Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great Volume 14

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On the birthday of Queen Anne, Handel inscribed to her an ode, which we
are told was played with a full band. The performance brought the
diplomatic Handel a pension of two hundred pounds a year.

Next, to celebrate the peace of Utrecht, the famous "Te Deum" and
"Jubilate" were produced, with a golden garter as a slight token of
recognition.

But Good Queen Anne passed away, as even good queens do, and the
fuzzy-witted George of Hanover came over to be King of England, and
transmit his fuzzy-wuzzy wit to all the Georges. About his first act was
to cut off Handel's pension, "Because," he said, "Handel ran away from
me at Hanover."

A time of obscurity followed for Handel, but after some months, when the
Royal Barge went up the Thames, a band of one hundred pieces boomed
alongside, playing a deafening racket, with horse-pistol accompaniments.
The King made inquiries and found it was "Water-Music," composed by Herr
Handel, and dedicated in loving homage to King George the First.

When the Royal Barge came back down the river, Herr Handel was aboard,
and accompanied by a great popping of corks was proclaimed Court
Musician, and his back-pension ordered paid.

The low ebb of art is seen in that, in the various operas given about
this time by Handel, great stress is made in the bills about costumes,
scenery and gorgeous stage-fittings. When accessories become more than
the play--illustrations more than the text--millinery more than the
mind--it is unfailing proof that the age is frivolous. Art, like
commerce and everything else, obeys the law of periodicity. Handel saw
the tendency of the times, and advertised, "The fountain to be seen in
'Amadigi' is a genuine one, the pump real and the dog alive." Three
hours before the doors opened, the throng stood in line, waiting.

* * * * *

But London is making head. Other good men and true are coming to town.
Handel does not know much about them, or care, perhaps. His wonderful
energy is now manifesting itself in the work of managing theaters and
concerts, giving lessons and composing songs, arias, operas, and
attending receptions where "the ladies refrain from hoops for fear of
the crush," to use the language of Samuel Pepys.

In shirt-sleeves, in a cheap seat in the pit, at one of Handel's
performances, is a big lout of a fellow, with scars of scrofula on his
neck and cheek. Next to him is a little man, and these two, so chummy
and confidential, suggest the long and short of it. They are countrymen,
recently arrived, empty of pocket, but full of hope. They have a selfish
eye on the stage, for the big 'un has written a play and wants to get it
produced.

The little man's name is David Garrick; the other is Samuel Johnson.

They listen to the singing, and finally Samuel turns to his friend and
says, "I say, Davy, music is nothing but a noise that is less
disagreeable than some others." They would go away, would these two, but
they have paid good money to get in, and so sit it out disgustedly,
watching the audience and the play alternately.

In one of the boxes is a weazened little man, all out of drawing, in a
black velvet doublet, satin breeches and silk stockings. At his side is
a rudimentary sword. The man's face is sallow, and shrewdness and
selfishness are shown in every line. He looks like a baby suddenly grown
old. The two friends in the pit have seen this man before, but they have
never met him face to face, because they do not belong to his set.

"Do you think God is proud of a work like that?" at last asked Davy,
jerking his thumb toward the bad modeling in courtly black.

"God never made him." The big man swayed in his seat, and added, "God
had nothing to do with him--he is the child of Beelzebub."

"Think 'ee so?" asks Davy. "Why, Mephisto has some pretty good traits;
but Alexander Pope is as crooked as an interrogation-point, inside and
out."

"I hear he wears five pairs of stockings to fill out his shanks, and
sole-leather stays to keep him from flattening out like a devilfish,"
said Doctor Johnson.

"But he makes a lot o' money!"

"Well, he has to, for he pays an old woman a hundred guineas a year to
dress and undress him."

"I know, but she writes his heroic couplets, too!"

"Davy, I fear you are getting cynical--let's change the subject."

It surely is a case of artistic jealousy. Our friends locate the poet
Gay, a fat little man, who is with his publisher, Rich.

"They say," says Samuel, again rolling in his seat as if about to have
an apoplectic fit, "they say that Gay has become rich, and Rich has
become gay since they got out that last book." There comes an interlude
in the play, and our friends get up to stretch their legs.

"How now, Dick Savage?" calls Samuel, as he pushes three men over like
ninepins, to seize a shabby fellow whose neckcloth and hair-cut betray
him as being a poet. "How now, Dick, you said that Italian music was
damnably bad! Why do you come to hear it?"

"I came to find out how bad it is," replied the literary man. "Eh! your
reverence?" he adds to his companion, a sharp-nosed man with china-blue
eyes, in Church-of-England knee-breeches, high-cut vest, and shovel-hat.

Dean Swift replies with a knowing smirk, which is the nearest approach
to a laugh in which he ever indulged. Then he takes out his snuffbox and
taps it, which is a sign that he is going to say something worth while.
"Yes, one must go everywhere, and do everything, just to find out how
bad things are. By this means we clergymen are able to intelligently
warn our flocks. But I came tonight to hear that rogue Bononcini--you
know he is from County Down--I used to go to school with him," and the
Dean solemnly passes the snuffbox.

Garrick here bursts into a laugh, which is broken off short by a
reproving look from the Dean, who has gotten the snuffbox back and is
meditatively tapping it again. The friends listen and hear from the
muttering lips of the Dean, this:

Some say that Signore Bononcini,
Compared to Handel is a ninny;
Whilst others vow that to him Handel,
Is hardly fit to hold a candle.
Strange all this difference should be
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee.

The people are tumbling back to their seats as the musicians come
stringing in. Soon there is a general tuning up--scrapings, toots,
snorts, subdued screeches, raspings, and all that busy buzz-fuzz
business of getting ready to play.

"The first time we came to the opera Doctor Johnson thought this was all
a part of the play, and applauded with unction for an encore," says
Garrick.

"And I heard nothing finer the whole evening," answers Doctor Johnson,
accepting the defi, and winning by yielding.

"Why don't they tune up at home, or behind the scenes?" asks some one.

"I'll tell you why," says Savage, and he relates this: "Handel is a
great man for system--he is a strict disciplinarian, as any man must be
to manage musicians, who are neither men nor women, but a third sex.
Often Handel has to knock their heads together, and once he shook the
Cuzzoni until her teeth chattered."

"That's the way you have to treat any woman before she will respect
you," interrupts the Dean. Nothing else being forthcoming, Savage
continues: "Handel is absolute master of everything but Death and
Destiny. Now he didn't like all this tuning up before the audience; he
said you might as well expect the prima donna to make her toilet in
front of the curtain"--

"I like the idea," says Johnson.

Savage praises the interruption and continues: "And so ordered every man
to tune up his artillery a half-hour before the performance, and carry
his instrument in and lay it on his chair. Then when it came time to
commence, every musician would walk in, take up his instrument, and
begin. The order was given, and all tuned up. Then the players all
adjourned for their refreshments.

"In the interval a wag entered and threw every instrument out of key.

"It came time to begin--the players marched in like soldiers. Handel was
in his place. He rapped once--every player seized his instrument as
though it were a musket. At the second rap the music began--and such
music! Some of the strings were drawn so tight that they snapped at the
first touch; others merely flapped; some growled; and others groaned and
moaned or squealed. Handel thought the orchestra was just playing him a
scurvy trick. He leaped upon the stage, kicked a hole in the bass-viol,
and smashed the kettledrum around the neck of the nearest performer. The
players fled before the assault, and he bombarded them with cornets and
French horns as they tumbled down the stairs.

"The audience roared with delight, and not one in forty guessed that it
was not a specially arranged Italian feature. But since that evening all
tuning-up is done on the stage, and no man lets his instrument get out
of his hands after he gets it right."

"It's a moving tale, invented as an excuse for a man who writes music so
bad that he gets disgusted with it himself, and flies into wrath when he
hears it," says Johnson.

A subdued buzz is heard, and the master comes forth, gorgeous in a suit
of purple velvet. His powdered wig and the enormous silver buckles on
his shoes set off his figure with the proper accent. His florid face is
smiling, and Garrick expresses a regret that there are to be no
impromptu tragic events in way of chasing players from the stage.

"Would you like to meet him?" asks the sharp-nosed Dean.

Garrick and Johnson have enough of the rustic in them to be
lion-hunters, and they reply to the question as one man, "Yes, indeed!"

"I'll arrange it," was the answer. The leader raps for attention.
Johnson closes his eyes, sighs, and leans back resignedly.

The others look and listen with interest as the play proceeds.

* * * * *

The other day I read a book by Madame Columbier entitled, "Sara Barnum."
Only a person of worth could draw forth such a fire of hot invective,
biting sarcasm and frenzied vituperation as this volume contains. When I
closed the volume it was with the feeling that Sara Bernhardt is surely
the greatest woman of the age; and I was fully resolved that I must see
her play at the first opportunity, no matter what the cost. And as for
Madame Columbier, why she isn't so bad, either! The flashes of lightning
in her swordplay are highly interesting. The book was born, as all good
books, because its mother could not help it. Behind every page and
between the lines you see the fevered toss of human emotion and hot
ambition--these women were rivals. There were digs and scratches,
bandied epithets in falsetto, and sounds like a piccolo played by a man
in distress, before all this; and these are not explained, so you have
to fill them in with your imagination. But the Bernhardt is the bigger
woman of the two. She goes her splendid pace alone, and all the other
woman can do is to bombard her with a book.

The excellence of Handel is shown in that he achieved the enmity of some
very good men. Read the "Spectator," and you will find its pages well
peppered with thrusts at "foreigners," and sweeping cross-strokes at
Italian Opera and all "bombastic beaters of the air, who smother harmony
with bursts of discord in the name of music."

These battles royal between the kings of art are not so far removed from
the battles of the beasts. Rosa Bonheur has pictured a duel to the death
between stallions; and that battle of the stags--horn-locked--with the
morning sun revealing Death as victor, by Landseer, is familiar to us
all. Then Landseer has another picture which he called "The Monarch,"
showing a splendid stag, solitary and alone, standing on a cliff,
overlooking the valley. There is history behind this stag. Before he
could command the scene alone, he had to vanquish foes; but in the main,
in some way, you feel that most of his battles have been bloodless and
he commands by divine right. The Divine Right of a King, if he be a
King, has its root in truth.

One mark of the genius of Handel is shown in the fact that he has
achieved a split and created a ruction in the Society of Scribblers. He
once cut Dean Swift dead at a fashionable gathering--the doughty Dean,
who delighted in making men and women alike crawl to him--and this won
him the admiration of Colley Cibber, who immortalized the scene in a
sonnet. People liked Handel, or they did not, and among the Old Guard
who stood by him, let these names, among others, be remembered: Colley
Cibber, Gay, Arbuthnot, Pope, Hogarth, Fielding and Smollett.

People who through incapacity are unable to comprehend or appreciate
music, are prone to wax facetious over it--the feeble joke is the last
resort of the man who does not understand.

The noisy denizens of Grub Street, drinking perdition to that which they
can not comprehend, always getting ready to do great things, seem like
fussy pigmies beside a giant like Handel. See the fifth act ere the
curtain falls on the lives of Oliver Goldsmith, Doctor Johnson, Steele,
Addison and Dean Swift (dead at the top, the last), and the others
unhappily sent into Night; and then behold George Frederick Handel, in
his seventy-fifth year, blind, but with inward vision all aflame,
conducting the oratorio of "Elijah" before an audience of five thousand
people!

The life of Handel was packed with work and projects too vast for one
man to realize. That he deferred to the London populace and wrote down
to them at first, is true; but the greatness of the man is seen in
this--he never deceived himself. He knew just what he was doing, and in
his heart was ever a shrine to the Ideal, and upon this altar the fires
never died.

Handel was a man of affairs as well as a musician, and if he had loved
money more than Art, he could have withdrawn from the fray at thirty
years of age, passing rich.

Three times in his life he risked all in the production of Grand Opera,
and once saw a sum equal to fifty thousand dollars disappear in a week,
through the treachery of Italian artists who were pledged to help him.
At great expense and trouble he had gone abroad and searched Europe for
talent, and, regardless of outlay, had brought singers and performers
across the sea to England. In several notable instances these singers
had, in a short time, been bought up by rivals, and had turned upon
their benefactor.

But Handel was not crushed by these things. He was philosopher enough to
know that ingratitude is often the portion of the man who does well, and
a fight with a fox you have warmed into life is ever imminent. At
fifty-five, a bankrupt, he makes terms with his creditors and in a few
years pays off every shilling with interest, and celebrates the event by
the production of "Saul," the "Dead March" from which will never die.

The man had been gaining ground, making head, and at the same time
educating the taste of the English people. But still they lagged behind,
and when the oratorio of "Joshua" was performed, the Master decided he
would present his next and best piece outside of England. Jealousy, a
dangerous weapon, has its use in the diplomatic world.

Handel set out for Dublin with a hundred musicians, there to present the
"Messiah," written for and dedicated to the Irish people. The oratorio
had been turned off in just twenty-one days, in one of those titanic
bursts of power, of which this man was capable. Its production was a
feat worthy of the Frohmans at their best. The performance was to be for
charity--to give freedom to those languishing in debtors' prisons at
Dublin. What finer than that the "Messiah" should give deliverance?

The Irish heart was touched. A fierce scramble ensued for seats,
precedence being emphasized in several cases with blackthorns deftly
wielded. The price of seats was a guinea each. Handel's carriage was
drawn through the streets by two hundred students. He was crowned with
shamrock, and given the freedom of the city in a gold box. Freedom even
then, in Ireland, was a word to conjure with. Long before the
performance, notices that no more tickets would be sold were posted. The
doors of the Debtors' Prison were thrown open, and the prisoners given
seats so they could hear the music--thus overdoing the matter in true
Irish style.

The performance was the supreme crowning event in the life of Handel up
to that time.

Couriers were dispatched to London to convey the news of Handel's great
triumph to the newspapers; bulletins were posted at the clubs--the
infection caught! On the return of the master a welcome was given him
such as he had never before known--Dublin should not outdo London! When
the "Messiah" was given in London, the scene of furore in Dublin was
repeated. The wild tumult at times drowned the orchestra, and when the
"Hallelujah Chorus" was sung, the audience arose as one man and joined
in the song of praise. And from that day the custom has continued:
whenever in England the "Messiah" is given, the audience arises and
sings in the "Chorus," as its privilege and right. The proceeds of the
first performance of the "Messiah" in England were given to charity, as
in Dublin. This act, with the splendor of the work, subdued the last
lingering touch of obdurate criticism. The man was canonized by popular
acclaim. Many of his concerts were now for charity--"The Foundlings'
Home," "The Seamen's Fund," "Home for the Aged," hospitals and
imprisoned debtors--all came in for their share.

Handel never married. That remark of Dean Swift's, "I admire
Handel--principally because he conceals his petticoat peccadilloes with
such perfection," does not go. Handel considered himself a priest of
art, and his passion spent itself in his work.

The closing years of his life were a time of peace and honor. His bark,
after a fitful voyage, had glided into safe and peaceful waters. The
calamity of blindness did not much depress him--"What matters it so long
as I can hear?" he said. And good it is to know that the capacity to
listen and enjoy, to think and feel, to sympathize and love--to live his
Ideals--were his, even to the night of his passing Hence.

[Illustration: GIUSEPPE VERDI]

GIUSEPPE VERDI

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,
The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing while the lights burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me"?

* * * * *

But O, the smell of that jasmine-flower!
And O, the music! and O, the way
That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
"Non ti scordar di me,
Non ti scordar di me!"

--_Bulwer-Lytton_

GIUSEPPE VERDI

He sort of clung to the iron pickets, did the boy, and pressed his face
through the fence and listened. Some one was playing the piano in the
big house, and the windows with their little diamond panes were flung
open to catch the evening breeze. He listened.

His big gray eyes were open wide, the pupils dilated--he was trying to
see the music as well as hear it.

The boy's hair matched the yellow of his face, being one shade lighter,
sun-bleached from going hatless. His clothes were as yellow as the
yellow of his face, and shaded off into the dust that strewed the
street. He was like a quail in a stubble-field--you might have stepped
over him and never seen him at all. He listened. Almost every evening
some one played the piano in the big house. He had discovered the fact a
week before, and now, when the dusk was gathering, he would watch his
chance and slide away from the hut where his parents lived, and run fast
up the hill, and along the shelving roadway to the tall iron fence that
marked the residence of Signore Barezzi. He would creep along under the
stone wall, and crouching there would wait and listen for the music.
Several evenings he had come and waited, and waited, and waited--and not
a note or a voice did he hear.

Once it had rained and he didn't mind it much, for he expected every
moment the music would strike up, you know--and who cares for cold, or
wet, or even hunger, if one can hear good music! The air grew chill and
the boy's threadbare jacket stuck to his bony form like a postage-stamp
to a letter. Little rivulets of water ran down his hair and streamed off
his nose and cheeks. He waited--he was waiting for the music.

He might have waited until the water dissolved his insignificant cosmos
into just plain, yellow mud, and then he would have been simply
distributed all along the gutter down to the stream, and down the stream
to the river, and down the river to the ocean; and no one would ever
have heard of him again.

But Signore Barezzi's coachman came along that night, keeping close to
the fence under the trees to avoid the wet; and the coachman fell over
the boy.

Now, when we fall over anything we always want to kick it--no matter
what it is, be it cat, dog, stump, stick, stone or human. The coachman
being but clay (undissolved) turned and kicked the boy. Then he seized
him by the collar, and accused him of being a thief. The lad
acknowledged the indictment, and stammeringly tried to explain that it
was only music he was trying to steal; and that it really made no
difference because even if one did fill himself full of the music, there
was just as much left for other people, since music was different from
most things.

The thought was not very well expressed, although the idea was all
right, but the coachman failed to grasp it. So he tingled the boy's bare
legs with the whip he carried, by way of answer, duly cautioning him
never to let it occur again, and released the prisoner on parole.

But the boy forgot and came back the next night. He sat on the ground
below the wall, intending to keep out of sight; but when the music began
he stood up, and now, with face pressed between the pickets, he
listened.

The wind sighed softly through the orange-trees; the air was heavy with
the perfume of flowers; the low of cattle came from across the valley,
and on the evening breeze from an open casement rose the strong,
vibrant, yet tender, strains of Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata." The lad
listened.

"Do you like music?" came a voice from behind. The boy awoke with a
start, and tried to butt his head through the pickets to escape in that
direction. He thought it was the coachman. He turned and saw the kindly
face of Signore Barezzi himself.

"Do I like music? Me! No, I mean yes, when it is like that!" he
exclaimed, beginning his reply with a tremolo and finishing bravura.

"That is my daughter playing; come inside with me." The hand of the
great man reached out, and the urchin clutched at it as if it were
something he had been longing for.

They walked through the big gates where a stone lion kept guard on each
side. The lions never moved. They walked up the steps, and entering the
parlor saw a young woman seated at the piano.

"Grazia, dear, here is the little boy we saw the other day--you
remember? I thought I would bring him in." The young woman came forward
and touched the lad on his tawny head with one of her beautiful
hands--the beautiful hands that had just been playing the "Sonata."

"That's right, little boy, we have seen you outside there before, and if
I had known you were there tonight, I would have gone out and brought
you in; but Papa has done the service for me. Now, you must sit down
right over there where I can see you, and I will play for you. But won't
you tell us your name?"

"Me?" replied the little boy, "why--why my name is Giuseppe Verdi--I am
ten years old now--going on 'leven--you see, I like to hear you play
because I play myself, a little bit!"

* * * * *

For over a hundred years three-fourths of Italy's population had been on
reduced rations. Starvation even yet crouches just around the corner.

In his childhood young Verdi used to wear a bit of rope for a girdle,
and when hunger gnawed importunately, he would simply pull his belt one
knot tighter, and pray that the ravens would come and treat him as well
as they did Elijah. His parents were so poor that the question of
education never came to them; but desire has its way, so we find the boy
at ten years of age running errands for a grocer with a musical
attachment. This grocer, at Busseto, Jasquith by name, hung upon the
fringe of art, and made the dire mistake of mixing business with his
fad, for he sold his wares to sundry gentlemen who played in bands. This
led the good man to moralize at times, and he would say to Giuseppe, who
had been promoted from errand-boy to clerk: "You can trust a first
violin, and a 'cello usually pays, but never say yes to a trombone nor
an oboe; and as for a kettle-drum, I wouldn't believe one on a stack of
Bibles!"

Over the grocer's shop was a little parlor, and in it was a spinet that
young Giuseppe had the use of four evenings a week. In his later years
Verdi used to tell of this, and once said that the idea of prohibition
and limit should be put on every piano--then the pupil would make the
best of his privileges. In those days there was a tax on spinets, and I
believe that this tax has never been rescinded, for you are taxed if
you keep a piano, now, in any part of Italy. Several times the poor
grocer's spinet stood in sore peril from the publicans and sinners, but
the bailiffs were bought off by Signore Barezzi, who came to the rescue.

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