IN distinction from pioneers like Schubert, slightly tinged with Romanticism, and Weber who, though versatile, was somewhat lacking in creative vigor, Schumann (1810-1856) stands forth as the definite, conscious spokesman of the Romantic movement in German art just as Berlioz was for art in France. He was endowed with literary gifts of a high order, had a keen critical and historical sense and wrote freely and convincingly in support of his own views and in generous recognition of the ideals of his contemporaries. Many of his swans, to be sure, proved later to be geese, and it is debatable how much good was done by his rhapsodic praise to young Brahms; whether in fact he did not set before the youngster a chimerical ideal impossible of attainment. Schumann early came under the influence of Jean Paul Richter, that incarnation of German Romanticism, whom he placed on the same high plane as Shakespeare and Beethoven. An intimate appreciation of much that is fantastic and whimsical in Schumann is possible only through acquaintance with the work of this Jean Paul. Schumann's first compositions were for the pianoforte—in fact his original ambition[190] was to be a pianoforte virtuoso—and to-day his permanent significance depends on the spontaneity in conception and the freedom of form manifested in these pianoforte works and in his romantic songs. Here we have the "ipsissimus Schumann," as von BÜlow so well remarks. Schumann's pianoforte style is compounded of two factors: first, his intensely subjective and varied imagination which, nourished by the love of Romantic literature, craved an individual mode of expression; second, a power of concentration and of organic structure which was largely derived from a study of Bach and of the later works of Beethoven. Schumann saw that the regularity of abstract form, found in the purely classical writers, was not suited to the full expression of his moods and so he worked out a style of his own, although in many cases this was simply a logical amplification or modification of former practice. In his pianoforte compositions, then, we find a striking freedom in the choice of subject, which is generally indicated by some poetically descriptive title, e.g., Waldscenen, NachtstÜcke, FantasiestÜcke, Novelletten, Kreisleriana, Humoreske, etc. The danger in this form of subject matter is that it often degenerates into sentimentality coupled with a corresponding spinelessness of structure. This danger Schumann avoids by a style noticeable for terseness and structural solidity. His effort was to give significance to every note; all verbiage, meaningless scale passages and monotonous arpeggios were swept away, while the imagination was aroused by the bold use of dissonances and by the variety of tone-color. A thoroughly novel feature was the flexibility of the rhythm, which breaks from the old "sing-song" metres and abounds in syncopations, in contrasted accents, and in subtle combinations of metrical groups; every effort being made to avoid the tyranny of the bar-line.
Schumann's career was peculiar in that, beginning as a pianoforte composer, he tried successively every other form as well—the song, chamber music, works for orchestra, and for orchestra with solo voices and chorus—and won distinction to a greater or less degree in every field save that of the opera. Notwithstanding the beauty of poetic inspiration enshrined in the four symphonies, a grave defect is the quality of orchestral tone which greets the ear, especially the modern ear accustomed to the many-hued sonority of Wagner, Tchaikowsky, Debussy and others. These symphonies have been called "huge pieces for four hands" which were afterwards orchestrated, and the allegation is not without truth, as real orchestral glow and brilliancy is so often lacking. Each one, however, has notable features, e.g., the sublime Adagio of the 2d, and the touching Romanza of the 4th, and each is worthy of study; for Schumann in certain aspects furnishes the best avenue of approach to the modern school. In the Fourth Symphony he obliterates the pauses between the movements and fuses them all together; calling it a Symphony "in einem Satze" and anticipating the very same procedure that SchÖnberg follows in his String Quartet which has had recent vogue. Schumann's chief contribution to the development of the German Song lay in the pianoforte part, which with Schubert and Mendelssohn might properly be called an accompaniment, however rich and varied. But in Schumann the pianoforte attains to a real independence of style, intensifying in the most subtle and delicate way every shade of poetic feeling in the text. In fact, it is often used to reveal some deep meaning beyond the expressive power of words. This is seen in the closing measures of "Moonlight" where the voice ceases in suspense, and the instrument completes the eloquence of the message. Schumann's great achievement as a literary man was his founding, in 1834, of the Neue Zeitschrift fÜr Musik, to which he himself contributed many stimulating and suggestive essays, opposing with might and main the Philistinism which so pervaded the music of his time. He even established an imaginary club, called the Davidsbund, to storm the citadel of Philistia.
The best eulogy of Schumann is the recognition that many of the tendencies in modern music, which we now take for granted, date from him: the exaltation of freedom and fancy over mere formal presentation, the union of broad culture with musical technique, and the recognition of music as the art closest in touch with the aspirations of humanity. He was an idealist with such perseverance and clearness of aim that his more characteristic work can never die.
Des Abends.
The FantasiestÜcke[191], op. 12, of which this piece is the first, amply justify their title, for they abound in soaring thoughts, in fantastic, whimsical imaginings and in novel modes of utterance and structure. Every number of the set is a gem, In der Nacht being perhaps the most poetic of Schumann's short pieces for the pianoforte. They are thoroughly pianistic and evoke from the instrument all its possibilities of sonority and color. In point of texture they illustrate that happy combination, which Schumann worked out, of lyric melodies on a firmly knit polyphonic basis. They are also programmistic in so far as Schumann believed in music of that type. There is no attempt to tell a detailed story or to have the music correspond literally to definite incidents. The titles merely afford a verbal clue to the general import and atmosphere of the music. Thus in regard to the piece under consideration, the mere mention of eventide is supposed to be enough to stimulate thought in any one with a sensitive imagination, and the music is a suggestive expression of Schumann's own intimate reveries. The piece is in extended two-part form—each part repeated—and rounded out with an eloquent Coda. The rhythmic scheme is of particular significance for it illustrates not only the composer's fondness for inventing new combinations, but, as well, suggests most delicately the mood of the piece. It would evidently be false art to write a piece, entitled Evening, in a vigorous, arousing rhythm, such as might be associated with a noon-day sun, when we often see the heat-waves dancing over the fields. On the other hand Schumann, by a subtle blending of triple time in the main upper melody and duple time in the lower, suggests that hazy indefiniteness appropriate to the time of day when the life of Nature seems momentarily subsiding and everything sinking to rest, e.g.
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In many measures of the second part (i.e., 21-24) the accent is so disguised that it seems as if we were in a twilight revery, quite apart from matters of time and space.
Warum?
This piece is a happy illustration of the intensity of meaning and the conciseness of structure which Schumann gained by the application of polyphonic imitation. It is difficult to say exactly what Warum signifies. It was characteristic of the Romantic unrest of the German mind to question everything—especially "Why am I not more happy in love?" The motto may be considered a Carlyle-like "everlasting why." At any rate the composition is an example of music speaking more plainly than words; for no one can fail to recognize the haunting appeal in the theme with its long-drawn out final note after the upward leap. It is a real musical question, e.g.
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Grillen, the next piece in the set, deserves careful study. It is too long to present as a whole, but we cite the middle part (See Supplement No. 52) as it is such a convincing example of syncopated effect (i.e., the persistent placing of the accent on weak beats), and of elasticity in the metric scheme.
This piece illustrates the vigor and massiveness of Schumann's pianoforte style. Note the sonority gained by the use of widely spaced chords. For the brilliant effect demanded, there should be a liberal use of the damper pedal.[192] We likewise find, beginning with the third brace, some characteristic polyphonic imitations which give to the movement a remarkable concentration. In the middle contrasting portion it seems as if Schumann had taken a leaf out of Chopin's book—a beautiful, lyric melody floating on an undercurrent of sonorous, arpeggio chords. The theme is presented in dialogue form, first in the upper voice, next in an inner voice and finally in the bass. (See Supplement No. 53.)
Song, Mondnacht.
No estimate of Schumann would be fair or comprehensive without some mention of his songs; upon which, together with his pianoforte compositions, his immortality tends more and more to rest. Notwithstanding the many poetic and dramatic touches in Schubert's accompaniments, those of Schumann are on the whole more finely wrought; for he had the advantage of Schubert in being, himself, a pianist of high attainment, thoroughly versed in pianistic effects. His imagination was also more sensitive to subtle shades of meaning in the text and he was inspired by the wonderful lyrics of Heine, Eichendorff and Chamisso who in Schubert's day had written very little. Special features of Schumann's songs are the instrumental preludes and postludes, the prelude establishing just the right setting for the import of the words and the postlude commenting on the beautiful message which the voice has just delivered. In Mondnacht, for example, (as previously mentioned), note how the voice stops in suspense and in what an eloquent revery the accompaniment completes the picture. (See Supplement No. 54.)
Overture to Manfred.
This Overture, the first of a set of incidental numbers which Schumann composed to illustrate Byron's dramatic poem, represents some of his most typical inspiration, and so is well worthy of our study. The music is labored at times, especially in the Development, and the orchestration is often dry and stereotyped. But the conception was a powerful one, and there is a genuine correspondence between the nature of the music and the spirit of the poem. It is evident that the subject made a deep impression on Schumann, whose own imagination, addicted to mysterious and even morbid broodings, was strongly akin to that of Byron's fictitious character. The composition is program music of the subjective order, comparable to Beethoven's Coriolanus, i.e., the themes are dramatic characterizations: the first typifying the stormy nature of Manfred; the second, with its note of pleading, the mysterious influence over the recluse of the spirit of Astarte. As in all works of this kind the music cannot be readily appreciated without a knowledge of the poem which it illustrates.[193] As for the structure, Schumann clings too closely to the Sonata-form. The music is eloquent just in proportion as he gives his fancy free rein; where he tries to force the themes into an arbitrary mould, the result is unsatisfactory—especially the development, which is neither very dramatic nor interesting from a purely musical point of view. The work opens with three spasmodic syncopated[194] chords, and then follow twenty-four measures (lento and at first pianissimo) of a preludial nature with suggestions of the Manfred theme. The movement becomes gradually faster and more impassioned until, in measure 26, we reach the presentation of the first theme (allegro agitato) which, with its frequent syncopations, is characteristic of Manfred's restless nature. The transition begins in measure 39; at first with a repetition of the main theme, which soon modulates to F-sharp minor, in which key the second theme enters, in measure 51. This theme—in three portions—seems to embody different aspects of the feminine influence of Astarte. The first portion, measures 51-61, with its undulating, chromatic outline, may be said to typify the haunting apparition so real to Manfred's imagination and yet so intangible; the second, 62-67, contains a note of impassioned protest, and the third, 68-77, is a love message of tender consolation. If this interpretation seem too subjective, a careful reading of the drama where Astarte appears (pp. 284-285 in the Everyman's Edition) will, we believe, corroborate it. The rest of the Exposition consists in a treatment of the Astarte motive, primarily of a musical nature; though there is a real dramatic intensity in measures 96-103, which are an expansion of the love message with its characteristic "appoggiatura." The Development, beginning in measure 132, is a striking example of how difficult it was—even for an exponent of freedom in musical expression like Schumann—to break loose from the shackles of arbitrary form. The musical thought is kept in motion, to be sure, but that is about all; for the treatment is often very labored, and nothing is added to the dramatic picture. The world had to await the work of Tchaikowsky, and Strauss for a satisfactory adjustment[195] between the demands of dramatic fitness and the needs of musical structure. In the Coda, beginning measure 258, Schumann—now that he is free from considerations of structure—gains a dramatic effect of truly impressive power. The horns, supported by trumpets and trombones, intone a funeral dirge of touching solemnity (evidently suggested by the closing death scene of the drama) while, above, hover portions of the Astarte motive, as if even in his death her influence was paramount in Manfred's imagination, e.g.
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Notwithstanding certain blemishes, this Overture at the time of its composition was a landmark in the development of program music, and if to our modern tastes it seems a bit antiquated, this is largely because of the great progress which has since been made.[196]
Symphony in D Minor.
This Symphony is selected from Schumann's four, both for the peculiar romantic beauty of its themes and because the form in which it is cast makes it an important connecting link between the freedom of structure, instituted by Beethoven, and the Symphonic Poem of Liszt and other modern composers. All of Schumann's symphonies contain genuine beauties and should be familiar to the cultivated musician. Perhaps the first in B-flat major is the most sustained, and it has a freshness and buoyancy summed up in its title, the Spring, by which it is popularly known. The exuberance of the Finale is pure Schumann and is expressed with an orchestral eloquence in which he was frequently lacking.[197] The Second Symphony is notable for its sublime Adagio, Schumann's love-song—comparable to the slow movement of Beethoven's Fourth. At some future day, conductors will have the courage to play this movement by itself like a magnificent Torso, for indubitably the other movements have aged beyond recall. The Third Symphony, known as the Rhenish (composed when Schumann was living at DÜsseldorf on the Rhine) is significant for its incorporation of popular melodies from the Rhineland, and for the movement, scored chiefly for trombones and other brass instruments, which gives a picture of some ceremonial occasion in the Cologne Cathedral.
The Fourth Symphony is an uneven work, for there are many places where Schumann's constructive power was unequal to his ideal conceptions. We often can see the joints, and the structure—in places—resembles a rag-carpet rather than the organic texture of an oriental rug. But the spontaneous outpouring of melody touches our emotions and well-nigh disarms criticism. Schumann had constantly been striving for a closer relationship[198] between the conventional movements of the symphony; and his purpose, in the structural treatment adopted, is indicated by the statement published in the full score—"Introduction, Allegro, Romanze, Scherzo und Finale in einem Satze" i.e., the work is to be considered as a continuous whole and not broken up into arbitrary movements with rigid pauses between. The long drawn-out Introduction,[199] with its mysterious harmonies, leads us into the land of romance, and a portion of this introduction is happily carried over and repeated in the Romanze. The First movement proper, from Lebhaft, seems at first as if it were to be in the customary Sonata-form; the Exposition beginning with two themes in the normal relationship of minor and relative major, though to be sure the second theme is more of a supplementary expansion of the first than one which provides a strong contrast. But after the double bar and repeat, this first theme is developed in a free preludial manner as if it were continually leading up to a climax. We are finally rewarded by a new theme of great warmth which amply makes up for any lack of individuality in the second theme proper, e.g.
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The rest of the movement consists of additional improvisations, rather too rigidly sectionalized, on the first theme and a second appearance of the interpolated theme. This theme, with rhythmic modifications, serves also as the basis for the brilliant Coda; for there is no Recapitulation proper, and it is evident that the movement is an extended prelude for what is to come—a first portion of the work as a whole. After a dramatic pause,[200] which enhances the feeling of expectancy (so prominent in the first movement) followed by a sustained modulatory chord, the Romanze begins with a plaintive theme in A minor. The mood is that of an idealized serenade, and in the original score the accompaniment for the oboe melody was given to the guitar[201] to secure the appropriate atmosphere. After the first statement of the theme there is an interpolated quotation of the characteristic passage from the introduction, which serves to bind the movements together both in structure and in relationship of mood. The movement is in clear-cut three-part form and the middle contrasting section in the major mode reveals a sustained descending melody played by the body of strings, which is delicately embellished by an obligato variant given to a solo violin, e.g.
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At first the 'cellos, also, re-enforce this melody.
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The effect is that of an ethereal voice commenting on the beauty of the main theme. This obligato part is of special significance, since with rhythmic change it forms the chief theme of the Trio in the following movement. The Romanze closes with a simple return to the plaintive oboe melody, this time in D minor. The tonality is purposely indefinite to accentuate the wistful feeling of the movement—the last chords having the suspense of a dominant ending. After a short pause we are at once whirled into the dashing Scherzo which seems to represent the playful badinage of a Romantic lover. The Trio affords a delightful reminiscence of the Romanze and, from a structural point of view, is an early example of the principle of "transformation of theme"[202] which plays so important a role in the works of Liszt, Franck, Tchaikowsky and DvorÁk. For the melody, e.g.,
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is a rhythmic variant of the former obligato of the solo violin, and has this characteristic, which gives a peculiar note of surprise, that it always begins on the third beat of the measure. Following a repetition of the Scherzo the movement ends eloquently with a coda-like return to the Trio which, after some modulatory changes, is broken up into detached fragments, seeming to vanish into thin air. There is no pause between the end of the Scherzo and the introduction, based on the theme of the first movement, which ushers in the Finale. This movement is in Sonata-form with a modified Recapitulation—i.e., the first theme is not repeated—and with a passionate closing theme, e.g.,
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which atones for the intentional incompleteness with which the first movement ends. The main theme is a compound of a vigorous march-like motive, closely related to one of the subsidiary phrases of the first movement, and a running figure in the bass—the derivation of which is obvious. After a rather labored transition[203]—surely the most mechanical passage in the whole work—we are rewarded by a melody of great buoyancy and rhythmic life, e.g.
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The free Fantasie begins with a contrapuntal working-out of a figure taken from the first theme, but it suffers from a persistent emphasis on what, after all, is an uninteresting rhythm music; there is, furthermore, a rigid grouping of the phrases in twos and fours. Schumann's instinct was a wise one in omitting the main theme of the Recapitulation and in leading, as soon as possible, to the repetition of the delightful second theme—the gem of the movement—which now makes its orthodox appearance in the tonic. After some ejaculatory measures, which remind us of the beginning of the Development, we have the impassioned closing theme, referred to above, which ushers in the free and brilliant Coda, worked up contrapuntally with ever increasing speed. The movement ends with Schumannesque syncopations. The D minor Symphony, thus, although not a perfect work of art, is a significant one and repays intimate study. A long life may safely be predicted for it by reason of the fervor and charm of its melodies. An important historical status it will always hold, for it is the honorable ancestor of such great symphonies as CÉsar Franck's in D minor and Tchaikowsky's in E minor, in which we find the same freedom of form and the same fusion of material attempted by Schumann's daring spirit.[204]
Closely connected with Schumann, chronologically and also by certain executive associations, e.g., the Leipsic Conservatory, is the career of Mendelssohn (1809-1847). There was much in common between the two; they both were extremely versatile, of strong literary bent and naturally drawn to the same media of expression: pianoforte, solo voices and orchestra. And yet, so dissimilar were the underlying strains in their temperaments that their compositions, as an expression of their personalities, show little in common. Schumann, as we have seen, was fantastic, mystical, a bold, independent thinker, the quintessence of the Romantic spirit. Mendelssohn, on the other hand, though not lacking in poetic fancy and warmth, was cautious—a born conservative; and his early classical training, together with the opulent circumstances of his life, served as a natural check upon the freedom of genius. His dazzling precocity—witness the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, composed while he was in his seventeenth year—and a great popular success were surely not the best stimuli to make him delve into the depths of his imagination. Undoubtedly he did a valuable service, in his day, in uniting the leading tendencies of the two schools: the exuberant fancy of the Romantic, and the reserve and finish of the Classic. He has been aptly called a "Romanticist with a classical equipment." If any appraisement be necessary to the detriment of one or the other, it must be conceded that Schumann was the greater genius. A just estimate of Mendelssohn's work is difficult, for his career was so meteoric and in his life he was so overvalued that now, with the opposite swing of the pendulum, he is as often underrated. He was assuredly a great artist, for what he had to say was beautifully expressed; the question hinges on the actual worth of the message. With perfect finish there often goes a lack of power and objective energy; somewhat the same difference that we feel between skillful gardening and the free vitality of Nature. Although Mendelssohn's music delights and charms there is a prevailing lack of that deep emotion which alone can move the soul. And yet a composer whom Wagner called "the greatest of landscape painters" and whose best works have stood the test of time can by no means be scorned. His descriptive Overtures for orchestra: the Hebrides, the Midsummer Night's Dream and the Fair Melusine; his Variations SÉrieuses for Pianoforte and some of the Songs without Words[205] contain a genuinely poetic message, flawlessly expressed. As for the pianoforte music, when the Songs without Words are called "hackneyed" we must remember that only compositions of truly popular appeal ever have sufficient vogue to warrant the application of this opprobrious term. In the pianoforte Scherzos and in the Rondo Capriccioso in E major there is without doubt a vitality and a play of fancy easier to criticize than to create. The prevalent mood in Mendelssohn's music is one of sunny-hearted lightness and emotional satisfaction; and if this be a one-sided presentation of life, it is no more so, as Pratt well says in his History of Music, than the picture of gloom and sorrow which certain other composers continually emphasize. The fact that his descriptive Overtures, just mentioned, have been surpassed—owing to the recent expansion in orchestral possibilities of tone-color—must not blind us to the beauty of their content, or make us forget the impetus they have given to modern composers. No one could possibly find in the Hebrides Overture that subtle descriptive fancy or that wealth of orchestral coloring which exists in Debussy's marvellous Sea Pieces; and yet the Mendelssohn composition is a genuine reflection of nature in terms of music and can still be heard with sustained attention. Wagner[206] praises highly its orchestral effects; and a modern scholar, Cecil Forsyth,[207] considers the tone-painting quite irresistible. A sincere tribute of admiration should also be paid to Mendelssohn's Concerto for Violin and Orchestra. Written in the most idiomatic style for the solo instrument and containing real violin melodies it is still one of the few great works in its class. Any final critical estimate of Mendelssohn—no matter how earnest the effort to be absolutely fair—is inevitably involved with personal prejudices. If his music appeals to any one, it is liked extremely and no one need be ashamed of enjoying it, for it is sincerely felt and beautifully expressed. Mendelssohn, himself, doubtless knew perfectly well that he was not Bach, Beethoven or Schubert. For those whose natures crave a more robust message, more fire and a deeper passion, there are the works of those other composers to which they may turn.
Let us now analyze the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture,[208] "his first and highest flight" to quote Schumann. In this work we do not find a characterization by musical means of the emotions of the dramatis personae, as in the Coriolanus Overture; and there is little specific correspondence between the type of theme and definite incidents, except possibly at the beginning of the Recapitulation, where the low tones of the Bass Tuba[209] may be thought to represent the snores of Bottom, as the fairies hover about him. Anyone familiar with Shakespeare's play—and such a knowledge is indispensible for a complete enjoyment of the music—will see that Mendelssohn's object was to give a broad, general picture of the fairy world and to intensify, by his music, the fancy and humor found in the play. The introductory sustained chords, pianissimo, are a happy illustration of his deftness in tone-painting; for, assigned to the ethereal flutes and clarinets, they constitute, as Niecks ingeniously expresses it, a "magic formula" which ushers us into the moonlit realm of fairyland. The first theme in E minor (Allegro di molto: throughout pp and staccato), announced by the strings, is a graphic representation of the playful antics of the nimble elves and fairies. Its course is twice interrupted by a peculiar, prolonged chord which seems to say, "Hush! you are listening to the activities of beings not of this every-day, humdrum world." The first theme has a second part in E major (beginning at measure 62) of a pompous, march-like nature, which may be thought to represent the dignity of Duke Theseus and his train. The Overture being in complete Sonata-form, there occurs at this point a short transition based on the rhythm of the first theme; followed by a lovely cantabile melody—the second theme proper—that typifies the romantic love pervading the play. This theme also is expanded into several sections; the first of which may portray the clownish Athenian tradespeople, and the second, the brays of Bottom after he has been transformed into an ass, e.g.
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The free fantasia, an improvisation on the first theme—although containing a few perfunctory manipulations—sustains interest, as a whole, by its modulations and by the suggestive orchestral effects. The closing measures, where the pizzicato 'cellos and double basses seem to imitate the light, tripping footsteps of the elves, is genuinely realistic. The Recapitulation, which begins with the same chords as the Introduction, is an illustration of bondage to classic practise; for here they have no dramatic significance and are merely a concession to routine procedure.[210] The first theme and the transition, however, are effectively abridged so that the second theme, by far the most appealing in the whole work, stands out in greater prominence. Then follows a brilliant expansion of the closing portions of the second theme, until we reach the Coda. This begins with a reminiscence of the first theme which fades away into a modified presentation of the Duke Theseus theme, followed by four long-drawn out Amens.[211] These may signify the blessing which, in the play, the elves bestow upon the Ducal house. The Introductory chords dissolve the dream which the music has evoked, and we are back once more in the world of reality.
To suggest the attitude which we of to-day should take towards Mendelssohn—he may justly be admired as a musician of great natural gifts, of high ideals and of unusually finished technique in many branches of composition. It is ungracious to censure him because he lacks the gripping emotional power of a Beethoven or a Wagner. Those who indulge in such narrow criticism condemn only themselves.
