Although some of the great composers remained unmarried, many of them were influenced by women, and the effect is frequently visible in their compositions. Dedications of musical works to women are apparently a matter of little moment, but often they are surface indications of some deep feeling underneath, which is expressed in the music. Especially will this be found true in Beethoven's case, but it applies also to Schubert and other composers.

If George Frederick Handel never married, it was certainly not from lack of an opportunity to do so. In 1703, while still in his teens, he journeyed with his friend Mattheson, who was in search of a post as organist, from Hamburg to LÜbeck. The place was occupied by the renowned Buxtehude, who was so advanced in age that he was forced to look for a successor. The two young aspirants tried the organs and clavicembalos, but did not care to accept the post. It seems that one of the conditions bound the successful applicant to marry the organist's daughter, and neither of them showed the slightest inclination to take this decisive step.

It is said of Handel that during his Italian trip he became engaged to the singer, Vittoria Tesi. But his biographer, Chrysander, disbelieves the story, and the historian Burney speaks of an Italian count as her lover. According to the latter account, she behaved very generously, and tried to dissuade her noble admirer from a marriage that would disgrace him and his family. Finding him insistent, she left her house one morning, and for fifty ducats persuaded a baker's apprentice to marry her, the pair to live separately, while the step would be used in dismissing the poor count. If she had really been engaged to Handel, or had loved him, she might have had a husband at less expense; and probably a musician is a more valuable article than a baker's apprentice.

During his long career in England, Handel was twice nearly married. In one case the mother of the fair charmer objected to her daughter's union with a "mere fiddler." Handel drew back with becoming pride, and was probably not much hurt. Certainly he never lost the magnificent appetite for which he was famous. Soon afterward the mother died, and the father, apparently put in control of the family by this event, stated to the composer that there was now no objection to the match. But Handel declined the offer, saying that it was too late. The situation was different from that at LÜbeck, and his musical career now stood in the way of matrimonial ventures. At a later time he wished to marry a lady of wealth and position, but, as she made it a condition that he should give up his profession, he declined to pursue the match. None of these women were of especial influence upon him or his music, and he composed his long series of operas and oratorios in complete bachelor freedom.

Gluck owed much of his musical success to the aid of a woman. While in Vienna, gaining fame by his earlier works in Italian style, he won the interest and esteem of the ladies of the imperial court, among them the Empress Maria Theresa. He was chosen to direct music at court festivals, and after one of his later Parisian successes, the empress honoured him with the post of court composer. Gluck's wife had not the position or influence to help him in the musical side of his career, as Clara Wieck did Robert Schumann, but in the cultivated atmosphere of the court he found one woman who afterward aided him with all the force of her rank and influence,—his pupil, Marie Antoinette, the future Queen of France.

Even at Vienna Gluck was planning the reforms in opera that were to banish the prevailing vocal inanities from the stage, and make his name immortal. He did not minimize the beauty of contemporary operatic music, but claimed that it consisted merely of a set of conventional arias and scenas, and that the music did not in any way emphasize or illustrate the meaning of the words. As in the well-known sextet from "Lucia," which divides the sheep from the goats in our own day, the character of the music was often directly at variance with the spirit of the words. His memorable production of "Orfeo," though not remodelling the world at a single stroke, won a full triumph, and showed all music lovers the force of the new theories.

It was the French attachÉ, Du Rollet, actuated by a sincere admiration of the Vienna master's works, who first proposed to have Gluck come to Paris. One of the directors of the Royal Academy of Music, to whom Du Rollet addressed himself, made the matter public in France, but did not reply. After some time Gluck himself renewed the agitation for a hearing, with no better results. That his work was understood is shown by a note from the Academy to Du Rollet, wherein one of the directors promises to accept Gluck's opera if he will contract to furnish six more; for one such work would overthrow all the French operas produced up to that time. Finding the directors unable to come to a decision, Gluck appealed directly to the Dauphine Marie Antoinette, who gave the necessary orders, removed all difficulties, and invited Gluck to the city where she was to be his faithful friend and patroness through all struggles and trials.

Of the success of Gluck in Paris, this is hardly the place to speak. Through all the intrigues of his musical enemies, the queen remained a firm adherent of the new school. The contest was long and fierce. Singers left or pleaded some excuse at the last moment; rival composers produced opera after opera in hope of eclipsing him; critics, for and against, entered into a protracted war of words and wit; and finally Gluck's opponents, under the lead of Madame Du Barry, brought in the Italian Piccini, with the avowed intention of obliterating Gluck's fame. Great as his genius was, he might have had a harder fight for justice but for his firm friend at court. He always had access to the queen, and was always accorded more respect at court than his rivals, Piccini or Sacchini. Realizing the worth of his own works, he often laid himself open to the charge of conceit, but the queen was ever ready to defend him warmly.

Marie Antoinette was herself a composer, and no doubt Gluck's early tuition was responsible for her musical attainments. Hers was not the rank nor the period in which a woman could attempt to work in the larger forms, but her songs were eminently successful. One of those, since made familiar by a more modern setting, is reproduced for the benefit of the reader. Its grace and charm will speak for themselves.

With Haydn and Mozart ranking among the married men, the next tonal master who claims attention is the great Beethoven. He was a mental giant endowed with intense emotional vigour,—hearing inwardly the beautiful strains that he wrote down, dreaming of the millennium and human brotherhood, and expressing in the most heartfelt terms his yearning for the one and only love who would share his lot with him. Yet when we come to search for this one and only love, we find that her name is legion. We also find that Beethoven remained single through it all, and never won a helpmate to guide his destinies and curb his eccentricities. His love for women was pure and sincere, if not lasting, and many indications of the strength of his passion are to be found in the great works that bear his name.

That Beethoven stood in sore need of a wife to regulate his personal habits may well be assumed. Probably there never was a lodger who was more constantly in trouble than this irritable and absent-minded genius. Wholly absorbed in his music, he never seemed to realize that thumping the piano at all hours of the day and night might prove disagreeable to his fellow boarders. Even when not playing, he would think out his great themes, and fall into a fit of abstraction that might last for hours. He would stand beating the time, or he would pace the room shouting out his melodies with full voice. As an antidote to this excitement, he would pour water over his hands at frequent intervals, regardless of the damage to the floor and the ceiling below. He was fond of taking long walks, which he would not omit in wet weather, and when he returned on rainy days the furniture was sure to suffer. He indulged in the habit of shaving at his window, to the great amusement of the people passing by, and the intense chagrin of his landladies. As a result of these traits, he was forced to make frequent changes of base, and at one time he was paying rent in four different places at once.

The following story of Beethoven's absent-mindedness is vouched for by Moscheles: "When I came in early to find Beethoven, he was still abed; but feeling wide-awake and lively, he jumped up and placed himself at the window just as he was, in order to examine the 'Fidelio' numbers which I had arranged. Naturally a crowd of boys gathered under the window, whereupon he roared out, 'Now, what do those —— boys want?' Upon my pointing to his own scantily clad figure, he said, 'Yes, yes, you are quite right,' and immediately put on a dressing-gown."

Beethoven and his servants usually had hard times getting along with each other. He was utterly careless and untidy, and the utmost confusion reigned in his room. "Books and music were scattered in all directions," says a visitor. "Here the residue of a cold luncheon; there some full, some half-emptied, bottles. On the desk the hasty sketch of a new quartette; in another corner the remains of breakfast; on the pianoforte the scribbled hints for a noble symphony, yet little more than in embryo; hard by, a proof-sheet waiting to be returned; letters from friends, and on business, spread all over the floor; between the windows a goodly Stracchino cheese; on one side of it ample vestiges of a genuine Verona salami; and notwithstanding all this confusion, he constantly praised, with Ciceronian eloquence, his own neatness and love of order!" When something did go astray, he would complain bitterly that everything was done to annoy him; but, after a few moments of raving, he recovered his natural good humour.

Though never married, Beethoven was always in love. He had several attachments during his youthful days in Bonn, though none were really serious. Meeting again in later life with one of his early flames, the gifted singer, Magdalena Willman, he begged her to become his wife, but met with a refusal. "He was very ugly and half crazy," she said afterward in excuse. Most of the objects of his later affections were women of rank and position, but in early years he fell a prey to the charms of damsels in much more humble stations. According to his pupil, Ries: "Beethoven never visited me more frequently than when I lived in the house of a tailor, with three very handsome but thoroughly respectable daughters."

At twenty, he fell in love with Babette, daughter of the proprietress of a coffee-house that he frequented. That Babette's charms impressed others may be gathered from the fact that she afterward became the Countess Belderbusch. Three years later, Eleonora von Breuning was the recipient of his devotion, and he would no doubt have found a good wife in her if she, too, had not finally married some one else. The next important figure on the list was the Countess Babette de Keglevics, afterward Princess Odeschalchi, to whom Beethoven showed his feelings in the shape of the Sonata, Opus 7. The Baroness Ertmann he addressed as "Liebe, werthe, Dorothea Cecilia," while the Countess ErdÖdy received the still warmer greeting of "Liebe, liebe, liebe, liebe GrÄfin." All of these women, and many others, were ready to stand almost any liberty from Beethoven, and they entertained the warmest affection for him. At a later date, the Countess ErdÖdy erected a temple in her park to the memory of Beethoven. That his affections were changeable, if intense, was admitted by the composer himself. On being teased about his conquest of a beautiful woman, he admitted that she had interested him longer than any of the others,—namely, seven whole months.

More serious was his feeling for the lovely young Countess Giulietta Giucciardi, one of his pupils. "Life has been made a little brighter to me lately," he writes, adding later, "This change has been brought about by a dear, fascinating girl, whom I love, and who loves me. After two years, I bask again in the sunlight of happiness, and now, for the first time, I feel what a truly happy state marriage might be." But, unfortunately, she was not of his rank in life, and later on we find her, too, marrying another. Beethoven would certainly have married her if he could have done so, and his epistles to her are full of many fervid expressions of love. At his death, some letters of the most passionate description were found in his desk, and for a time it was thought they were addressed to her, but they are now ascribed to the influence of her successor.

The Countess Therese von Brunswick, who next received Beethoven's devotion, had been one of his pupils, and had once been rapped over the knuckles by him for inefficiency. Twelve years later, in 1806, pupil and teacher were actually engaged,—secretly, to be sure, but with full knowledge and consent of her brother. Yet after four years of varying conditions the match was broken off, and the composer again forced to take refuge in the lonely comfort of his art.

But he found other consolation in the charms and the companionship of Bettina von Brentano, whom he met at this time. According to his letters, she was no whit behind any of the others in being his "dearest friend," "dearest girl," and "dearest, fairest sweetheart." Soon Beethoven was to see her, too, married to another, and, if he never succeeded in taking the fatal plunge himself, he could at least have the melancholy satisfaction of knowing that all the objects of his adoration had entered safely into the holy state of matrimony.

In 1811 he met Amalia Seebald, and soon afterward inscribed in her album the sentiment:

"Ludwig von Beethoven,
Whom if you ever would,
Forget you never should."

His feeling for her was not exactly the effervescent feeling of youth, but the quieter, deeper sentiment of personal esteem and affection, which comes later in life, and is therefore more lasting. Her influence is visible in much of his later music, and the seventh and eighth symphonies were inspired by her.

That Beethoven took a friendly interest in other love-affairs besides his own is shown by an incident taking place in TÖplitz, where the actor, Ludwig Loewe, was in love with the landlord's daughter of the "Blue Star," at which Beethoven used to dine. Conversation was usually impossible because of stern parents and a multitude of diners. "Come at a later hour," said the girl; "only Beethoven is here, and he cannot hear." This answered for a time, but at length the parents forbade the actor the house. Despite Beethoven's serious reserve, Loewe had often noticed a kindly smile on his face, and now resolved to trust him. Finding the composer in the park, he begged him to take charge of a letter for the girl. Satisfied with the honesty of the young man's intentions, Beethoven did this, and next day brought back the answer, keeping up his rÔle of messenger during the whole of the five weeks that he remained in the town.

Franz Peter Schubert was a true son of Vienna. Sprung from the lower classes, he never felt wholly at ease among the aristocracy, and made no such deep impression upon them as Beethoven did. He was most at home in the informal society of his few chosen friends, all men of talent in some direction, whom he drew about him by his own genius and good-fellowship. His very nickname, "Kanner-was," taken from his usual question about newcomers, bears witness to the fact that he would have nothing to do with any one who did not show intellectual ability in some direction,—poetry or art, if not music.

Schubert's brief schooling, where his natural gifts were left to flourish by themselves, was succeeded by three years of musical drudgery in the shape of school-teaching. But his genius was restless, and he threw up that post. How he existed during the next few years is a complete mystery. He lived for a while rent-free, and his wants were never many, but for some time he apparently got along with no income whatever. His fertility in composing songs showed itself already. His later feat of writing "Hark, Hark, the Lark" on the back of a bill of fare, finishing it within half an hour of his first seeing the poem, is well known. It seems that he could forget as easily as he invented. At one time he sent a set of songs to his friend Vogl for inspection, but the latter was unable to look them over for two weeks. On finding one of especial interest, Vogl had it transposed to suit his voice, and gave it to Schubert to play. The composer, after trying it, cried in admiration: "I say, that's not bad; whose is it?"

At last he obtained the post of private teacher in the family of Count Esterhazy. It was the Countess Caroline, younger of the two daughters, who was to become the object of Schubert's later adoration. On the first visit, however, she was only nine, and we find Schubert, with his usual promiscuous taste, more at home with the servants than in the drawing-room. "The cook is a pleasant fellow," he writes; "the ladies' maid is thirty; the housemaid very pretty, and often pays me a visit; the nurse is somewhat ancient; the butler is my rival; the two grooms get on better with the horses than with us. The count is a little rough; the countess proud, but not without heart, and the two young ladies good children."

Eight years later he spent another period of six months at the chÂteau, and at this time felt the passion for the young countess that has been so often alluded to in his biographies. According to Bauernfeld, she inspired an ideal devotion that sustained and comforted him to the end of his life. There can be no doubt that etiquette and their difference in position prevented much intercourse between the two, but his devotion was apparently as lasting as it was unselfish. According to Kreissle, it found expression once, on her asking him, in jesting reproach, why he never dedicated anything to her. "Why should I," came the reply; "everything I ever did is dedicated to you." One of his posthumous works bears her name, which would hardly have been printed unless found on the manuscript in the handwriting of this greatest of tone-poets.

Mendelssohn came of a family that boasted an eminent intellectual leader of Judaism in the shape of Moses Mendelssohn, the composer's grandfather. Abraham, the father, brought up his two children, Fanny and Felix, in the Lutheran faith. Between the brother and sister there existed the most intimate understanding and affection, lasting through their entire lives. Both were musically gifted, possessing delicate hands and taper fingers that were often spoken of as if made expressly for playing Bach fugues.

Growing to maturity in the delightful family atmosphere that characterizes the better class of Jews and their descendants, Fanny Mendelssohn met and loved the young painter, Wilhelm Hensel. Her mother would not hear of an immediate engagement, but, after five years of art study in Rome, Hensel returned to become Fanny's betrothed. Felix, now launched on his professional career, produced an organ piece especially for the wedding. Another work for family use was his cantata, or opera, "Son and Stranger," composed for the silver wedding of his parents. This was prepared without their knowledge, and in order that the non-musical Hensel might take part with the rest of the family, Mendelssohn wrote for him a number consisting wholly of one note repeated. Even with this aid the Muses were unpropitious in the performance, and Hensel could not hit the right pitch for this note, while all his neighbours tried to prompt him, and the young composer sat at the piano convulsed with laughter.

Fanny Hensel led a life of happy activity. She and her brother drew around them a circle of celebrities that included scientific as well as artistic leaders. Like her brother, she was a composer. At first, however, he objected to her publishing her works, on account of her sex, and half a dozen of her songs without words were brought out among his own. In 1846 she ventured at last to issue some piano melodies and vocal works, in compliance with flattering offers from Berlin publishers. Then her famous brother sent his blessing on her becoming "a member of the craft," and hoped she would taste only the sweets and none of the bitternesses of authorship. Her greatest work is a piano trio,[5] which was not published until after her death. Among other compositions, she wrote several choruses for Goethe's "Faust," and a number of part-songs.

Her life came to an untimely close. In the year 1847, while conducting the little choir that she led on Sundays, she met an end as sudden as it was unexplained. Her hands dropped in an instant from the keyboard of the piano, and fell limp at her side. In spite of medical aid, death came after a short interval. It is highly probable that the early exertions of herself and her brother, which made their talents so wonderful, resulted in lessening their vital strength.

Mendelssohn himself was married. After his father's death he had wedded CÉcile Jeanrenaud, daughter of a French pastor, and with her he passed a life of happiness. Fanny speaks in admiration of her beautiful eyes and expression, and praises her constant gentleness, which so often soothed her brother's nervous and irritable moods. But not even her kindness could make Mendelssohn forget the death of his sister, who had been a second self to him. When he first heard of it, he uttered a shriek, and fell senseless to the ground. His own death came directly from this fall, for it caused the breaking of a blood-vessel in his head, according to his physician. A holiday in Switzerland did some good, but the sight of Fanny's rooms on his return more than neutralized this effect. He grew weaker and weaker, until he met his death, less than six months after that of his sister. The bereaved wife, who had given such bright domestic charm to the home circle, lingered on for six years, but drooped in her loneliness until at last consumption carried her off.

In direct contrast to the clean and sunny happiness of Mendelssohn is the passionate and morbid Æstheticism of Chopin. Like Beethoven, the Polish pianist never married, but, unlike Beethoven, he was not actuated by the highest of ideals. The first object of his devotion was the young soprano, Constantia Gladkowska, who was just ready to graduate from the Warsaw Conservatory when he was attracted by her. He became her champion in criticism, and his letters are full of emotional outpourings about her. He gave concerts with her, and found some moments of real bliss in her society, but she finally married another.

A second affair was his love for Marie Wodzinski, whom he had known in childhood and met at Dresden. She was just nineteen, and endowed with charming beauty. The pianist-composer spent many an evening with her at the house of her uncle, and often joined the family in their walks. But this affair, too, came to no result. The hour for farewell struck, she gave him a rose, and he improvised a valse for her. This waltz, which he afterward sent her from Paris, was the one called "L'Adieu."

That Chopin was fickle in his passions is shown by an anecdote of George Sand's. According to her, he was in love with a young Parisienne, who received him very kindly. All went well until one day he visited her with another musician, who was at that time better known than Chopin in Paris. Because the young lady offered this man a chair before thinking of asking Chopin to be seated, he never called on her again, and apparently forgot her immediately. George Sand avers that during all this period he was considering a marriage in Poland, but other acquaintances do not confirm this part of the story.

During the ten years passed together by Chopin and George Sand, in Majorca, Genoa, Nohant, and Paris, Chopin produced most of his important works. How much they were inspired by her, no one can say. But it is certain that her care of him in his usually ailing condition must have been of great aid to him. It is certain that she became an integral part of his life, for he did not survive their separation longer than two years. This separation at any rate, was responsible for some of the Polish master's compositions, for he comforted his wounded spirit by pouring out his emotions in such works as the great A flat Polonaise.

A figure of lesser though more recent prominence was Sybil Sanderson. Her fame on the operatic stage is a matter of the present, in spite of her death. She inspired the composer Jules Massenet to produce many of his best works, notably the opera, "Esclarmonde," which was written with her in view as performer. Another tribute to her is found in the song, "Femme, Immortelle ÉtÉ." These are but a few of the more important instances in musical history, which go to show that woman's influence is responsible for many works in connection with which her name does not appear at first glance. The actual women composers, however, form a long and honourable list, and are by no means confined to the present period of female emancipation.