Philip Hale's Boston Symphony Programme Notes

by Philip Hale

SYMPHONY NO. 7, IN C MAJOR

I. Andante; allegro non troppo II. Andante con moto III. Scherzo: allegro vivace; trio IV. Finale: allegro vivace

There are some who are not persuaded by Schumann and Weingartner into enjoying the extreme length of the symphony. They would fain have the work undergo some process of condensation, and yet it would be difficult for them to indicate the measures or sections that should be omitted.

It is still a marvelous work in certain respects. The Hungarian dash in the second theme of the first movement; the wonderful trombone passage; the melodic charm of the andante and the infinite beauty of the detail—but when one begins to speak of this movement he might vie with Schubert in length; the expressive trio of the scherzo; the rush of the finale—these place the symphony high on the list; and yet, and yet—but Schubert was not a severe critic of his own compositions. He wrote at full speed, and he had not the time to revise, to condense.

The manuscript of this symphony, numbered 7 in the Breitkopf & Härtel list and sometimes known as No. 10, bears the date March, 1828. In 1828 Schubert composed besides this symphony the songs “Die Sterne” and “Der Winterabend”; the oratorio, Mirims Siegesgesang; the song “Auf dem Strom”; the Schwanengesang cycle; the string quintet, Op. 163, and the Mass in E flat. On November 14 he took to his bed. It is said that Schubert gave the work to the Musikverein of Vienna for performance; that the parts were distributed; that it was even tried in rehearsal; that its length and difficulty were against it, and it was withdrawn on Schubert’s own advice in favor of his earlier Symphony in C, No. 6 (written in 1817). All this has been doubted; but the symphony is entered in the catalogue of the society under the year 1828, and the statements just quoted have been fully substantiated. Schubert said, when he gave the work to the Musikverein, that he was through with songs and should henceforth confine himself to opera and symphony.

It has been said that the first performance of the symphony was at Leipsic in 1839. This statement is not true. Schubert himself never heard the work; but it was performed at a concert of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna, December 14, 1828, and repeated March 12, 1829. It was then forgotten until Schumann visited Vienna in 1838 and looked over the mass of manuscripts then in the possession of Schubert’s brother Ferdinand. Schumann sent a transcript of the symphony to Mendelssohn for the Gewandhaus concerts, Leipsic. It was produced at the concert of March 21, 1839, under Mendelssohn’s direction, and repeated three times during the following season—December 12, 1839, March 12 and April 3, 1840. Mendelssohn made some cuts in the work for these performances. The score and parts were published in January, 1850.

The manuscript is full of alterations. As a rule Schubert made few changes or corrections in his score. In this symphony, alterations are found at the very beginning. The subject of the introduction and that of the allegro were materially changed; the tempo of the opening movement was altered from allegro vivace to allegro ma non troppo. Only the finale seems to have satisfied him as originally conceived, and this finale is written as though at headlong speed.

The symphony[44] is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, strings. There is a story that Schubert was afraid he had made too free use of trombones and asked advice of Franz Lachner.

The second theme of the first movement has a decidedly Slav-Hungarian character, and this character colors other portions of the symphony both in melody and general mood. The rhythm of the scherzo theme had been used by Schubert as early as 1814 in his Quartet in B flat. It may also be remarked that the scherzo is not based on the old minuet form, and that there is more thematic development than was customary in such movements at that period.

There is a curious tradition—a foolish invention is perhaps the better phrase—that the finale illustrates the story of Phaëton and his justly celebrated experience as driver of Apollo’s chariot. Others find in the finale a reminiscence of the terrible approach of the Statue towards the supper table of Don Giovanni.

ROBERT ALEXANDER
SCHUMANN

(Born at Zwickau, Saxony, June 8, 1810; died at Endenich, near Bonn, July 29, 1856)

It has been urged against Schumann that his symphonies were thought for the pianoforte and then orchestrated crudely, as by an amateur. This, however, is not the fatal objection. He had his own orchestral speech. Good, bad, or indifferent, it was his own. He could not have otherwise expressed himself through the orchestral instruments. His speech is to be accepted or rejected as the hearer is impressed chiefly by ideas, or by the manner of expression.

A more serious objection is this: the genius of Schumann was purely lyrical, although occasionally there is the impressive expression of a wild or melancholy mood, as in the chords of unearthly beauty soon after the beginning of the overture to Manfred. Whether the music be symphonic, chamber, a pianoforte piece or a song, the beauty, the expressive force lies in the lyric passages. When Schumann endeavored to build a musical monument, to quote Vincent d’Indy’s phrase, he failed; for he had not architectonic imagination or skill.

His themes in symphonies, charming as they often are, give one the impression of fragments, of music heard in sleep-chasings. Never a master of contrapuntal technique, he repeated these phrases over and over again instead of broadly developing them, and his filling in is generally amateurish and perfunctory.

The best of Schumann’s music is an expression of states and conditions of soul. This music is never spectacular; it is never objective. Take, for instance, his music to Goethe’s Faust. The episodes that attracted the attention of Berlioz, Liszt, Gounod, were not to Schumann a source of inspiration. It was the mysticism in the poem that led him to musical interpretation. His music, whether for voice or instruments, is first of all innig, and this German word is not easily translated into English. Heartfelt, deep, ardent, fervent, intimate; no one of these words conveys exactly the idea contained in innig. There is the intimacy of personal and shy confession.

Schumann in his life was a reticent man. He dreamed dreams. He was lost in thought when others, in the beerhouse or at his home, were chattering about art. He put into his music what he would with difficulty have said aloud to his Clara. As a critic he was bold in praise and blame. As a composer he was often not assertive as one on a platform. He told his dreams, he wove his romantic fabric for a few sympathetic souls. It is true that in his days of wooing he was orchestrally jubilant, as in the first movement of the Symphony in B flat, but in this movement the anticipation aroused by the first measures is not realized. The thoughts soared above the control of the thinker; there was not the mastery over them that allowed no waste material, that gives golden expression without alloy.

In his own field, Schumann is lonely, incomparable. No composer has whispered such secrets of subtle and ravishing beauty to a receptive listener. The hearer of Schumann’s music must in turn be imaginative and a dreamer. He must often anticipate the composer’s thought. This music is not for a garish concert hall; it shrinks from boisterous applause.