ‘death myth’. In the case of Mozart, by contrast, a single story eclipses all others that took place towards the end of his significantly shorter life. I refer, of course, to the legend of the commission and composition of Mozart’s Requiem (myth 6-D), which undoubtedly represents the most substantial tale under consideration in this study if not also the best-known. Matthew Head has observed, with respect to Mozart, that ‘a life left conspicuously unfinished pressures the impulse to narrate, to explain’ (1999: 74); in recent years, this impulse has been witnessed in corrective studies of the myths surrounding Mozart’s death by Johannes Dalchow, Gunther Dyda, and Dieter Kerner (1971) and William Stafford (1991), while Landon (1989: 73-83, 148-71) has undertaken comparison of documentary accounts of the Requiem episode itself (including some not widely known or which have surfaced more recently). It was given extensive exegesis in two early biographical writings on Mozart: Niemetschek’s volume (6-D-1), in which the author explicitly stated that he had received his information directly from Constanze (1956: 44, n. 8); and the Rochlitz anecdotes (6-D-2), where the tale was presented somewhat differently even though Niemetschek’s biography was doubtless a key source. 20 It did not appear in Schlichtegroll’s obituary, in which the Requiem is mentioned only in connection with a benefit performance that had taken place earlier that year (1793: 108), although it was included in his less influential supplementary volume (1798: 159-61). 21 Subsequent retellings are therefore largely based on one or other of two principal sources. The spread of Rochlitz’s anecdotes in the years immediately following their publication meant that his account was often used as the basis for earlier authors; conversely, later ones have tended to privilege 20 21 The story is also corroborated by the diaries of Vincent and Mary Novello (Medici di Marignano and Hughes 1955: 125-8), who visited Constanze Mozart in 1829, but which the above analysis excludes because they remained unpublished for so long. Versions of the tale had, however, begun to circulate publicly just over a month after Mozart’s death; notably, it appeared in the Salzburger Intelligenzblatt, 7 January 1792 (trans. in Landon 1989: 160). 156 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Niemetschek, whose version of events was reinforced by Nissen’s near-identical account (again written on Constanze’s authority) published thirty years later. Many of the tropes associated with the legend of the Requiem are already well-developed in these formative writings, which tell the beguiling story of a composer whose obsessive presentiment of his imminent demise led him to focus his energies on this undertaking in an apparent effort to give his last, greatest music to the world in the short time remaining to him, toiling so feverishly that (in an implicitly circular determination of cause and effect) he actually hastened his own death. Further exploration of these notions in the wider context of musical biography will be reserved for later chapters; this section merely serves to lay a broad foundation for later discussions of what I shall term the trope of the ‘great last work’, through examination of this one distinctive example. The irony has not been lost on biographers that Mozart’s last year was an extremely fruitful one (especially given the relative infertility of 1790), resulting in masterpieces such as the operas Die Zauberflöte and La clemenza di Tito in addition to the Requiem. All three works feature in the story of Mozart’s last months: Mozart was said to have followed performances of Die Zauberflöte at home using his watch, since he was too ill to attend; and the subsequent commission of La clemenza di Tito delayed the Requiem’s composition. 22 However, the mythology surrounding the composer’s demise crystallized very much around the Requiem, and not just because it was the last of these three magna opera to be composed. The strong foreboding of death that Mozart supposedly felt at this time was fuelled by (and inextricably linked to) the commission of a piece of music traditionally associated with the departed, coupled with the air of 22 Certain details such as these, where not directly relevant to the tale of the Requiem itself, have necessarily been cut from some of the more extensive accounts quoted in Appendix I. 157 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death secrecy surrounding the whole episode. Few details were divulged to Mozart as to the person for whom he was to write the work, other than that he was (according to Rochlitz) a gentleman of some distinction and connoisseur of art, who wished to commemorate a recent bereavement. But the mystery that shrouded the commission was epitomized not by the anonymous patron so much as by the much-mythologized visitor who unexpectedly arrived at the Mozart residence one day to deliver it. The innocent messenger of the earliest accounts – Rochlitz, for instance, painted a flattering portrait of a ‘serious, stately man, of very dignified appearance’ – soon evolved into the more ominous individual that Jahn (6-D-11) described as ‘dressed from head to foot in grey, and calculated from his very appearance to make a striking and weird impression’. Even writers as early as Rochlitz conceded that Mozart had come to believe, not least owing to the failure of all attempts to discern his identity (such as having him followed), that the stranger was ‘an unusual being, one who stood in close connection with the world beyond, or who had been sent to him to announce his death’. This emphasis on the portentous, fantastical aspects of the messenger doubtless reflected attempts to connect Mozart with emergent Romantic preoccupations with the otherworldly and mystical whilst detaching him from the more rational, disbelieving Enlightenment, thereby giving him currency for nineteenth-century audiences. Even Niemetschek’s account implicitly tended towards such a conclusion given his description of the visitor’s suddenly resurfacing at junctures in the story that implied foreknowledge of the directions that Mozart’s life was to take; he was said to have emerged ‘like a ghost’ at the very moment that the composer was to depart by carriage for Prague to oversee the production of La clemenza di Tito, and to have asked what the implications of Mozart’s journey would be for the composition of the Requiem. 158 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The arrival of the gentleman thus came to be seen as reminding Mozart not merely of his own mortality but also of the necessity to write, while he still could, the music that Rochlitz said he came to regard as ‘a perfect work’ and ‘a worthy monument to his name’. The instructions of his patron, as relayed to him by the messenger, similarly enforce the notion that Mozart channelled all his creative power into what was to be his last composition. Rochlitz documented that he had been directed to ‘Work with all possible diligence’, and that the reason Mozart gave for not meeting the deadline of a month as originally agreed – though surely connected to his failing health – was that ‘the work has become ever more interesting to me; it has led me much further than I had originally desired.’ Even in the earliest accounts, then, it was established that the Requiem was genuinely engaging its composer, and that he was allowing himself the fullest scope for the demonstration of his genius. The work was seen to have meant much more to the composer than a mere commission – undertaken for monetary gain rather than for the higher aims of the furthering of art – and hence dispelled all doubt that Mozart might have been motivated by financial rather than musical concerns. It additionally served to explain why a composer traditionally celebrated for the speed at which he worked had missed a deadline that (according to Rochlitz, though not Niemetschek) he had himself proposed, and which readers might have expected him to have been able to meet without too much difficulty. In Niemetschek’s account, by contrast, notions of the Requiem as the culmination of Mozart’s life’s work are not stated so explicitly. Instead, Niemetschek made the point with reference to another important issue that intersected directly with the construction of the messenger as otherworldly: that the Requiem was a sacred piece. In this respect, it constitutes an unrepresentative final work in relation to the composer’s overall output, in that Mozart had completed very little church music since the C minor Mass of 1783 159 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death (one exception being the short ‘Ave verum’ of the same year as the Requiem). However, Niemetschek turned the matter around, noting that Mozart ‘expressed a wish to try his hand at this type of composition, the more so as the higher forms of church music had always appealed to his genius’. The implication is that while Mozart had apparently always been creatively stimulated by sacred music, it was only at this late stage in his life that he returned to its composition, as if it were not until then that his genius was equal to the task; and as we shall see in Part II, the trope of composers attaining new levels of greatness through turning to religious works, especially towards the ends of their careers, is commonly encountered in musical biography. The understanding of the Requiem as the divinely-inspired apotheosis of Mozart’s output was particularly exploited by Nohl (6-D-12), whose late nineteenth-century popular biography yielded an elaborate account of this story in which the composer believed that ‘a message from above called on him to undertake a work in which it was his duty, by means of his art, to speak from his heart, and with all the powers of his mind, of those subjects which soar far beyond an earthly existence.’ The matter of Mozart’s not having turned to the church in his dying days (in that he did not receive Viaticum), despite having held religious principles throughout his life, did little to dissuade biographers from exploring the Requiem’s sacred character. Likewise, that the Requiem was a specifically Catholic work, while it may account for the greater emphasis upon religion within Niemetschek’s account relative to Rochlitz’s, does not seem to have significantly compromised its subsequent biographical currency to Protestant communities. Indeed, Mozart biography appears to have blurred such boundaries at its inception, for as Karen Painter has noted, ‘The very fact that a Protestant biographer such as Rochlitz could promote a Catholic composer, or that a Catholic biographer such as Niemetschek could popularize Mozart in terms of the Protestant work ethic, showed the permeability of the once so important confessional divisions’ (2002: 194). 160 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death The connection between Mozart’s receiving the commission, and his industriously setting to work on the piece, is consistently made explicit in the biographical accounts. Rochlitz presented a version of the story in which the composer ‘remained sunk in deep thought’ for some time following the messenger’s departure, ‘at last’ calling for his writing materials, and thereafter composing day and night with such fervour that ‘His body could not endure the strain, and several times he collapsed in a faint from his labours’. That subsequent writers sought to heighten the link between the commission and the resulting music is seen in the way in which Rochlitz’s narrative was nuanced in later accounts based upon his own: Cramer (6-D-3) specified that Mozart thought for around a quarter of an hour before requesting pen and paper; Suard (6-D-4) shortened this period to just ‘a few minutes’; and by the time that the tale had reached Sainsbury (6-D-7), the interval became a mere matter of ‘some moments’. Likewise, as Rochlitz also hinted, a direct relationship was quickly established between Mozart’s exertion of his creative powers on the Requiem and the decline of his health. Niemetschek made the point particularly explicit in writing that Constanze (who, as noted, was his source for the episode) was convinced that the Requiem was precipitating serious illness and took the score away from her husband, and that his health consequently improved sufficiently for him to be able to write the Masonic Cantata, K. 623 in November 1791. According to Niemetschek, this work seemed to have a positive effect upon the composer; conversely, Mozart’s condition worsened when he returned to the Requiem, ultimately forcing him to take to his bed. The compelling argument put forward by Niemetschek that Mozart had effectively been killed by his work on the Requiem even stood up against potentially contradictory suggestions, in that Mozart’s notorious belief that he had been poisoned also figured within his account. 23 23 The theory was first aired just days after Mozart had died: in an article in the Musikalisches Wochenblatt dated 12 December 1791, it was noted that ‘Because his body swelled up after death, [continued] 161 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Niemetschek furthermore indicated that Mozart remained preoccupied with the Requiem even on his death-bed, in that he called for the score on the day of his death and reiterated his conviction that he was writing it for himself and for his funeral – an important rhetorical repetition given the tale’s outcome. For Niemetschek, Mozart’s act of looking through the score represented ‘the last sad sight he had of his beloved art, which was destined to become immortal’, and which therefore provided a striking contrast with the transience of its creator. Nissen (6-D-8), whose account (as noted) adhered closely to Niemetschek’s, even suggested a scene in which the score of the Requiem lay in Mozart’s hand as he died. We may consider in a similar vein the anecdote of the performance of sections of the Requiem at Mozart’s bedside, which originated with the singer Benedict Schack and was retold in his obituary in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung over three decades later. 24 Mozart was said to have performed his work along with some friends, including Schack, at his bedside, as far as the ‘Lacrymosa’ section now recognized to have been probably the last music he ever wrote; at that point, he was reportedly overcome by tears, the implication being (as Jahn clarified) that he finally realized that he would not live to finish his work. For Blom (6-D-15), meanwhile, Mozart’s thoughts were still of the Requiem once he had resigned himself to his fate: ‘Even after he had said his last farewell to his family and to the world its strains still seemed to haunt him, and he tried to sing them.’ It was widely known in the 1790s that the Requiem remained unfinished at Mozart’s death. The misinformation to the contrary originated with Mozart’s widow, who was anxious for it to be completed and submitted to the anonymous patron as the composer’s own work so that she could collect the full fee for its commission; the 24 some people believe that he was poisoned’ (Deutsch 1965: 432). See ‘From a Posthumous Tribute to Benedikt Schack, 1827’, Deutsch 1965: 536-7 (originally published in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, 25 July 1827). 162 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death completed score thus bore the date ‘1792’, together with Mozart’s forged signature. Nonetheless, Rochlitz famously persisted in stating that the Requiem had indeed been completed by the dying composer, in opposition to both Niemetschek’s biography (which reported that it had been delivered ‘in its incomplete state’) and, indeed, the brief mention of the work in Schlichtegroll’s obituary of five years earlier. Whether this was simply carelessness on Rochlitz’s part, as Maynard Solomon (1991b: 34) has suggested, is a matter for speculation; my feeling is that it is also indicative of the desirability of believing the work to be entirely Mozart’s own, not least given the number of writers who uncritically adopted Rochlitz’s position in the early decades of the 1800s. In particular, Choron and Fayolle (6-D-5) stated that Mozart scarcely had time to complete the work; and they supplied the wrong year for his death even though it was mathematically inconsistent with information offered elsewhere in their article. Those errors were subsequently perpetuated by Sainsbury (6-D-7); and, as Christopher Hogwood (1991: xxvii) has remarked, even Holmes (despite all the evidence to the contrary) exhibited a certain inclination towards believing the Requiem to be entirely Mozart’s. The issue of the Requiem’s authorship was brought to the fore by the so-called Requiemstreit of the 1820s, spearheaded by Gottfried Weber’s celebrated article in Cäcilia (1825), in which he claimed that the work was hardly worthy of being called Mozart’s own, and which was followed by a number of ancillary publications by the same author. 25 While it is today understood that that the Requiem was completed by a team of composers including F. J. Freystädtler, Joseph Eybler, and Maximilian Stadler (see, for example, Wolff 1994: 17-28), the only person to admit to having played a role 25 On the controversy generated by Weber’s writings and the question of the extent of the contribution to the work by Mozart and Süssmayr, see Wolff 1994: 1-53. 163 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death in its composition was Mozart’s pupil Franz Xaver Süssmayr, who had also worked on La clemenza di Tito. 26 It thus came to be particularly important for biographers to establish Süssmayr’s contact with Mozart in connection with the Requiem as well. The witness testimony written by Mozart’s sister-in-law Sophie Haibl, also written in 1825, which extensively documented the events of Mozart’s final days and which has been quoted at length by Nissen (for whom it was originally produced) and various subsequent biographers, was crucial in this respect. 27 Haibl reported that as the dying composer lay on his deathbed, he issued instructions to Süssmayr as to how the Requiem might be completed – hence suggesting that Mozart had actively passed on this duty to his pupil. The notion is particularly evident in Fétis’s account (6-D-9), in which Mozart’s final act prior to death was to turn his eyes towards Süssmayr. There is, of course, a now-famous codetta to the question of the Requiem’s authenticity. In 1800, Mozart’s patron was revealed as Count Franz von Walsegg-Stuppach, who was known to have been in the habit of secretly commissioning new works from reputable composers, re-writing the scores in his own hand, and (for whatever reason) passing them off as his own; the enigmatic messenger was thus presumed to have been his steward, Franz Anton Leitgeb. 28 The revelation that this entire affair may have been an elaborate conspiracy to plagiarize Mozart’s work functioned to detract from the extent to which it actually was Mozart’s to begin with: the certainty that Walsegg was not the Requiem’s author eclipsed the fact that, in part, neither was Mozart. 26 27 28 Süssmayr outlined his contribution to the Requiem in a letter to Breitkopf & Härtel of 8 February 1800 (trans. in Wolff 1994: 145-6), published the following year in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung; he also acted as the Requiem’s main copyist. See further, Keefe 2008. See Nissen 1828: I, 573-5, 687-8; Deutsch 1965: 524-6. See further, Holmes 1845: 348-9; Nohl 1877: 298-302. However, Otto Erich Deutsch (1963, 1964) has more recently argued that the stranger could not have been Leitgeb, as he would have been known to Mozart and his wife. 164 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Doubtless at least some of the preoccupations that emerge from the above discussion can be ascribed to the comparisons invited between Haydn’s and Mozart’s lives from the advent of modern musical biography, as discussed in the previous chapter. Most obviously, each of their biographies yields stories in which a great last work is portrayed as having brought about (or at the very least led to the anticipation of) their demise; the analogy that Matthew Head (2000: 216) has drawn between Haydn’s The Creation and Frankenstein – which would seem even more applicable to Mozart – seems apposite given that Mary Shelley’s novel was first published (anonymously) in 1818, less than a decade after Haydn’s passing. While the same cannot be said of Bach’s Musikalisches Opfer, it nonetheless represents a third example of a mythologized last work, and one that similarly appeared in many biographical accounts close to the subject’s death. What is particularly interesting about the story of Mozart’s Requiem, moreover, is that the claims made for its representing the pinnacle of the composer’s creative output do not sit easily with the music itself (not least given biographers’ vain efforts to rescue the work from the inescapable fact that it was not Mozart’s own), a point that will receive further exploration in the final chapter of this thesis. The inclusion within musical biography of such Romantic tropes as that of the Frankenstein-like genius killed by their own work would doubtless have fired the Romantic imagination and, as noted, would have simultaneously functioned to disconnect earlier subjects (especially Mozart) from eighteenth-century reason and rationality. Time and again, the tales in this section have reflected the crossing of boundaries of earthly realism that were a particular fascination in nineteenth-century Europe: Schumann’s descent into madness; the religious inflections accrued by the story of the Creation concert (notwithstanding subtle tensions between different 165 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death Judeo-Christian doctrines); the otherworldly elements of the messenger who bore the Requiem commission; Haydn’s and Schumann’s seeming evasion of death (as contrasted with Mozart’s premature demise); and possibly even Beethoven’s deafness. Harbingers of death are similarly prevalent, most obviously the gentleman of the Requiem legend, but also the invasion of Vienna (and, perhaps, the visitor from the French army) in Haydn’s case, and the ‘angels’ in Schumann’s. In keeping with the theme of appealing to nineteenth-century audiences, notions of members of the nobility as obliged to composers such as Bach and Haydn – while they do not generally appear to have been presented in ways that explicitly indicated anti-aristocratic feeling – would have particularly interested working- and middle-class readers given the momentous implications of contemporary sociopolitical changes, which also profoundly influenced the course of music history itself. Finally, in an extension of themes explored in the previous chapter, several of these myths have come to re-inscribe the musical canon that emerged in the nineteenth century, whether in imagined terms (Schubert and Mendelssohn as the ultimate source of Schumann’s theme) or real ones (Beethoven’s subsequent placement at the Creation concert, together with one modern example reserved for the final chapter). As discussed, many of the above tales endeavoured to bring their associated life story full circle and to draw it suitably to an end. Hence Haydn returned not just to Austria but more specifically to his birthplace, reminding the reader of his unassuming origins; his life’s work was celebrated in a glorious performance of The Creation that conveniently also became the site of an eleventh-hour rapprochement with Beethoven; and various indications are yielded of his elevated social status in relation to the start of his career. The generous number of years granted to Haydn (and, for that matter, Bach) gave biographies much opportunity for the provision of such resolution as well as for a 166 Mythology in Musical Biography: Final Years and Death thorough preparation for the subject’s ultimate passing; but at their core, life stories are not idealized works of fiction, and hence do not always attain the ideal sense of closure for which such narrative strives. The romanticized scene of Mozart on his death-bed, for example, sets in relief a life cut tragically short without having even completed the composition that so preoccupied him during his final weeks; the story of the première of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony illustrates that artistic distinction was not matched by financial success even at that late stage of the composer’s life; and many texts have relatively little to say about the totality of Schumann’s last two years. Such was the difficulty of lending biographies as much of a sense of closure as possible when faced with lives that were often far from reaching resolution at their end. 167 6 MYTHOLOGY IN MUSICAL BIOGRAPHY: EPILOGUE While I have endeavoured to bring my analyses of the various biographical myths to their natural conclusion, and to draw comparisons between them, in the course of the preceding discussions, I have necessarily been restricted by the chronology of the composers’ lives and the corresponding order in which these tales have been investigated. By way of an epilogue to Part I, the purpose of this section is to examine some of the wider connections and homologies between the different stories and to comment on broader trends in their authors’ shifting priorities. Drawing upon the themes emerging from my analyses, I reflect upon the role of mythology within musical biography, particularly in relation to my introductory discussion concerning the relationship between myths’ epistemological status and their enduring cultural functions. I consider the processes of perpetuation, embellishment, and rejection through which such tales typically progressed, the nature of the biographers’ interpretations of the known facts in recounting them, and the limits of their value as evidence of their subjects’ greatness. In preparation for Part II, this section will also seek to highlight specific tropes in musical biography that have been encountered in various guises and across texts on several different composers. Much of the following discussion adopts an interpretation of myth that the reader may (quite rightly) find over-literal; for reasons that will become apparent as the chapter unfolds, this has been knowingly undertaken in order ultimately to demonstrate that myth may not necessarily be intended to be taken literally at all. Where many of the earlier biographers exhibited a tendency to romanticize and mythologize the episodes associated with their subject, some of the later writers took a Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue more pragmatic approach, considering both the likelihood and logistics of a given story rather than merely restating it. Of the childhood tale of Bach’s having copied out his brother’s music manuscript by moonlight, for example, Grew and Grew (1-A-13) hinted that on certain nights, the moon would indeed have been bright enough to permit such an undertaking; they also suggested that Bach might have used plain paper onto which he drew stave lines himself, so as to avoid arousing suspicion by specially obtaining manuscript paper. Such an approach resulted in biographical accounts being extended through an increased level of analysis both of the story itself and of the motives and feelings of its principal characters – for instance, Bach’s disappointment at having this copy of the manuscript confiscated and his brother’s likely reasons for wanting to keep this music from him. It seems feasible that there was an underlying element of self-justification in these instances, in that if a particular myth could survive being subjected to scrutiny, then it was possible that it had actually taken place, and was therefore worthy of inclusion in biography. After all, many of the stories under consideration in the course of this study have continued to be widely retold over the decades, even though they incorporate elements that are rather far-fetched and sometimes never satisfactorily addressed. Recalling the above caveat concerning my consciously interpreting myth literally in pursuit of wider points, I offer my first example: that it would seem wholly impractical for the young Handel’s journey to the Court of Saxe-Weissenfels (myth 4-B) to have been the result of a decision taken solely on the basis of his having chased his father’s carriage on foot for some distance. How would the child have managed with no clothes or other possessions? By what means might he have occupied his time while his father was engaged in his official duties? Could the father realistically have brought a small boy to his employer’s Court unannounced? Would he not simply have turned the carriage round and returned him safely to his mother? And would his family not have been extremely concerned had the 169 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue boy disappeared for such a length of time? To my mind, while this is a fascinating tale, it raises rather too many questions to be able to take it seriously, at least in the version in which it has been received and understood. Rather, as discussed, its biographical function is more symbolic than literal. We have seen that a number of the later authors have either rejected individual myths or at least rebutted their more improbable aspects, sometimes in a rather forceful manner. However, what is absent from many of their accounts – and hence one of the principal aims of my study – is wider consideration of the cultural significance of the perpetuation of these apocryphal stories over such a long period, particularly given this implicit evidence that reading communities of the past have held them sufficiently dear that it was apparently desirable to keep them alive despite their implausibility. One could perhaps explain initial presentations with reference to the needs of the earliest writers to set out their subjects’ claims to greatness in the strongest possible terms, particularly given the hagiographical climate of nineteenth-century Europe and its renewed fascination with the mythic. What is more revealing, however, is the retelling of certain tales even after they have been openly opposed within major biographies on the grounds of fanciful embroidering by over-zealous writers. One good example is the episode of the young Beethoven’s meeting with Mozart (myth 2-A), which, though countered (whether implicitly or explicitly) by such watershed biographers as Jahn, Thayer, and Grove, also appeared in later versions that did not merely repeat elements of Seyfried’s exaggerated original, but included additional embellishments too. The continued dissemination of such stories despite significant opposition, and the frequency with which they have been retold over the decades, suggests that they (like the Handel example given above) have retained their place within culture nonetheless – 170 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue and for reasons that, as indicated, extend well beyond merely satisfying the public appetite for engaging anecdote. Likewise, rejection in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries has by no means been the inevitable consequence of earlier accretions. As we have seen, the episode of Reinken’s recognition of Bach’s musical abilities (myth 1-D) received its most significant elaboration only strikingly late. Moreover, those tales of association and recognition that functioned to enforce an elite canon of musical figures appear generally to have become more, rather than less, important over time. Many are not even found in the earliest biographies, yet they remained robustly retold even long after they had served their initial purpose of promoting their subjects, and when suspicion as to the veracity of such accounts as Schindler’s of the 1822 meeting between Beethoven and Schubert (2-E-1) was widespread. The importance of the emerging aesthetic of musical canon to the longevity of the various myths that advance connections (however questionable) between different Great Composers is seen in that, if we were to consider them collectively, the result would be a relatively unbroken line extending from the beginning to the end of the common-practice period and touching upon many of the subjects under consideration elsewhere in this thesis. Drawing on the correspondences identified in this study as well as others, additional demonstration of the ways in which the paradigms of musical biography have evolved to reinforce their corresponding canons will be offered in the course of Part II. Typical elaborations received by the stories have included strengthening them in key points such as, in the case of the subset discussed above, making the often tenuous links between associated composers more pronounced. Thus Schubert’s inheritance of lyrics that Beethoven had himself intended to set to music (myth 7-C) was soon restated such 171 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue that it became Beethoven’s own wish that he receive them; and the mere fact of Schumann’s finding a steel pen on Beethoven’s grave (myth 8-A) gave rise to some far-fetched speculation that Schubert himself might have left it there. Another recurring embellishment concerns the heightening of the immediacy between a given event and its consequence, thereby tightening the overall plot and lending the episode more impact. Characteristically, this gloss is manifested in a quantifiable length of time that becomes progressively diminished, such as the period between Mozart’s receiving the commission of the Requiem and his calling for his writing materials (myth 6-D), or the imminence of the evening concert cancelled by King Frederick the Great upon receiving word of Bach’s arrival at Potsdam (myth 1-E). A third notion that has been frequently encountered in the embroidering of the myths is that of prophetic foresight on the part of composers, doubtless brought about to some extent by the tendency among later authors retrospectively to reinterpret them . Several of the stories of recognition are indicative, notably that of Schumann on Brahms (myths 3-A and 8-B), as is Beethoven’s removal of the dedication of his Third Symphony (myth 2-C) in that its protagonist was seen to have anticipated Napoleon’s tyrannical reign. In connection with this point, one particularly significant trope to be further explored in Part II is that of the premonitions that certain composers were said to have held of their own death, which we have already seen in the biographies of Schubert (myth 7-B) and Mozart (myth 6-D). For Schubert, meanwhile, the irony is that it does seem reasonable to suggest that by 1827, the composer might have at least suspected that his illness would soon lead to death. Yet Kreissle (7-B-1) specifically resisted this possibility, stating unequivocally that the thought never occurred to his subject that out of the friends with whom he shared his legendary toast, he might be the next to die – and thus leaving any suggestions to the contrary to subsequent biographers. 172 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue As noted many times in the course of Part I, the way in which authors have interpreted a given story over time has been at the heart both of its mythological development and its value to biography in supporting the subject’s claim to the available canonical ground. The case of Bach’s journey to Lübeck (myth 1-B) has already been discussed as to whether the episode illustrated his exemplary desire to further his artistic knowledge and experiences, or an inexcusable neglect of his official duties at Arnstadt (and an abuse of the trust and goodwill of its authorities) in order to pursue essentially personal interests, or, even worse, the extraordinary lengths to which he was prepared to go in order to evade his obligations and undermine his superiors. Similarly, Schumann’s writing of the ‘Neue Bahnen’ article could have been viewed as a rather selfish act on his part – an attempt to ensure the future of absolute music and his own place in its history, as well as an implicit attack on those musical contemporaries not of his school – rather than as the altruistic promotion of a promising young composer. Careful presentation of particular events in biographies also allowed the episodes that showed subjects in a positive light to obscure those that did not, as we have already seen in the tales yielded by the première of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony (myth 2-D). That the episode of the tuition given by Haydn to Beethoven (myths 2-B and 5-B) appears to have featured in texts on the elder composer only much later in than those on the younger may partly be explained in that Haydn’s apparent neglect of his illustrious student overshadowed the question of why Beethoven still needed such elementary instruction in his early twenties, which, though not relevant to Haydn biography, was crucial to its Beethovenian counterpart. Similarly, Bach’s victory by default over Marchand in their proposed contest (myth 1-C) deflects attention away from his departure in disgrace from Weimar just months later to such an extent that the second 173 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue episode was completely omitted in some biographies, 1 which is especially ironic given that this post was the last he held as organist and it was his skill in this precise area upon which the story insisted. From the point of view of judicious interpretation on the part of biographers, the most collectively interesting myths are those relating to Mozart. As discussed, several of these stories unmistakably indicate that the composer’s conduct was (historiographically speaking) less than exemplary, which, notwithstanding the emergent trope of the socially subversive Great Composer, created problems for authors seeking to rescue such subjects from suggestions of inappropriate behaviour and to present them to the reading public as morally commendable. Mozart’s answering back to Emperor Joseph II in respect of his opinion of Die Entführung aus dem Serail (myth 6-B) and the sacrilege he effectively committed in transcribing Allegri’s Miserere (myth 6-A) have already been remarked upon, to which I might add that the extent to which he was said to have focussed his attention on composing the Requiem (myth 6-D) implies that he self-centredly prioritized himself and his work above his family and friends. Moreover, the emphasis that has been placed on the precocity of the composer’s childhood as of the earliest biographies has meant that the apocryphal tales relating to that period of his life have often been selectively presented in a manner that rather overstated the exceptional nature of his musical gifts. One case in point is yielded by claims that have typically accompanied retellings of the aforementioned Miserere story as far back as the advent of life-writing on Mozart. Niemetschek (6-A-2, 1798), for instance, wrote of the now-famous episode that ‘Anyone aware of the great art required for this complex choral music for so many voices will certainly be amazed at this achievement. What 1 On Bach’s dismissal from Weimar shortly after his contest with Marchand, see, for example, Terry 1928: 112-4. 174 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue musical memory and what knowledge of composition he must have had’. Whether the author of Mozart’s first full-length biography was familiar with the work is not explicitly stated, though his words suggest that this was indeed the case (and by the time of writing, Niemetschek could have had access to Burney’s published score of the Miserere in addition to performances). Nor were such over-reaching comments by any means specific to Continental European biography at the turn of the nineteenth century; some fifty years later, Holmes (6-A-7) emphasized to English readers that ‘The difficulty of putting down in notes the music performed by a double choir, abounding in imitation and traditional effects, of which one of the chief is characterized by the absence of a perceptible rhythm, is scarcely conceivable.’ But just how much of Allegri’s Miserere did these accounts faithfully describe? Holmes’s remark about the double choir is correct when taken at face value; and had Mozart transcribed the nine-part closing chorus after a maximum of two hearings, then that would indeed have constituted an extraordinary achievement (assuming, of course, that he had not been tempted to take a surreptitious peek at the score held by Padre Martini, whom he had visited some three weeks earlier). But at the same time, the majority of the work alternates between sections for four-part choir, those for five-part choir, and senza misura monophonic plainsong. Moreover, it incorporates so much internal repetition that the fact of Mozart’s essentially memorizing it after only a single ‘performance’ is in reality not as impressive as his biographers were wont to assert, and is even somewhat misleading in that it implies that he would have heard each of its constituent musical passages only once. As early as Stendhal (himself glossing Burney), it had been acknowledged that ‘cette musique, semblable par les masses, n’est point exactement la même dans les détails. Ainsi elle est facilement comprise’; 2 it is therefore difficult, on the face of it, to reconcile biographers’ over-generous claims with the music itself, 2 Bombet 1814: 310-1, italics added; cf. Sainsbury 1827: II, 190. 175 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue given the detailed descriptions of the Miserere provided by Stendhal as well as Burney, Grove’s Dictionary, and others within the context of this very episode (descriptions that later writers would surely have consulted, and with which many interested readers would have acquired at least a secondhand acquaintance), not to mention the work’s immense popularity in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. 3 The conclusion to which the preceding discussion inescapably points, of course, is that to endeavour to impose reason upon myth is itself fallacious. Yet historical narrative seeks to rationalize and explain its own subject matter almost by definition, thus problems come to be raised when myths are integrated within biographical writings and hence transcend their status as standalone anecdotes. Recalling my earlier discussions about biography’s reliance on an uneasy blend of fact and creative extrapolation as well as the oft-cited adage that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, however, it would seem to be biography’s prerogative to perpetuate such ‘unbelievable’ stories. One might even ask whether the readers of a given biography are necessarily being asked to accept at face value the myths it perpetuates, or simply to be persuaded by the deeper messages about their subjects’ exceptional nature for which, as observed in the introduction, they provide suitable illustration (the Miserere story being a good example). In his landmark Myth: Its Meaning and Functions in Ancient and Other Cultures, G. S. Kirk proposed a typology that included a category of ‘model’ or ‘charter’ myths, whose principal purpose is to ‘confirm, maintain the memory of, and provide authority for… customs and institutions’ (1970: 256) and which may therefore ‘reflect a concern or a conviction without trying to explain it’ (: 257). And, just as the protagonists of the myths of classical antiquity (such as those that provided the basis of Kirk’s study) had all too 3 The anecdote has, however, been called into question in more recent times for these and other reasons. See, for example, Keys 1980: 66-7; Stafford 1991: 170. 176 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue often been gods, demi-gods, and earthly contenders for god-like status, those that emerged within nineteenth-century musical biography served to elevate real people, the newly-inducted heroes of their time, to cultural deification and immortality. Where classical mythology promoted the worship and adoration of their associated subjects, that of nineteenth-century musical biography likewise contributed to the creation of recognizable cults of idolaters (especially of Bach and Beethoven) and to the establishment of their belief-systems. In a similar vein, other key agencies by which the exaltation of artistic heroes was effected at this time included hagiography and canonization, both concepts traditionally associated with the saints; while many of the myths analyzed in previous chapters have come to be imbued with explicitly religious overtones. Such myths as feature in musical biography have therefore continued to be interpreted positively, notwithstanding the many subtly different versions in which they have appeared, as the only way in which they could be received and perpetuated yet still fulfil their purpose. In one very real respect, then, the debunkers who have sought in the past to rebut or disprove these emergent mythologies have simply missed the point. We have already encountered one fascinating historical exception that proves the rule, Maurice Brown’s Schubert: A Critical Biography (1958), in which the author occupies an uneasy position midway between exploding many of the celebrated tales associated with his subject and evaluating whether they might nevertheless contain a flicker of truth, in an implicit endeavour (or so it could be argued) to retain their cultural value if not also to validate them anew. Modern texts that sidestep the issue, either by making no mention of musical biography’s more dubious stories or by merely subjecting them to cursory treatment, are surely also misguided: by passing over them in such manner, they fail to engage directly with the value-systems in which they flourished. Within the scope of an 177 Mythology in Musical Biography: Epilogue essentially historical study, I have endeavoured to provide a few illuminating indications as to the perpetuation of these myths in more modern life-writing, which should suffice to indicate that it is by no means exclusively a phenomenon of the past. Indeed, they have now become so thoroughly embedded in our cultural heritage that readers of the biographies of today would expect – if not demand – them to be repeated. Recent years have also seen the appearance of what I view as several fresh strains of composer mythology, some of them strikingly similar to historical precursors, which will be discussed in the final chapter of this thesis. As noted, the so-called ‘debunking’ biography that was something of a fashion in the first half of the twentieth century never took particular hold within the field of music. Had circumstances been different, however, authors seeking to displace the Great Composers from their exalted pedestals might have cited precisely the kinds of points that I have made above in intentionally offering alternative interpretations of some of musical biography’s most famous stories. It is profoundly ironic that the very myths that served to canonize these subjects so effectively in earlier periods of music history could so easily have instead been used utterly to discredit them. That this has never noticeably taken place is surely indicative of the continuing cultural need for artistic heroes and the difficulties thereby posed to the successful reconciliation of the biographical mythologies of the past with more recent scholarly quests for historical truths. 178 PART II: THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906 7 THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906: INTRODUCTION In Victorian Britain, biography flourished on a hitherto unparalleled scale. Multi-volume ‘life and letters’ biographies proliferated, while the collective biographies and lives in miniature of previous eras paved the way for series of fully-fledged monographs. At the same time, biography became a more educational genre that satisfied the Victorian fascination for history, as well as providing information on the understanding of their subjects’ works. The instruction offered by biography was, however, moral as well as intellectual. As Peter Gay has noted, ‘Throughout the age, biographies and books of advice had been close allies’ (1996: 163). The relationship between the two is perhaps best demonstrated by the influential and widely-read work of Samuel Smiles, an author both of biographies and self-help texts. 1 Smiles’s contributions to the former genre, whether dealing with a single subject such as his The Life of George Stephenson (1857) or multiple figures as in his landmark Lives of the Engineers (1861-2), promoted such virtues as self-improvement and perseverance; concomitantly, the arguments set out in writings such as his Self-help (1859) were exemplified by reference to episodes in the biographies of great personages. Biography was thus deeply grounded in another key movement that spread through Britain in the nineteenth century, that of self-improvement through self-education. The central role played by reading and literature within this movement, not least given the advent of mass literacy, is shown in Jonathan Rose’s pioneering study (2001) of the autodidact culture of the Victorian and Edwardian working classes. From the increasing availability of school education to the rise of adult courses, mutual improvement 1 On Smiles’s significance to the projects of biography and self-improvement in the Victorian Period see, for example, Nadel 1984: 21-30. The Master Musicians Series: Introduction societies, literary societies, public libraries and lectures, Mechanics’ Institutes, Miners’ Institutes, and reading rooms maintained both publicly and by institutions ranging from churches to prisons, opportunities for the lay person to advance his or her education were abundant. Indeed, Smiles’s own Self-Help had originated in lectures delivered to members of the working classes in the 1840s. Music enjoyed a strong relationship with the movement of self-education on various levels: as Rose observed, ‘A working-class culture of classical music had long flourished in the same regions and trades where the autodidact tradition was strong, notably among Welsh miners and Lancashire weavers’ (2001: 196). The later nineteenth century witnessed a profusion of initiatives designed to bring classical music to the public at large through free or cheap concerts, whether small-scale affairs in local villages or events at major metropolitan venues intended to attract audiences in their thousands. While music performance flourished at the professional level with the establishment of conservatoire training, traditions of amateur music-making were also vibrant, exemplified by the emergence of choral societies and competitive festivals in a number of different towns, as well as brass bands, string bands, and amateur operatic societies. Many of these choirs and instrumental ensembles were attached to specific companies, while numerous other individuals gained their musical education through the church, or through newly-founded music clubs. Such training was further encouraged through the rise of sight-singing and the development of solmization systems, the publication of music and manuals designed for the student and of simplified musical arrangements of favoured classics and popular tunes, and the instigation of examination systems. While many of these aspects were common to France and Germany too, they were especially well-developed in Britain, study of 181 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction which therefore yields particularly intense examples of the broader phenomena investigated in Part I. It was within this sociocultural context that the earliest incarnation of ‘The Master Musicians’ series emerged. Now firmly established as the leading biographical series in the English language, the project began as a set of twelve composer monographs edited by Frederick J. Crowest and published between 1899 and 1906 by J. M. Dent & Co. of London. Now better known as J. M. Dent & Sons, the name which it assumed in 1909 in recognition of the strong family presence within the firm, the house of Dent was founded in 1888 as an entrepreneurial, and relatively small, publishing business. 2 Its eponymous director, Joseph Malaby Dent (1849-1926), had, to borrow Rose’s words, ‘acquired his love of literature from the autodidact culture that flourished among Victorian artisans and shopkeepers’ (1991: 81). Hence the publishing house principally endeavoured to fulfil the various needs of the self-education market, notably by providing quality editions of the literary classics at affordable prices. One early large-scale project that exemplified these aims was the ‘Temple Shakespeare’ series, edited in 40 volumes by Israel Gollancz and published between 1894 and 1896, and intended as a response to the extremely variable standards of editing amongst the reprints of Shakespeare then available. Another was the celebrated ‘Everyman’s Library’ series, a uniform edition of literary works that Rose (2001: 131-6) has viewed as being emblematic of the contemporary British tradition of self-improvement. Initiated in 1904 under the editorship of Ernest Rhys, the series quickly ran to hundreds of volumes selling (like the Temple Shakespeare series) for just one shilling each, thus 2 The contextual information that follows has been culled from a number of different sources, notably Rose 1991 and Dent and Dent 1938, to which the reader is referred for a more comprehensive treatment of the subject. 182 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction distinguishing it from other inexpensive reprints of out-of-copyright classics in that nothing had hitherto been attempted on this scale. While editions of world literature from classical antiquity to contemporary writings issued from Dent’s press, another important project was the provision of texts in which a wide variety of academic subjects were made comprehensible to the lay reader, notably through the extensive ‘Temple Primers’ series (1900-). Dent also placed a special emphasis on biography, having long admired Boswell’s Life of Johnson, which became the first volume to be issued in the Everyman’s Library series. Various multi-volume biographical projects were established around the turn of the century, including the ‘Temple Biographies’ series (1902-8, edited by Dugald Macfadyen), the ‘Temple Autobiographies’ series (1903-5, edited by William Macdonald), and the ‘English Men of Science’ series (1906-8, edited by J. Reynolds Green). Another such venture was the Master Musicians series, though it was initiated slightly earlier and ran to a greater number of volumes, possibly because Dent was particularly sympathetic to music and recognized its importance to the cultural education of the masses. His father had taught music and sold musical instruments in tandem with his career as a housepainter, and Dent himself had founded a long-running Sunday afternoon concert series at Toynbee Hall, Whitechapel in the 1880s (Mackerness 1964: 201). The series editor and contributor of the initial volume, Beethoven (1899), was Frederick J. Crowest (1850-1927), a prolific writer on music based in London. 3 Crowest’s background in musical biography was evident from such publications as his essay 3 The biographical vignettes that follow have been compiled from a variety of sources, notably Brown and Stratton 1897, Grove’s Dictionary from the second edition (Maitland 1904-10) onwards, and obituaries in The Musical Times (notably Langford 1920 and Myers 1945). While I have endeavoured to give as complete and representative an indication of the authors’ literary output as possible, the reader is referred to the Bibliography for a more comprehensive list. 183 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction collection The Great Tone-Poets (1874), his full-length monographs on Cherubini (1890) and Verdi (1897), and his two-volume Book of Musical Anecdote (1878, revised as 1902a), which recounted entertaining episodes in the lives of the Great Composers. His commitment to education, meanwhile, was reflected in A Catechism of Musical History and Biography (1883), written in question-and-answer form for the benefit of students preparing for music examinations, and in his wide-ranging text Musical Groundwork (1890). While the Master Musicians series represents Crowest’s first editorial undertaking of a book series, it was soon followed by ‘The Music Story’ series (1902-16) published by Walter Scott, with which firm Crowest was long associated as editor and general manager. He also contributed to a number of periodicals including the National Review, and was a minor composer of church music and other vocal music, including an Easy Communion service in A (1876). Crowest held various posts as organist and choir director in the course of his life, and maintained a parallel career as a tenor singer working under the name of Arthur Vitton; his volume Advice to Singers was published anonymously until its revised fourth edition (1889). Following his retirement from publishing in 1917, Crowest remained active as a singing teacher. The second book of the series, Wagner (1899), was written by Charles A. Lidgey (?1863-1924), the Master Musicians biographer about whom perhaps the least is known. As a pianist and composer, he was active on the London concert scene; his works include a setting of ‘Women and Roses’ for chorus and orchestra and the orchestral ballade ‘A Day Dream’ (given at Crystal Palace in 1891 and 1892 respectively), as well as a number of songs. While little active as a writer on music aside from his monograph on Wagner, Lidgey did deliver a paper on Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen to the distinguished literary club Ye Sette of Odd Volumes (of which he was secretary) in 1908; the typescript was printed privately and presented to the Sette at a subsequent 184 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction meeting. At this point enquiry necessarily becomes more speculative, for there is only one person of this name listed in the 1901 Official Census of England and Wales, a solicitor born in Manchester and registered in the civil parish of Beckenham, and doubtless the same Charles Albert Lidgey whose birth was registered in Manchester in 1863. If this is the writer of the Master Musicians monograph, then it would explain why the place cited at the close of the authorial preface is Lincoln’s Inn, surely referring to one of the four London Inns of Court with which a member of the legal profession might well be associated. Lidgey’s year of death is given as 1924 in various modern bibliographic records; the existence of an official record of the death of one Charles A. Lidgey, aged 61, in that year provides further evidence in support of the above conjecture. 4 C. F. Abdy Williams (1855-1923) contributed two volumes, Bach (1900) and Handel (1901). Intended for the church rather than the music profession, and initially studying to this end, Williams entered the Leipzig Conservatory for three years in 1882 and received music degrees from both Oxford and Cambridge. His most important appointments include organist and choir director at St Mary The Boltons, South Kensington (1885-91), and director of the music of the Greek Theatre, and later organist, at Bradfield College (1895-1901). Though ill health necessitated his retirement from the latter post, he remained active thereafter as a writer on music. That he was an authority on Ancient Greek music, plainsong, rhythm, and the organ is amply reflected in his many contributions to periodicals including Classical Review and The Musical Times, for whom he penned around 20 short articles and letters. Grove’s Dictionary included articles by Williams from the second edition (Maitland 1904-10); an essay on 4 If the solicitor and the writer on music are indeed one and the same, however, it seems curious that Lidgey is described in Brown and Stratton 1897 only as ‘pianist and composer’ (: 247). 185 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction the historical development of the organ was posthumously published in the newly-founded Music and Letters (1924). The breadth of his musical knowledge is demonstrated in the three papers he presented to the Musical Association, on rondo form in works by Mozart and Beethoven (1891), rhythm in Bach’s Das wohltemperirte Clavier (1893a), and Ancient Greek music (1898). His major publications include A Short Account of the Music of the Greek Drama (?1900), The Rhythm of Modern Music (1909), The Aristoxenian Theory of Musical Rhythm (1911), and The Rhythm of Song (1925); he is perhaps best known for A Short Historical Account of the Degrees in Music at Oxford and Cambridge (1893b). He was also active as a composer of religious works (notably a published Morning, Evening, and Communion service), music for Greek plays, madrigals, chamber works, and songs. Like the series editor, Stephen S. Stratton (1840-1906) had previous experience in musical biography: the celebrated dictionary British Musical Biography (1897), which he co-authored with James D. Brown, appeared just four years before his Master Musicians volume, Mendelssohn (1901). Born in London, Stratton studied piano, organ, and composition, and subsequently found employment as a schoolteacher; in 1866 he relocated to Birmingham, where he was to remain for the rest of his life. There he made a significant contribution to the city’s concert life, both as pianist and through the series of chamber concerts he founded in 1879; he became an Associate of the Philharmonic Society three years later. He also continued to work as a teacher and, for many years, as music critic for the Birmingham Daily Post and as Birmingham correspondent for The Musical Times. In the course of his life, he held a series of posts as organist in London and Birmingham, and was a founder member of the College of Organists. As a lecturer, he addressed the Incorporated Society of Musicians on several occasions, and twice presented papers to the Musical Association, on training the hand for keyboard 186 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction performance (1877) and on women’s contribution to music (1883); the latter broke significant new ground. He also published various compositions including church music, songs, and piano works, of which several were reviewed in The Musical Times. A further biography, on Paganini, was published posthumously in 1907. One of Stratton’s students was Eustace J. Breakspeare (1854-?), who was to contribute the volume Mozart (1902). Like Stratton, Breakspeare was based in Birmingham, where he was active as a concert pianist and accompanist. Although his Master Musicians monograph represents his only book-length publication, he wrote widely for major music periodicals including the Musical Standard, Monthly Musical Record, Musical Opinion, and The Musical Times, including an article on descriptive music for the latter (1894). The subjects encompassed by his writings are far-ranging, though musical aesthetics was a particular preoccupation, as seen especially in two papers he delivered at meetings of the Musical Association (1880 and 1882), the former with particular reference to Eduard Hanslick’s Vom Musikalisch-Schönen. At other meetings he spoke on song (1882) and harmony (1887); he also addressed the College of Organists (1883) and various Birmingham-based institutions. As a composer, he wrote a Suite and many other works, notably piano pieces and songs, though few were published. I have unfortunately been unable to establish Breakspeare’s year of death. J. Cuthbert Hadden (1861-1914), the only Scot among the original Master Musicians authors, was also the most prolific biographer, so it is fitting that he wrote two books in the series: Haydn (1902) and Chopin (1903). Though he studied music privately in London, where he worked for the publisher Routledge, Hadden was primarily active in Scotland, holding appointments as church organist in Aberdeen (1882), Crieff (1884), and at St John’s Church, Edinburgh, where he settled in 1889. He had previously 187 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction published monographs on Handel (1888a) and Mendelssohn (1888b), and was later to write a book entitled Composers in Love and Marriage (1913a); however, his literary undertakings were by no means limited to composer biographies. His texts on the music collector and publisher George Thomson (1898), the poet Thomas Campbell (1899b), and ‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’ (1913c) reveal a particular interest in Scottish subjects. Likewise, he wrote a number of articles (mainly on aspects of music in Scotland) for the Scottish Review between 1888 and 1899, edited the short-lived Scottish Musical Monthly (1893-6), and arranged a set of Scottish folksongs for the harmonium as The Lays of Caledonia in 1883. He also penned essays on musical and other subjects for many other periodicals including Cassell’s Magazine, Macmillan’s Magazine, and Longman’s Magazine, and contributed to the Dictionary of National Biography. He was the author of several appreciation texts such as the companion volumes Master Musicians (1909) and Modern Musicians (1913b) (the former was unrelated to Dent’s series apart from the title) and a number of books on opera (1908b, 1910a), being responsible for the Wagner-dominated ‘Great Operas’ series of pocket-sized guides issued by T. C. & E. C. Jack of London from 1907. That his literary output serviced the contemporary culture of self-improvement is further demonstrated in his advice-giving text on love and marriage (1894) and in various books on Nelson and the navy (1905, 1906, 1908a, 1910b), many of them intended for children. Annie W. Patterson (1868-1934), who wrote the Master Musicians volume Schumann (1903), was both the series’ only Irish contributor, and the only woman. 5 Based in Dublin, Patterson studied at Alexandra College and the Royal Irish Academy of Music, and reportedly became the first female candidate to obtain the MusD degree from the 5 Patterson’s gender should not of itself be seen as especially noteworthy, for the earlier Victorian Period had fostered writers on music such as Pauline Townsend and Florence Ashton Marshall, while one of the leading figures of nineteenth-century popular biography was Marie Lipsius in Germany. 188 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction Royal University of Ireland in 1889 (Colles 1927-8: IV, 84). Though of French Huguenot ancestry, she was a lifelong devotee of Irish music, ultimately becoming Chair of Irish Music at University College, Cork in 1924. Her earlier lecturing activities included addressing a meeting of the Musical Association on the subject of Irish music (1897), and she published various articles on the subject including one in the recently-founded The Musical Quarterly (1920). Aside from this research, Patterson wrote a number of self-education texts directed to listeners, performers, and music students of various levels, including Chats with Music Lovers (1907), How to Listen to an Orchestra (1913), and The Profession of Music and How to Prepare For It (1926). Patterson was also committed to self-improvement via music-making in a number of other ways. She worked as conductor of the Dublin Choral Union from 1891-3 and as music examiner for the Royal University of Ireland from 1892-5; in 1897, she was a founder of the competitive Feis Ceoil music festival, intended as an Irish counterpart to the Welsh Eisteddfod. As a performer, Patterson held various appointments including that of organist of the Church of St Anne Shandon in Cork, where she was to settle in 1909. Her activity as a composer commenced with the Irish cantata Finola (1888), and continued with three operas on Irish mythological subjects, religious music including a setting of Psalm 93 (1889), other cantatas, tone poems, the choral work The Bells of Shandon (1914), songs including Six Original Gaelic Songs (1896) and Ireland for ever (1919), and many folksong arrangements. Perhaps the most notable composer amongst the original Master Musicians biographers was Edmondstoune Duncan (1866-1920), the author of Schubert (1905). Born in Sale, Cheshire, Duncan moved to London to take up an open scholarship for composition at the newly-founded Royal College of Music, where his teachers included Parry and Stanford, in 1883. He remained in London for some ten years before returning to his 189 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction hometown, subsequently taking up the position of professor at the Oldham College of Music. He also worked as a music critic for various papers, notably the Daily News; in the final few months of his life, he was the Manchester correspondent for the Musical Opinion. Duncan’s monograph on Schubert was the first of many book publications including Melodies and How to Harmonize Them (1905a and 1907a, the latter being a supplementary volume of examples), A History of Music (1908), and Ultra-Modernism in Music (1915). His passion for collecting traditional songs led to two anthologies published as The Minstrelsy of England (1905b, 1909) and an edited volume of lyrics (1927); he also wrote an Encyclopedia of Musical Terms (1913) and revised and expanded Reeves’ Dictionary of Musicians (1926). His many compositions include a Mass in F minor (1892), the two-act opera Perseus (1892), a Morning, Evening, and Communion service in G (?1894), the ode ‘Ye Mariners of England’ for chorus and orchestra (1890, given by the Glasgow Choral Union), and various songs and instrumental works. The next biography in the series was Brahms (1905), written by J. Lawrence Erb (1877-1950), the youngest contributor of the set and the only American. 6 At the time of the appearance of the Master Musicians monograph, Erb was director of the Wooster Conservatory, Ohio; he became director of the School of Music at the University of Illinois in 1914 and was later Head of the Department of Music at the Connecticut College for Women, to which he moved in 1922. Profoundly committed to education, he was secretary, and subsequently president, of the Music Teachers’ National Association. He also wrote Music Appreciation for the Student (1926b), an instructive text that included questions at the end of chapters, as well as a series of articles 6 As a non-British writer, Erb is unmentioned in the sources cited above (n. 3), and I am instead indebted to Paula Morgan’s biographical article (1986) in The New Grove Dictionary of American Music. 190 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction appearing in The Musical Quarterly between 1917 and 1926 that collectively encompassed music appreciation, the place of music within the US school and university system, and the value of a solid musical education both to the individual lay person and the general community. Erb held various positions as organist in the course of his career, including that of university organist at Illinois; as a composer, he produced a range of church music, vocal music, and pieces for piano and organ. The last of the series’ authors, Edwin Evans (1874-1945), was the son of the writer on music and distinguished organist of the same name, best known for his exhaustive analyses of Beethoven’s symphonies (1923) and Brahms’s entire œuvre (1912). Evans Jnr was educated largely in France and Luxemburg and based in London, and his Master Musicians monograph, Tchaikovsky (1906), appeared towards the start of an influential career as music critic and author of analytical programme notes for concerts both in London and the provinces. In the former capacity, he was employed by the Pall Mall Gazette from 1912-23, and by the Daily Mail at various stages of his life; a collection of essays written mainly for the Musical News and Herald was published as The Margin of Music (1924). Evans is best known for his promotion of early twentieth-century British, French, and Russian music through his criticism, lecturing, and other activities. He became chairman of the British section of the International Society for Contemporary Music after it was founded in 1922, and was elected the Society’s president in 1938 in succession to Edward J. Dent. He twice spoke at meetings of the Musical Association on the subject of modern (predominantly French) music, once in 1910 and then much later in 1943; Grove’s Dictionary included articles by Evans from the second edition. His prolific contribution to major music periodicals is best demonstrated in over 50 articles written for The Musical Times, including an important series on modern British composers (originally published in Spain and 191 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction Denmark) that appeared between 1919 and 1920, supplemented in 1923; a follow-up series was started in 1944 but curtailed by his death. 7 He also wrote the section on chamber music in The Musical Companion (Bacharach 1934: 467-566), whose other contributors included Edward J. Dent and Eric Blom; and he translated Jean-Aubry’s French Music of To-Day (1919), for his command of the French language was excellent. Another of his major preoccupations was ballet, which accounts for his booklet on Stravinsky’s Firebird and Petrushka (1933) (he knew the composer personally), as well as a further collected volume of his criticism, the posthumously-published Music and the Dance (1948). Reading the careers of the ten contributors to the original Master Musicians series in sequence, the overwhelming impression that emerges is one of devotion to musical education, the furthering of musical knowledge, and the promotion of music as a means of self-improvement. Between them, they produced an impressive array of pedagogical manuals, music appreciation texts, and reference works; several worked as teachers and lecturers, either privately or within educational establishments. Most were also composers to a greater or lesser degree, in which capacity they supported the contemporary culture of music-making through folksong collections, piano arrangements, songs for domestic and educational use, and works suitable for public performance by musical societies. Many were themselves active as performers, notably on the organ, and several held positions that enabled them to promote community music-making in the context of church worship. The majority of the biographers were also active as music critics for provincial and London papers and as contributors to leading music journals. The latter is particularly significant for its bringing them into direct contact with the tradition of musical biography within journalism, where 7 For a comprehensive list of Evans’s contributions to The Musical Times, see Myers 1945: 107. 192 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction biographical sketches frequently appeared and a life presented in instalments would often be published later in book form; this was one aspect of the intellectual inheritance of the Master Musicians authors and readers alike. The crossing of paths between individuals was doubtless inevitable given a set of writers who sustained this level of activity within musical circles. As noted, one of the contributors had been the student of another, five had addressed the Musical Association at some time or other, and several were frequent contributors to The Musical Times. Many further connections could be cited, for instance, that some of Duncan’s music was issued by Walter Scott (a publishing house also associated with Crowest), or that Hadden had reviewed one of Crowest’s volumes, The Story of British Music (1896), for the Scottish Review (1896: 267-72). One particularly noteworthy link between four of the Master Musicians biographers concerns Crowest’s other major editorial endeavour, the Music Story series, which included books by Patterson on oratorio (1902), Duncan on minstrelsy (1907b) and the carol (1911), and Williams on notation (1903a), the organ (1903b), and organ music (1905). There is, however, no consistent pattern as to whether authors contributed to one project before the other; Patterson’s volume for the Master Musicians series appeared only after her single offering to the Music Story series, while the reverse is true for Duncan and Williams. It is tempting, given the multiple connections between the ten authors, to wonder whether the Master Musicians series was a collective endeavour; but ultimately the evidence points not to a team but to a network of like-minded individuals who were willing, available, and competent to write on the subjects of their associated volumes. 193 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction There is no archival evidence to help us establish the Master Musicians’ readership; 8 however, its target audience seems congruent with the predominantly middle- and working-class demographic intent in self-improvement. The positioning of the series as popular biography is very much confirmed by the findings of Part I of this thesis, which revealed that the texts sometimes provided over-stated or romanticized versions of much-loved anecdotes about their subjects (for example, myth 2-A) even after they had been disregarded by more scholarly writings such as the watershed ‘definitive’ lives. Further indications as to the likely readership may be gleaned from the periodicals in which the volumes were advertised and reviewed, these being important sources for the aspiring self-educationalist. In keeping with general nineteenth-century endeavours to bring music to the masses, and since the house of Dent was ultimately a money-making enterprise, the series was widely publicized in a variety of British periodicals, both general and specialist. These included national newspapers such as the Daily Telegraph, provincial papers such as the Birmingham Gazette, periodicals including Athenaeum, Academy, Nation, and Spectator, and music journals, notably The Musical Times (whose full title until 1904, The Musical Times and Singing-Class Circular, is indicative of the endeavours of its readers towards self-improvement via music). Since several of the series’ authors were particularly associated with the latter, its reviews are given an added significance; that their names might have been recognized by its regular readers cannot have harmed sales of the books either. In order that they might reach the widest possible reading public, the volumes sold at 3s. 6d. each. This was a comparable price to many works of fiction at the time, and cheap 8 The J. M. Dent & Sons archives, held at the Manuscripts Department of the Library of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, contain no documentation on the original Master Musicians series; nor was any such material moved to Oxford University Press on its recent purchase of the series from Dent. 194 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction for a biography bound in cloth and containing printed music in addition to text, especially bearing in mind Dent’s well-known commitment to improving general standards of book production. To expand the target market further, the biographies were simultaneously published (priced $1.25) by E. P. Dutton & Co. of New York, with which firm Dent had enjoyed a relationship of some long standing for precisely this purpose. Evidently the Master Musicians authors were themselves similarly conscious of the need to pitch their volumes to a wide, general readership that extended beyond the musical specialist. In the initial volume, Crowest seemed to set the agenda for the series in writing of his intention to produce a text ‘which, while it would appeal to the average musician, would provide the large public of ordinary readers with a complete and proper view’ of his subject (1899: v). Breakspeare similarly noted that he had taken ‘care throughout to make the style of treatment as agreeable – and, therefore, as untechnical and non-academical – as possible’ (1902: v), while Patterson (1934: vii) and Williams (1934: 21) both identified that their subjects would appeal to readers beyond the narrow field of music itself. But while one reviewer noted explicitly that the volumes collectively represented ‘a series of lives intended for the general public’, another held that ‘The lives of many of the great composers offer very little of interest to the general reader.’ 9 The frequency of accompanying musical quotations in many of the biographies, a relatively expensive venture for publishers at the time, does suggest that a modest background in music would have enhanced the reader’s understanding of the texts; and by the time of the last published book of the series, it was accepted that ‘a large preponderance of readers are probably pianists of greater or lesser attainments’ (Evans 1935: 182). Such statements must of course be read within their original cultural context, given the more pronounced emphasis placed upon musical education at the 9 Review of Patterson 1903, The Athenaeum, mmmcml (11 July 1903), 69-70; Review of Stratton 1901, The Athenaeum, mmmdccclxx (28 December 1901), 882. 195 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction time than today; many family homes would indeed have included a piano that was played on a regular basis, with hire-purchasing options available to enable custom from poorer members of society. 10 While it is ultimately impossible to determine whether the series succeeded in appealing to significant numbers of general readers beyond those with at least a basic knowledge of music, its market was at least sufficiently broad to justify the frequent reprints of its volumes in succeeding years. Its revival after nearly three decades under the editorship of Eric Blom is similarly illustrative of its striking longevity given that it essentially comprised a set of popular biographies; Evans’s Tchaikovsky was subsequently revised for a third edition in 1966, while Hadden’s Chopin was reprinted in 1977. 11 Judging from authorial comments in its volumes and the reviews they received, the essential aim of the Master Musicians series was to provide a set of accessible books offering the reader a concise yet comprehensive outline of the life, character, and works of their subjects. Around half of the authors correspondingly divided their volumes into three sections – ‘Biographical’, ‘The Man’, and ‘The Musician’ – while others, though producing a series of chapters, clearly followed a similar pattern. The biographies also incorporated various appendices, typically including a bibliography (often annotated with suggested further readings) and work list, though sometimes also supplying a chronology of key events in the subject’s life, a personalia or glossary section, and other background information. As such, the series’ cultural significance lay primarily in filling a gap in the English-language literary market for compact, informative monographs on individual composers, reasonably priced and offering an engaging story 10 11 On the phenomenal popularity of the piano amongst amateur musicians across the social spectrum in Victorian England see, for example, Ehrlich 1990: 88-107. Evans’s volume was finally superseded within the series by Garden’s Tchaikovsky in 1973. A number of the original Master Musicians biographies have also been reprinted within the last decade. 196 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction as well as an education about particular musical works. Unlike other major biographical ventures of the day, such as Grove’s Dictionary (1878-90), it did not purport to present the fruits of substantial original research; this was a point about which the reviewers repeatedly complained. While some fresh perspectives and lately-uncovered information was indeed included within the volumes, their authors readily acknowledged their considerable reliance on secondary literature previously published both in Britain and elsewhere, some of which was in any case then unavailable in the English language. In addition to Grove’s Dictionary and various other important Victorian musical texts, key sources predictably included the classic biographies of the subjects concerned, including Thayer on Beethoven (1866-79), Glasenapp on Wagner (1876-7), Forkel and Spitta on Bach (1802, Eng. trans. 1820; 1873-80, Eng. trans. 1884-5), Chrysander on Handel (1858-67), Lampadius on Mendelssohn (1848, Eng. trans. 1865), Jahn on Mozart (1856-9, Eng. trans. 1882), Pohl on Haydn (1875-82), Niecks and Huneker on Chopin (1888; 1900), Wasielewski and Reissmann on Schumann (1858, Eng. trans. 1871; 1865, Eng. trans. 1886), Kreissle on Schubert (1865, Eng. trans. 1869), and presumably also Deiters on Brahms (1880-98, Eng. trans. 1898) and Newmarch on Tchaikovsky (1900). Hence the volumes represented to a certain extent a digest of biographical (and other) literature, together with some new insights on the subject and a critical survey of the music, in a unified set produced for specific communities of readers. While discussion thus far has not presented the original Master Musicians series as being especially innovative or revolutionary, it is particularly fascinating in that the subjects featured in its monographs did not appear simply to accord with those repertories then fashionable with the public, and receiving performances. In this respect, it differed fundamentally from other biographical projects of the day. Perhaps the most 197 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction obvious point of comparison is Crowest’s own The Great Tone-Poets, a revision and collective publication in 1874 of a complete series of biographical articles on composers originally written for Et Cetera magazine. The details of Crowest’s original commission are not known, and in any case the series did not run its course, as the periodical unexpectedly ceased publication. Nonetheless, its focus on a total of twelve figures is clearly analogous to the Master Musicians series. The crucial difference between them is that Gluck, Spohr, Weber, and Rossini, all of whose works were favoured by the public of the time, are included in The Great Tone-Poets at the expense of Brahms, Tchaikovsky, Chopin, and Wagner, who for various reasons occupied uneasy positions within the musical canon. Comparison of the Master Musicians series with its most celebrated English-language precursor, the ‘Great Musicians’ series (1881-90), is even more instructive. Edited by Francis Hueffer for Sampson Low, the Great Musicians series comprised monographs on Weber, Purcell, Rossini, Schubert, Wagner, English church composers, Bach, Mozart, Handel, Schumann, Mendelssohn, Haydn, Cherubini, and Beethoven. 12 Various direct links may be drawn with the Master Musicians series, notably that Pauline Townsend’s Great Musicians biography of Haydn was an important source for Hadden, and that Crowest contributed a slightly out of place volume on Cherubini. The series’ single most notable feature is the prominence of English musical traditions, represented by the volumes on Purcell and church composers, together with Handel and Mendelssohn, both of whom spent significant time in the country. The emphasis on England in the Great Musicians series relative to the Master Musicians series seems particularly curious given that it was overseen by a German expatriate 12 Respectively, Benedict 1881, Cummings 1881, Edwards 1881, Frost 1881, Hueffer 1881, Barrett 1882, Poole 1882, Gehring 1883, Marshall 1883, Maitland 1884, Rockstro 1884, Townsend 1884, Crowest 1890a, and Rudall 1890. E. Markham Lee’s much later biography of Brahms for the same publisher (1916) is not formally listed as one of the Great Musicians series but is sometimes regarded as such. 198 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction (albeit an Anglophile naturalized in 1882) and renowned champion of Wagner, whereas the editor of the latter was British; if anything, one might expect their geographical focuses to have been the other way around. It is even more remarkable when one considers that both series were contemporaneous with the increasing visibility of the English Musical Renaissance, the revitalization of national music in the later nineteenth century. 13 The movement renewed the need for English biography to celebrate native heroes among the Great Composers, and their absence within the context of the country considered in the nineteenth century to be the Land ohne Musik was a latent problem for the Master Musicians series, the implications of which will be explored further in the conclusion to my study. In addition, several composers whose music was then the height of fashion in England – notably Rossini and Verdi – are similarly absent from the set. This omission is particularly surprising given that Crowest had published a volume on Verdi just two years before the first of the Master Musicians biographies appeared. Indeed, its authors repeatedly dismissed the nineteenth-century Italian school represented by these composers, seeming to prefer the potentially alienating pursuit of the highest artistic ideals to the more lucrative conformity to the popular taste of the day. 14 Conversely, while each of the Master Musicians subjects is undeniably canonical when viewed from today’s standpoint, at the turn of the twentieth century Haydn’s popularity in England was fading, Tchaikovsky’s music was just beginning to reveal itself as enduringly fashionable, and the works of Brahms remained, as Erb claimed, ‘a matter of the chosen few, the inner circle of the musically elect who can comprehend his message’ (1934: 116). 13 14 On the emergence of the English Musical Renaissance (and the role of biography, notably Grove’s Dictionary, therein), see Hughes and Stradling 2001; see also Frogley 2003 (esp. 242-52). See, for example, Crowest 1899: 29-30; Lidgey 1899: 19, 116; Patterson 1934: 112, 146. 199 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction The absence of surviving information on the selection of authors and any guidelines with which they were issued makes it impossible to determine the considerations governing the selection of the Master Musicians canon and the development it received in its volumes. On its revival in the 1930s, Eric Blom appears to have been given the freedom to develop the series as he pleased; 15 nonetheless, we cannot assume on these grounds alone that Dent had granted Crowest a similarly free rein over thirty years earlier, nor do we know the extent of the editorial intervention and standardization of individual biographies. Doubtless they were written to commission, which the authors would have been at liberty not to accept had they been uninterested in the composer or unwilling to fulfil the terms of engagement. However, that certain authors had previously produced musical biographies of different subjects, whereas others were assigned to texts that did not intersect with their areas of specialism, alone demonstrates that the choice was not determined by the availability of appropriate writers. The inclusion of Brahms within the series was clearly so important as to give cause to look as far afield as North America for its author when there would surely have been a suitable candidate closer to home; one obvious choice would have been Evans’s father. There are, indeed, few obvious connections to be identified in the Master Musicians series between the writer and the associated composer. While the authors of major undertakings such as multi-volume ‘definitive’ lives of the Great Composers often devoted themselves to a single subject upon which they became a leading authority, established popular writers (as described the majority of Crowest’s biographers) often turned their hands to several different subjects in the course of their career. The only notable correspondence between author and subject is to be found in the last of the Master Musicians monographs: as a lifelong supporter of non-canonical music with 15 See The Musical Times 1934: LXXV/mxcvii, 619. 200 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction specialisms in both modern Russian composers and ballet, Evans would surely have had a vested interest in Tchaikovsky, though his subsequent career demonstrated more of a preoccupation with Stravinsky and Borodin. In addition, his father was at the time working on the second, greatly enlarged, edition of Rosa Newmarch’s Tchaikovsky: His Life and Works (1908); this may have been nothing more than historical coincidence. However the decisions as to the constituency of the original Master Musicians series came about, the overall result was that it presented subjects of wider historical significance but who were not necessarily the most popular with the reading public. Indeed, the resulting canon had more in common with pedagogical texts such as C. Hubert H. Parry’s renowned Studies of Great Composers (1886) – in which Palestrina, Handel, Bach, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Weber, Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Wagner are covered in successive chapters – than with other popular biographical series. That this was surely a risky undertaking for a publishing house that essentially aimed to make money by selling affordable books in large quantities makes it all the more significant. Doubtless the earlier volumes of the series, on the composers at the heart of the musical canon (and, in some cases, those who possessed significant English connections), were intended to determine whether a sufficient market existed to justify the project, as well as to generate interest in the later volumes on figures whose canonic status was more tenuous. The tension surrounding the inclusion of some of the later figures is especially evident in Erb’s biography of Brahms, which is notably smaller than any of the others in the series. A similar trend of utilizing a musical canon that did not merely pander to current musical tastes may be discerned in the authors’ critical exploration of their protagonists’ music. The Master Musicians series is today well-known for the emphasis placed on its 201 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction subjects’ works, discussed in separate sections from the life. This is an endeavour that extends back to the series’ Victorian origins, for in addition to writing about the life and character of their associated composer, the majority of the authors attempted as comprehensive a survey of their output as was possible within the quite limited space allotted to them. The biographers’ treatment of the music is to be explored in depth in the second of the chapters that follow; without wishing to pre-empt later analysis, I shall note here that one key factor affecting this coverage was the likelihood of certain works’ already being so well-known within the cultural framework of the target readership that only brief discussion was required in comparison to more neglected music. This point is crucial in determining the difference between a set of biographies that attempted to establish an ideological canon and one that merely intersected with (and thus reinforced) current repertories, in which case the fashionable works would be the ones written about at length or exclusively. The latter approach was indeed adopted by Master Musicians authors in different contexts: Hadden’s Favourite Operas (1910a), for example, endeavoured to cover those works that either received performances year after year or had recently enjoyed revivals. However, internal evidence would suggest that this was emphatically not the case for the series itself, as best seen in those volumes on composers whose claim to inclusion within the musical canon was still somewhat vulnerable. For instance, Evans devoted around two-thirds of his book on Tchaikovsky to introducing the composer’s works – many of which were still unknown in England at the time of its first publication – to the detriment of the sections on the life and character. He suggested that, given the dearth of concert performances, his orchestral works could instead be experienced by interested readers in arrangements for piano solo or duet (1935: 182-4), this being a relatively common means of disseminating music locally at the time. Even more tellingly, some of the musical quotations were actually removed from the revised version of the Schubert monograph (notably those of his last 202 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction two symphonies) because these works had become sufficiently familiar to the reading public, in the thirty years since its first appearance, to make them unnecessary. 16 Comparative analysis of the metabiography of the Master Musicians series reveals striking correspondences in terms of the biographical and musical paradigms to which its authors consistently subscribed in order to construct these composers’ lives and works as relevant to the communities of readers for which the texts were originally produced. It is these paradigms, and their application within the context of late Victorian (and early Edwardian) England, that are at the heart of my case study. Some were relatively new when the biographies were written, and were quite specific to England of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Others, while here adapted to Victorian needs (and therefore reflective of their particular values), were longer-standing and Continental in origin, for the music scene at the time was very much dominated by Austria and Germany. As such, this investigation also serves the wider purpose of demonstrating how musical biography (and, in certain respects, biography in general) functioned, in terms of the preoccupations that the genre had accumulated by the time of the genesis of the Master Musicians series, and as conditioned by late Victorian reading communities. The series’ reliance on previous biographical literature published across Europe – and the consequent absorption of the assumptions of a range of other authors and cultural communities – enhances the possibilities of my study in this respect, and I have traced the origins and precursors of particular themes where appropriate. While the following analysis maintains a focus on the historical contingencies that influenced the portrayal of the subjects concerned, then, I have consciously endeavoured not to misrepresent the volumes by presenting only 16 See Blom’s preface in Duncan 1934: vii-viii. 203 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction those elements specific to the Victorian Period, which would marginalize their indebtedness to precursors. The matter of these values and preoccupations, as they apply to the life-writing of late nineteenth-century England, perhaps requires further comment. As biographical theorist Robert Skidelsky has noted, Victorian biography reflected Victorian sensibility. Certain things were not talked about in decent society. Just as importantly, biography was regarded as exemplary. The Victorian age was one of hero-worship. …morals increasingly needed the support of exemplary lives: lives which, in particular, stressed the strong connection between private virtue and public achievement. (Skidelsky 1988: 5) In the analysis that follows, I certainly do not mean to imply that the Victorian sensibilities under scrutiny constituted a single monolithic set with scope for neither variation nor resistance; recent studies such as that by Michael Mason (1994) on Victorian sexuality, for example, would seem to indicate that this was by no means the case. Nonetheless, as Skidelsky reminds us, this was a hagiographical age in which the lives that appeared in print – inflected with the ideologies promoted by such writings as Thomas Carlyle’s landmark On Heroes, Hero-Worship, and the Heroic in History (1841) – would have been of a sanitized, decorous variety. The strong relationship between biographies and self-improvement at the time would of course have militated against their perpetuating anything other than an exemplary set of ‘official’ social goals. The stability of these ideals, and the consistency of their interpretation by individual reading communities, was discussed in Part I with reference to the theories of Stanley Fish. In the case of the Master Musicians series, further scope existed for the interpretive aims of individual books to be refined, and deviations effaced, by their overseeing editor. 204 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction Since my exposition of the paradigms at work in musical biography takes the form of a kind of forensic examination of the assumptions of its practitioners, the textual data itself is of primary importance. Given the richness of the evidence in support of my reading, too extensive to present in the course of discussion without obstructing the analysis, I have arranged the relevant quotations into an interconnected array of tropes presented in Appendix II. 17 In a similar manner to the referencing system employed in my other appendix, these tropes are identified using Arabic numerals, divided into sub-tropes identified by letters; hence ‘trope 5’ denotes the ‘muse paradigm’, and ‘trope 3-G’ the ‘paradigm of continual development’ (the terminology is my own). Quotations are numbered serially within each sub-trope in order that they may be referenced individually when required; for example, ‘quotation 3-D-3’ (or just ‘3-D-3’) designates the text ‘[Bach] was practically his own teacher.’ Some of the sub-tropes comprise assemblages of similar concepts drawn from several different biographies, while others concentrate on a single biography. Within a sub-trope, quotations have been ordered (as far as possible) such that they present a logical progression of the views and ideas being investigated; the sub-tropes have been similarly arranged within the larger tropes. In order to maximize the ways in which the elements they exemplify may be compared, however, my analysis will not necessarily follow this order in strict sequence. In addition, certain textual excerpts, both drawn from and additional to Appendix II, have been reproduced in the main text to facilitate discussion. 18 The historiographical perspective for this study has already been established in Part I, which has accounted for the origins of certain apocryphal stories, and the development 17 18 Where available, the 1930s revised editions of the Master Musicians volumes have been used for the purposes of citation and quotation throughout this study. The original texts have, however, been consulted to ensure that they are not at variance. Any quotations for which a bibliographic citation is not provided in an associated footnote have been drawn from Appendix II, which may be consulted for the full reference. 205 The Master Musicians Series: Introduction of the concepts to which they gave rise, in musical biography prior to the Master Musicians series. This broad foundation allows for a faster-paced discussion in Part II that concentrates on close literary reading of the texts themselves, through exploration of a greater number of brief quotations drawn from a much smaller group of biographies. Its format is necessarily governed by the structure traditionally adopted by the volumes under scrutiny. The critical examination that follows is therefore organized into two chapters, the first systematically analyzing the paradigms associated with life and character, and the second those connected with discussions of their works and of musical connections (as constructed through biography) in general. The conclusion (and, to some extent, the latter chapter) draws links between the biographical and musical paradigms identified in the course of this investigation and provides further assessment of its findings in terms of canonicity, late nineteenth-century values, and the tension between the series’ English readership and its non-native subjects. 206 8 THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906: LIFE AND CHARACTER To recapitulate the arguments presented in the previous chapter, the original Master Musicians series was distinctive for its time in that it represented a homogeneous group of full-length composer biographies, unified under a single editor and collectively associated for nearly thirty years. Owing to its conception as a cohesive, closed set, it had the potential to make far greater impact than could a single biography in terms of establishing a musical canon, especially given that its various volumes were both pitched to a broad, general readership and comparatively long-lived. As the proposed canon was one of lasting historical value, above and beyond the fashionable musical repertories of more immediate concern, the appearance of the set just years after the deaths of Tchaikovsky and Brahms is surely no coincidence. Furthermore, since its various monographs drew considerably on previous biographies and other literature for their material, the series may reasonably be said to exemplify late nineteenth-century musical biography (albeit adjusted to a particularly Victorian context) insofar as this genre was significant to canonicity. We may now proceed to an exploration of the paradigms by which such canonization was attempted, specifically, in this chapter, those relating to the various stages of the subjects’ lives, followed by their religious inclinations and general character. Genius in Ancestry, Precocity in Childhood The Master Musicians volumes typically opened with an exploration of composers’ ancestry in addition to childhood, incorporating a glimpse of their life to come. While this practice was entirely standard for biography and was embedded in European culture more widely, as David Ellis has discussed (2000: 39-55), it doubtless also functioned The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character within this context to satisfy the Victorian fascination with history and preoccupation with the family. In addition to being the era in which the systematic documentation of family records was introduced, it was one in which much life-writing was undertaken for the private enjoyment of individual households. More generally, it also served to justify from the outset the subjects’ importance to history and their claims to biographical attention, as well as to pique the reader’s curiosity and to flesh out a section of the book that might, in comparison with its later content, have been sparse on information or not of particular interest. Crowest’s biographers seemed especially concerned to ‘account for the musical genius of the composer’ (Hadden 1934a: 4), to use the words of one. As well as according with the Romantic obsession with genius, such discussion demonstrated its traces in their subjects’ forebears (trope 1-A), thereby implying a rich inherited musical legacy that further legitimized their claims to greatness. Within musical biography, it was doubtless also given special emphasis owing to the famous example of J. S. Bach (1-A-1), who was popularly constructed as the grandest member of a line of around sixty professional musicians spanning several centuries, as well as Mozart’s father Leopold (1-A-2), who was well-known for his talents as violinist and composer. 1 Stratton instead pointed to Mendelssohn’s inheritance from his grandfather, the philosopher Moses Mendelssohn – not of the musical variety, but nevertheless a genius. 2 Conversely, Great Composers born of less exceptional families were discussed with some unease (trope 1-B). Notably, Patterson (1-B-1) explicitly challenged the notion of genius as inherited, not to mention Bach’s uniqueness in the field. She also suggested (1-B-2) that the encouragement and admiration Schumann received from his father 1 2 On the musical families of Bach and Mozart see, for example, Geiringer and Geiringer 1954; Young 1970; Halliwell 1998; David and Mendel 1998: 283-94. Stratton 1934: 1-2, 25; see further, Kupferberg 1972. 208 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character represented a form of passive musicality on his part, even though he was not ‘musical in the usually accepted meaning of the term’. This view resonates with Stratton’s assessment of Mendelssohn’s father (1-B-3) who, though situated generationally between two geniuses, was himself unremarkable; nevertheless, he not only supported his son throughout his career, but also demonstrated a profound understanding of his art. Such deliberate attempts to emphasize these hereditary links indicate that some semblance of musical appreciation – even if not overt musicality – was deemed necessary, at least in the immediate ancestors of the Great Composers. Their musical genius had to be seen to have some discernible origin, however tenuous; possibly, as I shall presently discuss, this was a reflection of recent movements in contemporary scientific thought. Hadden (1-B-4), who similarly observed that not all of the giants of art derived from families of genius, adopted an alternative strategy in establishing that Haydn nevertheless descended from a commendable professional lineage. That such speculations on the origins of musical genius considered the male line exclusively immediately raises the question of the role accorded to women in the biographies (trope 1-C). The notion that genius and musicality were viewed as merely latent in females, but manifest (in some form or other) in males, permeated the volumes with remarkable consistency from their outset. Williams’s lengthy exposition of Bach’s family, for example, included both his male ancestors (1934: 5-15) and his sons (: 15-20), while quickly dismissing the talents of his daughters (1-C-1). Stratton’s decision to emphasize the tenuous (and non-musical) contributions of Mendelssohn’s father and grandfather is even more telling, for it was the female side of the family that played the more important part in the composer’s childhood years: his mother Lea gave both him and his gifted sister Fanny their earliest musical tuition, to say nothing of the significance of their great aunts and maternal grandmother to their musical development 209 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character (see, for instance, Reich 1989: 67-8). As far as the biographies were concerned, however, female lineage was central to the establishment of composers’ genius for entirely different reasons. Evans (1-C-2) pointed vaguely towards the mother’s side of the family in the absence of any clear heredity in Tchaikovsky’s case; Hadden (1-C-3) also alluded to ‘the popular idea that genius is derived from the mother’. Yet when a mother did play a demonstrably influential role in the formative development of a subject’s abilities, due recognition was not given. A landmark investigation by Christine Battersby (1989) has revealed the exclusion of women throughout history from concepts such as genius and creativity, 3 and Ruth Solie (1993a) has expressed the point even more firmly with respect to musical biography, arguing that ‘whatever spin is put upon the story, on the level of cultural myth it remains irremediably a male story’ (: 56). While the continued marginalization of female contribution to genius would have been untenable in many fields by the late nineteenth century, even given the continued patriarchal dominance of society and culture, music composition itself remained fiercely male-oriented. For example, Victorian literary biography had begun to celebrate such figures as Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, George Sand, George Eliot, and the Brontë sisters (not least in Elizabeth Gaskell’s canonical biography of Charlotte Brontë, published in 1857); but a similar trend was inconceivable in music, where the first full-length life of Fanny Mendelssohn appeared as recently as 1992 (Tillard 1992; Eng. trans. 1996). The Master Musicians authors thus continued to subscribe to the traditional assumption that Battersby has described succinctly with reference to the writings of the psychoanalyst Carl Jung, namely that ‘a woman’s creativity reaches only as far as inspiring a man to productive activity’ (1989: 11, italics in original). Women in music were thus deemed capable only of functioning 3 See, however, Peter Kivy’s critique of Battersby’s study (2001: 227-37). 210 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character as vessels for the stimulation of creative genius in men, rather than performing concrete acts of artistic creation. In discussions of their childhood, composers were typically portrayed as precocious both in performance and composition (trope 2). This tendency surely followed the celebrated example of Mozart (trope 2-A), whose accomplishments quickly became legendary. The stories of the prodigy’s phenomenal talents were of the kind favoured by popular biography, especially given that it was rare for a subject’s childhood to be so entertaining and well-documented. They would also have held particular interest for an English readership since it was Daines Barrington (1770; cf. Breakspeare 1902: 15-16) who most famously put Mozart’s extraordinary musical abilities to the test during his childhood visit to the country. The claims of other biographers that their young subjects were unusually gifted (trope 2-B) were often rather far-reaching, perhaps owing to the implicit comparison with the Wunderkind himself. Duncan’s assertion (2-B-4) that Schubert’s compositional activities commenced ‘at an extremely early period’ (he was 14), and Stratton’s claim (2-B-5) of Mendelssohn’s uniqueness for having written a work such as A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the age of 17, are hardly exceptional by Mozart’s standards. When subjects were not viewed as child prodigies as composers, they were nevertheless presented as precocious in terms of general musicality and performing ability, with particular tension surrounding Beethoven for his slow start and his time-consuming methods. Likewise, Hadden (2-B-7) observed that Chopin was not a ‘baby composer’ – to use his pejorative language – but that he nevertheless adopted the piano, the instrument that was to secure his place in history, early in his life. Stories of the subjects’ childhood were thus used to marshal notions of destiny and to demonstrate the inevitability of their pursuit of a career in music (trope 2-C), even if not 211 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character yet specifically as a composer. It was at this stage that indications of future directions for their lives might be made manifest, as the childhood myths discussed in Part I have shown. Within the present context, however, these tropes may have possessed an additional function. In later nineteenth-century Britain, theories of evolution were a notable preoccupation, Darwin’s On the Origin of Species (1859) having been particularly well-known and discussed by the lay person, whether or not they had understood (or even read) the work itself. 4 A widespread interest in evolutionist theories may help to explain the biographers’ concerns to establish the origins of composers’ genius and the quality of their pedigree, as well as to offer a clear sense in which the youth could be seen to develop naturally into the adult; certainly the possession of a suitable ancestry was important in connection with this trope. Bach’s seemingly inevitable pursuit of the family profession (2-C-2) recalled his musical forefathers, while the connection Lidgey drew (2-C-4) between Wagner’s preoccupation with stage works and the theatrical ties of his mother’s second husband, Ludwig Geyer, inflected the paradigm in telling ways given that his stepfather was not a blood relation. Ideas of destiny and inevitability emerged sufficiently strongly that cases such as Schumann, the ultimate direction of whose life was not as apparent in youth, required explanation. Accordingly, Patterson (2-C-6) claimed that although Schumann’s time at the University of Leipzig saw him engaged in activities connected to law and literature as well as music, it was the latter that was undoubtedly at the forefront of his mind. Industrious Study as the Path to Genius The Master Musicians biographers considered that talent was latent or nurtured in childhood, but that their subject’s genius was developed later in life through nothing 4 Rose’s brief discussion of the subject (2001: 193-5) is particularly revealing in this respect. 212 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character other than hard work and dedication to their cause (trope 3). The opening paragraph of Patterson’s biography of Schumann is indicative of the perceived dichotomy: ‘Talent flourishes under favourable circumstances and partakes, naturally, of the atmosphere in which it is reared. Genius… is born to override obstacles and adversity and to come to maturity in surroundings of its own creation’ (1934: 1). This concept was eminently consistent with the Protestant work ethic, which, while by no means unique to late Victorian and early Edwardian England – Karen Painter’s analysis (2002) of early German Mozart biography demonstrates its importance in composer life-writing a century before the Master Musicians series – nevertheless remained fundamental within this context. As we have seen, it was important to establish the origins of genius in the subjects’ ancestry; however, this was also problematic in that ideas of genius as merely inherited or inherent run contrary to the work ethic, since no effort is involved in its realization. The Master Musicians subjects were therefore also constructed as having engaged, even in their formative years, in relentless efforts to further themselves and to improve their abilities (trope 3-A). This emphasis on self-improvement is hardly surprising given the autodidact culture in which the biographies emerged, coupled to the increasing availability of education at all stages of life. Indeed, suggestions were made that Brahms (3-A-2) and Tchaikovsky (3-A-3) were anxious to commence work even before the time had come for them to be educated, and that the latter was drawn to music precisely because his regular study did not fully occupy him. The sustained, methodical study commenced by Great Composers in their childhood was charted as having continued unremittingly throughout their lives (trope 3-B). It was within this context that a plethora of apocryphal stories emerged by way of illustration of composers’ industry in the pursuit of their musical activities, for example, that the keys of Handel’s harpsichord were hollowed out like spoons owing to the amount of 213 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character time he spent practising (retold by Williams, 3-B-6). Such relentless hard work testified to their unwavering dedication to their perceived vocation as it necessitated self-discipline and strict daily routines (trope 3-C), notably in those cases where time was divided between these studies and, for instance, instrumental practice (3-C-1, 3-C-7, 3-C-9). Crowest (3-C-3) praised Beethoven as ‘a grand model for every earnest student’ for having toiled unceasingly rather than being tempted by ‘short cuts to perfection’; the matter was confirmed by Hadden’s speculation that Handel must have been studious, based purely on his prolific output (3-C-8). That the Great Composers were being portrayed as exemplary for the benefit of readers engaged in furthering their own education is confirmed by the frequent suggestions that they worked for the majority of the day and into the night, or that they rose early to maximize use of the morning. British autodidacts might similarly have found themselves pursuing their private studies outside normal working hours. It is within this context that we may also read, for instance, Duncan’s version of the well-known story of Schubert’s supposedly wearing his spectacles while sleeping in case inspiration came to him during the night (1934: 72). Self-discipline was also held to be significant to the improvement of biographical subjects in terms of the furthering of their musical skills, which involved an enormous amount of work undertaken alone. The emphasis placed on private study, as well as on self-teaching (trope 3-D), again relates to the need to provide suitable models for the Victorian reader, particularly as composers were presented as having remained students throughout their lives. Indeed, the implication was that autodidactic approaches are to be prized above formal instruction, since the subjects under discussion – who were themselves of the highest standard – might not always have been able to find teachers of sufficient merit. 214 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character The composers were likewise championed for according with the righteous notion of using one’s talents to the full, in that they were portrayed as never having wasted their gifts. This was an idea with implicitly Christian roots, suggesting, to paraphrase the oft-cited ‘Parable of the Sower’, 5 that the seeds of genius were those that fell upon the best possible soil and that the produce was consequently plentiful. It seemed particularly important (as trope 3-B has shown) for the biographers to establish their protagonists’ unremitting labour in the case of crowning achievements such as Handel’s Messiah, Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, and Wagner’s project to build the Bayreuth Festspielhaus. Moreover, their constant study was consistently cited as the reason, insofar as one could be identified, for their having achieved greatness in the first place (trope 3-E). This idea is particularly significant for the suggestion that the composers themselves – rather than critics, socioeconomic circumstances, or other agents of canonicity – are ultimately in control of their reputations, hence granting them currency as people. It also yielded the moral that even those who have been given genius must dedicate themselves to its cultivation; this notion has similarly clear parallels with Christian teachings, most notably the ‘Parable of the Talents’, 6 and surely served both as inspiration to the reader and as demonstration of how they should ideally lead their lives. (More commonplace explanations for subjects’ productivity, such as the need for money and the demands of employment, were inevitably sidelined.) Williams (3-E-1) even quoted Bach’s belief, first recorded in Forkel’s biography, that anybody could achieve what he did if they worked as hard, 7 which assumes a special significance given that some of the series’ readers would have themselves been artisans. 5 6 7 Matthew 13:1-23; Mark 4:1-20; Luke 8:4-15. Matthew 14:14-30 (cf. the ‘Parable of the Ten Minas’, Luke 19:11-27). ‘I was obliged to be industrious; whoever is equally industrious will succeed equally well’ (Forkel 1998: 459). 215 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character The industry of the Great Composers relative to the lay person also meant that the former could see a way to undertake many activities simultaneously (trope 3-F), hence accomplishing much in the course of their lives. In investigating their composers’ multifarious activities both within and beyond music (trope 8), the biographers revealed that they exhibited exceptional abilities aside from composition. Such discussions also demonstrated to readers that breadth of achievement was possible without comprising either quality of work or the meticulousness with which it was carried out, for they repeatedly remarked upon their subjects’ attention to detail. The number of composers who also enjoyed high-profile careers as performers (tropes 8-A and 8-B), for example, was sufficiently large that those who did not were handled with some unease (trope 8-C), particularly since many of the popular musical anecdotes about the Great Composers pertain to performance. (Some of the best-known examples were explored in Part I.) Discussions of conducting (trope 8-D) and music teaching (trope 8-E) are similarly unsurprising, not least given the educational context; though here again one can discern much tension where subjects either did not extend their activities into these fields or where their endeavours could not be viewed positively, such as Tchaikovsky’s nerves when taking up the baton or Bach’s impatience as a choirmaster. The emphasis on literary endeavours (trope 8-F) such as music criticism and libretto-writing was particularly important in terms of widening the interest of the biographies, for their readers were doubtless themselves well-versed in literature, and many may have been led to consider matters such as synopses of stage works through attendance at public lectures on music appreciation. Lidgey offered a series of chapters outlining the theories advanced in Wagner’s prose writings, which were only just becoming available in the English language (Ellis 1892-9), as well as the plot 216 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character summaries of his music dramas. 8 Patterson similarly discussed Schumann’s music criticism at some length (1934: 135-48); indeed, the case was made so strongly that that there was some danger of his literary activities being seen to conflict with his musical ones (trope 8-G). Other biographers (8-F-1, 8-F-5) turned to their subjects’ correspondence in the absence of published material, doubtless a reflection of the epistolary culture that flourished in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Finally, the Great Composers were identified as being notable for their general intellect – knowledgeable on such matters as the classics, the arts, languages, current affairs, and so forth (tropes 8-H and 8-I) – in ways that would doubtless have been seen as exemplary. Strength through Suffering Success did not necessarily come easily to the Great Composers, despite their phenomenal industry (trope 4). As Peter Gay has observed with respect to Victorian life-writing, ‘Moralistic biographers of exemplary lives liked to dwell on obstacles overcome, perplexities resolved, temptations resisted or learned from. Their story would likely rise to a climax of historic triumphs… but it left little doubt that but for his genius, his flawless nature, or his exemplary piety, the great man would probably have failed’ (1996: 161). In this vein, the Master Musicians biographers held that great lives were characterized precisely by such obstructions (trope 4-A), and by the exemplary strength their subjects exhibited in facing and ultimately resolving them, as well as their unwavering commitment to their vocation. Crowest (4-A-1) and Lidgey (4-A-2) both claimed that respite from such turmoil came only with death, thereby demonstrating the extent to which their subjects’ lives were perceived to have been troubled; Williams 8 See Lidgey 1899: 95-117 (for a summary of Wagner’s art theories), 118-43 (for ‘Opera and Drama’ in particular), and 144-244 (for plot summaries of his stage works). 217 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character (4-A-5) observed that Handel’s struggles against misfortune actually had the effect of endearing him to the public. Consequently, it should come as no surprise that composers were seen to meet such barriers from childhood (trope 4-B), thus establishing early in the biography the ability to transcend boundaries that lesser subjects might have found insurmountable. Such hindrances included familial opposition to their early study of music or to their vocation (ironic given the emphasis placed on supportive families elsewhere in the Master Musicians biographies). Both Schubert (4-B-1) and Schumann (4-B-2) encountered parental obstruction, with the latter exemplifying dedication to his family in considering the possibility of foregoing his chosen career out of love for his mother. The troubles that both Bach and Handel endured in their youthful pursuit of music, each crystallizing around a myth of night-time study, were explored in Part I. Other childhood obstructions included problems of education being restricted or generally unavailable, especially in comparison to other Great Composers. Evans even described the young Tchaikovsky as ‘handicapped’ by the dearth of opportunities for him to study music, though he reportedly remained convinced of his vocation nevertheless (4-B-7). One recurring theme was the poverty that composers experienced (and overcame) both during their formative years and throughout their life (trope 4-C). This was a common trope with a rich, pan-European history; Robert Winter (1993) has traced its appearance in Schubert biography back to the earliest texts, while Mozart biography has insisted upon it with such strength that only in recent years has it been significantly challenged, notably by Julia Moore (1989, 1992). Nonetheless, it served a specific function within the Master Musicians series as well, not least given the likely socioeconomic status of its target readership. Its demonstration of how composers prioritized pursuit of their art above improving their quality of life must have provided an inspirational model for the 218 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character late nineteenth-century autodidact for whom the accretion of knowledge inevitably entailed sacrifice, doubtless without the monetary gain that would have made such endeavours viable on purely financial grounds. The biographers of both Haydn (4-B-5) and Brahms (4-B-6) related the poor families into which their subjects were born directly to the limited education they received, again highlighting the importance of self-teaching. Composers’ parlous finances also typically required them to undertake jobs well below their calling, in order to make possible their ultimate achievements by sustaining them while they engaged in the indefatigable study that apparently offered the only path to true genius. Duncan (4-C-6) related the penury of Schubert’s childhood to that experienced by his subject right up to his death. His claims that Schubert was forced to accept low offers from music publishers in order to ameliorate financial difficulty are mirrored by a number of other Master Musicians authors who noted that composers including Mozart, Beethoven, and Mendelssohn were not shrewd in business matters. The idea apparently arose sufficiently strongly that Hadden (4-C-9) considered it necessary to address Chopin’s refusal to accept small publishers’ fees by portraying the composer in a positive light, noting his commitment not to sell rights to works he considered to be of inferior quality. The trope of subjects’ rise to fame despite humble beginnings, and continued poverty, served to divorce any perceived connection between artistic success and social status or riches as potential short cuts to that success – an important point to establish given the series’ likely working- and middle-class readership. Williams’s remark as to ‘the distinction that comes from greatness of mind, as opposed to that which comes from mere birth or social position or wealth’ (1935: 167) is especially instructive. The key figure in connection with this idea is Haydn, who, according to Hadden (4-C-3), reaped full enjoyment from childhood, notwithstanding the poverty in which he lived. We have 219 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character previously seen that the notion of the composer’s pride in his humble beginnings had a broader application within musical biography, for it arose strongly from the story of his visit to the monument built in his honour at Rohrau (myth 5-D). Nonetheless, the matter was particularly relevant to late Victorian and Edwardian England, in which professional musicians typically did not have roots in the highest echelons of society (see Ehrlich 1985). Composers’ ability to overcome such adversity was linked not only to their determination to succeed but also to their greatness, which – recalling Peter Gay’s comments quoted above – was frequently portrayed as being directly related to the obstructions encountered (trope 4-D). Indeed, sometimes their genius was even seen as the cause of such hindrances, in accordance with its popular conception as sufficiently ahead of its time as to be misunderstood by the masses – an assumption that has only recently been significantly challenged in the field of music, notably by Hans Lenneberg (1980). Had the composers not been invested with such powers, it was supposed, their determination would surely have been undermined, and they would have abandoned the paths for which they were destined. The link between the two was confirmed by Duncan (4-D-2) in comparing Schubert’s success in surmounting obstacles to that of Beethoven, who was constructed as the greater composer (and, by extension, the greater person). Moreover, Lidgey (4-D-3), drawing on the stories that originate in Wagner’s own autobiographical writings and their interpretations, argued that although most would have been discouraged after so many setbacks, the opposite was true for his exemplary subject. 9 Rather, Wagner’s ‘long series of disappointments’ not only prepared him 9 Of Wagner’s various autobiographical writings, the most important is Mein Leben, which was dictated to his wife intermittently in the years 1865-80 and published privately, entering the public domain only in 1911. 220 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character better for future ordeals, but encouraged him to pursue his virtuous ambitions even more steadfastly than before. In other volumes of the series, the trope was extended: suffering not only enhanced determination, but increased creative prowess (trope 4-E). For example, Williams (4-E-1) observed that Handel, faced with the progressive failure of his operatic enterprises in the 1730s and being in debt and in bad health, turned his attentions instead to oratorio rather than giving up altogether. Read within the context of Victorian Britain, Williams’ comment contains an implicit value-judgement, since Handel’s oratorios had retained great currency in the decades following his death whereas his operas had fallen into complete obscurity. Handel was also noted for his ability to divorce his music, specifically his composition of Messiah, from troubles experienced in his life; his biographer even speculated (4-E-2) they might have brought about an added focus on composition. Elsewhere, composers’ misfortunes were presented as either the direct cause of attempts to improve themselves, or even as silver linings insulating them from other, potentially distracting activities. Patterson (4-E-3) suggested that Schumann’s maiming of his hand, the result of an attempt to improve himself as a pianist, should be ‘regarded as fortunate’; despite its obvious tragedy, he was thereafter forced to dedicate himself to composition. For Handel (4-E-4), the reverse held: his blindness impeded his compositional activity but, undeterred, he continued to perform. These instances are indicative of a common explanatory strategy in life-writing in general, that genius must also possess some kind of compensatory deficiency by way of counterbalance; its abundance in musical biography is doubtless due to the number of well-known examples amongst its greatest figures. Surely the most famous of all is Beethoven’s deafness, which Crowest (4-E-5) suggested was the necessary condition 221 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character for the composer’s true greatness, and without which he might never have attained the heights to which he rose – and not merely because he was forced to cease piano-playing. Love and Marriage: The Woman as Muse As Alison Booth (2006: 42) has recently shown, one of the ways in which Victorian biography celebrated women was through ‘working partnerships’ with men: Percy Bysshe and Mary Shelley, William and Elizabeth Gaskell, Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Thomas and Jane Welsh Carlyle. However, while some such unions were exemplary in terms of the sanctity of marriage, one only need recall the adulterous relationships of G. H. Lewes and George Eliot – or, for that matter, Lord Byron’s numerous affairs – to note that others were not. That many of these figures were themselves central to nineteenth-century British literature, and to the biographical project in particular, makes the point all the more significant. The biographies of the Great Composers, whose love lives were to become a particular preoccupation of at least one of Crowest’s authors (Hadden 1913a), were similarly chequered in this respect. Nonetheless, Victorian ideals of love and marriage were pursued vigorously within the Master Musicians series, in keeping with a general ethic neatly summed up by Hadden in his entertaining advisory text Are You Married? published several years earlier: ‘Marriage is man’s natural state, and, when rightly lived, more profitable to both than single life can ever be’ (1894: 11). Crowest’s biographers recognized a time in their subjects’ lives at which love, and perhaps even marriage, was inevitable (trope 5-A) – even when, as in the case of Haydn, factors such as his lack of money and the circumstances of his employment might reasonably have precluded this eventuality. That both Haydn’s marriage and that of Tchaikovsky were ultimately unsuccessful may provide the reason why their 222 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character biographers in particular portrayed the unions as having been predestined, rather than founded on love. Hadden (5-A-1) resorted to social expectation as an explanatory strategy, while Evans (5-A-2) cited the apocryphal story of Tchaikovsky’s feeling ‘the hand of destiny’ owing to the similarity between his own life and the plot of Eugene Onegin, which he was composing at the time. Such anticipation of marriage was sufficiently pronounced as to warrant caution over those subjects who remained single (trope 5-B), no doubt following Mozart’s famous remark that ‘a bachelor lives only half a life’. 10 In observing that Handel was ‘twice nearly married’, but that on both occasions his vocation presented a difficulty, Williams (5-B-1) drew on a frequently-encountered strategy by which to explain the absence of a spouse: the choosing of art over marriage. Crowest (5-B-2) instead explained Beethoven’s bachelorhood with reference to his constantly being in love and his high number of relationships with women, which in turn necessitated the caveat that his affairs were ‘always honourable’ (5-B-3). Another familiar ploy is found in the volumes on Chopin (5-B-4) and Tchaikovsky (5-B-5), where claims are made that both of these subjects felt an enduring love for their mother, over and above ‘ordinary filial devotion’, which either precluded relationships with women of their own generation or led to their failure. The point also arose from the popular construction of Clara Schumann as Brahms’s surrogate mother, notwithstanding the apparent contradiction of such a relationship existing between two people on first-name terms and who were separated in age by just 13 years. 11 It was a view to which Erb (5-B-6) evidently subscribed; and given more recent controversy, it is telling that the biographer was so keen to emphasize that their 10 11 Quoted by Hadden, 5-A-1. See Mozart to his father, 15 December 1781, in Anderson 1985: 783. Of course, Brahms’s relationship with Clara Schumann represents dangerous biographical territory; see, for example, Reich 2001: 169-89. 223 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character love was platonic and to resolve their relationship into the pseudo-familial, this being the only way it could apparently be justified. 12 Even if the ultimate outcome was not marriage, or even a relationship, the Great Composers were portrayed as being ideally suited to being in love precisely because of their musicality (trope 5-C). Moreover, according to the biographers, their creative prowess was actually enhanced by being in this state of mind. Hadden (5-C-2) even proposed that Chopin’s romantic interests might be found inscribed in his music, a claim that assumes an added significance given that endeavours to relate life and music so explicitly were rare in the Master Musicians volumes, which sought deliberately to segregate the two. The issue is pronounced in those cases in which love and music are directly aligned, where the woman in question was herself musical and the composer’s love for her was portrayed as having arisen through their shared art. The resulting union was perceived to be much stronger and more beneficial, as in Tchaikovsky’s love for Désirée Artôt (5-C-4), or that of Mozart for Aloysia Weber (5-C-5), whom Breakspeare claimed led the composer to thoughts of writing an opera. In an extension of the androcentric model explored above, various instances involved the portrayal of specific women as inspiring a composer to greater feats of creativity and heights of genius through the love that connected them. This notion, which I shall term the ‘muse paradigm’, received its fullest flowering in the exploration of the relationship between Schumann and Clara Wieck (trope 5-D), which would have found much resonance with other working partnerships idealized in Victorian biography. Patterson (5-D-1) presented their bond as having arisen through music itself, ‘rather through spiritual communion than by personal intercourse’. Correspondingly, their love was 12 See further, Erb 1934: 22, n. 1. 224 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character seen as strong, deep-rooted, and able to overcome the many troubles it encountered, not least fierce opposition from Clara’s father (5-D-2). In writing that ‘A more ideal union could scarcely be imagined than that of a creative and an executive artist, both of the first rank’, Patterson (5-D-5) praised the exemplary musical dynamic between the composer and his devoted wife in addition to their matrimonial bond. However, such a model also relegated Clara’s function to the passive reproduction of her husband’s creations, thereby marginalizing her own compositional ability; this was consonant with the British concert-going audience’s general perception of Clara as a popular pianist and performer of Schumann’s works. The biographer’s further observation that Schumann’s busiest period of musical activity (as editor and as composer) coincided with the first years of his married life exemplifies her portrayal of Clara not just as the person with whom Schumann attained happiness, but also as the one who enhanced her husband’s capacity for creativity. The view partly originated with Schumann himself, who once wrote to Clara that ‘You complement me as a composer, just as I do you. Each of your ideas comes from my soul, just as I owe all of my music to you.’ 13 Patterson’s adaptation of this notion, however, was less even-handed; while she constructed the pair as artistically inseparable (5-D-7), she saw the inspiration for compositional genius as flowing primarily in one direction only. The point is evidenced by the metaphorical description of Clara as ‘a right hand to her husband’ – standard phraseology that also recalled the injury that ended Schumann’s career as a performer and required Clara to function in this role on his behalf. Less pronounced instances of the muse paradigm are to be found elsewhere in the Master Musicians biographies (trope 5-E). Patterson (5-E-1) identified Henriette Voigt as an earlier example in Schumann’s life, again following a view expressed by the 13 Robert Schumann to Clara Wieck, 10 July 1839 (Fritsch and Crawford: II, 307). 225 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character composer himself. 14 Breakspeare also drew upon the model in attempting to explain Mozart’s eventual marriage to Constanze Weber. This matter was the cause of much tension in biography, not because she was the sister of Aloysia (with whom Mozart was earlier in love) and was not herself especially musical, so much as because history has viewed Constanze rather unfavourably. That trope, like many within the composer’s biography, apparently originated with the Mozart family itself (see Landon 1989: 182-99), and withstood Constanze’s own implication in the shaping of life-writing on her husband: Niemetschek’s and Nissen’s biographies were written on her authority, while she personally attempted to suppress Schlichtegroll’s obituary (for which Mozart’s sister had been a key source) by buying up and destroying some 600 copies of the 1794 reprint. Certainly there was a danger that the stories of her well-intentioned attempts to restrict his work on the Requiem (myth 6-D) – by appealing to him to stop, taking the score away from him, arranging for friends to visit him unannounced when he needed breaks, and so on – could be interpreted as inhibiting his creative prowess. Breakspeare’s volume, however, was notably silent on this entire issue. In accordance with the muse paradigm, Breakspeare (5-E-2) claimed that Constanze was indeed an understanding wife and that she did herself possess some level of musicality; furthermore, she was apparently a talented raconteur, and she used this ability (albeit a non-musical one) as her way of inspiring Mozart’s genius (5-E-3). On the other hand, it is difficult to imagine how such storytelling could have benefited the composer more than it hindered him by providing distraction; and Breakspeare effectively acknowledged that the model could not fully hold for Constanze when he stated that she (like everybody) did not truly recognize her husband’s greatness (5-E-4). Lidgey similarly appealed to the notion in jointly justifying Wagner’s unsuccessful marriage to 14 In a letter to Henriette Voigt of 3 July 1834, Schumann wrote of ‘our spiritual and musical affinity’ (Herbert 1890: I, 46). 226 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Wilhelmina (Minna) Planer and his subsequent union with Cosima von Bülow: since his former wife (like Constanze Mozart) apparently could not comprehend the genius of her attendant composer (5-E-5), it became necessary for him to seek out an alternative muse (5-E-6). That Cosima was herself the daughter of another Great Composer, Liszt, served to reinforce the paradigm. The irony here is that it was well-known that Wagner’s second marriage was hardly commendable, in that Cosima had left her husband Hans von Bülow, a good friend of Wagner’s, for him. Lidgey was evidently anxious not to be further detained on this issue, other than to claim that Wagner always spoke of Minna positively, was absolutely devoted to Cosima, and remained firm friends with Bülow himself. The muse paradigm, then, could operate in the negative. The unsuccessful outcomes of two marriages, those of Haydn to Anna Maria Keller (trope 5-F) and Tchaikovsky to Antonina Ivanovna Milyukova (trope 5-G), were likewise seen as inevitable precisely because the women involved could not function as vessels for their composers’ genius – and, moreover, actively obstructed their creativity. As Hadden (1934a: 33) noted, Haydn’s initial wish was to wed the sister of his eventual wife, in which respect his story is strikingly similar to that of Mozart. This was a connection that the biographer did not, however, make explicit, perhaps since the latter’s marriage was more successful (as underlined by Breakspeare’s strained attempt to demonstrate that Constanze could partially function as muse to her husband). Hadden observed that there appeared not to have been much love at the centre of Haydn’s marriage from the outset (5-F-1), but that, in exemplary manner, he persisted in trying to make the union a successful one (5-F-2). In much the same vein, Hadden endeavoured to exonerate his subject from any wrongdoing: it was Anna Maria who was presented as having acted unreasonably and dishonourably (5-F-3). Hadden’s claim that the wives of geniuses were ‘frequently 227 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character insufferable’, owing to tensions connected with the abilities of their husbands, has little credibility when compared with other instances both offered by the Master Musicians biographies and commemorated within Victorian biography more widely. Even in the present case, the author acknowledged that Haydn’s genius was of little concern to his wife, as illustrated by the apocryphal story of her abuse of his manuscripts as well the composer’s oft-quoted remark that it did not matter to her whether he were a cobbler or an artist. 15 According to Hadden, Haydn’s wife even tried to turn him against his fellow musical genius Mozart (5-F-4), his relationship with whom was revealed in Part I to be of the utmost significance to musical biography. Haydn and his wife separated, but the composer was portrayed as having exhibited commendable behaviour at all times: Hadden observed that he continued to provide for her, even selling his house to meet her need for money (5-F-5). Moreover, Hadden attempted (with only partial success) to construct two alternative females in his subject’s life – both musicians with whom he worked – as alternative vessels for his genius. The first was Luigia Polzelli, whom Hadden described as a ‘second-rate vocalist’ (1934a: 59); herself unhappily married, she turned out to be no better for the composer than his own wife (5-F-7). The other was a mysterious widow, Rebecca Schroeter, whose affair with Haydn was presented as having arisen from the tuition she received from him (5-F-8). Hadden justified Haydn’s extramarital liaisons through the observation that his loveless marriage caused him to seek out companionship elsewhere (5-F-6), and it is certainly significant that the latter relationship took place in England, during the final, greatest point of Haydn’s career. Evans also portrayed Tchaikovsky’s handling of his failed marriage as impeccable. He claimed not only that the composer was concerned not to ascribe blame to (or speak negatively of) his wife, but also that the fundamental problem was not Antonina herself 15 Griesinger recorded that Haydn had once made this comment to him (Gotwals 1963: 16). 228 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character so much as the fact that she made it impossible for him to compose (5-G-3). 16 In this respect, the case of Tchaikovsky differs from that of Haydn, whose wife was overtly constructed as the source of the failure in the marriage as well as being obstructive towards her husband’s genius. Nonetheless, the notion of Tchaikovsky’s wife inhibiting rather than enhancing his creativity both accounted for this failure and provided the reason why other females in the composer’s life (as with Haydn’s) were appropriated as muses. One such character was his mother, whose role in the composer’s biography has already been mentioned; to earlier comments I might usefully add that, as Gary Thomas (1994: 165) has recently identified, love for the mother was a strategy frequently employed by biographers to explain the absence of female relationships in the lives of male homosexual subjects. 17 In his account of her death, Evans (5-B-5) was careful to identify that a deceased female could nevertheless continue to act as the vessel for Tchaikovsky’s genius and thereby influence his music. In an exceptional attempt to draw overt connections between the life and the works, Evans explored the issue with reference to the brief appearance of the Russian Requiem in the composer’s Sixth Symphony, which also assumes relevance in relation to his own death (see Evans 1935: 6). Another important figure within Tchaikovsky biography was Nadezhda von Meck, whose patronage enabled the composer to devote himself to his art. Significantly, this financial support commenced at around the time of the episode of his marriage, therefore providing another example of muse paradigms simultaneously operating both positively and negatively. 16 17 On Tchaikovsky’s perceived difficulty in engaging in work during his brief period with his wife see, for example, Tchaikovsky to Meck, 28 July 1877 (Meck 1993: 30). Whether Evans, writing in the early 1900s, knew of Tchaikovsky’s sexual orientation is a matter for speculation; he was certainly reticent over particular aspects of the composer’s marriage and death. 229 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Particular females also came into view at crucial junctures in the texts as rhetorical signifiers of the ascending genius of the composers with whom they were associated (trope 5-H). Two of the clearest examples include the fact that Tchaikovsky believed he was writing his Fourth Symphony for Meck (with whose benefaction it is inextricably associated), 18 and the surprise appearance of Clara Schumann at the first performance of Brahms’s Ein deutsches Requiem. Evans (5-H-1) wrote that the Fourth Symphony marked Tchaikovsky’s transition to composing undeniably great works; Erb (5-H-2) similarly claimed that the Requiem represented some of the best music ever written, indicative of Brahms’s new compositional maturity. The fact that Meck and Clara Schumann were both relatively invisible characters within these texts sets in relief the significance of their sudden rise to prominence in connection with two works of profound importance to the developing genius of their attendant composers. In this respect, the condition imposed by Meck that she should never meet the composer who benefited from her patronage is most convenient; despite her importance to Tchaikovsky’s life, she actually made very few appearances in his biography. In connection with this broad line of enquiry, and in keeping with the general emphases on domestic propriety and on ancestry and lineage in the Victorian Period, the biographers were also preoccupied with the family (trope 6). Certain composers were extolled for their idealized domestic relationships (trope 6-A), especially in cases in which their loved ones were themselves significantly musical, or when (as with Bach and Schumann) works were composed expressly for their benefit. Williams (6-A-2) claimed that Bach’s wider family was very close-knit (though it is difficult to see how the meeting of his relatives just once a year demonstrated a particularly significant ‘clan 18 As Evans observed, Tchaikovsky frequently referred to the work in such terms in letters to Meck (Meck 1993: passim). The score famously carries the dedication ‘To my best Friend’. 230 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character feeling’). Similarly, Breakspeare observed the ‘loving regard’ in which Mozart held the musical members of his immediate family (6-A-3), namely his father and sister, even calling upon this reason to present his resignation from his post at Salzburg in a positive light (6-A-4). Patterson’s romanticization of Schumann’s union with his wife Clara (trope 5-D) was reflected in her description of the composer’s fondness for and devotion to their children (6-A-5), and Stratton similarly argued that Mendelssohn’s exemplary familial relations showed his character ‘at its best’ (6-A-6).19 In some cases it was necessary to find composers a surrogate family in order to demonstrate exemplary domesticity (trope 6-B). The biographers of Beethoven and Brahms, for instance, explored how their subjects cared for others: the former adopted his nephew following the death of his brother, which enabled Crowest to demonstrate further the laudability of his character since Karl was held to have been troublesome and unworthy of his attentions (6-B-1). 20 Brahms, meanwhile, supported Schumann’s family from the time of the latter’s last illness (6-B-2). Both he and Beethoven were also explicitly identified to have overseen their own households upon the deaths of their respective fathers (6-A-7, 6-A-8), thus underlining Victorian notions of the domestic patriarchy. 21 Likewise, Hadden noted the obligation felt by Haydn to provide for various relations who were not part of his nuclear family (6-B-3), in addition to his estranged wife (5-F-5). In Haydn’s biography as well as that of Brahms, indications were offered as to their general devotion to women and children – those being the constituents of a family – by way of implying an analogy with the domestic role they might have assumed had circumstances been different (6-B-4, 6-B-6). The attitudes of 19 20 21 The significance to biography of Mendelssohn’s special relationship with his musical sister will be explored in a subsequent section. Beethoven’s relationship with his nephew, like that of Brahms and Clara Schumann (for which, see n. 11), is a hazardous area of his biography. See, for example, Solomon 1977. In view of Brahms’s construction as the surrogate son of Robert and Clara Schumann, it is instructive to compare quotations 6-A-8 (on his own family) and 6-B-2 (on the Schumanns). 231 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character both subjects towards children was implicitly related to their own poverty-stricken formative years, while such stories as the latter’s predilection for tin soldiers, even as an adult, serve to suggest that his inherent understanding of children would have made him an excellent father. Death as Apotheosis Death is an inevitable episode in any biography of a historical subject, and one whose crucial function in relation to the whole has already been explored at length in Part I. Recalling that discussion, and given the ways in which the Victorians delighted in a romanticized, whitewashed form of death scene, one might expect these episodes to have been particularly elaborated in biography of this era and for the misfortune of the subject’s demise to have been emphasized over its unpleasant realities. Musical biography was particularly distinctive in this respect since within its relatively small set of great protagonists, a disproportionate number met with an early death. In addition to offering another instance of the tradition of the genius ‘balanced’ by physical deficiency, the trope of the short-lived Great Composer would have resonated with other nineteenth-century British heroes celebrated for having been taken before their time; the field of literature, for instance, yields Keats, Shelley, Byron, Jane Austen, and the Brontë sisters. The Master Musicians authors revelled in the tragedy of the untimely demise of certain subjects (trope 7-A), especially when they had both died unusually young and been exceptionally productive, thus employing their gifts to the full in the short time available to them. An early death also afforded biographers ample opportunities for counterfactualist digressions. Hadden, for example, opened his volume on Chopin with an extensive lamentation on the fact of so many great artists’ having died young, in which he speculated as to how history might have been different had they been granted more years, or had certain long-lived artists died earlier (1934b: 1; cf. 232 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Patterson, 7-B-4). Evans (7-A-3) even appealed to this paradigm in writing about Tchaikovsky, for whom its application was less justified: his death was indisputably premature, but it did not occur at an age that was ‘young for a great composer’ (as the biographer contended) when compared to Schubert, Mozart, Mendelssohn, Chopin, or even Schumann. Indeed, Beethoven himself lived less than four years longer than Tchaikovsky, yet suggestions that he died young are few and far between. Just as composers’ creative prowess was portrayed as having become stronger as a direct result of misfortunes experienced in the course of their life (trope 4-D), so it was presented as having been ultimately responsible for their untimely deaths (trope 7-B). In their relentless efforts to bring their genius to fruition and to employ their gifts fully, the Master Musicians composers had correspondingly exhausted themselves, an idea that Part I demonstrated to have arisen strongly from the earliest accounts of the story surrounding Mozart’s Requiem (myth 6-D). Although they were portrayed as being unusually resilient in terms of the strains they suffered – their labours and industry, and their fight against opposition – the series’ protagonists were, fundamentally, only mortal. The concept received fullest application with Mendelssohn and Schumann, both of whom engaged in a variety of activities in addition to composition that took their toll on them physically. Drawing implicitly on the Romantic notion of genius as manifested in feminine men, the inspiration that brought about composers’ (male) acts of creation was considered to have progressively exhausted their frail, sensitive (i.e. feminine) bodies. That this ideal of genius as androgynous was subsequently taken up by Virginia Woolf (1929: 145-57), herself following the lead of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, places it at the centre of early twentieth-century biographical and feminist theory. In terms of the Master Musicians authors, the point is confirmed in that Stratton’s and Patterson’s words (7-B-3, 7-B-4) are virtually identical: both wrote of the sword wearing out the 233 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character scabbard prematurely by its overuse (possibly an allusion to a line from Byron’s poem ‘So we’ll go no more a’roving’, with which the biographers may well have been familiar from the well-known song setting by Maude Valérie White of 1888), a metaphor whose clear Freudian overtones are unlikely to be missed by the present-day reader. The irony is that while certain composers were indeed popularly viewed as feminine men at the time, Chopin being the most obvious example, the later nineteenth century conversely insisted upon the masculinity of several others, including Beethoven and Wagner (see, for example, Gay 1993: 103). Composers’ early deaths were linked not just to their greatness, but also to the fruits of this genius in terms of the extent of their corresponding activities and output (see 7-A-1), which served to resolve some of the tension over certain subjects’ having lived longer than others (trope 7-C). Breakspeare (7-C-1) suggested how Mozart’s life might have been lengthened – albeit becoming nowhere near as productive, nor marked by such greatness – had his genius lain ‘semi-dormant’, rather than being recognized and rapidly developed from childhood. In contrast, Hadden justified Haydn’s claim to greatness, despite his relative longevity, through reference to the relative security and peace in which much of his life unfolded (7-C-2). Part I has revealed the extent of the tension surrounding Haydn’s longevity (particularly given the premature demise of his greatest contemporary), as exemplified by the number of tales that have the flavour of death scenes. Nonetheless, the matter was particularly significant to British biography: Hadden demonstrated his subject to have taken full advantage of the length of his life by developing his genius in new and important directions even in his advanced years, culminating in the two visits to England undertaken around the age of 60 (7-C-3). 234 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Whether short-lived or not, composers were portrayed as having kept active until the bitter end, in testimony to their unwavering commitment to their art and the industry with which it was realized. Seemingly ignoring both their own suffering and the troubles unfolding around them, they remained entirely focussed on music and on their studies (trope 7-D). Hence Handel was presented as continuing his work despite physical and mental illness (7-D-1), Bach as labouring through his ‘hours of greatest suffering’ (7-D-2), and Mozart as remaining entirely focussed on music in his final year (7-D-3, 7-D-4). Beethoven was prevented by his doctors from composing during what was to be his final illness; nonetheless, rather than merely waste his time, he kept himself occupied by studying the music of Schubert and Handel (7-D-6; see also myth 2-G). The question is therefore raised as to whether composers were working at their usual standard during their periods of infirmity, especially if they were still actively producing music. Hadden, who described Chopin as ‘a painful spectacle, the picture of exhaustion’ (1934a: 128) by 1847, two years prior to his death, recounted endless stories of the measures taken to compensate for his frailty (: 111, 128, 130). If such examples suggest that composers refused to accept that their end was near, the matter was explicitly true of Brahms: he famously requested not to be told of the severity of the illness that caused his demise, and this ignorance seemingly enabled him to continue his activities – walking, concert-going, entertaining visitors, and so on – despite his suffering (7-D-7). The emphasis placed by the biographers on the hard work undertaken by composers from childhood to death, in accordance with the Protestant work ethic, led to the charting of their genius as evolving progressively throughout their lives (trope 3-G). This model, which I term the ‘paradigm of continual development’, was of major consequence for the opportunities it afforded to relate the life and the works, as later 235 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character discussions will explore. Doubtless the notion was influenced by Victorian preoccupations with evolutionist theories, which had received application to music history through the writings of C. Hubert H. Parry (who was particularly influenced by Herbert Spencer’s concept of ‘social Darwinism’), notably in his agenda-setting book The Art of Music (1893). 22 Parry’s earlier Studies of Great Composers (1886) was an important source for several of the Master Musicians authors, and he had also taught Duncan during his time at the Royal College of Music. The paradigm of continual development further served to demonstrate that composers had steadily brought their gifts perfectly to fruition in the course of their lives (a point suggested most clearly by Breakspeare, 3-G-2), as opposed, for example, to a childhood talent that failed to blossom, or early success achieved in a career that declined thereafter. Accordingly, many of the subjects were presented as instinctively knowing that death was imminent (trope 7-E). The implication, which received fullest voice in Duncan’s speculation as to the reasons for the productivity of Schubert’s final year (7-E-5), was that composers’ perceived awareness of their own mortality spurred them on to one final outburst of creativity, in their anxiety to give their very last to the world. The emphasis that Breakspeare (7-D-2) placed on Mozart’s working unceasingly throughout 1791, in stark contrast to his relatively fruitless previous season (on which, see Breakspeare 1902: 81), may also be read in this light. Likewise, Crowest observed that the ageing Beethoven, physically ill and isolated from his friends (7-E-3), nevertheless composed with ‘increased vigour’ (7-E-4), for it was this activity upon which (according to the biographer) his life now depended. 22 Significantly, Parry’s text was republished in enlarged form three years later as The Evolution of the Art of Music. Grove’s Dictionary, to which he was a major contributor, served as a useful developing-ground for his application of evolutionist theories to music history. 236 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character These points yield the corresponding implication that the last year (or period) of composers’ lives was that in which they necessarily enjoyed their fullest success or produced their greatest music (trope 7-F). In view of the relation of this concept to that of the early death, two of the clearest examples are provided by the volumes on Schubert (7-F-1) and Mozart (7-F-2). Their creative powers were explicitly portrayed as being at their height in their final months, resulting in the production of some late masterpieces, as well as leading Duncan to make the far-reaching claim that Schubert experienced ‘the full vigour of body’ in his final year. The paradigm held regardless of the length of the subject’s life, as demonstrated by the case of Handel, whose final year was said to be his ‘most prosperous’ ever (5-F-3). Nor was the model invalidated by instances in which infirmity precluded substantial composition towards the end of the life: Patterson (5-F-4) asserted that the apotheosis of Schumann’s genius was reached just before his descent into the illness that terminated his artistic career. However, despite the tragedy of composers’ illnesses and premature deaths (not to mention the paradigm of continual development), the biographers were adamant that had they lived longer, their powers would not have evolved further. Hence Stratton (7-B-2), for example, claimed that Mendelssohn could perhaps have attained greater heights not had he been granted a longer life, but had his activities been less varied, thus permitting him to dedicate more time to composition. The notion, which was essentially a consequence of the paradigm of continual development, enabled the authors to conclude their account of their subjects’ lives when they were at their peak, rather than dying old, forgotten, and separated from their greatest output by a period of many years, or (even worse) having fallen from grace altogether. It even served to prepare for this outcome – as well as to divert attention from its unseemly physical aspects – in that having reached the zenith of the protagonist’s powers, the sole episode that logically remained to be recounted was that of the inevitable demise. 237 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character One potential drawback of this paradigm was that it precluded any suggestion that composers’ genius might have been greater had they lived longer. That may account for the only real resistance to the model, which occurs in the volume on Chopin: Hadden not only stated that this subject did not exhibit development of his creative genius as did other composers (3-G-9), but also suggested that a longer life would have led to the production of greater music (trope 7-I). In making these assertions, the biographer actually contradicted himself, since the latter presupposed that the composer’s genius would indeed have evolved given more time. And as if to make the point more strongly, Hadden called into question whether the same might not be true of other composers such as Schubert, Mozart, and even Haydn, the subject of his other Master Musicians volume. His partial rejection of the life-shapes that were otherwise standard within the series may have been an attempt to strengthen Chopin’s claim to greatness, given that his level of musical activity (in terms of performance as well as composition) was not nearly as high as that of other subjects, even short-lived ones. But it also served the more crucial purpose of aiding Hadden’s construction of Chopin as standing apart from the other composers – an idea that received ample voice elsewhere in the monograph and served to justify his inclusion within the set. Death and the Maiden: The Woman as Muse (bis) We have seen above that specific women, invariably loved ones of some description, made appearances at defining moments of the life story as signifiers of subjects’ creativity. By way of a prelude to revisiting this model one final time, I should perhaps note that in interpreting their writings as subscribing to an androcentric model, I do not wish to imply that the biographers were especially insensitive to women. The reality was often quite the opposite, as best exemplified in the paper ‘Woman in Relation to Musical Art’ that Stratton presented to the Musical Association in 1883, in which he 238 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character seemed to admit the possibility for female creative genius within (and beyond) music in ways largely unparalleled for its time. His central premise was that ‘If woman in the vast sphere of work open to her – physical and intellectual – has achieved greatness in every department where her faculties have been fully developed and had free play… then there is no reasonable ground for assuming that she cannot excel in any art under the like conditions’ (: 115). Stratton’s paper also incorporated an extensive list of hundreds of women composers and their works, which even at the author’s death remained possibly the most comprehensive yet compiled (The Musical Times 1906: XLVII/dcclxii, 552). Nor was this an isolated endeavour within the collective output of the Master Musicians authors. Crowest’s Phases of Musical England (1881) included a dedicated section on women and music (: 262-87), and the chapters on Schumann’s relationships with women in Patterson’s Master Musicians monograph (1934: 87-107) and Hadden’s later book Composers in Love and Marriage (1913a) both demonstrate a notable focus on female characters within musical biography. Rather, their recourse to the muse paradigm simply followed tendencies found elsewhere in European musical biography (often originating with the composers themselves), here appropriated to suit the strongly patriarchal society of the Victorian Period, its obsession with evolutionist theories, and the previously-discussed biographical notion of the working partnership. At the same time, the muse paradigm cast female characters in a rather different role from that found elsewhere in nineteenth-century European literature, such as the redemptive role of the Faustian ewig Weibliche; more locally, it also deviated from the trend in late Victorian fiction towards portraying musical women as dangerous characters, recently explored by Phyllis Weliver (2005). Given the previously-discussed connections between the height of protagonists’ genius and their passing, it is unsurprising that these otherwise marginal females also 239 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character resurfaced towards the end of the lives of their associated composers. Just as their musical exertions were portrayed as having brought about death, so their female muses were seen to have contributed, in a fundamentally positive way, to their demise. One such case is provided by Mendelssohn (trope 5-I), whose musically-gifted sister Fanny was cast in the role of vessel for his genius. 23 Stratton was quick to observe her ‘exceptional talent’ (1934: 9) for the performance of music in her childhood. His description of the pair as ‘bound by the ties of art as well as blood’ (5-I-1) implied a strong and special union over and above that between the average brother and sister, and eminently consistent with the muse paradigm. The latter conjecture is confirmed by his portrayal of the siblings as inseparable and as holding shared artistic aims (5-I-2), which strongly recalls Patterson’s construction of Robert and Clara Schumann (trope 5-D). The imposition onto Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn of the dynamic of male creative genius enhanced by a female performer also denied the latter’s own compositional abilities, just as it had sidelined those of Clara. Of greater relevance to Mendelssohn biography, however, was Fanny’s death in May 1847 while engaged (significantly) in a musical act, namely the leading of a choir rehearsal. Stratton (5-I-3) noted that Mendelssohn was profoundly affected by her passing, which was presented as directly precipitating his final, greatest period of creation – bringing forth a number of compositions including the celebrated String Quartet in F minor, Op. 80, his last major work – prior to his own end just a few months (and pages) later. Moreover, in this and several other instances, the demise of the muse was portrayed as having precipitated that of her associated composer (trope 5-J). Stratton (5-J-1) stated that his subject’s own death was directly caused by the shock at 23 On the musical relationship between Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn see, for example, Citron 1984; see further, Kimber 2002b and Citron 2004. 240 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character learning of that of his sister, following the view put forward by Lampadius in his early volume on Mendelssohn (1865: 150). In much the same manner, Erb (5-J-2) concurred with Brahms’s own belief that his final illness was caused by his anxiety to attend the funeral of Clara Schumann. The latter connection is made stronger by the biographer’s further speculation that the shock over her death (like that experienced by Mendelssohn) contributed both to its onset and severity. That Frankfurt was the focal point of the events that were seen to have caused the deaths of each of these subjects adds to the already striking similarity between the two stories. This standard plot is inverted in the cases of Tchaikovsky and Chopin. According to Evans (5-J-3), Tchaikovsky was extraordinarily pained by the decline in the attention paid to him towards the end of his life by Meck: her monetary backing of the composer ceased, as did the correspondence between them. Evans wrote that his subject was so profoundly troubled by this turn of events that in his final days he held Meck constantly in his thoughts, even as he lay feverish on his death-bed. Though Meck outlived Tchaikovsky, she had faded from his life and so precipitated his demise; and Evans’s observation (5-J-4) that she herself died very shortly after receiving news of Tchaikovsky’s passing suggests that the composer’s death brought about that of his muse, rather than the other way around. Meck differed from all the other females under present discussion in that she had neither artistic nor (pseudo-)familial ties to the composer to whom she was allied, her support for Tchaikovsky’s creative activities being entirely financial rather than artistic or moral. In addition, of the two women portrayed as vessels for Tchaikovsky’s genius, his mother was already dead; thus Meck’s death only after that of the composer neatly preserved the balance between them. 241 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Chopin’s associated females and his demise were discussed with greater unease (trope 5-K). Despite his endeavours to resist standard biographical paradigms, Hadden evidently subscribed to the correlations between association with an artistic partner, inspiration derived from her, and ultimate passing, perhaps because these themes were already too thoroughly ingrained into Chopin biography to be evaded. He noted, for example, that his subject had been inspired to work by his amorous feelings for Konstancja Gladkowska (5-K-1), which he compared to Berlioz’s celebrated passion for Harriet Smithson (1934b: 40). However, this love was unrequited, which caused Chopin’s health to deteriorate and hence, in the biographer’s words, ‘marked him out for an early death’ (5-K-2). Later in the life story, Hadden quoted Chopin as having himself observed, of the rumours that he and Jane Stirling (another attendant female) were to be joined in matrimony, that ‘she might as well marry death’. 24 Hadden appeared strongly to reject the popularized connection between the composer’s demise and that of his relationship with George Sand (5-K-4), perhaps in accordance with his stated endeavour to adhere to facts rather than follow the previous biographical scholarship he referred to as ‘the sentimental gush which has been so largely written about Chopin’ (1934b: vii). Nevertheless, he did acknowledge the link between the two events that had been suggested by earlier Continental biographers such as Wilhelm von Lenz (5-K-4), who claimed that ‘Chopin did not die of consumption. He died of a broken heart’ (Lenz 1983: 56). The effect of the trope is heightened by Sand’s reappearance in the Chopin volume near the moment of the protagonist’s death, despite not actually being permitted to see him (5-K-6), as well as mention of the financial support covertly given by Stirling to the dying protagonist (Hadden 1934b: 129-30). 24 Adolf Gutmann, who attended Chopin constantly in the period prior to his death, told Frederick Niecks that Chopin had spoken these words to him ‘one day when he was ill’ (Niecks 1888: II, 292). 242 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character That this instance does not entirely conform to the standard model (with the possible exception of Tchaikovsky and Meck) is evident from the fact that the cause of Chopin’s death was seen to be the end of the friendship with, rather than the life of, his associated female. Moreover, Sand posed a direct challenge to the muse paradigm, since she was herself a creative genius (albeit of a literary, rather than musical, variety) rather than a mere executant. While the appearance of such a figure may well have generated little tension within literary biography by the late nineteenth century, especially in Britain, it was problematic in the present musical context (trope 5-L). Questions were correspondingly raised as to which of the pair functioned as muse and which as genius, especially as Hadden hardly presented in a positive light Sand’s perceived tendency to drain her male attachments of both life and creativity (5-L-4). The issue was resolved in Hadden’s volume by explicitly reversing the couple’s gender roles, thereby continuing a trend that was well established by the time of writing and which had originated, insofar as biography is concerned, with Liszt’s life of Chopin (1852). 25 Hadden’s construction of the composer as effeminate (trope 5-M) related Chopin’s womanliness to his physical frailty, which the biographer claimed was a defining feature of creative genius (5-M-9). Hence Chopin’s poor health was invoked both as proof of his mental (rather than physical) strength and heroism (5-M-7) and as an explanatory strategy for any problematic areas of his life that recourse to his nationality failed to resolve (5-M-8). It is as if his gendering as feminine was necessary precisely because his story could not be made to fit the paradigms of (masculine) musical biography. Hadden additionally linked Chopin’s effeminacy to his musical endeavours, in the frequent references to the salon venues in which he played, his onstage demeanour and ‘dandy’ dress, his relatively quiet tone, and even his ‘small delicate feminine hand’ (1934b: 153). The composer was 25 On the issue of Chopin and his gendered music, and the critical responses it elicited, see Kallberg 1996. 243 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character thus portrayed as exhibiting both male and female characteristics as far as his music was concerned, most explicitly in Hadden’s discussion of the polonaise (5-M-3). Sand’s parallel construction as masculine (5-L-2) resolved the problem of her exhibiting genius and preserved the heterosexuality of her relationship to Chopin at the same time as allowing the latter to function, androgynously, as his own vessel. Religion as Artistic Motive The Master Musicians series aimed not only to provide an outline of composers’ lives, but also a more general assessment of their musicality and their character. While these endeavours may be true of much biography, the present series is distinctive for making such discussions key components of its texts, which (as noted) typically followed the tripartite structure of life story, evaluation of the subject as a person, and a concluding survey of the works. The explorations of musicality have been assimilated into previous sections and will be further investigated in the following chapter; those of the character remain to be addressed here. It is in these discussions that reflections of the target audience may be especially evident, for every age has its particular preoccupations. Late twentieth-century biographies, for instance, might include detailed assessments of their subjects’ sexuality wholly absent from the life-writing of previous epochs. Similarly, religion was a notable theme in biography throughout the nineteenth century and across Europe. The trope assumes even greater significance within the context of Victorian Britain, however, given the increasing awareness that only a relatively small proportion of the population regularly attended church (despite strong encouragement in the form of missionary work and incentives including the offer of education, membership of a church society, and potentially also charitable support), coupled with the rising popularity of evolutionist theories that were at variance with Biblical creationism. 244 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Crowest’s biographers were therefore understandably preoccupied with issues of religion (trope 9), and by notions that composers should have lived in accordance with Christian principles (it did not seem to matter to them that none were Anglican, and some were not even Protestant). Their particular fascination with religion doubtless reflected their own faith, since several held church posts as organist while others produced significant quantities of sacred music; even the number of composers represented by the completed series has clear (and surely intentional) Judeo-Christian significance. According to his entry in Grove’s Dictionary, Williams received much of his early education from Rev. F. A. Radcliffe, Rector of Milston, ‘whose influence contributed, in no small degree, to foster his love of music’ (Maitland 1904-10b: 526); Hadden’s volume on Haydn bears the dedication ‘To The Rev. Robert Blair, D. D. in grateful acknowledgment of many kindnesses and much pleasant intercourse’. Additional origins may be found in the beliefs overtly held by a number of the subjects themselves. Notably, Bach and Haydn were both devout Christians, who habitually signed their scores – even those of secular works – with religious phrases such as ‘Soli Deo Gloria’. The musical genius exhibited by the Great Composers was considered to be a divine gift that had been bestowed upon them, reflective of a higher calling; Haydn reportedly said that ‘I know… that God has favoured me, and recognize it thankfully’ (Gotwals 1963: 56; cf. Hadden 1934a: 161). They were therefore viewed as having worked in the service of God, both in furthering their abilities and in their general activities (trope 9-A). Williams, for example, noted Bach’s profound interest in religion (9-A-1) and his importance in the history of the Lutheran church (1934: 107), while both he and Haydn were explicitly portrayed as composers whose musical activities were essentially driven by their faith (9-A-2, 9-A-3). 245 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character The premise of genius as a divine endowment allowed the biographers to claim some degree of Christian motivation for subjects who did not overtly follow a religion, such as Beethoven, Schubert, Brahms, and possibly also Chopin; Duncan even described Schubert’s vocation as a ‘divine call’ (2-C-5). While it might seem that pursuit of such an avenue represented somewhat shaky ground given the threat posed to the Church in Britain precisely because low numbers of people were active worshippers, it is likely that many of the series’ readers had, at one time or another, been members of a church who benefited from the educational benefits that came with it. The authors turned particularly to the composers’ sacred output as evidence of religious intent (trope 9-B), especially where none was otherwise apparent. Great works on devotional themes, such as the Requiems of Brahms and Mozart, Handel’s Messiah, Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis, and (by extension) Haydn’s The Creation, were hence given added weight, while Duncan (9-B-6) even claimed that Schubert’s sacred output was on a par with the music of Bach and Beethoven. The paradigm of continual development is again invoked, as several biographers commented upon the fact of their subjects’ having turned to the composition of religious works late in their lives, thus further demonstrating the relative greatness accorded to sacred music in comparison to its secular counterpart. Indeed, Schumann himself wrote that ‘It must always remain an artist’s highest aim to direct his efforts to sacred music’, 26 while Handel is quoted as having said that ‘sacred music was best suited to a man descending in the vale of years’ (M[arshall] 1878-90: 651). 27 By reinforcing righteous Christian virtues, the authors also extrapolated their subjects’ moral beliefs from their writings, including correspondence, and from the exemplary 26 27 Schumann to Lieutenant Strackerjan, 13 January 1851 (Herbert 1890: II, 129; see also Patterson 1934: 173). On Handel’s lately-held religious beliefs, see Schœlcher 1857: 363-4. 246 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character way in which they conducted their lives (trope 9-C). This practice made explicit the connection between subscription to religious ideals and general demonstrations of behaviour considered righteous (whether undertaken in the name of God or not), and highlighted the biographers’ agenda of providing moral education for the middle- and working-class readership. 28 Patterson (9-C-3), for example, claimed that in selflessly promoting contemporaries above himself in his music criticism, Schumann acted in accordance with Christian virtues; the religious overtones of accounts of the ‘Neue Bahnen’ episode itself have previously been seen in Part I (myths 3-A and 8-B). Crowest’s appropriation of Beethoven’s correspondence to demonstrate that the composer lived as a Christian (9-C-2) is especially revealing given that the biographer also noted that his letters offered no explicit indications that would confirm this claim (9-C-4). Additional justification for those composers who were not overtly religious came from subscription to the anti-Marian view that considered too strict an adherence to doctrine to be negative, in apparent antithesis to the tacit conducting of one’s life virtuously. Hadden (9-C-7), citing Liszt’s testimony that Chopin ‘held his faith without calling attention to it’, described the composer as ‘refreshingly like the normal sensible man, who shrinks from being too closely catechized’ – and it is deeply ironic that the biography of a Catholic composer, held to have been written by an author who subsequently took minor orders in the Catholic Church, should be appropriated in Protestant England to anti-Roman ends. 29 Drawing on the same notion, Lidgey (9-C-8) justified Wagner’s attacks on Christianity – which in any case were implicitly 28 29 The emphasis that the authors placed on the sanctity of marriage and related matters may be read in a similar light. Liszt wrote that ‘Chopin was sincerely religious and attached to Catholicism, but he held his faith without calling attention to it, and never touched upon this subject. It was possible to be acquainted with him a long time without knowing what were his religious views’ (1912: 137-8). 247 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character anti-clerical and anti-Catholic, rather than anti-religious as such – as being essentially directed toward hypocrisy and dogma. 30 Exemplary Citizenship Even when not explicitly related to religious virtues, the biographers considered their subjects to serve as models for the lay reader in terms of the exemplary conduct they exhibited in their everyday lives (trope 10). The hard work and determination through which they were presented as having pursued their goals, their navigation of the obstacles encountered on the path to success, and their laudable relationships with romantic attachments and their own family, may all be read in this light. The authors were also keen to demonstrate that the general behaviour of the Great Composers was not at variance with a particular, idealized set of late Victorian sensibilities and ideals. 31 Their lives were thus exalted for their demonstrations of faultless morals, and of selfless consideration for others before themselves (trope 10-A). Williams (10-A-2) even connected artistic greatness directly to moral excellence in writing of Bach as the epitome of both within his celebrated genealogy. Enquiries into the general ethics observed by composers often took a speculative form that hinged on the argument that supposedly no suggestions to the contrary had arisen despite the detailed scrutiny of their lives. Indeed, in their efforts to construct their subjects as exemplary, several of the Master Musicians authors made claims so strong that they could hardly be accepted in view of known facts. Breakspeare’s assertion (10-A-6) that Mozart was upright in all his actions, for example, contradicted both his acknowledgement elsewhere of the composer’s faults, and other of his unattractive characteristics that the biographer 30 31 On Wagner’s views on religion see, for example, Wagner 1892-9c (esp. 26-9) and Wagner 1892-9e. Of course, the implications of many of the themes explored in the following discussion inevitably extend beyond the series’ original turn-of-the-century British context, given the overlap with societies of other times and places as to what was considered to be dignified conduct. 248 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character neglected, such as his notorious use of obscene language. Other instances of praiseworthy citizenship demonstrated by composers included their lack of prejudice towards others. Erb’s comment (10-A-7) that Brahms treated all people as equals irrespective of social standing is particularly telling given the series’ middle- and working-class audience, suggesting that its subjects were on a par with its readers and giving agency to the former as real people to whom the latter could relate. According to the biographers, their subjects would even show goodwill and consideration towards those who had wronged them, rising above the ‘petty jealousies’ that were exhibited by lesser composers (trope 10-B) and feeling pleased for them when they achieved success, even if it meant that they had themselves been disappointed as a result. The implication here is that not only were they greater musicians than their competitors, but they were also better people. Given the strongly hagiographical vein in which Victorian biography was written, it is unsurprising that the Master Musicians authors drew upon a variety of strategies by which to approach areas of their subjects’ lives that were perceived as being less than commendable. Not unexpectedly, many of these devices derived their explanatory force from the composers’ greatness, thereby reinforcing their positive qualities by way of masking the negative ones. A common ploy, for example, was to identify perceived defects in subjects’ personalities as the necessary evils by which they became capable of attaining greatness, and that their weaknesses were manifestly outweighed by their virtues (trope 10-C). Stratton (10-C-3) not only trivialized Mendelssohn’s imperfections in this manner, but also claimed that his subject suppressed them, in exemplary fashion, in order to present to the world an exclusively positive exterior. Composers were also portrayed as alienated from wider society by virtue of their genius, which, as noted, was popularly held to be a phenomenon misunderstood within its own time and place. That 249 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character served to rationalize their uneasy relationships with strangers and lay people (trope 10-D), and the shy, reserved demeanour of Schubert (10-D-3) and Schumann (10-D-1) in particular. Their construction as standing apart from the rest of humanity was reflected in the shortcomings in their physical attributes, described by Duncan (10-D-4) as the ‘personal attractions which go so far towards reconciling genius with the outside world’; for example, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and Schubert were all below average height. If the biographers were to succeed in endorsing composers’ lives as models from which readers could learn, then suggestions that they were afflicted with human vices served to demonstrate that the lay person could indeed relate to them. Ironically, in several instances, the authors appealed directly to their subjects’ humanity by way of explanation of perceived faults in their character (trope 10-E). In a further indication of the biographers’ aims to provide moral education for the average reader, they were thereby enabled to cast judgement on the composers’ conduct. This strategy proved especially valuable when they could resort to the explanation that the behaviour they exhibited was perfectly acceptable during their own day (trope 10-F), hence providing further demonstration of the texts as a reflection of the sanitized values of the target reading communities. One obvious example that remains the source of some tension today was the frequent use of bad language in late eighteenth-century contexts, to which I have already alluded; curiously, in the original Master Musicians series, this proved more of an issue in Haydn’s biography (10-F-1) than Mozart’s. In such instances, the authors could provide the necessary indications to readers as to how properly to conduct themselves without compromising the notion of the exemplary life, since their subjects’ actions were presented as ostensibly giving no cause for alarm. Erb’s comments (10-F-3) on the matter related exclusively to the childhood of great figures, before their 250 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character genius had fully matured, and at which time (temporary) flaws in their character were more understandable. When all else failed, and the biographers were forced to admit poor behaviour on the part of their subject, they nevertheless endeavoured to portray them positively through allusion to their greatness (trope 10-G). Of several examples that could be cited, Crowest’s skilful interweaving of mention of Beethoven’s sometimes unwarranted conduct seamlessly among liberal references to his virtuous manner and his heroic status (10-G-1) is particularly indicative. A final strategy was to refer to extenuating circumstances beyond the composers’ control (trope 10-H), indicating that the exceptional nature of the situation meant that subjects were not acting as they ordinarily would, and implying that their conduct might have been worse had they not been such great people. Lidgey (10-H-2) even invited direct comparison with the reader: writing of Wagner’s tribulations of the early 1860s (his isolation, bad health, financial troubles, the withdrawal of Tannhäuser and Tristan, and the opposition he faced from the public and the Press), he remarked, ‘Let those who would lift the finger of scorn pause to consider whether, under such conditions, they would have exhibited one-tenth of the moral courage that Richard Wagner showed.’ 32 High Artistic Ideals: Modesty, Generosity, Selflessness Another sense in which the composers represented ideal role models for the late Victorian and early Edwardian reader was in the extreme modesty (trope 11-A) that they were consistently portrayed as demonstrating – even though they were possessed of phenomenal gifts. According to the biographers, it was this quality that allowed them 32 On the disappointments experienced by the composer in the early 1860s, see further, Lidgey 1899: 45-53. 251 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character to find contentment with a life of relative simplicity (11-A-1, 11-A-4), as well as apparently causing them to be oblivious to their own greatness (11-A-3, 11-A-6). Patterson (11-A-5) even identified the trait to be a marker of the ‘highest genius’. The composers were constructed as being so humble that claims were frequently made that they did not enjoy the public recognition they received (trope 11-B), and that they actively shied away from calling attention to their extraordinary abilities. That this theme remained relevant to late nineteenth-century communities is demonstrated in its being particularly associated with Brahms, who was described as finding public displays of gratitude to be ‘exceedingly distasteful’ (Erb 1934: 52) and as having little respect for immodest artists (11-B-4). The Great Composers were portrayed as having little desire to incite hero-worship through self-promotion: Brahms had no more need to perform his own works at recitals (11-B-5) than Schumann had to use his editorship of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik to publicize his, as I shall discuss in due course. In the same vein, the humility of such figures as Handel (11-B-1) and Haydn (11-B-6) supposedly prevented them from employing their genius solely to obtain public popularity and financial rewards, indicating to the reader that such gifts were to be used responsibly rather than abused for personal gain. It is not unreasonable to suppose that Erb’s remarks as to Brahms’s aversion to conceit and self-aggrandizement represented an implicit criticism of Wagner, who famously maintained a poor relationship with Brahms and, moreover, whose immodesty generated much tension within Lidgey’s volume (trope 11-C). In providing an extensive justification for Wagner’s egotism, Lidgey indicated that his intentions were noble rather than purely selfish. Drawing heavily on the composer’s published views, Lidgey claimed that he strove to use his art to unite the German people and to educate them in their national musical legacy (11-C-1, 11-C-2); his lack of humility was thus necessary 252 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character in order to present himself as the role model for the greater good of society. Lidgey thereby asserted that Wagner’s loyalty indeed ultimately lay with his art, and that suggestions to the contrary merely represent ‘the tragedy of a noble man misunderstood by the very men he lived only to raise to higher and purer ideals’ (11-C-6). Lidgey employed a similar strategy to justify Wagner’s involvement with politics, which he wrote interested the composer only insofar as it enabled him dutifully to improve conditions for art by way of benefiting humanity at large (11-C-8). 33 This theme therefore yields another example of the tension previously encountered in Part I between politics and art, and of attempts made within musical biography to keep the two separate. Other composers were similarly portrayed, albeit with more modesty, as having drawn on their exceptional powers only for the honourable reasons of the furthering of art and humanity, and the pursuit of their own high ideals (trope 11-D). We have already seen that they were presented as demonstrating unwavering commitment and determination, despite the obstacles they encountered, to the realization of the greater purpose with which their lives were apparently invested; the trope also underlined the biographers’ previously-mentioned endeavours to establish a musical canon that did not merely adhere to fashionable repertories that would have been more lucrative to their originating composers. In this respect, the Master Musicians subjects were seen to have differed from lesser contemporaries, whose burdens were much less heavy (11-D-1) and who sought more immediate profit from their art (11-D-2); they were similarly undeterred by initial criticism, since history was to be their judge (11-D-4). As a joint consequence of their modesty and their idealistic aims, several were portrayed as content to seek employment in posts beneath their genius, so long as these 33 On Wagner and politics see, for example, Arblaster 1992: 147-91, esp. 148-52. 253 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character circumstances permitted them to further their art in the directions that would ultimately benefit humanity (trope 11-E). The authors used this notion to justify why Haydn (11-E-1), and to a lesser extent Mozart (11-E-2), endured being treated as little more than servants. These examples surely facilitated the working-class readers’ identification with such great figures as well as indicating that to posterity, money was certainly not all that mattered – emphatically so, since many of the composers’ perceived financial problems could surely have been alleviated had they turned to more popular markets for their music. The issue was most widely exploited by Williams, who wrote at length of Bach’s willingness to work humbly below his station, and of what the biographer perceived (11-E-3) as a total failure on the part of his employers to acknowledge the composer’s incomparable greatness. While many of the notions discussed thus far were problematic on grounds of anachronism, the matter is particularly pronounced in this instance. Nonetheless, Williams’s portrayal of the composer’s situation served to justify his notorious disputes with the authorities, and to suggest that the blame lay entirely with the latter; these clashes would, of course, have been considered somewhat less than exemplary within a late Victorian context (and, as discussion of myth 1-B demonstrated, many others too). Williams further sought to account for Bach’s contentment to labour in relative obscurity with reference to his devout religious beliefs (trope 11-F), arguing that celebration of the glory of God, rather than recognition or wealth, was sufficient reward for him (11-F-4). Ironically, one Great Composer for whom it was particularly difficult to claim that he had spent his life working towards high artistic ideals rather than for personal gain was Bach’s greatest contemporary, and Williams’s other Master Musicians subject (trope 11-G). The unease surrounding Handel in this respect was compounded given the series’ late Victorian context because 254 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character he had accrued his substantial fortune primarily in England, where he remained an iconic national hero. He was defended primarily with reference to his copious generosity, specifically the support he gave to a variety of charities (11-G-1). That Williams extolled Handel especially for the compassion he showed towards widows and orphans is itself significant, recalling previous discussions, given that he had no family. In addition, the biographer was keen to point out that far from being wealthy for his entire life, Handel suffered his fair share of debt and perilous finances but nevertheless continued to contribute to charitable causes (11-G-3); and that as he rebuilt his fortune, he was able to donate more money and to become more closely involved (11-G-4). The end, therefore, abundantly justified the means. In keeping with the Victorian ethic of generosity towards fellow humans, other biographers offered similar examples of their subjects’ making provision for those in need of support (trope 11-H). Crowest, for example, discussed Beethoven’s open-handedness even during difficult times when he did not have much money himself (1899: 21-2). One recurring theme was the endeavours undertaken by the composers to improve standards of music and the working conditions for the musician. Another was the assistance that they offered to colleagues and junior contemporaries in respect of those obstacles with which (as discussed) they had themselves contended alone. In his anxiety to prove that the point was true of Brahms, Erb actually contradicted himself, writing firstly that he would not receive musicians who sought to visit him (11-H-7), then claiming just pages later that he was happy to dispense advice to them (11-H-8). This tension may have been the brought about by Brahms’s having himself famously been the beneficiary of early recognition by Schumann (myths 3-A and 8-B), albeit with negative consequences as well as positive ones. 255 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character Undoubtedly, Schumann was the subject most significant for his altruistic support and promotion of fellow artists (trope 11-I), not least given that some of his most important music criticism was available in English translation by the time of the Master Musicians series (Schumann 1877-80b). Schumann’s provision of a forum in which contemporary composers and their works might be discussed without prejudice was presented by Patterson as a major improvement to the music scene (11-I-1), and one that demonstrated his genuine interest in those who had not yet established themselves. Of the great contemporaries whom he brought to public attention, including Chopin and Berlioz (Schumann 1988b and 1988c) as well as Brahms, the most significant in connection with this trope was his rediscovery of Schubert in the late 1830s, for Patterson noted that it was made amidst the personal difficulties he was then experiencing (11-I-5). The exemplary nature of his apparently selfless actions is highlighted by Patterson’s insistence that he was not motivated by personal profit of any kind, that he only rarely took the opportunity to discuss his own works, and that he himself had received little assistance at the start of his career. This exhaustive analysis of the ways in which the lives and characters of the Great Composers were constructed within the original Master Musicians series has identified a nexus of paradigms characterized by consistency and robustness across a number of different authors and volumes. As indicated, some reflected pan-European concerns extending as far back as a century or more; others, conversely, were more local to late nineteenth-century Britain, with its preoccupations with lineage and ancestry, the Protestant work ethic, exemplary morals and behaviour, and evolutionist theories. However, as the above discussions abundantly show (and recalling that none of the series’ twelve subjects was English in origin), all had been adapted for the purpose of 256 The Master Musicians Series: Life and Character enforcing a particular set of sanitized values sanctioned by the ideological undercurrents of Victorian educational biography as self-improvement. A great deal of tension is hence discernible in those many instances in which the composers’ lives did not quite match these rather specific ideals, for too great an inclination in either direction could apparently generate unease: the biographers’ discussion of their subjects’ religious beliefs, for instance, suggested that those who did not overtly possess such convictions might have been as problematic to handle as any for whom they were too strongly held. Other tropes have revealed the particular significance of the role accorded to female characters within the volumes, which will be further explored in the concluding chapter of Part II. As discussed at the outset, the above study has maintained a focus upon the biographical paradigms that operated within the Master Musicians volumes, in accordance with the structure adopted by their authors themselves. The following chapter seeks to complement this analysis with a second study focussing on those paradigms more explicitly associated with the music, hence ultimately enabling an assessment of the intersections between the two. 257 9 THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906: THE MUSIC AND MUSICAL CONNECTIONS Questions of the relationship between the life and the works are among the most vexed in modern biographical theory. As noted, the Master Musicians series was pioneering for contriving to separate the two into dedicated sections, resulting in a set of interconnected texts that brought extended discussion of the music into the realm of full-length biography. Maynard Solomon (2001: 600) has identified the series as emblematic of the early twentieth-century trend in musical biography towards combining a critical assessment of the works with an outline of the life. It was, after all, fundamentally an educational project; and, like other notable Victorian biographical series such as John Morley’s edited ‘English Men of Letters’, its purpose was not just to convey to the lay reader the life story of the subjects but also to teach them how to understand their works (see Gay 1996: 184). An important precedent in musical literature was the biographical dictionary, not least Grove’s Dictionary (itself a valuable source for the Master Musicians authors) given the division of its articles on composers into sections concerned with the life and those concerned with the works. A further correspondence between the two approaches is seen in Crowest’s volume, which centralized Beethoven’s symphonies (complete with musical excerpts from the various movements) within its general survey of the composer’s output, thereby significantly resembling Grove’s recently-published monograph Beethoven and his Nine Symphonies (1896). As music criticism written for the lay person, another precursor was the programme note, which at the time often entered into much analytical detail including musical quotations. In the nineteenth century, programme notes were especially associated with British concert life, and were therefore an important aspect of the specific education available to the Victorian music-lover; Evans’s subsequent activity in The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections the field has already been noted. That one of the leading writers of programme notes in the late Victorian Period was none other than Grove himself provides a direct link to the heart of nineteenth-century English musical biography. Despite the imposition of this rather artificial division between life and music, however, many points of contact existed between the ways in which the two were discussed within the Master Musicians volumes. The authors’ critical treatment of their subjects’ works is evidently of sufficient importance to the agenda of the series, as well as to the wider history of musical biography, to warrant detailed scrutiny as part of this case study. The previous chapter revealed that the composers were portrayed as having laboured unceasingly in pursuit of their art, irrespective of the troubles they encountered and the misery they experienced, all of which is redolent of an attempt to divorce the works from the life. 1 At the same time, we encountered a number of suggestions (notably in connection with the muse paradigm) that their music did reflect events concurrent with its composition. As trope 17-A demonstrates, the authors offered various other indications that such wider relationships did indeed exist; Evans (17-A-5) even proposed that a time would come when the life of a subject would be unimportant compared with the works. In addition, some of the volumes (those on Schumann and Brahms, for example) contain significant overlap between biographical discussions and those on the music, perhaps to cater for readers who wished to read only one portion of the text. As discussed in the introduction to Part II, the biographers aimed to provide as comprehensive an exegesis as possible of the subject’s output, rather than merely 1 See, for example, trope 7-D, on subjects’ efforts to continue their activities in their periods of suffering prior to death; see also Breakspeare’s remarks in quotation 17-A-6. 259 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections concentrating on the music that would have been known to the concert-going public of the time. They were mindful, too, of the availability of more detailed literature to which interested parties could be referred; for example, Williams (1935: vii) noted that he had not entered into detailed exploration of Handel’s works and that readers could instead consult the more comprehensive texts by Chrysander (1858-67), Schœlcher (1857), and Rockstro (1883). Exploration of the music is likewise limited in Williams’s other volume, on Bach, which perhaps indicates the composer’s importance to pedagogy relative to performance at the time; in revising the original, Eric Blom made various expansions, notably to the rather incomplete section on the instrumental works (1934: 147-50). The amount of space devoted to the music, and the number and range of pieces explored, therefore varied from volume to volume, with the decision appearing ultimately to rest with individual contributors. The biographies on Mendelssohn, Haydn, Chopin, and Brahms essentially confined discussion to a single chapter written in the vein of an introductory music appreciation text, with more extended comments on individual pieces wound into the biographical narrative instead. The others surveyed different works or genres in turn, typically proceeding chronologically, either over the course of a number of chapters or within a single, extended section under the heading of ‘The Musician’ (or, in the volume on Schumann, ‘The Musician and Writer’). The teleology of the composer’s life was consequently often implicit in the structure of the biographer’s explorations of the music, especially when key works were discussed in succession or intertwined with the life story. Nonetheless, the adoption of such widely different formats, with little consistency as to the balance between life and works, suggests that a rigid pattern was not imposed upon the volumes; a greater level of standardization came only with Blom’s revival of the series. 260 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections Discussions on individual works ranged from a couple of descriptive sentences to sections spanning several pages, written in the manner of analytical programme notes and including such celebrated works as Mozart’s Requiem and Haydn’s The Creation; some, such as Wagner’s major music dramas, were so substantial as to warrant dedicated chapters. 2 The music was described in broad terms appropriate to the lay reader, generally avoiding technical description though with some reference to instrumental resources, significant melodic themes, and occasionally also harmony and formal structure. Contextual information about works’ genesis, first performances, and initial reception was often provided, as were plot summaries in the case of operas, ballets, and programmatic instrumental works. Musical quotations were commonly included, though they are almost wholly absent in those volumes by Lidgey, Williams, Stratton, and Hadden. In the analysis that follows, I start by considering how the biographers negotiated their subjects’ vast output given the context of a relatively concise monograph. I then investigate a number of the other preoccupations that emerge strongly from their discussions of the music, and the ways in which they relate to the biographical paradigms identified in the previous chapter, in order more fully to understand the place of the works within the life in the Master Musicians volumes. This line of enquiry ultimately invites reconsideration of the musical canon that resulted from the series, drawing on some of the findings of Part I. 2 Respectively, Breakspeare 1902: 144-55, Hadden 1934a: 116-25, and Lidgey 1899: 153-244. 261 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections The Implied Hierarchy of Musical Genres As the biographers and reviewers alike were acutely aware, the size of the volumes greatly limited possibilities for the exploration both of individual works and of subjects’ entire output. Yet it was also essential, given the weight placed on the Protestant work ethic and the importance of demonstrating that the composers had indeed employed their gifts to the full, to provide sufficient evidence both of the extent and the greatness of their music. The authors therefore needed to strike a balance between discussing their subjects’ general output (to indicate that they had composed widely during the course of their career) and examining individual works (to explain in detail their particular importance and to make them more accessible to the reader). Hence they praised their subjects for the variety of their output, as well as the heights they attained, in a number of different categories of works (trope 13-A). However, since biography’s limited scope necessarily leads to an emphasis upon its subjects’ grandest creations, the Master Musicians authors deemed the large-scale pieces to provide the most substantial evidence of a composer’s genius (trope 13-B). While they were more likely to have been those that enjoyed enduring public fame, there is a certain irony in that public performances of the massive monuments of art would have been expensive to mount and were thus relatively infrequent. Indeed, the time was such that famous large-scale works often came to be known to autodidacts, concert-goers, and music-makers in arrangements for more readily available resources such as piano duet and brass band. As Stratton (13-B-2) indicated with respect to Mendelssohn’s Songs without Words, the works most widely performed in their original form were, for purely practical reasons, often the smaller-scale works – the very repertoire that biography did not typically celebrate as illustrative of its creators’ greatness. The point is indicative of the wider tension between competing musical canons that served different functions, upon which scholars such as Joseph Kerman (1983) and William Weber (1999) have remarked. 262 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections In the case of the Master Musicians series, which consciously avoided dwelling on fashionable repertories at the expense of lesser-known music, in-depth examinations of individual works primarily encompassed such genres as symphonies and stage works (notably opera), as well as miscellaneous large-scale music including Masses, oratorios, and Requiems. When faced with sets such as Beethoven’s symphonies, to choose a clear-cut example, it was feasible for the biographer to explore each individually rather than merely considering them en masse, given the small numbers of works involved. After all, there is a limit to how many works akin to (say) a Wagnerian music drama anybody could realistically produce in his or her lifetime, which correspondingly enhances their monumentality and their importance to biography. Patterson’s description of opera as ‘generally the crowning ambition of the composer’ (1934: 167) may have reflected her own preoccupations more than those of her subject, but her point nonetheless stands. The discussion of small numbers of analogous works held the added advantage of its being relatively straightforward to chart a pattern of increasing greatness across the whole, according to the paradigm of continual development. Given the instrumental resources required for such substantial compositions, it is telling that a number of biographers claimed that their subject was responsible for giving birth to the ‘modern’ orchestra (trope 13-C): the accomplishment was attributed successively to Beethoven (13-C-1), Haydn (13-C-2), Mozart (13-C-3), and Wagner (13-C-4), while Mendelssohn and Schubert received credit for having made significant developments (13-C-6). To a lesser extent, there was also space for biographers to discuss major chamber works in some detail. This category was dominated by the string quartet, which Duncan described as ‘a form of composition admittedly most difficult of all’ (1934: 155). However, other works, such as songs, piano pieces, instrumental sonatas, and even 263 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections minor orchestral pieces, which were generally less substantial than the genres considered so far, could only be explored either by being grouped together or (if detail was essential) by a single piece taking centre stage. For instance, in Breakspeare’s volume, Mozart’s single Goethe setting (‘Das Veilchen’) accounts for approximately half of the section devoted to the songs (1902: 222-7). This issue has parallels in literary biography, in which it is often much more realistic to engage in individual discussion of each of the subject’s novels than of the smaller, more numerous forms such as poems, though the latter are more easily managed if they are somehow gathered together, such as in a collected anthology. Similarly, it would have been impossible for Duncan to have surveyed every one of Schubert’s songs (as distinct from his song cycles) given the size of the Master Musicians volumes, whereas it was feasible to examine each of his symphonies. 3 An added problem of writing about smaller works was that the groups into which they were necessarily divided were often arbitrary, arising either from medium, genre, date of composition, or published collection. However, they might have been otherwise devoid of the homology, cohesion, and general sense of progression from one constituent to the next that would facilitate their discussion as a set. Thus the authors made mention of certain widely-composed corpuses only to discount them as being unrepresentative of the heights of their subjects’ greatness in relation to works to which further space was devoted. Breakspeare, for instance, seemed rather dismissive towards Mozart’s piano sonatas (1902: 113-6), which, on the face of it, were surely important not just for their wider historical significance but also because contemporary music lovers and pianists were doubtless familiar with at least some of them, since they had 3 Compare Duncan’s discussion of Schubert’s songs (1934: 118-41), in which the three cycles plus ‘Erlkönig’ figure prominently, with his systematic exegesis of the symphonies (: 164-85). 264 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections been published in Britain by this time. Dealing with the entire corpus in under three pages, the biographer noted that ‘it is not to these works that we should turn… if it were a question of demonstrating the full and concentrated force of the composer’s genius’ (: 114). This line of enquiry functioned to the detriment not just of certain genres, but also of those composers whose output crystallized around such smaller-scale works, notably Chopin (trope 13-D). In a lengthy justification, Hadden noted that the nature of Chopin’s genius was such that his musical materials were amenable only to the piano (13-D-1), that the instrument was Chopin’s ‘native tongue’ (13-D-3), and that he was ‘deficient in virility’ (13-D-2). The latter points follow an established tradition of explaining Chopin’s works with recourse to his nationality and (more importantly) his gendering as feminine, which was traditionally aligned with smaller musical forms. 4 Biography’s necessary privileging of certain works over others thereby reinforced a canonic hierarchy of genres, headed by symphonies, operas, and other large-scale (predominantly religious) works, followed by string quartets and other chamber music, with more widely-composed categories – songs and piano works among them – sidelined. Since only a sample of pieces could be examined in detail, the Master Musicians authors also offered general assessments of their subjects’ musicality and compositional abilities. It is these broader discussions (rather than those on specific works) that are particularly valuable to the following analysis, for they gave rise to sweeping generalizations that reveal much about the biographers’ preoccupations regarding the music. For example, only wider evaluation of the concept of musicality as it applied to specific subjects enabled the authors to explore the underlying reasons for their claims to greatness over a multitude of other, lesser composers, many of whom 4 See, for example, Kallberg 1992b. In emphasizing large-scale works over smaller forms, the genre of musical biography thereby also privileged male composers above female counterparts whose musical activity lay primarily in the latter domain. 265 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections had likewise produced such monumental works of art as symphonies and operas. The incorporation of the lesser-known music alongside the most celebrated works also helped to legitimize the former to the reader, ultimately facilitating the establishment of a historically-significant canon. Great Music versus Popular Idioms Previous discussion has identified the series as being distinctive for its endeavours to bring to the attention of the British lay reader music of enduring importance, over and above that immediately fashionable with the public. Notions explored at the end of the preceding chapter of the composers’ foregoing possible fame and fortune in order to pursue greatness in music – in contrast to lesser counterparts who simply pandered to contemporary taste – consequently resurface in discussions relating specifically to the music (trope 14-A). Hence Patterson wrote that Schumann did not concern himself with musical ostentation and ‘ethereal fireworks’ (14-A-1), and Erb claimed that Brahms always strove for the very highest ideals (14-A-2) and lacked the popular appeal even of Haydn, Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Wagner (1934: 115). In turn, the case was stated particularly strongly for Wagner, who felt keenly the impact on his career of the popular trends that Lidgey described as the ‘prostitution of art to the ends of individual display and personal aggrandizement’ (14-A-3). As discussed, Handel proved problematic because he had written music that responded to the demand for public entertainment, thereby earning a substantial fortune (trope 14-B). By way of response, Williams anachronistically contrasted Handel’s popular idioms with Bach’s academic ingenuity within the context of both of his monographs. Such ideas are hardly specific to Victorian Britain; for example, Katharine Ellis (2005: 209-40) has identified analogous manifestations in comparisons of the two composers 266 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections within the context of nineteenth-century France. Nonetheless, that Handel was particularly dear to the English would have given biographers such as Williams an additional incentive to cast the composer in a positive light. By evaluating the careers of his two subjects at corresponding times in their lives (14-B-1, 14-B-2) and comparing their music (1935: 63-4) – specifically, two sets of variations written on the same chord progression, the concluding chaconne from Handel’s second set of Suites de pièces pour le clavecin (1733) and Bach’s Goldberg Variations (1741) – Williams endeavoured to demonstrate that the composers’ ideals were actually not so far removed from each other (14-B-3, 14-B-4). His opinion was that Handel simply furnished the public of his day (rather than that of the future) with great music, enriching pre-existing operatic forms through his genius (14-B-5, 14-B-6). His conclusion, indeed, was that the major difference between his two subjects was simply one of finance (14-B-7). Williams even noted that although Handel’s music had never gone out of fashion, his works had at one time been considered less popular – and, by implication, were therefore greater – than those of lesser contemporaries such as Bononcini (1935: 76-9). Handel aside, the Master Musicians biographers held that not only did the Great Composers refuse to write music that merely conformed to popular taste, but that they also had little sympathy with those who did. We have previously seen that, in exemplary fashion, the subjects apparently did not begrudge their lesser contemporaries the success that came with writing music for immediate public entertainment. Instead, according to the biographers, they simply disassociated themselves from populist composers because they misused the great art of music (trope 14-C). Particular issue was taken with Meyerbeer, not because of Schumann’s opinion on the composer 267 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections (14-C-1, 14-C-2) 5 so much as Wagner’s. Lidgey’s claim (14-C-3, 14-C-4) that Wagner’s objection to Meyerbeer centred around the superficiality of his music rather than the man himself was used to justify two difficult corners of his subject’s life: his ungrateful attitude towards a fellow artist who had supported him during his time in Boulogne in 1839; and, by extension, his anti-Semitism, since Lidgey made explicit the connection with Meyerbeer’s Jewish heritage. 6 Another set of composers who drew fire from the Master Musicians biographers was the nineteenth-century Italian operatic school; that the assault was led by the editor himself seemed particularly damning in light of his earlier work on Cherubini and Verdi. The polarization that Crowest sought to establish between Beethoven and Rossini (14-C-5) was especially significant in view of the latter’s enduring popularity in turn-of-the-century Britain, coupled with his exclusion from the series itself. Given the fashion for constructing exemplary lives as having overcome hurdles, both within the Master Musicians series and in Victorian biography in general, the Great Composers’ initial success was seen to have been compromised by the prevalence of such superficial music (trope 14-D). Williams (14-D-1) followed Crowest’s lead in claiming that Bach was disadvantaged to a greater extent than Beethoven since his public was smaller (a comparison whose validity is extremely limited), while Duncan (14-D-2) described Schubert as ‘ten times more gifted’ than Rossini. Brahms was especially celebrated for not having departed from his lofty ideals in order to achieve more immediate success (14-D-3); doubtless the particular need to champion him in this respect was due to the relatively short length of time between the composer’s death and the appearance of the original series. According to Erb (14-D-4, 14-D-5), the ultimate 5 6 Notably, Schumann wrote a blistering article on Meyerbeer (1988d) for the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik in 1837. See further, his letter to Ferdinand Hiller of 15 January 1850 (Herbert 1890: 125). Wagner’s seminal essay is ‘Das Judenthum in der Musik’ (1892-9d). 268 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections result of Brahms’s refusal to compromise his artistic integrity was music of much greater value than the shallow works of lesser contemporaries, but which only slowly received due recognition. However, the Great Composers were seen to have suffered not just from their music’s being ‘beyond the fashion of the hour’, to use the words of one author (Williams 1934: 105), but also from the consequently long period before their reputations were widely established (trope 14-E). The traditional belief that genius was, by its very nature, not fully acknowledged in its own day was variously employed to justify the limited recognition accorded to Schumann (14-E-1), Tchaikovsky (14-E-2), and Brahms (14-E-3) in their own lifetimes. Recalling the series’ aim to provide both musical and moral education for British autodidacts, the implication was that to listen to and comprehend works by such composers would elevate one’s intellectual, if not also social, status. Originality as a Marker of Greatness The biographers held that only by transcending the artistic fashions of the day in this manner could truly original music result. This notion intersects with their conception of the Great Composers as being ahead of their times, and as having taken their art in new directions; it also reflected wider Victorian preoccupations with originality. The unease surrounding variation form (trope 15-A), which was deemed unoriginal for its being typically based on a pre-existing tune given an essentially formulaic treatment, is indicative. The increasing levels of ostentatious embellishment that often resulted ensured its popularity as a means of entertaining the public, in which guise it had doubtless been encountered by many of the series’ readers. For the same reason, it was abhorrent to the biographers: Breakspeare (15-A-1) described the genre as ‘necessarily inferior’, while Patterson (15-A-2) remarked that it could be ‘trivial’ and a ‘mere volley of fireworks’. However, while variation form could indeed give rise to crowd-pleasing 269 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections music that embraced virtuosity for its own sake, it could also yield works of the uppermost rank. Hence claims were made that such music by Mozart (15-A-1), Schumann (15-A-2), Brahms (15-A-4), and others was nevertheless resourceful, imaginative, and illustrative of genius. In the context of British biography of this era, the concept of originality referred to uniqueness rather than necessarily implying innovation. James Fitzjames Stephen famously wrote that ‘Originality consists in thinking for yourself, not in thinking differently from other people’ (1873: 48); that he was the brother of Leslie Stephen and the uncle of Virginia Woolf places his viewpoint near the heart of the Victorian and Edwardian biographical project. It is also closely echoed in the Master Musicians series, for instance in the discussion of Mendelssohn’s perceived lack of innovation as compared with other Great Composers: to Stratton (15-B-5), Mendelssohn’s claim to originality (and to the advancement of art) hinged entirely on his composition of ‘new beauties’ using established musical forms. At the same time, the authors were aware of their subjects’ place in the historical development of music, and their indebtedness to predecessors and contemporaries (trope 15-C). This issue assumes an increased significance given that each volume formed part of a closely-associated series, and will receive further discussion towards the end of this chapter. Its importance to notions of originality, as most forcefully expressed by Breakspeare (15-C-2, 15-C-5), was that the contributions made by geniuses were seen to surpass by far the ideas they inherited, and that they therefore produced much greater art within existing traditions. Originality was a particularly well-developed trope in Haydn biography, stemming from the composer’s reportedly expressing the belief that his isolation from the wider artistic world, while in service of the Esterházy family, forced him to write music that was free 270 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections from external influence. 7 Hadden employed a similar idea in discussing his other subject too, by anachronistically suggesting (15-B-2) that Chopin’s remoteness from the heart of the canon ensured the uniqueness of his music. Given Hadden’s proposition (3-G-9) that Chopin exhibited little of the development so clearly charted in the lives of other Master Musicians subjects, it was especially important to demonstrate that his work avoided duplication and remained original. Thus he wrote that each of over fifty mazurkas Chopin produced throughout his mature career is novel in its own way, citing the opinions of such authorities as Schumann, Lenz, and Liszt in support of his assertion (1934b: 193). There was, however, a danger that that such overstated claims to originality could potentially negate a composer’s admissibility to a given musical canon on the grounds that the works were too far removed from its fields of activity. Here the tensions surrounding Chopin were particularly evident, for Hadden contradicted himself in his efforts to explain his exact relationship with other composers: he firstly wrote that Chopin’s absorption of his precursors’ music was so thorough that the resultant music was original (15-C-7), and then stated just two pages later that the composer approached the musical canon from the outside and so never conformed completely (15-C-8). Ironically, Hadden had himself drawn upon the opinion of a predecessor, Sir Henry Hadow, at this juncture. 8 The emphasis placed on originality created various problems when subjects had demonstrably failed in this capacity, such as when they had plagiarized from other composers or borrowed from their own works. Despite its inherent anachronism, at least in the context of the series’ eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century composers, 7 8 Griesinger famously quoted Haydn as having said of this period of his life that ‘I was set apart from the world, there was nobody in my vicinity to confuse and annoy me in my course, and so I had to be[come] original’ (Gotwals 1963: 17); see further, Bauman 2004. Hadow had written in an essay on Chopin that ‘We hardly think of him as marking a stage in the general course and progress of artistic History, but, rather, as standing aside from it, unconscious of his relation to the world, preoccupied with the fairyland of his own creations’ (1893-5: II, 169). 271 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections instances of plagiarism were frowned upon by the Victorian Period and were hence fundamentally at variance with the notion of the exemplary life. Self-borrowing was similarly problematic because originality required novelty in comparison to (any) music previously written, and because the recycling of old works was a short cut that betrayed the spirit of the work ethic so precious to the biographers. The British context of the Master Musicians series compounded these tensions because, as Peter Burkholder (2001: 26) has noted, modern preoccupations with originality in the arts first emerged in England. In addition, the subject whose notorious practices occasioned the most extensive justification on this issue was Handel (trope 15-D), closely followed by Haydn; both were composers whom the country held dear. Writers on music from the early nineteenth century to the present have been fixated with the former’s borrowings: one major study, Sedley Taylor’s The Indebtedness of Handel to Works by Other Composers (1906), was contemporary with the Master Musicians series. While Williams did not attempt to disguise that Handel was not as strikingly novel as other composers – as discussed, he was presented as having written music to furnish the needs of his own day – he nevertheless claimed that his subject possessed ‘a colossal genius for original composition’ (1935: 173). Indeed, the principal explanation the biographer offered (15-D-1, 15-D-3, 15-D-4) was that Handel did not merely copy the music of other composers, but greatly improved it through his own genius and creativity, to the extent, Williams asserted, that the works he thereby produced were effectively original. 9 In contradiction, his second line of defence (15-D-2, 15-D-3) attempted to rationalize Handel’s plagiarisms by offering an argument that has been thoroughly rehearsed in Handel studies: that such procedures, though considered dishonourable within more modern contexts, were both widespread and acceptable in the eighteenth century when 9 In the revised volume, Blom (drawing on the scholarship of Edward J. Dent) offered another, related explanation: that Handel enjoyed making improvements to the work of others (Williams 1935: 196-7). 272 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections the status of ownership of a given piece of music was different. Williams even showed (15-D-7) that Bach similarly re-used material from other composers’ works, citing an instance in which Bach may have pilfered from Handel (1935: 51-2). Though much truth lay behind this reasoning, Handel’s plagiarisms could not in fairness be compared to such traditions as writing fugues or variations on themes by other composers, nor to Handel’s adaptation of existing works to meet with specific performance conditions (15-D-8). That the biographer’s multi-faceted discussion came across as a staunch defence of a practice that an early twentieth-century British readership would have deemed immoral is confirmed by one reviewer’s cynical observation that ‘we doubt whether [Williams] could name any other composer who acted in a similar manner… Handel’s greatness saves him from the condemnation which would be passed on a composer of lesser fame.’ 10 Added confirmation of this point is to be found in the resonance of Williams’s views with those put forward in later volumes of the series (trope 15-E), in which similar claims were made as to the prevalence of such procedures in the composers’ own time. Alternatively, in order to preserve notions of originality, perceived instances of borrowings in the works of other subjects could instead be explained with reference to notions of coincidence, or of shared musical material used inevitably (and legitimately) by a number of different composers – neither of which therefore constituted actual theft. Hadden’s justification of perceived plagiarisms in Haydn’s works (15-E-1) is notably replete with contradiction. Admitting that Haydn tacitly ‘purloined wholesale’ from other composers, and that such borrowings were ethically sound in his time, the biographer then suggested that he would surely have made due acknowledgement had he purposefully used somebody else’s music. He concluded that Haydn’s actions were 10 Review of Williams 1901, The Athenaeum, mmmdcccl (10 August 1901), 199. 273 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections therefore unintentional, and that somebody of his stature would not need to draw upon external sources for his material. Evans’s discussion of Tchaikovsky’s self-borrowings (15-E-3), meanwhile, is illustrative of the tension surrounding the practice for its lack of originality. The biographer claimed that his subject’s genius allowed him to manipulate old music to different contexts, the implication being that new music nevertheless resulted. Spontaneity and Intellectualism This emphasis on the concept of originality and its application to artistic work also raised questions as to the extent to which the Master Musicians subjects adhered to convention, based on the premise that genuinely original music would not merely follow pre-existing rules. The biographers consistently subscribed to an assumption that seems rather anachronistic: that the Great Composers transcended theory in the pursuit of their creative endeavours, whereas second-rate composers simply applied the principles of harmony and counterpoint successfully (trope 16-A). The ability to surpass convention became an important means by which the genius of composition was separated from the lesser talent of technical competence (16-A-1, 16-A-2). That the latter was felt to lead to music that was formulaic and shallow rather than expressive and animate is demonstrated in the particular tension surrounding the use of contrapuntal techniques, whether by Bach (16-A-3), Mozart (16-A-4), or even Brahms (16-A-5). Such unease over counterpoint has quite some history behind it and was by no means confined to Britain (see, for example, Leech-Wilkinson 2002, Garratt 2002, Ellis 2005); nonetheless, in the present context it intersected with concerns that were more specifically Victorian. Accordingly, creativity and intellectual ingenuity were perceived by Crowest’s biographers as symbioses rather than antitheses, for true genius was seen to be able to reconcile theory with art; Williams even claimed that the greater the level 274 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections of contrapuntal skill Bach’s music displayed, the more emotive it became. Another genre that proved problematic for one of the biographers was the étude, given its pedagogical purpose; Hadden (16-A-6) thus took pains to explain to the reader that Chopin had raised the genre to the level of art. 11 Indeed, the biographers indicated that such was their subjects’ prioritization of imagination above form that they were even prepared to violate music-theoretical rules in the pursuit of their own creative instincts (trope 16-B). The notion has its origins in stories related by Griesinger (Gotwals 1963: 56) and Ries (Wegeler and Ries 1987: 76) of the adverse reactions of Haydn and Beethoven respectively when their compositions were criticized for containing parallel fifths. Its application with the present context of late Victorian educational biography was both positive and negative. Such comments as Patterson’s (16-B-3, 16-B-4) that Schumann derived his own principles of composition might suggest the promotion of self-teaching. However, the corresponding implication that the path to true genius did not lie with the textbooks – Hadden even wrote that theory should be dictated by practice (16-B-6) – may not have conveyed quite the right message to the turn-of-thecentury British autodidact. The tensions between expression and intellectual endeavour in music were sufficiently pronounced for the biographers to need to choose one over the other; they collectively came down heavily on the side of the former (trope 16-C). Great composition was therefore presented as a spontaneous endeavour rather than the product of extensive intellectual labour, deriving from the heart and soul rather than the mind; several authors even drew explicit parallels with extemporization (trope 16-D). While this was a concern that arose across Europe in the nineteenth century – for example, Katharine 11 A number of modern studies (notably Samson 2003) similarly engage with the genre of nineteenth-century étude for its musical, rather than merely pedagogical, value. 275 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections Ellis (1995) has discussed parallel manifestations in France – its relevance in the present context lies in its giving rise to a number of contradictions in terms of the more specifically Victorian life-paradigms discussed in the previous chapter. If great music poured impulsively from the soul, then its composers would need to subject neither themselves nor their works to prolonged periods of development, which was inconsistent with the industrious labour that the biographers saw as being necessary to realize creative genius. Conversely, if they spent considerable time bringing their abilities to fruition, as demanded by the Protestant work ethic that underpinned the volumes, they could hardly be said to have produced music spontaneously. The matter was further problematized by the emphasis placed in popular biography on speed of composition, given the prevalence of tales such as that Handel wrote Messiah in just 22 days, that Wagner more or less finished Der fliegende Holländer in seven weeks, or that Mozart’s last three symphonies were completed in around two months. 12 Schubert biography in particular teemed with engaging (and mostly fabricated) anecdotes about how the composer penned ‘Hark, Hark, the Lark’ on the back of a bill of fare in a beer-house garden, once wrote eight songs in a single day, and even supposedly failed to recognize his own work when it was shown to him two weeks after its composition. 13 These various conflicts gave rise to substantial unease in explorations of the compositional methods of the Master Musicians subjects, especially in those cases where acts of creation were marked either by laboriousness or by facility – for emphasis in either direction presented difficulty. The former came to be epitomized by Beethoven (trope 16-E) and the latter by Mozart (trope 16-F), discussion upon whom is indicative of the wider debates that took place within the volumes on Schubert (trope 16-H) and a 12 13 See Williams 1935: 136; Lidgey 1899: 25; Breakspeare 1902: 128. Many of these stories are recounted in Duncan 1934: 105-8. On their refutation, see Brown 1958: 328-34. 276 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections number of other centrally-canonic figures (trope 16-I). That the issue seemed to crystallize around these two composers may have been due to their having been focal points for the developing understanding of artistic genius as articulated in musical writings of the last two centuries, as a recent philosophical study by Peter Kivy (2001) has identified with reference to a broad alternation between what the author terms the concepts of the ‘possessed’ (the ‘natural’ genius who receives ideas directly from above and who therefore performs acts of creation with apparent ease) and the ‘possessor’ (one who studiously learns and hence ‘owns’ genius, being thus empowered to reproduce and reconfigure it). The tension surrounding the methods by which composers produced their music, meanwhile, extends back as far as the advent of modern musical biography itself: as Karen Painter observed in her comprehensive investigation of the ideologies that underlay the initial accounts of Mozart’s acts of composition, ‘The central problem for the early biographers remained how to reconcile the [Protestant] work ethic they wished to ascribe to Mozart with the lore of his compositional facility’ (2002: 201). Since Painter’s study was conducted exclusively on early German-language texts on Mozart, comparison with the views expressed in a much later, inter-related biographical series (and one whose editor contributed the volume on Beethoven) reveals both that these conflicts subsequently spread across Europe and that they remained prominent in composer life-writing over a century later. What is particularly interesting about the ways in which this problematic area of musical biography was approached within the Master Musicians volumes is that, perhaps due in part to the editor’s guiding hand, both Breakspeare and Crowest drew comparisons between their subjects in order to demonstrate that their apparently different compositional approaches were not so far removed from one another (trope 16-G). Crowest justified Beethoven’s famously prolonged compositional labours with 277 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections reference both to his phenomenal abilities as a pianist and to the notion that the full power of his creativity took time to develop (16-E-1). At the same time, he invoked ideas of spontaneity by portraying his subject as having received his musical materials through his wanderings in the countryside (16-E-2), his imagined communion with God (9-A-6), and so forth; that these tropes were widespread within Beethoven biography calls into question the extent to which Kivy’s model of the composer as ‘possessor’ of genius might stand up to detailed scrutiny. For Crowest, Beethoven differed from other composers only in the extent to which these materials underwent development within the pages of his sketchbooks (16-E-3, 16-E-4) (major scholarly work on which had commenced with Gustav Nottebohm’s studies of the 1860s and 1870s); and he was praised, understandably given the series’ educational context, for the patience and consideration with which he painstakingly derived music of only the best quality from the fruits of his inspiration (16-E-5, 16-E-6). Conversely, as one might expect in popular biography, Breakspeare’s accounts of Mozart at work were positively novelized in places (for example, 16-F-1), suggesting – more in line with Kivy’s notion of genius as ‘possessed’ – that the composer committed ideas to paper immediately they came to him. However, the biographer also indicated (16-F-3) that Mozart’s vast and varied output was not merely the result of this phenomenal rapidity but also of an unceasing industriousness more consistent with the Protestant work ethic. While acknowledging the apparent spontaneity of Mozart’s music, then, Breakspeare also stated that the composer considered his works carefully, and with an intellectual rigour equal to Beethoven’s (16-G-1). Crowest likewise emphasized the similarities between their methods, observing that both elaborated their musical ideas through mental effort; as he claimed, ‘the methods of working of these two great composers… are not really far separated after all’ (16-G-2). 278 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections Absolute Music In keeping with widely-held notions of the later nineteenth century as to what constituted great music, the biographers insisted upon such idealized European aesthetics as autonomy and especially absolute music (trope 17-B), the relationship of which to contemporary philosophical thought has been comprehensively discussed by Carl Dahlhaus (1989). That the genre of biography draws connections between the life and the works almost by definition is generally problematic to the concept of absolute music, which hinges on the exaltation of those works ostensibly devoid of external reference. This matter may account for the unease with which the two were related by the biographers (trope 17-A), which was itself augmented by the series’ idiosyncratic separation of the life and the music. The perceived relationship between absolute music and canonic centrality was particularly evident in the series: Crowest (17-B-1), following Wagner’s famous view (for which, see below), held that Beethoven ‘fulfilled all that was possible in the domain of absolute music’, while Erb (17-B-2) stated that Brahms was second only to Beethoven in this field. Breakspeare, whose earlier writings revealed a notable preoccupation with musical aesthetics, declared his subject to have been the greatest composer of autonomous music (17-B-3). Inevitably, programme music was considered an inferior form (trope 17-C). While this view may be traced back through much of nineteenth-century Europe, it assumed renewed currency within the context of the Master Musicians series owing to its authors’ preoccupations with originality and spontaneity, not to mention its obvious synergies with the much stronger British traditions of literature. Just as had been the case in much Continental music criticism of the time, special justification was needed in those instances in which works could not easily be seen to fit into the bracket of absolute music (trope 17-C), notably when they involved genres that lay close to the 279 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections heart of the musical canon. One obvious example was Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ Symphony, tension surrounding which had earlier been articulated by the likes of Schumann (1988c: 84-5) in his famous article on Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique. The work neatly illustrates the problem that programme music presented to the Master Musicians project, in that Crowest’s claim (17-C-1) that its descriptive element derived not from the mimicry of specific sounds but from the attempt to invoke certain emotions in the listener neither accords with the piece itself nor indeed with his later description of its movements (1899: 176-8). Evans was similarly keen to reclaim Tchaikovsky’s symphonies as absolute music and to rescue them from the programmes that had been fabricated by earlier music critics, with which a turn-of-the-century British readership might have been familiar. 14 This endeavour was particularly important given the composer’s own view that ‘When I write a programme symphony I always feel I am not paying in sterling coin, but in worthless paper money.’ 15 Of the series’ authors, only Patterson (17-C-3) attempted to defend her subject’s more pictorial works for their originality, rather than to claim that they did not actually constitute descriptive music at all. The privileging of absolute music also led to the biographers’ viewing with suspicion the genres with which it could not be associated, notably opera, bringing Wagner’s uneasy situation within the musical canon very much to the fore. In his defence, Lidgey (17-C-5, 17-C-6; cf. Crowest, 17-B-1) did little more than summarize the composer’s own views as to his continuation of the work of Beethoven, specifically his Ninth Symphony, which Wagner interpreted as proof that the full potential of absolute music 14 15 In addition to quotation 17-C-2, which refers to Tchaikovsky’s First Symphony, Evans dismissed the possibilities as programme music of the composer’s Third, Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Symphonies (1935: 111, 117-8, 120, and 121-2 ). P. Tchaikovsky to S. I. Taneyev, 13 June [25 June] 1885 (Tchaikovsky 1906: 484), on the composer’s ‘Manfred’ Symphony. 280 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections had already been reached and that to combine it with the written word was the logical future course for the art. 16 Nonetheless, genres that were not musically self-contained were valuable to the biographers for another reason, given the frequency with which the limited success of specific works was justified with reference to extra-musical factors over which their subjects would have had no control. Claims that an opera was unsuccessful because of the shortcomings of its libretto were particularly common (trope 17-D), notably in the cases of Schubert (17-D-1), Tchaikovsky (17-D-2, 17-D-3), and to some extent Mozart (17-D-5). Conversely, other biographers accounted for the limited contributions to the genre of Beethoven (17-E-1), Mendelssohn (17-E-2), and Schumann (17-E-3) by claiming that no libretto of suitable quality was available. Erb’s reference to Brahms’s concern that it was not artistic for music merely to accompany drama (17-E-4), in discussing why he wrote no opera, is surely to be read as another of the biographer’s thinly-disguised criticisms of Wagner. The rhetoric also had some limited application outside opera (trope 17-F); the moderate quality of the songs of both Haydn (17-F-2) and Mozart (17-F-3), for instance, was rationalized with reference to the generally mediocre texts available to them. For the biographers, steeped in strong national literary traditions, it was evident that only greatness of text could yield greatness of music. The Austrogermanic Hegemony of a Self-Referential Canon That the Master Musicians series is particularly fascinating within the context of Victorian biography for its focus on primarily Austrogermanic subjects, and corresponding invisibility of English ones, has already been noted. The biographers’ privileging of great art above popular repertories, their collective adherence to German 16 See Wagner 1892-9a (esp. 126-8); Wagner 1892-9b, passim. On this issue see further, Kropfinger 1991. 281 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections musical aesthetics, and their repeated rejection of the Italian populist school may go some way to explaining this emphasis, especially given that only one of its ten authors had significant musical connections to Germany. Within the resulting canon, various comparisons were set up between lesser Austrogermanic figures and their greater compatriots, reflecting their reception in turn-of-the-century Britain. For example, the music of Schubert – which, as noted in Part I, was still in need of promotion in the late Victorian Period, the efforts of George Grove and others notwithstanding – was frequently related to that of Beethoven or Mozart (and sometimes also Haydn), and said to anticipate Brahms. More revealing was Stratton’s attempt to align Mendelssohn with the ‘classical’ composers that had come before him (trope 18-A), rather than with less historically important, and non-Austrogermanic, contemporaries such as Berlioz, Chopin, and Liszt, whom he felt actually damaged Mendelssohn’s reputation by their temporal proximity (1934: 155). As I discuss in the conclusion to Part II, Mendelssohn was particularly cherished by nineteenth-century England, in ways that arguably exceeded his broader significance to narratives of music history. But the composer who appeared to require trumpeting the most – at least at the time of the original Master Musicians series, and particularly in view of the biographer’s American standpoint – was Brahms, whose comparisons with Beethoven (and, to a lesser extent, Bach) by German critics such as Hans von Bülow are widely known. Erb extended this tradition in associating Brahms’s music with an array of Austrogermanic predecessors (trope 18-B), writing that he gained his command of counterpoint from Bach and inherited the musical ideas and forms of Beethoven (18-B-3, 18-B-4), inflected with the subsequent Romanticism of Schubert and Schumann. Erb also endeavoured to establish Brahms as Beethoven’s successor (just as Patterson had portrayed Schumann as a musical descendant of Bach) in the parallels frequently drawn between their works, including their chamber music (18-B-5, 18-B-6) and violin concertos (18-B-7). 282 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections The series’ emphasis on subjects of Austrogermanic persuasion also raises the question of the strategies adopted in respect of the two who were not. While Chopin’s nationality reinforced his separation from the other Master Musicians subjects and underscored his canonic marginality, as previously investigated, Tchaikovsky could feasibly have instead been situated within a separate national tradition that included such figures as ‘The Five’ and the Rubinsteins (trope 18-C). However, Evans claimed that Tchaikovsky’s music had little in common with that of his artistic compatriots (18-C-1) and that his attempts to compose in Russian idioms ultimately resulted in failure (18-C-2), but that he conversely achieved success when writing works indebted to such composers as Beethoven (18-C-3) and Mozart (18-C-4). He also suggested, with reference to Tchaikovsky’s songs, that his subject’s greatness derived from this very fusion of the German and the Eastern European (18-C-5): essentially, he was an outsider with a particular understanding of the inside. The notion recalls Hadden’s arguments on Chopin (15-C-8) for its establishing a case for originality on the basis of different nationality. However, the portrayal of Tchaikovsky is particularly noteworthy given that Evans was well-known for his promotion of Russian music and his eschewing of the German, but that despite these sympathies, he apparently felt that the best means of championing Tchaikovsky within early twentieth-century British communities lay in emphasizing the similarity of his music to the Austrogermanic masterworks and shunning the Russian school. The biographers’ collective efforts to endorse their twelve subjects – and only those twelve – as the composers with the strongest claims to being placed at the forefront of music history resulted in the development of a canon that was internally cross-referenced in a number of different ways (trope 19). Readers who approached the constituent volumes as a complete collection might have taken this inter-relation as a 283 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections legitimization of the inclusion of the twelve figures, strengthening the canon’s cohesion and reinforcing its closed status such that to have added another composer, or to have subtracted one from the group, might have weakened the set overall (much like the curious appearance of a biography on Brahms some twenty-five years after the original publication of the Great Musicians series). Not only were its subjects compared to one another, but their positive opinions of one another were also exploited (trope 19-A), which proved particularly valuable given the emphasis the authors placed on great art’s being slow to receive widespread acknowledgement (trope 14-E). The broader significance to musical biography of the recognition of a younger composer by a senior contemporary was demonstrated in Part I with reference to a number of different stories; the trope becomes doubly valuable within the context of a unified series, not least given the importance of Mendelssohn to the Bach revival (Stratton 1934: 38-41) or the discovery of Schubert’s music by Schumann and others (19-A-6, 19-A-7). By way of giving added weight to the high regard in which specific Great Composers held others, several biographers claimed that assessments of one artist by another were rarely constructive but often hostile (trope 19-B). While a certain amount of rationalization was offered in instances where composers had themselves been adversely criticized (trope 19-C), such as Mendelssohn’s views of Chopin (19-C-1) and Beethoven (19-C-3), the authors unsurprisingly kept quiet concerning any negative comments made by their own subjects. Stratton’s praise of Mendelssohn (8-F-7, 8-F-8) for never having worked as a music critic, on the grounds that composers’ views of one another are too often erroneous and unimportant, would therefore seem to contain a veiled justification for somewhat less exemplary behaviour. Part I also investigated the significance to musical biography of the tradition of Great Composers’ being grouped into pairs; the above analysis enables re-assessment of this 284 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections phenomenon within the context of a biographical series, and of the paradigms identified as consistently appearing within its volumes. In particular, these couplings may now be seen as founded not just on subjects’ lives having temporally overlapped, but also on the contrasts they provided in terms of the preoccupations of the biographers (at least some of which are so fundamental that they may also be considered general concerns of music history and criticism). The first such coupling among the twelve Master Musicians subjects, Bach and Handel, has already received discussion. The next, Haydn and Mozart, provided a valuable contrast between genius that evolved slowly and uneventfully across a long, stable life and one that developed at a phenomenal rate from prodigious childhood to premature death; in this respect, Mozart’s untimely demise actually helped to restore the proportions of a biography set awry by his precocious formative years. The third pairing, Beethoven and Schubert, encapsulated similar debates about laborious compositional methods developed over a long life versus facility of writing music in the context of a shorter one. There are other points of comparison here, too: where the former was most celebrated for large-scale symphonic works that (at least towards the end of his life) met with great public success, for example, the latter was best known for the smaller song forms initially confined to semi-public artistic spheres. While the lives of these three ‘couples’ largely preceded nineteenth-century attempts at canon formation, the last was arguably a direct result, being a consequence of the so-called ‘War of the Romantics’ and the emergent debates as to which of Wagner and Brahms epitomized the next logical stage in the development of music after Beethoven. Their pairing was therefore founded on the latter’s being a chief exponent of absolute music, whereas the fame of the former derived from stage works. 285 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections These couplings therefore reflected paradigms primarily concerned with points of musical style and categorization. Nevertheless, as they were established on chronological grounds, the biographers inevitably also sought correspondences between the lives of each pair. However, as Part I has discussed, only with Haydn and Mozart (trope 19-D) was this endeavour readily justifiable; and even in this case, the two composers were apparently concerned to maintain distance from one another professionally, for the elder famously once remarked (according to Griesinger) that ‘Where Mozart is, Haydn cannot appear!’ (Gotwals 1963: 56). The absence of such associations among the other established composer couplings was profoundly inconvenient to musical biography: Bach and Handel definitely never met; Beethoven and Schubert, as we saw in Part I, were barely if at all acquainted; and Brahms and Wagner had an acrimonious relationship. The present context of a unified series that sought to establish a musical canon compounds these tensions, not least given the special circumstance of the same author’s being responsible for the volumes on both Bach and Handel. Perhaps for this reason, and particularly given Williams’s observation that ‘it is customary to compare the two musical giants’ (1934: 106), this pairing appeared to pose the greatest problem (trope 19-E). Aside from their being born just a month apart and the various junctures at which they nearly crossed paths, their biographies yield few opportunities to draw connections other than the similarity of the childhood myths of secret night-time study (myths 1-A and 4-A), and the blindness for which they were treated by the same oculist, John Taylor, in their final years (19-E-6). While these episodes, each potentially eyesight-related, enabled biographers to discuss the two composers in tandem conveniently both at the start and the end of their texts, there remained few more tangible correspondences to be explored between them. The relative frequency with which Williams compared their music, including Handel’s 286 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections Messiah and Bach’s Passion music (1935: 185), was doubtless offered by way of compensation. The remaining pairings will be explored in less detail since they reflect the standpoints of different authors (albeit with a mediating general editor), and because some have already been addressed in Part I. In view of that discussion, it should come as little surprise to the reader that the coupling of Beethoven and Schubert likewise presented substantial difficulties to their biographers (trope 19-F), particularly given the emphasis placed elsewhere in the series on the inter-related nature of its canon and on senior geniuses’ seeking out and identifying the potential of younger counterparts. Duncan’s allusion (19-F-3) to the unrealized possibilities for an ‘ideal friendship’ between the two is indicative of the widespread belief that Great Composers should have formed strong, mutually beneficial relationships with one another. As Part I (myths 2-B and 5-B) has shown, this was an assumption that did not hold for Beethoven and Haydn (trope 19-G), a partnership for which Hadden claimed inevitability since they were the two greatest living composers following the death of Mozart (19-G-1) (but prior, of course, to the emergence of Schubert as a ‘foil’ to Beethoven). It was also roundly contradicted by the notorious example of Brahms and Wagner (trope 19-H), justification for which was provided in the Master Musicians series exclusively (and rather one-sidedly) by Erb, for whom, as noted, implicit criticisms of Wagner underlay several of his discussions in praise of Brahms. Conversely, in Lidgey’s biography of Wagner, which had appeared some years earlier, mention of Brahms is conspicuous by its total absence. While Patterson endeavoured to append Schumann to this bipolarization, situating him musically on the side of Brahms as against Wagner, his lack of an obvious pairing (at least in terms of the Master Musicians series) was a source of tension within her biography (trope 19-I) that even led her to speculate how his life might have been 287 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections enriched, for example, had Schubert lived longer (19-I-3). We may infer from this unease that the practice of establishing connections between the lives and music of such pairs was deeply ingrained in biography by this time. As Part I has demonstrated, correspondences between a given subject and other Great Composers were often drawn at pivotal junctures in the biography, in a similar manner (on the face of it) to the muse paradigm. For example, several received input from senior contemporaries at the outset of their adult career, hence providing recognition at a time when they were otherwise largely unnoticed. Given the analogy to the muse paradigm, another situation in which ancillary composers (even ones who were themselves no longer alive) suddenly rose to prominence in the texts occurred as subjects were approaching their deaths (trope 19-J). In addition to the instances discussed in Part I, Hadden’s claim that Chopin’s demise was ‘a beautiful death, beautiful as that of Mozart, beautiful as his own music’ (19-J-6) was more specific to the Master Musicians series, and was particularly revealing for two reasons. Firstly, it is extremely difficult to see how either Chopin’s death or that of Mozart could be considered ‘beautiful’, and his description surely served to romanticize his subject’s unpleasant demise – even as he overtly rejected the fanciful accounts of Abbé Jełowicki and others (1934b: 135-7) – to avoid offending Victorian sensibilities. 17 Secondly, and more importantly, Hadden’s words suggest an attempt to continue a trend encountered in other biographies, notwithstanding the fact that the death of this composer could not be made to fit the mould. 17 Hadden would have been aware of the unpleasant realities of Chopin’s death if only from the accounts quoted in Frederick Nieck’s biography, one of which (taken from Charles Gavard’s reminiscences of Chopin’s final months) reported the composer’s face to have been ‘quite black from suffocation’ in the hours immediately prior to death (Niecks: II, 321). Nonetheless, it is possible that Hadden’s description was inflected by the nineteenth-century romanticization of tuberculosis suffers as physically beautiful, even erotic, given their typical appearance with pale skin flushed red (see Hutcheon and Hutcheon 1996: 36-9). 288 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections A number of similar instances may be found in which the connections drawn between the subject and another Great Composer are so tenuous that they amount to little more than name-dropping (trope 19-K). No doubt this procedure functioned to legitimize the inclusion of less established figures within the context of a close-knit biographical series, since it occurred with some frequency at the very beginning of some of the later monographs. Brahms again provides a valuable example: Erb’s volume opened by noting that the composer was born in the same city as Mendelssohn (19-K-1), stating elsewhere on the same page that his father had come to Hamburg hoping to join an orchestra in which Handel had once played (19-K-2). Duncan’s comment that the mothers of Beethoven and Schubert had both worked as cooks (19-K-3), again on the first page of his biography, is notable for its attempt to establish yet another vague connection between the two composers (especially as the comparison is drawn explicitly with Beethoven’s mother rather than, say, Haydn’s). Nor are these strategies limited to the outset of a text; Hadden’s observation that Chopin’s second visit to England commenced on the same day as Mendelssohn’s first visit 19 years earlier (19-K-5), for instance, seems to contribute little to his subject’s life story other than to draw a telling parallel with a contemporary composer who met with much greater success in the country for which the biography was originally written. In an extension of this point, certain ancillary characters that appeared within the biographies were introduced via reference to Great Composers (in addition to the subject) with whom they were associated (trope 19-L), thereby legitimizing the presence of these more minor figures within the biography and re-inscribing the musical canon in the process. For example, Hadden (19-L-2) reported that Countess von Thun was ‘associated with Gluck, Mozart and Beethoven’ in addition to Haydn, and Duncan (19-L-3) noted that Schubert’s acquaintance Matthäus von Collin was the brother of somebody linked with Beethoven’s music. 289 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections This inherently self-referential approach to musical canonicity served to create a sense of consistency and to validate the series’ predication of music history upon what was, at face value, a small and markedly disparate set of composers. (The case of Chopin alone reveals the importance of being constructed as holding a unique yet imperative place within wider historical contexts.) As a result, the volumes made frequent recourse to notions of extended artistic families, with subjects’ fellow artists described as ‘brothers’, their precursors as ‘fathers’, and their followers as ‘sons’ (trope 19-N), thereby recalling Victorian preoccupations with the family, emphasizing the subjects’ musical pedigree, and enforcing male hegemony. One prominent example was located in the overlap between Bach’s pupils and his sons (19-N-1); another, previously noted, was Brahms’s situation within the Schumann family; a third was the relationship between Haydn and Mozart (19-N-2, 19-N-3), especially since the former was referred to as ‘Papa Haydn’ throughout Breakspeare’s biography. In charting the (broken) lines between the various subjects of the Master Musicians volumes, the biographers inevitably found it necessary to identify the contributions of other composers, including Gluck, Weber, and C. P. E. Bach. The latter was deemed particularly important (trope 19-O) for providing the crucial connection between J. S. Bach and the Viennese Classical School (notably Haydn), not least given the familial link. Where the preoccupations of the biographers required their consideration, similar allusions were made to other composers, including those who achieved transitory fame by writing music in popular styles (Meyerbeer and the Italian operatic school have already been mentioned) as well as various English figures discussed in the conclusion to Part II. Mention was often made of less historically-significant characters merely to dismiss them by way of privileging specific Great Composers, as with Tchaikovsky and his Russian contemporaries. One extended example of this strategy is Duncan’s comparison of the music of Schubert with that of more minor song composers of the period 290 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections (including Zumsteeg, Zelter, and Reichardt) in order to substantiate his subject’s genius (1934: 118-22). Thus the very reasons for which lesser figures were raised, peripherally, in the first instance also served to efface them from an essentially ‘top-down’ conception of music history, in which the status of Great Composers was confirmed by the contemporaries and intervening links whom they far surpassed. Nevertheless, given that the original Master Musicians series was limited (for whatever reason) to just twelve volumes, certain great musical personages were inevitably marginalized, though their importance was acknowledged. In addition to those discussed elsewhere, notably Verdi and Rossini, three composers deserve special mention since it is instructive to speculate as to their exclusion. The first is Palestrina, whom the biographers held to represent the very beginnings of modern Western art music – Breakspeare described him as ‘the great reformer’ from whom ‘we may date the Naissance strictly of modern art’ (1902: 135) – and whose historical significance was therefore considered primarily pedagogical rather than more mainstream. In contrast, the second, Berlioz, was presumably downplayed owing to his non-Austrogermanic nationality and his status as a leading exponent of programme music. The last, Liszt, presented a notable problem not just for his Hungarian roots and his descriptive musical works, but also because much of his fame derived from his activities in performance and transcription, both of which the biographers deemed subordinate to original composition. All three received dedicated volumes in subsequent expansions to the series (Coates 1938, Elliot 1938, Beckett 1956), with that on Palestrina generating particular interest among reviewers. Other composers added in the initial stages of the series’ revival (1934-40) included Gluck, Weber, and Verdi (Einstein 1936, Saunders 1940, Hussey 1940); a monograph on Rossini did not appear until much more recently (Osborne 1986). 291 The Master Musicians Series: The Music and Musical Connections Paradoxically, the processes of considering minor figures led not to a more inclusive view of music history within the original Master Musicians series, but to its canon’s being closed off. Dichotomies between the Great Composers and lesser contemporaries were constructed within extra-canonic contexts, with separate hierarchies assembled within the canon itself by way of legitimizing those subjects displaced from its heart. So limited was the available cultural space that biographers sometimes found it necessary to challenge the canonic status of other central composers in order to create sufficient room for their own. Despite the synergies explored elsewhere between Haydn and Mozart, for example, Hadden’s volume endeavoured to construct the former as the immediate precursor to Beethoven, to the uneasy marginalization of the latter (trope 19-P). Indeed, the musical canon appears to have offered a sufficiently small number of figures of the very highest rank to render viable a biographical project such as the Master Musicians series: one that operated on an individual basis (and involved a number of different authors) yet apparently subscribed with notable consistency to a set of paradigms associated both with the life and the works. The stage is now fully set for consideration of the wider relationships between those two sets of paradigms, as well as for further evaluation of the significance of the series’ Victorian context in light of the analyses offered in the last two chapters. 292 10 THE MASTER MUSICIANS SERIES, 1899-1906: CONCLUSION As we have seen, the initial twelve volumes of the Master Musicians series served to establish a musical canon of wider historical significance through a set of consistently-deployed paradigms that drew heavily on the prevalent ideologies and preoccupations of the communities of readers for which they were originally written. But since the biographies so strongly reflected late Victorian ideals, not to mention the (often uneasy) reception of their subjects in turn-of-the-century England, they quickly became dated. This point was strikingly apparent by the time of the series’ revival in the 1930s by Eric Blom, whose first task as the new editor was to republish volumes on the original twelve composers in 1934-5. While new biographies of Beethoven, Wagner, and Mozart were written by Marion M. Scott (1934), Robert L. Jacobs (1935), and Blom (1935) respectively, the remaining nine volumes were merely revised by the editor (or, in the case of Evans’s Tchaikovsky, by the original author). 1 Though some softening of critical tone was made in the case of composers who had since become more widely established than thirty years previously (notably Brahms and Tchaikovsky), Blom seemed much more concerned with the emendation of matters of fact and prose style than with updating the outdated views and interpretations expressed by the earlier biographers. While he felt that the originals were simply too valuable to be abandoned altogether – for the tradition in musical biography of revising older works was well established by this time – he also argued that ‘It is not an editor’s duty to interfere with an author’s opinions, as distinct from… statements of fact’ (Hadden 1 Blom also considered, but ultimately rejected, the possibility of his writing new volumes on Mendelssohn and Bach. The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion 1934b: 187, n. 1). 2 For this reason, the reviewers of the revised volumes repeatedly condemned the archaic portrayal of the subjects they offered, and even the outmoded form of biography they embodied. One critic complained of ‘thirty-year-old opinions lying cheek by jowl with lately acquired wisdom which disproves them’; another that ‘The editorial use of [new] information corrects the original so far as facts are concerned; but it cannot affect the general view of an author who formed his conception of the composer and wrote his life on data now seen to be incomplete, and sometimes even misleading.’ 3 Blom’s own description of one such monograph as ‘something of a period-piece, a relic of an age still capable of a romantic outlook’ (Patterson 1934: xii) would seem to have wider application. However, the original biographies had not only been tailored to the readership of a specific time, but also that of a particular place. The series was simultaneously published in London and New York owing to Dent’s entrepreneurial agenda to market his books on both sides of the Atlantic, and hence it secured a readership in North America as well as Britain; presumably, the texts were also disseminated to the various colonies and dominions of the British Empire. Nevertheless, their primary audience resided in Britain, notably England; this was, after all, an age that endeavoured to impose a single national identity upon a very diverse range of backgrounds.4 While some of the biographers had studied abroad, all but one were active in the British Isles, Erb’s unique national status being principally apparent in his consideration of 2 3 4 Cf. Blom’s prefaces in Duncan 1934: vii-viii and Williams 1934: ix-x. Blom’s adopted policy is particularly surprising given that Jack Westrup, who contributed to the series under Blom in the 1930s and later himself became editor, wrote of him that ‘As an editor he was punctilious, even to the point of overriding the views of his contributors’ (1980: 801). W. Glock, Music and Letters, XVI/ii (1935), 147; H[arvey] G[race], The Musical Times, LXXVI/mciii (1935), 32. See also Scott Goddard’s review of Evans 1935 in Music and Letters, XVII/ii (1936), 160-1. In the ensuing discussion, I follow the lead of scholars such as Alain Frogley (2003: 241, n. 1) in not attempting to separate the deeply entwined terms ‘British’ and ‘English’. 294 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion American, as well as English, responses to his subject in the final chapter of his monograph (for example, 1934: 114-5). A reviewer for Nation summed up the series’ geographical bias succinctly in commenting that ‘A new volume on Handel seems hardly to supply a long-felt want, yet while Handel remains the greatest of “English” composers, books on him will continue to pour from the London press’.5 This endeavour did not, however, merely take the form of supplying information about the reception enjoyed by composers and their works in that country, though there was some limited discussion in that area. 6 Indeed, various reviewers, especially those of the staunchly English Musical Times, felt that the biographies did not meet expectations in this respect. One made the general claim that ‘the value of the series… would be increased… were [it] to contain an appendix giving dates, places, and conductors of first performances of the composers’ works in England.’ 7 Instead, the volumes were made relevant to the country in ways that focussed more immediately on subjects’ lives, rather than on the subsequent history of their music. Though none of the twelve protagonists of the original series were of English descent, there were nevertheless important correspondences to be drawn between these composers and the country itself. England was presented as having afforded them opportunities and support, not least when they had been neglected by their native land: as trope 19-M reveals, Vienna received particular criticism for its perceived ill-treatment of no fewer than five of them. In addition, Lidgey noted that England ‘show[ed] great interest’ in his subject by holding a Wagner Festival comprising a series 5 6 7 Nation 1901: LXXII, 419 (a review of Williams 1901). Cf. Nation 1906: LXXXIII, 564 (a review of Evans 1906). See, for example, Breakspeare 1902: 209-10 (on Mozart’s operas) and Evans 1935: 179-82 (on Tchaikovsky’s orchestral music). The Musical Times 1907: XLVIII/dcclxvii, 33 (a review of two Tchaikovsky biographies, Evans 1906 and Lee 1906). Cf. The Musical Times 1900: XLI/dclxxxvii, 316 (a review of Williams 1900) and The Musical Times 1903: XLIV/dccxxiv, 401 (a review of Patterson 1903). 295 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion of concerts in 1877 (1899: 69), thereby rescuing a scheme that had failed in Germany at a time when the composer’s career was also at a low point owing to the financial failure of the Bayreuth Festival Theatre project. (Unsurprisingly, Lidgey omitted to mention that the demand for such a series had been considerably overestimated and its projected scope had to be dramatically reduced, so the financial gain for the composer was much less than anticipated.) Crowest observed that in response to news of Beethoven’s fame reaching the country in 1817, Thomas Broadwood sent him a gift of a grand piano, and the London Philharmonic Society bought several of his compositions and encouraged him to visit in a professional capacity, an offer repeated in 1823 (1899: 27, 32). Moreover, Crowest identified that England provided the dying Beethoven with the financial assistance unforthcoming from sources closer to home: as he lay on his death-bed, unable to compose and consequently falling further into debt, he appealed to the London Philharmonic Society, who, to their ‘great credit’, granted him money ‘at the earliest possible moment’ (: 41-2). Consequently, according to Ferdinand Hiller’s account of the composer’s death (quoted in Crowest 1899: 43), Beethoven regarded the English people as his friends. Such offers were portrayed as arising as a direct result of the nation’s recognition of the genius of these figures, which could even take place when no actual contact existed between the two. Duncan acknowledged that Schubert, who never visited England, was nonetheless known there by the time of his death; that his music was published and performed in the country thereafter; and most importantly, that English scholars (notably George Grove and Arthur Sullivan) made substantial contributions to his rediscovery (1934: 111-5). Patterson referred to Schumann’s strong, albeit unrealized, ‘hankering’ for England (1934: 51): not only was his music performed in this country, but it had also found favour with the reigning monarch. Her observation that on leaving 296 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Vienna in 1839, the composer was said to have ‘thought seriously of crossing the water to settle permanently in England’ (: 34), further indicated that the country was one of the most alluring places for a Great Composer. One exceptional character was Brahms, who, in Erb’s words, ‘never visited England although often pressed to do so’ (1934: 77). The explanations offered by the biographer included that Brahms could not speak English well, and that he found the culture too formal – neither of which reasons precluded comparable activities by other Master Musicians subjects. Probably the greatest tension surrounded Brahms’s refusal of the offer of a doctorate from Cambridge University in 1877. Erb’s claim that his subject apparently did not care for honorary degrees and had no desire to compose the customary new work was at variance with Brahms’s acceptance just a few years later of a similar accolade from the University of Breslau, for which he wrote the Academic Festival Overture (1934: 56, 58-9). Mozart’s associations with England were similarly downplayed in Breakspeare’s biography (1902: 12-6, 33-4), probably because they were connected primarily with his childhood and with acts of performance. 8 English primacy was important: instances where the country had identified musical genius were presented as occurring in advance of similar recognition received elsewhere. This evidence of the sophisticated nature of England’s cultural tastes seemed to function as a means of compensating for the shortage of major composers of its own. Hence Evans observed that the London Philharmonic Society invited Tchaikovsky to England for performances of various of his works, in the late 1880s and again for what was to be his last concert tour in 1893, when (unlike Brahms) he accepted an honorary doctorate from Cambridge University (1935: 49-50, 52). More significantly, he claimed that the fact that Tchaikovsky’s music met with greater success in England than in all 8 On the various links that may be made between Mozart and England, see Jenkins 1998. 297 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion countries apart from his own (trope 12-A) offered ‘a convincing refutation of the charge… that we are an unmusical nation’ (12-A-2), as compared with France, America, and even Germany. The mention of France is especially notable given Evans’s affiliation with the country (where he had been partly educated in his youth) and with its modern music. It was also the nation most repeatedly chided within the Master Musicians volumes for its musical philistinism (trope 12-B), based on the poor reception accorded to such figures as Mendelssohn (12-B-1) and Wagner (12-B-2) in addition to Tchaikovsky (12-B-3). As previously discussed, the biographers also refuted the contributions of Italy, another country prominent on the nineteenth-century music scene, in a number of different ways; but as a nation, France appeared to be a particular target, perhaps owing to its proximity to England. Stratton similarly demonstrated that England, rather than Germany or France, was the first country to provide Mendelssohn with the public exposure to which his genius entitled him (trope 12-C). His observation that Mendelssohn turned initially to England upon leaving Berlin (12-C-1) clearly recalls Patterson’s previously-cited words on Schumann’s departure from Vienna. Stratton explicitly suggested that the composer would not have achieved such success and recognition had it not been for England, which he described as ‘the scene of Mendelssohn’s greatest triumphs’ (12-C-2). He held that the country offered Mendelssohn an appropriate platform both for performances of his own works, notably Elijah (12-C-5), and for the revival of Bach’s repertory (12-C-4) that was so important both to him personally and to the musical canon more generally. Stratton was also keen to show, through systematically citing references to Mendelssohn in English periodicals prior to 1829, that the country both knew of the composer and acknowledged his greatness prior to his earliest visit (1934: 20-3). He even suggested that England was more devastated than Germany on Mendelssohn’s 298 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion death, the composer having been ‘revered perhaps more than anywhere else’ in the former country (: 134). 9 Hadden’s version of this notion was more extended (trope 12-D): Haydn’s two journeys to England represent his only excursions abroad, and he was received if anything a little too warmly, his greatness abundantly recognized. 10 Even the Royal Family was said to have welcomed him, thus compensating for its apparent neglect of other Great Composers, notably Beethoven (12-D-4). Haydn did not visit England until his later years, and the country was therefore portrayed as having provided him with additional possibilities for bringing his genius to fruition, in line with what I have called the paradigm of continual development. Hadden’s words suggested that the limitations placed on the composer in his feudal service actually prevented his reaching the highest levels of his genius, which he attained only in the liberating climate of England’s more advanced economy (12-D-5, 12-D-6). He also claimed that the fact that musical England did not at the time possess native creative genius of Haydn’s calibre was the very reason for the country’s recognition and fervent support of such greatness in foreigners (12-D-3), a suggestion mirrored by Stratton on Mendelssohn (12-C-1). At the same time, however, the volumes did include some positive mention of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century English composers, including Arne, S. S. Wesley, and Sterndale Bennett. Notable among these allusions is the letter of recommendation written by Mendelssohn in support of Sterndale Bennett’s application for a professorial post at Edinburgh University (Stratton 1934: 106-7), which testified to his worth and anticipated future developments on the music scene in England. 11 Conversely, 9 10 11 For Stratton’s exploration of English endeavours to commemorate the composer, see Stratton 1934: 179-80. On Haydn’s flattering but over-enthusiastic reception on the part of the English, see Hadden 1934a: 73-6. The letter (dated 17 December 1843) was first published in Grove 1878-90: II, 283. 299 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Patterson’s volume made no mention of Schumann’s somewhat less flattering opinions of the same person (Schumann 1988e). The dearth of English Great Composers in the canonical period encompassed by the Master Musicians series was an issue addressed principally in the biography of Handel (trope 12-E), the subject whose connections to the country were the strongest and the most long-lasting. Of course, Handel differed from the other composers under discussion in that rather than merely visiting England, he lived there for most of his adult life, and indeed took British citizenship in 1727. Nevertheless, his foreign origins could not be denied, and as comparison of the articles on Handel (M[arshall] 1878-90: 652) and Mendelssohn (G[rove] 1878-90b: 293) in Grove’s Dictionary reveals, the biographical rhetoric by which the naturalized composer was claimed for England was not so far removed from that for an indisputably German subject. Williams – who, as the only Master Musicians biographer to have enjoyed a musical education in Germany, might have had particular sympathy for the country’s art – invoked the figure of Handel in one additional respect, situating him between Purcell and the English Musical Renaissance in order to explain the apparent break in the country’s musical tradition (1935: 205-8). Specifically, he argued that his subject was so great that his ‘overpowering grandeur and strength… struck a blow at native English productivity’, owing to his inescapable and far-reaching influence (12-E-2). In claiming that the English school of composition was thereby ‘nipped in the bud’ by Handel (12-E-3), Williams attempted to explain away the aridity of the country’s musical scene for some time thereafter, as well as speculating that a revitalization of its compositional activity was imminent. 12 Such arguments have to be viewed in the light of Continental 12 The original text (Williams 1901: 233-8) is much longer than the revised version, by which time much of Williams’s speculation was redundant. 300 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion European examples where traditions of composition survived greater figures than Handel – Brahms, for example, famously felt that he lived in the shadow of Beethoven 13 – and given that Williams was writing at a time when it was still fairly standard for British composers to undertake their training in Germany. And in fairness, the biographer continued by acknowledging that there may have been no English school of composition in the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries even had Handel not settled in the country (12-E-4). Nonetheless, he also asserted that the reverse might so easily have been the case: drawing on the trope of the tragedy of the premature death, Williams argued that had Purcell lived long enough to secure a musical lineage via pupils, England’s compositional scene could have been so rich that there would actually have been no room for Handel (12-E-5). Through their authors’ endeavours to make their subjects relevant to a late Victorian readership, then, the Master Musicians biographies represent to some extent an appropriation of the Great Composers for England by virtue of their connections with the country. The same was true of their music (trope 12-F). Certain works were valued for having been written specifically for England, such as Haydn’s ‘London’ Symphonies (12-D-7), which came to epitomize the composer’s vast output in the genre he is universally recognized as having established, as well as his late English-language choral works The Creation and The Seasons. 14 In other instances, significant musical corpuses were justified with reference to existing English traditions, especially when their texts or plots required rationalization for their unintelligibility to the target readership. For example, Breakspeare attempted to explain the apparent inanity of 13 14 Brahms reportedly once told the conductor Hermann Levi that ‘I will never compose a symphony! You have no idea how it feels to one of us when he continually hears behind him such a giant.’ Hadden also drew upon a direct connection with Haydn’s great precursor in England in repeating the apocryphal idea that Handel’s oratorios, specifically Messiah, provided the inspiration for The Creation (1934a: 116-7). 301 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Mozart’s comic operas, as perceived from a late nineteenth-century English perspective, through analogy with the greatly celebrated national traditions of Shakespeare and Gilbert and Sullivan operetta (12-F-1). He also provided a lengthy comparison of the standard texts used in the composer’s Latin Masses with the liturgy of the Anglican Church – which, of course, was largely identical except for the different language – in order that anti-Roman feeling might not discourage the listener (12-F-4). Breakspeare’s comments followed a long history of uneasy reception of Mozart’s church music in Britain on religious grounds; 15 conversely, the Catholic music of Haydn (12-F-5) and Tchaikovsky (12-F-6) was simply discounted as being of little interest to the Protestant English reader. As a final example, Duncan, by way of resolving the difficulty surrounding the absence of explicit associations with the country in the case of Schubert, appropriated his subject’s song-settings to translated texts by renowned British poets including Scott and Shakespeare (12-F-8), to which the author might have been particularly attracted since he was himself a composer of songs to texts by the nation’s great writers. 16 Although the Master Musicians authors collectively followed formats that separated life and works, there were, as noted, nevertheless many points of intersection between biographical paradigms and those that featured in discussions of the music. We have seen, for instance, that the paradigm of continual development functioned at the biographical level to aid the construction of subjects as exemplary by revealing endless hard work as the only laudable means by which to achieve success and to bring one’s gifts to fruition. But it was similarly invaluable, especially given the biographers’ 15 16 See, for example, Rachel Cowgill’s forthcoming study of the early British reception of Mozart’s Requiem. See Duncan 1934: 130-5, on Schubert’s settings of poems by British writers, and on English translations of the texts of his songs originally written in German. 302 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion practice of discussing their subjects’ works by genre, as a strategy by which to chart stylistic evolution according to a teleological model, and this matter invites one last evaluation of the paradigm in light of the totality of previous discussions. For as well as fostering the historical unilinearity upon which biography is ontologically dependent, the paradigm allowed the authors to explain the relative greatness of specific works to their target non-specialist readership without resorting to technical language, through relating them to the stage of life at which they were composed. An added emphasis was correspondingly given to subjects’ later output, and to their final works in particular, as reflecting the fullest flowering of their genius (trope 7-G). Both Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony and Schumann’s late sacred works (specifically, his Mass and Requiem) are described as ‘swan songs’ (Evans 1935: 52; Patterson 1934: 173); the reception of the enigmatic former work, indeed, is inextricably tied to the composer’s untimely demise (7-G-2). The notion was especially convenient to the biographers when it served to reinforce some of their other preoccupations, such as correspondences to England (a point already considered with respect to Haydn) and matters of religion. Handel’s move from (secular, Italian) opera to (sacred, English) oratorio not only marked a late change of direction in his career, but also led to the fullest realization of his genius, resulting in the celebrated Messiah which, to borrow Williams’s words, was ‘a household word with all English people, whether music-lovers or not’ (12-F-7). 17 Oratorio would have been particularly revered by the Master Musicians biographers not just for its virtuous, religious content – as against the genre of opera, which the Victorians held to be more morally dubious – but also because many such works were ideal for performance by amateur musicians (such as might well have been reading the volumes) as part of the British choral tradition. 17 On Handel’s Messiah, see Williams 1935: 185-91. 303 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Stratton likewise celebrated Mendelssohn’s Elijah, another iconic oratorio, and one that held personal significance for the Birmingham-based biographer for its representing the ‘greatest glory’ of the city’s Musical Festival, which had given its première in 1846 (1934: 120). 18 More importantly, according to Stratton, the work represented the ‘crowning effort’ that left the composer ‘weak and broken’ (7-H-4). Hadden made a similar claim of Haydn’s The Seasons (7-H-5), following a remark made by the composer himself and reported by both Griesinger and Dies (Gotwals 1963: 40, 159). The Requiems of Mozart and Schumann were both late works; though Brahms’s Ein deutsches Requiem was not, it nonetheless represented a turning-point in the composer’s career. And, as Part I has shown, fascination with Mozart’s Requiem within the particular context of biography has been compounded by the rapid development of an elaborate mythology surrounding the work and its mysterious commission (myth 6-D; Breakspeare 1902: 144-55). The Master Musicians biographers also amply exploited the irony that several last works were on themes of death (trope 7-H), and that these masterpieces might therefore be seen to have heralded their subjects’ demise. The point is most explicit in the aforementioned Requiems (7-H-1, 7-H-2), and in Schubert’s melancholic Winterreise. Duncan’s statement that ‘the end was not yet’ (7-H-3), justified via the remark that Schubert’s work on his song cycle had not finished, is especially telling. Other such works are inextricably connected to the demise of their creator, especially when the composer believed that death was impending (trope 7-E). Mention of Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony has been made above, and Part I has shown that a performance of The 18 On Elijah, see Stratton 1934: 120-2, 157-60. Exceptionally, Stratton’s original volume supplied the complete English-language libretto as an appendix (1901: 284-97). 304 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Creation, Haydn’s last major sacred work, was typically embroidered as a pseudo-death scene within biography (myth 5-D; Hadden 1934a: 134-5). The issue of religion was also important to the paradigm of continual development for another reason, for it was related to Protestantism in terms of the work ethic. The notion would have been essentially contradicted by many (Marian) Continental texts of the later 1800s, which privileged more immediately-inspired compositional genius (see, for example, Ellis 1995). And, as an important study by Linda Colley (1992) has shown, the Protestant religion was a key agent in the establishment and enforcement of distinctly British identities – as against those of, for example, Catholic France – in the eighteenth as well as the nineteenth century, and notwithstanding the regional and local variation discussed by David Hempton (1996). While Britain was by no means the only Protestant area of Europe, it was distinctive for the degree of unity it exhibited as compared with, for instance, Germany prior to 1871; nor were evolutionist theories, which doubtless fuelled the emphasis on the paradigm of continual development within English biography, a particular preoccupation for Continental reading communities. Indeed, the paradigm is especially significant to my study for the pronounced application it received within musical biography, not least given its implicit relation to the obstructions that composers were portrayed as having endured, without respite, throughout their lives, and which correspondingly strengthened their artistic powers. This biographical trajectory departs from standard nineteenth-century life-shapes, in which subjects were presented as having encountered an initial struggle in early adulthood following which they attained their ultimate aims, leading to a sustained period of success and distinction. As Paula Backscheider has written with reference to the monomyth theorized by Joseph Campbell, many biographies follow the stereotypical plan of ‘youth [a]s a preparatory period, early and middle adulthood 305 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion induction and struggle to attain specific, individual goals, and mature adulthood and old age as full achievement and later consolidation and appreciation of success’ (1999: 103). The trials faced by the protagonists of musical biography were therefore much more marked and prolonged than for those in other fields, while tropes such as the prodigious childhood and the premature death did not accord with traditional models either. It was as though the practice of grafting the lives of foreigners onto the existing Victorian mould, as demonstrated in the preceding analysis, also required biographers to overstate the case for the validity of the Great Composers as subjects. The figures at the heart of the musical canon were, of course, predominantly Germanic; and although English biography had previously circumvented this potential problem by emphasizing either native composers or those currently in fashion in the country, the Master Musicians series necessarily considered those of wider historical importance – hence the need to construct associations with England via other means. The former trends date back to the origins of modern music history and biography in this country: John Mainwaring’s volume (1760) on the naturalized Handel is understood to have been the first full-length composer biography in any language; the classic early histories by John Hawkins (1776) and Charles Burney (1776-89) possess a strong English bias; and John Sainsbury’s milestone biographical dictionary (1825) claimed as its raison d’être the perceived inadequacy of Continental counterparts in the treatment of British musicians. 19 In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, English biography fostered national personages in such centrally-canonical works as the Dictionary of National Biography (1885-1900), to which Hadden was a contributor, and the ‘English Men of Letters’ series (1878-1919). The trend was similarly discernible in their 19 See Sainsbury’s editorial preface (1827: I, i-iii). Henry George Farmer (1931) has since demonstrated this claim to have been unjustified. 306 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion counterparts in the field of music, notably Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1878-90), whose English bias (in terms both of content and scholarship) has recently been explored by Jeremy Dibble (2001). That the original Master Musicians authors were complicit in the ideology of biography as a celebration of the nation is evident in that Hadden contributed to the former dictionary, while Evans and Williams wrote articles for the latter from its second edition (Maitland 1904-10). In addition, Crowest had written extensively on British music and musicians including his books Phases of Musical England (1881), The Dictionary of British Musicians (1895), and The Story of British Music (1896), while his 1897 biography of Verdi gave particular emphasis to the composer’s English connections. Hadden’s monographs of Handel and Mendelssohn (1888a, 1888b) were conceived as the earliest volumes in a projected but unrealized set of ‘Biographies of Great Composers’, 20 and were still current at the time of the Master Musicians series, having been reprinted in 1904. The series of articles that Evans was later to contribute to The Musical Times (1919-20) were hailed as ‘a landmark in the progress of British music’ (Myers 1945: 105), and represented the pinnacle of his promotion of modern British composers that also led to articles in The Musical Quarterly (1919a, 1923a) and a second series for The Musical Times (1944-5). Stratton had earlier defended English music in the same journal (1881); more strikingly, given the position subsequently adopted by the Master Musicians series, his co-authored British Musical Biography claimed that ‘A country is musical only by the music it produces for itself, not by what it takes from others’ (1897: i). The same tendency to commemorate native heroes through biography may be seen in other countries in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a period witnessing the 20 W. S. Rockstro had published biographies on the same two composers just years earlier (1883, 1884), the latter for the Great Musicians series. 307 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion emergence of distinct national schools across Europe. 21 In addition to widespread disillusionment with international lexical projects, nationalism was doubtless a driving force behind the proliferation of regional musical dictionaries, which led not only to Sainsbury’s English publication but also to those of Dlabač on the Czech lands (1815), Sowiński on Poland (1857), and Vasconcelos on Portugal (1870), to name just a few. And where nineteenth-century Austrogermanic biographers supported the composers at the centre of the musical canon on national grounds – the portrayals by Forkel (1802) and Spitta (1873-80) of Bach as a hero for the Lutheran German people being obvious examples – others were similarly promoted for different countries, such as the construction of Chopin and Moniuszko as exemplars of a Polish school of music. 22 In France, the renowned ‘Les musiciens célèbres’ series, which commenced publication in 1905 under the editorship of Élie Poirée, encompassed such figures as Hérold, Boïeldieu, and Félicien David alongside those of broader historical recognition including Beethoven and Mozart, as well as the great national heroes Gounod, Rameau, Lully, Bizet, and, of course, Chopin and Berlioz (the former by the editor). 23 French writers had also worked in their own ways to defend their country’s musical reputation in light of complaints such as those of Mendelssohn (for example, Jullien 1877: 65-136), and to uphold it in ways that were overtly nationalistic and demonstrably averse to German composers (and, to a lesser extent, Italian ones, excepting those assimilated into French culture; see, for example, Ellis 2001). Comparable biographical trends in England by no means focussed exclusively on the pre-canonical native genius of Purcell and others, the musical traditions of the English Church, and the naturalized foreigner Handel. As Marian Wilson Kimber (2002a) has recently shown, mid- to late 21 22 23 On this point see, for example, Samson 2001a. See Pekacz 2006b on the former, and Murphy 2001 on the latter. Respectively, Pougin 1906, Lassus 1908, Brancour 1910, d’Indy 1911, Bellaigue 1907, Hillemacher 1905, Laurencie 1908, Prunières 1910, Gauthier-Villars 1911, Poirée 1907, and Coquard 1909. 308 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion nineteenth-century biographers held Mendelssohn to be a quintessential English gentleman, while David Gramit (1993) has demonstrated that even Schubert was recast in a more suitably Victorian light. The absence of English protagonists among the greatest subjects for musical biography – a problem unknown to biographers of British novelists, painters, and playwrights, for example – therefore presented a substantial difficulty for a venture such as the Master Musicians series, written not only in a distinctly Victorian vein, but also within a general environment of nationalist feeling and contemporaneous with the English Musical Renaissance. Indeed, the very reason for the series’ revival in the 1930s, according to Dent’s son Hugh, was the recognition of the revitalization of musical culture in England and the increasing appreciation of classical music, coupled with the continuing interest in the lives of the great (Dent and Dent 1938: 280). While its subsequent expansion included acclaimed volumes on Purcell (Westrup 1937) and Elgar (Reed 1939), it did not celebrate national personages to anything approaching the same extent as analogous Dent ventures such as the English Men of Science series. No doubt partly for this reason, musical biography has frequently extended into the domain of literature – which was not only conveniently mainstream, but also possessed much stronger British traditions – in that various of its subjects were active in that area too, and that many of their major works contain literary aspects as well as musical ones. The Master Musicians series incorporated discussion of the multitude of prose writings of Wagner and the music criticism of Schumann, as well as other literary endeavours among the Great Composers; and a notable amount of space was devoted to such works as the music dramas of Wagner, the operas of Mozart, and the operas and ballets of 309 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion Tchaikovsky, proceeding largely by way of plot summary. 24 I shall return to this point in the following chapter. The traditional predication of music history on a small number of Great Composers – a ‘top-down’ conception that (as discussed) lends itself perfectly to biography, especially when volumes are collected into series – meant that there existed much less room for minor figures in its canons relative to those of a discipline such as literature. 25 Correspondingly, hegemonies have been more strongly enforced in music than elsewhere, as exemplified by the relative invisibility of women among composers. By the end of the nineteenth century, as noted, the presence of female creative genius in literature was impossible to ignore, yet women remained inadmissible to musical canons internationally. 26 The point was reinforced in biography through the establishment of the muse paradigm, which effectively denied female composers, such as Clara Schumann, the potential for musical creation. 27 At the same time, it functioned as a signifier denoting the relative greatness of individual works, and its associated biographical tropes additionally underlined the domination of society by the patriarchy, through their emphasis on such issues as marriage and domestic propriety. 28 Significantly, the only notable resistance to these notions in the Master Musicians series, found in the volume on Chopin, was brought about by the prominence in the composer’s biography of a female creative genius. I have already noted Hadden’s 24 25 26 27 28 See, respectively, Lidgey 1899: 144-244, Breakspeare 1902: 155-210, and Evans 1935: 57-92 and 96-103. I have elsewhere (Wiley 2004a) explored this idea at greater length. See, for example, Spencer 1986 (on female novelists) and Citron 1993 (on women in/and the musical canon). While subscribing to the muse paradigm, Patterson explored the compositional activities of Clara Schumann in as much detail as she apparently felt able (see Patterson 1934: 31, 102). She did not, however, have the benefit of Litzmann 1913. I am indebted to Katharine Ellis for the observation that this presentation of genius and exemplary domesticity may itself be specifically English, being very different from the model put forward by Continental European writers (such as Diderot, Balzac, and Wagner) for whom it was considered acceptable for male protagonists to neglect their family in the service of great art. 310 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion separation of this subject from the other Great Composers of the set (including, for the most part, Haydn), based on his departures from standard life-paradigms. It is surely no coincidence that Chopin was similarly detached in terms of his musical output (having composed small-scale works for piano almost exclusively) and his connections with England. Hadden stated that Chopin and his music were known only to a select few in the country at the time (1934b: 116-7, 126), and that the composer left disappointed with his reception by the English, whom he felt to have been an unintelligent people (: 127). These were ideas that were hardly in accordance with the picture of the nation painted in other volumes; the author’s personal agenda may here have been at variance with that of the series, for he was more preoccupied with the composer’s visit to Scotland in 1848 (1934b: 117-27), a subject he had recently explored elsewhere (1899a: 109-15). Indeed, the separation implicit in Hadden’s writings between his native land and England was quite distinctive for its time since Scotland otherwise tended simply to be subsumed within the notion of a supra-national Britain. In attempting to establish just such a canon, rather than merely writing about those composers of more immediate interest to the reading public, it became even more important for the Master Musicians authors to produce monographs that explicated the relevance of their subjects to their intended audiences. Perhaps it is true of all biographical endeavours, especially when the historical significance of their protagonists is not firmly recognized at the time of writing, that they represent an appropriation of those figures and their works for the communities for which the texts have been produced. But in the case of the Master Musicians series, this practice of appropriation additionally responded to the problems surrounding both the apparent infertility of England’s own musical tradition and the consequent contention that the country was ignorant in such matters. Indeed, it seems likely that the strength of 311 The Master Musicians Series: Conclusion connections to England, and continued popularity in that country, provided much of the reason for the relative greatness accorded to such figures as Handel, Mendelssohn, Haydn, and perhaps also Tchaikovsky within the series and its correspondent canon; it may also have influenced the order in which its constituent volumes appeared. Moreover, by demonstrating that England was sufficiently culturally sensitive to have recognized musical greatness in specific individuals, as well as to have nurtured their genius when other nations would not, the biographies served to promote the image of a surrogate national tradition in which foreign composers would flourish. The project embodied by the Master Musicians series may therefore be read not only within the context of late Victorian sensibilities, but also against the backdrop of the emergent revitalization of music as a truly English institution. 312 11 CONCLUSION The preceding studies have demonstrated the ways in which the paradigms of musical biography have operated at a specific point in time, as well as identifying their development in myths that have unfolded over larger periods. In my conclusion, I shall provide a preliminary examination of the wider significance to modern biographical and hermeneutical scholarship of the conceptual issues raised thus far, having already hinted at the recent perpetuation of historical predispositions (such as tension over the relationship between Haydn and Beethoven) at various points in Part I. The latter section of Part II, meanwhile, explored how the genre came to enforce the nineteenth-century aesthetics whose domineering influence has plagued scholarly thought up to the present time; this chapter will commence by investigating the very same tendencies implicit within its life trajectories and myths. Departing from this standpoint, I shall assess the broader implications of some of the most widespread paradigms identified in this study – including the paradigm of continual development, the trope of the ‘great last work’, the muse paradigm, and the trope of social ascent – and of the most extensive mythologies, namely those of Mozart’s Requiem and of the many tenuous associations constructed between Beethoven and Schubert. I also seek to situate within the context of the findings of this thesis some of the most significant biographical debates that have taken place within the discipline in recent years, given current trends towards contextual considerations of music coupled to the closing of the gap between the genre of biography and the world of academia. I thereby assess the extent of the present-day continuation of the cultural work performed by the hitherto largely unaddressed assumptions of musical biography that were viewed historically in Parts I and II of this thesis. Conclusion Ultimately, my purpose is to question whether modern musicology has unwittingly ‘fallen into’ a form of engagement with biography that perpetuates certain of its long-standing tendencies, and tentatively to suggest that we might endeavour to be more critically sensitive in the future. Thorough investigation of the effects of the lingering preoccupations of musical biography within the discipline, and proposition of potential solutions, are obviously rather more wide-ranging than the scope of this study permits. As such, the following discussion should be considered only an initial and rather incomplete response to much broader questions for which more rigorous examination is now overdue; it does not, for example, attempt to propose new theoretical models to be adopted henceforth by musical biography, and the reader should not look for such answers here. As Jolanta Pekacz noted in the introduction to Musical Biography: Towards New Paradigms – which, despite the volume’s subtitle, is somewhat limited in its discussion of the implications to future scholarship of the findings of its various (largely historical) case studies – the first stage in activating new directions for musical biography must be a detailed re-evaluation of the assumptions that have traditionally underpinned the genre (2006a: 8). Nevertheless, in order to lay the foundations for subsequent research of this nature, some reference will be made to areas of music history not otherwise encompassed by my work, such as the composers of the early twentieth-century generation who inherited these biographical tendencies. This chapter therefore pursues two different facets of the legacy of musical biography: firstly, the migration of its paradigms sideways into the life-writing of other composers, by way of investigating their spread and dissemination; and secondly, their deep-rootedness in scholarship on previously-considered subjects to the present time, in order to assess their longevity. 315 Conclusion One question needs to be addressed at the outset, and that is the implication of the authors within their work. The need to know the writer in order to understand the text (whether in terms of general trends or more locally-sensitive issues) has been a recurring issue throughout Parts I and II; cross-hatching the lives of the Master Musicians authors, for instance, proved to be as illuminating as cross-hatching the lives they wrote. It is an issue that emerges time and again in literature on both the theory of biography and the philosophy of history; personal interest is very often a key motivating factor for the pursuit of a particular biographical endeavour, with writers frequently finding themselves identifying more and more with their protagonist(s) as their work progresses. The phenomenon extends as far back as the first canonical biography, Plutarch’s The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, in which the author wrote, ‘It was for the sake of others that I first commenced writing biographies… but I find myself proceeding and attaching myself to it for my own; the virtues of these great men serving me as a sort of looking-glass, in which I may see how to adjust and adorn my own life’ (quoted in Backscheider 1999: 149-50). While on one level, this is simply another instance of the life’s being reflected in the work (an issue with which biographical theorists and practitioners alike are acutely familiar), it has recently assumed a more ideological angle as trends in humanities disciplines towards epistemic inclusivity have admitted discussions of aspects of biography on an unparalleled scale within musicology, some of them doubtless over-compensating in their attempt to redress past imbalances. Personal identification with the subject would certainly help to explain, for instance, Elizabeth Wood’s interest in Ethel Smyth or Philip Brett’s in Britten, both centralizing issues of gender and sexuality. 1 Indeed Brett, in the watershed text Queering the Pitch, openly admitted that his approach to scholarship had been to 1 On the former see, for example, Wood 1987, 1993, 1994, 1995a, and 1995b; various essays pertaining to the latter have been published collectively as Brett 2006. 316 Conclusion study ‘the music of my own tribes’, namely, ‘the English and homosexuals’ (1994: 15). There are doubtless many enlightening perspectives that (say) a gay scholar can offer in providing a gay interpretation of a given composer or work, and my own feeling is that it is both problematic and potentially offensive to subscribe to the essentialist argument that a particular writer has adopted the position they have simply because of their sexuality, nationality, or political persuasion. Nonetheless, there certainly exists the possibility that such scholarship develops personal or ideological underpinnings, with the result that particular composers and works might, through revisionist reading, become either appropriated for specific sociopolitical factions or rehabilitated within them. One clear example is the debate over Schubert’s sexuality that caused such a fracas less than two decades ago, and to which I shall turn in the course of this chapter. Without wishing to pre-empt later arguments, authorial preoccupations are very much apparent among its principal contributors; Lawrence Kramer (1993: 4) described Andreas Mayer’s early dismissal (1992) as having an ‘obvious and chilling’ political agenda, while James Webster (1993: 93) suggested social and political agendas on both sides, represented by Susan McClary as endorser and Rita Steblin as rebuttalist. 2 The major changes that have taken place within musicology in recent decades mean that the time is surely ripe for a thorough reconsideration of the politics of identity in current scholarship, one that would better enable researchers to theorize their own positions and readers to interpret their work in that light. While scope does not permit me to centralize this issue in the following text, it has at least been borne constantly in mind. That musical biography came to enforce nineteenth-century tenets of musical thought, as well as being complicit in their perpetuation within musicology, was inevitable 2 Similarly, in light of the debate, it is difficult not to read Steblin’s later article ‘Schubert’s relationship with women’ (1998) in this vein. 317 Conclusion considering the backdrop against which it emerged. Not only did the genre develop in tandem with nineteenth-century musical aesthetics, but the importance to the biographical project of pioneering musicologists such as Chrysander and Spitta places it close to the heart of the modern origins of the discipline (see, for instance, Pekacz 2004: 47-9). One illuminating example of the phenomenon is provided by the demonstration in Part I that some of the most celebrated myths of musical biography that were originally on aspects of performance subsequently evolved into stories concerning composition, thereby insisting upon the aesthetic of the work-concept. 3 Judging from the earliest documented sources, the young Mozart’s accurate memorization of Allegri’s Miserere from little more than a single hearing (myth 6-A) derived at least some of its value as an illustration of his perfectly capturing the nuances of the performing practice of the Sistine Chapel, rather than for the mere recollection of the notes themselves; while the story of Bach’s extemporization of a six-part fugue for King Frederick the Great of Prussia in 1747 (myth 1-E) was reinterpreted in at least one major biography so as to present it as a version of the piece subsequently written down as part of his Musikalisches Opfer. As noted, such transformations doubtless reflected the nineteenthand early twentieth-century aversion to improvisation as against the stability of the composed text. The irony, however, is that the consequences of the intervention of the work-concept in these myths are variable: the recasting of Bach’s extemporization of ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’ as being conceived in advance of performance (myth 1-D) permitted its portrayal as a positive, premeditated act of homage to Reinken, whereas Mozart’s initial belief that the young Beethoven played him a previously-memorized piece rather than a genuine improvisation (myth 2-A) was clearly negative. The related aesthetic of the Fassung letzter Hand received similar enforcement through various 3 On the musical work-concept and on historical tensions between music as performance and music as text, see, for example, Goehr 1992, Talbot 2000, and Samson 2003. 318 Conclusion anecdotes in which subjects insisted upon the perfection of their score as originally composed, most famously in Mozart’s claim to Emperor Joseph II (myth 6-B) that Die Entführung aus dem Serail contained exactly as many notes as were musically necessary. Yet analysis of the development of this myth has not only determined that there may have been some foundation for the Emperor’s criticism, but has even uncovered the presence in early biographies of indications that Mozart might have agreed with him. Some of the most important paradigms of musical biography are themselves emblematic of the elitist criteria of its corresponding canons, such as androcentricity and Austrogermanic hegemony. The significance of the muse paradigm to the exclusion of women as composers has already received comment. The paradigm of continual development that received extended discussion in Part II, on the other hand, implicitly endorsed the great Germanic heroes of the musical canon while allowing little room for the nineteenth-century Italians that perhaps posed its clearest threat. Verdi, for example, died an octogenarian, having produced music in a popular idiom for the majority of his life rather than ultimately turning to artistic endeavours considered more noble (unlike Handel, who was redeemed by his late adoption of oratorio); while Rossini’s early retirement from full-time composition would hardly have been judged exemplary according to the paradigm. And, as previously discussed, the intervention of the politics of nationality gave rise to interpretations of Emperor Joseph II’s remark concerning Die Entführung that enforced the superiority of German opera over that of the supposedly jealous Italians with whom the criticism had originated; while Bach’s defeat by default of Louis Marchand in 1717 (myth 1-C) came to be appropriated to demonstrate German musical supremacy over its Latin counterpart. 319 Conclusion As Part II has revealed, the aesthetic that musical biography came to insist upon most emphatically was that of absolute music. Indeed, Wagner’s implication in the origination of and discourse surrounding the concept, as Dahlhaus (1989) has discussed, provides a direct link to nineteenth-century biography and autobiography. That may go some way to explaining why extraordinary measures were taken within the genre in an attempt to divorce art, and its corresponding artists, from any external referents that might have been seen to render impure its autonomy. One pertinent example is that of the tension created over explicit involvement in politics by such composers as Beethoven and Wagner. In the latter case, as we saw in Part II, these activities were justified through viewing them as a means to a musical end, in that Wagner’s political pursuits assumed the ultimate aim of collective improvement of the plight of the artist. For Beethoven, by contrast, this issue crystallized around a specific work, the composer’s Third Symphony, in terms both of his intentions in apparently writing a piece on the subject of a great political figure, and of the resultant meaning of that music. We have seen that the story of the cathartic removal of the symphony’s dedication (myth 2-C) functioned to sever this link, thereby detracting from its interpretation as a mere description of Napoleon the man or a reflection of Beethoven’s own ideological persuasion. That such separation between art and politics would have been extremely difficult, if not impossible, for a biographer to establish in the case of a figure such as Verdi is an additional indicator of the relative canonic status of these composers. The fact of Verdi’s music being famously subjected to government censorship to ensure its suitability for public consumption on religious and political grounds even invites speculation as to the composer’s own position with respect to patriotism and Risorgimento nationalism, and the extent to which he may have consciously intended 320 Conclusion his works as social comment for or against the state.4 This line of enquiry may also help to explain more recent controversies in Shostakovich biography that have crystallized around possible subtexts in his Fifth Symphony (and the reasons for the suppression of the Fourth prior to its première) that came to a head in the 1990s in the debate between Ian MacDonald (1990: 120-34, 1998) and Richard Taruskin (1995). Tension has again arisen because consideration of the life and music of Shostakovich, like that of Verdi, simply cannot ignore politics; in this instance, the crucial question is whether his music was composed as an obedient servant of, or in defiant but subtle opposition to, the prevailing regime. While definitive answer is clearly impossible, the subject is clouded by conflicts between Shostakovich’s claims at the time of composition of the Fifth Symphony and those made in the autobiography written towards the end of his life (Shostakovich 1979). The latter may of course be interpreted in either of two diametrically opposed ways, either as a retrospective desire to set the historical record straight or a dishonest attempt to change the course of the composer’s reception; hence it was quickly denounced by the Soviet government as having been fabricated by his amanuensis Solomon Volkov, while Western scholars such as Laurel Fay (1980) also called its authenticity into question. Recalling the above discussion of personal and political agendas, authorial position has clearly been paramount in this instance; the Soviet authorities, for example, would doubtless have been greatly undermined by the proposition of this new view of Shostakovich, and anxious to reclaim him as one of their own. However, the constituency of the various factions embroiled in the dispute is more complex than straightforward geographical delineation would suggest. For instance, Western scholars such as Christopher Norris (for example, 1982b) and Malcolm Barry (1989) are clearly unconvinced by the revisionist view of Shostakovich and instead prefer alternative explanations. Conversely (and at least partly due to 4 On this issue see, for example, Rosselli 2001 and Arblaster 1992: 91-145. 321 Conclusion changing political climates), many of the contributors who sought systematically to defend Shostakovich’s memoirs in Ho and Feofanov’s edited volume Shostakovich Reconsidered (1998) are Soviet-era Russians, who have found both allies and opponents among Western commentators. Another composer who lived in some fear of persecution for the deviation of his beliefs from those imposed by the authorities was William Byrd, a Catholic living and working in Protestant England at a time of great religious upheaval (see, for example, Kerman 1994a). As we have seen, biographers would under normal circumstances have been very receptive to subjects who both held firm religious beliefs and employed their gifts in the service of the Church (Bach and Haydn are both paradigmatic examples); but this particular instance concerns politics as much as it does religion. Byrd’s works demonstrably took the form of political protest, 5 as he provided music for himself and the recusants (rather than for the wider religious community) in the form of Latin motets and notably in his two Gradualia volumes of Catholic liturgical settings (1605, 1607). In addition to his musical activism, the composer may have been politically involved in other ways too; but the authorities showed leniency towards him, and he and his family survived repeated allegations of recusancy towards the end of the Elizabethan Era. Nevertheless, the issue became the source of much unease in Byrd biography, explicable in the fact that it is extremely difficult to portray the intentions that underlay his Latin music as exemplary (or, conversely, to claim any level of religious motivation for his smaller repertory of English music). Moreover, as the publication of the Gradualia both enabled and sanctioned Catholic worship through music, Byrd was directly responsible for opening up the possibilities for many others to resist the 5 Craig A. Monson (1997) has identified links between Byrd’s motets and the words and themes expressed elsewhere by recusants. 322 Conclusion Protestant state in this manner; he was even accused of ‘seducing’ others away from the Anglican Church in 1605. An additional irony presents itself when one considers that music’s specialist nature necessarily limited the scope for discussion within biography of the composers’ works and achievements, particularly in relation to their life, in terms meaningful to its general readership. Any biographical project that aimed to promote the historical significance of its subjects, thereby to state their case for inclusion within the musical canon, would necessarily have striven to be accessible to as wide a target audience as possible, requiring that technical description be kept to a minimum. Part II has explored the emphasis within the Master Musicians series on the more mainstream and readily-understood discipline of literature; works that incorporated explicitly extra-musical content could be easily discussed in terms that made them more accessible to the lay reader through such means as stage descriptions and plot summary. However, the aesthetic of absolute music idealized the very pieces that are ostensibly free from such external reference, and which therefore resist verbal exegesis. Thus the works considered the greatest of all by virtue of their autonomy were also the most difficult to discuss (and thereby canonize) within literature written for a broad, non-specialist readership. Conversely, the biographical cards were stacked in favour of composers whose music relied upon such literary elements as libretti, notably those of the populist school of nineteenth-century Italian opera that the Master Musicians biographers seemed collectively to repudiate. In an attempt to circumvent this issue with respect to absolute music, there has been a strong tradition in literature on music, still very apparent in the present time, of supplying stories to fit a given work (whether related to the composer’s life or not) in order to explicate its meaning by way of verbal analogy. This practice can lead to problems further along the path towards canonization, 323 Conclusion however, when fabricated programmes become sufficiently known that they compromise claims as to the autonomy of a particular piece, as we saw in Evans’s biography of Tchaikovsky with respect to the composer’s later symphonies. Given that biography is founded on the provision for the reader of fresh insight into the works of its subjects through exploration of their lives, it would seem actively to encourage the drawing of connections between the two, particularly when the former yield descriptions or synopses that admit direct comparison with the latter. Some such parallels may be defensible – it is difficult, for instance, not to find echoes of Britten’s own feelings for young boys in the plot of Death in Venice – while others are surely over-reaching, such as reading reflections of Tchaikovsky’s sexuality in the literary stories associated with Romeo and Juliet or Eugene Onegin. The practice is still very apparent in composer life-writing today, enhanced by the present trend towards so-called ‘critical biography’ which explicitly aims to relate life and works (and which would seem more appropriate to, say, literary biography than to its musical counterpart). Of the many critics who have drawn attention to the fallacy of the assumption that one should be mirrored in the other, the point is perfectly encapsulated by Joshua Kosman, who (at the risk of taking his remarks out of context) commented that ‘“Susanna” no more suggests that Handel was celibate than “Messiah” suggests he was the Redeemer, or the Royal Fireworks Music that he was a Roman candle’ (quoted in Thomas 1994: 183). Such transliterations of music into words do allow explicit links between the two to be constructed, but potentially only at the expense of one of the aesthetics most fundamental to musical thought. Thus, as Part II has demonstrated, alternative strategies have developed in order to explain (for the purposes of texts written for a general readership) the relative greatness of specific musical works in relation to the composer’s life. Some of these were locally-sensitive; for instance, within the context of biography 324 Conclusion written primarily for readers in England, one marker of greatness came in the form of any connection (however tenuous) that could be established with that country. Others possessed a more general application in terms of overlap between different times and places, such as the use of the muse paradigm as an indicator of genius and the added significance with which music on religious themes (broadly interpreted) was invested. By far the most important device in this respect, however, was the paradigm of continual development. This model was of major consequence for the opportunities it afforded to relate biographical and stylistic histories according to the crude principle that ‘later’ meant ‘greater’. It was also invaluable to music criticism more widely as an interpolatory device, in the many instances where more precise information about specific repertories was lacking. For example, while it is universally accepted that Haydn wrote in excess of a hundred symphonies, the actual music of many of them long remained unknown (indeed, a large number continue to be excluded from the standard concert repertory). And even if this corpus of works had been familiar in its entirety to the reading public of, say, one hundred years ago, it would not have been feasible – at least, not within the context of biography – to have discussed each of its constituents at sufficient length to do justice to them all. The paradigm of continual development enabled authors to sidestep these problems by making sweeping statements about quantities of music composed over significant spans of the subject’s life. Neither writer nor reader required much knowledge of these works; all that was needed was reference to a few examples, held, by virtue of the teleology upon which the paradigm insisted, to be representative of the evolution of the whole at a given point in time. In addition, such strategies led to the implication of smooth, unilinear progressions throughout such sets as Haydn’s symphonies, thus providing a generalistic, distorted view of the repertory. Another historical misrepresentation introduced by this approach is that it hinged on 325 Conclusion strict alignment between any numbers assigned to the works and the order in which they were chronologically composed, a matter additionally problematized by different systems of numbering that are sometimes concurrently in use (for instance, in the symphonies of Dvořák). It was doubtless similar preoccupations on the part of writers on music that led to such past assumptions as that of Bach’s Leipzig cantatas’ being composed in a steady stream throughout his time in the city, rather than in an intense creative period in the first few years of his tenure as Cantor, as Alfred Dürr (1957) has since definitively demonstrated. This supposition, together with the frequentlyencountered trope of religious music as becoming especially important towards the end of composers’ lives, gives added weight to Joseph Kerman’s suggestion (1985: 52; cf. Pekacz 2004: 52) that Spitta’s miscalculations in establishing the chronology for Bach’s chorale cantatas represented wishful thinking in order that the biographer might present his subject’s career as having culminated with the genre most explicitly associated with Lutheranism. In a similar vein, in the absence of knowledge as to the exact time at which specific works were produced, writers have often been led into the realm of conjecture based on evidence of stylistic evolution, with varying degrees of success. This entire line of enquiry is thoroughly confused by the fact that the dates that composers themselves supplied for their works (on their manuscripts and elsewhere) are sometimes unreliable, an issue brought to the fore by such modern scholarship as that of Maynard Solomon on the ardent revisionist Charles Ives (Solomon 1987; see also Swafford 1996). A more conservative dating for Ives’s works would suggest that the musical characteristics they exemplify were not as radical as previously supposed – thereby compromising his historical significance. However, in this particular instance the matter remains far from 326 Conclusion resolved, as research by Carol Baron (1990) and Gayle Sherwood (1994, 1995) has viewed more favourably the chronology claimed by the composer himself. The recent (and continuing) revisions to the dating of the works of a much earlier figure, Josquin des Prez, is even more telling. Josquin scholarship has always been plagued by undocumented lacunae in the composer’s biography, issues of authenticity and attribution, and the fact that the published sources shed little light on the matter. In consequence, single discoveries can sometimes influence our entire understanding of Josquin’s development as a composer, as well as the wider situation of his works within music history. The year of his birth, for example, has long been taken as c.1440, following the identification by Claudio Sartori (1956) of the composer with the ‘Josquin’ who was an adult singer active at the Cathedral in Milan from 1459 to 1472. But in the 1990s new information surfaced, notably as a result of the archival research of Lora Matthews and Paul Merkley (1994), indicating that this ‘Josquin’ was actually a different person from the composer. The previously-held belief that Josquin des Prez was born c.1440 seems never entirely to have convinced scholars, since little of his music was thought at the time to have been written much earlier than the 1490s, marking him out as a late developer as a composer, as well as strikingly long-lived. A revised birth date of c.1450 (as was believed prior to Sartori’s discovery), or even later, seems in any case more logical given both the chronology of his biography and some of the influences that shaped his stylistic evolution (see Fallows 1996). However, the absence of any demonstrable connection between Josquin and Milan created other problems, not least the difficulty of its reconciliation with the distinctly Milanese style of some of his music. Clarification came only later, again as a result of the work of Matthews and Merkley (1998): Josquin the composer was found to have been associated with Milan after all, but perhaps not until 1484. The dating of Milanese 327 Conclusion motets such as his Ave Maria, believed (on the basis of watermarks) to have been copied c.1476, has therefore required re-evaluation. Ironically, Joshua Rifkin’s exhaustive study (2003) has demonstrated that this work, though written later than previously thought, reveals that Josquin’s earliest firmly datable extant music is nevertheless notably mature in terms of its musical style. That is, of course, the exact opposite of the conclusion to which one might be led given assumptions rooted in the paradigm of continual development, hence necessitating resistance to suppositions of unilinear development. Nonetheless, this new light on the composer’s biography has forced Josquin scholars to undertake fundamental reconsideration of the chronology of his works (see especially Fallows 1999). As we have seen, the paradigm of continual development ultimately gave rise to the trope of the ‘great last work’, privileged as the epitome of composers’ musical output and the fullest realization of their artistic genius. To the biographers, the production of such music ideally took place as close to their subjects’ death as possible, so as to highlight the link between the apotheosis of their creative prowess and their seemingly inevitable demise thereafter. The extensive story of Mozart’s Requiem (myth 6-D), continuing fascination with which is demonstrated by Peter Shaffer’s play Amadeus (1980) and the corresponding film (Forman 1984), 6 is entirely characteristic; yet it would seem to provide the exception that proves the rule as far as the paradigm is concerned. Unlike other, later examples of great culminating works discussed in Part II, Mozart’s Requiem was representative neither of his overall compositional output nor of his mature style, nor is it even entirely his own creation in that the score was completed 6 For critical responses to the film, see Marshall 1997 and Lang 1997. Unfortunately, the issue of film biographies of composers lies outside the scope of this dissertation. A full-length study of the subject, Tibbetts 2005, has recently appeared; one ‘Music and Culture’ section of The Musical Quarterly (1997: LXXXI/ii, 170-209), edited by Michael P. Steinberg, was devoted to musical biopics and musicology in film. 328 Conclusion by others following his death. That Mozart had written little church music in the preceding twelve years, as noted, ironically lends the Requiem an added significance; similarly, its status as unfinished has over time elicited substantial biographical, stylistic, and analytical interest on that count alone. However, rather than demonstrating the level of innovation and the zenith of the composer’s musical development befitting a great last work, the Requiem exhibits indebtedness to precursors extending back to the Baroque Period, as highlighted by Richard Maunder’s survey of models for the piece (1988: 74-94). While reference to earlier works and styles by no means precludes innovation (and the legacy of Baroque music is generally discernible in sacred music of the time), descriptions of the Requiem such as that offered by Rochlitz, that it was ‘among the most perfect that the most recent art has produced’ (6-D-2, italics added), are surely over-generous; Rochlitz elsewhere cited the Requiem as evidence of ‘how Mozart’s all-capable mind studied, valued, and fully understood the mind of that ancient contrapuntist’, J. S. Bach (Solomon 1991b: 28). Nohl (6-D-12) likewise made mention of Bach, and Jahn alluded to Mozart’s ‘familiarity with the orthodox church style’ (6-D-11), both in connection with this piece. Blom (6-D-15), indeed, offered an implicit response to the Requiem’s being an unusual candidate for the last-work phenomenon: he speculated that Mozart might have felt ‘that this mass for the dead [should] represent him as worthily in the domain of church music as the last opera, the last three symphonies and the last chamber music did elsewhere’. Implicit in Blom’s words is the notion that the trope might had been better served on musical grounds had the composer, for example, perished in Summer 1788 after producing three great symphonies in a two-month flood of creative activity (although it would doubtless have led to similar concerns expressed over the scholastic use of the four-note Fuxian motif in the ‘Jupiter’ Symphony’s finale). But ironically, had Mozart lived just a few more years, succeeding Leopold Hoffman as Kapellmeister at St Stephen’s Cathedral and 329 Conclusion hence producing significant quantities of church music, history might instead be inclined to view the Requiem as a beginning rather than an end. In this instance, unease arose because the historical significance of the work simply did not accord with its aesthetic significance, a discrepancy that was allowed to linger unaddressed within biography owing to its limited scope for discussion of the music itself. 7 The question therefore arises as to the nature of the relationship between the music and the myth: whether the importance of the latter lies in the work’s apparently representing the crowning achievement of its composer, or whether the Requiem’s significance as Mozart’s chef-d’œuvre itself derives from the associated legend. This line of enquiry may help to account for the degree to which the mythology surrounding the Requiem has flourished, having survived both the general awareness of its contested authorship and the onslaught of alternative, potentially contradictory theories. Cliff Eisen (2006) has discussed the notable emphasis on the composer’s biography in the work’s early reception; William Stafford noted that the tale ‘conferred a special aura upon the Requiem, which is abundantly evident in nineteenth-century writing on Mozart’ (1991: 80). As the earliest example of the last-work phenomenon’s being applied to a single piece in the biographies of the Great Composers, it provided a prototype for a number of subsequent cases that, ironically, match the paradigm much more appropriately. This generic trope provides the crucial intersection between the two most important paradigms isolated in the course of this study: those of continual development and the muse. The latter merits further exploration both for its continuing presence within 7 For a more general discussion of the uneasy relationship between historical and aesthetic elements in writings on music, see Dahlhaus 1983: 19-33. 330 Conclusion musicology, and for the frequency with which it is encountered in composer biography. One example that has not previously been mentioned is that of Janáček’s association with Kamila Stösslová (see, for example, Chew 2003), the source of much unease for biographers since the composer was married at the time and Stösslová was 38 years his junior, both facts that are difficult to overcome given his passion for her. Their affiliation is nevertheless highlighted for its particular intersection of the two paradigms under discussion. It was coincident with the final, most productive twelve years of Janáček’s life, which resulted in some of his greatest music as well as his receiving the wide acclaim that he had previously failed to achieve; and in their voluminous correspondence (see Tyrrell 1994), Janáček himself frequently represented Stösslová as his source of inspiration. If the actual episode itself strongly accords with these biographical paradigms, the matter is heightened by the ways that writers have correspondingly insisted upon them. Discussions of the circumstances in which Janáček’s Sinfonietta (1926) was conceived, for example, tend not only to emphasize his being inspired by the fanfares performed by a military band in the park at Písek but also that Stösslová was with him at the time. The muse paradigm remains inscribed in some of the most famous works in the Western canon, judging both from their historical significance and their continuing popularity among concert-goers. Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique was famously tied by its programme to the composer’s then unrequited love for Harriet Smithson; Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde was said to have reflected his love affair with Mathilde Wesendonck; overtones of Schoenberg’s burgeoning relationship with Mathilde Zemlinsky (conveniently, the sister of a minor composer, and subsequently his wife) have been read into the programmatic Verklärte Nacht, by virtue of the plot of the text upon which it was based; and the celebrated ‘Adagietto’ from Mahler’s Fifth Symphony was held by 331 Conclusion the conductor Willem Mengelberg to have been a love letter to Alma Schindler, whom the composer married soon thereafter. 8 The latter suggestion would seem to be confirmed by the allusions to Tristan und Isolde within the music itself, which have generally been taken to relate to the synopsis of the opera; this discussion, however, permits their additional understanding as an oblique reference to the genesis of the earlier work as linked to the creative dynamic between Wagner and Wesendonck. Indeed, my proposed reading makes greater sense of Mahler’s intertext than would a mere comparison with the opera’s plot, given its limited parallels with the composer’s personal circumstances. Recent years have seen an increasing awareness that while some of the emergent feminist trends within musicology, such as Marcia Citron’s study (1993), have served to demonstrate the various ways in which women have historically been excluded from mainstream music history, others have taken the alternative approach of working from within. In particular, Susan McClary has famously challenged the very roots of the discipline from the feminist perspective with reference to its greatest figures such as Beethoven, Brahms, and Schubert (McClary 1991c, 1993b, 1994), with the ironic consequence that the traditional canon has been re-inscribed as fiercely male-oriented. Moreover, McClary’s deconstructive engagement with women has been primarily in terms of figures such as Madonna (1991a), thereby marking a departure from canonic traditions and timeframes (if not also from acts of composition) and precluding direct comparison with her work on male composers. 9 Hence biography remains complicit in enforcing both musicology’s inherent androcentricity and the assumptions that have led 8 9 On wider issues of autobiography in Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, see also Barry 1993 and Floros 1993: 139-60. McClary’s chapter on Madonna is possibly the best-known of several case studies of females in Feminine Endings (1991c), which also include Laurie Anderson and Janika Vandervelde. That said, Paula Higgins, in an important critique of the volume, asked ‘Where are the women in this “feminist” criticism of music?’ (1993: 187, italics in original). 332 Conclusion to its fundamental reliance upon a select number of great heroes, and the muse paradigm continues to function culturally to this end. We have seen elsewhere in this study that the muse paradigm effectively denied women the possibility of artistic creation in music (as distinct from mere reproduction of these works in performance), while simultaneously linking them inextricably to such activities undertaken by their associated male geniuses. It is also responsible for the fact that certain women who happened to compose were not altogether written out of music history, principally owing to their strong associations with male counterparts. Such figures as Fanny Mendelssohn and Clara Schumann have, over time, been permitted to appear at the fringes of the musical canon, especially following its recent feminist deconstruction and expansion. However, the very fact of the inconsistency surrounding the names by which they have come to be known – the former by her maiden name, and the latter by her married name, so as to highlight their connections with famous male composers – alone indicates the basis upon which this token admission has been granted. It is similarly difficult not to come to the conclusion that the muse paradigm may be held accountable for general tendencies to discuss women in relation to men in music history; of all the examples so far cited, that of Nadezhda von Meck and Tchaikovsky is particularly noteworthy. The canons of music – etymologically, the art of the muses – may therefore more usefully be opened up in terms of gender through explicit acknowledgement and critique of the muse paradigm, whose alarming stranglehold within the discipline has already been mentioned. This is indeed the approach taken by some modern studies, such as Ruth Solie’s reading (1992) of Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben song cycle with reference to the composer’s association with Clara and its influence upon his creative output. However, others merely continue to investigate women as muses to 333 Conclusion their attendant composers. The paradigm may, for example, go some way towards accounting for the long-standing fascination with Beethoven’s ‘Immortal Beloved’ (‘unsterbliche Geliebte’). The identity of the unnamed person for whom the composer declared his intimate love in a single cryptic letter of 6-7 July 1812 (Anderson 1961: I, 373-6, possibly unsent) would not normally occasion such interest, especially given the extent to which unanswerable questions relating to minutiae pervade any biography. However, that the mystery figure could be seen to have functioned as muse to the composer may be responsible for the much greater significance accorded to this particular matter. Previous scholarship has argued for Antonie Brentano or Countess Josephine Brunswick-Deym as the most likely candidates, but has by no means laid the matter to rest. 10 In recent years, the subject has again been fuelled by Bernard Rose’s fictionalized film (1994), 11 which explores the composer’s relationship with various women, and Gail Altman’s book-length study (1996), in which previous theories are discussed and an alternative contender, Countess Anna-Marie Erdődy, is proposed. Since the muse paradigm is fundamentally heterosexist, it may also help to explain the continuing tension surrounding sexual difference in canonical composers, which has come to prominence in the more inclusive and liberated climate offered by the New Musicology. Overt exploration of homosexuality proves problematic to conventional musical biography in that it essentially undermines the muse paradigm, thereby limiting it if not declaring it altogether redundant. One case in point is Tchaikovsky, who, significantly, is the only composer investigated in the course of this study for whom the muse paradigm does not hinge on suggestions of love (of some kind or other) of the associated female, reinforced by Meck’s condition that the pair were never to meet. As 10 11 For example, Solomon 1972, Goldschmidt 1977, Tellenbach 1983, and Solomon 1998: 207-46. On the film’s shortcomings, see Lockwood 1997. 334 Conclusion we saw in Part II, the paradigm factors into the composer’s death to the extent that Tchaikovsky biography employs sleight of hand to account for the exceptional demise of the subject before, rather than after, that of the attendant muse. The importance of the earlier event is seen in the identification of the composer’s Sixth Symphony as his great last work in that his passing is tellingly connected with its initially unenthusiastic reception, which became much warmer on the composer’s death. Moreover, the notorious ‘court of honour’ theory, which provides one explanation as to Tchaikovsky’s premature demise, centres on the issue of his homosexuality. According to this story, Tchaikovsky was sentenced by a committee of his peers to commit suicide in order to safeguard the reputation of the School of Jurisprudence, his alma mater, against an accusation connected to his sexuality being made public (Orlova 1981). The subject has since generated much scholarly debate, notably between David Brown and Alexander Poznansky, owing to the questionable nature of some of the elements of the story and the impossibility of establishing definitive answers. 12 In connection with this line of enquiry, it is telling that an analytical study by Timothy L. Jackson (1995), which endeavoured to identify in Tchaikovsky’s music traits indicative of homosexuality, crystallized around works associated with the episode of the composer’s life in which the muse paradigm figures most prominently, especially the Fourth Symphony. 13 However, the issue of sexual difference that has recently taken musicology by storm is connected not with Tchaikovsky, but with Schubert, another composer whose untimely death may have been the result of his deviant sexual activity, in that he contracted 12 13 See Brown 1997 (which critiques Poznansky 1991 and 1996) and Music and Letters 1998: LXXIX/iii, 463-9 (correspondence between Poznansky, Brown, and Richard Taruskin). See further, Poznansky 1988. Cf. other studies that seek to investigate resonances of Tchaikovsky’s sexuality in his music, notably McClary 1991b: 69-79. 335 Conclusion syphilis in his final years. 14 Tchaikovsky’s homosexuality, although it has by no means always been openly discussed, has essentially been known from his own time, whereas that of Schubert is shrouded in uncertainty, muddied by problems of historicism, and the product of modern biographical scholarship. It was Maynard Solomon who first proposed the possibility in the 1980s and, though initially the discipline largely ignored his claims, once they had reached widespread musicological audiences they were fiercely contested for some time thereafter. 15 In addition, as Philip Brett (1994: 15) and others have observed, Schubert was the more central of the two to the musical canon, and suggestions as to his engagement in same-sex erotic acts therefore struck much closer to its heart. Recent research by David Gramit (1993) and others has traced the trope of Schubert’s embodying an alternative construction on grounds of gender as having its origins in his positioning as feminine in relation to the masculine norm epitomized by Beethoven, in the writings of Schumann and Grove in particular. It has not, however, considered the extension and elaboration of the wider nexus of biographical stories that has sought to associate Schubert with Beethoven, discussed in Part I, nor the complicity of these very same authors in forming and perpetuating this mythology. We have seen that Schumann was responsible for connecting the two composers through his story of using of a steel pen found on Beethoven’s grave to write his historic notice on Schubert’s Ninth Symphony, which has become a myth in its own right. Grove, meanwhile, extended the mythology in various respects, most significantly in proposing that Schubert might have made two visits to the dying Beethoven in 1827 (myths 2-F and 7-B) where the witness testimonies possibly refer only to a single event, 14 15 It is generally accepted that Schubert did indeed contract syphilis in 1822 or 1823, and that this condition at least contributed to his early death, the exact cause of which has never been definitively established (see, for example, Sams 1980, Bevan 1998, McKay 1996: 319-31). Solomon 1981 and 1989; for rebuttals, see Mayer 1992 and Steblin 1992. See also the special issue of 19th-Century Music (1993: XVII/i), edited by Lawrence Kramer (Kramer 1993, Steblin 1993, Solomon 1993, Muxfeldt 1993, Gramit 1993, Agawu 1993, McClary 1993a, Webster 1993, Winter 1993), as well as several other articles on the subject, including Steblin 1997. 336 Conclusion thus altering the subsequent trajectory of Schubert biography in particular. Indeed, within the context of the wider Beethoven/Schubert mythology, the points that these authors made about the gendered contrasts between the two composers are quite minor in relation to the extent of their biographical association in other directions. The sheer magnitude of the web of stories that advance connections, however tenuous or unjustified, between these figures suggests that such hermeneutical essays as Susan McClary’s oppositional study of Schubert and Beethoven (1994) may have much broader foundation. Especially significant in connection with this point is the episode of the exhumation, which led to comparisons between the two composers on grounds of gender (and also of race) that simply would not have been brought about were it not for the adjacency of their graves – which, as we have seen, may have itself been the product of another of the myths. Most tellingly, as previously discussed, Breuning made an explicit connection between the different biological constitutions of the two composers – the ‘compact thickness’ of Beethoven’s and the ‘almost feminine thinness’ of Schubert’s – and the respective qualities of their works (1992: 116). In a discussion of the relationship between gender and broader biographical associations constructed between these two composers, mention should also be made of Philip Brett’s study (1997) that points towards Schubert’s four-hand piano works – and specifically, the second movement of the Sonata in C, D. 812 (‘Grand Duo’) – as exemplifying his homosexuality through his music. Brett’s reading would similarly seem to have a wider basis in the Beethoven/Schubert mythology, in which the piano duet is the one genre encountered time and again. Both Schindler’s story of Beethoven’s discovery of Schubert’s songs on his death-bed (myth 2-G) and Schumann’s notion of Schubert as feminine in relation to Beethoven originate in articles on Schubert’s piano duets, the former in an essay on Schubert’s Fantasie in F minor, Op. 103 (Schindler 1831) that 337 Conclusion antedated the various editions of Schindler’s Beethoven biography, and the latter in a critical notice on Schubert’s ‘Grand Duo’ (Schumann 1988f), which evidently influenced Brett’s choice of case study. The work that Schubert famously called to present to Beethoven in 1822 (myths 2-E and 7-A), the Variations on a French Air, Op. 10, was written for piano four hands; and Kreissle has indicated that both composers became acquainted with the music of the other via the medium of the piano duet, Schubert through practising four-hand versions of Beethoven’s symphonies (7-B-1), and Beethoven through playing Schubert’s Op. 10 with his nephew (7-A-1). Whether or not Schubert presented his score to Beethoven in person, the question remains as to why, if such works can be said to represent the younger composer’s sexual difference through music, this one was dedicated to the very person held to embody the (heterosexual) masculine norm. The matter receives an added significance when one considers that recent scholarship has revealed not only that Beethoven provided something of a model for Schubert in terms of his early piano music (see, for example, Rieppel 1998), but also that musical references to Beethoven permeate Schubert’s piano duets in particular throughout his career, including the Fantasie in C minor (‘Grande sonate’), D. 48, the Rondo in A, D. 951, and, ironically, the second movement of the ‘Grand Duo’ itself (Nettheim 1991, Schwarting 1984, Shamgar 1989). It is perhaps for this reason that Philip Brett, who was entirely upfront about the Beethovenian link in the ‘Grand Duo’, wrote that at the climax of the second movement – where his reading becomes perhaps most sexually explicit of all – it is no longer possible to draw the connection with Beethoven’s music: Hands spread at opposite ends of the keyboard, the top slashing away percussively and the bottom getting every ounce out of those inadequate hammers and aging strings on my 1890s Broadwood, there is no teasing now… the brutal dissonance and hollow timbre represent the sheer rage of the powerless subject who is hopeless, the out-of-control moments that are never revealed, or the terrifying fantasy of their revelation (‘Is this what would happen if I really let it all out?’) … Whatever it means, this is a moment that, at any event, cannot be paralleled in the Larghetto of Beethoven’s Second Symphony… (Brett 1997: 164, italics added ) 338 Conclusion The apparent omission on the collective part of the scholars who have contributed to the recent Schubert debate to address the wider nexus of stories by which the composer was connected with Beethoven has, therefore, actually resulted in its implication within this mythology. Consequently, the hotly-debated suggestion of sexual difference in the younger of the pair – however valuable it has proved in questioning some of musicology’s most fundamental assumptions – may inadvertently have become the latest biographical gambit by which these two composers are associated, thereby continuing the cultural work performed by the mythology into an era in which, as noted, the canon has been thoroughly re-inscribed. Indeed, Beethoven has been conspicuous by his presence from the beginnings of the modern discourse on Schubert and sexual difference. Solomon claimed that his hypothesis puts us in ‘a better position to understand why Schubert… failed to visit Beethoven’ (1989: 205); his suggestion that to view the composer in this manner uncovers ‘a heroic region in Schubert’s personality’ (: 206) seems to appeal to the rhetoric of heroism more usually associated with Beethoven (as a 1996 study by Scott Burnham has explored). And is it any accident that Solomon’s theory was originally proposed in an article that appeared just two years after he published an essay (1979) offering an extensive investigation of the relationship and possible points of contact between Beethoven and Schubert? Yet this is not the only new branch of the mythology that has emerged in recent years. Another was initiated by Otto Erich Deutsch’s claim (1946: 345) that Schubert was ‘certainly’ present at the première of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Acknowledging that Deutsch provided no basis for this assertion and that it is problematized by the lack of knowledge as to Schubert’s activities around the time of Spring 1824, Beth Shamgar (1989) has added further weight in favour of this possibility in two main areas. Firstly, there were various convergences between the circles of Beethoven and Schubert at that time, in terms of people independently associated with both; notably, two of Schubert’s 339 Conclusion close friends were to sing in the choir for Beethoven’s concert (: 418-20). Secondly, Schubert’s piano duets composed in the months immediately after the concert contain various musical allusions to Beethoven’s symphonies: the ‘Grand Duo’ to the Second Symphony (as noted), and the Variations on an Original Theme in A flat, D. 813 to the Seventh Symphony (: 421-29, 431-2). The fact of such references seems plausible given Kreissle’s statement that Schubert practised Beethoven’s symphonies as piano duets; and Schumann remarked upon the similarities in his article on the former work, which he held (incorrectly, it is now believed) to have originally been conceived as a symphony. On the one hand, Shamgar has sought to address a rather bold assertion made by a previous biographer in proposing a link between Beethoven and Schubert, but failing to offer any evidence in its support. On the other, however, her lines of enquiry merely reflect a continuing search for precisely the same kinds of vague connections between the two composers that have preoccupied biographers for over a century and a half, not least because, as Part I has shown, these myths have long been a convenient means for filling lacunae in Schubert’s life story. By way of conclusion, Shamgar cited the quotation in Schubert’s Ninth Symphony of the ‘Ode to Joy’ theme from Beethoven’s own Ninth Symphony as proof that the younger composer was acquainted with this piece through concert performance, since the score had not been published at the time (: 432-4). However, given that two members of his close social circle sang in the concert, the possibility should surely not be discounted that Schubert had some kind of access to the music, if not also to the score, through them (or that he had attended the work’s repeat performance, rather than the première). Nor did this particular mythological avenue come to an end here. Robert Winter, in his article on Schubert 340 Conclusion written for the second edition of The New Grove Dictionary, expanded upon the attendance of Schubert at the première of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony as follows: Although instrumental music enjoyed a prestige below that of opera, Schubert may have been further stimulated in this direction by his attendance at the première on 7 May 1824 of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. …it was both Vienna’s and Schubert’s first opportunity to hear a new Beethoven symphony in more than a decade, and Schubert cannot have failed to be moved by the sight of the ageing composer having to be turned around for a bow. (Winter 2001: 668) Thus Winter, however light-heartedly, included Schubert within a story that proved important within Beethoven biography (myth 2-D). As noted, the pathos invoked by this story originally functioned to detract attention from Beethoven’s less exemplary argument with the organizers of the concert; the supplanting of this story from its original biographical context conveniently removed its connection with the latter incident altogether. Furthermore, the practice of writing a junior canonical composer into an episode from which that character was originally absent has previously been encountered in connection with Beethoven; the story of Haydn’s last public appearance at a performance of The Creation in 1808 (myth 5-D) came to foreground Beethoven at the expense of Salieri. While biography has evolved considerably since the fanciful hagiography of the early to mid-nineteenth century, as has the musical canon, this instance demonstrates that even in scholarship of the last twenty years, attempts to correct the mistakes of past authors can sometimes merely alter the trajectory of an episode’s subsequent biographical elaboration (which phenomenon was previously observed historically in myth 1-B with Spitta’s straightening of Forkel’s error). 16 Only 16 Another modern-day example is identified by Matthew Head (1999), who has noted that a recent revisionist Mozart biography (Solomon 1995), while endeavouring to expose one set of myths, merely ‘ushers in another’ (: 76) in their place. I regret that space has precluded me from pursuing this phenomenon in greater depth. 341 Conclusion time will tell whether this new myth continues to develop along similar lines to those of its Haydnesque precedent. 17 The pairing of Beethoven with Schubert is undoubtedly the most pronounced instance in music history of an association between two Great Composers constructed on rather tenuous grounds, and the one for which the related mythology is the most extensive; but it is far from the only example on offer. Part II has demonstrated that the common-practice period insisted successively on the couplings of Bach and Handel, Haydn and Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert, and Wagner and Brahms, and that only one of these four groupings was easily justifiable on biographical and musical grounds. For the purposes of the present discussion, I might add that the post-Beethoven generation comprised another pair of pairs – Chopin and Liszt, and Mendelssohn and Schumann – and that the counter-canon of nineteenth-century Italian popularists was headed by Rossini and Verdi. Such historiographical practices may even partly account for the uneasy canonical status of figures such as Berlioz (already noted in the context of the original Master Musicians series), who did not have an obvious partner to act as his ‘foil’. Similarly, the grouping of Chopin and Liszt, the two Eastern European (and non-Germanic) composers most central to the musical canon, is surely no coincidence; and, though reasonable in that they were born just a year apart, and that both were piano virtuosi who made a substantial contribution to the repertory for their instrument, the pairing is more questionable in that one lived almost twice as long as the other. Though the predication of the common-practice period upon composers grouped in pairs demonstrates the centrality of the practice to the musical canon and to musicology 17 The irony is that this entire mythic lineage, as with myth 1-B, has arisen from a single word penned by a previous biographer. 342 Conclusion in general, it also had much broader application. Indeed, the history of Western art music has traditionally been written around such couplings, from Léonin and Pérotin (two of the earliest ever named composers) in the medieval period, to Boulez and Stockhausen in the present time; and within these widely-spaced temporal limits, many additional examples may be identified. 18 Such pairings function rhetorically either to champion the lesser-known figure or to promote the two in tandem, leading ultimately to a ‘top-down’ conception of music history dominated by a relatively small handful of composers. The reality, however, is that while some proposed partnerships are indeed justified in terms of biography (for the reasons discussed in previous chapters), others are constructed primarily on the basis of fortuitous temporal and geographical correspondence, often hinging upon such tenuous yet convenient connections as the contemporaneous deaths of Palestrina and Lassus or births of Bach and Handel (but not, tellingly, Domenico Scarlatti). This time-honoured convention has therefore led to the grouping of composers who were essentially unrelated or even antithetical to one another in terms of their musical activities and preoccupations, and whose association is therefore of limited value to musicology. As the example of Beethoven and Schubert demonstrates, this general tendency owes much to the nefarious insistence upon binarism, and may therefore be seen as yet another one of the canons in Don Michael Randel’s proverbial musicological toolbox (1992: 19-20). In putting forward this view, however, I do not mean to imply that all studies that explore one figure in relation to another are fundamentally flawed. Much valuable new light may be shed on pairs of artists (especially when information is otherwise lacking) either by exploring parallels between their lives and their music, as in Peter Laki’s study (1996) of Franz Schmidt and Ernő Dohnányi from the Austrohungarian perspective, or by drawing on one figure 18 Other composer couplings include those of Dunstable and Dufay, and Tallis and Byrd at one end of the temporal spectrum, and Debussy and Ravel, Bartók and Kodály, and Schoenberg and Stravinsky at the other; doubtless many further examples could be adduced. 343 Conclusion as a lens through which to bring the other into sharper focus, which is the approach taken in my own study of Virginia Woolf and Ethel Smyth (Wiley 2004a). My point is merely that certain couplings betray an unwitting indebtedness to enduring ideologies of musical biography. If the pairing of composers enforced music history’s elitism with a given epoch, then other biographical paradigms perpetuated the same notion across wider temporal spans. Within the common-practice canon, one widespread trope that served this purpose was that of a set of composers having collectively exceeded the boundaries of the classes into which they were born, thereby progressively changing altogether the social status accorded to the artist. This concept functioned to promote the subjects as exemplary, especially when they were seen to have (for example) struggled in relative poverty rather than being too heavily reliant on the much easier option of patronage from aristocrats. It also advanced the notion that those who exhibited greatness were correspondingly invested with the power to change the course of history for the benefit of others. Bach’s life, for example, was played out in a string of ecclesiastical posts unbefitting of a genius of his calibre, yet towards the end of his career he sought a greater level of independence in order to pursue personal projects such as the Clavierübung volumes. However, the key figure in connection with this trope is undoubtedly Haydn, whose biography is traditionally framed in terms of a general progression from servant to (semi-)freelance composer. Part I has identified this notion in myths that attach to the end of his career (myths 5-C and 5-D) – which indicate a certain obligation to the musician on the part of aristocrats rather than the other way around – leading to his having provided for his own servants in the story of his death (myth 5-E). 344 Conclusion Such developments in the paradigmatic career of a Great Composer opened up possibilities for the perceived total independence of Mozart, Beethoven, and beyond. This idea accounts for the tensions between Mozart and the Salzburg authorities, and his eventual resignation (which provided the crucial difference between Mozart and Bach, who famously clashed with his superiors but for whom freelancing was not an option). Yet such composers nevertheless remained indebted to aristocratic patronage in other ways, for example in terms of commissions and generous donations of money, which contradicted the overall sense of historical progression advanced by this trope. Thus several of the myths associated with Beethoven function to minimize the extent of his financial reliance on the nobility. We have already seen that the eventual dedication of the Third Symphony to Lobkowitz, in gratitude for his patronage, became buried in biography under the story of the removal of the original dedication to Napoleon (myth 2-C). Another well-known episode is the composer’s ill-mannered refusal to continue to entertain a gathering at the house of Count Browne when a young nobleman persisted in talking while he was playing a piano duet with Ries, in whose biographical reminiscence the story originated (Wegeler and Ries 1987: 80-1). Historiographically speaking, such behaviour (like that of Mozart on other occasions, discussed in Part I) represented neither appropriate conduct in the company of the very people to whom he turned for patronage nor the respect that was due to them; his initial response was reportedly to hurl the insult ‘I will not play for such swine’! In the same vein, tales of Beethoven’s relationships with various ladies of the court have functioned implicitly to provide alternative explanations for his association with those aristocratic families;19 it is surely significant that a number of the figures who have been suggested as the ‘Immortal Beloved’ are countesses. 19 For a concise summary by an early writer, see G[rove] 1878-90a: 169. 345 Conclusion The long-standing trope of progressive social ascent is perpetuated in more recent scholarship such as Susan McClary’s post-Adornian reading of Bach’s Fifth Brandenburg Concerto (McClary 1987: 25-41; cf. Adorno 1967a). Among many other contextual points raised in the course of her article, McClary contended that the unexpected emergence of the harpsichord (the composer’s own instrument) as principal soloist in this concerto reflects the rising of the artist from the ranks of the servant analogous to the continuo player’s more usual supporting role. On one level, McClary’s study has broken much new ground within musicology for its resistance to the nineteenth-century aesthetics of absolute music and autonomy, specifically in interpreting elements of society in repertory traditionally held to be free from historical and cultural associations. On another, however, her research would seem to be indebted to a second set of nineteenth-century assumptions concerning the overall direction taken by composers of the generations that followed, anachronistically mirroring the triumph of their subversive struggle within society. Had music history taken an alternative course, then this piece would doubtless have been read quite differently. In order to contribute to a greater understanding of musical biography, the approach taken by this thesis has been to examine texts on a number of different subjects comparatively rather than to concentrate on those of a single composer primarily or exclusively. We are thereby equipped to be able to determine the extent to which the tension surrounding certain issues, such as Beethoven’s relatively late development as a composer, arises from counterexamples in the biographies of other great figures (including, in this instance, Mozart and Schubert); while such phenomena as the unexplained emergence of Schubert in accounts of an important episode in Beethoven biography, discussed above, may now be seen to reflect Beethoven’s parallel placement within an analogous scene in Haydn’s life. It is ironic that biography, a genre 346 Conclusion traditionally held to centralize a single person through the marginalization of all else, itself lives in the shadow of other major heroes of its associated discipline, even in the case of arguably the greatest subject of them all. 20 The tropes that have evolved within musical biography therefore stem directly from elements found in some, but not all, of the lives of its protagonists, as though if a particular theme (such as a precocious childhood) figured prominently in the biographies of certain Great Composers, then it should be possible to tell it of others too. (At the same time, ironically, contradictory versions of the same story may peaceably co-exist within the singular trajectories of, for example, Beethoven biography as compared with that of Schubert.) However, as there is no one subject within musical biography who represents the yardstick against which all other composers are universally measured, some level of unease may be found in specific areas in the life-writing of any such figures. Were further proof needed of the comparative nature of musical biography, I offer the following narrations, by Fétis, of the deaths of Mozart and Schubert respectively: …Mozart expira (5 décembre 1791), sans avoir accompli sa trente-sixième année. (Fétis 1860-5: VI, 238) 21 Une maladie de langueur le conduisit au tombeau, le 19 novembre 1828, avant qu[e Schubert] eût atteint sa trente-sixième année. (: VII, 515) While the similarity of the two formulations is itself notable, what is more interesting is Fétis’s observation that both composers died before reaching the age of 36. Although Mozart’s life was cut short less than two months from his 36th birthday, Schubert was just 31 years old at his death; to say that he died before reaching the age of 32 might therefore have been more appropriate. No historical reason for the apparent 20 21 For a discussion of the problems that emerge from this narrow approach to historical narrative, such as restricting our understanding of the wider contexts of the subject’s own life, see Peters 1995. Cf. Choron and Fayolle 1810-1: II, 73. 347 Conclusion miscalculation is evident, and Fétis otherwise cited Schubert’s dates correctly. One may reasonably infer, therefore, that Mozart’s untimely passing was firmly in the lexicographer’s mind as he wrote of the same episode in Schubert’s life and, by extension, that the trope of the tragic young death was brought to Schubert biography at least partly as a result of similarities implicitly drawn with that of Mozart. By investigating thematically-related myths and paradigms in tandem rather than restricting discussion to a single figure, I have contributed new insights to biographical issues upon which much ink has already been spent, as texts on one composer often turn out to enrich our understanding of questions arising from those on another. Expansions to existing knowledge have been made possible by the conscious use of the oppositional nature of different composer biographies, which potentially permits a much more extensive exploration of such writings in terms analogous to collective biography but on a larger scale. Consideration of the Beethoven/Schubert mythology is again instructive, since two very different sets of stories emerge within the early biographies on the composers concerned, and the study of one of these groups of texts in isolation would therefore yield only a rather incomplete picture of the whole. Furthermore, one of the myths that serves to associate the two figures unfolds exclusively within biographies of Schumann – an unlikely occurrence, when taken at face value – rather than those of Beethoven or Schubert. A more inclusive, comparative approach to biography may even help to unravel some of the connections that have been buried under decades of re-writing composers’ lives. One case in point is the superficial similarity of two episodes told of subjects steadfastly refusing to alter their own scores at the request of performers (which notion itself betrays shades of the work-concept): firstly, that of Beethoven’s ignoring the complaints of the soloists Henriette Sontag and Caroline Unger that parts of his Ninth Symphony were unsingable; and secondly, that of 348 Conclusion Schubert’s declining to alter some operatic music he had composed which its intended singer, Nanette Schechner, apparently found too difficult. These stories exhibit other similarities aside from their content, as they were said to have taken place only two years apart, the former in 1824 and the latter in 1826. In addition, both were associated with prominent Vienna venues: Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was premièred at the Kärntnertortheater, and Schubert reportedly composed his music and held rehearsals with Schechner in an attempt to obtain the position of assistant conductor at the adjacent Imperial Opera House. In view of the extent to which the two episodes are analogous, it comes as little surprise that both originate in the various writings of Schindler; what is more interesting is that the biographer actually drew explicit comparisons between them (1958: 309-12), thus making apparent a link that has since been displaced. More recently, Maurice Brown has compellingly demonstrated the tale associated with Schubert to have been fabricated (1958: 238-9). Does the pair of stories therefore represent yet another fanciful attempt on Schindler’s part to establish an association between Beethoven and Schubert – a lost addition to the mythology that the majority of subsequent writers, with the notable exception of Grove (1878-90c: 345), have overlooked? The value of the comparative approach may be sufficient to raise a note of caution with respect to potential inclinations within modern musicology towards working narrowly within a strictly-defined field, such as a single composer or ten-year time period, without taking fully into account the broader issues at stake. Certainly, the casting of the metaphorical net more widely would lead to a clearer understanding of the paradigms at work in traditional musical biography, and thus facilitate cultivation of the more explicitly self-aware outlook necessary for the discipline to cut loose from certain assumptions and tendencies that have been allowed to accrue, essentially unquestioned, 349 Conclusion over the decades. The impossibility of definitively determining the meanings of the music in relation to (and beyond) the composer’s life will probably forever vex the discipline, and in one respect such studies may therefore only ever assume the status of an ‘exercise in musical hermeneutics’, to borrow Edward Cone’s term (1982); in any case, the question of the relevance of biography to music analysis and criticism is perhaps best left for another study. However, it is clear that in today’s academic environment, in which interpretation and contextualization are favoured over positivism and formalism, issues of biography – and of the relationship between a composer’s life and music – cannot simply be ignored. It is, therefore, now more important than ever that musicology as a discipline develop a critical, self-reflexive stance in relation to musical biography. Otherwise, modern scholarship will remain indebted to its outdated ideologies and will merely perpetuate the very nineteenth-century modes of musical thought that it frequently aims to challenge. 350 BIBLIOGRAPHY 19th-Century Music Music and Letters Nation The Athenaeum The Musical Quarterly The Musical Times / The Musical Times and Singing-Class Circular 1901 Census of England and Wales Online, <http://www.1901censusonline.com/> Abert, Hermann (1919-21, 2007), W. A. Mozart. 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S. Bach Myth 1-A: The Young Bach’s Copying his Brother’s Manuscript by Night 1 Johann Sebastian was not yet ten years old when he found himself bereft of his parents by death. He betook himself to Ohrdruff, where his eldest brother, Johann Christoph, was Organist, and under this brother’s guidance he laid the foundations for his playing of the clavier. The love of our little Johann Sebastian for music was uncommonly great even at this tender age. In a short time he had fully mastered all the pieces his brother had voluntarily given him to learn. But his brother possessed a book of clavier pieces by the most famous masters of the day – Froberger, Kerl, Pachelbel – and this, despite all his pleading and for who knows what reason, was denied him. His zeal to improve himself thereupon gave him the idea of practicing the following innocent deceit. This book was kept in a cabinet whose doors consisted only of grillwork. Now, with his little hands he could reach through the grillwork and roll the book up (for it had only a paper cover); accordingly, he would fetch the book out at night, when everyone had gone to bed and, since he was not even possessed of a light, copy it by moonlight. In six months’ time he had these musical spoils in his owns hands. Secretly and with extraordinary eagerness he was trying to put it to use, when his brother, to his great dismay, found out about it, and without mercy took away from him the copy he had made with such pains. … He did not recover the book until after the death of his brother. But did not this very passion to improve himself in music and the very industry applied to the aforesaid book perhaps by coincidence provide the first basis for the cause of his own death? (Bach and Agricola, 299) 2 …als er noch von seinem 10ten Jahre seine Eltern verlohr, zu seinem ältern Bruder Joh. Christoph, nach Ordruff, der daselbst Organist was und legte unter dessen Anführung den Grund im Klavierspielen. Schon in diesem zarten Alter vermogte ihm seine brennende Begierde zur Musik, daß er seinem Bruder, ein, durch kein Bitten zu erhaltendes Notenbuch von Frobergerschen, Kerlschen und Pachelbelschen Klavierstucken, heimlich entewendete und Nachts bey Mondenscheine, in Zeit von 6 Monaten, abschrieb, und so lange fleißigen Gebrauch davon machte, bis es sein Bruder inne wurde und ohne Barmherzigkeit wieder wegnahm. (Gerber 1, I, 86) 3 In the year 1695, when John Sebastian was not quite 10 years of age, his father died; he had lost his mother earlier. Being thus left an orphan, he was obliged to have recourse to an elder brother, John Christopher, who was Organist at Ordruff. From him he received the first instructions in playing on the clavier. But his inclination and talent for music must have been already very great at that time, since the pieces which his brother gave him to learn were so soon in his power that he began with much eagerness to look out for some that were more difficult. The most celebrated composers for the clavier in those days were Froberger, Fischer, John Casp. Kerl, Pachelbel, Buxtehude, Bruhns, Böhm, &c. He had observed that his brother had a book in which there were several pieces of the above-mentioned authors, and Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography earnestly begged him to give it to him. But it was constantly denied him. His desire to possess the book was increased by the refusal, so that he at length sought for means to get possession of it secretly. As it was kept in a cupboard which had only a lattice-door and his hands were still small enough to pass through so that he could roll up the book, which was merely stitched in paper, and draw it out, he did not long hesitate to make use of these favorable circumstances. But, for want of a candle, he could only copy it in moonlight nights; and it took six whole months before he could finish his laborious task. At length, when he thought himself safely possessed of the treasure and intended to make good use of it in secret, his brother found it out and took from him, without pity, the copy which had cost him so much pains; and he did not recover it till his brother’s death, which took place soon after. (Forkel, 425-6) 4 Ayant perdu ses parens avant l’âge de dix ans, il se rendit à Ordruff, auprès de son frère aîné, Jean-Christophe Bach, qui y était organiste. Ce fut sous sa direction qu’il commença à entrer dans la carrière musicale. Son penchant irrésistible pour l’art se developpa [sic] dès cet âge tendre, avec une telle force, qu’il le porta à dérober à son frère un livre de musique, renfermant plusieurs morceaux pour le clavecin, de Froberg, Kerl et Pachelbel, qu’il n’avait pu obtenir, malgré les instances les plus vives qu’il avait faites à cet égard. Pendant six mois entiers, il profita du clair de lune pour le copier et pour s’y exercer, jusqu’à ce que son frère, qui s’en était enfin aperçu, lui retira impitoyablement ce libre, si précieux pour lui. (Choron and Fayolle, I, 35) 5 In the year 1695, when John Sebastian was not quite ten years of age, his father died; he had lost his mother at an earlier period. Being thus left an orphan, he was obliged to have recourse to an elder brother, John Christopher, who was an organist at Ardruff. From him [h]e received the first instructions in playing on the clavichord. But his inclination and talent for music must have been very great, since the pieces which his brother gave him to learn were so soon in his power that he began with much eagerness to look out for some that were more difficult. The most celebrated composers for the clavichord in those days, were Froberger, Fircher, John Gasper Kerl, [P]achelbel, Buxtehude, Bruhn[s], Böhme [sic], &c. He had observed that his brother had a book, in which there were several pieces of the above-mentioned authors, and earnestly begged him to give it to him, but it was constantly denied, till his desire to possess the book was so increased by refusal, that he at length sought for means to get possession of it secretly. As it was kept in a cupboard which had only a little door, and his hands were still small enough to pass through, so that he could roll up the book, which was merely stitched in paper, and draw it out, he did not long hesitate to make use of these favourable circumstances: but for want of a candle he could only copy it in moonlight nights, and it took six whole months before he could finish his laborious task. At length, when he thought himself safely possessed of the treasure, and intending to make use of it in secret, his brother found it out, and took from him, without pity, the copy which had cost him so much pains; and he did not recover it till his brother’s death, which took place soon after. (Sainsbury, I, 45) 6 Il était à peine âgé de dix ans quand il devint orphelin ; privé de ressources, il fut obligé de chercher un asile auprès de son frère aîné, Jean-Christophe Bach, organiste à Ordruff, qui lui donna les premières leçons de clavecin. Son heureuse organisation pour la musique se manifesta bientôt, et la rapidité de ses progrès surpassa tout ce qu’on pouvait espérer. Ne trouvant pas dans la musique qu’on lui faisait étudier de difficultés qu’il ne pût vaincre en peu de temps, elle lui devint bientôt insuffisante. Les compositeurs les plus célèbres de ce temps-là, pour le clavecin, étaient 3 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography Froberger, Fischer, J.-G. de Kerl, Pachelbel, Buxtehude, Brunhs [sic], Bœhm, etc. Le jeune Bach avait remarqué certain livre qui contenait plusieurs pièces de ces auteurs et que son frère cachait avec coin; son instinct musical lui en avait révélé le mérite; mais, quelle que fussent ses instances auprès de son frère pour qu’il lui prêtât ce libre, elles furent toujours sans succès. Le désire de posséder ce trésor, devenu plus vif par le refus qu’il éprouvait, lui suggéra la pensée de chercher à se le procurer par la ruse. L’objet de ses souhaits ardents était renfermé dans use armoire, fermée seulement par une porte en treillis ; les mains de l’enfant étaient assez petites pour passer à travers les mailles ; il parvint à rouler le livre, qui était couvert seulement en papier, et à le tirer dehors. Bach résolut alors de le copier ; mais ne pouvant y travailler que la nuit et n’ayant point de chandelle, il fut obligé de le faire à la clarté de la lune, et il s’écoula près de six mois avant qu cette pénible tâche fût remplie. Enfin il était en possession de cette copie qui lui avait coûté tant de peine, et il commençait à en faire usage en secret, lorsque son frère s’en aperçut et la lui enleva sans pitié. Il ne put la recouvrer qu’à la mort de Jean-Christophe, qui arriva peu de temps après. (Fétis 2, I, 188) 7 …from his having made a collection of works by the most famous writers for the organ of [his] period, we may gather that [Johann Christoph Bach] strove to reach the highest level of his time. … An anecdote attaches to th[is] volume of organ music… which is significant as bearing on the instinct for learning of Sebastian Bach. The pieces which his elder brother put before him were quickly mastered and exhausted, as to their technical and theoretical difficulty; he demanded more difficult tasks and loftier flights. Still, pride of seniority made Joh. Christoph withhold this collection from the boy, who every day could see the object of his longing lying within the wire lattice of a bookcase. At last he stole down at night, and succeeded in extracting the roll of music through the opening of the wires. He had no light, so the moon had to serve him while he made a copy of the precious treasure. By the end of six months the work was finished – a work which none but the most ardent votary of his could ever have undertaken. But his brother soon discovered him with the hardly worn copy, and was so hard-hearted as to take it away from him. The perseverance of true genius, with which we shall at a later date still see Sebastian Bach striving after the end on which he had set his heart, is as evident in this story as the fact that he soon had no more to learn from his eldest brother. (Spitta, I, 186) 8 In his tenth year the parents both died, and Sebastian was left an orphan. He then went to live with his elder brother, Johann Christoph, at that time organist at Ohrdruff, and under his direction began the clavier, at the same time carry on his education at the Ohrdruff ‘Lyceum.’ The remarkable genius of the boy began at once to show itself. He could soon play all his lessons by heart and aspired to more advanced music. This impulse his brother it seems did not encourage. We are told that he possessed a MS. volume containing pieces by Frohberger, Pachelbel, Kerl, Buxtehude, and other celebrated composers of the day. This book became an object of longing to the young Sebastian, but was strictly withheld from him by his brother. Determined nevertheless to gain possession of the volume, the boy managed with his little hands to get it through the latticed door of the cupboard in which it was kept, and at night secretly copied the whole of it by moonlight, a work which occupied him six months. When the stern brother a[t] last discovered the trick, he was cruel enough to take away from the boy his hardly-earned [sic] work. (Grove 1, I, 114) 9 In January 1695, when he was not yet ten years old, his father died, and his eldest brother Johann Christoph, who was organist of St Michael’s Church at Ohrdruf and had married, now undertook to provide for him and educate him. Johann Christoph, 4 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography who had been a pupil of Pachelbel for three years, taught his younger brother the harpsichord. Sebastian soon mastered all the studies and pieces he was given to learn, and began to aspire to higher things. His brother had made a MS. collection of compositions by Froberger, Fischer, Kerl, Buxtehude, Pachelbel, Bruhns, Böhm, and others, and this book was eagerly yearned for by Sebastian. The MS. was kept in a book-case, shut in with a wire lattice-work, and his brother for some unknown reason denied him the use of it. Such was his zeal, however, that he managed to abstract it through the lattice-work, night after night, for six months, until he had copied the whole of it by moonlight! His pleasure in it was of short duration, for when he began to practise the music his brother discovered the copy, and was hard-hearted enough to confiscate it. No reason is assigned for his having done so… (WilliamsB, 21-2) 10 …Johann Jakob and Johann Sebastian [Bach]… attended the gymnasium [in Ohrdruf], and their brother [Johann Christoph] instructed them in music. Johann Sebastian was too zealous for his teacher. He asked the latter for a volume containing clavier pieces by Froberger, Kerl, Pachelbel and others. Being refused it, he dragged it with his tiny hands through the latticed door of the cupboard in which it was kept, and copied it out on moonlit nights. In six months the copy was complete. The brother heard of it, however, and took the copy from him. (Schweitzer, I, 99) 11 The only anecdote with any point in it which survives from these early times illustrates his eagerness to obtain the helpful guidance of the most famous masters of his craft. It is told that his brother John Christoph had a collection of the most valuable compositions by such men as Kerl, Froberger, and Pachelbel, which was kept locked up in a book-case with a latticed front; and that John Sebastian managed to extract the roll through the lattice-work and endeavoured to copy out its contents surreptitiously by moonlight; and that John Christoph found it out and took the collection away. The latter part of the story is superfluous, except as indicating a touch of human nature which might be interpreted in various ways; but the story itself is especially notable as the first recorded instance of the practice, which was characteristic of John Sebastian from first to last, of studying the works of men of undoubted ability in different branches of art, and gaining insight thereby into the methods and principles of art in order to apply them to the higher purposes which his finer insight and more richly endowed disposition suggested. (Parry, 30-1) 12 The precocity of his genius is illustrated by a story told in the Nekrolog [Bach and Agricola]. Behind the lattice of his brother’s bookshelf was a volume of clavier pieces by German masters. Refused permission to use it, Sebastian copied it out by moonlight and completed his task in six months. The achievement illustrates a habit which accompanied him through life. There is hardly any school of music accessible to him of which specimens do not exist in his careful manuscript. The exercise ruined his eyesight: but it proves him an omnivorous student at every period of his career, and in some measure explains the sureness with which he settled problems of form whose complexities had impeded his predecessors. (Grove 3, I, 156) 13 Whenever one thinks of Bach’s childhood the picture that thrusts itself uppermost in the mind is that of a boy secretly making a copy for himself of a manuscript volume of clavier compositions that his brother did not want him to know anything about, at the moment. The forbidden music was in a latticed bookcase. Sebastian found how to work it through the mesh. No artificial lights were available. But there were every month a number of bright moonlight nights. And on those nights Sebastian copied the music. His paper was probably plain paper that he ruled himself: he could take no printed music paper from what stock his brother had, and if he bought any in the 5 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography town news of the transaction would have come to his brother’s ears. Weeks and weeks were spent on the task, until in six months it was accomplished. It was really a most unwise undertaking, as any one who has tried to read even written or printed words in moonlight would at once say – as unwise as Schumann’s attempt to overcome the intractable third finger by a special piece of mechanism. And as Schumann ruined his finger, so Sebastian may have strained and weakened his eyes, thus preparing them for the blindness that came half a century later. And then Johann Christoph discovered what Sebastian had done and took the copy from him. // As one contemplates this, one lives again some of the anguish the boy must have suffered when the laboriously made transcript of the music was taken from him. …Sebastian was a child; and though the grief of children may be less lasting, while it does last it is often more intense than anything older people can experience. // Why did Johann Christoph deny his brother this music? It could not be that he was jealous of him. Rather would he be proud of him. Nor could it be that the music was something private that must be kept from the possibility of the rest of the world knowing about it; for the music was by well-known composers and was owned by scores of musicians, both professional and amateur. It must simply be that he had made a ruling, that Sebastian had disobeyed him and that disobedience must be punished. As for Sebastian, he wanted these works in order to know about them, to study them as examples of composition and to use them as models in his own experimental attempts at music-making; he could not want them to play, at least not yet, since if he played them his brother would hear him, and then alarum! (Grew and Grew, 10-2) Myth 1-B: Bach’s Journey to Lübeck to Hear Buxtehude Play the Organ, 1705 1 While he was in Arnstadt, he was once moved by the particularly strong desire to hear as many good organists as he could, so he undertook a journey, on foot, to Lübeck, in order to listen to the famous Organist of St. Mary’s Church there, Diedrich Buxtehude. He tarried there, not without profit, for almost a quarter of a year, and then returned to Arnstadt. (Bach and Agricola, 300) 2 [In Arnstadt] war es eigentlich, wo er sich zu dem nachherigen großen Konponisten und Organisten bildete und zwar theils durch eigenen Fleiß und Nachdenken, theils durchs Studieren der Werke eines Bruhns, Reinke und Buxtehude, und dann noch durch einen vierteljahrigen Aufenthalt zu Lübeck, wo er den dasigen berühmten Organisten, Diedr. Buxtehude, belauschte. (Gerber 1, I, 87) 3 [At Arnstadt] he began most zealously to make use of the works of the organists at that time celebrated – whichever of them he could procure in his situation – to improve both in composition and the art of playing on the organ; and, to gratify his desire of learning, even made a journey on foot to Lübeck to hear Dieterich Buxtehude, Organist to St. Mary’s Church in that city, with whose compositions for the organ he was already acquainted. For almost a quarter of a year he remained a secret hearer of this organist, who was really a man of talent and much celebrated in his times, and then returned with an increased stock of knowledge to Arnstadt. (Forkel, 426-7) 4 Il y [à Arnstadt] parvint autant par son zèle et ses propres réflexions, que par l’étude suivie des ouvrages des plus grands maîtres, tels que Bruhn, Reinken et Buxtehude, et principalement par un séjour de trois mois qu’il fit à Lubeck, pour y étudier la manière du célèbre organiste Diedr. Buxtehude. (Choron and Fayolle, I, 35) 6 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography 5 [At Arnstadt], he began most zealously to make use of all the works of the organists at that time celebrated, and which he could procure in his situation, by which means he improved both in composition and the art of playing on the organ: further to gratify his desire of learning, he even made a journey on foot to Lubeck, to hear Diederich [sic] Buxtehude, organist to St. Mary’s church in that city, with whose composition he was already acquainted. For almost a quarter of a year he remained a secret hearer of this organist, who was really a man of talent, and much celebrated in his time, and then returned with an increased stock of knowledge to Ar[n]stadt. (Sainsbury, I, 45-6) 6 La proximité où il était [à Arnstadt] alors de Lübeck le détermina à faire plusieurs fois à pied le voyage de cette ville, pour y entendre le fameux organiste Diétricht Buxtehude, dont il admirait les œuvres. Le jeu de ce grand artiste eut pour lui tant de charme qu’il se décida à passer secrètement trois mois à Lübeck pour y étudier sa manière. (Fétis 2, I, 188) 7 …the supply of artistic experience and inspiration which he had brought with him from the towns of North Germany, had gradually been exhausted. He wanted to find himself free once more, and to enjoy the invigorating and refreshing intercourse with superior artists which he had been deprived of now for some years. …so, towards the end of October, 1705, after finding an efficient deputy, he petitioned for four weeks leave of absence. // His destination again lay northwards, being in fact Lübeck, the residence of Buxtehude. … His reason for choosing the late autumn season for his journey probably was that between Martinmas (November 11) and Christmas the famous “Abendmusiken,” or evening performances, were held in the Marien-Kirche at Lübeck, and he must have wished to hear them. Thus he had no time to linger on the way at Lüneberg or Hamburg, or anywhere else if he was to arrive in time; and the whole fifty miles must be made on foot. It is beyond all doubt that the venerable Buxtehude must have observed what a genius was here in blossom, and that an affinity in the artistic views of the two men must have bridged over the half-century of years between them, and have drawn them together. Once introduced into this new world of art, Bach soon could think of nothing else. His leave expired without his troubling himself about the matter; he had become indifferent to the place of Organist to the New Church at Arnstadt. Week after week passed by; he outstayed the allotted time – twice the time – three times. … When the year 1706 arrived, Bach gradually remembered that his home was not Lübeck but Arnstadt. … It was probably in the early part of February that Bach took leave of the venerable master whom he was never to see again… [and] by February 21, he had been for some days re-established in his lonely home in Thuringia. // On that day he received a citation from the Consistory. …a leave of absence extended from four weeks to sixteen outraged even their forbearance. In addition to this, the clerical authorities were not satisfied with Bach’s way of playing the service… (Spitta, I, 256-7, 263, 311-2) 8 In 1705 he obtained a month’s leave to visit Lübeck in order to make acquaintance with the organist Buxtehude and hear his famous evening performances on the organ during Advent. He seems to have considered his stay there of so much importance that he prolonged it for three months. This liberty, and his habit in accompanying the services of indulging his fancy to the disturbance of the congregation, drew upon his the disapprobation of the church authorities, but without interfering with his position as organist – a fact which proves that the performances of the young genius were already appreciated. (Grove 1, I, 114) 7 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography 9 Towards the end of 1705 Bach determined to go to Lübeck to hear and study the style of Buxtehude, one of the greatest organists then living. He found a deputy, and having obtained one month’s leave of absence, started on foot, on the journey of over 200 miles, with the object of arriving in time to hear the “evening performances” at the Marienkirche, which took place in November and December, which were peculiar to Lübeck, and which Buxtehude had worked up to a high pitch of excellence. …Bach outstaid his leave of absence by some three months, and on his return to Arnstadt in February 1706 received a “citation” to appear before the Consistory to explain his conduct. (WilliamsB, 28-9) 10 In October 1705 he was granted leave of absence [from Arnstadt] for four weeks, in order to go to Lübeck and hear the great organist Buxtehude. … We do not know whether he learned from Buxtehude only by hearing him play, or whether he had lessons from him. In any case the attraction of the master was so strong for him that he quite forgot the necessity of returning to Arnstadt. He stayed over Christmas and the New Year in Lübeck, and did not get back to Arnstadt until the middle of February, 1706. // On the 21st of that month he was summoned before the Consistory, to justify his having exceeded his holiday. (Schweitzer, I, 101) 11 …his ardour to extent the scope of his artistic mastery impelled him to make himself familiar with a master of higher gifts and stronger personality than he had ever hitherto met. Dietrich Buxtehude was at that time organist of St. Mary’s Church at Lübeck, and his personal pre-eminence was enhanced by the musical traditions of the town. … Lübeck was fifty miles from Arnstadt, but to John Sebastian the distance was of no account even if the journey had to be undertaken on foot, so great was the urgency of his desire to observe the greatest achievements in his line of art. So in October, 1705, he applied for leave of absence from his duties and betook himself on another pilgrimage similar to that of earlier years to Hamburg. But there unhappily the curtain of oblivion descends again, for not a word of any kind of evidence is known as to what he did at Lübeck or how he spent the passing days. No one even knows what were his personal relations with Buxtehude himself – all that is known is that the attraction was so great that he could not tear himself away, and that he long outstayed his leave. By which means he had at least the opportunity of hearing the Abend-Musik… in the year 1705, for it was not till February, 1706, that he finally set out to resume his work at Arnstadt. It is not surprising that the consistory of the church where he had treated his duties with such scanty respect were not pleased, and he was summoned to give an account of his doings and to explain, if he could, his neglect of his duties. (Parry, 45, 46-7) 12 According to the Nekrolog, the three players he most esteemed were Nikolaus Bruhns (1665-97), Johann Adaem Reinken, and Dietrich Buxtehude (1637-1707). Bruhns was dead; to Reinken Bach had already made pilgrimage; Buxtehude remained, old and inconveniently accessible at Lübeck, where, since 1668, he was organist of the Marien-Kirche and the most potent musical influence in North Germany, conducting the famous ‘Abendmusiken’ yearly between Martinmas and Christmas on a scale not usual elsewhere. It is probable that Bach, for whom music was primarily an adjunct to the service of God, desired especially to hear these performances. In Oct. 1705 he obtained a month’s leave, installed his cousin Johann Ernst… as his deputy, and set off on foot to his distant goal. Forkel, misinterpreting the Nekrolog, declares that Bach did not make himself known to Buxtehude. On the contrary, probably he took lessons from him, and valued the opportunity so highly that Arnstadt and his duties were forgotten. … Late in Jan. 1706 Bach took leave of Buxtehude, and in February, after four months’ absence, was again in Arnstadt. // 8 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography The Lübeck visit is of high importance in the development of Bach’s genius: it powerfully stimulated him, especially to organ composition, introduced him to a mind touched by the poetic vision that filled his own, and provided him with models his art rapidly surpassed. But it immediately embroiled him with his superiors. (Grove 3, I, 157) 13 …Bach applied for leave of absence. With money saved in his frugal pocket, and obeying an imperative call, he proposed to visit Dietrich Buxtehude at Lübeck, whose brilliant technique, instrumental style, and mastery as organist and composer, urgently attracted him. The convenient presence of his cousin Johann Ernst eased his application by providing an efficient substitute, and leave of absence for one month was accorded in October 1705. Bach again took the long road to the north, a journey of 300 miles which the Nekrolog and Forkel declare him to have covered on foot, an improbable achievement in view of the time at his disposal. … Bach timed his departure from Arnstadt (October 1705) to permit attendance at the famous ‘Abendmusicen’ [sic] conducted by Buxtehude in the Marienkirche at Lübeck, which, though altered in character, had been in existence for at least a generation. … The Lübeck visit is of high importance in the development of Bach’s genius. … In frequent contact with Buxtehude he found a powerful stimulus and great example. His brother had taught him Pachelbel’s idiom, Böhm had added his own technique, and Buxtehude furnished a third ingredient to the crucible whence Bach’s originality emerged. … In this stimulating intercourse the weeks sped unheeded. November turned to December, December to January, before Bach set his face reluctantly homewards. … The congregation found instant opportunity to judge that their young organist, remote on his lofty seat, had returned with new virtuosity of disturbing power. Bach now accompanied the Chorals with an exaggerated freedom that closed the mouths of the congregation, groping blindly for the melody among his coruscations, or stupefied by the audacity of his improvisation between the verses. Remonstrance proving futile, authority was invoked, and on 21 February 1706 Bach again visited Schloss Neideck to confront the Consistorium. (Terry, 67, 68, 69, 70) 14 …at every point it can be seen that his achievement was the fulfilment of the ideas, ideals and efforts of the musicians of the Buxtehudean school. He was, indeed, the great son of that school, as he was the great son of the family of the Bachs. Those who created it bequeathed him a heritage; and when he went to Lübeck he entered into its possession. // It is said in the family records that Sebastian walked from Arnstadt to Lübeck. The towns are 225 miles apart on the map. By road they are anything up to 300 apart. If the traveller averaged thirty miles a day, he would use up twenty days of his leave on the double journey. His leave being four weeks, this would leave him only eight or ten days to do what he wanted to do in the north. // It is customary to say in books on Bach that ‘he timed his departure from Arnstadt to permit of his hearing the famous Abendmusiken of Buxtehude.[’] If he did, he acted dishonourably by his employers. For the Abendmusik started the third Sunday in November, and Sebastian was due back at Arnstadt by then. He left well before the middle of October. He did not return until shortly before the middle of February. He was away, not four weeks, but sixteen. And it seems, from what happened on his return, that he had no communication with his church during that long period. Of course, he had left a deputy there, who is assumed to be Johann Ernst Bach, the cousin who succeeded him at the New Church. On that point it did not trouble him, since the claim of his art was his sole moral guide. … He was in the north some fourteen weeks. He could not sit about from service to service, waiting a week to hear the great man play. If Buxtehude grew interested in him and adopted him as a 9 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography free pupil for a while, the spell of time is still much extended. And within a month he would get from the old man’s art, even if heard only in the church services, all that it had for him except what was better gained from study of works in manuscript. Something additional must therefore have combined with his primary artistic need to go north, and kept his there. It was perhaps the idea, and the hope, that he might succeed Buxtehude. … On the 21st of the month [of February 1706] Sebastian was summoned before the consistory (the clerical board) to say who gave him leave of absence and where he had been for so long a time. (Grew and Grew, 40-1, 42, 44) Myth 1-C: Bach’s Contest with Marchand at Dresden, 1717 1 The year 1717 gave our already so famous Bach a new opportunity to achieve still further honor. Marchand, the clavier player and organist famous in France, had come to Dresden… The Concertmaster in Dresden at the time, [Jean-Baptiste] Volumier, wrote to Bach, whose merits were not unknown to him, at Weymar, and invited him to come forthwith to Dresden, in order to engage in a musical contest for superiority with the haughty Marchand. Bach willingly accepted the invitation and journeyed to Dresden. Volumier received him with joy and arranged an opportunity for him to hear his opponent first from a place of concealment. Bach thereupon invited Marchand to a contest, in a courteous letter in which he declared himself ready to execute ex tempore whatever musical tasks Marchand should set him and, in turn, expressed his expectation that Marchand would show the same willingness – certainly a proof of great daring. Marchand showed himself quite ready to accept the invitation. The time and place were set, not without the foreknowledge of the King. Bach appeared at the appointed time at the scene of the contest, in the home of a leading minister of state, where a large company of persons of high rank and of both sexes was assembled. There was a long wait for Marchand. Finally, the host sent to Marchand’s quarters to remind him, in case he should have forgotten, that it was now time for him to show himself a man. But it was learned, to the great astonishment of everyone, that Monsieur Marchand had, very early in the morning of that same day, left Dresden by a special coach. Bach, who thus remained sole master of the scene of the contest, accordingly had plentiful opportunity to exhibit the talents with which he was armed against his opponent. And this he did, to the astonishment of all present. The King had intended to present him on this occasion with 500 thaler; but through the dishonesty of a certain servant, who believed that he could use this gift to better advantage, he was deprived of it… Bach willingly credited Marchand with the reputation of fine and very proper playing. Whether, however, Marchand’s Musettes for Christmas Eve, the composition and playing of which is said to have contributed most to his fame in Paris, would have been able to hold the field before connoisseurs against Bach’s multiple fugues: that may be decided by those who heard both men in their prime. (Bach and Agricola, 300-2) 2 The challenge which he received, and accepted, from the celebrated French organist, Marchand, at Dresden, is well known in Germany. Upon the arrival of Marchand in that city, after he had vanquished all the organ players of France and Italy, he offered to play, extempore, with any German whom the King of Poland could prevail upon to enter the lists against him; no one at Dresden had the courage to encounter so successful a champion, but an express being sent to Sebastian Bach, who was at that time a young man, and residing at Weymar, he came away immediately, and, like another David, vanquished this Golia[t]h. It must not, however, be concluded from hence, that Marchand was a mean performer; it that had been the case, the victory 10 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography over him would have added nothing to the fame of his competitor. It was an honour to Pompey that he was conquered by Cæsar, and to Marchand to be only vanquished by Bach. (BurneyG, II, 81-2) 3 His son, Mr. John Christian Bach, now in London, who has furnished some of the anecdotes contained in this article, relates that… he had a trial of skill with Marchand, the famous French organist, and foiled him. The particulars of this contest are as follow[s]: Marchand being at Dresden, and having shewn himself superior to the best organists of France and Italy, made a formal notification that he was ready to play extempore with any German was willing to engage with him. Upon which the king of Poland sent to Weimar for John Sebastian Bach, who accepting the challenge of Marchand, obtained, in the judgment of all the hearers, a complete victory over him. (Hawkins, II, 853) 4 1717 rettete er die Ehre seiner Nazion gegen den berühmtesten französischen Organisten Marchand, dem der König von Pohlen eine große Besoldung angeboten hatte, wenn er zu Dresden bleibe, und zwar aug folgende Weise: Volumier lud unsern Bach nach Dresden ein und verschafte ihm Gelegenheit den Marchand im Verborgenen zu hören. Darauf both Bach, mit Wissen des Königs, dem Marchand einen Wettstreit in dem Hause eines Ministers, an. Am bestimmten Tage fand Bach daselbst eine große Gesellschaft von hohem Range benderlen Geschlechts. Man wartete lange, und erfuhr endlich, das Marchand desselben Morgens mit Extrapost abgereiset sey. Bach ließ sich also allein in seiner ganzen Kunst hören. (Gerber 1, I, 87) 5 He had long been regarded with admiration and wonder, not only by amateurs, but by judges of the art, when, in the year 1717, Mr. Marchand, formerly much celebrated in France as a performer on the clavier and organ, came to Dresden, where he performed before the King and obtained such approbation that a large salary was offered him if he would engage in His Majesty’s service. Marchand’s merit chiefly consisted in a very fine and elegant style of performance; but his ideas were empty and feeble, almost in the manner of Couperin, at least as may be judged by his compositions. But J. S. Bach had an equally fine and elegant style and at the same time a copiousness of ideas which might perhaps have made Marchand’s head giddy if he had heard it. All this was known to Volumier, at that time Concertmeister in Dresden. He knew the absolute command of the sturdy young German over his thoughts and his instrument, and wished to produce a contest between him and the French artist in order to give his Prince the pleasure of judging of their respective merits by comparing them himself. With the King’s approbation, therefore, a message was at once dispatched to J. S. Bach, at Weimar, to invite him to this musical contest. He accepted the invitation and immediately set out on his journey. Upon Bach’s arrival in Dresden, Volumier first procured him an opportunity secretly to hear Marchand. Bach was not discouraged, but wrote to the French artist a polite note, formally inviting him to a musical trial of skill; he offered to extemporize upon the spot whatever Marchand should require of him, but requested the same readiness on his part. As Marchand accepted the challenge, the time and place for the contest were fixed, with the King’s consent. A large company of both sexes and of high rank assembled in the house of the Marshal, Count Flemming, which was the place appointed for the contest. Bach did not make them wait long for him, but Marchand did not appear. After a long delay, they at last sent to inquire at his lodgings, and the company learned to their great astonishment that Marchand had left Dresden in the morning of that day, without taking leave of anybody. Bach alone therefore had to perform and in doing so he excited the admiration of all who heard him; but 11 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography Volumier’s intention to show, in a sensible and striking manner, the difference between the French and German art was frustrated. Bach received on this occasion praise in abundance, but it is said that he did not receive a present of 100 Louis d’ors which the King had designed for him. (Forkel, 427-8) 6 En 1717[,] il défendit la supériorité de son nation contre le fameux organiste français, Marchand, auquel le roi de Pologne avait offert des appointemens fort considérables, s’il voulait rester à Dresde. La chose se passa, dit-on, comme il suit. Volumier invita Bach à venir à Dresde, et lui fournit l’occasion d’entendre Marchand, à l’insu de ce dernier. Bach, avec l’agrément du roi, offrit ensuite à Marchand une lutte publique dans la maison d’un des ministres du roi. Au jour fixé, Bach s’y rendit, et y trouva une assemblée nombreuse de personnes du plus haut rang de l’un et de l’autre sexe. On attendit long-tems, mais en vain, son adversaire, et l’on apprit enfin que Marchand était parti le même jour par la poste extraordinaire. Bach se fit alors entendre seul, et déploya toutes les ressources de son art. (Choron and Fayolle, I, 35-6) 7 He had long been regarded with admiration and wonder, not only by amateurs, but by judges of the art, when, in the year 1717, Marchand, formerly much celebrated in France as a performer on the clavichord and organ, came to Dresden, where he performed before the kind, and gained such approbation, that a large salary was offered him, if he would engage in his majesty’s service. Marchand’s merit chiefly consisted in a very fine and elegant style of performance; but his ideas were empty and feeble, almost in the manner of Couperin; so far at least as may be judged by his compositions. But J. S. Bach had an equally fine and elegant style, and at the same time a copiousness of ideas, which might perhaps have made Marchand’s head giddy, if he had heard it. All this was known to Volumier, at that time director of the concerts in Dresden. He knew the absolute command of the young German over his thoughts and his instrument, and wished to produce a contest between him and the French artist, in order to give the prince the pleasure of judging of their respective merits, by comparing them himself. With the king’s approbation, therefore, a message was sent to J. S. Bach, at Weimar, to invite him to this musical contest. He accepted the invitation, and immediately set out on his journey. Upon Bach’s arrival in Dresden, Volumier first procured him an opportunity secretly to hear Marchand. Bach was not discouraged, but sent a polite note to the French artist, formally inviting him to a musical trial of skill: he offered to play upon the spot, whatever Marchand should set before him, but requested the same readiness on his part. As Marchand accepted the challenge, the time and place for the contest was fixed, with the king’s consent. A large company of both sexes, and of high rank, assembled in the house of marshal count Flem[m]ing, which was the place appointed. Bach did not make them wait long for him, but Marchand did not appear. After a long delay, they at last sent to inquire at his lodgings, and the company learned, to their great astonishment, that he had left Dresden in the morning of that day, without taking leave of any body. Bach alone, therefore, had to perform, and excited the admiration of all who heard him: but Volumier’s intention, to show a sensible and striking difference between the French and German artist, was frustrated. Bach received on this occasion praise in abundance; but, it is said, he did not receive a present of a hundred louis d’ors, which the king had designed for him. (Sainsbury, I, 46-7) 8 …son talent [de Bach] était dans toute sa force et l’Allemagne retentissait du bruit de ses succès, lorsque Louis Marchand, célèbre organiste français, alors exilé de Paris, arriva à Dresde et charma toute la cour d’Auguste, roi de Pologne, par son jeu brillant et léger. Le roi offrit à cet artiste des appointements considérables pour le 12 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography déterminer à se fixer à Dresde ; mais Volumier, maître des concerts de la cour, qui, vraisemblablement était jaloux de la faveur naissante de Marchand, et qui connaissait la supériorité de Bach, conçut le projet d’établir entre ces deux artistes une lutte dont le résultat devait être désavantageux à l’organiste français. Il invita donc Jean-Sébastien à se rendre à Dresde, et s’empressa de lui procurer l’occasion d’entendre Marchand en secret. Bach se rendit justice et proposa sur-le-champ un défi à celui qu’on lui présentait comme si redoutable, s’engageant à improviser sur les thèmes que Marchand lui présenterait, à la condition que l’épreuve serait réciproque. Marchand accepta cette proposition, et le lieu du rendez-vous fut fixé, avec l’agrément du roi. Au jour convenu, une brillante société se réunit chez le comte Marshal, ministre d’État. Bach ne se fit pas attendre : il n’en fut pas de même de son antagoniste. Après un long délai, on envoya chez lui ; et l’on apprit avec étonnement qu’il était parti le jour même, sans prendre congé de personne. Bach houa donc seul et, sur les thèmes qu’il avait entendu traiter par Marchand, improvisa longtemps avec une admirable fécondité d’idées et une perfection d’exécution qu’aucun autre ne possédait. Il fut comblé d’éloge ; mais on dit qu’il ne reçut point un cadeau de cent louis que le roi lui avait destiné, sans qu’on ait pu jamais expliquer cette circonstance. Les biographes allemands, qui ne connaissent Marchand que par la réputation dont il a joui, s’étendent avec complaisance sur la gloire dont Bach se couvrit en cette occasion ; mais on ne peut considérer le projet de mettre en parallèle organiste français avec ce grand musicien, que comme une insulte faite à celui-ci. Il se peut que Marchand ait eu ce qu’on appelle une exécution brillante, mais ses compositions sont misérables. (Fétis 2, I, 188-9) 9 It happened too, quite by chance, that Bach met at Dresden the French clavier and organ-player, Jean Louis Marchand, the private organist to the King of France, and organist also to the church of Saint Benedict at Paris. … He was highly gifted in qualities of technique, his art was thoroughly elegant, and he well knew how to turn these talents to the best account; but he was at the same time full of vanity, arrogance, and petty caprice. … Bach, it is true, did not play before the King, but he had ample opportunity [at Dresden] for making himself heard by artists and the friends of art; and a violent dissension arose as to which of the two was the greatest musician. One powerful party consisted of the court circle, for the King was very fond of French music; these took the side of Marchand, while most of the German artist forming the band stood up for Bach. The question finally resolved itself into a battle of opinions as to the greater or less value of French or German music on general grounds, and Bach was urged by his friends to challenge Marchand to a competitive performance. This he did after an opportunity had been contrived for him secretly to hear his antagonist play at court; he wrote to him declaring himself ready to go through any musical ordeal Marchand might choose to impose, provided only that he on his side would undertake the same. Marchand accepted the challenge; a musical jury was selected; the scene of the tournament was to be the salon of a powerful minister, probably of Count Flemming… Curiosity and excitement rose to a high pitch, and at the appointed hour a large and brilliant assembly of both sexes had met. Bach and the umpires were punctual, but Marchand came not. The company waited awhile; then the count sent to remind him of his appointment, and received in reply the information that he had set out that very morning by the fast coach, and had disappeared from Dresden. With certain prescience of defeat he had abandoned the field; Bach played alone. It is evident that Marchand must have heard him somewhere or other, and have convinced himself that the German musician was 13 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography infinitely his superior… The glory was all the greater for Bach, as he had beaten his opponent on his own special ground. (Spitta, I, 583, 584-5) 10 An interesting event took place at this time. Bach used to make yearly tours for the purpose of giving performances on the organ and clavier. On his arrival at Dresden in the autumn of 1717 he found there a French player of great reputation named Marchand, whose performances completely carried away his hearers, though he had made many enemies by his arrogance and intolerance of competition. Bach was induced to send a written challenge to the Frenchman for a regular musical contest, offering to solve any problem which his opponent should set him, of course on condition of being allowed to reciprocate. Marchand agreed, in his pride picturing to himself a glowing victory; time and place were fixed upon, and a numerous and brilliant audience assembled. Bach made his appearance – but no Marchand: he had taken himself off that very morning; having probably found an opportunity of hearing his opponent, and no longer feeling the courage to measure his strength with him. (Grove 1, I, 115) 11 In the autumn of 1717 Bach made a journey to Dresden to hear the performances at the theatre, which was supported by Friedrich August I. There happened to be visiting Dresden a famous French organist and harpsichord player Jean Louis Marchand, organist at Versailles, and of several churches at Paris. He enjoyed an immense reputation as player and composer… Vain, arrogant, and conceited, the spoilt idol of French society, he came to Dresden, where his playing became much in favour at the Court… Soon after Bach’s arrival there arose a discussion among the artists as to which was the greater performer. The Court musicians took the part of Marchand, while the members of the orchestra, who were mostly Germans, preferred Bach. The matter ended in Bach’s being persuaded by his friends to write to Marchand, offering to go through any musical test that Marchand might suggest, on condition that he would undergo the same test. // The challenge was accepted; a date was fixed for a meeting… Bach and the jury arrived punctually, but Marchand did not appear. After a time he was sent for, when it was found that he had departed by express coach that morning from Dresden, certain, no doubt, of being defeated. Marchand seems to have heard Bach privately beforehand; while Bach was already familiar with Marchand’s works, and admired them much. … The news of Bach’s victory soon spread far and wide, and did much to enhance his already great reputation. (WilliamsB, 46-7) 12 Forkel tells us that he never mentioned voluntarily his musical contest with Marchand. The full details of that victory are well known. Marchand (1669-1732), court organist to the King at Versailles, and titular organist at several churches in Paris, had fallen into disfavour with his royal master in 1717, and had betaken himself to Germany. At the Dresden court his elegant style of playing made so good an impression that the King promised him an appointment. The idea of measuring the Frenchman and Bach against each other in artistic rivalry came from Volumier, the leader of the Court band. According to Forkel, Bach was summoned expressly for this purpose to Dresden by a message from the King. It is more probable, however, that he had gone to the Court to hear the famous artist and to learn from him, and that, being there, it occurred to his friends among the Dresden musicians to give Marchand – whose overbearing and vain-glorious character must have made him unpopular – a dangerous antagonist in the person of the simple Weimar conductor. Bach informed Marchand by letter that he was prepared to perform any musical task that he chose to set him, if he, on his side, would accept the same obligation. The whole company took the liveliest interest in the contest, which was to take place in 14 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography the house of the minister, Count Flemming. The invited audience, the referees, and Bach were there at the appointed time, but not Marchand. When they sent for him, they learned that he had left early in the morning in post haste. Bach accordingly had to play alone, which he did to the admiration of all. It is a curious fact that he received from the Court neither a gift nor an order for this affair. Forkel affirms that the King had intended him to receive a hundred louis d’or, but that they never reached him. They were probably intercepted by Court officials. … After his victory over Marchand in 1717 he was one of the celebrities of the fatherland. The German musicians were proud to be able to oppose a master of their own race to the French and Italian virtuosi. Let German musicians affect Italian ways if they would, in order to win a cheap renown, let the very existence of a German art be denied; the fact remained that there was such a thing, and that it had publicly triumphed over the other. (Schweitzer, I, 153-4, 177-8) 13 One of the most familiar episodes in his life, which is vouched for with sufficient consistency by several chroniclers, occurred about this time, and points to his great reputation as a clavier player. It seems that he journeyed to Dresden in the latter part of 1717, and that J. L. Marchand, the French composer and clavier player, was there at the time. Marchand’s reputation in Paris was very great, and it is evident that the amateurs at the Dresden Court also had a very high opinion of him; but John Sebastian’s powers were more or less known by this time, and it somehow was brought about that there should be some sort of an artistic contest between them. The embellishments of the story in point of detail, which are given by various narrators, are naturally rather the outcome of a desire to make it effective than to be exact; but on one point at least most of them concur, which was that time and place were agreed upon, and John Sebastian was ready, but not Marchand, who had taken an early departure from Dresden that very day. It was of course assumed that he had gauged the powers of his antagonist, and had foreseen defeat, and fled; and that view has met with general endorsement. The only points really worth notice are that Bach had by this time attained supreme pre-eminence as a clavier player as well as an organist, and that the zest with which the chroniclers report the story implies cordial admiration. (Parry, 101-2) 14 In the last months of his service at Weimar Bach was prominent in an event which gave him a national reputation. In the autumn of 1717, Jean Louis Marchand (1669-1732), organist to Louis XV., visited Dresden. Forkel supposes that Bach was specially summoned from Weimar to challenge the Frenchman. More probably he was already in Dresden to hear Marchand, whose compositions he admired… The idea of a contest between the two perhaps suggested itself to Jean Baptiste Volumier (1677-1728), probably a Spaniard by birth, Konzertmeister to the Dresden court. Bach agreed and undertook to play at sight whatever Marchand put before him, provided the Frenchman submitted himself to a similar test (details as to the conditions vary). Marchand agreed and the contest was appointed to take place in the house of Count Flemming, who had witnessed Handel’s triumphant descent upon the Saxon court some years before. Bach arrived at the hour appointed. Marchand, anticipating defeat, already had left the town. (Grove 3, I, 159) 15 The year 1717 blazed Bach’s name throughout Germany… his inveterate inclination to listen to other masters of his instrument carried him on to Dresden, where the distinguished French organist and clavier player, Louis Marchand, was winning the plaudits of its Court and public. …he was one of the eminent players of his generation and a composer whom Bach held in regard. … If the occasion presented itself, he was therefore fully competent to meet the Frenchman on his own ground. 15 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography Highly gifted and flattered by Paris society, Marchand was conceited, improvident, arrogant. … F. W. Marpurg asserts that at one of [Marchand’s] recitals Bach was present by royal permission, and, after listening to Marchand, took his seat at the clavier and improvised variations on the theme the Frenchman had used. The Nekrolog unfolds in a more dramatic scene the tradition that survived in Bach’s family. According to this version, Jean-Baptiste Volumier, Concertmeister and Tanzmeister at the Dresden Court, whose sympathy, as a Latin, we should expect to have been with Marchand, summoned Bach from Weimar to confound the invader, and secreted him in a position whence he could judge Marchand’s abilities. That Bach had an opportunity to hear his rival before challenging him is probable; that he was summoned from Weimar to undo him is the gloss of legend. Probably the simultaneous appearance in Dresden of two distinguished players suggested a contest between them. Adlung, indeed, who professed to have the story from Bach, declares that the competition was devised to determine whether France or Germany could boast the better clavier player. Burney, whose narrative otherwise is full of errors, concludes impartially, ‘It was an honour to Pompey that he was conquered by Caesar, and to Marchand to be only vanquished by Bach.’ // The contest is detailed in substantial agreement by Johann Abraham Birnbaum, writing with Bach’s authority, and by Forkel, upon information supplied by Bach’s sons. Hitherto chiefly famous as an organist, Bach was incited to send a challenge to the Frenchman, proposing to play at sight any music put before him, provided his opponent submitted to the same test. Marchand accepted the wager, and a day and hour were arranged in the house of Count von Flemming, Bach’s patron in later years, who may be regarded as the contriver of the spectacular contest to which Dresden society was forthwith invited. Bach arrived at the appointed hour, and with the umpires and a large company awaited his opponent. Marchand did not appear, and a messenger dispatched to his lodging returned with the news that he could not be found. He had, in fact, left Dresden that morning in order, it was assumed, to avoid a contest in which he anticipated defeat. Bach thereupon performed alone and excited the admiration of his audience, who applauded his personal triumph, and, with less reason, concluded the inferiority of French to German art. Marchand’s defeat did not lessen the estimation of his countrymen, among whom he lived prosperous till his death at Paris in 1732. The substantial accuracy of the German narratives of the contest, made public after his death, does not appear to have been challenged in France, where, however, Marpurg’s version is preferred, according to which Bach challenged Marchand to a contest on the organ, after a public concert at which the two masters had already matched their powers on the clavier. (Terry, 110, 111-2) 16 In the September of 1717 he was in Dresden, which is more than a hundred miles from Weimar. Visiting the court there at that time was Louis Marchand, the most famous of living French players of organ and clavier. Two opposed camps arose in the place, one favour Marchand, one Bach. It was arranged that there should be a contest between the two great men, so that a jury of capable musicians and music-lovers might determine which was the better. It is not clear what was the form of the contest – whether it was to be extemporization, sight-reading, organ playing, clavier playing or any or all of those activities. In any event, Bach went to the contest, but Marchand did not. He had heard Bach at work after the meeting had been arranged. What he heard broke his pluck; and on the chosen day he slipped secretly out of the town at dawn. // This victory for German music was blazed throughout the land. As a result Bach’s fame [as performer] was extended to every quarter. (Grew and Grew, 69) 16 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography Myth 1-D: Reinken’s Recognition of Bach’s Musical Abilities, 1720 1 …about the year 1722 [correctly 1720], he made a journey to Hamburg and was heard for more than two hours of the fine organs of St. Catherine’s before the Magistrate and many other distinguished persons of the town, to their general astonishment. The aged Organist of this Church, Johann Adam Reinken, who at that time was nearly a hundred years old, listened to him with particular pleasure. Bach, at the request of those present, performed extempore the chorale An Wasserflüssen Babylon at great length (for almost half an hour) and in different ways, just as the better organists of Hamburg in the past had been used to do at the Saturday vespers. Particularly on this, Reinken made Bach the following compliment: “I thought that this art was dead, but I see that in you it still lives.” This verdict of Reinken’s was the more unexpected since he himself had set the same chorale, many years before, in the manner described above, and this fact, as also that otherwise he had always been somewhat inclined to be envious, was not unknown to our Bach. Reinken thereupon pressed him to visit him and showed him much courtesy. (Bach and Agricola, 302) 2 Er that nun von [Cöthen] aus eine abermalige Reise nach Hamburg zum Organist Reinken, der nun beynahe 100 Jahr alt war, und leiß sich vor ihm in der Katharinenkirche, in Beyseyn des Magistrats und anderer Vornehmen, über zwey Stunden lang, auf der Organ hören. Der alte Reinke[n], der ihm mit Vergnügen zugehöret hatter, sagte am Ende: „ich dachte, diese Kunst wäre gestorben, ich sehe aber, daß sie in Ihnen noch lebt.“ (Gerber 1, I, 87-8) 3 …he filled nearly six years [at Cothen], but during this time (about 1722) took a journey to Hamburg in order to perform on the organ there. His performance excited universal admiration. The veteran Reinken, then near a hundred years old, heard him with particular pleasure; and, in regard to the Chorale An Wasserflüssen Babylons &c., which he varied for almost half an hour in the true organ style, he paid him the compliment of saying: “I thought that this art was dead, but I see that it still lives in you.” Reinken himself had some years before worked out that chorale in this manner and had it engraved, as a work on which he set a great value. His praise therefore was the more flattering to Bach. (Forkel, 428) 4 Après son retour à Weimar, le prince d’Anhalt-Cœthen le nomma son maître de chapelle, place que Bach accepta : il s’y rendit encore la même année. De là, il fut un second voyage à Hambourg, pour y voir le célèbre Reinken, alors presque centenaire, et joua devant lui, pendant plus de deux heures, dans l’église de Sainte-Catherine. Le vieux Reinken lui dit, après l’avoir entendu : J’ai cru que cet art allait mourir avec moi, mais je vois qu’il vit encore en vous. (Choron and Fayolle, I, 36) 5 …he filled nearly six years [at Cothen]; but during this time (about 1722) took a journey to Hamburgh, in order to perform on the organ there. His performance excited universal admiration. The veteran Reinken, then near a hundred years old, heard him with particular pleasure; and in regard to the chorus, “An Wasserflüssen Babylons,” which he varied for half an hour in the true organ style, he paid him the compliment of saying, “I thought that this art was dead, but I see that it still lives in you.” Reinken himself had, some years before, composed that chorus in this manner, and had it engraved, as a work on which he set a great value. His praise, therefore, was the more flattering to Bach. (Sainsbury, I, 47) 6 …il fit un second voyage à Hambourg (vers 1722) pour y voir encore une fois Reinke, alors presque centenaire ; il y toucha devant lui l’orgue de l’église de 17 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography Sainte-Catherine, et improvisa pendant plus d’une heure d’une manière si sublime sur le choral An Wasserflüssen Babylons, que le vieux Reinke lui dit avec attendrissement : Je croyais que cet art était perdu, mais je vois que vous lefaites revivre. (Fétis 2, I, 189) 7 Johann Reinken was still living in Hamburg, and, in spite of his ninety-seven years, still officiated as Organist in the Church of St. Katharine with much energy and vigour. He was held in higher respect than any of his fellow officials in the city, not only by reason of his great age, but also on account of his distinction as an artist… What we learn of Reinken’s character is not, on the whole, favourable; he was not only conscious of his own merit, but vain, and jealous of other artists. … At an appointed hour the magistrate of the town, and many other important personages, met in St. Katharine’s Church to hear the stranger perform. He played for more than two hours, to the admiration of every one; but his greatest triumph was won by an improvisation on “An Wasserflüssen Babylon,” which he carried on for nearly half an hour in the broad, motett-like manner of the northern masters… Reinken came up to him, having listened attentively throughout, and said: “I thought this art was dead; but I perceive that it still lives in you.” Irrespective of the high recognition it conveys, there is more in this than mere self-conceit; …it is an evidence of his extraordinary mastery over the whole realm of form in music, that he could deliberately revert to it so promptly and so perfectly. … Reinken had seen, in its full and glorious bloom what Buxtehude had only noted in its bud – the genius of the man who was destined to reach the summit to which they had so successfully opened the way. (Spitta, II, 15, 16, 17) 8 He went to Hamburg to perform a new cantata… in November 1720. He found Reinken still playing the organ of St Catherine, though now ninety-seven years old. Reinken, though a very great artist, was vain, jealous, and it was a question how he would receive Bach. … When Bach came, an appointment was made, and he played for more than two hours, half an hour of which was occupied in a masterly improvisation on the chorale “By the waters of Babylon,” in motet style. After the performance, at which the chief men of the city were present, Reinken came to him, and saying, “I thought this art was dead, but I perceive that it still lives in you,” invited him to visit him, and treated him with every attention. Reinken’s praise was the more complimentary, because he himself had composed and published a very successful arrangement of the same chorale. (WilliamsB, 52) 9 [In 1720], Bach went to Hamburg and performed on the organ of St. Catharine’s church before Reinken, – who was then nearly a hundred years old – and a select company. The story is well known of how the old master of the organ went up to the younger one, who had just improvised for half an hour on the chorale “An Wasserflüssen Babylon”, and complimented him with the words: “I thought this art had perished, but I see that it still lives on in you.” The praise was all the more flattering inasmuch as Reinken himself had treated the same melody at length in a chorale prelude, of which he was not a little proud. (Schweitzer, I, 109-10) 10 In the latter part of this year 1720, also, another journey to Hamburg is recorded; when Bach came into contact with Johannes Reinken, the ancient organist of St. Katherine’s Church, for the last time. …some of the notabilities of the ancient town assembled to hear a performance by Bach, and Reinken himself came also. As he played for over two hours he must have given his auditors a variety of works, but what seemed to have impressed Reinken most of all was his performance on the subject of the chorale, An Wasserflüssen Babylon… The remark which Reinken is 18 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography said to have made to him, “I thought that this art was dead, but I see that in you it still lives,” has rather more than average verisimilitude, and it suggests a fact that is often overlooked. …John Sebastian is the pre-eminent example of the type of artist who follows deeply rooted principles, without regard for the popular trend of taste and style. His artistic instinct could not rest content with anything less than the richest and most copious resources of art, and it was only in the polyphonic methods of the North German organists [and not in the (more recent) Italian secular methods] that he found adequate scope for the employment of the characteristic and vivid details which were necessary for the full execution of his purposes. … [And] Reinken was at that time no less than ninety-seven years old, so his experience of art was exceptionally extensive… (Parry, 108, 109, 110-1) 11 …[Bach visited] Hamburg in the autumn of 1720. To Reinken, who was still active there, Bach gave an improvisation upon the melody ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’ in the Böhm-Buxtehude manner, which elicited a high compliment: ‘I thought this art was dead; but I see that it survives in you,’ Reinken addressed the younger master. (Grove 3, I, 160) 12 Arrived [in Hamburg] probably towards the end of October [1720], he sought out Reinken to revive memories of his earlier discipleship, and to pay his respects to the musical Nestor of his generation, who, twenty years old when Monteverdi died in 1643, lived till within ten years of Haydn’s birth in 1732, and in the interval witnessed the Renaissance of which Bach and Handel were portents. According to the Necrolog, Bach demonstrated his powers in the Catharinenkirche, ‘vor dem Magistrate und vielen andern Vornehmen der Stadt.’ An official ceremonial is improbable, and the event is more impressive if we picture the two masters alone in the roomy loft… with Reinken at his side, Bach demonstrated his mastery of an art in which the older man had once been pre-eminent. He chose the plaintive sixteenth-century melody ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’, which Reinken also had illustrated, extemporizing upon it in variation after variation till Reinken in amaze[ment] declared, ‘I thought this art was dead, but I see it still lives in you.’ (Terry, 131, 132) 13 The most famous of [Bach’s] journeys from Cöthen is the one to Hamburg in 1720. There he met Reinken again. At least seventeen years had gone by since the youth Sebastian had met him before, walking the long stretch between Lüneburg and Hamburg… Now the unknown youth was a performer famous throughout Germany, and the veteran of seventy-eight was an almost mythological figure of nearly a hundred – yet in harness still and functioning well. // Bach played to Reinken, who sat in the church with some civic dignitaries who had come to honour the occasion. He gave them one of his two-hour performances. And in it he paid homage to the art of north German organ music, which he loved and respected so deeply, and from which he had learnt so much. There is no documentary evidence, but it cannot reasonably be disputed that the homage consisted in one instance of the G minor Fantasia and Fugue. … The piece must have set the blood streaming more quickly through Reinken’s ancient veins; and it must have drawn to a point for him all the generations he had lived through, he himself and his fellows – the latter all dead now. … More intimate still, by reason of a personal circumstance, was the homage Bach paid in an improvisation on a chorale. In the years of his prime Reinken had ‘worked’ into what is called the north German grand fantasia the chorale ‘An Wasserflüssen Babylon’. … It is motet-like of form: each line is abstracted and treated individually, first in a fantasia on a subject constructed on the melody of the line, and then, after this organic prelude, in clear and elevated solo. Such works were 19 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography the organ symphonies of the day. Bach followed his model. His Grand Chorale Fantasia lasted a full half-hour. It was an improvisation, though no doubt thought out previously. If it had been written down, either before or after, we should – given survival of the manuscript – have had what we have not, that being an example from Bach of what these vast rambling pieces of musical architecture, in which corridor succeeds corridor, and hall hall, could come to in his culminating hands. When it was over, Reinken went to Bach and took his hand, and said: ‘I thought this art was long dead, but I see it lives in you.’ (Grew and Grew, 78, 79) Myth 1-E: Bach’s Visit to the Court of King Frederick the Great at Potsdam, 1747 1 In the year 1747 he made a journey to Berlin and on this occasion had the opportunity of being heard at Potsdam by His Majesty the King in Prussia. His Majesty himself played him a theme for a fugue, which he at once developed, to the particular pleasure of the Monarch, on the pianoforte. Hereupon His Majesty demanded to hear a fugue with six obbligato voices, which command he also fulfilled, to the astonishment of the King and the musicians there present, using a theme of his own. After his return to Leipzig, he set down on paper a three-voiced and a six-voiced so-called ricercar together with several other intricate little pieces, all on the very theme that had been given him by His Majesty, and this he dedicated, engraved on copper, to the King. (Bach and Agricola, 302-3) 2 Bey einer 1747 angestellten Reise nach Berlin, fand er auch Gelegenheit, sich zu Potsdam von dem Könige hören zu lasson. Der König gab ihm selbst hierbey ein Thema zu einer Fuge auf, und verlangte nach dessen bester Ausführung, eine Sechsstimmige Fuge, welchem Befehle auch Bach sogleich über ein selbst gewähltes Thema, auf dem Forte Piano, vollkommen Genüge leistete. Nach seiner Zurückkunst nach Leipzig, brachte er über des Königs Thema noch ein dreystimmiges und sechsstimmiges Ricercar und noch einige Kunststücke zu Papiere, ließ es in Kupfer stechen, und widmete es dem Könige. (Gerber 1, I, 88) 3 His second son, Charles Philip Emanuel, entered the service of Frederick the Great in 1740. The reputation of the all-surpassing skill of John Sebastian was at this time so extended that the King often heard it mentioned and praised. This made him curious to hear and meet so great an artist. At first he distantly hinted to the son his wish that his father would one day come to Potsdam. But by degrees he began to ask him directly why his father did not come. The son could not avoid acquainting his father with these expressions of the King’s; at first, however, he could not pay any attention to them because he was generally too much overwhelmed with business. But the King’s expressions being repeated in several of his son’s letters, he at length, in 1747, prepared to take his journey, in company of his eldest son, William Friedemann. At this time the King used to have every evening a private concert, in which he himself generally performed some concertos on the flute. One evening, just as he was getting his flute ready and his musicians were assembled, an officer brought him the written list of the strangers who had arrived. With his flute in his hand, he ran over the list, but immediately turned to the assembled musicians and said, with a kind of agitation: “Gentlemen, old Bach is come.” The flute was now laid aside; and old Bach, who had alighted at his son’s lodgings, was immediately summoned to the Palace. … At that time it was the fashion to make rather prolix compliments. The first appearance of J. S. Bach before so great a King, who did not even give him time to change his traveling dress for a black cantor’s gown, must 20 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography necessarily be attended with many apologies. … But what is more important than this is that the King gave up his concert for this evening and invited Bach, then already called the Old Bach, to try his fortepianos, made by Silbermann, which stood in several rooms of the Palace. The musicians went with him from room to room, and Bach was invited everywhere to try them and to play unpremeditated compositions. After he had gone on for some time, he asked the King to give him a subject for a fugue in order to execute it immediately without any preparation. The King admired the learned manner in which his subject was thus executed extempore; and, probably to see how far such art could be carried, expressed a wish to hear also a Fugue with six obbligato parts. But as not every subject is fit for such full harmony, Bach chose one himself and immediately executed it to the astonishment of all present in the same magnificent and learned manner as he had done that of the King. His Majesty desired also to hear his performance on the organ. The next day, therefore, Bach was taken to all the organs in Potsdam as he had before been to Silbermann’s fortepianos. After his return to Leipzig, he composed the subject which he had received from the King in three and six parts, added several intricate pieces in strict canon on the subject, had it engraved, under the title of Musicalisches Opfer [Musical Offering], and dedicated it to the inventor. // This was Bach’s last journey. (Forkel, 429-30) 4 En 1747, il fit un voyage à Berlin, et eut l’honneur de se faire aussi entendre, à Potsdam, devant le roi de Prusse. A cette occasion Frédéric lui donna lui-même le thème d’une fugue, et lui demanda, après qu’il l’eut exécutée en maître, une autre fugue à six voix, demande à laquelle Bach satisfit sur-le-champ au forte-piano, d’après un thème qu’il s’était choisi lui-même. Après son retour à Leipsick, il composa encore, sur le thème du roi, un ricercare à trois voix, un autre à six voix, et quelques autres chefs-d’œuvre, qu’il fit grave, et les dédia à Frédéric. (Choron and Fayolle, I, 36) 5 His second son, Charles Philip Emanuel, entered the service of Frederic the Great in 1740. The reputation of the all-surpassing skill of John Sebastian was at this time so extended, that the king often heard it mentioned and praised. This made him curious to hear so great an artist. At first he distantly hinted to the son his wish, that his father would one day come to Potsdam. But by degrees he began to ask him, directly, why his father did not come? The son could not avoid acquainting his father with these expressions of the king; at first however he would not pay any attention to them, being in general too much overwhelmed with business. But the king’s expressions being repeated in several of his son’s letters, he at length, in 1747, prepared to take this journey, accompanied by his eldest son, William Friedemann. At this time the kind had every evening a private concert, in which he himself generally performed some concertos on the flute. One evening, just as he was getting his flute ready, and his musicians were assembled, an officer brought him the list of the strangers who had arrived. With his flute in his hand he ran over the list, but immediately turned to the assembled musicians, and said, with a kind of agitation, “Gentlemen, old Bach is come.” The flute was now laid aside, and old Bach, who had alighted at his son’s lodgings, was immediately summoned to the palace. The king then gave up his concert for that evening, and invited Bach to try his forte-pianos, made by Silvermann, which stood in several rooms of the palace. The musicians went with him from room to room, and Bach was invited everywhere to play unpremeditated compositions. After he had gone on for a short time, he asked the king to give him a subject for a fugue, in order to execute it immediately without any preparation. The king admired the learned manner in which his subject was thus executed extempore; and probably to see how far such art could be carried, 21 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography expressed a wish to hear a fugue with six obligato parts. But, as it is not every subject that is fit for such full harmony, Bach chose one himself, and immediately executed it, to the astonishment of all present, in the same magnificent and learned manner he had done that of the king. His majesty desired also to hear his performance on the organ. The next day, therefore, Bach was taken to all the organs in Potsdam, as he had before been to Silvermann’s forte-pianos. After his return to Leipsic, he composed the subject which he had received from the king, in three and six parts, added several artificial passages to it, in strict canon, and had it engraved under the title of “Musicalisches Opfer,” (Musical Offering) and dedicated it to the inventor. This was Bach’s last journey. (Sainsbury, I, 47-8) 6 …son deuxième fils, Charles-Philippe-Emmanuel, entra au service de Frédéric II, roi de Prusse. La réputation de Jean-Sébastien remplissait alors toute l’Allemagne ; Frédéric exprima plusieurs fois le désire qu’il avait de le voir, et voulut que son fils l’engageât à venir à sa cour ; mais Bach, alors accablé de travaux, ne donna pas d’abord beaucoup d’attention aux lettres de Charles-Philippe-Emmanuel. Enfin ces lettres devinrent si pressantes, qu’il se décida à faire ce voyage, et, en 1747, il se mit en route avec son fils aîné, Guillaume-Friedmann. Frédéric avait tous les soirs un concert où il jouait quelques morceaux sur la flûte : au moment où il allait commencer un concerto, un officier lui apporta, suivant l’usage, la liste des étrangers arrivés à Po[ts]dam dans la journée. Ayant jeté les yeux dessus, il se tourna vers les musiciens et s’écria : Messieurs, le vieux Bach est ici. Aussitôt la flûte fut mise de côté, et le vieux Bach, sans avoir pu quitter ses habits de voyage, fut conduit au palais. Le roi, ayant renoncé à son concert pour ce soir-là, proposa à Jean-Sébastien d’essayer les pianos de Silbermann qui se trouvaient dans plusieurs salles du palais ; les musiciens les suivirent de chambre en chambre, et Bach improvisa sur chaque instrument qu’il rencontra. Enfin il pria Frédéric de lui donner un sujet de fugue : il le traita de manière à faire naître l’admiration parmi tous les musiciens qui étaient présents, quoiqu’il ne l’eût point préparé. Étonné de ce qu’il venait d’entendre, le roi lui demanda une fugue à six parties, demande à laquelle Bach satisfit à l’instant sur un thème qu’il s’était choisi lui-même. Frédéric désirait juger de son talent d’organiste : le jour suivant Bach improvisa sur toutes les orgues de Potsdam, comme il avait joué la veille sur tous les pianos de Silbermann. Après son retour à Leipsick, il écrivit une fugue à trois parties sur le thème du roi, un ricercare à six, quelques canons avec l’inscription : Thematis regii elaborationes canonicæ ; il y joignit un trio pour la flûte, le violon et la basse, et il dédia le tout à Frédéric, sous ce titre : Musikalisches Opfer (Offrande musicale). // Le voyage de Jean-Sébastien Bach à Berlin fut le dernier qu’il fit. (Fétis 2, I, 189-90) 7 In 1747, when already somewhat advanced in age, he received an invitation to Berlin to the court of Frederic the Great, where his son Emanuel held the post of cembalist, a fact which made the king desirous of hearing and seeing the great master himself. Bach accepted the invitation, was received with the utmost respect and kindness by the kind (April 7, 1747), had to try all the Silbermann pianofortes and organs at Potsdam, and excited the greatest wonder by his improvisation on given and self-chosen themes. On his return to Leipsic he worked out the theme which the king had given him, and dedicated it to him under the title of ‘Musikalisches Opfer.’ (Grove 1, I, 115) 8 In 1740 Emanuel Bach had been made Capellmusiker and accompanist to Frederick the Great, and as the most important members of his band… were all personally acquainted with Bach, and some of them had been his pupils, the king must of course have frequently heard him spoken of. The tone in which this was done excited his 22 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography wish to see and hear the great artist himself. Emanuel sent word of this to Leipzig, but his father did not feel inclined to take the hint. It was not till the King became more and more urgent that he could make up his mind to set out, in May, 1747. He took Friedemann with him… It was the custom to give a State Concert every evening from seven to nine, in which the king himself performed as soloist on the flute. … Just as the king was about to perform his flute solo, a list was brought to him of the various strangers who had that day arrived. With his flute still in one hand, he glanced through the paper; he turned to the assembled band saying, with some excitement: “Gentlemen, old Bach is come!” His flute was laid aside, and Bach sent for at once to come to the château. …he was not even allowed time to put on his black Court-dress; he had to appear at once in his travelling costume… The king had several [of Silbermann’s pianofortes], and Bach was required to try them, and improvise upon them. On the following day Bach played the organ in the Church of the Holy Ghost, at Potsdam, before a crowded audience; but the king does not seem to have been present. However, he commanded his presence at the château again in the evening, and desired to hear him play a six-part fugue, that he might learn to what a pitch the art of polyphonic treatment could be carried; Bach was to choose his own theme, since every subject is not fitted for treatment in so many parts, and he won the king’s complete approval by his performance. (Spitta, III, 231, 232) 9 Bach from time to time made his journeys to various towns… As he advanced in years he gave up these journeys. The last he made was to the Court of Frederick the great at Potsdam in 1747. His son Emanuel had been capellmeister to Frederick since 1740; and the king had frequently, and always with more insistence, thrown out hints that he would like to hear the great artist. Bach being much occupied, and disinclined for travelling, did not accede to the king’s wishes until they amounted to a positive command. Then, taking Friedemann with him, he started for Potsdam, which he reached early in May. (WilliamsB, 86) 10 It happened that his son Philipp Emanuel had been appointed Kapellmeister in Frederick the Great’s musical establishment in 1740, and that with him were many musicians who had friendly relations with John Sebastian. So it came about that the great Frederick was moved by interest or curiosity to see and hear him, and he was ultimately induced to visit Potsdam in 1747. The King, when not engaged in affairs of state or leading his armies in battle, usually had a little domestic concert in the evening, when he himself played the flute. Bach arrived just when one of these functions was beginning, and Frederick seems to have been so eager to see him that he insisted upon his being fetched at once in his ordinary dress with all the marks of travel still upon him. However, he was not then called upon to perform, but was allowed to defer the manifestation of his powers till the next evening. The King himself gave Bach a subject on which to extemporise; but as he was most anxious to hear Bach extemporise a fugue in six parts, in view of the difficulty of the feat, Bach is said to have supplied his own subject for that particular exhibition. But in the “Musikalisches Opfer,” …the six-part fugue is on the same subject as the other works. It is true that Bach, as a compliment, may have specially written a six-part fugue on the King’s subject, but in that case he would most probably have made some allusion to it in the letter he sent to the King with the completed work… So on the whole the preponderance of evidence is in favour of Bach’s having extemporised both fugues on the King’s subject. (Parry, 514-5) 11 His son Carl Philipp Emanuel’s appointment to Frederick the Great’s service in 1740 drew Bach to a circle still more august. … In the spring of 1747, Potsdam being again accessible to a Saxon, Bach made a second journey thither, in response to 23 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography repeated expressions of Frederick’s desire to receive him. It was the king’s custom to hold a private concert in the evening, himself playing the flute. On such an evening, when the musicians were at their desks, a chamberlain entered with a list of passengers newly set down by the coach. Frederick, running his eye down it, rose suddenly in some excitement. ‘Gentlemen, old Bach has arrived,’ he announced. A summons brought Bach from his son’s lodging in his travelling dress, having been forbidden time to put on his cantor’s black gown. High compliments were exchanged, the concert was abandoned, and, accompanied by the king and his musicians, Bach passed from room to room of the palace, trying Frederick’s new Silbermann pianofortes, and extemporising on them to the king’s admiration. At Bach’s invitation Frederick played him a subject to treat extempore. Frederick then asked for a fugue in six parts. Bach forthwith improvised one, and on his return to Leipzig developed Frederick’s interesting theme in a similar manner. Judiciously including a trio for flute, violin and clavier, he dispatched the gift to Frederick as a ‘Musikalisches Opfer,’ with a dedication (July 7, 1747) to ‘a sovereign admired in music as in all other sciences of war and peace.’ // The Potsdam visit was probably the last, as it was the most flattering and agreeable, of Bach’s professional perambulations. (Grove 3, I, 165) 12 …Bach revisited Berlin in the spring of 1747… the journey brought him into more august company, in circumstances recorded circumstantially [sic] by Forkel, whose, information, derived from Friedemann, is not on that account to be deemed impeccable. He declared his father to have been drawn northward by the urgent invitation of Frederick, into whose presence at Potsdam he represented him to have hurried, travel-stained and weary, direct from the coach. Most probably, Bach alighted from his carriage at Potsdam after but a short ride from Berlin, his presence there having reaching the king’s ears through Carl Philipp [Emanuel Bach], then in attendance upon his sovereign. Excepting those evenings on which the Opera House was open, a concert preceded the royal evening meal, the king himself selecting the programme… On Sunday, 7 May 1747, Bach arrived in Potsdam and was announced to the sovereign, already surrounded by his players. ‘Gentlemen, Old Bach is here,’ exclaimed Frederick; the concert was abandoned, and in its place the king invited his visitor to exhibit his skill on the new Silbermann claviers with hammer action recently installed in the palace. Accompanied from room to room by Frederick and his players, Bach tested them all and, to the king’s amazement, developed fugally a subject proposed by himself. The following day (Monday, 8 May) Bach gave an organ recital in the garrison church (Heiliger Geist-Kirche) at Potsdam, and in the evening, having been again summoned to the palace, astounded the king by improvising a six-part fugue. … Whatever Bach thought of Frederick’s musicianship, a subject on which Carl Philipp had definite opinions, he could not fail to be gratified at his reception by the foremost figure in Europe. …Frederick’s dominating personality, the excellence of the fugal theme propounded for improvisation, and a father’s desire to flatter a prince who could advance his son’s career, all invited Bach to recall himself to the memory of his royal host by an example of his skill. On his return to Leipzig… Bach developed the royal theme with his profoundest skill, tactfully added a Sonata for flute, violin, and clavier, and dispatched his manuscript to Berlin on 7 July 1747 as a ‘Musicalisches Opfer’… The Berlin visit was Bach’s last journey, and he regarded it as the culminating pinnacle of his career. (Terry, 252, 253, 255) 13 The next publication fell in 1747. It is the Musicalisches Opfer. The German word Opfer means, literally and generally, offering, or gift presented for a purpose. … The 24 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography work came into existence as follows: In May 1747 Bach was in Berlin, where Carl Philipp Emanuel then lived. Hearing that he was there, the king, Frederick the Great, invited him to Potsdam. Bach went to the palace, tried the king’s Silbermann pianos and played a good deal to him. The king gave him a fugal subject and asked him to extemporize a six-part fugue on it. Bach begged to be excused, since the subject was not suitable for such immediate treatment. He, however, extemporized a three-part fugue on the royal theme, and a six-part one on another theme of his own choosing. Then he told the king that when he got home he would write a six-part fugue on his subject and present it to him with his dutiful respects. But he did not do this on the instant. The task was a big one, and not to be hurried if it was to be successfully carried out. On the other hand, if his approach to the king was delayed, the king might forget all about the matter. Bach therefore made a kind of preliminary Opfer. He invented some puzzle canons on the subject, composed on it an extended canon above a free bass, and wrote out his extemporized three-part fugue. He had this music engraved, printed on fine paper and bound in tooled leather, and sent the book off to the king. … He then composed the six-part work. In addition, he wrote some more puzzle canons on the king’s subject, a perpetual canon for two solo instruments with clavier accompaniment and a four-movement sonata for flute, violin and clavier (Frederick was a flautist), all on the subject. These pieces were printed, and a copy was sent to Potsdam. Frederick certainly remembered Bach’s visit and spoke about it thirty years later. (Grew and Grew, 134-5) Composer 2: Beethoven Myth 2-A: Beethoven’s Early Meeting with Mozart in Vienna, 1787 1 BEETHOVEN made a short stay at Vienna, in the year 1790, whither he had gone for the sake of hearing MOZART, to whom he had letters of introduction. BEETHOVEN improvised before MOZART, who listened with some indifference, believing it to be a piece learned by heart. BEETHOVEN then demanded, with his characteristic ambition, a given theme to work out; MOZART, with a sceptical smile, gave him at once a chromatic motivo for a fugue, in which, al rovescio, the countersubject for a double fugue lay concealed. BEETHOVEN was not intimidated, and worked out the subject, the secret intention of which he immediately perceived, at great length and with such remarkable originality and power that MOZART’s attention was rivetted, and his wonder so excited that he stepped softly into the adjoining room where some friends were assembled, and whispered to them with sparkling eyes: „Don’t lose sight of this young man, he will one day tell you some things that will surprize [sic] you!“ (Seyfried, p. 4, first unnumb. fn.) 2 Dans l’hiver de 1786 à 1787 il fit une courte excursion à Vienne, pour y entendre Mozart, dont il aimait passionnément la musique, et pour qui on lui avait donné des lettres de recommandation. Sur ce qu’on lui en disait dans ces lettres, Mozart invita Beethoven à s’asseoir au piano, et celui-ci se mit à improviser ; mais le grand artiste l’écouta avec indifférence, persuadé que ce qu’il entendait était appris de mémoire. Piqué de ce dédain, le jeune homme pria Mozart de lui donner un thème. – « Soit, dit tout bas le maître ; mais je vais t’attraper. » Sur-le-champ il nota un sujet de fugue chromatique, qui, pris par mouvement rétrograde, contenait un contre-sujet pour une double fugue. Beethoven, bien que peu avancé dans la science, devina par instinct le piège qu’on lui tendait. Il travailla ce thème avec tant de force, d’originalité, de 25 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography véritable génie, que son auditeur, devenu plus attentif et confondu par ce qu’il entendait, se leva, et retenant sa respiration, finit par passer sans bruit, sur la pointe du pied, dans la pièce voisine, où il dit à demi-voix à quelques amis qui s’y trouvaient : « Faites attention à ce jeune homme ! Vous en entendrez parler quelque jour. » (Fétis 2, I, 301) 3 Mozart’s winter concerts, in 1786, were distinguished by the first production of some of the finest of his compositions, and it was at this time that Beethoven, then a youth just entering on his musical career, came on a visit to Vienna, where a few years after Mozart’s death he finally settled. He was introduced to the composer, and became for a short time his pupil. Seyfried, who has recorded some particulars of the interview, remembers that Mozart gave Beethoven a subject to extemporise upon, and while he was working it, said to some persons, who were standing near him in an adjoining apartment: “Listen to that young man; he will some day make a noise in the world.” (Holmes, 275) 4 Beethoven made his appearance in Vienna as a youthful musician of promise in the spring of 1787, but was only able to remain there a short time; he was introduced to Mozart, and played to him at his request. Mozart, considering the piece he performed to be a studied show-piece, was somewhat cold in his expressions of admiration. Beethoven remarking this, begged for a theme for improvisation, and, inspired by the presence of the master he reverenced so highly, played in such a manner as gradually to engross Mozart’s whole attention; turning quietly to the bystanders, he said emphatically, “Mark that young man; he will make himself a name in the world!” (Jahn, II, 346) 5 Wegeler does not refer to Beethoven’s short visit to Vienna in the spring of 1787, nor have I been able to learn much about it. But I may rely on the testimony of the young composer’s friends who affirm that he then met two men who deeply and indelibly impressed themselves on the sixteen-year-old boy’s mind: the Emperor Joseph and Mozart. The latter’s prophetic words about the young musician’s future, pronounced after Beethoven had improvised a fugue on a theme that Mozart had given him, ‘This young man will make a name for himself in the world,’ have been repeated in substance again and again, but we do not know exactly when and where the ‘Monarch of Music’ said them. Some claim it was when the Emperor, on the recommendation of the Elector Max Franz, summoned Beethoven to his apartments and listened to him in the presence of Mozart. (Schindler 3, 45-6) 6 …the youth, now sixteen, but passing for a year or two younger, visited Vienna, where he received a few lessons from Mozart… his stay was short, and… on his way home he was forced to borrow some money in Augsburg. (Thayer, I, 89) 7 Beethoven had come to Vienna in the winter of 1786-1787, and was received everywhere with open arms… who could have failed to be surprised and delighted at experiencing the magnificent talent of the exuberantly developing Beethoven, of whom even at that time the greatest genius of music [Mozart] had pronounced the prophetic words: “Watch him, he is going to make a name for himself in the world.” (Breuning, 31-3) 8 The well-known story of Beethoven’s introduction to [Mozart], when divested of the ornaments of Seyfried and others, stands as follows:– Mozart asked him to play, but thinking that his performance was a prepared piece, paid little attention to it. Beethoven seeing this entreated Mozart to give him a subject, which he did; and the boy, getting excited with the occasion, played so finely that Mozart, stepping softly 26 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography into the next room, said to his friends there, ‘Pay attention to him; he will make a noise in the world some day or other.’ (Grove 1, I, 164) 9 …we find the Court organist of Bonn [Beethoven] with Mozart in Vienna in the spring of 1787. … When he was introduced to Mozart, the latter was rather cool in his praise of his musical performances, considering them pieces learned by heart simply for purposes of parade. Beethoven, thereupon, requested Mozart to give him a subject, that he might try his powers of musical improvisation. Charmed with the ability displayed in the execution of the task thus imposed on his young visitor, Mozart exclaimed: “Mark that young man! the world will hear of him some day.” Beethoven, however, received very little instruction from Mozart, who was so deeply engaged, just at this time, with the composition of his Don Giovanni, and so sorely tried by adverse circumstances, that he played very little for him, and could give him only a few lessons. Besides, Beethoven’s mother was now taken seriously ill, and after a few weeks he had to return home, where other blows of a hard fate awaited him. (NohlB, 10, 11) 10 In 1787… A great art step had been planned. Beethoven had decided to present himself in the musical capital of the world – Vienna. His patron, Elector Max Franz, favoured the scheme and generously provided the young musician with the necessary funds for the journey. Mozart resided at Vienna, and to come face to face with this master musician was the chief object of the visit. Mozart was Beethoven’s senior by fourteen years, and there was then a vast disparity in their reputations – a disproportion which was later on to be widely altered musically. // The initial interview between the two sons of art appears to have been distinctly formal, as, indeed was best, remembering the genius of the two musicians. Trustworthy details have not come down, although a good deal of fanciful colour has been thrown around the meeting. Mozart was not opposed to the introduction, but the onus probandi – the burden of proving his case – rested with Beethoven. Here is the accepted story: Mozart, sceptical of the power attributed to young Beethoven as an improvisatore, permitted him to play, but assuming that he had come armed with a prepared piece gave little heed to it. Beethoven seeing this requested Mozart to give him a theme upon which to extemporise. This took the shape of a fugue chromatique subject which contained the counter subject of a double fugue – a trap which the aspirant did not fail to detect. The boy Beethoven sat down excitedly, but played so effectively that Mozart stepped softly into the next room and whispered to his friends, “Pay attention to him, he will make a noise in the world some day.” Such was the independent verdict of the great Mozart – the then idol of the musical world, after watching with speechless wonder the winding up, amid a labyrinth of melodies, of the themes which he had given out to the great unknown from Bonn. (Crowest, 4-5) 11 In the late spring of 1787 Beethoven’s genius received a fresh impetus. He went to Vienna – whether sent by the elector or friends, or whether at his own expense is unknown – but he spent several weeks there, possibly even two or three months, and had a privilege that all succeeding generations must envy him – he met Mozart. … The story of the meeting with Mozart has often been told. Taken to visit the famous musician whom he so admired, Beethoven was asked by his hero to play to him. He obeyed. Mozart, thinking it ‘a show piece prepared for the occasion,’ praised it in rather a cool manner. Beethoven observing this, begged Mozart to give him a theme for improvisation. He always played admirably when excited. Inspired now by the presence of the master, he played in such a style that Mozart, whose attention and interest grew more and more, finally crossed to some friends in an adjoining room 27 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography and said vivaciously: ‘Keep your eyes on him; some day he will give the world something to talk about.’ // It seems likely that Mozart himself talked about the boy, and that it was through him that Haydn’s curiosity was roused to write to Artaria the publisher (in a letter from Esterház): ‘I should like to know who this Ludwig is.’ // Mozart gave Beethoven some lessons, and it is supposed they were in composition. They confirmed the lad in his love of that Mozartian style which influenced many of his early works. (Scott, 23-4) 12 …two outward events occurred in May [1787], one calculated to shake Mozart personally to his depths [the death of his father] and the other a linking-up of musical history, as he had the foresight to discern. It seemed little enough to begin with: merely the visit of a sullen-faced youth of seventeen with a thick Rhenish accent, who was introduced to him by some acquaintance. But Mozart, after a somewhat frigid reception of the unprepossessing lad, soon pricked up his ears on being played to on the pianoforte with a startling power and originality, and said to some other visitors in the next room that this young man had better be watched, for he would make a noise in the world before long. The young man did: his name was Ludwig van Beethoven. (Blom, 140) 13 Of Ludwig’s few weeks in Vienna the only extant data are comprised in a story told by Ignaz Seyfried, presumably from hearsay, for he was only ten years old in 1787. Ludwig, he reports, was improvising in the presence of Mozart and some friends. Mozart, judging that what he heard must have been prepared, spoke of it slightingly. Thereupon Ludwig asked Mozart to propose a theme and improvised upon it with such fluency that this time Mozart was impressed and foretold a great future for the young player. There is reason to believe, but no direct evidence, that Mozart gave Ludwig a few lessons in composition. (Grove 5, I, 532) Myth 2-B: The Tuition Beethoven Received from Haydn, 1792-3 (see also 5-B) 1 Der vortresliche Churfürst von Cöln schickte ihn 1792, unter dem Charakter seines Hoforganisten, auf seine Kosten nach Wien, um sich daselbst unter der Leitung des großen Haydn in der Setzkunst vollkommen zu machen. Bekanntlich that aber Haydn im Laufe des 1795sten Jahres eine zweyte Reise nach London, während welcher er dieses junge Genie der Aufsicht des erfahrnen Kontrapunktisten, Hrn. Albrechtsberger, übergab. (Gerber 2, I, 309) 2 In 1792, [Beethoven] was sent by the elector of Cologne, (whose attention had been attracted to his youthful genius) entirely at his expense, to Vienna, as court-organist, to study the theory of music under the celebrated J. Haydn. His instructor, however, on leaving Vienna for London two years after, intrusted [sic] his pupil, till his return, to the care of the learned Albrechtsberger. How much Beethoven was benefited by the instruction of such masters, is best known by his works. It may, however, be doubted, whether he was not, at this time, more distinguished for his performance than his composition. (Sainsbury, I, 69) 3 BEETHOVEN being now, tho’ quite a youth, capable of handling the organ with considerable skill, he was appointed (by the Archduke) successor to NEEFE, and received the title of Court-organist, together with the permission to make a prolonged stay at Vienna, free of all expense, in order to profit by the instructions of the celebrated JOSEPH HAYDN. This great master being, however, invited to conduct the performance of his own works in England, he entrusted BEETHOVEN to the care of the learned theorist ALBRECHTSBERGER, then director of the music at the Cathedral 28 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography of Vienna, and by him BEETHOVEN was first initiated into the mysteries of counterpoint. (Seyfried, 3-4) 4 Of all composers Beethoven thought most highly of Mozart and Handel, followed by [J.] S. Bach. If I found him with music in his hand, or if anything lay on his desk, it was sure to be a composition by one of these heroes. Haydn rarely got away without a few digs. Beethoven’s grudge here probably went back to earlier days. The following tale may account for one reason. Beethoven’s three trios (Opus 1) were to be introduced to the music world in a soirée at Prince Lichnowsky’s. Most of Vienna’s artists and music lovers had been invited, above all Haydn, whose opinion was anxiously awaited by everyone. The trios were played and caused a tremendous stir. Haydn, too, said many fine things about them but advised Beethoven not to publish the third one in C minor. This astonished Beethoven, since he considered it the best, and in fact to this day it is always found to be most pleasing and has the greatest effect. Haydn’s remark of course made an unpleasant impression on Beethoven, leaving him with a feeling that Haydn was envious and jealous and did not wish him well. I must admit that I did not really believe Beethoven when he told me this. I therefore later took the opportunity to ask Haydn himself about it. His answer confirmed Beethoven’s story in that he said he had not imagined that this trio would be so quickly and easily understood nor so favorably received by the public. … Haydn had wished Beethoven to put on the title page of his first works “Pupil of Haydn.” Beethoven did not want to do that because, as he said, he had had some instruction from Haydn but had never learned anything from him. (During his first stay in Vienna Beethoven had received some lessons from Mozart, but, he complained, Mozart had never played for him.) (Ries, 73-4, 75) 5 …he received permission from the Elector, Max Franz, to reside for a few years at Vienna, for the purpose of improving himself under the tuition of Haydn. In the year 1792, Beethoven went to Vienna, the central point of everything great and sublime that Music had till then achieved on the soil of Germany. Mozart, the source of all light in the region of harmony, whose personal acquaintance Beethoven had made on his first visit to Vienna in the winter of 1786-7, who, when he heard Beethoven extemporise upon a theme that was given him, exclaimed to those present, “This youth will some day make a noise in the world” – Mozart, though he had been a year in his grave, yet lived freshly in the memory of all who had a heart susceptible of his divine revelations, as well as in Beethoven’s – Gluck’s spirit still hovered around the inhabitants of old Vindobona – Father Haydn, and many other distinguished men in every art, and in every branch of human knowledge, yet lived and worked together harmoniously – in short, no sooner had Beethoven, then but twenty-two, looked around him in this favoured abode of the Muses… Beethoven, on his arrival at Vienna, knew nothing of counterpoint and very little of the theory of harmony. His imagination warm and active, his ear sensitive, and Pegasus ever ready, he composed away, without concerning himself about the indispensable scholastic rules. Such was the state of things, when he began to receive instructions from Haydn, and Haydn is said to have been always satisfied with his new scholar, because he permitted him to do as he liked; till the tables were turned, and the scholar became dissatisfied with the master, owing to the following circumstance:– // Among the professional men whom Beethoven knew and respected, was M. Schenk, composer of the music to the Dorfbarbier, a man of mild, amiable disposition, and profoundly versed in musical science. M. Schenk one day met Beethoven, when he was coming with his roll of music under his arm from Haydn. Schenk threw his eye over it, and perceived here and there various inaccuracies. He pointed them out to Beethoven, who assured him 29 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography that Haydn had just corrected that piece. Schenk turned over the leaves, and found the grossest blunders left untouched in the preceding pieces. Beethoven now conceived a suspicion of Haydn, and would have given up taking instructions from him, but was dissuaded from that resolution, till Haydn’s second visit to England afforded a fitting occasion for carrying it into effect. From this moment a coolness took place between Haydn and Beethoven. Ries heard Beethoven say that he had indeed taken lessons of Haydn, but never learned anything of him. … The conduct of Haydn in this case was variously construed, as he was known to be in other respects a conscientious man: but no certain motive can be alleged for it. M. Schenk continued to be from that time the confidential corrector of Beethoven’s compositions, even after Albrechtsberger had undertaken to give him instructions in counterpoint. Here I must record a remarkable fact which serves to characterise both these old friends. // Owing to Beethoven’s unsettled life, it was too frequently the case that for years he knew nothing about intimate friends and acquaintance[s], though they, like himself, resided within the walls of the great capital; and if they did not occasionally give him a call, to him they were as good as dead. Thus it happened, that one day – it was in the beginning of the spring of 1824 – I was walking with him over the Graben, when we met M. Schenk, then far advanced between sixty and seventy. Beethoven, transported with joy to see his old friend still among the living, seized his hand, hastened with him into a neighbouring tavern called the Bugle Horn, and conducted us into a back room, where, as in a catacomb, it was necessary to burn a light even at non-day. There we shut ourselves in, and Beethoven began to open all the recesses of his heart to his respected corrector. More talkative than he often was, a multitude of stories and anecdotes of long by-gone times presented themselves to his recollection, and among the rest the affair with Haydn; and Beethoven, who had now raised himself to the sovereignty in the realm of music, loaded the modest composer of the Dorfbarbier, who was living in narrow circumstances, with professions of his warmest thanks for the kindness which he had formerly shown him. Their parting, after that memorable hour, as if for life, was deeply affecting; and, in fact, from that day, they never beheld one another again. (Schindler 1, I, 37-8, 49-53) 6 …le droit qu’il venait d’acquérir de suivre sa vocation le décida à demander à son prince une pension qui lui fut accordée, pour aller à Vienne achever ses études musicales sous la direction de Joseph Haydn. C’était en 1793 : Beethoven possédait un talent original d’exécution, et son génie annonçait déjà sa puissance ; mais il n’avait que des notions confuses de l’art d’écrire. « Lorsqu’il arriva à Vienne,[»] dit Schindler[, «]…Beethoven ne savait rien du contrepoint et ne connaissait que peu de chose de l’harmonie. » Haydn, préoccupé alors de la composition de quelques-unes de ses dernières grandes symphonies, ne donna pas aux études de son élève toute l’attention que sa grande et belle nature méritait ; il lui laissait écrire à peu près tout ce qu’il voulait et ne corrigeait les fautes qui se trouvaient dans ses essais qu’avec beaucoup de négligence. Or il arriva qu’un jour le compositeur Schenck, savant musicien et auteur de plusieurs opéras joués avec succès en Allemagne, recontra Beethoven lorsqu’il revenait de chez Haydn avec son cahier d’études sous le bras. Schenck parcourut ce cahier et indiqua au jeune artiste plusieurs passages mal écrits; Beethoven s’en étonna, parce que Haydn venait de corriger ce travail. Sur cette observation, Schenck examina le cahier avec plus d’attention et y découvrit beaucoup de fautes grossières. Atterré par ces observations faites avec sincérité, Beethoven voulait rompre immédiatement avec Haydn ; mais bientôt le départ de celui-ci pour l’Angleterre lui fournit l’occasion de changer de maître sans être obligé 30 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography d’avoir une explication pénible. Depuis lors il y eut plus que de la froideur entre Haydn et son ancien élève : en parlant l’un de l’autre, ils s’exprimaient presque toujours avec amertume. Interrogé par Ries sur ses rapports avec le père de la symphonie, Beethoven lui dit qu’il en avait reçu quelques leçons, mais qu’il n’avait rien appris de lui. (Fétis 2, I, 301-2) 7 Beethoven’s prime motive in travelling to Vienna was to further his musical studies under the direction of Joseph Haydn. To this end the Elector Max Franz continued to pay Beethoven his full salary as Chapel organist, which, though a modest sum, furnished him an assured allowance to meet his basic living expenses. … Besides the assurance of a steady income, the Elector had given Beethoven letters of introduction to various prominent persons in Vienna. … Apparently when Beethoven began his studies with Haydn, his knowledge of musical science was confined to thoroughbass. If he was able to improvise fugues or fugal passages on the piano at the age of sixteen – and we can infer from Mozart’s remarks quoted earlier that he was – this ability had been acquired through frequent playing of contrapuntal piano music added to a precocious talent for improvisation. Moreover, we know that Haydn had given up the systematic teaching of harmony long before 1792 because of his duties as Kapellmeister for Prince Esterházy in Eisenstadt, his continuous preoccupation with composition, and his advancing age. There was probably also a scarcity at that time of truly serious students. // Given these circumstances, it is not difficult to see why any true co-operation between teacher and pupil was doomed even before they met. The pupil was wrong for the teacher; first, because Beethoven was in thought and behaviour already too strictly dominated by his previous experience; secondly, because it was several years too late for him to start a formal course of advanced musical instruction; and finally, because of his apparent wilfulness and his unorthodox views. And the teacher was wrong for the pupil: theory and practice must be integral and inseparable components of mastery itself, and Haydn was out of practice as a teacher. Just as the most gifted mathematician cannot, without years of experience as a teacher, introduce the most able student to the principles of mathematics, so the most learned scholar of counterpoint who has no training as a teacher cannot hope to share with his pupil the secrets of his art. Add to all this an insufficiency of time for regular and systematic teaching, and we will see that the great and learned composer, though well-intentioned and able to give good advice in specific cases, was not a teacher in the strict sense of one who, with patience and devotion, leads his pupil step by step from the elementary to the advanced. Yet Beethoven was Haydn’s pupil – we know that this had been arranged by Beethoven’s patrons in Bonn – and we can infer that a certain musical superstition that besets us today was even then given credence (though there were no demigods then, and outstanding artists were not yet the object of idol worship). This superstition to which all amateur and many professional musicians adhered was the belief that a renowned composer possesses all knowledge and wisdom, and that there is no artistic period, let alone a particular writer, with whom he is not thoroughly and completely imbued; therefore it follows that he must be an excellent teacher. // But to get back to Haydn and Beethoven. One of Beethoven’s most favoured and respected musical contemporaries was Johann Schenk, the composer of the comic opera, Der Dorfbarbier (The Village Barber), which has enjoyed a great success and has been translated into almost all the European languages. Schenk was a gentle, good-natured man and a competent teacher. One day Schenk met Beethoven as he was coming, with a notebook under his arm, from a lesson with Haydn. Schenk looked at the notebook and noticed a number of mistakes. When he pointed these out, Beethoven 31 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography answered that Haydn had just corrected that exercise. Schenk turned back through the book and found many more uncorrected violations of the rules of counterpoint. Beethoven immediately became suspicious that Haydn was not being honest with him. He decided then and there to break with his teacher, though he was persuaded to wait until Haydn’s approaching second journey to England (January 1794) should afford a convenient excuse. From that day on, however, it was Schenk who corrected Beethoven’s exercises and who was in fact his teacher, though Beethoven continued to take his notebooks to Haydn. One can only imagine with what reluctance he went, and it is not surprising that their relationship deteriorated from that moment. // It was Schenk himself who told me of these events. … One day in the spring of 1824 when Beethoven and I were walking across the Graben, we encountered Schenk. Beethoven was overjoyed to see once more the old friend of whom he had heard nothing for several years. He clasped Schenk’s hand and drew him into a nearby tavern, the Jägerhorn. He led him to a back room which had to be lighted even in broad daylight, and, to avoid being disturbed, closed the doors; then he began to pour out his heart. After he had bewailed his misfortunes for a time, he remembered the events of the years 1793-4 and burst out laughing to think how they had fooled Haydn, who never once had guessed what was going on. It was from this conversation that I first learned of the strange relationship between Beethoven and Schenk. Beethoven, then at the very peak of his genius, profusely thanked Schenk, who only had a meagre income from his compositions… for being such a good teacher and devoted friend. Their leave-taking at the end of this memorable hour was moving… According to Ferdinand Ries… Haydn’s advice against the publication of the C minor trio after hearing all three played at the home of Prince Lichnowsky aroused in Beethoven the suspicion that Haydn was envious and jealous of him. We know that during most of 1794 and 1795 Haydn was in England. The fact of his absence from Vienna does not tally with the publication date of these trios nor with the remark attributed to him. If in answer to a question from young Ries about the statement he explained that he believed the public would neither understand nor respond favourably to the trio, the remark that Beethoven misunderstood may be dismissed from our minds. Anyone who knows Haydn’s own trios, however, will be astonished at this reaction. For my own part, I can only think that this was merely one of the many unfortunate misunderstandings that marked the course of Beethoven’s life. (Schindler 3, 48, 52-3, 55, 70) 8 The memorandum book has a few entries which relate to Haydn. … These notes simply confirm what was known from other sources, namely, that Beethoven began to study with Haydn very soon after reaching Vienna and continued to be his pupil until the end of the year 1793. They indicate, also, that the scholar, whatever feelings he may have indulged towards the master in secret, kept on good terms with him, and that their private intercourse was not confined to the hours devoted to lessons in Haydn’s room in the Hamberger house… “It is certain,” says Schindler, “that Beethoven’s knowledge of the science of harmony at the time when he began his study with Haydn did not go beyond thoroughbass.” The correctness of this opinion of Schindler may be safely left to the judgment of the reader. The fact seems to be that Beethoven, conscious of the disadvantages attending the want of thorough systematic instruction, distrustful of himself and desirous of bringing to the test many of his novel and cherished ideas, had determined to accomplish a complete course of contrapuntal study, and thus renew, revise and reduce to order and system the great mass of his previous scientific acquirements. He would, at all events, thoroughly know and understand the regular that he might with confidence judge for 32 Appendix I: Mythology in Musical Biography himself how far to indulge in the irregular. … [This view] explains, also, how a young man, too confident in the soundness of his views to be willing to alter his productions because they contained passages and effects censured by those about him for being other than those of Mozart and Haydn, was yet willing, with the modesty of true genius, to shut them up in his writing-desk until, through study and observation, he could feel himself standing upon the firm basis of sound knowledge and then retain or exclude, according to the dictates of an enlightened judgment. // Beethoven, however, very soon discovered that also in Haydn, as a teacher, he had “not found that excellence which he supposed he had a right to expect.” Ries remembered a remark made by him on this point: “Haydn had wished that Beethoven might put the word, ‘Pupil of Haydn,’ on the title of his first works. Beethoven was unwilling to do so because, as he said, though he had had some instruction from Haydn he had never learned anything from him.” Still more in point is the oft-repeated story of Johann Schenk’s kindness to Beethoven, related by Seyfried in Gräfer’s and Schilling’s lexica and confirmed by Schindler… The relations between Haydn and his pupil did not long continue truly cordial; yet Beethoven concealed his dissatisfaction and no break occurred. Thoughtless and reckless of consequences, as he often in later years unfortunately exhibited himself when indulging his wilfulness, he was at this time responsible to the Elector for his conduct, and Haydn, moreover, was too valuable and influential a friend to be wantonly alienated. So, whatever feelings he cherished in secret, he kept them to himself, went regularly to his lessons and… occasionally treated his master to chocolate or coffee. It was, of course, Haydn who took the young man to Eisenstadt, and, as Neefe tells us, he wished to take him to England. (Thayer, I, 150-2, 154) 9 With Haydn he seems never to have been really cordial. The old man’s neglect of his lessons embittered him, and when after hearing his first three Trios, Haydn, no doubt in sincerity, advised him not to publish the third, which Beethoven knew to be the best, it was difficult to take the advice in any other light than as prompted by jealousy. True he dedicated his three Pianoforte Sonatas (op. 2) to Haydn, and they met in the concert-room, but there are no signs of cordial intercourse between them after Beethoven’s first twelve months in Vienna. In fact they were thoroughly antagonistic. (Grove 1, I, 168) 10 In March 1790, Haydn, on his journey to London, passed through Bonn, and was presented t