by Tim Rayborn
In contrast, Beethoven was willing to defend his work even when he knew it was subpar. He composed Wellington’s Victory—or The Battle of Vitoria—in collaboration with Johann Nepomuk Maelzel, the inventor of the metronome. Beethoven never liked this piece, and he understood the criticism it received in its own time. However, while agreeing that it was a poor work, he still defended his own ability against loud-mouthed and opinionated critics, declaring that what he sh** was better than anything they could have created; how many artists of all kinds have wanted to say that to critics over the centuries! Not surprisingly, he had a falling-out with Maelzel, who later apparently died from alcohol poisoning, but that’s another whole story.
Mozart’s skull
Mozart’s Skull could just as easily have been the title of this book; its possible after-death adventures are certainly odd enough to merit a book title. Beethoven is just a little more famous, however, so his skull wins out. It’s the same reason that the book is not called Haydn’s Head, though that is, admittedly, pretty catchy.
In 1902 the Mozarteum Foundation in Salzburg acquired a skull that was missing its lower jaw, a skull that may have come from a very important person. It was said that a gravedigger, one Joseph Rothmayer, dug up Mozart’s body from its shared grave in 1801 (another account says 1799). Contrary to popular belief, these graves usually only held a small number of bodies, which was a good thing for Rothmayer, as he had plans for Mozart’s remains. Providing skulls to the right buyers could be very lucrative. There was a period when such things were venerated almost like relics, particularly those of very famous individuals. Having the skull of a famous artist, philosopher, or composer would be quite the conversation piece, ethics and respect be damned.
Rothmayer marked the skull with a wire and noted the body’s position when he initially buried it so that he could identify it later. Why he waited several years to retrieve it is unknown and immediately makes the legend suspicious, but such graves were commonly opened up some years later and reused, so maybe he took advantage of this practice to hide the fact that he was essentially grave robbing. Some accounts say that Rothmayer held on to the skull for decades, which seems odd and casts further doubt on the whole story.
In any case, the story goes that the skull passed to various owners in the nineteenth century; in 1892 an article in the Neue Freie Presse newspaper proclaimed that Mozart’s skull had been identified based on observations made some decades earlier by physician and poet Ludwig August Frankl, who received it from an anatomist named Joseph Hyrtl. It had previously belonged to Joseph’s brother, Jacob. He had acquired it from a gravedigger, who presumably had familial or professional ties going back to Rothmayer. Jacob apparently was unsettled about possessing it and once even contemplated throwing it into the Danube.
Of course, this announcement caused quite a stir and produced more than a few skeptics. After the Mozarteum Foundation took possession of the skull, they placed it on display in the home of Mozart’s birth before eventually transferring it to the Mozarteum Library in 1940, as the chaos of war threatened far more than just the arts. During that time, a few strange stories circulated: some staff reported being frightened by the object, claiming that music or even screams were heard coming from the cabinet that contained it. Was the ghost of the great man unhappy with his situation?
In 1987, Gottfried Tichy, a paleontologist at Salzburg University, examined the skull and declared it to be genuine, noting that it belonged to a small man between the ages of twenty and forty. Mozart was said to have toothaches, and there was evidence of rickets and tooth problems. It also showed signs of having taken a hard hit, such as a fall, and Mozart was known to have suffered from headaches in his last year or so. Such damage could be evidence of a fall or a similar injury that might have caused his pain. This was not the last word on the subject, however: in 2006 mitochondrial DNA tests were conducted, matching the skull against genetic information from Mozart’s maternal grandmother, Euphrosina Pertl (what a magnificent name!) and from that of his niece, Jeanette.
The results showed that the skull was not related to the bones of these female relatives, which should have been the end of the story, but there was a slight problem: the results for the two female samples proved that they were not related to each other! And yet, their bone samples had been taken from the Mozart family vault. So, either the skull is Mozart’s and the women are not genuine family members, or it’s not his and one of the women is a Mozart, but the other is not, or maybe none of them are.
It’s a deliciously inconclusive and frustrating result that only deepens the mystery. The skull is no longer on display, incidentally, but visitors can make arrangements in advance to see it at the Mozarteum Library, if they so wish. Bruckner certainly would have.
And while we’re on the topic of mysterious skulls …
Beethoven’s skull
Poor Beethoven could not get a break in life or death. A mere day after he died, what passed for forensic scientists in the early 1800s proceeded to cut open his skull. Was this some perverse attempt to find out what made the man tick? Actually, they were quite genuinely trying to discover the source of his deafness, and given that sawing open his skull hadn’t been an option a few days earlier, now they had a chance to examine the ear bones. Beethoven, in fact, had requested that his doctor try to find the source of his hearing loss and make it available to the public, so they were simply following his wishes—but we still don’t have a diagnosis.
There was a great interest at the time in the pseudoscience of phrenology, and some believed that the size of the brain could tell much about someone’s nature, since different mental faculties were thought to reside in different regions. The skull, as the casing for the brain, could be measured to determine the size of various portions of a brain and thus reveal how “developed” one was in those given areas.
Sometime before the 1888 exhumation of Beethoven’s body (when Bruckner so lovingly cradled the great man’s head and had to be thrown out), some skull fragments—presumably from that initial cutting—were believed to have come into the possession of one Romeo Seligmann, professor of the history of medicine at the University of Vienna. There had been a previous exhumation in 1863 for medical purposes, so Seligmann might have acquired them around then. These small fragments were passed down through Seligmann’s family, and by 1985 they resided with one of his descendants in northern California.
Two doctors from Vienna conducted tests that year and, believing that they had a DNA match with some of the composer’s hair, declared with confidence that these small pieces were indeed from Beethoven’s skull. It seemed to be a splendid confirmation of the claims that a small, if grotesque, piece of the world’s greatest composer had come to the New World, passed on as a kind of odd family heirloom. The fragments were presented on loan to the Ira F. Brilliant Center for Beethoven Studies at San Jose State University.
This claim went unchallenged for many years; however, more recent testing has cast serious doubt on the findings. These newer tests confirmed that the main fragment showed no evidence of having been cut through, which would have had to be the case during that first post-mortem operation when it was cut with a handsaw. Further, a few small bone fragments that some believed to have come from Beethoven’s ear bones were tested and also found not to have been his. Instead, they were merely parts of the larger fragments that had failed the test. In the end, it seems that none of these bits and pieces once belonged to Beethoven. Between being hacked up, pillaged of its ear bones (which must have been lost after the autopsy), cradled by a determined admirer, and allegedly brought in pieces to the New World, Beethoven’s skull endured about as much trauma as the man himself. If any fragments did come from that first autopsy, they’re probably now lost to history.
Last Words
Congratulations! You have bravely wandered through some of the dark alleyways, creepy forest paths, and abandoned mansions of music history, and learned more than you probably ever wanted to kn
ow. It’s fascinating to realize just how much great art can come from times of trouble and despair, and that’s what we should take away from this journey. Regardless of, or perhaps due to, the misfortunes they encountered, the musicians and composers of our classical tradition have enriched the world immeasurably with their splendid works. We have more than a thousand years of amazing music to enjoy, and in the end, where it came from is not nearly as important as where it takes us.
I will leave you with this inspirational quote from George Bizet, composer of the famed and tragic opera Carmen: “As a musician I tell you that if you were to suppress adultery, fanaticism, crime, evil, the supernatural, there would no longer be the means for writing one note.”
Okay … that was kind of depressing. How about this one instead, from George Bernard Shaw: “Music is the brandy of the damned.”
Well, that’s no good either.
Actually, a favorite quote of mine comes from Friedrich Nietzsche, and serves as a great way to wrap up: “Without music, life would be a mistake.”
On that, I think we can all agree.
Suggestions for Further Reading
With luck, your interest is now piqued, you can’t get enough, and you want to know more about music history, but where to start? It’s a topic that can seem completely overwhelming, so here are some suggestions for delving a little deeper.
Online Resources
The granddaddy of music research tools is Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians. This multi-volume encyclopedia first appeared in the late nineteenth century and has been a mainstay of music studies ever since. College and university libraries will almost certainly have it, and many good public libraries might, too. Just about anything you can imagine related to classical music and more is in these volumes, and the work is a great way to expand your knowledge by dipping in wherever you like. For those so inclined, it is also online and available by subscription at: www.oxfordmusiconline.com.
It’s all well and good to talk about classical music, but listening to it is vital, and here, you might feel completely lost. An excellent online resource is the Naxos Music Library, the largest digital collection of classical music recordings in the world. Naxos has licensing deals with hundreds of record labels to bring their catalogs online. It requires a somewhat pricey membership, but considering that you get access to well over 120,000 recordings (at the time of this writing) with all of their artwork and notes, it’s a ridiculously good bargain. Type in the name of any composer and dozens, if not hundreds, of recordings will come up. Click away and listen at your leisure. It’s literally more than you can listen to in a lifetime. Find it at: www.naxosmusiclibrary.com.
Many labels and artists also have YouTube pages, which can be a more economical way of beginning your listening journey. Try typing in composers or genres and see what comes up.
What about Wikipedia? This resource is much maligned, sometimes with justification, sometimes not. If you bear in mind that anyone can edit the content, and that sometimes the information is outdated or incorrect, it can be a useful starting point. Almost all of the composers in this book have their own pages, for example, and the entries seem pretty accurate. If the information is sourced properly and/or there is a useful bibliography, go ahead and have a look. You just might want to verify what you read in other sources.
Books
For those who prefer individual books, here are some goodies to keep you busy:
David Barber, Bach, Beethoven and the Boys (Sound and Vision, 1986, reprinted 1996 and 2011). A good introduction for younger readers, this is a humorous look at various aspects of classical music over the centuries.
Rick Beyer, The Greatest Music Stories Never Told: 100 Tales from Music History to Astonish, Bewilder, and Stupefy (New York: HarperCollins, 2011). This covers different kinds of music—including rock, jazz, country, hip-hop, and classical—for unusual stories and anecdotes.
Brian Levison and Frances Farrar, Classical Music’s Strangest Concerts and Characters (London: Robson Books, 2007). This book focuses mostly on accounts from the last few centuries (and a few from earlier times) of composers’ and musicians’ daily lives and performances, and the strange things that happened therein.
Elizabeth Lunday and Mario Zucca, Secret Lives of Great Composers (Philadelphia: Quirk Books, 2009). This looks mainly at the biographies of composers from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries, with plenty of bits about scandals and darker things.
Nicolas Slonimsky, Lexicon of Musical Invective (New York: W. W. Norton, reprinted 2000). Very funny and informative, this classic work covers bad reviews of both composers and concerts from the eighteenth to the twentieth centuries.
Nicolas Slonimsky, Slonimsky’s Book of Musical Anecdotes (New York and London: Routledge, 2002). More fun from Slonimsky, this includes wonderful tales and anecdotes about the great composers that you won’t get in school or concert programs.
More from Tim Rayborn
I would be remiss if I didn’t shamelessly promote some of my other offerings, in this case two books, two recordings, and two websites:
A New English Music (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2016). This book looks at the revival of classical music in England from the later nineteenth century and into the twentieth. It includes detailed biographies of several key composers, including Percy Grainger, Peter Warlock, George Butterworth, Gustav Holst, and Ralph Vaughan Williams. Their lives were fascinating, and they left us some magnificent music.
Against the Friars (McFarland, 2014). A study of the medieval friars (the Franciscan and Dominican orders), and those who thought they were not such a great idea. Includes a lot more information on the Roman de Fauvel, the goliards, and other French musicians and poets who mercilessly mocked and attacked them.
Cançonièr – The Black Dragon: Music from the Time of Vlad Dracula. With a title like that, how can you resist? This early music group (co-directed by Tim) brings to life music from the infamous Impaler’s time. We likely wouldn’t have lasted long in his presence (he probably didn’t even like music), but we hope you will think favorably of this recording. Available at Amazon, iTunes, and CD Baby, among others.
Honey from the Thorn: Music of Medieval England. Music from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries. Not much medieval English music survives (there is much more French and Spanish repertoire from the same time), but these are some of the nicest pieces, in my humble opinion. Available at Amazon, iTunes, and CD Baby—basically all the usual outlets.
For musical things of all kinds, visit: www.timrayborn.com
For writing things of certain kinds, visit: www.inkhornwriting.com
Acknowledgments
Even though most writers dream of having a Walden-like place to retreat to where they can craft their masterpieces, books aren’t written in total isolation. We always need others to read through our drafts, look for the inevitable mistakes, and tell us that we’re wonderful—or not. Several people deserve my thanks as I put this work together and finished it, after tinkering with it on and off for a long time.
Thanks to Skyhorse for finding the subject matter intriguing enough that they wanted to get the book out there to the innocent and unsuspecting masses, and to Olga Greco for her meticulous and thoughtful edits, which have made this a better book than it was. Many thanks also to my agent, Maryann Karinch, who believed in the project as soon as she read about it, and has encouraged me with her enthusiasm. A number of people read chapter drafts as the book was nearing completion, and offered helpful feedback and comments, so lots of thanks to: Allan J. Cronin, Nawal Doucette, Trisna Fraser, Joshua Lapan, Kimberly Mackoy, Gilbert Martinez, Emily O’Brien, William Osser, Alina Rotaru, Keith Spears, Annie Valdes, and Matt Washburn.
Finally, thanks and love to Abby and to our adorable, and occasionally exasperating, feline toddlers.
About the Author
Tim Rayborn is an internationally acclaimed musician who plays dozens of unusual instruments that quite a few people have never hea
rd of and frequently can’t pronounce. These include medieval instrument reconstructions and folk instruments from Northern Europe, the Balkans, and the Middle East. He has appeared on over forty recordings to date, and his musical wanderings and tours have taken him across the United States, all over Europe, to Canada and Australia, and to such romantic locations as Marrakech, Istanbul, Renaissance chateaux, medieval churches, and high school gymnasiums.
Tim lived in England (a country he adores) for nearly seven years and has a PhD from the University of Leeds, which he likes to pretend means that he knows what he’s talking about. He has written a number of books and magazine articles about music and history, and undoubtedly will write more. He currently resides in Northern California amid many books, instruments, and cats, and is at least somewhat obsessed with cooking excellent food.
The ancient Greek aulos, which could blow people away. (Public domain, Wikimedia Commons.)
The young Emperor Nero, looking rather smug about his mediocre musical abilities. (Image courtesy of the University of Cologne and the German Archaeological Institute (DAI)/Arachne.)
The graves of Abelard and Héloïse, united at last in Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, though the poor man still has something missing. (Photograph by Tim Rayborn.)
Bertran de Born, condemned to carry his own head in hell, an afterlife worthy of a heavy metal song. Engraving by Gustave Doré. (Copyright free, Project Gutenberg.)
A wonderfully anachronistic depiction of the death of Richard the Lionheart, putting him back in the Holy Land and giving him the body of an underwear model. (Image courtesy of the Wellcome Library, London.)
Henry VIII and his fool, William Sommers. Neither looks particularly happy about being there. (Image courtesy of the British Library.)