Musicians of To-Day Part 13

He was born at Windischgratz in Styria, 13 March, 1860. He was the fourth son of a currier--a currier-musician, like old Veit Bach, the baker-musician, and Haydn's father, the wheelwright-musician. Philipp Wolf played the violin, the guitar, and the piano, and used to have little quintet parties at his house, in which he played the first violin, Hugo the second violin, Hugo's brother the violoncello, an uncle the horn, and a friend the tenor violin. The musical taste of the country was not properly German. Wolf was a Catholic; and his taste was not formed, like that of most German musicians, by books of chorales.

Besides that, in Styria they were fond of playing the old Italian operas of Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti. Later on, Wolf used to like to think that he had a few drops of Latin blood in his veins; and all his life he had a predilection for the great French musicians.

His term of apprenticeship was not marked by anything brilliant. He went from one school to another without being kept long anywhere. And yet he was not a worthless lad; but he was always very reserved, little caring to be intimate with others, and pa.s.sionately devoted to music. His father naturally did not want him to take up music as a profession; and he had the same struggles that Berlioz had. Finally he succeeded in getting permission from his family to go to Vienna, and he entered the Conservatoire there in 1875. But he was not any the happier for it, and at the end of two years he was sent away for being unruly.

What was to be done? His family was ruined, for a fire had demolished their little possessions. He felt the silent reproaches of his father already weighing upon him--for he loved his father dearly, and remembered the sacrifices he had made for him. He did not wish to return to his own province; indeed he could not return--that would have been death. It was necessary that this boy of seventeen should find some means of earning a livelihood and be able to instruct himself at the same time. After his expulsion from the Conservatoire he attended no other school; he taught himself. And he taught himself wonderfully; but at what a cost! The suffering he went through from that time until he was thirty, the enormous amount of energy he had to expend in order to live and cultivate the fine spirit of poetry that was within him--all this effort and toil was, without doubt, the cause of his unhappy death.

He had a burning thirst for knowledge and a fever for work which made him sometimes forget the necessity for eating and drinking.

He had a great admiration for Goethe, and was infatuated by Heinrich von Kleist, whom he rather resembles both in his gifts and in his life; he was an enthusiast about Grillparzer and Hebbel at a time when they were but little appreciated; and he was one of the first Germans to discover the worth of Morike, whom, later on, he made popular in Germany. Besides this, he read English and French writers. He liked Rabelais, and was very partial to Claude Tillier, the French novelist of the provinces, whose _Oncle Benjamin_ has given pleasure to so many German provincial families, by bringing before them, as Wolf said, the vision of their own little world, and helping them by his own jovial good humour to bear their troubles with a smiling face. And so little Wolf, with hardly enough to eat, found the means of learning both French and English, in order better to appreciate the thoughts of foreign artists.

In music he learned a great deal from his friend Schalk,[184] a professor at the Vienna Conservatoire; but, like Berlioz, he got most of his education from the libraries, and spent months in reading the scores of the great masters. Not having a piano, he used to carry Beethoven's sonatas to the Prater Park in Vienna and study them on a bench in the open air. He soaked himself in the cla.s.sics--in Bach and Beethoven, and the German masters of the _Lied_--Schubert and Schumann. He was one of the young Germans who was pa.s.sionately fond of Berlioz; and it is due to Wolf that France was afterwards honoured in the possession of this great artist, whom French critics, whether of the school of Meyerbeer, Wagner, Franck, or Debussy, have never understood. He was also early a friend of old Anton Bruckner, whose music we do not know in France, neither his eight symphonies, nor his _Te Deum_, nor his ma.s.ses, nor his cantatas, nor anything else of his fertile work. Bruckner had a sweet and modest character, and an endearing, if rather childish, personality. He was rather crushed all his life by the Brahms party; but, like Franck in France, he gathered round him new and original talent to fight the academic art of his time.

[Footnote 184: Joseph Schalk was one of the founders of the _Wagner-Verein_ at Vienna, and devoted his life to propagating the cult of Bruckner (who called him his "_Herr Generalissimus_ "), and to fighting for Wolf.]

But of all these influences, the strongest was that of Wagner. Wagner came to Vienna in 1875 to conduct _Tannhauser_ and _Lohengrin_. There was then among the younger people a fever of enthusiasm similar to that which _Werther_ had caused a century before. Wolf saw Wagner. He tells us about it in his letters to his parents. I will quote his own words, and though they make one smile, one loves the impulsive devotion of his youth; and they make one feel, too, that a man who inspires such an affection, and who can do so much good by a little sympathy, is to blame when he does not befriend others--above all if he has suffered, like Wagner, from loneliness and the want of a helping hand. You must remember that this letter was written by a boy of fifteen.

"I have been to--guess whom?... to the master, Richard Wagner! Now I will tell you all about it, just as it happened. I will copy the words down exactly as I wrote them in my note-book.

"On Thursday, 9 December, at half-past ten, I saw Richard Wagner for the second time at the Hotel Imperial, where I stayed for half an hour on the staircase, awaiting his arrival (I knew that on that day he would conduct the last rehearsal of his _Lohengrin_). At last the master came down from the second floor, and I bowed to him very respectfully while he was yet some distance from me. He thanked me in a very friendly way. As he neared the door I sprang forward and opened it for him, upon which he looked fixedly at me for a few seconds, and then went on his way to the rehearsal at the Opera. I ran as fast as I could, and arrived at the Opera sooner than Richard Wagner did in his cab. I bowed to him again, and I wanted to open the door of his cab for him; but as I could not get it open, the coachman jumped down from his seat and did it for me. Wagner said something to the coachman--I think it was about me. I wanted to follow him into the theatre, but they would not let me pa.s.s.

"I often used to wait for him at the Hotel Imperial; and on this occasion I made the acquaintance of the manager of the hotel, who promised that he would interest himself on my behalf. Who was more delighted than I when he told me that on the following Sat.u.r.day afternoon, 11 December, I was to come and find him, so that he could introduce me to Mme. Cosima's maid and Richard Wagner's valet! I arrived at the appointed hour. The visit to the lady's maid was very short. I was advised to come the following day, Sunday, 12 December, at two o'clock. I arrived at the right hour, but found the maid and the valet and the manager still at table....

Then I went with the maid to the master's rooms, where I waited for about a quarter of an hour until he came. At last Wagner appeared in company with Cosima and Goldmark. I bowed to Cosima very respectfully, but she evidently did not think it worth while to honour me with a single glance. Wagner was going into his room without paying any attention to me, when the maid said to him in a beseeching voice: 'Ah, Herr Wagner, it is a young musician who wishes to speak to you; he has been waiting for you a long time.'

"He then came out of his room, looked at me, and said: 'I have seen you before, I think. You are....'

"Probably he wanted to say, 'You are a fool.'

"He went in front of me and opened the door of the reception-room, which was furnished in a truly royal style. In the middle of the room was a couch covered in velvet and silk. Wagner himself was wrapped in a long velvet mantle bordered with fur.

"When I was inside the room he asked me what I wanted."

Here Hugo Wolf, to excite the curiosity of his parents, broke off his story and put "To be continued in my next." In his next letter he continues:

"I said to him: 'Highly honoured master, for a long time I have wanted to hear an opinion on my compositions, and it would be....'

"Here the master interrupted me and said: 'My dear child, I cannot give you an opinion of your compositions; I have far too little time; I can't even get my own letters written. I understand nothing at all about music _(Ich verstehe gar nichts von der Musik_).'

"I asked the master whether I should ever be able really to do anything, and he said to me: 'When I was your age and composing music, no one could tell me then whether I should ever do anything great. You could at most play me your compositions on the piano; but I have no time to hear them. When you are older, and when you have composed bigger works, and if by chance I return to Vienna, you shall show me what you have done. But that is no use now; I cannot give you an opinion of them yet.'

"When I told the master that I took the cla.s.sics as models, he said: 'Good, good. One can't be original at first.' And he laughed, and then said, 'I wish you, dear friend, much happiness in your career. Go on working steadily, and if I come back to Vienna, show me your compositions.'

"Upon that I left the master, profoundly moved and impressed."

Wolf and Wagner did not see each other again. But Wolf fought unceasingly on Wagner's behalf. He went several times to Bayreuth, though he had no personal intercourse with the Wagner family; but he met Liszt, who, with his usual goodness, wrote him a kind letter about a composition that he had sent him, and showed him what alterations to make in it.

Mottl and the composer, Adalbert de Goldschmidt, were the first friends to aid him in his years of misery, by finding him some music pupils. He taught music to little children of seven and eight years old; but he was a poor teacher, and found giving lessons was a martyrdom. The money he earned hardly served to feed him, and he only ate once a day--Heaven knows how. To comfort himself he read Hebbel's Life; and for a time he thought of going to America. In 1881 Goldschmidt got him the post of second _Kapellmeister_ at the Salzburg theatre. It was his business to rehea.r.s.e the choruses for the operettas of Strauss and Millocker. He did his work conscientiously, but in deadly weariness; and he lacked the necessary power of making his authority felt. He did not stay long in this post, and came back to Vienna.

Since 1875 he had been writing music: _Lieder_, sonatas, symphonies, quartets, etc., and already his _Lieder_ held the most important place.

He also composed in 1883 a symphonic poem on the _Penthesilea_ of his friend Kleist.

In 1884 he succeeded in getting a post as musical critic. But on what a paper! It was the _Salonblatt_--a mundane journal filled with articles on sport and fashion news. One would have said that this little barbarian was put there for a wager. His articles from 1884 to 1887 are full of life and humour. He upholds the great cla.s.sic masters in them: Gluck, Mozart, Beethoven, and--Wagner; he defends Berlioz; he scourges the modern Italians, whose success at Vienna was simply scandalous; he breaks lances for Bruckner, and begins a bold campaign against Brahms.

It was not that he disliked or had any prejudice against Brahms; he took a delight in some of his works, especially his chamber music, but he found fault with his symphonies and was shocked by the carelessness of the declamation in his _Lieder_ and, in general, could not bear his want of originality and power, and found him lacking in joy and fulness of life. Above all, he struck at him as being the head of a party that was spitefully opposed to Wagner and Bruckner and all innovators. For all that was retrograde in music in Vienna, and all that was the enemy of liberty and progress in art and criticism, was giving Brahms its detestable support by gathering itself about him and spreading his fame abroad; and though Brahms was really far above his party as an artist and a man, he had not the courage to break away from it.

Brahms read Wolf's articles, but his attacks did not seem to stir his apathy. The "Brahmines," however, never forgave Wolf. One of his bitterest enemies was Hans von Bulow, who found anti-Brahmism "the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost--which shall not be forgiven."[185]

Some years later, when Wolf succeeded in getting his own compositions played, he had to submit to criticisms like that of Max Kalbeck, one of the leaders of "Brahmism" at Vienna:

"Herr Wolf has lately, as a reporter, raised an irresistible laugh in musical circles. So someone suggested he had better devote himself to composition. The last products of his muse show that this well-meant advice was bad. He ought to go back to reporting."

[Footnote 185: Letter of H. von Bulow to Detlev von Liliencron.]

An orchestral society in Vienna gave Wolf's _Penthesilea_ a trial reading; and it was rehea.r.s.ed, in disregard of all good taste, amid shouts of laughter. When it was finished, the conductor said: "Gentlemen, I ask your pardon for having allowed this piece to be played to the end; but I wanted to know what manner of man it is that dares to write such things about the master, Brahms."

Wolf got a little respite from his miseries by going to stay a few weeks in his own country with his brother-in-law, Stra.s.ser, an inspector of taxes.[186] He took with him his books, his poets, and began to set them to music.

[Footnote 186: Wolf's letters to Stra.s.ser are of great value in giving us an insight into his artist's eager and unhappy soul.]

He was now twenty-seven years old, and had as yet published nothing. The years of 1887 and 1888 were the most critical ones of his life. In 1887 he lost his father whom he loved so much, and that loss, like so many of his other misfortunes, gave fresh impulse to his energies. The same year, a generous friend called Eckstein published his first collection of _Lieder_. Wolf up to that time had been smothered, but this publication stirred the life in him, and was the means of unloosing his genius. Settled at Perchtoldsdorf, near Vienna, in February, 1888, in absolute peace, he wrote in three months fifty-three _Lieder_ to the words of Eduard Morike, the pastor-poet of Swabia, who died in 1875, and who, misunderstood and laughed at during his lifetime, is now covered with honour, and universally popular in Germany. Wolf composed his songs in a state of exalted joy and almost fright at the sudden discovery of his creative power.

In a letter to Dr. Heinrich Werner, he says:

"It is now seven o'clock in the evening, and I am so happy--oh, happier than the happiest of kings. Another new _Lied_! If you could hear what is going on in my heart!... the devil would carry you away with pleasure!...

"Another two new _Lieder_! There is one that sounds so horribly strange that it frightens me. There is nothing like it in existence. Heaven help the unfortunate people who will one day hear it!...

"If you could only hear the last _Lied_ I have just composed you would only have one desire left--to die.... Your happy, happy Wolf."

He had hardly finished the _Morike-Lieder_ when he began a series of _Lieder_ on poems of Goethe. In three months (December, 1888, to February, 1889) he had written all the _Goethe-Liederbuch_--fifty-one _Lieder_, some of which are, like _Prometheus_, big dramatic scenes.

The same year, while still at Perchtoldsdorf, after having published a volume of Eichendorff _Lieder_, he became absorbed in a new cycle--the _Spanisches-Liederbuch_, on Spanish poems translated by Heyse. He wrote these forty-four songs in the same ecstasy of gladness:

"What I write now, I write for the future.... Since Schubert and Schumann there has been nothing like it!"

In 1890, two months after he had finished the _Spanisches-Liederbuch_, he composed another cycle of _Lieder_ on poems called _Alten Weisen_, by the great Swiss writer Gottfried Keller. And lastly, in the same year, he began his _Italienisches-Liederbuch_, on Italian poems, translated by Geibel and Heyse.

And then--then there was silence.

The history of Wolf is one of the most extraordinary in the history of art, and gives one a better glimpse of the mysteries of genius than most histories do.

Let us make a little _resume_. Wolf at twenty-eight years old had written practically nothing. From 1888 to 1890 he wrote, one after another, in a kind of fever, fifty-three Morike _Lieder_, fifty-one Goethe _Lieder_, forty-four Spanish _Lieder_, seventeen Eichendorff _Lieder_, a dozen Keller _Lieder_, and the first Italian _Lieder_--that is about two hundred _Lieder_, each one having its own admirable individuality.

And then the music stops. The spring has dried up. Wolf in great anguish wrote despairing letters to his friends. To Oskar Grohe, on 2 May, 1891, he wrote:

"I have given up all idea of composing. Heaven knows how things will finish. Pray for my poor soul."

And to Wette, on 13 August, 1891, he says: