ROYAL MUSICIANS

From an early period there have been monarchs possessed of as much skill in music as their best bards, or minstrels. Thus, as it has been observed, if Alfred the Great could enter and explore the Danish camp disguised as a harper, “his harp playing must have been in the genuine professional manner of his time, otherwise he would have revealed to the Danish lovers of music that he was not what he pretended to be.” Indeed, the harp seems to have been a favourite instrument of our sovereigns in olden times, harpers having been famous long before the Conquest. And it may be noted that even many of those monarchs who were not musicians patronised and encouraged music, as may be gathered from items of expenditure in their household accounts, an instance of which occurs as far back as the time of William of Normandy, who is recorded in Domesday Book to have been liberal to his joculator, or bard.

Matilda of Scotland had a great talent for music, for which her love amounted almost to a passion. And when queen she was not infrequently censured for her lavish liberality in rewarding, with costly presents, the monks who sang skilfully in the church service. According to William of Malmesbury, “She was thoughtlessly prodigal towards clerks of melodious voice, both in gifts and promises. Her generosity becoming universally known, crowds of scholars, equally famed for poetry and music, came over, and happy did he account himself who could soothe the ear of the Queen by the novelty of his song.”

Specially skilled in music was Eleanor of Aquitaine, who composed and sang the chansons and tensons of ProvenÇal poetry; and Richard I. was musically inclined, the place of his confinement in Germany, on his return from the Holy Land, having been discovered, it is commonly said, by his minstrel Blondel singing beneath the Tower Tenebreuse a tenson which they had jointly composed, and to which the King replied. Henry III., in the twenty-sixth year of his reign, gave forty shillings and a pipe of wine to Richard, his harper, and a pipe of wine to Beatrice, the harper’s wife—in such estimation were these musicians held by him.

Edward I. and his queen Marguerite were both lovers of music, and encouraged its professors, as may be gathered from the following items of their household expenditure: “To Melioro, the harper of Sir John Mautravers, for playing on the harp while the King was bled, twenty shillings; likewise to Walter Luvel, the harper of Chichester, whom the King found playing on his harp before the tomb of St. Richard at Chichester Cathedral, six shillings and eightpence.” And prior to ascending the throne Edward took his harper with him to the Holy Land, and, when attacked by an assassin at Ptolemais, his royal musician rushed into the royal apartment, and dashed out the brains of his antagonist after the Prince had given the final blow with a footstool, which caused him to exclaim, “What was the use of striking a dead man?”

Henry V. was himself a performer on the harp from an early age; his royal bride, Catherine of Valois, sharing his taste, as we find from an entry in the Issue Rolls, whereby we learn that his Majesty sent from France to England to obtain new harps for Catherine and himself in the October preceding his marriage: “By the hands of William Menston was paid £8, 13s. 4d. for two new harps purchased for King Henry and Queen Catherine.” And a previous document mentions another harp sent to Henry when in France, “purchased of John Bore, harp-maker, London, together with several dozen harp-chords and a harp-case.” Henry was also a composer, delighting in church harmony, which he was in the habit of practising on the organ.

Anne Boleyn, like Henry VIII., was musical, and, according to an early authority, “when she sung like a second Orpheus, she would have made bears and wolves attentive. Besides singing like a syren, accompanying herself on the lute, she harped better than King David, and handled cleverly both flute and rebec.” From all accounts, Queen Mary seems to have been highly talented in music, and at the tender age of four she is said to have played on the virginals. When grown up she cultivated her musical taste, and played with great proficiency on the lute, the virginals, or the regals. She was also fond of sacred music, and established the musicians of her Chapel Royal with more than usual care, the names of our best English composers being found amongst them.

Queen Elizabeth was very partial to music, and played on the spinet, lute, and violin, and she was especially careful to have the royal chapel furnished with the best singing boys that could be procured in the kingdom. In Sir Hans Sloane’s collection of MSS. in the British Museum, there is a royal warrant of her Majesty authorising Thomas Gytes, master of the children of the Cathedral Church of St. Paul, “to take up such apt and meet children as are most fit to be instructed, and framed, in the art and science of music and singing, as may be had and found out within any place of this our realm of England and Wales, to be, by his education and bringing up, made meet and liable to serve us in that behalf when our pleasure is to call them.”

Henrietta Maria, wife of Charles I., had a taste for music, and was possessed of a voice so sweet and powerful, that, it is said, she might have been, had she not been a queen, prima donna of Europe. Occasionally, we are told, “her divine voice was heard singing to her infant as she lulled it in her arms, filling the magnificent galleries of Whitehall with its rich cadence. Queenly etiquette prevented her from enchanting listeners with its melody at other times.”[160] Charles I., too, was fond of music, and performed on the viol.

The first Italian opera ever performed in England was produced on January 5, 1674, under the auspices of Queen Catherine of Braganza, who was devoted to that style of music, although it took a long time for an English audience to relish it. And “it was not easy,” writes Agnes Strickland, “to persuade the public in those days that a combination of incomprehensible sounds, however harmonious they might be, was capable of exciting feelings of admiration and delight like those with which they listened to the national opera of Arthur, when Dryden’s numbers are wedded to Purcell’s melodies.” The King’s admiration for Mrs. Knight, whose voice was considered by Evelyn and others to excel those of the Queen’s Italian vocalists, excited Catherine’s jealousy, especially as her singing was regarded “as a greater attraction than the wonderful violin playing of Signor Nicolao at musical meetings, where, also, the lute of Dr. Wallgrave rivalled the harpsichord of Signor Francesco.” But, it may be added, Mrs. Knight was first introduced at Court to sing Waller’s complimentary verses on her Majesty’s recovery from serious sickness, in the year 1663. Pepys tells us in his Diary,[161] under September 30, 1668, that the Queen had a concert of Italian vocalists on the Thames, under her balcony at Whitehall Palace, when, “it being a most summerlike day, and a fine warm evening, the Italians came in a barge under the leads before the Queen’s drawing-room, and so the Queen and ladies went out, and heard them for more than an hour, and the singing was very good together; but yet there was but one voice that did appear considerable, and that was Signor Joanni.”

According to Roger North, Charles II. loved no music but of the dancing kind, and put down all advocates for the fugal style of composition, with the question, “Have I not ears?” A band of twenty-four violins who merrily accompanied his meals, and enlivened his devotions in the Chapel Royal, suggested the comic song, “Four and twenty fiddlers all of a row,” which has lasted to the present day. Evelyn was greatly shocked when in December 1662, at the conclusion of the sermon, “instead of the ancient grave and solemn wind music accompanying the organ, was introduced a concert of twenty-four violins, between every pause, after the French fantastical light style; better suiting a tavern, or playhouse, than a church.” It would seem, too, the King’s predilection for French fiddlers formed part of his anti-national tendency, and was carried so far that John Banister, who had been leader of the twenty-four, was dismissed for saying, on his return from Paris, that the English violins were better than the French. These anti-national propensities of Charles II. brought into fashion that kind of music which had constantly been appreciated by the masses—the music of the old ballads and songs. The dislike of all compositions to which he could not beat time led him to appreciate the common English airs, to which the poets of the people had written their words, as well as the dance music imported from France.[162]

To church music George III. was always very attached, showing skill in it both as a critic and performer. “Many stories,” says Thackeray,[163] “mirthful and affecting, are told of his behaviour at the concerts which he ordered. When he was blind and ill he chose the music for the Ancient Concerts once, and the music and words which he selected were from ‘Samson Agonistes,’ and all had reference to his blindness, his captivity, and his affliction. He would beat time with his music-roll as they sang the anthem in the Chapel Royal. If the page below was talkative, or inattentive, down would come the music-roll on young Scapegrace’s powdered head.” It would seem that his Majesty was not content simply to be a listener, but he found additional pleasure in taking an active part in musical performances. And one day in the year when George loved to attend St. Paul’s was on “Charity Children’s Day,” to listen to “500 children sing the hymn which makes every heart thrill with praise and happiness.”

George IV. was fond of music, a taste which, we are told in the “Croker Papers,” seems not always to have been agreeable to some of the ladies who had the greatest influence over him. He would occasionally leave them to bouder in a corner, while he sang duets and glees with the two pretty Misses Liddell—Lord Ravensworth’s sisters—old Michael Kelly, Knyvett, and others. Thus, one evening at the Pavilion, in the year 1822, the King “never left the pianoforte; he sang in ‘Glorious Apollo,’ ‘Mighty Conqueror,’ ‘Lord Mornington’s Waterfall’ (encored), ‘Non Nobis, Domine,’ and several other glees and catches.” His voice, a bass, according to Croker, was not good, and he did not sing so much from the notes as from recollection. He was, therefore, “as a musician far from good, but he gave, I think, the force, gaiety, and spirit of the glees in a superior style to the professional men.”[164]

Music was a source of supreme delight to the Prince Consort, and in musical compositions he acquired considerable technical skill. His favourite instrument was the organ. On the 9th of October, 1840, Lady Lyttelton writes from Windsor Castle: “Yesterday evening, as I was sitting here comfortably after the drive, by candlelight, reading M. Guizot, suddenly there arose from the room beneath, oh, such sounds!... It was Prince Albert playing on the organ, modulating so learnedly, wandering through every kind of bass and chord till he wound up in the most perfect cadence, and then off again louder and louder. I ventured at dinner to ask him what I had heard. “Oh, my organ! a new possession of mine. I am so fond of the organ! It is the first of instruments, the only instrument for expressing one’s feelings.”[165]

All forms of music competently rendered, it is said, had a fascination for Queen Victoria, a taste which from childhood she encouraged, and to which she devoted much attention. John Bernard Sale, organist of St. Margaret’s, Westminster, and subsequently organist of the Chapel Royal, gave her her first lessons in singing in 1826,[166] and “she developed a sweet soprano voice, and soon both sang and played the piano with good effect.” In 1836 Lablache became her singing-master, and he gave her lessons for nearly twenty years. The harp was her instrument, and Grisi was her ideal vocalist.

The Italian opera raised her highest enthusiasm, and, “staunch to the heroes of her youth, she always appreciated the operas of Rossini, Bellini, and Donizetti, but Handel and Mendelssohn won her early admiration.” She never understood or approved Wagner or his school.

At one time elaborate concerts, oratorios, and musical recitations were repeatedly given both at Windsor and Buckingham Palace. On the 10th of February 1846, Charles Kemble read the words of the “Antigone,” when Mendelssohn’s music was rendered, and this was followed by similar performances—Mendelssohn being many times at Court.

Many accounts have come down to us of the talent of James I. of Scotland for music, who is said to have “excelled all mankind in the art, both vocal and instrumental.” He has been spoken of as the father of Scottish music, and we are told that “he not only composed many sacred pieces of vocal music, but also of himself invented a new kind of music, plaintive and melancholy, different from all others, which, it is said, long made his name famous.”

Turning to France, we find that many of its rulers were musically inclined. Going back to an early period, it is said that Charlemagne invited singers and musicians to come from Italy and improve the performance of divine worship, and two song schools were established, one at Gale, another at Metz. According to Charlemagne, “his Franks had not much aptitude for music, their singing was like the howling of wild beasts or the noise made by the squeaking, groaning wheels of a luggage waggon on a stony road.”

An interesting story is told of Josquin, an eminent composer, who was appointed master of the chapel of Louis XII., by whom he was promised a benefice. But the King forgot the matter, and from the shortness of his Majesty’s memory Josquin suffered great inconvenience. By a clever expedient he contrived publicly to remind Louis of his promise without giving offence. Being commanded to compose a motet for the Chapel Royal, he chose part of the 119th Psalm, beginning with the words, “Oh, think of thy servant as concerning thy word,” “which he set in so supplicating and exquisite a manner that it was universally admired, particularly by the King, who was not only charmed with the music, but felt the force of the words so effectually that he soon after granted his petition by conferring on him the promised appointment.”

Marie Antoinette had a natural taste and extreme fondness for music. She much valued GrÉtry’s music—a great deal of the poetry set to his music being by Marmontel. The day after the first performance of “Zemira and Azor,” Marmontel and GrÉtry were presented to the Queen as she was passing through the Gallery of Fontainbleau to go to mass. The Queen congratulated GrÉtry on the success of the new opera, and told him that she had dreamed of the enchanting effect of the trio by Zemira’s father and sisters behind the magic mirror. In a transport of joy, GrÉtry took Marmontel in his arms. “Ah, my friend,” cried he, “excellent music may be made of this.” “And execrable words,” coolly added Marmontel, to whom her Majesty had not addressed a single compliment.[167]

Marie Antoinette was the great patroness of the celebrated Viotti, and, when he began to perform his concerts at her private musical parties, she would go round the music saloon and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I request you will be silent, and very attentive, and not enter into conversation while Mr. Viotti is playing, for it interrupts him in the execution of his fine performance.”

She paid for the musical education of the French singer Garat, and pensioned him for her private concerts. It was at her request, too, that the great Gluck was brought from Germany to Paris. It may be remembered that he composed his “Armida” in compliment to the personal charms of Marie Antoinette. On one occasion he told her that the air of France had invigorated his musical genius, and that, after having had the honour of seeing her Majesty, his ideas were so much inspired that his compositions resembled her, and became alike angelic and divine.

Had her musical taste been cultivated, it is said that Marie Antoinette would have made considerable progress. She sang little French airs with much feeling and taste. She improved much under the tuition of the famous Sacchini, and after his death Sapio was named as his successor, but, between the death of one master and the appointment of another, “the revolutionary horrors so increased, that her mind was no longer in a state to listen to anything but the howlings of the tempest.”

Charles V. of Spain had a fine musical ear, and thoroughly understood the principles of the science. When on the throne, the music of his chapel was unsurpassed by that of any church in Christendom. On his settling at the Jeronymite monastery of Yuste, after his abdication, the greatest pains had been taken to select for him the best voices from the different convents of the order, and no person was admitted into the choir except those who regularly belonged to it. On one occasion, a professional singer from Plasencia having joined in the chant, the unaccustomed tones soon attracted the Emperor’s attention, and the intruder was compelled to retire. Charles had a quick ear, and sometimes even a false note jarred on it, which prompted him to break into a passion, and to salute the offender with one of those scurrilous epithets which he had picked up in the wars, and which were far better suited to a military life than to a monastic.[168] One thing is certain, he never spared the unlucky offender.

Among touching instances of royal personages finding relief in music may be mentioned the King of Hanover, who had the misfortune of being nearly deprived of his eyesight some time before he came to the throne. As Crown Prince he published a pamphlet, entitled “Ideas and Reflections on the Properties of Music,” in which he thus gives his experiences: “From early youth I have striven to make music my own. It has become to me a companion and comforter through life; it has become more and more valuable to me the more I learnt to comprehend and appreciate its boundless exuberance of ideas, and its inexhaustible fulness.

“By means of music, ideas, feelings, historical events, natural phenomena, pictures, and scenes of life of all sorts are as clearly and intelligibly expressed as by any language in words; and we are ourselves enabled to express ourselves in such a manner, and to make ourselves understood by others. It is, above all, in the gloomy hours of affliction that music is a soothing comforter, and whoever has experienced this effect himself will admit that for this fairest service rendered by the art he cannot sufficiently thank and revere it.”

Frederick William I. was fond of music, and, during the winter evenings, he caused the airs and choruses of certain favourite operas to be played to him on wind instruments by the band of the Potsdam Guard regiment. During these concerts the musicians, with their desks and lights, stood at one end of the long hall, while the King, sitting quite alone at the other, would sometimes, especially after a good dinner, fall asleep.

As a composer and performer, Frederick the Great acquired considerable celebrity, and in his early years his father used contemptuously to call him the “piper,” or the “poetaster”; for, the Queen having caused him to be secretly instructed in playing the flute, the Prince attempted to arrange concerts in the woods when the King was hunting, and, whilst his father rode after the wild boar, the flutes and violins were produced out of the game-bags. One day, the King going into his apartment, the music-master had to be hidden in the chimney. His compositions are very numerous, as he wrote for his own use only as many as one hundred solos for the flute, on which he was a skilful player. When time permitted, he devoted four hours daily to the study or practice of music, a recreation which he enjoyed until within a few years of his death, when he was debarred it through the loss of several of his front teeth. He generally contrived, after taking his coffee in the morning, to play his flute, and these were the moments, as he once confessed to D’Alembert, when his best thoughts occurred to him. Lord Malmesbury wrote from Berlin in the year 1775: “Never was the King in a worse humour: a few days ago the King broke his flute on the head of his chamber hussar, and is very liberal to his servants with cuffs and kicks.” At a concert given during the visit of the Electress-Dowager Maria Antonia of Saxony in 1770, in which this princess, a very distinguished amateur performer, played the piano and sang, the King, supported by his old master, Quantz, played the first lute, the hereditary Prince of Brunswick the first violin, and the Prince of Prussia—afterwards King Frederick William II.—the violoncello.

Many anecdotes have been recorded of his musical pursuits, his behaviour on the occasion of the performance of Graun’s Te Deum, after the termination of the Seven Years’ War, in 1763, being specially noteworthy. The orchestra and singers, who had assembled in the royal palace at Charlottenburg at the time commanded, found to their surprise that there was no audience assembling. But after having waited some time, wondering whether the performance of the Te Deum was to take place, or whether there had been some mistake in the hour, they observed a side door being opened at the end of the hall opposite them, through which the King entered alone, and, sitting down in a corner, bade them commence. At some of the full choruses he held his hands before his eyes to conceal his tears, and, at the close of the performance, having thanked them by a slight inclination of his head, he retired through the side door by which he had entered. It is said that the Emperor was so prepossessed by the compositions of Graun, that hardly any other composer had a chance of finding favour with him.

The Emperor’s sister, the Princess Amelia, was a good musician and a sharp critic, as may be gathered from the following letter which she wrote to the Kapellmeister Schulz, in Rheinsberg, after he had sent her the manuscript of his choruses to “Athalia,” with the humble request for permission to dedicate them to her, or, as he expressed himself, “to preface the work with the adorable name of so illustrious a connoisseur”:—

“I surmise, Mr. Schulz, that by an oversight you have sent me, instead of your own work, the musical bungling of a child, since I cannot discover in it the least musical art; on the contrary, it is throughout faulty from beginning to end in the expression, sentiment, and meaning of the language, as well as in the rhythm. The motus contrarius has been entirely neglected: there is no proper harmony, no impressive melody; the key is never clearly indicated, so that one has to guess in what key the music is meant to move. There are no canonic imitations, not the least trace of counterpoint, but plenty of consecutive fifths and octaves! And this is to be called music! May Heaven open the eyes of those who possess such a high conceit of themselves, and enlighten their understanding to make them comprehend that they are but bunglers and fumblers. I have heard it said that the work ought to praise the master; nowadays everything is reversed and confused, the masters are the only ones who praise themselves, even if their works are offensive.”

Schulz, mentioning the contents of this letter to a friend, added, “All this may be true, but why tell it me so rudely?”

A distinguished pianist was Prince Louis Ferdinand of Prussia, who lost his life in the battle of Saalfeld, in the year 1806. He was, too, a fine composer—“perhaps the best of all the royal musicians whose works have been published, or are otherwise known, and a true patron of the art, which he showed by his cultivation of classical music, as well as by his kindness to Beethoven, Dussek, Spohr, and other eminent composers.” It was this prince of whom it is said that Beethoven, on hearing him play, exclaimed with surprise, “Your Royal Highness does not play like a prince—you play like a musician.”

As a pupil of Beethoven, Rudolph, Archduke of Austria, was not only a true patron of music, but he took an active interest in all musical matters, as is shown by the subjoined letter:—

“Dear Beethoven,—I shall return to Vienna as early as Monday, August 5, and I shall then remain in town for several days.... My brother-in-law, Prince Anton, has written to me already that the King of Saxony expects your beautiful mass.

“Respecting D—r, I have spoken with our gracious monarch, and likewise with Count Dietrichstein. I do not know whether this recommendation will be of use, as there is to be a competition for the appointment in question, in which any one, wishing to obtain it, has to prove his fitness. It would be a gratification to me if I could be useful to that clever man, whom I heard with pleasure playing the organ last Monday in Baden, especially as I am convinced that you would not recommend an unworthy person.

“I hope you have written down your canon, and I pray you, in case it might be injurious to your health to come to town, not to exert yourself too soon out of attachment to me.—Your well-wishing

“Rudolph.

“Vienna, July 31, 1823.”