Songs either are strophic or “durchcomponirt” (composed through). In the strophic song the melody and accompaniment are repeated unchanged through each stanza or strophe of the poem; while, when a song is composed through, the music, although the principal melody may be repeated more than once, is subjected to changes in accordance with the moods of the poem.

Schubert is the first song composer who requires serious consideration. While not strictly the originator of the Lied, he is universally acknowledged to be the first great song composer and to have lifted song to its proper place of importance in music. Gluck set Klopfstock’s odes to music; Haydn as a song writer is remembered by “Liebes MÄdchen hÖr’ mir Zu”; Mozart by “Das Veilchen”; and Beethoven by “Adelaide” and one or two other songs. Before Schubert’s day this form of composition was regarded as something rather trivial and beneath the dignity of genius. But Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven at least did one thing through which they may possibly have contributed to the development of song-writing. By their freer writing for the pianoforte they prepared the way for the Schubert accompaniments.

Where Schubert got his musical genius from is a mystery. His father was a schoolmaster, whose first wife, Schubert’s mother, was a cook. The couple had fourteen children and an income of $175. If this income is somewhat disproportionate to the size of the family, it yet is fortunate that they had fourteen children instead of only thirteen. Otherwise there would have been one great name less in musical history, for Schubert was the fourteenth.

He was born in Vienna in January, 1797. His thirty-one years—for this genius who so enriched music lived to be only thirty-one—were passed in poverty. His father was wretchedly poor, and his own works, when they could be disposed of at all to publishers, were sold at beggarly prices. Now they are universally recognized as masterpieces and are worth many times their weight in gold.

Too Poor to Buy Music Paper.

Shortly before he was twelve years old, Schubert, who had been singing soprano solos and playing violin in the parish choir, was sent to the so-called Convict, the Imperial school for training boys for the Court chapel. During his five years there his progress was so rapid that even before he was fourteen years old he was occasionally asked to substitute for the conductor of the school orchestra. Life, however, was hard. He had no money with which to buy even a few luxuries in the way of food to eke out the wretched fare of the Convict, nor music paper. Had it not been for the kindness of a fellow pupil and friend, named Spaun, he 233 would not have been able to write down and work out his ideas.

When his voice changed, the straitened family circumstances obliged him to become an assistant in his father’s school. He was able to bear poverty with patience, but not the drudgery of teaching, and he is said often to have lost his temper with the boys. Altogether, he taught for three years, 1815 to 1818; and while his work was most distasteful to him, his genius was so spontaneous that during his three years he composed many songs, among them his immortal “Erlking.” Finally a university student, Franz von Schober, who, having heard some of Schubert’s songs, had become an enthusiastic admirer of the composer, offered him one of his rooms as a lodging, whereupon Schubert, straightway accepting the offer, gave up teaching and from that time to the end of his brief life led a Bohemian existence with a clique of friends of varied accomplishments. In this circle he was known as “Canevas,” because whenever some new person joined it, his first question regarding the newcomer was “Kann er wass?” (Can he do anything?)

Outside a small circle of acquaintances, Schubert remained practically unknown until he made the acquaintance of Johann Michael Vogl, an opera singer, to whom his devoted friend, Von Schober, introduced him. Vogl was somewhat reserved in his opinion of the songs which he tried over with Schubert at their first meeting, but they made an impression. He followed up the acquaintance and became the first professional interpreter of Schubert’s lyrics. “The manner in which Vogl sings and I accompany,” wrote Schubert 234 to his brother Ferdinand, “so that we appear like one on such occasions, is something new and unheard of to our listeners.” Publishers, however, held aloof. Five years after the “Erlking” was composed, several of them refused to print it, although Schubert offered to forego royalties on it. Finally, some of Schubert’s friends had the song published at their own expense, and its success led to the issuing of eleven other songs, Schubert unwisely accepting eight hundred florins in lieu of royalty on these and the “Erlking.” Yet from one of these songs alone, “The Wanderer,” the publishers received twenty-seven thousand florins between the years 1822 and 1861.

How the “Erlking” was Composed.

Schubert being the greatest of song composers, and the “Erlking” his greatest song, the circumstances under which it was written are of especial interest. His friend Spaun, the same who provided him with music paper at the Convict, relates that one afternoon toward the close of the year 1815 he went with the poet Mayrhofer to visit Schubert. They found the composer all aglow, reading the “Erlking” aloud to himself. He walked up and down the room several times, book in hand, then suddenly sat down and as fast as his pen could travel put the music on paper. Having no piano, the three men hurried over to the Convict, where the “Erlking” was sung the same evening and received with enthusiasm. The old Court organist, Ruziczka, afterward played it over himself without the voice, and when some of those present objected to the dissonance 235 which occurs three times in the course of the composition and depicts the child’s terror of the Erlking, the old organist struck these chords and explained how perfectly they reflected the spirit of the poem and how felicitously they were worked out in their musical resolution.

Schubert’s song is almost Wagnerian in its descriptive and dramatic quality. The coaxing voice of the Erlking, the terror of the child, the efforts of the father to allay his boy’s fears, each has its characteristic expression, which yet is different from the narrative portions of the poem, while in the accompaniment the horse gallops along. Schubert was but eighteen years old when he set this ballad of Goethe’s to music; yet there is no more thrilling climax to be found in all song literature than those dissonances which I have mentioned and which with each repeat rise to a higher interval and become each time more shrill with terror. Whoever has heard Lilli Lehmann sing this song should be able to appreciate its real greatness, as Goethe, who had remained utterly indifferent to Schubert’s music, did when the “Erlking” was sung to him by Frau Schroeder-Devrient, to whom he exclaimed: “Thank you a thousand times for this great artistic achievement. When I heard this song before I did not like it at all, but sung in your way it becomes a true picture.”

Finck on Schubert.

More than six hundred songs by Schubert have been published, and when we remember that he wrote symphonies, sonatas, shorter pianoforte pieces, chamber 236 music and operas, the fertility of his brief life is astounding. The rapidity with which he composed, however, was not due to carelessness, but to the spontaneity of his genius and the fact that he loved to compose. “He composed as a bird sings in the spring, or as a well gushes from a mountain-side, simply because he could not help it,” says Mr. Finck, in his “Songs and Song Writers.” We have it on the authority of Schubert’s friend, Spaun, that when he went to bed he kept his spectacles on, so that when he woke up he could go right to the table and compose without wasting time looking for his glasses. In the two years 1815-16 he wrote no less than two hundred and fifty-four songs. Six of the songs in the “Winterreise” cycle were composed in one morning, and he had eight songs to his credit in a single day. The charming “Hark, Hark, the Lark” was written at a tavern where he chanced to see the poem in a book the leaves of which he was slowly turning over. “If I only had some music paper!” he exclaimed, whereupon one of his friends promptly ruled lines on the back of his Speise Karte, and Schubert, with the varied noises of the tavern going on about him, jotted down the song then and there.

Of course, it is impossible to touch on all the aspects of such a genius as his. In his songs clear and beautiful melody is, as a rule, combined with a descriptive accompaniment. Sometimes the description is given by means of only a few chords, like the preluding ones in “Am Meer.” At other times the description runs through the entire accompaniment, like the waves that flash and dance around the melody of “Auf dem Wasser zu Singen”; the galloping horse in the “Erlking”; 237 the veiled mist that seems to hang over the scenes in the wonderfully dramatic poem, “Die Stadt”; the flutter of the bird in “Hark, Hark, the Lark”; the brook that flows like a leitmotif through the “Maid of the Mill” cycle—these are a few of the examples that with Schubert could be cited by the dozen.

And the range of his work—here again space forbids the multiplication of examples. It extends from the naive “Haiden RÖslein” to the tragic “DoppelgÄnger”; from the whispering foliage of the “Linden Tree” to the pathetic drone of the “Hurdy-Gurdy Man”; from the “Serenade” to “Todt und das MÄdchen.” Schubert is the greatest genius among song composers. Compare the growing reputation of him who of all musicians was perhaps the most neglected during his life, with that of Mendelssohn, the most fÊted of composers, but now rapidly dropping to the position of a minor tone poet, and who, although he wrote eighty-three songs, is as a song writer remembered outside of Germany by barely more than one Lied, the familiar “On the Wings of Song.”

Schumann’s Individuality.

In Schumann’s songs the piano part is more closely knit and interwoven with the vocal melody than with Schubert’s, and, as a result, the voice does not stand out so clearly. While his songs are not what they have been called by a German critic, “pianoforte pieces with accidental vocal accompaniments,” at times, in his vocal compositions, the pianoforte gains too great an ascendancy over the voice. If asked to draw a distinction between 238 Schubert and Schumann, I should say that there is a twofold interest in most of Schubert’s songs. He reproduces the feeling of the poem in his vocal melody; then, if the poem contains a descriptive suggestion, he produces that phase of it in his accompaniment, without, however, allowing the pianoforte part to encroach on the vocal melody. The melody gives the feeling, the accompaniment the description or mood picture. Schumann, on the other hand, rarely is descriptive. Nearly always he produces a mood picture in tone, but requires both voice and pianoforte to effect his purpose. As this, however, is Schumann’s method of composition, and as it is better that each composer should leave the seal of his individuality on everything he does, and not be an imitator, it is not cause for regret that while Schubert is Schubert, Schumann is Schumann.

The proportion of fine songs among the two hundred and forty-five composed by Schumann is, however, much smaller than in the heritage left us by Schubert; and while Schubert, from the time he wrote his first great vocal compositions, added many equally great ones every year, Schumann’s songs, on the whole, show a decided falling off after he had wooed and won Clara Wieck. It was during his courtship that he produced his best songs. Separated from her by the command of her stern father, he made love to her in music.

“I am now writing nothing but songs, great and small,” we find him saying in a letter to a friend in the summer of 1840. “Hardly can I tell you how delicious it is to write for voice instead of for instruments, and what a turmoil and tumult I feel within 239 me when I sit down to it.” While he was composing his song cycle, “Die Myrthen,” he wrote to Clara: “Since yesterday morning I have written twenty-seven pages of music, all new, concerning which the best I can tell you is that I laughed and wept for joy while composing them.” A month later he writes her, in sending her his first printed songs: “When I composed them my soul was within yours; without such a love, indeed, no one could write such music—and this I intend as a special compliment.” ... “I could sing myself to death, like a nightingale,” he writes to her again, on May 15th. Never was there such a musical wooing, and those who wish to participate in it can do so by singing or listening to such songs as “Dedication,” “The Almond Tree,” “The Lotos Flower,” “In the Forest” (WaldesgesprÄch), “Spring Night,” “He, the Noblest of the Noble,” “Thou Ring upon My Finger,” “’Twas in the Lovely Month of May,” “Where’er My Tears Are Falling,” “I’ll Not Complain,” and “Nightly in My Dreaming.” Among his songs not inspired by love should be mentioned the “Two Grenadiers,” which PlanÇon sings so inimitably.

Phases of Franz’s Genius.

Robert Franz (1815-1892) had his life embittered by neglect and physical ills. His family name originally was Knauth, his father having been Christoph Knauth. But in order to distinguish him from his brother, who was engaged in the same business, he was addressed as Christoph Franz, a name which he subsequently had legalized. Yet critics insisted that 240 Robert Franz was a pseudonym which the composer had adopted from vanity in order to indicate that he was as great as Robert Schumann and Franz Schubert put together.

Franz was strongly influenced by Bach and HÄndel, many of whose scores he supplied with what are known as “additional accompaniments,” filling out gaps which these composers left in their scores according to the custom of their day. His songs show this influence in their polyphony, and the German critic, Ambros, said that Franz’s song, “Der Schwere Abend,” looked as if Bach had sat down and composed a Franz song out of thanks for all that Franz was to do for him through his additional accompaniments. Besides their polyphony derived from Bach, Franz’s songs are interesting for their modulations, which are employed not simply for the sake of showing cleverness or originality, but for their appropriateness in expressing the mood of the poem. He also was extremely careful in regard to the choice of key and decidedly objected to transpositions of his songs, in order to make them singable for higher or lower voices than could use the original key. “When I am dead,” he wrote to his publisher, “I cannot prevent these transpositions, but so long as I am alive I shall fight them.”

Franz did not endeavor to reproduce visible things in his pianoforte parts, and the voice in his songs often is declamatory, merging into melody only in the more deeply emotional passages. He is a reflective rather than a dramatic composer, disliked opera, and himself said that any one who had penetrated deeply into his songs well knew that the dramatic element was not to 241 be found in them, nor was it intended to be. Composers, however, have many theories regarding their music which, in practice, come to naught; and whether Franz thought his songs dramatic or not, the fact remains that when Lilli Lehmann sang his “Im Herbst” it was as thrillingly dramatic as anything could be.

Self-Critical.

Franz was extremely self-critical. He kept his productions in his desk for years, working over them again and again, until in many cases the song in its final shape bore slight resemblance to what it had been at first. He declared his Opus 1 to be no worse than his latest work, because it had been composed with equal care and had had the benefit of his ripening judgment and experience. He admired Wagner and dedicated one of his song volumes to him; but when some critics fancied that they discovered Wagnerian traits in several songs in his last collection, Op. 51-52, he was able to prove that these very songs were among the first he had written, and were published so late in his career simply because he had kept them back for revision.

His physical disabilities were pitiable. When he was about thirty-three years old and shortly after his marriage, he was standing in the Halle railway station when a locomotive close by sounded its shrill whistle. The effect upon him was like the piercing of his ears. For several days afterward he heard nothing but confused buzzing, and from that time on his hearing became worse and worse, until finally his ears pained 242 him even when he composed. In 1876 he became totally deaf, and a few years later his right arm was paralyzed from shoulder to thumb. He was a poor man, and right at the worst time in his life, when he was totally deaf, a small pension which he had received from the Bach Society was taken away from him. But his admirers, many of them Americans, came to his rescue and raised a fund for his support.

Among his finest songs are “Widmung,” “Leise Zieht durch mein Gemuht,” “Bitte,” “Die Lotos Blume,” “Es Ragt der Alte Eborus,” “Meerfahrt,” “Das is ein Brausen und Heulen,” “Ich Hab’ in Deinem Auge,” “Ich Will meine seele Taugen,” and “Es Hat’ Die Rose sich Beklagt.”

Brahms a Thinker in Music.

Brahms was a profound thinker in music—not a philosopher, but a reflective poet, whose musicianship, however, was so great that he cared too little for the practical side of his art as compared with the theoretical. If what he wrote looked all right on paper he was indifferent as to whether it sounded right or not; consequently, if he started out with a certain rhythmical figuration or a certain scheme of harmonic progression, he carried it through rigidly to its logical conclusion, utterly oblivious to, or at least utterly regardless of, any tonal blemishes that might result, although by slightly altering his scheme here and there he might have obviated these. This is the reason why some people find passages in his music which to them sound repellant. But those who have not allowed this 243 aspect of Brahms’s work to prejudice them and have familiarized themselves with his music, well know that he is one of the loftiest souls that ever put pen to staff. He never is drastic, never sensational, never superficial; and the climaxes of his songs, as in his other music, are produced not by great outbursts of sound, but by sudden modulations or change of rhythm, which give a wonderful “lift” to voice and accompaniment.

Among his best known songs (and each of these is a masterpiece) are: “Wie Bist du meine KÖnigin,” “Ruhe, SÜss Liebschen,” “Von ewiger Liebe,” “Wiegenlied,” “Minnelied,” “Feldeinsamkeit,” “Wie Melodien zeiht es mir,” “Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer,” “Meine Lieder,” “Wir wandelten, wir Swei, zusammen.”

One of the most impassioned modern lyrical outbursts is Jensen’s setting of Heine’s “Lehn deine Wang’ an Meine Wang’,” and his “FrÜhlingsnacht” also is a very beautiful song, although the popularity of Schumann’s setting of the same poem has cast it unduly into the shade. Rubinstein will be found considerably less prolix in his songs than in his music in other branches, and those which he wrote to the Persian poems of Von Bodenstedt (“Mirza Schaffy”) are fascinating in their Oriental coloring. The “Asra,” and “Yellow Rolls at my Feet,” (Gold Rollt mir zu FÜssen) are among the best known of these; while “Es blink’t der Thau,” “Du Bist wie eine Blume,” and “Der Traum” are among Rubinstein’s songs which are or should be in the repertoire of every singer. Tschaikowsky and 244 Dvorak are not noteworthy as song writers, but the former’s setting of “Nur wer die Sehnsucht kennt” and the latter’s “Gypsy Songs” are highly successful.

Grieg’s Originality.

One of the most fascinating among modern song writers is the Norwegian, Grieg. He has been unusually fortunate in having a fine singer as a wife. Mr. Finck relates that Ibsen, after hearing her sing his poems as set to music by Grieg, whispered as he shook the hands of this musical couple, the one word, “Understood.”

Grieg’s originality has not been thoroughly appreciated, because much of the beauty of his music has been attributed to what is supposed to be its Norwegian origin. Grieg is national, it is true, but not in a cramped or narrow sense. His music is the product of his individual genius, and his genius has made him so popular that what is his has come to be wrongly considered Norwegian, whereas it is Norway interpreted through the genius of Grieg. His music is not a dialect, but music of universal significance, fortunately tinged with his individuality. “I Love You,” Ibsen’s “The Swan,” “By the Riverside,” “Springtide,” “Wounded Heart,” “The Mother Sings” (a mother mourning her dead child), “At the Bier of a Young Woman,” and “From Monte Pincio,” are among his finest Lieder.

Chopin is much too little known as a song writer. His genius as a composer for the pianoforte has overshadowed his songs, and the public is familiar with 245 little else save “The Maiden’s Wish,” which is one of Madame Sembrich’s favorite encores and to which she plays her own accompaniment so delightfully. But there is plenty of national color in the “Lithuanina” song, plenty of pathos in “Poland’s Dirge,” and plenty of lyrical passion in “My Delights.” Finck says that in all music, lyric or dramatic, the thrill of a kiss has never been expressed so ecstatically as in the twelve bars of this song marked “crescendo sempre piu accellerando.” Certainly sempre (always) and accellerando (faster) are capital words when applied to a kiss!

Richard Wagner, when twenty-six years old, in Paris, tried to relieve his poverty by composing a few songs, among which is a very charming setting of Ronsard’s “Dors mon enfant.” He also set Heine’s “The Two Grenadiers” to music, utilizing the “Marsellaise” in the accompaniment; but, as a whole, the Wagner version of this poem is not as effective as Schumann’s. In 1862 he composed music to five poems written by Mathilde Wesendonck, among which is the famous “TrÄume,” which utilizes the theme of the love duet that later on appeared in “Tristan.”

Liszt’s Genius for Song.

Liszt’s songs are a complete musical exposition of the poems to which they are composed. Thus while, by way of comparison, Rubinstein’s setting of “Du Bist wie eine Blume” gives through its simplicity a rare impression of purity, Liszt in his setting of the same poem adds to that purity the sense of sacredness 246 with which the contemplation of a pure woman fills a man’s heart and causes him to worship her. His “Lorelei” is a beautiful lyric scene. We view the flowing river, seem to hear the seductive voice of the temptress, and watch the treacherous and stormy current that hurries the ensnared boatman to his doom. And what song has more of that valuable quality we call “atmosphere” than Liszt’s version of “Kennst du das Land?” As will be the case with Liszt in other branches of music, he will be recognized some day as one of the greatest of song composers.

Richard Strauss’s songs, from having been regarded as so bristling with difficulties as to be impossible, have become favorites in the song repertoire. When it is a genius who creates difficulties these are sure to be overcome by ambitious players and singers, and music advances technically by just so much. Strauss’s “StÄndchen,” with its deliciously delicate accompaniment, so difficult to play with the requisite grace, was the first of Strauss’s songs to become popular here, and it was the art of our great singer, Madame Nordica, that made it so. Now we hear “Die Nacht,” “Traum durch die DÄmmerung,” “Heimliche Aufforderung,” “Allerseelem,” “Breit Über mein Haupt Dein schwarzes Haar,” and many of his other songs with growing frequency. There are few song composers with whom the pianoforte accompaniment is so entirely distinct from the melody (or so difficult to play), as often is the case with Strauss. As with Schubert, every descriptive suggestion contained in the poem is carried into the accompaniment, but the vocal part is more declamatory and more varied. Even now it seems certain 247 that Strauss’s songs are permanent acquisitions to the repertoire. It still is too soon, however, to affirm the same thing of the unfortunate Hugo Wolf’s songs, although I find myself strongly attracted by “Er ists,” “FrÜhling Übers Jahr,” “Fussteise,” “Der KÖnig bei der KrÖning,” “Gesang Weyla’s,” “Elfenlied” and “Der Tambour.”

Saint-SaËns, Delibes, Godard, Massenet, Chaminade and the late Augusta HolmÈs are among French song writers whose work is clever, but who seem to me more concerned with manner than with matter. Gounod’s rank as a song composer is much below his reputation as the composer of “Faust” and “Romeo et Juliette.” Oddly enough, however, the idea that came to him of placing a melody above a prelude from Bach’s “Well Tempered Clavichord” did more than anything he had accomplished up to that time to make him famous. Originally he scored it for violin with a small female chorus off stage. Then he replaced the chorus with a harmonium. Finally he seems to have been struck with the fact that the melody fitted the words of the “Ave Maria,” substituted a single voice for the violin, which, however, still can supplement the vocal melody with an obbligato, did away with the harmonium, and the result was the Gounod-Bach “Ave Maria.” The Bach prelude, of course, sinks to the level of a mere accompaniment, for it has to be taken much slower than Bach intended.

American composers who have produced noteworthy songs are Edward A. MacDowell, G. W. Chadwick, Arthur Foote, Clayton Johns, Homer N. Bartlett, Margaret Ruthven Lang, and the late Ethelbert Nevin.