BEETHOVEN AS COMPOSER.
HE greatest of all instrumental composers began his career as a pianoforte virtuoso, and his earlier compositions are chiefly for that instrument. During the first years of Beethoven in Vienna, he was more conspicuous as a virtuoso than as a composer, and it is said that Haydn prophesied greater things of him as a performer than a creator of music. The older master could not foresee that Beethoven's influence was destined to live in his epoch-making concertos, trios and sonatas, rather than in his wonderful piano playing. His superiority at Bonn as at Vienna was not so much in display of technical proficiency as in the power and originality of improvisation. When he was only eleven years of age Carl Ludwig Junker heard the boy play, and wrote in most enthusiastic terms of the inexhaustible wealth of his ideas; he also compared him with older players of distinction and preferred Beethoven on account of his more expressive, passionate performance, that spoke directly to the heart. And so Czerny described his improvisation as "most brilliant and striking; in whatever company he might chance to be, he knew how to produce such an effect upon every hearer, that frequently not an eye remained dry, and listeners would break out into loud sobs; for in addition to the beauty and the originality of his ideas, and his spirited style of rendering them, there was something in his expression wonderfully impressive." Ries and many others bear similar testimony. There were other pianists of great parts who lived in Vienna or were heard there: Steibelt, Wölffl, and especially Hummel. But whenever Beethoven met them in friendly or fierce rivalry, he conquered by richness of ideas, by variety of treatment and by intense musical individuality, although he extemporized in regular "form." Hummel excelled him undoubtedly in purity and elegance, and Wölffl had extraordinary mechanism. They excited lively admiration, but Beethoven moved the hearts of his hearers. This power was greater than even his feats of transposing, his skill in reading scores, or such tricks as turning the 'cello part of a quintet upside down and then extemporizing from the curious theme formed thereby. We are told that he was very particular as to the mode of holding the hands and placing the fingers, in which he followed Emanuel Bach; his attitude at the pianoforte was quiet and dignified, but as his deafness increased he bent more and more toward the keys. He was, when he played, first of all a composer, and in his maturity, the "composer's touch," distinguished his playing. Czerny said that he produced wonderful effects by the use of the legato cantabile. He was, as a rule, persuaded easily to improvise—at least in his younger days—but he did not like to play his own compositions, and only yielded to an expressed wish when they were unpublished. It is also said that he interpreted his own compositions with freedom, although he observed rigorously the beat. And he made often a profound impression in a crescendo by retarding the movement and not accelerating it.
The compositions of Beethoven have been divided by many writers into three periods, and this division has been followed with absurd precision and has been as unjustly ridiculed. There were three periods, however, but they are not to be sharply defined; they correspond in general to the life-periods of youth, maturity, and old age. In his earlier works, he followed in some degree the path laid out by Haydn and Mozart; in his middle period, he appeared in the full strength and maturity of his wonderful originality; finally, in his last period, he revealed himself as a prophet and dreamer of unearthly things. But it is not strange that the style of a man of genius is modified by his age and his experience; that he thinks otherwise at forty than he thought at twenty; that his ideas are not rigid, immovable from youth to old age. In his earlier period, and in the first of his symphonies, he shows the influence of his predecessors, and yet in his sixteenth work, three trios, known as Op. 1, striking originality and independence are asserted on every page.
It was his independence of character as much as his great musical gift that impelled him on the path of progress. He was five years old when at Concord
... "the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world."
He was the child of his time, and he lived to witness the great movement for freedom and humanity in America and Europe. Although he had warm friends and admirers among the nobility he would not bow down to rank and wealth. The prince held no higher position in his estimation than the private citizen. "It is good to be with the aristocracy," he said; "but one must be able to impress them." "A trace of heroic freedom pervades all his creations," says Ferdinand Hiller. The expression "Im Freien," which in German means both the open air and liberty, might serve as an inscription of a temple devoted to his genius. It was this lofty spirit that impelled him to find new methods of musical expression in the older forms of the symphony, sonata, string quartet, etc., which have the same general outlines of formal construction. These classical forms consist of a cycle or group of three or four movements related to each other by contrast in tempo, rhythm, key, and æsthetic character. These movements are combined so as to constitute an organic whole; complex and highly developed, like a great architectural building. Madame de Stael called architecture "frozen music." This fanciful idea, so often quoted, suggests a different conception, perhaps as near the truth, that music may be considered as a kind of rhythmical architecture. Such architectural music appeals to the æsthetic sense of form and proportion through the ear by the stream of melody and harmony that flows in a rhythmical mass, whereas the "frozen music" appeals to us through the eye, which is able to take in the great outlines of proportion and form at once; so that the element of time is not considered. So far as form and construction are concerned, a Beethoven symphony might well be compared with a Gothic cathedral in its grand outlines of beauty and strength, complexity, relation of the parts to the whole, sense of proportion, and unity in variety. But in music, as in all true art, form is but the means to an end: which is to move the soul through the æsthetic sense of beauty. This ideal structure of tones was not the invention of one musician; it was built up gradually, in the course of a century and a half, by various composers until it reached its culmination in the works of Beethoven. There are two distinct sources from which cyclical instrumental music is derived. First, the sonatas for violins and bass which sprang up in the 17th century under Corelli, Biber, Purcell and others. Subsequently the sonata was applied to the solo clavichord by Kuhnau, Sebastian and Emanuel Bach. Second, the Italian opera overture, which came into vogue as separate instrumental music early in the 18th century under the names of symphony and concerto. The Italian overture consisted of three short, related movements—allegro, adagio, allegro,—a slow movement between two fast ones. Sammartini, Emanuel Bach and a few others were the first to cultivate this three-movement form: but it was not until the advent of Haydn that its modern character was acquired. Under his genius first came classical models. The sonatas of Emanuel Bach were the starting point of Haydn's music. He worked out gradually the so-called art of free thematic treatment. Compared with the older style its chief features are greater freedom in developing the themes; the parts are not bound down to the rules of strict counterpoint; the melody is given chiefly to one voice, generally the upper. Free passages are introduced between the several melodic groups that make up the contrasted themes. A general air of lightness, grace, elegance and pleasantness is the result of this freedom of treatment. A whole movement is evolved out of little rhythmical motives or germs, which recur again and again, under ever changing conditions of melody, harmony, key, position or range, and instrumentation. By such kaleidoscopic changes the motives express constantly new meaning and beauty without abandoning the central idea of the piece. Then, too, each movement is polythematic instead of monothematic. Haydn in these and other respects prepared the way for Mozart and Beethoven, and neither of the three can be considered without the other. Mozart and Beethoven obtained the structural form and basis of instrumentation from Haydn; on the other hand, Haydn in his old age and Beethoven in his youth learned from Mozart a richer art of instrumental color and expressiveness, especially in the use of wind instruments. While Mozart did not enlarge the cyclical forms beyond the general outlines laid down by Haydn, he beautified and enriched them in all their details. In his last three symphonies and famous six quartets the beauty is more refined, the pathos more thrilling and profound, the dissonances and modulations more daring and fascinating. His music is conceived in a more serious vein.
BEETHOVEN'S MONUMENT IN VIENNA.
Executed by Zumbusch. From a photograph. (See page [332].)
Rubinstein, in his "Conversation on music," has expressed admirably the relations between Beethoven and his time: "Mankind thirsts for a storm; it feels that it may become dry and parched in the eternal sunshine of Haydn and Mozart; it wishes to express itself earnestly; it longs for action; it becomes dramatic; the French revolution breaks out; Beethoven appears.... The forms in his first period are the forms then reigning, but the line of thought is, even in the works of his youth, a wholly different one. The last movement in his first pianoforte sonata (F minor), more especially in the second theme, is already a new world of emotion, expression, pianoforte effect, and even pianoforte technique.... In the works of his first period altogether, we recognize only the formulas of the earlier composers; for, although the garb still remains the same for a time, we see even in these works, that natural hair will soon take the place of the powdered perruque and cue; that boots, instead of buckled shoes, will change the gait of the man; that the coat, instead of the broad frock with the steel buttons, will give him another bearing. The minuet is supplanted by the scherzo; the works are of a more virile and earnest character:—through him instrumental music is capable of expressing the tragic, and dramatic humor rises to irony.... Smiling, laughing, merry-making, bitterness, in short, a world of psychological expression is heard in them. It emanates not from a human being, but as from an invisible Titan, who now rejoices over humanity, now is offended; who laughs and again weeps, a supernatural being not to be measured!"
Beethoven's music, more than any other before his time, is characterized by vivid contrasts in the themes, passages, rhythmical effects, bold dissonances and modulations, dynamic expression, varied and massive instrumentation. This is true, not only of the several movements as a whole, but of the subdivisions. The movements are held in close relation by contrast of emotions, by elevated or depressed, passionate or calm moods. If the opening movement is conceived in a fiery or tragic spirit, the feelings after a time will be rendered all the more susceptible to the calm mood of the slow movement, which may lead through sadness and longing to the vivacity and jocoseness of the Scherzo; and this in turn may give place to the triumphant joy of the finale. Each movement is employed with its special æsthetic problem and contributes its share to the total effect of the work.
First of all, Beethoven was destined to carry the art of free thematic music to a point never before reached, never surpassed since his death. The several movements of his works are built on the broadest foundations, the musical periods are expanded to their utmost limits. The so-called middle-part (mittelsatz) is more impressive and elaborate than with his predecessors. This is also the case with the coda, which is much extended, worked-up, and made the climax of the whole movement. The opening movements of the Heroic and the Fifth Symphonies are conspicuous examples. In the art of motive-building he followed Haydn and Mozart, with new results. The thematic play is of never-ending variety. The opening allegro of the Fifth Symphony is a wonderful instance of the development of a great dramatic movement from a single motive of four notes. We learn from his sketch-books the pains he took in the invention of his themes; how he turned them about, curtailed or amplified them. These themes when chosen finally suffered endless metamorphoses. Yet through the protean changes of rhythm, melody, and harmony the theme preserves its individuality.
In composition he was extremely slow and fond of experimenting. We know his methods by his sketch-books which are preserved. Nearly every measure was re-written and re-written. The ideas at first were often trivial, but they were changed and elaborated until they grew to melodies of haunting beauty. Crude commonplaces became passages of mysterious grandeur. Many of the thoughts recorded hastily, in his room or in the fields, were never used. The thought did not spring from his brain, as in the fable, fully clothed: its birth was more akin to the Cæsarian operation. Florestan's air, for instance, had eighteen distinct and different beginnings, and the great chorus in "Fidelio" had no less than ten. The blood would rush to his head as he worked; the muscles of his face would swell; and his eyes would almost start from their sockets; then, if he were in his room, he would strip himself of his clothing and pour water on his head.
Among the innovations made by Beethoven, may be mentioned the extension of key relationship, which before him was not recognized. He broke down the restrictions that governed transitions. Here he was revolutionary. The principles of his harmonic combinations have been thus formalized by Mr. Dannreuther: "(a) Any chord can succeed immediately any chord belonging to another tonality, no matter how remote, provided they have one note in common, even if it be only harmonically so. (b) It is possible to produce quick harmonic progressions into the most remote tonalities by means of chromatic and enharmonic changes in individual parts, which are made to move on step by step, thus building a sort of chromatic or enharmonic bridge." And Mr. Dannreuther cites as instances, the connection between variations 32 and 33 in Op. 120; and the return from B major, at the close of the "working out," to the first subject in B-flat major in the first movement of Op. 106. Before the time of Beethoven composers of sonatas and symphonies had generally confined themselves to a narrow range of keys. The theme of the first movement was given out in the tonic, and if it was major, it was answered by the second theme in the fifth above; that is to say, if the sonata were in C, the second subject would be in G. If the movement were in the minor, the second subject would be in the relative major: i.e. the second theme of a movement in C minor would be in E flat. So too the key of the second movement was usually restricted, although sometimes there was a little more liberty. The painstaking Grove has examined the eighty-one works of Beethoven in sonata form. The transition to the dominant occurs only three times; to the subdominant nineteen times; to the third below thirty times. "His favorite change was evidently to the submediant or third below—that is to say, to a key less closely related to the tonic and more remote than the dominant key." He makes it as early as Op. 1, No. 2.
BUST OF BEETHOVEN.
Made by Franz Klein, after the Life-mask taken by him in 1812. (See page [327].)
Wagner once compared the conventional connecting passages between the melodic groups of Haydn and Mozart to "the rattling of dishes at a royal feast." Beethoven could not tolerate the traditional commonplaces, which were often mere padding. In these intermediate periods he used phrases which hinted at or were actually closely related to the main themes, and he thus gave the movement the effect of an organic whole, the development of which was as logical as the results that follow from a law of nature. Or he would surprise the hearer by the introduction of a fresh episode of length and importance, although by it the formal rules of the theorist were defied. Even in his second period there are remarkable instances of absolute originality in form as well as in style and conception, as the opening adagio of the pianoforte sonata in C-sharp minor, or the Con moto of the pianoforte Concerto in G. Nor was his manner of the introduction of the themes themselves after the manner of his predecessors; "the glory of the phrase often appeared as it were through clouds that first shrouded it and were then dispelled."
He was the greatest master of the art of varying a theme, and his genius ennobled even pianoforte variations, which are too apt, as made by others, to show mere skill and learning, or excite by superficial brilliancy the vain display of the virtuoso who plays simply that he may dazzle. In this species of art is seen the wealth of his ideas as well as the consummate mastery in expression. In the second and the third period of his style there are shining examples of his power in this direction. One kind of variation is peculiarly his own, in which everything is changed, the rhythm, the melody and the harmony, and yet the theme is clearly recognized. Then there are great variations without the name, as the slow movements in the sonata "appassionata" and the Trio in B-flat; the slow movements of the C minor and Ninth Symphonies; the finale of the Heroic.
Ehlert has spoken of the inexorable logic of Beethoven's music, the impossibility of rearranging the order of thought, of adding or taking away. In other words, the concentration of his musical thought is never too bold, his speech is never too laconic; nor is he tautological or diffuse. The intensely emotional and dramatic characteristics of his music impelled him to invent a great variety of dynamic changes, or rhythmical syncopations. When we compare him in this respect with his predecessors, we are struck by the great number of marks of expression. The care with which he indicated the nuances is seen in all his works, but he paid more and more attention to the matter as he neared the end of his career. The Cavatina in the Quartet in B-flat, for instance, is sixty-six measures long, and there are fifty-eight marks of expression. He wished by all possible means to produce what he himself called, in reference to the Heroic Symphony, "the special and intended effect." Furthermore certain of the indications reflect his personality, as the famous directions in the Mass in D, and the "beklemmt" in the Cavatina before mentioned.
It has been said that the criterion wherewith to judge of all music whatsoever is this: "Technical exposition being considered equal, the quality and the power of the emotional matter set forth should turn the scale between any two pieces of music." Now Beethoven not only invented a new technical language; he invented the necessity of a race of players that should speak it. The pianist that interprets properly a composition of Beethoven must clothe his mechanism with intellectuality and virile, poetic spirit. It was held by Jacob Grimm that no definite thought can exist without words, and that in giving up the words instrumental music has become an abstraction, as all thought has been left behind. It seems, however, an error to limit thought or consciousness to words. There is a state of consciousness, without verbal thinking, in which we realize great moments of existence; and this state of consciousness has its clear and powerful language. Such a spiritual language is music, and its greatest poet is Beethoven. Even those works of Beethoven which have no title to indicate the practical plan of the author are expressions of particular emotions and conceptions that cannot be explained in words, yet convey a distinct impression to the consciousness of the hearer.
Not that he was the originator or the abettor of that which is now known as program music; for program music, whether the epithet be applied solely to that music which without words aims to portray or suggest to the hearer certain definite objects or events, or whether it be applied loosely to all characteristic or imitative music, is not a thing of modern invention. In a sacred ballet of the Greeks, which represented the fight of Apollo with the Python, the action was accompanied appropriately by flutes, lutes, and trumpets, and the grinding of the teeth of the wounded monster was imitated by the trumpet. In the part-songs of Jannequin and his contemporaries, battles, birds and hens were imitated in music. Buxtehude described in double counterpoint, "the peaceable and joyous ending of Simeon after the death of his son." The first movement of Dittersdorf's orchestral symphony "Actaeon" portrayed the chase; Diana took her bath in the second; in the minuet Actaeon played the part of "Peeping Tom"; and in the finale he is torn in pieces by the hounds for his indiscretion. To prove that there is nothing new under the sun, a wise man of his day, named Hermes, wrote analytical programs of the fifteen symphonies of Dittersdorf for the benefit of the hearer and for his own glory. But why multiply such instances familiar to the searchers after the curious in music?
Beethoven gave certain compositions a general name, as the pianoforte sonata Op. 81 a, known as "Das Lebewohl" (or "Les Adieux"); the overture to "Egmont"; the Pastoral Symphony. But these names were not supplied with a detailed program of words that the music might be identified properly and the right emotion recognized or subdivided. When he prefixed the following words to the Pastoral Symphony, "more expression of emotions than tone-painting," he at the same time made his confession of faith. Nevertheless the commentators, the successors of Hermes above mentioned, have seen in this same symphony a good citizen going with his family to spend Sunday in the country, or a pantheistic hymn of subtle nature; just as in the Seventh Symphony Wagner finds the apotheosis of the dance, another the joy of Germany delivered from the French yoke, while others see a festival in the days of chivalry, the reproduction of a brave meridional people, a village marriage, a procession in the catacombs, the love dream of a sensuous odalisque, a Bacchic feast, a battle of giants, or a vulgar orgy to serve as a temperance lecture. "But in the kingdom of hypothesis each one has a right to think freely, and even, alas, to speak his mind."
If a striking characteristic of the music of Beethoven is its individuality with accompanying infinite variety—as seen in the symphonies, the concertos, nearly all of the pianoforte sonatas, and the chamber music—a no less striking feature is its intense dramatic spirit. The reproach has been made against Beethoven that his genius was not dramatic, but surely reference was here made to the scenic conventionalities of opera. But if the dramatic in music lies in the development of passion, Beethoven was one of the greatest dramatic composers. To quote Henri Lavoix in his remarks on the Fifth Symphony: "Is this not the drama in its purity and its quintessence, where passion is no longer the particular attribute of a theatrical mask, but the expression of our own peculiar feeling?"
An important factor in the full expression of this dramatic intensity in his orchestral writing is the instrumentation. All the instruments are used with greater freedom and effect than ever before. In order to express his great musical ideas the instruments move in a wider compass with greater technical execution. In instrumental coloring, in variety of solo and chorus treatment, and in massive rhythmical effects, Beethoven advanced the art of orchestration to a point never before conceived, His effects, however, are not gained by the introduction of unusual instruments. With the exception of the Ninth Symphony and a few other instances, his orchestra is practically the one used by Mozart. In the Ninth Symphony, as in "the Battle of Vittoria," there is a liberal use of percussion instruments. Beethoven used the contra fagott and the basset horn on occasions; and he once indulged himself in the singular fancy of arranging his "Battle of Vittoria" for Maelzel's instrument, the Panharmonikon, a machine that brought in play all sorts of military instruments. But the instrumentation of his symphonies does not depend for its effects on unusual combinations; it is remarkable for the manner of the speech of well-known members of the orchestra. Take the strings for example. He knew full well the value of the pizzicato, and tremolo as well as the power of the unison. Outside of the famous chamber music, the symphonies are filled with passages for the 'cello and double bass that are unusual for his time. In his treatment of the double bass, which in the C-minor Symphony was a stumbling block to Habeneck and his trained men, he was influenced by the skill of Dragonetti. In his use of the wood-wind he showed rare instinct and imagination. The oboe, for instance, is with him not a gay rustic pipe of acid character; it is positive, it is melancholy, it is tender and it soothes. In the famous solos of the first movement of the Fifth Symphony and the dungeon scene of Fidelio, the oboe utters heart-piercing accents of sorrow. What is more characteristic than the odd cluckings of the bassoons in the scherzo of the Fifth Symphony; the soulful clarinet solo in the allegretto of the Seventh, or the weird effect of the low notes of the horn in the trio of the scherzo of the Seventh Symphony? Beethoven held the trombones in great reserve, but whenever he employed them the effect was impressive, as for instance in the finale of the Fifth Symphony and the storm of the Pastoral Symphony. Two famous passages in his symphonies, passages that have provoked angry disputes, are made remarkable by a singular use of the horn in which the laws of tonality are set at nought. Beethoven was the first that knew the value of the kettle-drums. He first raised the drum to the dignity of a solo instrument, as in the Fourth, Fifth and Ninth Symphonies. His instrumental effects went hand in hand with the development of the melodic idea. The different tone-masses are used in conversation; or a solo instrument announces the return of the theme; or the whole orchestra rages violently and then stops suddenly to listen to a far off voice.
It would be impossible in an article of this brevity to speak of his manifold effects of instrumentation, or of the characteristics of his compositions in detail. Among his instrumental works are the 9 symphonies, overture and music to "Egmont," overture and music to "Prometheus," "The Battle of Vittoria," 9 overtures, 5 concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, 1 triple concerto, the Choral Fantasia, the violin concerto, 16 quartets for strings, 8 trios for pianoforte and strings, 10 sonatas for pianoforte and violin, 2 octets for wind, 1 septet for strings and wind, 1 quintet for pianoforte and wind, 5 sonatas for pianoforte and 'cello, 38 sonatas for pianoforte, and 21 sets of variations for pianoforte. The chief vocal works are "Fidelio," the two masses, the oratorio, "Christus am Oelberge," "Meerstille und glückliche Fahrt," the aria "Ah perfido!" and 66 songs with pianoforte accompaniment.
We have already considered briefly the various ways in which Beethoven expanded the structural elements of the sonata, and now it may not be amiss to examine for a moment the æsthetical characteristics of his pianoforte works in sonata form. In the early sonatas he began with the four movements which others had almost wholly reserved for the symphony. The scherzo in sonata and symphony was peculiarly his invention. To be sure the name is older, and was used in describing secular songs in the 16th century as well as for instrumental pieces in the 17th. But the peculiar quickly moving number with its piquant harmonies and rhythm and its mocking, grotesque or fantastically capricious spirit is the musical thought of Beethoven. At times the scherzo assumed gigantic proportions as in the Third, Fifth and Ninth Symphonies, and in the sonata Op. 106. Before his day the imagination of the composer had not had full play; it was more or less hampered by conventionalities, by the necessities of the men dependent on princes' favors. The expansion of a great idea in the sonata is found first in his works. Deep feeling, passionate longing took the place in the slow movement of simple melody with its unmeaning and elaborate ornamentation. He introduced the recitative with thrilling effect. Although the breadth of the thought in different movements is majestic even to awe, all phases of human feeling are expressed. Strength and delicacy, gloom and playfulness are found side by side. The sonata form with Beethoven was the means of the full development of all the expressive elements in music.
These considerations are likewise true of his piano and violin sonatas, trios and concertos, the most prominent of which are the so-called Kreutzer Sonata, for piano and violin, trio in B flat, violin concerto, and piano concertos in G and E flat. These famous works stand foremost in their respective branches, but to dwell on their individual characteristics would exceed the limits of this article.
In contrast with the later symphonies, the First and Second seem without the rare personality of the composer. Yet when the First Symphony appeared its opening was regarded as daring; and there is the seriousness of purpose that is found in all of his greater compositions. In the Second the introduction is built on broader foundations; there is a warmth in the slow movement that was unusual for the time, and the scherzo is new in character. But in the Heroic, Beethoven laid the cornerstone of modern symphonic music. It was written with a definite aim; the glorification of a great man. The instrumentation is noticeable in a historical sense on account of the treatment of the orchestra as a whole; the balance of the parts, the conversations, the antiphonal choirs. The Funeral March is the departure from the traditional slow movement that was generally devoted to prettiness or the display of genteel emotion. And in this symphony the scherzo is Shakesperian in spirit where melancholy or grimness is mingled with the jesting. It has been said that the last movement of the Haydn Symphony was designed to send the audience home in gay spirits; but with Beethoven the finale became the crown of the work. The finale of the Heroic is not as impressive as are the preceding movements; but it abounds in interesting detail, and was in its day a remarkable revelation. The Fourth is built on a lesser scale, and yet as Berlioz well said, the adagio defies analysis, "the movement that seems to have been sighed by the Archangel Michael when, a prey to melancholy, he contemplated from the threshold of heaven the worlds below him." In the Fifth Beethoven rid himself completely of the shackles of conventionality. It is the story in music of the composer's defiance of Fate, the battling of man with nature and unseen forces. Here trombones and contra fagott appeared for the first time in the history of the symphony. The Sixth is full of peace and serenity and joy in life that comes from the contemplation of Nature, and stands in strong contrast with the sublime struggle and exulting triumph of the Fifth. The Seventh is perhaps the most truly romantic and sensuously beautiful of all. Joy and sorrow, humor and wild passion alternate in its strongly contrasted movements. This great work, together with the three string quartets, Op. 59, are held by some musicians to be the highest manifestation of subjective feeling and ideal beauty that musical art has yet revealed. In conciseness of form the Eighth is almost a return to earlier conditions, but in concentrated power and joyousness it is one of the most remarkable and Beethovenish. He himself described it as a "little symphony in F." The substitution of the Ariel-like and humorous allegretto in place of the slow movement, and the use of the menuetto are eminently characteristic. The Choral Symphony stands alone in the history of music. It is said that the first three movements "have reference, more or less intelligible according to the organization and sympathies of the hearer, to the finale," which is a setting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy," or rather "Liberty," which was the original title of the poem. Here all "the dramatic and human elements which Beethoven introduced into his instrumental music to a degree before undreamed of" are brought together in complete expression. Moreover in the Ninth Symphony as in his great Mass in D there dwells the profound spirit of religious consciousness. The burden of the hymn heard above the symphonic struggle of the orchestra is joy, love and brotherhood for all mankind, or that charity which is the true essence of the Christian religion. Like Dante's Divine Comedy or Bach's Passion Music, the Ninth Symphony will live as one of the greatest monuments of genius.
BEETHOVEN'S MONUMENT IN BONN.
Executed by Prof. Hähnel. Unveiled in August, 1845. From a photograph made in 1880.
The human voice was to Beethoven an orchestral instrument, and he too often treated it as such. This failing is seen particularly in the Mass in D, "Fidelio," and the Ninth Symphony. Yet he showed in the song-cycle, "To the Absent Loved-one," a knowledge of the art of Italian song and the principles of bel canto that accompanied German taste and sentiment, as also in his most famous song "Adelaide." In his great choral works and in his opera he showed himself everywhere as the instrumental writer par excellence. "Fidelio" is undoubtedly a masterpiece. The text has been praised highly, but probably more on account of its noble subject than dramatic treatment; for the interest stops with the great dungeon-scene. As a drama it has the defects of operas in general of his time. Spoken dialogue and separate solo and concerted numbers naturally prevent dramatic unity and consistency of effect.
Undoubtedly the orchestra is the chief figure of the opera, dominating constantly the scene. This, however, is as true of Wagner as of Beethoven. "There is not an instrumental note that has not its passionate, dramatic meaning; there is not an instrument that is not a party to the drama." With the exception of the prisoners' chorus, the most impressive passages of "Fidelio" are those in which the orchestra is openly master: the overture No. III., the melodramas, the introduction to the air of Florestan. The overture No. III. is the whole story of the agony and the womanly devotion of Leonore in concise and tragic form; just as the overtures to "Egmont" and "Coriolanus" are the summing up of the tragedies of Goethe and Collin, although "Coriolanus" is undoubtedly derived directly from Plutarch and Shakespeare. The force and the meaning of the accompaniment is always in proportion with the degree of passion on the stage. When Pizarro meditates his vengeance and the orchestra mimics the storm within his breast, it matters little that the voice of the singer is drowned. And so the air of the delirious Florestan is less thrilling than the preceding prelude; and the oboe tells of his agony although he himself cries it to the dungeon walls.
There is little or no doubt that when Beethoven wrote his Ninth Symphony, he thought of Schiller's original conception, the ode to Freedom, and not the altered and present version, the ode to Joy. To Beethoven, freedom was the only joy; to him the universal freedom of loving humanity was true religion: the brotherhood of man. That the singers rebelled against the frightful difficulties of their task was nothing to him; he heard the voices of a triumphant world, and he was not to be confined by individual limitations. So in his mass in D, he thought not of the service of the Roman Catholic church: he arrayed the human against the supernatural. It is not church music so much as the direct, subjective expression of a religious heart, which cannot be restrained by the barriers of mere form and ritual. Some have argued seriously that because Beethoven was not punctilious in the observance of the rites of the Church he was therefore unfitted to celebrate in music her solemn service. Now whatever his religious opinions were, whether he was deist or pantheist, there is no doubt that he appreciated fully the dignity of his task and consecrated all his energies to the performance of it. He meditated it most carefully, as we know by his sketch-books. In 1818 he wrote a memorandum: "To compose true religious music, it is necessary to consult the olden chorals in use in monasteries"; and he added below: "Make once more the sacrifice of all the petty necessities of life for the glory of thy art. God before all!" In the manuscript is written over the Kyrie, "From the heart! May it go back to the heart!" and over the Dona Nobis, "Dona nobis pacem. Representing the inner and exterior peace."
It is idle to compare this Mass with the religious works of Palestrina and Bach and to say that if Beethoven had been a devout Catholic or an orthodox Lutheran his Mass would have been more thoroughly imbued with religious feeling. In the first place it is necessary to define the word "religious." Palestrina wrote in his peculiar style not because he was a devout Catholic, but because his religious individuality found expression in the methods of his time. Bach wrote his great Mass in a time when counterpoint ruled in the music of the church and of the dance. Beethoven was a man, not only of his time, but of the remaining years of this century.
Now in this mass Beethoven wherever he is most imposing, he is intensely dramatic, and when he follows tradition, he is least himself. Notice for instance the change from the passionate entreaty that is almost a defiance in the Kyrie to the ineffable tenderness in the Christe eleison; the wonderful setting of the Incarnatus and the Crucifixus. On the other hand, where Beethoven felt that it was his duty to follow the approved formulas, as in certain passages of the Credo that relate to the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, etc., we realize fully the story of Schindler, who found the composer singing, shouting, stamping, and sweating at his work; for although he was a master of the fugato, the fugue was to him, apparently, not his natural mode of expression. But von Bülow's commentary should not be forgotten: "The fugue is with Beethoven the last and highest means of intensifying the expression of emotions."
Again, the religious element in the music of Beethoven is not confined to works which have a sacred text. The yearning after heavenly rest, the discontent with the petty vanities of life, sublime hope and humble thanksgiving,—these are not found exclusively in his works for the church or in such a movement as the canzona in moda lidico in the A minor quartet Op. 132. The finale of the Ninth Symphony as well as movements in the sonatas, the chamber-music and the symphonies are religious music in the profoundest sense of the word.
And yet the great works of his last years have been decried and are not now accepted by many. He himself was discontented with many of his earlier compositions, and this self-depreciation does not seem the singular yet not uncommon affectation of genius. In a letter written to Ries in 1816 he declared that the death of his brother had impressed him profoundly and influenced not only his character but his works. For a time following he wrote but little; and then he pondered compositions of gigantic proportions. The pianoforte ceased to accommodate itself to his thoughts; the string quartet and the orchestra were constantly in his mind. "The most exalted, the most wondrous, the most inconceivable music," says Rubinstein, "was not written until after his total deafness. As the seer may be imagined blind, that is, blind to his surroundings, and seeing with the eyes of the soul, so the hearer may be imagined deaf to all his surroundings and hearing with the hearing of the soul." Deafness befriended him when it closed the doors of sense. It helped him to turn from outward things, and find peace and consolation in the ideal world of tones. The spiritual voices that he heard were the companions of his solitude. He thus vindicated the true spirituality of music. The deaf man justified its ancient, poetical significance. This inward life accounts for his early inclination for instrumental music. The highly developed forms gave wide range to his imagination, through the almost unlimited resources of the orchestra, in compass, technical execution, and tone-color.
While in his orchestral works Beethoven reveals all the tragic fire, and dramatic strength of his nature, it is in his string quartets that he is most spiritual and mystical. This is due, first, to the nature of the four combined instruments, so pure and ethereal in their tone effects.
His friend Schuppanzigh, the violinist, complained to him that certain passages in one of his quartets were impossible; and Beethoven replied: "Do you believe that I think of a wretched violin, when the spirit speaks to me and I write it down?" The last five quartets have been called transcendental, even incomprehensible, on account of their strangeness and obscurity. They are his last utterances, the mystical creations of a man who neared the end of his life-tragedy. "The events in Beethoven's life," says Nohl, "were calculated more and more to liberate him heart and soul from this world, and the whole composition of the quartets appears like a preparation for the moment when the mind, released from existence here, feels united with a higher being. But it is not a longing for death that here finds expression. It is the heartfelt, certain, and joyful feeling of something really eternal and holy, that speaks to us in the language of a new dispensation. And even the pictures of this world, here to be discerned, be they serious or gay, have this transfigured light, this outlook into eternity." Spirituality is impressed on the eternal features of the music: that is, the technical treatment of the four instruments. The melodies move freely in a wide compass, the voices cross each other frequently. Widely extended, open harmony is often employed, giving wonderful etherealness and spirituality to the effect of the strings by their thinness and delicacy of tone when thus separated by long intervals between the several parts of the chords. Nor is the polyphonic melodiousness of the voices abandoned, as in certain quartets of later masters in which the treatment is more orchestral than is in keeping with the character of the solo instruments.
And yet these great quartets are not even now accepted by certain men of marked musical temperament and discriminating taste. They are called "charcoal sketches"; they are erroneously regarded as draughts for elaboration in orchestral form. Others shrug their shoulders and speak compassionately of the deafness of Beethoven. But he was deaf when, in directing the Seventh Symphony, he was obliged to follow the movements of the first violin that he might keep his place; he was deaf when he thought out the melodic freshness and elegance of the Eighth Symphony; and even before the Heroic, the Fifth and the Pastoral he mourned his physical infirmity in the celebrated letter to his brothers. In judging of the masterpieces of the so-called third period it is not necessary to join the cry of the critics like Fétis who complain of "the aberrations of a genius that goes out in darkness," or to swell the chorus of wild enthusiasts as Nohl and Lenz, who wrench the dictionary in the expression of their delight. In the light of these great works all criticism is blind and impotent.
In the cyclical forms of instrumental music, Beethoven is preëminent from all points of view, formally, technically, aesthetically, and spiritually. Moreover, there is a Shakesperian quality in his wonderful tone-poems. Like the great poet he touches every chord of the heart and appeals to the imagination more potently than other poets. Beethoven's creations, like Shakespeare's, are distinguished by great diversity of character; each is a type by itself. His great symphonies stand in as strong contrast with each other as do the plays of Shakespeare with each other. Beethoven is the least of a mannerist of all composers. "Each composition leaves a separate image and impression on the mind." His compositions are genuine poems, that tell their meaning to the true listener clearly and unmistakably in the language of tones, a language which, however, cannot be translated into mere words, as has often been attempted in the flowery and fanciful effusions of various writers, like Wagner, Lenz, Marx, and others, who waste labor and thought in trying to do the impossible.
In the Pantheon of art Beethoven holds a foremost place beside the great poets and artists of all time, with Æschylus and Dante, Michael Angelo and Shakespeare. Like these inspired men he has widened and ennobled the mind and the soul of humanity. "In his last works," says Edward Dannreuther, "he passes beyond the horizon of a mere singer and poet, and touches upon the domain of the seer and prophet, where in unison with all genuine mystics and ethical teachers he delivers a message of religious love and resignation, and release from the world." Or as Wagner wrote, "Our civilization might receive a new soul from the spirit of Beethoven's music, and a renovation of religion which might permeate it through and through."
FRESCO IN VIENNA OPERA HOUSE.
From a photograph. Representing scenes from the Opera of Fidelio.
FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT
Reproduction of a lithograph portrait made by Kriehuber, of Vienna.
Schubert
FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT
RANZ PETER SCHUBERT was born in Vienna, January 31, 1797, and died there November 19, 1828. The house in which Schubert was born is now Number 54 in the Nussdorfer Strasse, and the fact is recorded upon a marble tablet over the door. His immediate ancestry were peasants. His father and uncle came from Moravia to Vienna, and were schoolmasters there for many years. His mother, Elizabeth Fitz, before her marriage, was in domestic service as a cook. After her death in 1812 the elder Schubert married Anna Klayenbök. By his first marriage he had fourteen children, of whom Franz was the thirteenth; by the second marriage there were five children, two of whom were living about 1880. The step-mother was an excellent mother to Franz. Two of his elder brothers, Ignaz and Ferdinand, lived and died as schoolmasters, like their father. It seems to have been an admirable family; its members, so far as we know, were noted for conscientious industry and integrity, and were affectionately devoted to one another. It is clear that there was a love for music in the family, though we have few details on this point. Ignaz and Ferdinand were taught the violin by their father. The little Franz began of himself to pick out melodic themes on an old piano much the worse for wear, and thought it a rare treat when a friendly joiner's apprentice used now and then to take him to a piano shop, where he was allowed to try his infant hands upon new and fine instruments. At the age of seven he began to study the violin with his father, and the piano with his brother Ignaz, then aged nineteen; but in a very short time he had got quite beyond these teachers, and was sent to the parish choir-master, Michael Holzer, for instruction in violin, piano, organ, and thorough-bass, as well as in singing. But the astounded Holzer soon found, as he said long afterward, "whenever I wished to teach him anything fresh, he always knew it already." Holzer was fond of giving him themes on which to extemporize, and used to exclaim with rapture that the little fellow "had harmony at his fingers' ends."
Instances of precocity among musicians of genius are by no means rare. But for precocity of the highest order, as well as for spontaneous exuberance of musical originality, Schubert has probably been equalled by none save Mozart. The world is familiar with the stories of Mozart found by his father in the act of scrawling a piano concerto at four years of age, and of his composing a symphony for full orchestra at eight. A piano sonata in D major for four hands, which he wrote in his ninth year, is still very commonly played, and is astonishing for its maturity of thought and its complete mastery of the sonata form. There is no evidence of the beginning of such work on Schubert's part at such an early age. His fantasia for four hands was written when he was thirteen years old, and his first recorded song, "Hagar's Lament," in the following year; but there is reason for believing that he had before that time composed songs, pieces for piano, and string quartettes. Before completing his eleventh year he had come to be leading soprano singer and violin player in the choir at the parish church of Lichtenthal, in Vienna. The next year he obtained a situation as chorister in the Emperor's Chapel, and became a pupil in the Imperial school known as the "Convict," a name derived not from convincere, but from convivere, and implying that the members or "convictors" were "messmates." It was but scant conviviality that was allowed by the ignorant parsimony with which that somewhat famous institution was managed. Those poor growing boys, with the wolfish appetites belonging to their time of life, had but two wretched meals daily and more than eight hours apart, while in the winter season their benumbed fingers shrank from contact with the ice-like key-boards. How often some promising lad may have succumbed to such a regimen, while his death was piously ascribed to Providence, we are not informed. That the effect upon Schubert's constitution was deleterious may readily be believed. In one of the earliest of his letters that have been preserved, dated November 24, 1812, we find him beseeching his brother for a few kreutzers wherewith to get now and then a roll or some apples to keep off starvation during the long exercises in the freezing schoolroom.
In the Convict more or less instruction was given in history and mathematics, French and Italian, drawing and writing. In such branches as he studied, Schubert seems to have done fairly well, but as he went on the tendency grew upon him to neglect everything else for the sake of music. Instrumental music was elaborately studied, and symphonies and overtures of Haydn, Mozart, and others were diligently practised by an orchestra of boys, in which Schubert distinguished himself from the first. Soon after his arrival in the school, the conductor of this orchestra—a big boy, named Joseph von Spaun, afterward Baron and Member of the Imperial Council, and well known as an amateur musician—remarked how finely "the little fellow in spectacles" played; from which we may infer that Schubert's near-sightedness dated from his childhood. After a while the little fellow himself became first violin and often served as conductor. A warm friendship grew up between Schubert and Spaun, who presently discovered that the shy boy of twelve was already possessed by an unappeasable rage for composition. His head was brimming over with melodious thoughts, with which he would cover every scrap of music paper that he could get hold of. But either the Convict was niggardly in its supply of writing materials no less than of food and fuel, or else the needs of the new-comer were such as had never before been heard of; for he could not get enough paper on which to jot down the daily flow of musical ideas, nor was his scanty stock of copper coins sufficient to procure sheets enough to meet his wants. Having made this discovery, the kindly Spaun determined that his little friend should no longer suffer from this kind of privation; and from that time forth Schubert's consumption of music paper was astonishing. In April, 1810, he wrote the four-hand fantasia for piano, probably the earliest of his compositions that is still preserved. It fills thirty-two closely written pages, and contains a dozen movements, each ending in a different key from that in which the piece begins. "Hagar's Lament," written in March, 1811, is the earliest of his songs still preserved. Perhaps it ought rather to be called a nondescript vocal piece, or an attempt at a song-cycle; it comprises twelve numbers, with singular and sometimes irrelevant changes of key, and covers twenty-eight pages. In spite of its fragmentary and inorganic character, it bears the unmistakable stamp of genius. From the outset, whatever his faults, Schubert was always free from the fault of which Schiller complains that it fetters so many of us poor mortals: he was never guilty of being commonplace. Whatever came from him was sure to be something that no one else would have thought of, and it was sure to be rich in beauty. In view of this, the spontaneity of his creativeness was almost incredible, and fully justifies the comparison with Mozart. This same year saw the production of two other vocal pieces, a second piano fantasia, a string quartet, and a quintet-overture,—to mention only those that have survived. Doubtless many writings of that early time were neglected and lost. Schubert seldom showed much interest in a work of his own after it was finished, for his attention was absorbed in fresh composition. But he had a methodical habit of dating his works and signing them "Frz. Schubert, mpia," i.e. manu propria; and this habit has been helpful to his biographers in studying the progress of his artistic labors. The list for 1812 is remarkable for this half-starved boy of fifteen, containing as it does an overture for full orchestra, two string quartets, and a sonata for piano, violin, and viola, besides other works for piano and strings.
But the list for 1813 begins to seem portentous. Here comes the first symphony (in D; four movements), an octet for wind instruments, three string quartets, a third piano fantasia, thirty-four minuets, a cantata for his father's birthday, and about thirty other vocal pieces, including canons, terzets, and songs for a single voice. Besides all this he began to set to music Kotzebue's opera "Des Teufels Lustschloss," which he completed in the following year. In looking over the vocal pieces, one observes an almost unbroken succession of about a dozen with words by Schiller; and this illustrates one of Schubert's ways of doing things. When he happened to turn over the leaves of a volume of poetry, verses that pleased him would become straightway clothed in melody; they would sing themselves in his mind, often in all their concrete fullness, with superb accompaniments, noble in rhythm and rich in wondrous harmonies. If paper happened to be within reach the song would at once be written down, and the inspired youth would turn to some other poem, with like results. What in the ordinary reader fond of poetry is simply an emotional reaction of keen indescribable pleasure was in his case a sudden thrill of musical creation. Thus we are told that on a July evening in 1826, after a long walk, the thirsty Schubert strolled into a beer-garden and found a friend sitting at one of the tables with a volume of Shakespeare. After he had laid down the book Schubert picked it up and alighted upon the song in Cymbeline, "Hark, hark, the lark!" The beautiful melody with its accompaniment, as we now have it, instantly flashed upon him and was written down upon some staves hastily drawn across the back of a bill of fare. In like manner, in the course of the same evening, he set to music the drinking song in Antony and Cleopatra, and clothed with fresh immortality the verses "Who is Sylvia" in the Two Gentlemen of Verona. In its matchless perfection the Sylvia song would of itself suffice for a composer's reputation. In such wise would Schubert often look through a book, and come from its hasty perusal with a dozen or more new songs.
SCHUBERT'S BIRTHPLACE IN VIENNA.—From a photograph.
It is in this astonishing spontaneity that Schubert's greatness largely consists. In some elements of artistic perfection he is lacking, and the want may be traced to some of the circumstances of his education. His early teachers were simply overwhelmed by his genius and let him go unguided. Holzer, as we have seen, whenever he wished to teach the boy anything, found that the boy could teach him. So Ruzicka, instructor in thorough-bass at the Convict, simply protested that Schubert must have learned music directly from heaven, and he could do nothing for him. Sir George Grove very properly asks, "If all masters adopted this attitude toward their pupils, what would have become of some of the greatest geniuses?" Schubert certainly suffered from defective knowledge of counterpoint; after coming to maturity he recognized this defect in his education and sought to remedy it by study. Herein he was at a disadvantage compared with his younger contemporary Mendelssohn. Himself a musician of extraordinary precocity and spontaneity, Mendelssohn became thoroughly grounded in counterpoint under one of the best of teachers, Zelter; and in all his works Mendelssohn shows that absolute mastery of form, the lack of which is often noticeable in Schubert, especially in his instrumental works. Upon this point we shall have occasion to make some further comment. There can be little doubt that the worthy Ruzicka would have done well had he given his wonderful pupil a careful training in counterpoint. The heaven-sent music would have lost nothing of its heavenly quality by enlarging its means of expression.
About the first of November, 1813, Schubert left the Convict and studied for awhile in the Normal School of St. Anna, in order to qualify himself for a school-teacher. He escaped conscription by entering his father's parish school, where he served three years as teacher and discharged the monotonous and irksome duties of that position with scrupulous fidelity. He still, however, found time for music. The compositions of the year 1814 show a marked advance in maturity. The most important is the first mass, in F, a work that has been pronounced superior to the first mass of any other composer except Beethoven's mass in C. Then we have the second symphony, in B flat, the overture in Italian style for full orchestra, five string quartets, eleven dances for strings and horns, and twenty-two songs, more than half of them to Matthisson's words. Among the songs "Gretchen am Spinnrade," to Goethe's words, is especially to be noted.
The record for the year 1815 is marvellous:—the third symphony, in D, the second mass, in G, and the third, in B flat, one opera and six operettas, a stabat mater, a salve regina, the string quartet in G minor, four piano sonatas, thirty miscellaneous pieces for the piano, and one hundred and thirty-seven songs! Among the larger of these works the mass in G merits especial notice for its beauty. Among the songs are some of Schubert's most famous,—"Heidenröslein," "Rastlose Liebe," the "Wanderer's Nachtlied," the exquisite "Nähe des Geliebten," the Ossian songs, and the magnificent Erl King. This most dramatic and descriptive of songs was thrown off instantaneously in a fit of wild inspiration. Schubert had just come upon Goethe's ballad, which he had not seen before; he had read it two or three times and was dashing the music upon paper when his friend Spaun came in and found him. It was all done in a few moments, the rushing accompaniment and all; and that same evening it was sung at the Convict before Schubert's friends and devoted admirers, his old teachers and fellow pupils. It was quite customary for Schubert to carry his new compositions there to be tried, and he was wont to find warm sympathy and appreciation. But the Erl King was received rather coldly, as will be hereafter explained.
This year 1816 saw one hundred and thirty-one new compositions by Schubert. Among these were the fourth or "Tragic" symphony, in C minor, the fifth symphony, in B flat, an overture for full orchestra, a concerto for violin and orchestra, a rondo for violin and string orchestra, one string quartet, one string trio, seven pieces of dance music for piano, three sonatinas for piano and violin, and other piano music. There was an unfinished opera, "Die Bürgschaft," followed by four cantatas; one, called "Prometheus," was the first work composed by Schubert for money; it was written in a single day and the honorarium was one hundred florins in Viennese currency; the occasion was the name-day of a certain Herr Heinrich Watteroth, of Vienna. Another similar but slighter work was composed in honor of Herr Joseph Spendon, chief inspector of schools; a third was for Schubert's father; the fourth was for the occasion of Salieri's jubilee hereafter to be mentioned. Among the sacred compositions was a magnificat for solo and mixed voices with accompaniment of violin, viola, hautboy, bassoon, trumpet, drum, and organ; the duetto "Auguste jam Cœlestium" for soprano and tenor voices, accompanied by violins and violoncello, double-bass, bassoon, and hautboy; the "Tantum ergo" for four voices and orchestra; the fragment of a requiem in E flat; the "Salve regina" for four voices and orchestra; and especially the noble "Stabat mater" in F minor, one of the finest of Schubert's earlier contributions to church music. Of this year's songs ninety-nine have been preserved, including the Wanderer, the three songs of the Harper in "Wilhelm Meister," Mignon's "Sehnsucht," and "Kennst du das Land," "Der König in Thule," and "Jäger's Abendlied." These songs are remarkable for strength, originality, and exquisite beauty. In the Wanderer, and "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass," we find Schubert at an elevation which he afterward scarcely surpassed.
It was Schubert's custom, from an early age, to have quartet parties at his father's house on Sunday afternoons. When at the Convict he used to go home on Sundays for this purpose. As first arranged, the elder Schubert used to play the 'cello, Ferdinand first violin, Ignaz second, and Franz the viola. In those early days, if a wrong note was heard from the 'cello, young Franz would modestly say, "Father, there must be a mistake somewhere," and the hint was always well received. These Sunday quartets were often joined by friends and neighbors. By degrees the number of violins was increased, a double-bass and sundry wind instruments were added, and the affair grew into an orchestra which could perform Haydn's and Mozart's symphonies. Presently it became necessary to have the performances in a larger house, and in this way two or three moves were made, and the Orchestral Society of Amateurs was organized. Overtures by Cherubini, Spontini, Boieldieu, and Méhul, and the first and second symphonies of Beethoven were performed. It was for this Society that Schubert wrote his fourth and fifth symphonies and other orchestral works. In the autumn of 1820 the society broke down, as such societies are apt to do, under its own weight. It became necessary to have a large public hall for the meetings, and the expense thus entailed put an end to the pleasant and instructive enterprise. There can be little doubt that it was of much use to Schubert in giving him a chance to hear his own instrumental works performed and criticised. To a young man of his extremely modest and retiring disposition, moreover, the friendships thus formed were of much value.
Schubert was a man to whom friends became devotedly attached. He was faithful and true, a man of thoroughly sound character, disinterested and unselfish, without a particle of envy or jealousy about him. He won affection without demanding it or seeming to need it. He was one of those men whom one naturally and instinctively loves. Among his special friends we have already mentioned Spaun. Toward the end of 1814 he became acquainted with the poet Johann Mayrhofer, about ten years his senior, and the acquaintance ripened into a life-long intimacy. Mayrhofer was a man of eccentric nature, with a tinge of melancholy, possibly an incipient symptom of the insanity which many years afterward drove him to suicide. Perhaps the most interesting feature of his intimacy with Schubert was the powerful influence which the latter's music exercised upon the development of his poetical genius. It was under the spell of Schubert's charm that Mayrhofer's best poems came to blossom; and many of them were set to music by Schubert, among which "Erlasse," "Sehnsucht," "Nachtstück," "Die zürnende Diana," "Der Alpenjäger," "Der Schiffer," "Am Strome," and "Schlummerlied" deserve especial mention.
Another of Schubert's friends, and the one who probably exerted the most influence upon him, was Franz von Schober. Their acquaintance began at a critical moment. After three years of faithful and conscientious work in school-teaching, Schubert began to find the drudgery of his position intolerable, and in 1816, as a public school of music was about to be opened as an appendage to the normal school at Laybach, near Trieste, he applied for the post of director. To appreciate the situation, we must not fail to note the amount of the director's salary, five hundred Viennese florins, or about one hundred dollars, a year! Such was the coveted income to which the alternative seemed to be for Schubert, in Herr Kreissle's phrase, "an impecunious future." From Salieri and from Spendon recommendations were obtained, such as they were. There was nothing cordial in them, nothing to indicate that Schubert was a person of greater calibre than a certain commonplace Jacob Schaufl who obtained the appointment instead of him. Perhaps, however, they may only have doubted Schubert's capacity for a position of executive responsibility. It was at this juncture that young Schober came upon the scene, a student in comfortable circumstances, about eighteen years of age, who came to Vienna to continue his studies. He had fallen in with some of Schubert's songs a year or two before, and had conceived an enthusiastic admiration for the composer. When he found that the wonderful genius was a boy of about his own age, wearing out his nerves in a school room, and yet turning off divine music by the ream, he made up his mind to interpose. He could at least offer a home, and he persuaded Schubert to come and occupy his rooms with him. There Schubert began to give music lessons, but his earnings do not seem to have been considerable or constant. With Schober he remained a chum for some time, until the need of room for Schober's brother, a captain of hussars, led to a temporary change. From 1819 to 1821 Schubert had rooms with his friend Mayrhofer. After 1821 he lived nearly all the time with Schober until within a few weeks of his death. Their acquaintances were in the main a set of fine, cultivated young men who felt strong affection and respect for the inspired musician. Among Schubert's songs we find several set to Schober's words, among which we may mention "Pax vobiscum" and "Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden."
The third of the friends whose names are inseparably associated with Schubert was not one of the circle of young men just referred to, but a much older person. Johann Michael Vogl was nearly thirty years older than Schubert. In his youth he had had some monastic training and had afterward studied law and practised at the bar, but his rich baritone voice and his love for music led him in time to become a public singer, and for eight-and-twenty years he was a member of the German Opera Company. In an epoch notable for its great dramatic singers he was rated high, not so much for his vocal method as for the native quality of his voice and his intelligent and sympathetic rendering of his parts. He was a learned man, widely read in philosophy and theology, with a deeply religious nature and an intense feeling for music,—not a bad sort of man to sing Schubert's songs. It was in 1817 that Vogl first became aware of these treasures. Schober pestered him to come and see his wonderful friend and try some of his songs, but it was not the first time that this veteran had heard of wonderful young men, and he did not want to be bored. After a while, however, he called one evening, hummed through half a dozen songs—among them "Ganymed" and "Des Schäfer's Klage"—and became more and more interested. "Well, young man," he observed, on taking his leave, "there is stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead of making the most of them." But the more Vogl thought about the songs the more they loomed up in his memory as strangely and wondrously beautiful. He called again at the young composer's room, uninvited, found more and more music which riveted his attention, and it was not long before that house became one of his haunts. It was this intelligent and highly cultivated singer who first made Schubert known beyond the limited circle of his early friends and school-mates. People in the fashionable society of Vienna made their first acquaintance with the Wanderer and the Erl King as sung by Vogl's rich voice and in his noble style, with Schubert himself at the piano. Presently this furnished a new career for Vogl. In 1821 circumstances led to the discontinuance of his work at the Opera House, and he then began giving concerts, in which German Lieder were sung, and those of Schubert occupied a foremost place. In 1825 the two friends made a little concert tour together in the Salzburg country and Upper Austria. By that time the new songs were becoming famous, though one serious obstacle to the wide diffusion of their popularity was the want of singers able to grapple with their technical difficulties and to express their poetical sentiment in an artistic manner. Operatic quips and cranks and wanton flourishes would by no means answer the purpose. Old conventional methods were of no use. A passage from Vogl's diary is worth quoting in this connection for the glimpse it gives us of his fine artistic intelligence:—"Nothing shows so plainly the want of a good school of singing as Schubert's songs. Otherwise, what an enormous and universal effect must have been produced throughout the world, wherever the German language is understood, by these truly divine inspirations, these utterances of a musical clairvoyance! How many would have comprehended, probably for the first time, the meaning of such expressions as 'speech and poetry in music,' 'words in harmony,' 'ideas clothed in music,' etc., and would have learned that the finest poems of our greatest poets may be enhanced and even transcended when translated into musical language! Numberless examples may be named, but I will mention only the Erl King, Gretchen am Spinnrade, Schwager Kronos, the Mignon and Harper's songs, Schiller's Sehnsucht, Der Pilgrim, and Die Bürgschaft."
Bauernfeld. Schubert. Kupelwieser. Beethoven. Betty Fröhlich. Mayrhofer. Schwind. Spaun. Vogl. Grillparzer.
Josephine Fröhlich. Kathi Fröhlich.
SCHUBERT AND HIS FRIENDS.
Reproduced from photograph of painting which does not represent any historical scene, as Beethoven and Schubert never met amid such surroundings.
This grouping of Schubert's friends is made by poetical license.
No subsequent year of Schubert's life witnessed so great a number of compositions as 1816. For the next year eighty-six compositions are given in Sir George Grove's list. Of these fifty-two are songs, including many of those set to Mayrhofer's words. The two songs to Schober's words, above mentioned, came in this year. Special mention should also be made of the "Gruppe aus dem Tartarus," to Schiller's words, and of "Lob der Thränen" and "Die Forelle." "The Pilgrim" and "Ganymede" also belong to this time. Of large compositions for piano there were the sonatas in E minor; B, Op. 147; A minor, Op. 164; F minor; and A flat; besides the sonata in A, Op. 162, for piano and violin. There were also the variations for piano on a theme of Hüttenbrenner's; an adagio and rondo; two scherzos, and seventeen dances for piano; a set of polonaises for violin; and a string trio. The sixth symphony, in C, was written or finished in November, 1817, and performed by the amateur orchestral company above described. There were also three overtures, of which two, written in the Italian style, remind us that 1817 was the year in which Rossini's operas, newly introduced to Vienna, were received with wild enthusiasm. Schubert was altogether too far above Rossini's plane of thought to feel such interest in his work as he felt for the masterpieces of polyphonic composition. But he appreciated highly the Italian's gift of melody, and with the assimilative power which is wont to characterize great genius, he took hints from him which are apparent not only in the two Italian overtures, but perhaps also in the sixth symphony. Or in other words, as all creative work is influenced by its environment, there was a discernible Rossini tinge in the atmosphere which Schubert was for the moment breathing, and it has left its slight traces upon a few of his compositions for that year, as upon the work of less potent creators it left many and deep impressions.
The year 1818 witnessed the beginning of an episode in Schubert's life, quite different in many respects from what had preceded. He was engaged by Count Esterhazy to teach music in his family. There were two daughters, Marie, aged thirteen, and Caroline, aged eleven, and a son aged five. All were musically gifted, and their friend, Baron von Schönstein, was a very accomplished singer. The engagement took Schubert to the Count's country home in Hungary for the summer, while the winter season was passed in Vienna. Schubert's intercourse with this amiable and cultivated family was very pleasant, and in the course of it seems to have occurred the nearest approach to a love affair that can be detected in his life. Little Caroline Esterhazy was at the outset not at an age likely to evoke the tender passion. But as time elapsed and she came to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, it has been supposed that Schubert manifested symptoms of having fallen in love with her. The evidence is slight, as evidence is apt to be in such matters, in the absence of anything like an overt declaration. The nearest that Schubert seems ever to have come to such a declaration was once when Caroline in an innocent moment of girlish coquetry asked him why, when he was dedicating so many delightful works to other persons, he had never dedicated anything to her. Schubert is said to have replied, "Why should I? Is not everything that I have ever done dedicated to you already?" This anecdote does not go far as proof. Question and answer might alike have been merely pleasant jesting. Contemporary rumor, in the case of a man so shy and reserved on all matters of deep feeling as Schubert, cannot be expected to tell us much. The general impression about him was that he was almost insensible to the charms of fair women. If this impression is to be taken as true, an interesting question is suggested. How could a man who was never in love have written that immortal Serenade in which all that is sweetest and most sacred in the love of man for woman comes forth like a fresh breath from heaven? Never was voice of love so passionate and so pure. Nowhere has human art ever found more consummate and faultless expression than in this song of songs. It could no more have come from a soul insensible to the passion of love than figs can grow upon thistles. Probably therefore the general impression about Schubert was due in the main to his reticence. We have also to bear in mind that such a nature as his can find in artistic creation a vent for emotional excitement strong enough to craze the ordinary mind. We know how it was with Goethe, how the worst pains of life were healed for him by being thrown off in passionate poetry. This is quite intelligible. It is a special illustration of Shakespeare's injunction:—
"Give sorrow words; the grief that cannot speak
Whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break."
This need for expression, felt by every human creature, appears in men of profound and intense interior life as a creative impulse; it is so not only with artists and poets, but in many cases with scholars, philosophers, and scientific discoverers; the relief is found in giving objective form to the thoughts that come welling up from the depths of the spirit. But it is in art that creative expression most becomes in itself an overmastering end, and especially in the two arts that give swiftest and readiest outlet to emotion, in poetry and in music. Hence one of the noblest functions of art, to be the consoler of the troubled soul, to sink its individual sorrows in the contemplation of eternal beauty, to bring weary and doubting humanity into restful communion with the divine source of all its yearnings, in the faith that they have not been given us for naught. If there ever was a soul thus sustained and comforted, it was the pure and earnest soul of Schubert; the stream of song that flowed from him was like the ecstatic but soothing and strengthening prayer of the mediæval saint. One can see that this shy and sensitive young man, somewhat inclined withal to self-depreciation, would not be quick to avow a love which social conditions at any rate scarcely favored. He was son of a peasant, Caroline Esterhazy was daughter of a count. Such a passion was likely to seek relief in strains of music, as Dante's worship of Beatrice found expression in verse. As the thought of Beatrice was in all that Dante wrote, so the story of Schubert's momentary confession to Caroline that all that he had sung was dedicated to her is in nowise improbable in itself. There is a circumstance which invests it with a considerable degree of probability. Shortly after Schubert's death his beautiful Fantasia in F minor, Op. 103, was published with the inscription, "Dedicated to the Countess Caroline Esterhazy by Franz Schubert," and Sir George Grove rightly infers that the publishers would hardly have ventured upon such a step "unless the manuscript—probably handed to them before his death—had been so inscribed by himself." This is perhaps all that is known concerning the question as to Schubert's love.
At the Esterhazy country-house Schubert seems at first to have felt more at home in the kitchen than in the drawing-room. A letter to Schober, written in September, 1818, says:—"The cook is a pleasant fellow; the ladies' maid is thirty; the housemaid very pretty, and often pays me a visit; the nurse is somewhat ancient; the butler is my rival; the two grooms get on better with the horses than with us. The Count is a little rough; the Countess proud, but not without heart; the young ladies good children." It was not long before Schubert found himself a great favorite with the whole household, from the count down to the grooms. From this time until his death he was always welcome whenever he chose to come, Baron von Schönstein, the singer already mentioned, had hitherto sung nothing but Italian music, but he was now converted to the German Lied, and for the rest of his life devoted himself to Schubert's songs, until for his magnificent rendering of them he acquired a fame scarcely second to Vogl.
During the winter seasons in Vienna, Schubert continued to give music lessons in the Esterhazy family, but his home was apt to be in the humble room with Mayrhofer, or afterwards again with Schober. He was as regular with his work of composing music as Anthony Trollope with his novel-writing or Sainte-Beuve with his "Causeries du Lundi." When Ferdinand Hiller was about sixteen years old he made a visit to Vienna and called upon Schubert. "Do you write much?" asked Hiller,—a question which now sounds odd enough, and shows how little knowledge of the great composer there was outside of his own town. "I write every morning," said Schubert, "and as soon as I have finished one thing I begin another." This regularity was simply an outcome of the fact that the fount of inspiration was never dry. It was not because it was work done for much needed money, for the larger part of Schubert's work never brought him any money. It was primarily because singing was as spontaneous with him on first awaking as with a bird; sometimes he could not wait to get up and dress, but seized a sheet of music paper and jotted down his first exuberant thoughts while still in bed. After a piece was finished, he sometimes heard it sung or played, and sometimes did not; in either case it was apt soon to be tucked away in a cupboard drawer and forgotten; there are several anecdotes of his listening to old songs of his own without recognizing them.
After working till two o'clock in the afternoon, Schubert used to dine, and then visit friends, or take a walk, or sit in a café over his schoppen of wine or beer. At such times, as we have seen, the sight of a poem, or perhaps some interesting incident, would call forth a sudden outburst of song. Some of his noblest masterpieces came from the beer garden. He does not seem to have been in the habit of drinking anything stronger than beer and wine. Of these light beverages he was very fond, and as his head was easily affected, an opinion has found currency that this appetite was a weakness with Schubert,—perhaps his only assignable weakness. The fact, however, that he was always up early and quite fresh for the morning's work, is clear proof that it could not have been a serious weakness. Among friends with whom he was well acquainted he was genial and jovial, and liked to sit and talk; but he habitually entertained a due respect for to-morrow morning.
The compositions for the three years 1818-20 were about a hundred in number. There were some noble church works, the fourth mass in C and the fifth in A flat, a Salve Regina for soprano voice with string orchestra, four hymns by Novalis, the twenty-third Psalm to Moses Mendelssohn's version, and the Easter cantata "Lazarus"; also the operetta "Die Zwillingsbrüder" and the fragment of an unfinished opera, "Sakuntala"; an overture for orchestra, quartetts, quintets, canzoni, many dances for piano, and many songs.
The year 1821 marked a new era with Schubert; in that year some of his compositions were first published. Some of his friends were determined to have a group of his songs engraved, among them the Erl King which had now often been heard in private concerts. They applied to two or three of the most enterprising music publishers in Vienna, but without success. There was no profit in such publications, said the sagacious men of business. The composer was so obscure that his name would carry no weight; and as for the songs, they were strange affairs, the melodies too difficult for anybody to sing, and the piano accompaniments quite impossible for any one to play! As the publishers thus proved unmanageable, some of Schubert's friends had the Erl King engraved and printed by subscription, and about the same time the song was first heard at Vienna in a public concert, with the accompaniment played by the composer himself. It was in this year, as already observed, that Vogl began giving concerts in which these songs took a prominent place. In the course of a few months seven groups of Schubert's songs were published on commission, and their success was such that publishers were afterward ready to go on at their own risk. Of new compositions this year saw the completion of the beautiful "Gesang der Geister über den Wassern" for four tenors and four basses, with accompaniment of two violas, two 'cellos, and double-bass. There was also the seventh symphony, for the most part a sketch, but so full of clues that it would not be difficult to complete it according to the original intention. It looks as if the composer had some other work upon his mind at the same time, perhaps the Alfonso and Estrella presently to be mentioned, and could not for the moment wait to fill out all parts of the score, but made very complete indications so as to be sure of recovering his former thoughts on returning to it. Among this year's songs are some that rank very high, as the two Suleikas and the "Geheimes" to Goethe's words, the "Lob der Thränen" and "Sey mir gegrüsst." All these are outdone, however, by the "Frühlingsglaube," written in 1822, to Uhland's words, a song which for artistic perfection is absolutely unsurpassed.
The rapid development of Schubert's maturity in 1822 is exhibited in the two movements of his eighth symphony in B-minor, now commonly called the Unfinished Symphony. It was written for the Musikverein at Gratz, which had lately elected him an honorary member. Why it was presented to the society while still half-finished does not clearly appear. The first two movements were completed and the scherzo partly sketched. It is now more often played and better known than any of his other symphonies except the great tenth, in C major, presently to be mentioned. There is greater conciseness of expression, and in the opinion of some critics, even more grandeur and beauty in the Unfinished Symphony than in the Tenth. Here for the first time in an orchestral work Schubert appears as a completely independent master. In his earlier symphonies, as in Beethoven's first and second, one always feels the dominant influence of Haydn and Mozart. In his sixth symphony, composed in 1817, we begin to see the influence of Beethoven, for whom he was already coming to feel the love and adoration that never ceased to occupy his mind even upon his death-bed. In the Unfinished Symphony he takes a new departure, as Beethoven did in his third or Eroica; but this new departure, while it profits by Beethoven, is peculiarly Schubertian; the composer's individuality is as completely expressed in it as in his songs.
We have already had occasion to mention operas or operettas in the lists of our composer's works from year to year. His insatiable yearning to express himself in music was excited whenever he happened to come across an available dramatic poem, good or bad, and sometimes he was fain to content himself with a wretched libretto. Hitherto his music for the stage had been of much less importance than his other compositions, though it hardly need be said that it abounded in beautiful and interesting conceptions. But the increase of maturity just noticed in his orchestral music was also shown in the production of his first grand opera, "Alfonso and Estrella," in 1822, followed by his second and last such work, "Fierabras," in 1823.
Fac-simile of manuscript of first sketch of the Erl King, showing that the change of the right-hand accompaniment into triplets was an afterthought.
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In the autumn of 1821 Schubert and his friend Schober took a bit of vacation among the Styrian Alps, where something suggested a subject for the romantic opera, "Alfonso and Estrella," and Schober wrote a libretto so much better than anything our hero had yet had to work with that it quite made his eyes sparkle. It may be doubted if Don Quixote's housekeeper would have kept back even this libretto from the flames, but of many a musical drama that has solaced the weary mind we may say that it was not made to be analyzed. An opera should be judged not by the element that would instantly evaporate in a logical crucible, but by the opportunities it affords for dramatic situations. In this respect the Schober libretto, though better than Schubert had ever worked with, had its shortcomings; the situations were given, but not wrought up with sufficient dramatic power, so that, in spite of the undeniable dramatic genius of the composer, the general treatment was felt to be more lyric than dramatic. The opera was also regarded as too long, and the accompaniments were pronounced impossible by the orchestras at the Vienna theatres. For these reasons it proved impossible to get it put upon the stage. It was first performed at Weimar in 1854, under Liszt's direction, but was coldly received. At length it was curtailed and simplified by Johann Fuchs, and brought out at Carlsruhe in 1881, and since then it has been performed many times with marked success. The overture, a superb piece of orchestral writing, is often performed at concerts.
This opera was the occasion of a little tiff between Schubert and Weber, who came to Vienna in 1823 to conduct his opera "Euryanthe." On hearing that work performed, Schubert said that along with many beauties in harmony and in dramatic treatment it was wanting in freshness and originality of melody, and was on the whole quite inferior to its predecessor, "Der Freischütz." Probably few would dissent from this judgment to-day, but when it was repeated to Weber it naturally irritated him, and he is said to have exclaimed, "The dunce had better learn to do something himself before he presumes to sit in judgment on me." This hasty remark was tattled about until Schubert heard of it, and forthwith, armed with the score of "Alfonso and Estrella," he called upon the famous northern composer, to prove that he had not spoken without knowing how operas ought to be written. After looking through the score Weber ungraciously observed, "You know it is customary for people to drown the first puppies and the first operas!" Poor health was already making Weber irritable, and this remark was only an expiring flicker of peevishness. He did not regard "Alfonso and Estrella" as a puppy opera, but admired it, and afterward tried, though unsuccessfully, to have it performed in Dresden. The relations between the two composers seem to have been friendly. Indeed Schubert never bore malice to anybody, and it was impossible for any one to harbor an unkind feeling toward him.
Of "Fierabras" it need only be said that the libretto was a bad one, the scene was Spain in the days of Carlovingian romance, the score filled one thousand manuscript pages, and the opera was never performed. The romances, entr'actes, choruses, and ballet music, written this year for the drama of "Rosamunde," rank among the composer's most beautiful works, and are often performed as concert-pieces, though the drama itself has been lost.
During part of this year 1823 Schubert was ill and obliged to go to the hospital. Yet besides all this quantity of operatic music, he composed the cycle of twenty songs known as "Die schöne Müllerin," to the words of Wilhelm Müller, containing the exquisite "Wohin?," "Ungeduld," "Trockne Blumen," and others scarcely less beautiful. Some of these were written in the hospital. As if this were not enough, the same year's list contains "Du bist die Ruh," and "Auf dem Wasser zu singen"; as well as the piano sonata in A minor, Op. 143.
The year 1824 was marked chiefly by piano compositions,—two sonatas and an overture for four hands, besides a vast quantity of dance music, and the "Divertissement à l'hongroise," suggested by an air hummed by the kitchen maid at the Esterhazys' country house, where Schubert spent the summer to recruit his health. There was also a string quartet, and the celebrated octet for strings and wood which is now so familiar. This activity in the sonata form seems to have culminated next year in the ninth symphony, which was almost surely finished about August, 1825, but which has quite disappeared from sight. There were three piano sonatas, besides the fragment of a fourth. Of these the sonata in A minor, Op. 42, must probably be pronounced the greatest of Schubert's works for the piano, showing along with its wealth of inventiveness a mastery of form almost as complete as the best of the songs. Among the grand songs of this year must be mentioned "Die junge Nonne," and the group of seven to Scott's "Lady of the Lake," of which the most famous is the "Ave Maria."
SCHUBERT'S MONUMENT IN VIENNA.—From a photograph.
Our composer's progress toward perfect achievement in instrumental music is marked in 1826 by the two string quartets in G and D minor. The latter is not only Schubert's greatest work in chamber music, but is hardly surpassed by the work of any other composer in this department. At the same time came the piano sonata in G, Op. 78, of remarkable breadth and grandeur. The Shakespeare songs already mentioned belong to this year.
Among the works of 1827 the most memorable was the second grand cycle of songs to words by Wilhelm Müller,—the immortal "Winterreise." These jewels of lyric art, what lover of music will fail to know them, so long as art endures? But a more sombre tone prevails in them than the songster had sustained at such length before. The note of unsatisfied longing, of the strange contrast between the glow of aspiration and the chill reality, is most decisively struck in "Frühlingstraum." In the last of the cycle, the pathetic "Leiermann," the sadness is only heightened by the indescribably delicate and playful humor which hovers about the phrases. To us it may seem as if these lyrics contained a premonition of the end that was not far off; but probably Schubert did not suspect it. His grandest outburst of creative power was yet to come; he was studying his art more earnestly than ever, and in the true spirit of artist or scholar, as if all eternity lay before him, though the dread summons might come to-morrow; in the sweet words of the old monkish distich:—
"Disce ut semper victurus,
Vive ut eras moriturus."
Of worldly sources of strength and comfort this great spirit had so few as to put to shame such weaker mortals as complain of the ways of Providence. Of what is called business and its management he was as innocent as a babe in arms. His reticence, his unwillingness to intrude upon others, often prevented his friends from realizing the straits to which he was reduced. There can be little doubt that even at this later period of life he sometimes suffered from cold and hunger, and it has been thought that his death was hastened by such privations. Salaried positions that he might have creditably filled were given to men with more self-assertion. His attempts at the more marketable forms of music, as opera was then deemed to be, failed from various untoward conditions; and he would sometimes sell for the price of a frugal breakfast a song destined to bring wealth to some publisher. The genial musician, Franz Lachner, declares from personal knowledge that half a dozen numbers of the "Winterreise" were written in a single day and sold for a franc apiece! If Schubert had lived longer there would probably have been an improvement in this state of things. The greatness of his posthumous fame is liable to make us forget that his life was ended at an age when the most brilliant men are usually just beginning to win their earliest laurels. From 1822 to 1828 his reputation was increasing rapidly, and before long would have become so great as probably to work some improvement in his affairs. With time the recognition of his genius was to seize the whole musical world as it seized upon Beethoven.
The story of the relations between these two artists is touching. It seems singular enough that Schubert and Beethoven should have lived in the same city for thirty years without meeting more than once until the very end. By his twentieth year, if not before, the feeling of Schubert for the older composer had come to be little short of adoration. But Beethoven was absorbed in work, and stone deaf withal, and not always easy of approach, and his adorer was timid. Sometimes he came into the café where Schubert was dining and sat down at another table. For a man of the world to get up, step across the room, and open a conversation with the demigod, might seem no very difficult undertaking; for Schubert it was simply impossible. But in 1822 a meeting was at length brought about. His "Variations on a French Air" were published by Diabelli and dedicated to Beethoven, and Diabelli took Schubert with him to the master's house to present the offering in person. Beethoven received the visitors graciously, and paper and pencil for conversation were handed to them as usual, but Schubert was too confused to write a word. Most likely it was Diabelli who handed to Beethoven the Variations and called his attention to the tribute of admiration printed at their head. On looking over the music Beethoven stumbled upon some daring or questionable innovation of style, and in his most kindly manner turned to Schubert to inquire his reason for it, or perhaps to make some mild criticism quite proper from an artist of fifty-two years to one of twenty-five. At this the poor fellow simply lost his head, and with some incoherent exclamation fled into the street. Ah, what chagrin when once safely alone, and the very thing he ought to have said, so neat and telling, popped into his head! But to go back, or to speak to the great man again seemed more than ever impossible.
It was during Beethoven's last illness in 1827 that he first came to know Schubert. Beethoven's friend and biographer Schindler brought him a parcel of Schubert's songs, including the "Schöne Müllerin" group, "Die junge Nonne," and others. Beethoven's astonishment and admiration knew no bounds. He studied the songs with most profound interest, declared that their composer was destined to become a great power in the world, and expressed deep regret that he had not known more about him. Scarcely a day passed without his reverting to the subject, and it must of course have been this that led Schubert to visit him twice. On the first occasion there was some affectionate talk between them; on the second the dying man was no longer able to speak, but only made some unintelligible signs, and Schubert went away bowed down with grief. At the funeral he was one of the torch-bearers, and on the way home from the graveyard he stopped with Lachner and another friend at the Mehlgrube tavern, and they drank a glass of wine to the memory of the mighty master who had left them. Then Schubert proposed a second glass to that one of themselves who should be the first to follow. It was to be himself, and very soon.
VIEW IN CEMETERY AT VIENNA, SHOWING TOMBS OF BEETHOVEN, MOZART AND SCHUBERT.
From a photograph.
An instance of the rapidly growing interest in his music was furnished by the success of a private concert which he gave for his own benefit early in 1828. The programme consisted entirely of his own compositions, the audience was large and enthusiastic, and the sum, equivalent to one hundred and sixty dollars, which that evening brought him, must have given him an unwonted sense of wealth. It was his first and last concert of this sort. For creative work this last year of his life was the most wonderful, and indeed it would be difficult to cite from the whole history of music a parallel to it. The one orchestral work was the colossal tenth symphony in C major, which showed so unmistakably upon whose shoulders the mantle of the dead master had fallen, that it used sometimes to be called "Beethoven's tenth symphony." But there is no imitation of Beethoven or any other master in this work; it is as individually and intensely Schubertian as the Erl King. It was first performed in Vienna about a month after its composer's death, but its technical difficulties caused it to lie neglected and forgotten until 1838, when Robert Schumann carried the score to Leipsic and studied it with Mendelssohn; and it was again given to the world, under Mendelssohn's direction, in the following year. Since then it has been one of the best known and most thoroughly loved of all the symphonies written since Beethoven's, and it ranks undoubtedly among the foremost ten or twelve orchestral masterpieces of the world.
Side by side with this symphony sprang into existence the mass in E flat, the most finished and the most sublime of Schubert's masses, and standing, like the symphony, in the foremost rank of all works of its kind. And along with this came the master's first and only oratorio, "Miriam's Song of Triumph," a noble work, in which, however, Schubert only supported the vocal score with an accompaniment for piano; so that it must be regarded as in this sense incomplete. It has often been performed with orchestration by Lachner, but still needs to be completed by some master more capable of entering into the composer's intention.
Outdoing his earlier self in all directions at once, Schubert wrote in this same year his quintet in C major for strings, which among his works in chamber music is equalled only by the D-minor quartet of 1826. And so, too, with his piano music; besides many other works poured forth at this time, we have three superb sonatas, of which the one in B-flat is dated September 28, less than eight weeks before his death. From all his piano works it would be hard to select one fuller of his peculiar poetical charm. Among the sonatas its only peers are the A minor, Op. 42, and the G major, Op. 78.
In some of the songs of this year the genius of the composer reached a height scarcely attained before. Besides a few others, uncounted drops in this ocean of achievement, there were fourteen, not obviously intended as a cycle, but published in a group, soon after Schubert's death, with the publisher's title, "Swan Songs." It is enough to mention that this group contains the "Serenade," "Aufenthalt," and "Am Meer," matchless for intensity of emotion as for artistic perfection of form. Whichever of this group he wrote last was truly his swan song; it is commonly believed to have been the "Taubenpost," dated in October.
During this last year of marvellous creative activity Schubert had suffered frequently from headache and vertigo. Such cerebral excitement entailed an excessive rush of blood to the head. Early in September he moved from his lodgings with Schober to a house which his brother Ferdinand had lately taken. The situation was near the open country and thought to be more favorable for air and exercise. Unfortunately the house was newly-built and damp; very likely the drainage was defective. Schubert evidently had no suspicion of his dangerous condition, until on the last evening of October, while supping with some friends at the Rothen Kreuz inn, having taken some fish from his plate he suddenly threw down his knife and fork, saying that food had become as odious as poison. This somewhat alarmed his friends, but he was as full of plans for future work as if his health had been robust. On November 3, he took a long walk to attend the performance of a Latin requiem composed by his brother Ferdinand, the last music he ever heard. He had lately begun studying the scores of Handel's oratorios, and had thus become impressed with the fact that in counterpoint he had still much to learn. Though greatly fatigued with his walk on November 3, he went next day to see Sechter, a famous teacher of counterpoint, and made arrangements for taking a course of lessons; the text-book and the dates were settled upon. It is doubtful if Schubert ever went out again. The disturbance of the stomach, which prevented him from taking food, continued, and his strength ebbed away. A letter to Schober on the eleventh says that he can barely get from the bed to a chair and back again; he has been reading the Last of the Mohicans, the Spy, the Pilot, and the Pioneer; and if Schober happens to have anything else of Cooper's, or any other interesting book, he would like to have him send it. Something like typhus fever was setting in. After the fourteenth he was confined to his bed, but was still able to correct the proofs of the "Winterreise." On the seventeenth he became delirious. The next day he complained of having been taken to a strange and dreadful room, and when his brother Ferdinand tried to soothe him with the assurance that he was at home, he replied, "No, it cannot be so; Beethoven is not here!" On the next day there passed away one of the sweetest and truest souls that ever looked with human eyes. He was buried in the Währing cemetery in a grave as near as possible to that of Beethoven. Upon a monument afterward erected at the head of the grave was inscribed the epitaph, by Franz Grillparzer: "Music has here entombed a rich treasure, but still more glorious hopes. Here lies Franz Schubert, born Jan. 31, 1797, died Nov. 19, 1828, aged 31 years." Much fault has been found with the second clause of this epitaph, and Herr Kreissle does not seem to have quite understood it as it was meant. It was true, as Schumann said of him, "He has done enough, and praised be he who, like Schubert, has striven and accomplished." Nevertheless it was equally true that he was cut off while his powers were rapidly expanding, and at a moment when even greater achievement, though difficult to imagine, would have been no more than a logical consequence of what had gone before.
SCHUBERT'S TOMB IN VIENNA.—From a photograph.
Erected to his memory by the Vienna Manner Gesangs-Verein (Male Chorus).
Schubert's personal appearance was not attractive. He was short and round-shouldered, and in his homely face there was nothing to betray the sacred fire within him save the brightness of the eyes. His character was almost without a flaw. Simplicity, modesty, kindness, truthfulness, and fidelity were his marked attributes. He was utterly free from envy or malice, and not a trace of selfishness appears in anything he ever said or did. His life was devoted, with entire disinterestedness, to the pursuit of the noblest aims of art.
Concerning his position in the history of music there is but little question, and the subject admits of a brief statement. The man who died in his thirty-second year, leaving behind him at least eleven hundred and thirty-one such compositions, must surely be called the most prolific of composers, even after allowing for the fact that more than six hundred of these works were songs, and therefore brief. We may safely say, too, that for creative spontaneity such a man can never have been surpassed, perhaps scarcely ever have been equalled. This spontaneous genius found its first and most characteristic expression in vocal song, and it is commonly if not universally agreed that Schubert was the greatest composer of songs that ever lived. In this department of music he marks an era. In him the German Lied reached a plane of development to which it had not attained before him.
The German Lied (i.e. Lay) was originally a Volkslied (i.e. Folk's-lay) or popular melody. The merit of popular melody lies largely in its spontaneity. In German popular melody, from the oldest times, the merit of beauty has been added to that of spontaneity, inasmuch as the Germans, like the Slavs, are naturally musical in a sense in which English-speaking people are not. No German-speaking people would tolerate for a national air such a tune as Yankee Doodle. In the plainest German folk-song may be found spontaneous simplicity without vulgarity. Hence the Volkslied has been available as a source of melodic suggestiveness to German composers. It is one such chief source, the Gregorian chant being the other. To the presence of this folk-song element we may largely ascribe the far higher poetic quality of German classical music as compared with the more prosaic musical declamation of the modern French and Italians.
But as the earlier German composers subjected the Volkslied to elaborate contrapuntal treatment, while on the one hand they added to its range and depth of expression, on the other hand they deprived it to some extent of its indescribable charm. Artistic music began to be divorced from the Volkslied, and with the advance of musical education the latter seemed to be falling into decay. But with the revival of German literature which dates from Lessing, there began a new development of national spirit among Germans, of which we have seen the culmination in our own time. One of the early symptoms was the introduction of the Volkslied element into poetry by Herder and Goethe. About the same time we find the same element appearing in the thematic treatment of symphonies, sonatas, and string quartets by Haydn and Mozart, especially in the adagios. In Mozart's songs there is a great development in dramatic treatment, as for example, in "Unglückliche Liebe." The nearest approach made by Mozart to the kind of song afterward developed by Schubert was probably in "Das Veilchen," the only one of his songs set to Goethe's words. As Mozart was pre-eminently a musical dramatist, so was Beethoven first and foremost a symphonist; and in his songs the most noticeable new feature is the enrichment of the harmonies and the profound increase of significance in the instrumental accompaniments. We see this in the magnificent "Adelaide," which, however, resembles an aria rather than a genuine Lied. In some parts of Beethoven's exquisite cycle, "An die ferne Geliebte," he comes nearer to the Schubertian form of song.
Now in Schubert all the elements of intensity, power, and poetical depth in song are found united as never before in such perfection or on such a scale. The breadth and vigor of dramatic treatment, the profound and subtle harmonic changes, the accumulation of effect by the rhythm and sometimes by the independent melodic themes of the accompaniment, are all to be found in his songs; and at the same time the perfect spontaneity and the indescribable poetical fragrance of the Volkslied are fully preserved. Utterances that spring from the depth of the human soul are clothed in the highest forms of art without losing their naiveté. We must thus rank Schubert among the most consummate masters of expression the world has ever seen. His songs represent the high-water mark of human achievement in one direction, as Beethoven's symphonies represent it in another. All subsequent composers, beginning with Mendelssohn and Schumann, have been pupils of Schubert in song-writing, but no one has yet equalled the master. Mendelssohn's songs, while perfect in form and bewitching for grace, are far inferior to Schubert's in intensity of passion. On the other hand Schumann has written some songs—such as "Frühlingsnacht," "Ich grolle nicht," the "Frauenliebe" cycle, and others—which for concentrated fire, as well as for original and magnificent harmonies—almost surpass those of Schubert; but in wealth of imagination, in spontaneity and variety, he remains distinctly inferior to his master.
In thus carrying the Lied to the highest point of development it has yet reached, Schubert became one of the chief sources of inspiration for modern music in all its departments. The influence of his conception of the Lied is to be seen in all his most highly developed and characteristic writing for piano, for orchestra, and for chorus. In his earlier symphonies, quartets, and sonatas he was strongly influenced by his study of Mozart, and his own individuality is by no means so distinctly asserted as in his songs. If the sonata form of expression were as easily caught as the simple song form, this need not have been the case. After Schubert had mastered the sonata form so that it became for him as easy a vehicle of spontaneous expression as the Lied, his sonatas and symphonies became strongly characteristic and replete with originality. This is exemplified in his eighth and tenth symphonies, in his piano sonatas, Op. 42 and Op. 78, and in his later chamber music. In such compositions he simply worked within the forms perfected by Beethoven and did nothing to extend them. But his musical individuality, saturated with the Lied, impressed upon these noble works features that have influenced all later instrumental music, imparting to it a more romantic character. As Mr. Paine observes, "we are constantly surprised by the sudden and abrupt modulations, rhythmical effects of melody and accompaniment which we call Schubert's that give variety and life to his movements. The Unfinished Symphony in B minor is perhaps the most noteworthy in these respects; it is the epitome of his genius, and well typifies his own unfinished but perfect life."
In similar wise, in his smaller works for piano—his impromptus, "moments musicals," dances, marches, variations, etc.—we see the marked influence of the Lied. The impromptu in G major, Op. 90, for example, is a "song without words." In piano music not only Mendelssohn and Schumann, but also Chopin, drew copious inspiration from Schubert, who thus stands as one of the principal founders of the modern imaginative and romantic schools.
We have seen that the Erl King was at first coldly received. It marked a new departure in the dramatic treatment of musical themes; the ears of the listeners were not taught to expect such treatment; they were disturbed by the intensity of passion and bewildered by the boldness of the harmonies. In particular at the superb discord where the child cries that the Erl King is seizing him—where the G flat of the voice comes against the rushing triplets on F natural in octaves resting upon E flat in the bass—much doubt was expressed, and the worthy Ruzicka's ingenuity was somewhat taxed to explain and justify such a combination. But indeed since the beginning of this century the modern ear has received a remarkable education in appreciating the use and beauty of dissonances. Schubert's treatment of the Erl King ballad was at first disapproved by Goethe himself; as he said, "it did not agree with his view of the subject." But Goethe's opinions on musical matters were of small value; the range of his appreciativeness was in this direction narrowly limited. He was fond of the worthy old Zelter, who set to music more than a hundred of his songs. Of these Goethe said "he could scarcely have believed music capable of producing such delicious tones." Zelter's music was certainly not without merit, and his setting of the "König im Thule" is still sung and deservedly admired; but to go from Zelter to Schubert required a sorcery more potent than that which brought Helen of Troy to become the bride of mediæval Faust. At any rate Goethe found it so. Toward the end of his life, when he heard the Erl King sung with its full dramatic effect by Madame Schröder-Devrient, he acknowledged its power, but it was probably the superb woman and her style of singing that moved him rather than the music. At one time the modest Schubert, at the instigation of some friend, ventured to send to the great poet some of the settings of his songs accompanied by a letter tremulous with awe. But Goethe never answered the letter, and apparently took no notice of the music. "Neither in Goethe's works," says Kreissle, "nor in his correspondence with Zelter, nor in his conversations with Eckermann, do we find a syllable in connection with Schubert's name." Little did either the poet or the musician realize that throughout all future time their names were to be inseparably associated. It was the poems of Goethe that inspired Schubert with some of his most beautiful and sublime conceptions. He set sixty-seven of them to music, and of the whole number there is perhaps not one in which we do not feel that the song of the greatest of German poets has been invested with a higher spiritual life by the music of the most poetical composer the world has seen. How full of the most delicate fragrance of poetry are the lines "Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh," etc.! but when one has once associated them with Schubert's music, one feels that to break this association (were it possible) and return to the verses pure and simple would be a far greater descent than from poetry to prose.
In spite of the startling originality already evinced in the Erl King, we find a decided conservatism alleged for some of Schubert's musical judgments at this youthful period. It was a time when Beethoven was still by many people regarded with suspicion as a reckless innovator upon the orthodox forms and methods. Since the middle of the century, indeed, one has often heard some of the magnificent works of Beethoven's third period, including his four latest piano sonatas and some of his quartets, set down as eccentric vagaries instead of being comprehended in their true light as the ripe fruits of his most consummate artistic maturity. At the beginning of the century more or less opposition was excited even by the earlier works of Beethoven which transgressed the limits of expression within which Haydn and Mozart had been confined. Schubert was at that time a friend and to some extent a pupil of the Venetian composer, Antonio Salieri, conductor of the choir in the Emperor's chapel. Salieri gave Schubert more or less instruction in thorough-bass and used to correct and criticise his compositions. He advised him not to waste his time over ballads and lyrics by Goethe and Schiller, but to set to music by preference the old and formal Italian stanzas. Another piece of advice, as applied to the inexhaustible Schubert, is deliciously grotesque; Salieri thought he had better "husband his resources of melody." There is a point of view, as we shall presently see, from which a grain of sound sense can be descried in such counsel; but these incidents sufficiently indicate Salieri's conservatism of temperament. He wrote about forty operas, a dozen oratorios and cantatas, and a quantity of miscellaneous vocal and and instrumental works, not without merit, all of which have virtually sunk into oblivion. In June 1816 there was a jubilee festival to celebrate Salieri's residence of fifty years in Vienna, and many compositions of his pupils, written especially for the occasion, were produced. The music ended with a chorus from Salieri's oratorio, "Christ in Hades," in which the composer had caught some of his inspiration from Gluck. After returning from the performance, Schubert wrote that same evening in his diary as follows:—"It must be pleasant and invigorating to the artist to see his pupils gathered about him, every one striving to do his best for his master's jubilee feast; to hear in all their compositions a simple and natural expression, free from all that bizarrerie which prevails with the majority of composers of our time, and for which we are in the main indebted to one of our greatest German artists; free, I say, from that bizarrerie which links the tragic with the comic, the agreeable with the repulsive, the heroic with the whimpering, the most sacred themes with buffoonery,—and all without discrimination; so that the hearers are goaded to frenzy instead of dissolving in love, and tickled into senseless laughter rather than raised toward heaven. The fact that this miserable bizarrerie has been proscribed and exiled from the circle of his pupils, so that their eyes may rest on pure, holy Nature, must be a source of lively satisfaction to the artist who, with a Gluck for a pioneer, has learned to know Nature, and has clung to her in spite of the most unnatural influences of our day."
Fac-simile letter from Schubert, to committee of Austrian Musical Society which accompanied his score of the C-minor symphony. Original in possession of the "Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde" in Vienna.
Now the person here mentioned as "one of our greatest German artists" can hardly be any other than Beethoven, and the following clauses, in which the bizarrerie ascribed to him is defined, give expression to the stock objections that were urged in those days, by an unintelligent public and by musicians of narrow vision, against his music. Did the youthful Schubert mean to echo and approve these shallow criticisms? Sir George Grove seems to think so, and quotes from the same diary a passage, dated three days earlier, in which most intense love and admiration is expressed for Mozart's music; from which it is inferred that there can be no doubt to which of the two great masters Schubert was most strongly attached at that time. Kreissle, on the other hand, without offering any explanation of the passage above quoted, simply comments on it as a series of "somewhat misty and confused remarks."
In those days there was nothing strange in a young musician, even if endowed with vast powers of comprehension, finding Mozart always satisfactory and Beethoven sometimes unintelligible. That was one of the musical limitations of that particular moment in the history of music. If the entry in Schubert's diary is to be taken seriously, it is only one among many illustrations of the difficulty which one creative genius often finds in comprehending the methods and results of another creative genius. But in Schubert's case there is some improbability in such a view. His early symphonies and string quartets, indeed, show that the influence of Haydn and Mozart was at that time quite masterful with him, while the influence of Beethoven was comparatively slight. But he had already spoken of Beethoven in terms of most enthusiastic and reverent admiration; and it is not easy to believe that at the age of nineteen the composer of the Erl King could have seriously repeated the crude stock objections that were urged against the composer of the C-minor symphony by old fossils like Salieri. The entry in Schubert's diary is redolent of irony, and was probably intended as a harmless vent for his satirical amusement at the foibles of the kindly old master who tried to repress his youthful exuberance and advised him not to meddle with German ballads. This kind of humor without bitterness was eminently characteristic of Schubert.
Schubert's one fault was one to which allusion has already been made. As is so often the case, it was closely connected with his chief attribute of strength. His unrivalled spontaneity often led him into diffuseness. Melodies tumbled forth in such lavish profusion as to interfere with the conciseness of his works and mar their artistic form. This is chiefly true of his earlier instrumental works. It is not often the case with his vocal songs. There his musical creativeness is constrained into perfection of form through his completely adequate poetical conception of the words. From the Erl King to "Am Meer" his greatest songs are remarkable for saying just enough and knowing exactly when to stop. It is noticeable that he very seldom repeats the same verbal phrases, with changes of melody or harmony, as is customary in arias. In the arias, as well as in the grand choruses, of oratorios, cantatas, and operas, such repetition is often of the highest value as leading to an accumulation of sublime or gorgeous effects hardly otherwise attainable. But inasmuch as it is an artificial means of producing effects and would thus interfere with the simple spontaneity of the Lied, it would generally be out of place there. With Schubert the words of the poem are not merely a vehicle for the melody, but poetry and music are fused into such identity that when one has once known them it becomes impossible to separate them. In his earlier instrumental works, however, released from the guidance of the poetical thought expressed in words, Schubert's exuberance of fancy often runs away with him, and takes him into a trackless forest of sweet melodies and rich harmonies from which he finds it difficult to emerge. But in his more mature works we find him rapidly outgrowing this fault and acquiring complete mastery of his resources. In the A-minor sonata, the D-minor quartet, and the last two symphonies, the form is as perfect as the thought; and we are thus again reminded that Schubert, like young Lycidas and others whom the gods have dearly loved, was cut off in his early prime.
So careless of fame was Schubert, so suddenly did death seize him, and so little did the world suspect the untold wealth of music written upon musty sheets of paper tucked away in sundry old drawers and cupboards in Vienna, that much of it has remained unknown until the present day. As from time to time new songs, sonatas, trios, or symphonies were brought to light, a witty French journal began to utter doubts of their genuineness and to scoff at the "posthumous diligence" of "the song-writer Schubert." This was in 1839. Schumann was one of the first to bring to light the great merits of Schubert's genius, as we have seen in the case of his Symphony in C major, and his enthusiasm for Schubert knew no bounds. "There was a time," he said, "when it gave me no pleasure to speak of Schubert; I could only talk of him by night to the trees and stars. Who amongst us, at some time or another, has not been sentimental? Charmed by his new spirit, whose capacities seemed to me boundless, deaf to everything that could be urged against him, my thoughts were absorbed in Schubert."
Since then much more has been done toward collecting and editing these wonderful manuscripts, and the thanks of the whole world of music-lovers are due to Sir George Grove for his devoted persistence in this work. Vast as Schubert's fame has come to be, it is probably destined to grow yet greater as his works and his influence are more intimately studied. Few indeed have been the composers who have ever brought us nearer to the eternal fountains of divine music.
The original documents for a biographical sketch, excepting the vast mass of manuscript music, are less abundant than with most other musicians of the highest rank. For this fact several causes may be assigned. Schubert was as careless of fame as Shakespeare. He was shy of disposition and inclined to withdraw himself from the world's gaze. He was not a virtuoso, and was never called upon, like the youthful Mozart, to play the piano or any other instrument before crowned heads, or in the presence of a public wild with enthusiasm; nor did he ever come into prominence as a director or conductor, like Handel and Mendelssohn. There was thus no occasion for him to make long journeys and become personally known to his contemporaries. In the course of his short life, except for a little travelling in rural Styria and Upper Austria, he never went outside of Vienna; and there he was not, like Beethoven, thrown habitually into the society of aristocratic people; his few companions were for the most part of humble station, though some of them in later years were not unknown to fame. The obscurity of Schubert during his lifetime cannot be better illustrated than by the fact that such a kindred spirit should have lived so many years in the same city with Beethoven—and Vienna was not then a large city—before attracting his attention. Nor did Schubert acquire distinction as a musical critic, like Schumann, or leave behind him writings characterized by philosophic acuteness or literary charm. He was simply and purely a composer, the most prolific, all things considered, that ever lived. He poured forth with incredible rapidity, songs, symphonies, sonatas, operas, masses, chamber-music, until sudden death overtook him. A great deal of this music he never heard himself except in his innermost soul; much of it still remained in manuscript forty years after his death; during his life he was known chiefly as a song writer, and in that department his unequalled excellence was recognized by few, while it was too soon for any one to comprehend the significance of his creative work in its relations to the development of modern music. Thus the reputation of Schubert, more than that of any other composer of like eminence, is a posthumous reputation. His existence was too large a fact for mankind to take in until after he had passed away. These facts account for the comparative slightness of biographical material in Schubert's case. There is, nevertheless, material enough to give us an adequate picture of that singularly simple and uneventful life, the details of which are largely comprised in the record of the compositions turned off one after another with bewildering rapidity.
Among biographical sources the first place belongs to the sketch "Aus Franz Schubert's Leben," by his brother Ferdinand Schubert. It was published in Schumann's "Neues Zeitschrift für Musik," 1839, numbers 33-36, and is so good as to make one wish there were much more of it. Between 1829 and 1880 personal reminiscences of Schubert were published by Mayrhofer, Bauernfeld, Schindler, Sofie Müller, and Ferdinand Hiller, bibliographical notes of which are given in Grove's "Dictionary of Music," Vol. III. p. 370. The first attempt at a thorough biography was the book of Kreissle von Hellborn, "Franz Schubert," of which the second edition, published at Vienna in 1865, is an octavo of 619 pages. Though dull and verbose in style, and quite without literary merit, its fullness and general accuracy of information make it a very valuable work. An English translation by Mr. Arthur Duke Coleridge was published by Longmans, Green & Co., in 1869, in 2 vols. 8vo, with an appendix by Grove, containing the results of researches made among Schubert manuscripts in Vienna in 1867. Much slighter works are the biographies by Reissmann (Berlin, 1873), Higgli (Leipsic, 1880), Frost (London, 1881), and the article in Wurzbach's "Biographisches Lexicon" (Vienna, 1876). The article by Sir George Grove, in his "Dictionary of Music" (London, 1883), for critical accuracy and thoroughness of information leaves little to be desired. There are also many excellent and profoundly appreciative notices of Schubert and his works scattered through Schumann's "Gesammelte Schriften über Musik und Musiker," 2ᵉ Aufl., Leipz., 1871. From the sources thus enumerated, as well as from a long study of Schubert's songs and piano music and an acquaintance more or less extensive with his other works, the foregoing sketch has been prepared.
Erl King. Pilgrim. Opera—"The Domestic War." Diana. The Fisher. FRESCO IN VIENNA OPERA HOUSE.—From a photograph.
LUDWIG SPOHR
Reproduction of a lithograph portrait by Schlick, made in 1855, Spohr being then in his seventy-second year.
LUDWIG SPOHR
UDWIG SPOHR, celebrated as a composer and as a violinist, was born on April 25, 1784, at Brunswick. His father, a physician, and his mother both had musical inclinations, the former being a flute player and the latter a pianist and singer. They left Brunswick when Ludwig was two years old and went to Seesen, where the early childhood of the future composer was passed. The boy's musical gifts made themselves known early in life and he sang with his mother when he was only four years old. According to his own story in his autobiography, he began to play the violin without instruction at the age of five. He must have shown some talent, for he was turned over to Herr Riemenschneider for instruction. In a short time he was allowed to practise music with the family in the evenings and with his parents performed trios by Kalkbrenner for violin, flute and piano.
About the year 1790 or 1791, Dufour, a French violinist, arrived at Seesen and the boy, having heard him play, did not rest until he became the Frenchman's pupil. Dufour perceived the child's great gifts and persuaded Dr. Spohr to abandon the idea of educating his boy in medicine, and to decide to make a musician of him. While studying with Dufour, Spohr made his first crude attempts at composition, even beginning an opera, which, however, went no further than an overture, a chorus and an aria. Dufour advised that the child be sent to Brunswick to continue his studies. At Brunswick he lived in the house of one Michaelis, a rich baker, and studied the violin under Kunisch, of the Ducal orchestra, and counterpoint under Hartung, an old organist. Hartung was very severe with his young pupil and scratched out so much that the boy felt that none of his ideas were left. However, the ill health of the organist brought the lessons to an end in a few months, and this was all the instruction in theory that Spohr ever received. He now continued his studies by reading scores, which Kunisch obtained for him from the theatre library. He made such progress that he appeared at one of the concerts of the Catherine School with a violin composition of his own. His success was such that he was invited to play at the subscription concerts of the Deutsche Haus and was allowed to play for practice in the theatre orchestra, where he became acquainted with much good music.
He was now, by the advice of Kunisch, put under the instruction of Maucourt, the leading violinist of Brunswick. A year later the young violinist set out for Hamburg with a few letters of introduction and a determination to appear as an artist. He failed, however, to get a hearing, and his money being exhausted, he set out on foot to return to Brunswick. In his despair he determined to make a personal appeal to the Duke of Brunswick, to whom he drew up a petition and presented it when he met the nobleman, walking in his park. The Duke asked who had worded the petition. "Well, who but I myself?" answered Spohr; "I need no help for that." The Duke said: "Come to the palace tomorrow at eleven; we will then speak further about your request." Upon which the boy departed quite happy. The Duke questioned Maucourt about Spohr's ability, and when the lad called the next day told him that he was to play one of his own compositions at the next concert in the apartments of the Duchess. His performance so pleased the Duke that the nobleman promised him instruction under competent masters and appointed him chamber musician, Aug. 2, 1799. Spohr's salary was small, but it made him independent, and enabled him to take his younger brother, Ferdinand, to live with him.
At first the young chamber musician heard a good deal of French music, but an operatic company from Magdeburg introduced him to Mozart's music, and he says in his autobiography, "Mozart now became for my lifetime my ideal and model." He spent whole nights studying the scores of "Don Giovanni" and "Die Zauberflöte." Now, too, he played chamber music and first learned Beethoven's quartets. Finally the Duke asked him to select a teacher among the great violinists of the day. He at once named Viotti, but he had given up music for the business of selling wine. Ferdinand Eck was the next choice, but he declined to receive pupils. Francis Eck, his younger brother, accepted the Duke's offer and Spohr was sent with him to St. Petersburg, where he had engagements to fill. They left Brunswick on April 24, 1802. Owing to Eck's engagements his instruction of Spohr was irregular, but the boy gained much instruction from constantly hearing him. The young violinist was very industrious, often practising ten hours a day, composing considerably, and painting for recreation. While on this tour he wrote his first published violin concertos, Opus 1, A minor, and Opus 2, D minor, and the "Duos Concertants" for two violins, Opus 3. In St. Petersburg he met Clementi, Field and many minor musicians, and played frequently in chamber-music rehearsals. He also wrote in 1803 for Breitkopf and Härtel, the eminent Leipsic publishers, an article on the state of music in Russia. He returned to Brunswick in the summer of that year and heard Rode for the first time. He gave a public concert which pleased the Duke and resumed his duties as a member of the orchestra.
In 1804 he started for Paris with his fine Guarnerius violin, given him by Remi, a Russian violinist. Just outside of Göttingen it was stolen from the carriage. Spohr returned to Brunswick and with the Duke's help got another violin. Then he made a tour, playing in several German cities, including Leipsic, Dresden and Berlin, in the last place having the assistance of Meyerbeer, then a clever pianist thirteen years old. In 1805 Spohr became leader of the Duke of Gotha's band. He married Dorette Schneidler, a harp-player, and wrote for her and himself some compositions for harp and violin. He wrote his first opera, "Die Prüfung," which reached a concert performance. With his wife in 1807 he visited Leipsic, Dresden, Munich, Prague, Stuttgart, Heidelberg and Frankfort. His second opera "Alruna" was written in 1808, but it was never performed, though accepted at Weimar. In this year Spohr went to Erfurt to see Napoleon's congress of princes, but found that ordinary human beings like himself could not enter the theatre which they attended in the evenings. He persuaded the second horn player in the orchestra to allow him to take his place and practised on the horn all day. In the evening, being forbidden to stare at the august audience, he viewed the assembled potentates in a small mirror which he had taken with him for that purpose.
The year 1809 is important in Spohr's history for two reasons. While making a tour he received at Hamburg a commission for an opera, "The Lovers' Duel," and at Frankenhausen in Thuringia he conducted the first music festival in Germany. For the second of those festivals in 1811 he wrote his first symphony in E flat. The opera was also finished in the winter of 1810-1811. His first oratorio, "Das jüngste Gericht," was written for the Fête Napoleon at Erfurt and produced there Aug. 15, 1812. It was in the composition of this work that he found himself hampered by his lack of skill in counterpoint. He bought Marpurg's work and studied it. But Spohr was dissatisfied with his opera and with his oratorio. He felt that he was too much under the dominance of Mozart, and resolved to free himself from that master's influence. He says in his autobiography that in "Faust" he was careful to avoid imitating Mozart.
In 1812 he made his début at Vienna as violinist and composer with such success that the leadership of the orchestra at the Theatre an der Wien was offered to him. The conditions were very favorable, so he gave up his position at Gotha and betook himself to the Austrian capital. There his duties were burdensome, but he was in the musical centre of Europe. He met Beethoven, and was on terms of friendship with that great master, whose genius, however, he did not fully appreciate. Among his treasures when he left Vienna was a canon for three voices on some words from Schiller's "Maid of Orleans" written for him by Beethoven. Spohr's "Autobiography" contains some interesting anecdotes about Beethoven's conducting.
Spohr's Viennese sojourn was successful, but on account of disagreements with the manager of the theatre he left the city in 1815, and made a visit to Prince Carolath in Bohemia. His next musical undertaking was the conduct of another festival at Frankhausen. His cantata, "Das befreite Deutschland," was there produced. He afterward went on a tour through Germany, Switzerland and Italy, and his eighth violin concerto ("Scena Cantante") was written to please the public of the last-named country. In Italy he met Rossini, whom he never admired as a composer. He also met Paganini, who treated him with much courtesy.
Fac-simile of letter from Spohr deploring the death of his wife, in 1834.
In 1817 he returned to Germany. While travelling and giving concerts with his wife, he received an offer from Mr. Ihlée, director of the theatre at Frankfort, to become conductor of the opera there. He accepted the offer and at once set out for his new post. One of his first acts was to obtain the consent of the managers to the production of his opera "Faust" which he had written in Vienna five years before. He says, "At first, it is true, it pleased the great majority less than the connoisseurs, but with each representation gained more admirers." His success encouraged him to new dramatic attempts, and he set to work on an operatic version of Appel's "Der schwarze Jäger" (The Black Huntsman). He soon learned, however, that Weber was at work on the same subject, and he abandoned his opera. While looking for a new libretto he wrote the three quartets, Opus 45. In September, 1818, he began work on his "Zemire und Azor," of which the text had been previously used by Grétry in his "La Belle et la Bête." Disagreements with the managers of the Frankfort theatre caused him to resign his post there in September, 1819.
In 1820 he visited England at the invitation of the Philharmonic Society of London. His début was made at the opening concert of the season, March sixth, when he played with much success his Concerto No. 8. At the next concert he was to have appeared as leader. "It was at that time still the custom there," he says in his autobiography, "that when symphonies and overtures were performed, the pianist had the score before him, not exactly to conduct from it, but only to read after and to play in with the orchestra at pleasure, which when it was heard, had a very bad effect. The real conductor was the first violin, who gave the tempi, and now and then when the orchestra began to falter, gave the beat with the bow of his violin." Spohr induced Ries, the pianist, to let him make an experiment, and he conducted, after overcoming the opposition of the directors, with a baton, for the first time at one of these concerts. The success of the new method was so great that the old way went out forever. His symphony in D minor was produced at this concert, and at the last concert of the season another of his symphonies was heard for the first time in England. At his last concert, his wife, who had been since her arrival in England busily engaged in mastering the Erard double action harp (she had before played the single action instrument), appeared and was much applauded. Her health subsequently failed, and she died in 1834. Spohr married a second time in 1836. His second wife was Marianne Pfeiffer, the elder of the two daughters of the Chief Councillor of Cassel. She was a good pianist and played together with Spohr with considerable success. She died Jan. 4, 1892.
Spohr visited Paris for the first time on his way home from England. In the French capital he made the acquaintance of Kreutzer, Cherubini, Habeneck and other eminent musicians, all of whom received him with courteous consideration and showed a warm interest in his music. He gave a concert at the Opera with satisfying success. Cherubini was particularly pleased with his work, and Spohr tells with pride how the old martinet of the Conservatoire made him play one of his quartets three times. Spohr returned to Germany and took up his residence in the artistic city of Dresden, where he found Weber engaged in producing "Der Freischütz," already a pronounced success in Vienna and Berlin. Weber was offered the post of Hof-Kapellmeister by the Elector of Cassel, but he declined it because he did not wish to leave Dresden. He warmly recommended Spohr, who received the appointment, accepted it, and on Jan. 1, 1822, entered upon his duties in the city which was to be his home for the rest of his life. The first new work studied there under his direction was his own "Zemire und Azor," which was produced on March 24, and repeated several times in the course of the year. His family arrived at Cassel in March, and he settled down in the domestic circle and began the composition of "Jessonda," which he finished in December, 1822. In a letter written in January, 1823, he says: "I have been latterly so much engaged upon a new opera that I have somewhat neglected everything else. It is now ready, and I am right glad to have completed so important a work. If I expect more from this opera than from the earlier ones, it is because of my greater experience, and the inspiration I felt in the study of almost every number of the successfully written libretto." The opera was produced on the birthday of the Elector, July 28, 1823, and was at once successful. Spohr writes (Aug. 2, 1823): "This work has made me very happy, and I have reason to hope that the opera will please much in other places."
Reproduced from a lithograph portrait drawn by W. Pfaff.
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At this time Spohr continued the composition of chamber music and formed a quartet, consisting of himself, Wiele, solo violinist of the court orchestra, Ferdinand Spohr, viola, and Haseman, 'cello. About this time, too, he wrote the first of his four double quartets, which were then a great novelty. He visited Leipsic and Berlin to conduct first performances of "Jessonda," which in both cities achieved great success. In 1824, he enjoyed the society of Mendelssohn during the winter in Berlin. Returning to Cassel he wrote his opera "Der Berggeist," which was produced at the marriage of the Elector's daughter on Mar. 23, 1825, and was well received.
In the same year Rochlitz, editor of the Leipsic Music Journal, offered him the text of the oratorio, "The Last Judgment," and he set to work on it at once. The oratorio was produced in the Lutheran church of Cassel, on Good Friday, Mar. 25, 1826, and made a deep impression. In 1827, he produced another opera, "Pietro von Albano," which in spite of Meyerbeer's enthusiastic praise, had little success. In 1831, he finished his "Violin School," a book of instruction which is still held in esteem though not regarded as the best. In 1832, political disturbances, in which Spohr played the radical and offended the Elector, interrupted the opera performances at Cassel for a long time, and the artist devoted his time to oratorio and instrumental composition. In 1832 he wrote his most noted symphony, "The Consecration of Tones," and in 1834 he was at work on his "Calvary," which was produced at Cassel on Good Friday, 1835. He went to England a second time in 1839, to conduct "Calvary" at the Norwich Festival. The success of the work was so great that he was commissioned to write "The Fall of Babylon" (the book by Edward Taylor) for the Norwich Festival of 1842. In 1840 he conducted a festival at Aix-la-Chapelle, and in 1842 he produced Wagner's "Der Fliegende Holländer" at Cassel.
He had heard much in its praise from Dresden, and having read the work was at once pleased with it. In writing to a friend he said: "It interests me, nevertheless, in the highest degree, for it is written apparently with true inspiration—and unlike so much of the modern opera music, does not display in every bar the striving after effect, or effort to please. There is a great deal of the fanciful there-in; a noble conception throughout; it is well-written for the singer; enormously difficult, it is true, and somewhat overcharged in the instrumentation, but full of new effects, and will assuredly, when it once comes to be performed in the greater space of the theatre, be thoroughly clear, and intelligible.... I think I am so far correct in my judgment, when I consider Wagner as the most gifted of all our dramatic composers of the present time." This opinion of Spohr's is creditable to his judgment as a musician and his generosity as a man. He worked hard and gave a performance which pleased the public. He wrote to Wagner of the success of his work and received from the young composer one of his characteristic letters of gratitude.
The Elector of Hesse-Cassel, unmoved even by a monster petition headed with the name of Lord Aberdeen, declined to permit Spohr to go to England, and conduct the "Fall of Babylon" at the Norwich Festival. The oratorio was produced without his assistance and was highly successful. He went to England, however, at the beginning of his summer vacation and gave some profitable concerts. In 1844 he brought forward his last opera, "Die Kreuzfahrer" ("The Crusaders"). For this he had arranged his own libretto from a play by Kotzebue. The success of the opera, performed at Cassel and Berlin, was brief. He made a trip to Paris, where the Conservatoire orchestra honored him with a special performance of his "Consecration of Tones." He conducted the "Missa Solemnis" and the Ninth Symphony at the Beethoven Festival at Bonn, in the same year. In 1847 he again visited London, when his "Fall of Babylon," "Last Judgment," "Lord's Prayer," and Milton's eighty-fourth psalm were presented in three concerts by the Sacred Harmonic Society. In the same year the twenty-fifth anniversary of his assumption of the directorship at Cassel was celebrated by a performance of excerpts from his operas.
The revolutionary events of 1848 interrupted Spohr's flow of compositions. He felt, as he wrote to his friend Hauptmann, that "the excitement of politics and the constant reading of newspapers incapacitated him from giving his attention to any serious and quiet study." In 1849, while recovering from an illness caused by a fall on the ice, he planned his ninth symphony, "The Seasons," which he wrote shortly after his recovery. He went to Breslau in the hope of hearing Schumann's "Genoveva," but owing to delays heard only some rehearsals. During his two weeks' stay in Breslau, honors were heaped upon him. Banquets were given, concerts of his music were arranged, and his opera "Zemire und Azor" was performed at the theatre. In 1850 he was made to suffer from court malice. The Elector, probably to chastise him for his radical political ideas, refused him permission to take a summer vacation. He went away without leave, and the result was a lawsuit with the managers of the theatre, which after four years he lost by a technicality.
In 1852, at the invitation of the Covent Garden management, he again visited England to produce his "Faust," which was successfully given on July 15 with Castellan, Ronconi, Formes and Tamberlik in the principal parts. In 1853 Spohr showed once more his respect and consideration for the rising genius of Wagner by devoting his energies to a careful production of "Tannhäuser." The letters of Spohr show that while he heartily sympathized with Wagner's irresistible sincerity of purpose and the honesty of his dramatic art, he, like many others, found the new master's manner of writing hard to comprehend. He exclaims in one letter to Hauptmann: "What faces would Haydn and Mozart make, were they obliged to hear the stunning noise that is now given to us for music." Nevertheless Spohr saw the germs of a noble dramatic style in these works of Wagner, and after his successful and artistically admirable production of "Tannhäuser," he turned his attention to "Lohengrin." Owing, however, to the opposition of the Elector and the court, the work was not produced, and, indeed, Spohr never heard it. In the same year (1853) he made his sixth visit to London, conducting three concerts of the New Philharmonic Society, at which, among other things, his own double symphony and Beethoven's ninth were performed. His opera "Jessonda" was put in rehearsal at Covent Garden by Mr. Gye, but Spohr had to return to Cassel before it was produced.
On his return journey he planned his septet for piano, two stringed and four wind instruments, one of his most admired chamber compositions. In 1854 he passed his summer vacation in Switzerland and visited Munich. In 1855 he visited Hanover, where he heard his seventh violin concerto played, as he writes, "in a very masterly manner, by Joachim." On his departure from Hanover the Royal Hanoverian Chapel presented him with a very handsome conductor's baton. In 1856 Spohr became conscious that his productive powers were failing. He wrote two quartets and a symphony, all three of which he condemned, after repeated alterations, to remain in manuscript and silence. In 1857 he made a trip through Holland and returned to Cassel much refreshed. On Nov. 14, much against his inclination, the elector retired him from active duty on a pension of fifteen hundred thalers per annum. He soon became reconciled to his retirement, but two days after Christmas he met with a more serious misfortune in a fall which broke his left arm and rendered him incapable of further violin playing. This was a source of deep grief to him and no doubt prepared his spirit for the final resignation of all earthly joys. How he clung to his artistic endeavors may be seen in a letter to Hauptmann (April 6, 1858) in which he says: "I am now perfectly convinced that I cannot accomplish any great work more. I regret to say that my last attempt of the kind failed, and my requiem remains a fragment; nevertheless, as the subject, as far as the Lachrimosa dies illa, at which I stuck fast, pleases me well, and seems to have much that is new and ingenious in it, I shall not destroy it, as I should like to take it up again, and shall make another attempt to complete it." He devoted half a day to this attempt, but the effort only brought him to a final determination to abandon composition for good and all.
In the beginning of July he went to Prague, when the 50th anniversary of the Conservatory was celebrated by three musical performances, one being of "Jessonda." On the way home he visited Alexandersbad, returning much refreshed. Yet thenceforward his spirits declined; he complained to his wife that he was weary of life because he could no longer do anything. In September, however, he summoned enough interest to go to the Middle-Rhine Festival at Wiesbaden and in October to Leipsic. In December, 1858, he occupied himself once more as a teacher, giving lessons gratis to a poor girl who wished to become a teacher. On April 12, 1859, he made his last appearance as a conductor, directing his own "Consecration of Tones" symphony at a charitable concert by the Meiningen court orchestra. In the course of the summer he made a few short journeys, but could not conceal from himself their evil effects. On Sunday, Oct. 16, a change in his condition became manifest. On retiring that night he expressed to his wife a hope that he should "at length have a good night's rest." In the morning he awoke calm and refreshed in spirit, but his physician at once saw that the end was at hand. He lingered, surrounded by those he loved, till Oct. 22, when at 10.30 in the evening he peacefully passed away. In 1883 a statue was erected to his memory.
Spohr's principal works are as follows: oratorios and cantatas—"Das jüngste Gericht" ("The Last Judgment," first version, 1812), "Die Letzten Dinge" ("The Last Judgment," second version, 1826), "Des Heilands letzte Stunden" ("Calvary," 1835), "Der Fall Babylons" ("The Fall of Babylon," 1841), and "Das befreite Deutschland" ("Free Germany"), MS.; operas—"Die Prüfung" ("The Trial," 1806), "Alruna" (1808), "Die Eulenkönigin" ("The Owl Queen," 1808), "Die Zweikampf mit der Geliebten" ("The Lovers' Duel," 1811), "Faust" (1818), "Zemire und Azor" (1819), "Jessonda" (1823), "Der Berggeist" ("The Mountain Spirit," 1825), "Pietro von Albano" (1827), "Der Alchymist" ("The Alchemist," 1830), and "Die Kreuzfahrer" ("The Crusaders," 1845); church music—mass for five solo voices and two five-part choruses, opus 54: three psalms for double chorus and soli, opus 85; hymn, "Gott du bist gross" ("God thou art great"), for chorus, soli and orchestra; symphonies—No. 1, E flat, opus 20; No. 2, D minor, opus 49; No. 3, C minor, opus 78; No. 4, "Consecration of Tones," F, opus 86; No. 5, C minor, opus 102; No. 6, "Historical symphony," G, opus 116; No. 7, "The Earthly and Heavenly in Men's Lives," for two orchestras, C, opus 121; No. 8, G minor, opus 137; No. 9, "The Seasons," B minor, opus 143; eight overtures, 17 violin concertos and concertinas, 15 violin duets, 33 string quartets, 8 quintets, four double quartets, 5 pianoforte trios, 2 sextets, an octet and a nonet, and many songs. Schletterer's catalogue of his works (published by Breitkopf and Härtel) carries the opus numbers up to 154, many of the opera embracing six compositions, and there are a dozen compositions without opus numbers, among which are some of his operas and oratorios. In all he left over two hundred works, in all fields of composition.
It is difficult for us at this day to fairly estimate the importance of Spohr as a figure in musical history. Dates show us that his finest works chanced to see the light about the same time as the over-shadowing masterpieces of Weber and Mendelssohn. Thus "Faust" produced in 1818, was eclipsed by "Der Freischütz," in 1821, and his "Calvary" (1835) by "St. Paul" (1836). His "Last Judgment" alone had a free field for a time. But though we with over half a century's perspective find the masterworks of Weber and Mendelssohn still in the foreground, while Spohr recedes into the middle distance, the contemporaries of these composers saw them standing apparently shoulder to shoulder at the front of the picture. Spohr's influence upon those who lived when he did was very considerable, and, more than that, there are certain features of his style, which, it cannot be doubted, presented themselves as attractive models to his immediate followers along the path of musical progress.
Believing himself to be a disciple of Mozart, and striving to preserve in his writings the suave beauty and sculpturesque repose of the Mozart style, Spohr was at heart a romanticist, was in the vanguard of the new romantic movement in Germany, and established in his compositions some of those peculiarities which have come to be regarded as special characteristics of romantic utterance. While, therefore, he created no school and, except in violin playing, has had no large following, he exercised over his younger contemporaries a discernible influence, which cannot be disregarded. That no one in our time looks to the works of Spohr for models, does not obliterate the fact that he was an influential factor in the development of that romantic school which has given us all that is greatest in music since the death of Beethoven. One critic has well said of him: "Spohr's noble sentimentality and warmth of expression excited during his lifetime all the youth of Germany into an unusual enthusiasm. The composer's influence is now somewhat less than it was, and indeed latterly his productions have been underrated, but as all that is genuine resists momentary bias, Spohr's works are once again coming to the fore. In history, Spohr stands as a most important link between the old and new romantic schools of German tonal art. As a tone-poet he possesses an individuality so strongly marked, and so important an idiosyncrasy, that he cannot like Marschner, Kreutzer, Reissiger, and others, be identified with the school of Weber, but stands almost independent between the last-named master and men like Mendelssohn and Schumann."
Fac-simile of Introduction to Spohr's fourth Double Quartette in G minor. Original in possession of the Musical Library at Dresden.
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The special feature of his style, which the critic just quoted calls an "important idiosyncrasy," was his mastery of chromatic modulations. The use of chromatic harmonies is characteristic of the romantic school, its further development being seen in the "Tristan und Isolde" of Wagner. It may be well to add, for the further enlightenment of the lay reader, that chromatic modulation is the secret of that flexibility of style and largeness of tonal atmosphere which are found in Wagner's works; and for the first determined movement in this direction we must thank Spohr. Nevertheless, Spohr's use of chromatic modulations was wholly unlike that of later composers. As Emil Naumann says, "If Salieri is justified in saying of certain composers, who use venturesome skips in their modulations, that they are like a man who jumps through the window when the door is open, we may well say of Spohr that he passes the open door at least six times before he decides upon entering." This circumlocution is unquestionably the result of Spohr's endeavor to place upon his natural impulses the curb of the Mozartean polish. The outcome of his self-restraint is the reduction of his operas to a dead level of sweetness that becomes wearisome.
It was this never-ceasing mellifluous quality that forced itself upon the attention of Chorley and made even that eminent lover of Bellini cry for something else besides candy. Says Chorley: "The most graceful Italian garden, where 'grove nods to grove—each alley has its brother,' is not arranged with a more perpetual reference to reflexion, parallel, reply, repetition, than the largest or the least piece of handiwork put forth by this arithmetically orderly composer. Further, Dr. Spohr's vocal ideas and phrases have, for the most part, a certain suavity and flow, belonging to the good school of graceful cantabile, eminently commendable, when not indisputably charming. But it is difficult, nay, I may say at once, impossible, to cite any motive from his pen, which, by its artless vivacity, seizes and retains the ear; and there are few of his melodies that do not recall better tunes by better men." This sweet level of cantilena undoubtedly also impressed itself on Schumann, who was expressing his admiration of Spohr when he said: "As he looks at everything as though through tears, his figures run into each other like formless, etherial shapes, for which we can scarcely find a name."
In fine Spohr's works reveal to us a man who was deficient in personal force because he was not a creative genius, but who exerted all the influence of an original mind upon his contemporaries because he was wholly at heart and almost wholly in practice in touch with a movement new and absorbing. If Spohr had possessed real creative genius, his devotion to Mozart as a model would have dwindled before the incitements of the movement toward national romanticism which was agitating German literature and art. His yearning toward the freedom and infinite possibilities of chromatic harmonies brought him into direct conflict with the polished symmetry, the veneration for a set form and a conventional distribution of keys, of the classic period of Mozart. Had he been a man of aggressive individuality he would not have made the mistake of putting an intellectual curb on his emotional impulses, but would have spoken according to the promptings of his heart.
But Spohr, though earnest in his purposes and intolerant of all that was not sincere in art, was altogether of too amiable a nature to rudely cross the Rubicon and seize upon the new territory. He was among those who saw the promised land, who felt the embrace of its atmosphere, and who yet hesitated upon the borders. The trumpet call of modern romanticism was sounded in 1821 when Vogl made Schubert's "Erl King" known to Germany, and in the same year Weber thrilled the hearts of his countrymen by giving them a national opera, "Der Freischütz," whose story, like that of Schubert's song, was taken from the folk-lore of the people. Spohr followed these leaders in making use of the national literatures as in "Faust," and the tales of the fireside, as in "Zemire und Azor"; but he emasculated his music in his endeavor to cling to the style of a period which had terminated. What might have been a style leading directly into the restless eloquence of the Wagnerian diction became a "lingering sweetness, long drawn out," and it was reserved for Weber, who had the necessary force, the resistless energy of creative power, to become the founder of true German opera and the artistic progenitor of Richard Wagner.
Wagner showed a warm appreciation of Spohr. He expressed his admiration for the composer in a letter to a Dresden friend written from Paris, in 1860, when he was preparing to produce "Tannhäuser" in the French capital. He wrote thus: "Almost simultaneously I lost by death two venerable men most worthy of respect. The death of one came home to the whole musical world, which deplores the loss of Ludwig Spohr. I leave it to that world to estimate what wealth of power, how noble a productiveness departed with the master's death. To me it is a painful reminder that with him departed the last of that company of noble, earnest musicians whose youth was directly illuminated by the glowing sun of Mozart and who like vestals fed the flame received from him with touching fidelity and protected it against all storms and winds on their chaste hearths. This lovely office preserved the man pure and noble; and if I were to undertake to express in a single phrase what Spohr proclaimed to me with such ineradicable impressiveness, I would say: He was an earnest, upright master of his art. The 'handle' of his life was faith in his art; and his greatest refreshment flowed from the potency of this belief. And this earnest faith emancipated him from all personal pettiness. All that was entirely foreign to him he severely let alone without attacking it or persecuting it. This was the coldness and brusqueness with which he was so often charged. That which was comprehensible to him (and the composer of 'Jessonda' may be credited with a deep, fine feeling for everything beautiful), that he loved and cherished, without circumlocution and with zeal, so soon as he recognized one thing in it—seriousness, a serious intention toward art. Herein lay the bond which attached him in his old age to the new endeavors in art. He could remain a stranger to it, but not an enemy. Honor to our Spohr; venerate his memory! Let us imitate his example."
Another feature of Spohr's music which calls for mention is his predilection for a programme. He was a believer in the ability of the composer to convey his emotions through the medium of absolute music to the hearer. His "Consecration of Tones" symphony, for instance, is an attempt to depict in music the part which music plays in life and nature—an attempt not wholly successful. But these labors give Spohr a place among the founders of modern romantic writing for orchestra, and as such he must be respected. His chamber music is distinguished by the general characteristics of his style, and by a beautiful clearness of construction.
As a composer of violin music and as a performer on the instrument Spohr exercised influence which is still felt. His pupils were Hubert Ries, St. Lubin, David, Bott, Blagrove, Kömpel and C. L. Bargheer, all players of note. David was the teacher of Wilhelmj, whose Doric style preserved all forcible simplicity and repose of the Spohr manner. Spohr's playing was based on the solid principles of the Mannheim school, modified somewhat by the style of Rode, for whom Spohr had a great and well-grounded admiration. But, as we should expect, Spohr in his maturity arrived at the possession of a style which was wholly the product of his own individuality. The fundamental and vital characteristic of his playing was his treatment of the violin as a singing voice. He played with immense breadth and purity of tone, with subtle delicacy of touch, and with exquisite refinement of phrasing. He had no taste for the free style of bowing cultivated by Paganini and was opposed to anything approaching the saltato. He had a large hand and was thus enabled to execute difficult passages of double stopping with accuracy.
Violin technics have been developed so much since Spohr's time that his compositions do not present alarming difficulties to contemporaneous performers. Nevertheless, they were sufficiently difficult at the time of their production, and they remain among the acceptable works for violin. His concertos—at any rate, the best of them—are heard occasionally in concert rooms to-day, not without pleasure, though they are open to those objections which have been made against his operatic and orchestral music. His earlier concertos show the immediate influence of Viotti and Rode, but his later works were the most valuable contribution that had been made to the literature of the violin, except the Beethoven concerto up to the time when Spohr ceased to compose them. Indeed Spohr must be credited with fully as earnest an endeavor to raise the violin concerto from the level of a mere show piece to that of a serious and artistic composition as either Beethoven or Mendelssohn. Paul David has rightly said: "It was mainly owing to the sterling musical worth of Spohr's violin compositions that the great qualities of the classical Italian and the Paris schools have been preserved to the present day, and have prevented the degeneration of violin-playing.... He set a great example of purity of style and legitimate treatment of the instrument—an example which has lost none of its force in the lapse of more than half a century."
FRESCO IN VIENNA OPERA HOUSE.
Illustrating Spohr's Opera "Jessonda."
CARL MARIA VON WEBER
Reproduction of a portrait at the British Museum drawn by C. Vogel, Dresden, 1823, and engraved by C. A. Schwerdgeburth. Weber in his thirty-seventh year.
CARL MARIA VON WEBER
HE plenitude of genius in the classical period of German music has a striking illustration in the rapid succession in the kingship which followed the wresting of the musical sceptre from Italy. Beginning with Bach, there has been no break in the line of succession. Had such a thought occurred to the father of modern music, he might have established a sentimental foundation, a handgrasp, a kiss, or an apostolic laying on of hands, which might have been transmitted down to our day without once leaving the direct and royal line. In the musical succession there is an over-lapping, a concurrence of reigns, nearly all the time. The most significant phrase of this phenomenon is exemplified in the subject of this study. Gluck and Mozart might have come like the good fairies of the nursery tale to kiss him in his cradle. Haydn and Beethoven might have waited till their salutations would inspire his youth. He himself might have blessed the infancy of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Wagner. This it is which helped to give Carl Maria von Weber a position in musical history which now we recognize to be commanding in a sense never realized so fully before. His activities range over the territory through which is drawn the indeterminate line of demarcation between the Classic and Romantic schools. He embodies the spirit of both tendencies, though not in an equal degree. Not only does he touch hands with the kings of the eighteenth century and their successors of the nineteenth, but some of his life threads in the fabric of history were interwoven with theirs. We shall see how in the story of his life.
The influence of heredity has a twofold illustration in this story. The musical talent of Weber and, indeed, the general bent of his artistic predilections were an inheritance. An ardent devotion to music and the drama can be traced back a century in the family from which he sprung. The family belonged to the minor nobility of Austria. Of the tastes and inclinations of the first Freiherr von Weber, who was endowed with the title in 1622, nothing is known. But a brother, who had taken up a residence in Suabia, probably after the loss of the family estates in the Thirty Years' War, was musical. He was the ancestor of Fridolin Weber, who, in turn, was the father of several daughters who would have merited a paragraph in the annals of music had they not won a page through the circumstance that Mozart fell in love with one, Aloysia, and married another, Constance. Franz Anton von Weber, a brother of this Fridolin, was the father of Carl Maria, who through Constance became cousin by marriage to Mozart. The brothers, though many other things besides, during the latter portion of their existence were, for the purpose of gaining a livelihood, musicians. Fridolin, who had dropped the "von" from his name when Mozart met him in Mannheim, was reduced to the position of a sort of general utility man in the Court Theatre; Franz Anton, who clung to the sign of nobility and conveyed other titles to himself to which he had less right, enjoyed the distinction of being one of the best viola players of his time and was also an admirable performer upon the double-bass. He even ventured upon the sea of composition with some songs with pianoforte accompaniment, which frail craft bore him up for a considerable time.
Here was one manifestation of the law of heredity; contemplation of the other is less agreeable. From Franz Anton von Weber his son inherited an instability of character which for a time threatened to make shipwreck of his divine gifts. The whole of Franz Anton's life was the career of an adventurer. In his youth he was a titled rake in Mannheim. He became a soldier and was slightly wounded fighting against Frederick the Great at Rosbach. The Elector of Cologne, Clément Augustus, gave him an appointment and on the death of his father-in-law advanced him to the posts which the latter had held—Steward and Court Councillor. From these posts he was dismissed with a small pension by Clément Augustus's successor in the Electorate. It is said that his devotion to music was partly the cause of his dismissal. He was fonder of his fiddle than of his duties, and often went walking in the fields, playing on his viol, his eight children trooping behind him as if he were another Pied Piper. He married into a councillorship and fiddled himself out of it. The Prince-Bishop who appointed him was the gay prelate who "danced himself out of this world into another" and who gave employment to Beethoven's grandfather and father in his court band; the Prince-Bishop who dismissed him was the serious-minded and thrifty Maximilian Frederick, who became the master of Beethoven himself. Those who are fond of delving for remote causes may associate the birth of Weber with this action of Beethoven's patron. Franz Anton, having lost his position and squandered his wife's fortune, started out on a dramatic and musical itinerancy. His wife did not survive her humiliation. He wandered through Germany after three years of service as Chapelmaster to the Bishop of Lübeck and Eutin, and in 1784 found his way to Vienna, where he placed two of his sons under the tuition of Haydn, and a year later married the sixteen-year-old Genoveva von Brenner, a daughter in the family that had given a home to his sons. This delicate flower the adventurer of fifty plucked out of its genial surroundings in the Austrian capital and transplanted to Eutin, whither he now returned to accept the post of town musician, another having meanwhile won the once despised but now coveted chapelmastership. Small wonder that when Carl Maria Friedrich Ernest, the first child of this mistaken marriage was born he should have brought with him into the world a frail and puny body afflicted with a disease of the hip which was the cause of the composer's lifelong lameness.
Concerning the date of Carl Maria's birth there is still controversy. The church records in Eutin give it as November 18, 1786. The date commonly accepted is December 18, 1786. When the boy's first composition was published the father did not hesitate to falsify his age by a year in order to irritate the attention of the cognoscenti. The impulse which prompted what must have seemed a trifling peccadillo to the unscrupulous Franz Anton sprang from an ambition which had long consumed his heart and had been intensified by the marvelous career of his nephew by marriage, Mozart: He wished to figure in the world as father of a prodigy. He had been disappointed in the children of his first marriage who, with finer facilities than Carl Maria ever enjoyed, had turned out to be simply good working musicians. The forcing process which he applied in the case of his youngest son was in no respect beneficial. The boy, too, was ambitious to be a Mozart, but in later life, speaking of his second opera, composed at the age of thirteen, he mentioned the circumstance that he had written the second act in ten days, and added: "This was one of the many unfortunate consequences of the numerous tales of the great masters which made so great an impression on my juvenile mind, and which I tried to imitate." The demand which the father made upon the precocious mind of his son was in reality greater than that made upon the boy Mozart's. Leopold Mozart was an ideal instructor and a man of fine moral fibre. In his exploitation of Wolfgang he never sacrificed the things which make for good in art. He may have been injudicious in fanning the spark of genius so industriously that it burst into the too-fierce flame which consumed his son's life prematurely, but the technical training which Wolfgang enjoyed was sound and thorough. This boon was never accorded to the boy Weber. While his father continued the roving life which began anew a year after Carl Maria's birth, he and his son Frederick cared for the lad's education. There was no more stability in the life of the family than in that of a gypsy band. Within a dozen years the father figured in one theatrical capacity or another in Vienna, Cassel, Meiningen, Nuremberg, Augsburg, Weimar, Erlangen, Hilburghausen and Salzburg. Only in the last two towns does it appear that he procured proper instruction for the child. Evidently with all his desire to play the rôle of a second Leopold Mozart he mistrusted his son's gifts, for he once contemplated making a painter out of him, and even after he had exhibited noteworthy fruits of the few months of study pursued under Michael Haydn in Salzburg, and Kalcher in Munich, he seemed willing to sacrifice his son's musical talents to the prospect of making money with Senefelder's new invention of lithography, in which both father and son took a keen interest. The influence of such an irresolute life upon the lad's moral character must also have been pernicious. He grew up behind the scenes of a theatre. One can easily imagine the value of the familiarity with the mimic world thus obtained after he had become a dramatic composer, but it fastened a clog upon his talent which he was never quite able to fling off. When a good teacher, who valued his gifts and devoted himself assiduously to their development, was found in Hilburghausen, study had already become irksome to the lad.
Michael Haydn had been his master for only six months when, his mother having died of consumption in March, 1798, he accompanied his father to Vienna and remained there till July. Next came a removal to Munich, and study under Kalcher for composition and Wallishauser (of Valesi, as he called himself) for singing. Even with imperfect cherishing, however, the boy's creative faculty asserted itself. The first of his music which was published consisted of six fughettos written under the eyes of Michael Haydn. Guided by Kalcher he composed an opera, "Die Macht der Liebe und des Weins," a mass and several vocal and instrumental pieces in the smaller forms. All of this music is lost except a set of variations which he dedicated to his teacher and printed himself by the new lithographic method.
WEBER'S BIRTHPLACE IN EUTIN, NORTH GERMANY.
We have written with somewhat disproportionate fullness of the beginning of Weber's career because of the light which the recital throws upon his moral as well as his musical development. Fate had it in store that a lovely character and a genius of high order should emerge from the unsightly and much-abused chrysalis; but before then another decade had to be spent under such circumstances as ordinarily wreck men's souls. In this period the interruptions of the peripatetics which had been the curse of his childhood, were few and comparatively brief. Freiberg, in Saxony, Chemnitz, Salzburg, and Augsburg, were in turn the lad's stopping-places, and a tour was made through Northern Germany. Then came two years of study in Vienna with Abbé Vogler, rewarded by an appointment which the Abbé procured for the youth of seventeen and a half as Capellmeister in Breslau. For two years he performed the duties of this office, and then disaffections and quarrels between him and the citizens who maintained the company led to his resignation. The influence of a pupil got him the title of Musik-Intendant to Duke Eugene of Wirtemberg, which he intended to use for advertising purposes on a concert tour; but war interfered with the plan and he went to Schloss Carlsruhe to participate in the music-making at the Duke's court. The conquest of Prussia by Napoleon in 1807 led the Duke to dismiss his band, but he obtained for Weber the post of Private Secretary to a brother, Duke Ludwig, at Stuttgart. The associations into which this new life threw him were more demoralizing a thousand times than any of his past experiences. The profligacy and immorality of the official and theatrical life of the Suabian capital were notorious throughout Europe. The charm of Weber's mind and manners drew about him many good influences, particularly the friendship of Capellmeister Danzi, but the moral stamina to withstand the temptations which beset him on all hands had not been developed, and he abandoned himself to a course of life which threatened his moral as well as artistic ruin. His boon companions were one of the sirens of the theatre and the members of a coterie known as "Faust's Descent into Hell." From the dangers which beset him he was most rudely rescued. He had incurred the anger of the King while delivering one of the many unpleasant messages of Duke Ludwig, who was the King's brother, and avenged himself for the contumely poured on him by directing an old woman, who had inquired for the Royal laundress, into the King's cabinet. It required the intervention of the Duke to save him from imprisonment, but the King's anger was not appeased, and he soon found occasion to punish Weber for the insult. The misrepresentations of a servant to a citizen from whom Weber borrowed money led the former to believe that the loan would purchase an appointment for his son in the Duke's household and consequent immunity from military service. The appointment not following, Weber was denounced to the King, tried by a process quite as summary as a drum-head court-martial, and banished from Wirtemberg along with his father, in whose behalf the loan had been made. It was the year 1810, and it marks Weber's moral regeneration. He resolved thereafter to devote himself honestly and seriously to the service of his art. His artistic achievements during this decade were scarcely significant enough to outweigh the unhappy incidents of his life. At Freiberg he forgot his father's lithographic schemes long enough to set an opera book written by Ritter von Steinsberg on the familiar folk-tale of the Seven Ravens, entitled "Das Stumme Waldmädchen," which was performed in Freiberg, Chemnitz, Prague and even Vienna and St. Petersburg, without making a decided success. In the course of his second stay in Salzburg he composed "Peter Schmoll und seine Nachbarn," which was brought out with indifferent results at Augsburg. During his trip through Northern Germany he developed a thirst for theoretical knowledge and also a bent toward literature which grew with time, made him a student of the writings of Kant and Schelling, in Stuttgart, and filled his head for a space with thoughts of a critical journal. His choice of Abbé Vogler as a teacher has generally been deplored, but it seems to have been beneficial in this respect, at least, that under the influence of that man of brilliant if superficial talents, he ceased the production of unripe works and took up the analysis of masterpieces and the study of folk-music. The circumstance that his writings for two years are practically summed up in a pianoforte arrangement of the Abbé's opera "Samori" and two sets of variations on themes from that opera and "Castor and Pollux" might be variously interpreted. The Abbé had the gift of attaching young men to himself and was probably not averse to such tributes as his affectionate pupils paid him in the revamping of his ideas; but if Weber's own testimony is to be accepted he must have helped him greatly in the direction where his greatest needs lay. In Breslau he began the composition of "Rübezahl" (text by J. G. Rhode, the managing director of the private company that maintained the theatre), and composed an a Overturn Chinesa," utilizing for the purpose a Chinese melody entitled "Lieu-ye-kin." This overture he remodeled a few years later and prefixed it to Schiller's adaptation of the Italian Gozzi's masque "Turandot" for which he also composed six incidental pieces. How one who was so happy a few years later in the application of local color should have persuaded himself to use a Chinese melody with its characteristic pentatonic scale in an overture to a play based on a Persian subject does not appear. Weber's stay with Duke Eugene was not without profit, though his compositions were chiefly instrumental and, barring two symphonies, in the smaller forms. In Stuttgart where his musical services to Duke Ludwig were confined to instructing his children, he undertook a resetting of "Das Stumme Waldmädchen," the book of which had been worked over by Franz Carl Hiemer, the leading spirit of the dissolute coterie known as "Faust's Höllenfahrt." Weber seems to have spent two years on this work, or rather to have spread it out over two years of time, a circumstance which, when contrasted with the rapidity of his work on his second opera as a lad of thirteen, tells its own tale of the effect of the influences which surrounded him. It was at a rehearsal of this opera, renamed "Sylvana," that the King chose to have him arrested to gratify a petty vengefulness. The work came into new notice in connection with the German celebrations of Weber's centenary in 1886 by reason of a second revision and revival after it had been forgotten for full half a century. This "revision," however, for which Ernst Pasqué and Ferdinand Langer are responsible, is almost if not quite as original a piece of work as that done by Weber in the remodeling of "Das Stumme Waldmädchen." The three-act play is expanded into one of four acts; the dumb maiden is metamorphosed into a particularly brilliant soprano leggiero; a ballet is introduced consisting of the "Invitation to the Dance," which was composed in 1817, and the Polonaise in E-flat which dates back to the Stuttgart period; several of Weber's songs are interpolated (a hint of Widor's having seemingly been acted on), and vocal numbers are constructed out of two sonata movements.
PORTRAIT OF WEBER, IN HIS TWENTY-FOURTH YEAR.
Painted by Jos. Lang, the actor-painter (brother-in-law of Mozart). Engraved by Joh. Neidl.
With the expulsion from Stuttgart Weber's wanderings began again, and for several years, the rest of the time indeed which may be counted in the period preparatory to his entrance upon his estate as a genius conscious of a mission and equipped for its performance, his life is like that of a minstrel knight of old, save for the difference in social and artistic environment. At the very outset of these final peregrinations there is noticeable a sign of his moral regeneration, preceding only by a little most convincing evidences of a determination to make good also the artistic shortcomings due to his desultory early training and his later frivolities. Toward the close of 1810 he wrote in his journal: "I can say calmly and truthfully that I have grown to be a better man within the last ten months. My sad experiences have made me wiser, I am become orderly in my business affairs and steadily industrious." The men whose friendship he cultivated on his travels were worthy of the best he could offer, and he made no more companionships that were hindrances to his growth. In Mannheim, whither he first went with letters from Danzi, it was the theoretician Gottfried Weber who gave him encouragement, help and a friendship that lasted till death. In Darmstadt began a lovely intercourse with Meyerbeer, who was then studying with Vogler, and whose parents received him like one of the family when he went to Berlin. In Hamburg he met E. T. A. Hoffman, that incarnation of the Romantic spirit; and in Munich he formed a social and artistic connection with the clarinettist, Bärmann, which was a source of delight and profit to them both. Duke Emil Leopold August, of Saxe Gotha, with all his crazy eccentricities, was a kind patron, at whose court he came into close relationship with Spohr, whom he had first met at Stuttgart, and on whom he had made an unfavorable impression. He went to Weimar, and learned to love Wieland and would also doubtless have bent the knee to Goethe, had that great man treated him with a little more than scant courtesy. It would seem, however, as if the great poet had imbibed, consciously or unconsciously, some of the prejudice against Weber which his musical oracle, Zelter, cherished. Weber's resolve to give truer devotion to his art bore fruit first in a heightened appreciation of the value of criticism. Not only did he seek to profit by the censure bestowed on his own works on the score of a want of plastic beauty and soundness of form, but he sought to give greater dignity to criticism by cultivating it himself. In Darmstadt he joined Meyerbeer and others in organizing a secret society which had for a motto "the elevation of musical criticism by musicians." He even recurred to his old project of founding a critical journal, and though he did not carry it out, he was thus in a sense a forerunner of Schumann, as the "Harmonischer Verein" (thus the critical coterie called itself) was a prototype of the "Davidsbündler." His conviction that he was profiting by his more serious studies and loftier determination is seen, moreover, in his desire to better his earlier work. He did not try to complete the opera "Rübezahl," but he remodelled its overture, which he thought his finest achievement up to that time, and also the overture to "Peter Schmoll." In his one-act operetta "Abu Hassan," composed during a second stay in Mannheim after his return from Frankfort, where he had produced "Sylvana" successfully, modern critics have found the buds of that dramatic genius which came into full flower in "Der Freischütz." His fondness for literary composition grew so strong in this period that, not content with critical essays, he ventured upon a work of fiction. It is impossible not to see in this circumstance and also in the title chosen for the romance, "Tonkünstler's Erdenwallen," a suggestion which Wagner acted on when a generation later he wrote: "Ein Ende in Paris," and "A Pilgrimage to Beethoven."
We have reached a point in Weber's career when his aims, ambitions, methods and achievements present so many parallels with those of his direct successor in art that the temptation is strong to put aside the story of the man in favor of an essay in comparative criticism. Each succeeding event in the next few years of his life helps to bring those parallels into a light which is particularly vivid to us who view them from the vantage ground of to-day. When he goes to Prague in January, 1813, to organize a German Opera, we see him enter the portal of the temple which enshrined the goddess of his later idolatry. When he emerges from that temple it is as the High Priest of a new cult, consecrated for the greater task which he accomplished in Dresden, whither he went in 1817. The consecration was two-fold; it entered into his moral life and purged it of the last husks of folly when he married Caroline Brandt on November 4, 1817; it entered into his artistic life when he conceived his mission to be to stimulate a national art-spirit in his country worthy of the spirit of patriotism which had enabled the German people to rid themselves of a foreign oppressor. In Prague he formed his last ignoble attachment. It was for the wife of a dancer at the opera, whose purposes were all mercenary, and whose husband was willing to trade in his wife's honor. The liaison caused immeasurable suffering to the gentle soul of Weber, and was the last of his purging fires. The solace which he found in the love of the singer who had sung in his "Sylvana" at Frankfort and been engaged at Prague at his instance, was perfect. Caroline Brandt did not accept him lightly, and he had time, while wooing her, to learn the value of her sweet purity and recover from the wounds struck by a degrading passion.
The spirit of Romanticism which had long before been breathed into German literature and encouraged patriotism by disclosing the treasures of German legendary lore, became a vital force when patriotic sentiments were transmuted into deeds of valor. Theodor Körner was the incarnation of that political ecstacy which had been nourished by the Tugendbund. In the youth of Germany, especially in the students, his songs produced a sort of divine intoxication. Part of Weber's summer vacation in 1814 was passed in Berlin. Prussia was leading in the struggle to throw off the yoke of Napoleon, and Weber drank daily of the soma-juice in Körner's "Lyre and Sword." On his return trip to Prague he visited his old friend the Duke Emil August at his castle Gräfen-Tonna. From this old feudal pile he sent his settings of "Lützow's wilde Jagd" and "Das Schwertlied" to his love in Prague. The world has never ceased to marvel at the fire of those settings; who shall describe their effect in Germany at the time they were written? They were sparks hurled into the powder-magazine of national feeling. All things were conspiring to develop Weber's Germanism from an emotion into a religion. The "Hurrah!" of his apostrophe to the sword found an echo at Waterloo. He planned a cantata to celebrate the event. It was not musical taste as much as patriotic ardor to which the circumstances compelled him to appeal. "Kampf und Sieg" is another "Wellington's Victory," containing the same vulgar realism (the noises of battle, etc.), but disclosing also a higher artistic striving. Beethoven used national melodies to characterize the warring soldiery: the "Chanson de Malbrouk" for the French, and "Rule Britannia" for the English. Weber utilized the revolutionary "Ça ira" for the French "God save the King" for the English, the Austrian and Prussian grenadier marches and the refrain from his own "Lützow." The latter circumstance may be looked upon as evidence of the popularity which the spirited song had won within a year.
WEBER
Drawn and executed in lithography by G. Minasi (Artist to the King of Napler &c.,) and most respectfully dedicated by him with their permission to the directors and subscribers of the Philarmonic Society
Pale genius strives in vain to check a sigh
And points in silence to his laurell'd bust:
While all the tuneful nine sit by.
No does Britannia generous maid. Forget
What loth is unassuming worth is due;
But marks with sympathy and deep regret,
The cheerless scene which opens to her view,
Observes with plaintive eye where he is laid
And drops a tear of pity to his shade.
Ds Mirore 211.
London Dec. 15th, 1826 Pub.ᵈ by J. Linibird, 143 Strand. Printed et Pub.ᵈ by Engelmann Graf Coindeta Cᵒ. 66 St. Martins Lane Strand.
It was when Romanticism became militant that it fired the heart of Weber and enlisted him as a soldier. In Berlin Brentano offered him the subject of "Tannhäuser" for treatment. He had considered the story of "Der Freischütz" as far back as 1810. He was not ready for such work until he had fought the fight for a German operatic institution in Prague and in Dresden. In one respect the conditions were more favorable in the Bohemian capital than in the Saxon. In the former it was chiefly indifference and ignorance with which he had to contend; in the latter the patriotic fires which might have been helpful were buried under the ashes of hatred of Prussia. The splendid Teutonism of Weber was tolerated with ill grace, and the intrigues of his associate Morlacchi, at the head of the Italian opera, were permitted to make fourfold more difficult the stupendous task of building up a German opera in a city that had always been dominated by Italian influences in art. It was four years before Weber could take the step which to us looks like an appeal from the Saxon court to the German people. The case was that of "Der Freischütz" against the Italian régime, and it was tried and won on June 18, 1821, in the new opera house in Berlin.
The Italian régime was maintained in Dresden through the efforts of the conductor of the Italian Opera, Morlacchi, the concert-master Polledro, the church composer Schubert, and Count von Einsiedel, Cabinet Minister. The efforts of these men placed innumerable obstacles in Weber's path and their influence heaped humiliations upon him. Confidence alone in the ultimate success of his efforts to regenerate the lyric drama sustained him in his trials. Against the merely sensuous charm of suave melody and lovely singing he opposed truthfulness of feeling and conscientious endeavor for the attainment of a perfect ensemble. Here his powers of organization, trained by his experience in Prague, his perfect knowledge of the stage imbibed with his mother's milk, and his unquenchable zeal gave him amazing puissance. Thoroughness was his watchword. He put aside the old custom of conducting while seated at the pianoforte and appeared before his players with a bâton. He was an inspiration, not a figure-head. His mind and his emotions dominated theirs and were published in the performance. He raised the standard of the chorus, stimulated the actors, inspected the stage-furnishings and costumes and stamped harmony of feeling, harmony of understanding, harmony of efforts upon the first work undertaken—a performance of Méhul's "Joseph in Egypt." Nor did he confine his educational efforts to the people of the theatre. He continued in Dresden the plan first put into practice by him in Prague of printing articles about new operas in the newspapers to stimulate public appreciation of their characteristics and beauties. For a while the work of organization checked his creative energies, but when his duties touching new music for court or church functions gave him the opportunity he wrote with undiminished energy. His masses in E-flat and G were thus called forth, and his "Jubilee Cantata," the overture to which, composed later, is now a universal possession.
The year which gave him his wife also gave him the opera book with the composition of which it was destined he should crown his career as a National composer. Apel's "Gespensterbuch" had fallen into his hands seven years before, and he had marked the story of "Der Freischütz" for treatment. His mind reverted to it again in the spring of 1817. Friederich Kind agreed to write the book and placed it complete in his hands on March 1st, nine days after he had undertaken the commission. Weber's enthusiasm was great, but circumstances prevented him from devoting much time to the composition of the opera. He wrote the first of its music in July, 1817, but did not complete it till May 13, 1820. It was in his mind during all this period, however, and would doubtless have been finished much earlier had he received an order to write an opera from the Saxon court. In this expectation he was disappointed, and the honor of having encouraged the production of the most national opera ever written went to Berlin, where the patriotism which had been warmed by Weber's settings of Körner's songs was still ablaze and where Count Brühl's plans were discussing to bring him to the Prussian capital as Capellmeister. The opera was given under circumstances that produced intense excitement in the minds of Weber's friends. It was felt that the patriotic interest which the name and presence of Körner's collaborator aroused would not alone suffice to achieve a real triumph for a work of art. The sympathies of the musical areopagus of Berlin were not with Weber or his work,—neither before nor after the first performance; but Weber spoke to the popular heart and its quick responsive throb lifted him at once to the crest of the wave which soon deluged all Germany. The overture had to be repeated to still the applause that followed its first performance, and when the curtain fell on the last scene a new chapter in German art had been opened.
THE OLD MARKET SQUARE IN DRESDEN—From a photograph.
The house bearing sign on roof "RENNER" bears this inscription—"Hier schrieb 1819—C. M. von Weber—Der Freischütz."—(Here C. M. von Weber wrote 1819 "Der Freischütz.")
The difficulties which surrounded the production of "Der Freischütz" and the doubt felt touching its fate seemed to have almost unnerved Weber's friends. He alone had remained undisturbed. For a year his mind had been in a fever of creative activity. The incidental music for the melodrama "Preciosa" had gone to Berlin with the score of "Der Freischütz," and before he left Dresden to produce his opera he had begun to work on the music of "Die drei Pintos," a comic opera for which Theodor Hill had supplied the book. On the eve of the great "Freischütz" day he composed his "Concertstück," which until recent years was the most universally popular of his pianoforte compositions and now is esteemed as only second to the exquisitely graceful, eloquent and romantic "Invitation," which he composed and dedicated to his wife shortly after his marriage.
Weber had begun the hopeless fight against the disease that robbed him of his mother at the age of twenty-six years, before he came to Dresden. He did not possess the physical constitution for a long combat. He was small and narrow-chested. Much of the superhuman energy which marked the last five years of his life was due to the unnatural eagerness of his mind to put forth the whole of his artistic evangel before bodily dissolution should silence the proclamation.
There is no doubt that it was sheer will-power that kept the vital fires burning in his tortured body until the uttermost faggot of fuel which could nourish them was burned to ashes. The picture which Sir Julius Benedict draws of him as he appeared when Sir Julius entered his house to become his pupil in February, 1821, is indescribably pathetic in its simple eloquence: "I found him sitting at his desk and occupied with the pianoforte arrangement of his 'Freischütz.' The dire disease which but too soon was to carry him off had made its mark on his noble features; the projecting cheek-bones, the general emaciation, told their sad tale; but in his clear eyes, too often concealed by spectacles, in his mighty forehead fringed by a few straggling locks, in the sweet expression of his mouth, in the very tone of his weak but melodious voice, there was a magic power which attracted irresistibly all who approached him." The last period of his life, the period in which he went on uninterruptedly from one great achievement to another, strengthening the foundations of the new structure his genius had reared, lifting it higher and extending it in all directions, was for his physical body but a period of torment. His rewards were many, but those which brought the greatest benison of felicity and comfort flowed from his domestic life, or came from without the province of his official labors. Dresden shared the glory which he had won in Berlin and elsewhere, but his masters refused him the honors the rest of the world was glad to give. His king denied him the petty insignias of distinction which no man in the kingdom had so richly earned, yet, though opportunities offered (such as an invitation to become musical director at Hesse Cassel) he refused to change his field of labor, inspired by a desperate determination to conquer the indifference of the Saxon court. "Der Freischütz" had set Germany on fire, but its composer waited a year before he was privileged to produce it in Dresden. Nearly three months before that occurrence he received an invitation to compose an opera for the Kärnthnerthor theatre, in Vienna, under the management of Barbaja. He chose the blue-stocking, Helmina von Chezy, as his collaborator, and began work on "Euryanthe." It was another tremendous stride in the path of progress; but the world did not know it, for now Weber was the forward man leading the way into the hitherto unexplored fields of dramatic music. He went to Vienna in September, 1823, to bring out his new work. Of all the incidents of the memorable visit none is more significant than his meeting with Beethoven. It was a tardy meeting. As lad and youth he had been in Vienna without manifesting the slightest desire to meet the great master. In his self-elected capacity as critic he had attacked the symphonies in E-flat and B-flat. It is not improbable that it was the study of "Fidelio," which he produced at Prague, and afterward at Dresden, that opened his mind to the significant relationship which Beethoven bore to his own efforts to reanimate a national art-spirit in Germany. At any rate when the composer of "Euryanthe" went to Vienna it was as a musician filled with veneration for the composer of "Fidelio," and the reception which he met with at the hands of the great man touched him most profoundly. "We dined together in the happiest mood," Weber wrote to his wife; "the stern, rough man paid me as much attention as if I were a lady he was courting, and served me at table with the most delicate care. How proud I felt to receive all this attention and regard from the great master-spirit; the day will remain forever impressed on my mind and those of all who were present." Beethoven, it is said, promised to attend the first performance of "Euryanthe," which took place on October 25, but did not. He would have heard nothing of the music if he had, but there is a story that after the representation, which was tremendously successful, he wrote to Weber: "I am glad, I am glad! For this is the way the German must get the upper hand of the Italian sing-song." The success of the opera was not lasting, however. It was marred by the dramatic faults of its book, and after Weber's departure its score was horribly disfigured by excisions made by Conradin Kreutzer.
MONUMENT TO WEBER IN DRESDEN.—From a photograph.
Ernst Rietschel, Sculptor.
The vital forces were rapidly leaving Weber's frail body. For nearly a year and a half after the completion of "Euryanthe" he composed nothing except a French romance for voice and pianoforte. Then he marshalled his intellectual and physical forces for a last endeavor. Charles Kemble in 1824, stimulated by the success of "Der Freischütz" in London, commissioned him to compose an opera for Covent Garden. The work was to be in English, and after some correspondence on the subject Weber agreed to compose an opera and produce it in person for an honorarium of £1,000. While the negotiations were in progress he consulted his physician, who told him the acceptance of the commission would bring about his death in a few months, or even weeks, whereas a year's respite from all work in Italy would prolong his life five or six years. The sum offered was large and Weber's mind had been haunted by the apprehension of leaving his wife and children unprovided for. He decided to sacrifice his life for the welfare of his family, and accepted the commission. The decision made, his physical and intellectual lassitude gave way to another fit of energy. The subject agreed on was "Oberon," and Planché was to prepare the book. As a preparation, the dying composer learned English. The first two acts of the book came into his hands on January 18, the third on February 1, 1825. He began at once but suspended it in order to take the waters at Ems during the summer. He resumed work in the fall and completed the overture, which, in the usual manner of composers, he composed last, in London, on April 29, 1826. He had reached the city a week before, having travelled to Calais in his own carriage and made a stop in Paris, where he was cheered by the kind attention of men like Cherubini, Rossini, Onslow and others. No time was wasted in beginning the preparations for the production of "Oberon," nor, indeed, was there any time to waste. He superintended sixteen rehearsals, and conducted the first performance on April 12, 1826. It was his last triumph; "The composer had an even more enthusiastic reception than Rossini two or three years before," says Spitta. Weber conducted twelve performances according to contract, took part in a few concerts, gave one of his own which was a failure financially because of the indifference of the aristocracy, and then in feverish anxiety to see his family again, began preparations for his return journey. On the morning of June 5, 1826, his host, Sir George Smart, found him dead in his bed: "his head resting on his hand as if in sweet slumber; no traces of his suffering could be seen in these noble features. His spirit had fled—home indeed!" His body was buried in Moorfields Chapel on June 21, but eighteen years later, largely through the instrumentality of Richard Wagner, it was brought to Dresden and interred in the family vault with impressive ceremonies. Wagner pronounced the oration at his final resting-place, and thus emphasized the trait in his character which lay at the foundation of his greatest achievement in art: "Never lived a musician more German than thou! No matter where thy genius bore thee, in what far-away unfathomable realm of fancy, always did it remain fastened with a thousand sensitive fibres to the heart of the German people, with which it smiled and wept like an undoubting child listening to the fairy tales of its native land. This ingenuousness it was which led thy manhood's mind like a guardian angel and preserved it chaste; and in this chastity lay thy individuality: preserving this glorious virtue unsullied thou wast lifted above the need of artificial invention. It was enough for thee to feel, for when thou hadst felt then hadst thou already discovered the things which have been from the beginning. And this lofty virtue didst thou preserve even into thy death. Thou couldst not sacrifice it, nor divest thyself of this lovely heritage of thy German lineage; thou couldst not betray us!—Behold, now the Briton does thee justice, the Frenchman admires thee, but only the German can love thee! Thou art his, a lovely day out of his life, a warm drop of his blood, a fragment of his heart—who will blame us for wishing that thy ashes might become a portion of his earth, his precious German earth?"
Fac-simile letter from Weber replying to inquiry concerning his "Jubel Overture" and pianoforte Concerto. Also recommending Naumann's "Pater Noster" as a beautiful work.
The works of Weber comprehend examples of nearly all the vocal and instrumental forms, except the sacred oratorio. He completed and published six operas, and left fragments of three others. Of his first boyish effort, "Die Macht der Liebe und des Weins," not a bar has been discovered, and it is believed that he destroyed it. Of smaller dramatic works including the melodrama "Preciosa," the overture, and incidental music for "Turandot," airs for interpolation in operas of other composers, etc., he wrote twenty-eight. His cantatas, using the word in both its old and newer sense as a composition for soli and chorus with accompaniment, number eight. He wrote two masses and a separate offertory for each; ninety songs, ballads and romances for single voice with pianoforte or guitar accompaniment; nineteen part-songs for men's voices; fourteen canons, part-songs, etc., for mixed voices with and without accompaniment; and he arranged ten Scotch songs. The summary of his purely instrumental music is not so large. He was not a master of the great epic form, and the two symphonies which he composed have no significance in an estimate of his work. In addition to the overtures to his published operas he wrote three overtures which have appeared separately: that of "Peter Schmoll" published as "Grande Ouverture à plusieurs instruments," "Rübezahl," known as "Beherrscher der Geister," and "Jubel"; he also wrote five orchestral dances and marches. He composed three pianoforte concertos, ten smaller works with pianoforte accompaniment, thirteen concerted pieces for various solo instruments (clarinet, bassoon, flute and violoncello) and orchestra, four pianoforte sonatas, seventeen pianoforte pieces of various other forms for two hands (counting sets of Fughetti, Allemandes, Ecossaises and Waltzes as single numbers) and twenty similar pieces for four hands.
Weber's significance lies in his dramatic works. His songs, charmingly poetical and beautiful as many of them are, have been pushed into the background by those of his contemporary Schubert and his successors in the song-field, Schumann, Franz and Brahms. His part-songs for men's voices, especially his settings of Körner's patriotic lyrics, will probably be sung as long as the German gives voice to his love of Fatherland through the agency of Männergesangvereine. It is no depreciation of their artistic merit, however, to say that they fill a much larger page in the social and political history of Germany than in the story of musical evolution. As a composer for the pianoforte Weber long ago became archaic. His sonatas are seldom heard now-a-days outside of historical recitals whose purpose is, in the first instance, instructive. The "Concertstück," once the hobby of nearly all performers of the brilliant school, is rapidly sinking into neglect, and one might attend concerts for a decade in Paris, London, Berlin, Vienna, Boston or New York without hearing either of the other concertos. The circumstance that in the "Concertstück" and the "Invitation to the Dance," Weber displayed a distinctly Romantic tendency in the sense of striving to give expression to a poetical conceit placed at the foundation of the composition and kept in mind throughout, accounts in a great degree for the greater vitality of these two works. Yet even the "Invitation" is admired more to-day in the embellished version of Tausig and the orchestral paraphrase of Berlioz than in its original shape. The value of this exquisite little dramatic poem in tones, we are inclined to place so high that the estimate may seem out of all proportion with the rest of this review. The world has learned, however, that merit lies in contents and felicity of expression rather than pretension and dimension, and in view of the subsequent idealization of the dance by Chopin and his followers, we incline to the belief that what once may have been regarded as a trifle really outweighs in importance the bulk of Weber's pianoforte pieces whose formal titles give them dignity. The professor and the amateur are one in their admiration for this delicious composition, and there is no one so unlearned in music that he may not arrive at the composer's purpose from a simple hearing, so he bring love and a bit of fancy into the concert-room. How many pretty pictures of brilliant ball-rooms and loving couples has not this music conjured up in the minds of imaginative people. Even old Dr. Brown, whose "Rab and his Friends" will ever keep him dear to Anglo-Saxon hearts, felt the intoxication of these strains a quarter century ago, and put on record in The Scotsman one of the most eloquent critical rhapsodies extant. He pictures the ball-room, the lovers, the meeting in a shadowy recess, where she (the interested maiden) had been left by her mother. He (a Lochinvar, of course) is bending down and asking her to tread a measure. She,—but we must let Brown go on in his own way—"She looks still more down, flushes doubtless, and quietly in the shadow says 'No' and means 'yes'—says 'Yes' and fully means it, and they are off! All this small, whispered love-making and dainty device, this coaxing and being coaxed, is in the (all too short for us, but not for them) prelude to the waltz, the real business of the piece and evening. And then such a waltz for waltzing! Such precision and decision! Whisking them round, moulding them into twin orbs, hurrying them past and away from everything and everybody but themselves." And so old Brown goes on until you are almost dizzy with reading and entirely ready to vote that his rhapsody is only a little less delicious than Weber's music. The decadence of the liking for chamber music with wind instruments and of solos for them has relegated Weber's compositions for the clarinet and its brethren of the harmonious choir to the museum of musical history.
It is then to his operas that we must go to study Weber's music as an expression of artistic feeling and conviction and as an influence. He was one of the forward men of his art, one whose principles and methods are as vital now as they were when he was yet alive in the body. In a very significant sense they are still new to a large portion of the musical world. They are just dawning in Italy. It is through Wagner's restatement of them that they are acquiring validity in new fields. Weber's full stature, indeed, can only be seen in the light which the example of Wagner throws upon him. This light goes out in several directions, but in each instance it discloses Weber as a precursor. The intense Teutonism of Wagner which led him to aim at a resurrection in a new and glorified body of the "dramma per musica" of the Florentine reformers was an inheritance from his father-in-art and predecessor as Capellmeister at the Dresden opera. The Romanticism of Weber displayed in his choice of subjects had a literary tincture; it went no further than it was propelled by the example of Tieck, Schlegel and their companions, and it was colored by the mystical and sentimental Catholicism which was one of the singular reactionary fruits of the Romantic movement in German literature. Wagner's Romanticism is that of a period in which the pendulum had swung back again; it is psychological, almost physiological. The old myths will not serve in their mediæval form; they must be reduced to their lowest terms. Yet though we note this difference in manifestation, the root of Wagner's Romanticism strikes through Weber's. We have seen how Weber's sincerity of purpose led him to overturn the humdrum routine of operatic representation. His made his intelligence and his feeling to illuminate all sides of the work in hand. He was an intermediary not only between the composer and the performers in all departments, but also between the art-work and the public. He was wholly modern in his employment of all the agencies that offered to induct the public into the beauties and meanings of the operas which he conducted. He was the precursor of Schumann, Liszt, Wagner, and all the present tribe of literary musicians. To do things perfunctorily seems to have been foreign to his nature. He labored as conscientiously to win appreciation for Marschner's "Heinrich IV. und d'Aubigné" and Meyerbeer's "Abimelek" as for Beethoven's "Fidelio." It is to Weber that we must trace the essential things which are recognized to-day as marking the difference between German and Italian opera outside of language and style of composition.
It is a fact, the bearing of which ought to be borne in mind while studying the significance of Weber in the development of music, that he did not enjoy the favor of the leading men amongst his contemporaries. The popularity of "Der Freischütz" always remained an enigma to Spohr, and Schubert could find nothing to admire in "Euryanthe." His want of skill in the handling of form, which in the early part of his career we are justified in attributing to insufficient study, was an offence which these men and the majority who were like-minded with them could not forgive. In his orchestral treatment, too, and his obvious leaning toward dramatic and spectacular effectiveness, they could only perceive what is now termed sensationalism. The old notions of the relationship between music and poetry were still almost universally valid. Beauty had not come to be looked upon as a relative thing; it was believed that to be real it must appeal to all alike and that those of its elements which rested upon individual or national predilections were false in art. Characteristic beauty was an unknown quantity. Weber's definition of an opera when it was put forth sounded in the ears of his contemporaries like a heresy the realization of which would mean the destruction of operatic music. We are become familiar enough with it since Wagner achieved his reform, and therefore can scarcely appreciate how revolutionary it must have sounded three-quarters of a century ago. The opera, said Weber, is "an art work complete in itself, in which all the parts and contributions of the related and utilized arts meet and disappear in each other, and, in a manner, form a new world by their own destruction." A society in Breslau applied to Weber for permission to perform "Euryanthe" in concert style. Weber denied the request with the memorable words: "'Euryanthe' is a purely dramatic attempt which rests for its effectiveness upon the coöperation of all the sister arts, and will surely fail if robbed of their help." To these two definitions let us add two others touching singing and form: "It is the first and most sacred duty of song to be truthful with the utmost fidelity possible in declamation"; "All striving for the beautiful and the new good is praiseworthy; but the creation of a new form must be generated by the poem which is setting." Here we find stated in the plainest and most succinct terms the foundation principles of the modern lyric drama. It may be urged that Weber did not pursue his convictions to their extremity as Wagner did, but returned in "Oberon" to the simpler operatic style; but this, we are convinced, was partly because of the intellectual and physical lassitude due to the consumption of his vital forces, and partly because of his wish to adapt himself to the customs of the English stage and the taste of the people for whom he composed his fairy opera. This is obvious not only from his letters to Planché, the librettist of "Oberon," but from his subsequent effort to remodel the opera to suit his own ideas "so that 'Oberon' may deserve the name of opera." On February 16, 1825, he wrote: "These two acts are also filled with the greatest beauties. I embrace the whole in love, and will endeavor not to remain behind you. To this acknowledgment of your work you can give credit, the more as I must repeat, that the cut of the whole is very foreign to all my ideas and maxims. The intermixing of so many principal actors who do not sing, the omission of the music in the most important moments—all these things deprive our 'Oberon' of the title of an opera, and will make him unfit for all other theatres in Europe, which is a very bad thing for me, but passons là dessus." His adherence to the belief in the necessity of an intimate and affectionate relation between poetry and music, moreover, has beautiful assertion in the concluding words of the same letter: "Poets and composers live together in a sort of angels' marriage which demands a reciprocal trust."
It is the manner in which he has wedded the drama with music which makes "Euryanthe" a work that, at times, seems almost ineffable. There is no groping in the dark such as might have been expected in the case of a pathfinder. Weber is pointing the way to thitherto undreamed-of possibilities and means, yet his hand is steady, his judgment all but unerring. The eloquence and power of the orchestra as an expositor of the innermost sentiments of the drama are known to him. Witness his use of the band in the largo episode of the overture, designed to accompany a picture which Weber wished to have disclosed during the music for the purpose of giving coherency and intelligibility to the hopelessly defective book of the opera. Witness the puissance of the orchestra again in Lysiart's great air, "Wo berg ich mich?" Euryanthe's recital of the secret, Eglantine's distraught confession, and more strikingly than anywhere else in the wondrously pathetic scene following Adolar's desertion, and the instrumental introduction in the third act in which is to be found the germ of one of Wagner's most telling devices in "Tristan" and "Siegfried." Witness also how brilliantly its colors second the joyous, sweeping strains which publish the glories of mediæval chivalry. Will it ever be possible to put loftier sentiment and sincerer expression into a delineation of brave knighthood and its homage to fair woman than inspire every measure of the first act? Whither could we turn for more powerful expression of individual character through the means of musical declamation than we find in the music of Euryanthe and Eglantine? To Wagner's honor it must be said that he never denied his indebtedness to Weber, but if he had it would have availed him nothing while the representatives of the evil principle in "Euryanthe" and "Lohengrin" present so obvious a parallel, not to mention Wagner's drafts upon what may be called the external apparatus of Weber's score. Somewhat labored at times, and weighted with the fruits of reflection, the music unquestionably is, but for each evidence of intellectual straining discernible how many instances of highly emotionalized music, real, true, expressive music, present themselves to charm the hearer, and with what a delightful shock of surprise is not the discovery made that the old-fashioned roulades, when they come (which they do with as much naïveté as in Mozart) have been infused with a dramatic potency equalled only by Mozart in some of his happiest inspirations? Of finest gold is the score of "Euryanthe." That it is come so tardily into its estate, and that even to-day it is still underestimated and misunderstood, is the fault of its libretto. Dr. Spitta has gallantly broken a lance in defence of the book, but no amount of ingenious argumentation can justify the absurd complication created by the prudery of a German blue-stocking to avoid Shakespeare's simple expedient, the "mole, cinque-spotted." After all has been said and done in defence of the book, the fact remains that it is the attitude of the hero and heroine of the play to a mystery which is wholly outside the action and cannot be brought within the sympathetic cognizance of the spectators, that supplies the motive to the conduct of Adolar and Euryanthe.
WEBER LEADING HIS OPERA OF "DER FREISCHÜTZ" AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE IN 1826.
From a characteristic and truthful lithographed sketch made shortly before his death and published by J. Dickinson, 114 New Bond Street, London.
The device of introducing the largo episode in the overture of "Euryanthe" to accompany a tableau temporarily disclosed by the withdrawal of the curtain, the tableau having a bearing on the ghostly part of the dramatic tale, may be said to serve not only to prove Weber's appreciation of the fundamental defect of the book, but also to indicate his anxiety to establish a more intimate relationship between the instrumental introduction and the drama. The choral "Ave Maria" in the overture to Meyerbeer's "Dinorah" and the Siciliano in the prelude to Mascagni's "Cavalleria Rusticana" are but variations of Weber's futile invention. It would be unavailing to deny that the want of symphonic development in Weber's overtures, the circumstance that they are little else than potpourris of melodies idealized in a manner by the splendor of their instrumentation, prevents them from aspiring to the dramatic dignity and significance of such overtures as Mozart wrote for "Don Giovanni" and Beethoven for "Fidelio." As a creative composer Weber was first of all a melodist, secondarily a colorist. His want of constructive skill was held up as a reproach to him by his colleagues all through his career. It is not to make a plea in behalf of lawlessness to say that this deficiency in Weber's artistic equipment was less detrimental to his works and influence than a deficiency in any other department would have been. Not a destruction of form but an extension of forms, an adaptation of the vessel to its new contents, was a necessary consequence of the introduction of the Romantic spirit as a dominant element in music. The Romanticism of the poets who inspired the musical Romanticists, consisted not only in their effort to overthrow the stilted rhetoric and pedantry of the German writers who were following stereotyped French models, but also in their effort to disclose the essential beauty which pervades the world of mystery beyond the plain realities of this life. They found the elements of their creations in the imaginative literature of the Middle Ages,—the marvellous and fantastic stories of chivalry and superstition. A man like Schumann touches hands with these poets in all of their strivings. His music rebels against the formalism which had assumed despotic dominion over the art, and also expresses the thousand and one emotions to which that formalism refused adequate expression. Weber's art was so deeply rooted in that of the last century that he could not place himself wholly upon this level. His violations of conventional forms are less the fruit of necessity than the product of incapacity. His Romanticism, except that phase which we have already discussed in connection with his patriotic lyrics, had more of an external nature and genesis—it sprang from the subjects of his operas. The treatment of these subjects by an instinctively truthful musical dramatist was bound to produce the features in which that which is chiefly characteristic in Weber's music is found. The supernaturalism of "Der Freischütz" and "Oberon," the chivalresque sentiment of "Euryanthe" and the national tinge of "Preciosa," all made new demands upon music so soon as the latter came to be looked upon as only one vehicle of dramatic expression instead of the chief business of the piece. The musical investiture of necessity borrowed local elements from the subject. Without losing its prerogative as an expounder of the innermost feelings of the drama it acquired a decorative capacity so far as the externals of the play were concerned. Music became frankly delineative. Whatever may be thought of descriptive music in connection with the absolute forms of the art there can be no question as to its justification in the lyric drama where text, action and scenery are so many programmes, or guides to the purposes of the composer and the fancy of the listener. The more material kind of delineation, that which helped to heighten the effect of the stage pictures, to paint the terrors of the Wolf's Glen with its infernal rout as well as the dewy freshness of the forest and the dainty grace of the tripping elves, was paired with another kind far more subtle. The people of the play, like their prototypes in the mediæval romances, ceased to be representatives of universal types, and became instead individuals who borrowed physiognomy from time, environment and race. To give expression to the attributes thus acquired it became necessary to study the characteristics of those popular publications of emotion which had remained outside the artificial forms of expression. The voice of the German people with their love for companionship, the chase and nature, and their instinctive devotion to the things which have survived as relics of a time when their racial traits were fixed in them, Weber caught up from the Folk-song, which ever and anon in the history of art, when music has threatened to degenerate into inelastic formalism, has breathed into it the breath of life. For the delineation of spiritual characteristics Weber utilized the melodic and rhythmic elements of the people's self-created popular songs; for material delineation his most potent agency was instrumentation. To the band he gave a share in the representation such as only Beethoven, Mozart and Gluck before him had dreamed of. The most striking feature of his treatment of the orchestra is his emancipation of the wood-wind choir. His numerous discoveries in the domain of effects consequent on his profound study of instrumental timbre placed colors upon the palettes of every one of his successors. The supernatural voices of his Wolf's Glen scene are echoed in Verdi as well as in Meyerbeer and Marschner. The fairy footsteps of Oberon's dainty folk are heard not only in Mendelssohn but in all the compositions since his time in which the amiable creatures of supernaturalism are sought to be delineated. The reform, not only in composition, but also in representation achieved by Richard Wagner is an artistic legacy from Carl Maria von Weber. It is but the interest upon the five talents given into the hands of a faithful servant who buried them not in the ground but traded with them "and made them other five talents."
Fac-simile of full score of the beginning of Agatha's great aria, from "Der Freischütz."
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WEBER'S COAT OF ARMS.
HENRICH MARSCHNER
Reproduction of a lithograph portrait drawn by T. A. Jung and published by Johanning & Whatmore, London, 1830.
HEINRICH MARSCHNER
T is a little less than a generation since Heinrich Marschner died after having for the same time been one of the most picturesque and significant figures in the art-life of Hanover. For twenty-eight years he had been Royal Chapelmaster with salary and duties; for two years thereafter General Director of Music with a pension. Affecting a custom common among the men of learning in Germany and the academic musicians of Great Britain, he prefixed the title of his honorary university degree to his signature. He was Dr. H. Marschner. On court occasions he could bedizen his breast with baubles enough to make a brave show amongst the civil and military servants of his Hanoverian Majesty King George V. He was Knight of the Order of the Saxon-Ernestine House; Knight of the Guelphic Order; Knight of the Order of Danebrog; possessor of the Bavarian and Austrian medals for Merit in Art and Science. He was also Honorary Citizen of Hanover. He died suddenly of apoplexy at the age of sixty-six, before his capacity for work had become seriously impaired; his mind was occupied with a new opera when death overtook him. In his day and generation he was one of the most admired of Germany's opera writers. He lived to see nearly all of the colleagues and rivals of his prime die and their creations fade out of public memory. Lindpaintner, Dorn, and Reissiger are names that come to our ears like faint echoes of once-living voices. Kreutzer and Lortzing wake at long intervals in sporadic performances in small or provincial theatres. Marschner is in a more fortunate case, for his was greater genius. Three of his operas still have a considerable degree of vitality, and some of his stirring part-songs for men's voices are yet sung and heard with delight. But only in Germany. Dust lies deep upon his pianoforte and chamber music wherever it is. Yet it is less than a generation since he died. Day by day it becomes more difficult to assign him the place to which he is entitled in the Temple of Fame, for he wrote for but one people and his memory is perishing even amongst them.
The birth-place of Heinrich Marschner was Zittau in Saxony. He was born August 16, 1795 and imbibed his love for music as most German boys of good family imbibe theirs. His father was fond of the art and it was industriously practised in the family. When the lad manifested an unusual degree of talent, the father, instead of becoming alarmed, encouraged its use, though he had no mind that his son should become a musician. Karl Gottlieb Hering, an eminent musical pedagogue at the time a teacher in the town Seminary, was called in to be the lad's teacher. Meanwhile he pursued his other studies and in due time entered the Gymnasium where his musical gifts and lovely voice found occupation in the Gymnasial choir. At the solicitation of the music teacher in the Gymnasium at Bautzen he went thither for a space and sung the soprano solos in the Bautzen choir, but his voice changing he returned to his native town and there completed his lower studies. The political situation (it was in 1813 and Germany was preparing to rid herself of Napoleon) interfered with his father's wishes to have him proceed at once to Leipsic to take up the study of jurisprudence at the University. There was a brief respite which he spent in Prague until the suspension of the truce compelled him to leave the Bohemian Capital. He returned to his home in Zittau for a short time, then proceeded to Leipsic and was there a witness of the great three-days' battle. The brief stay in Prague had helped to keep the artistic fires burning on the altar of his heart, for there he became acquainted with Johann Wenzel Tomaschek, the Bohemian composer and teacher. Marschner was matriculated at the University so soon as the return of more peaceful times permitted the step to be taken, and began his study of the law. His experience, however, was like that of Schumann later. While trying to be faithful to his Corpus Juris, he found the fascinations of Dame Music stronger than his will. Some of his essays in composition were applauded and he resolved to become a musician instead of a lawyer. Schicht, one of Bach's successors in the position of Cantor of the Thomas School was now his teacher, and in 1815 he felt himself sufficiently strong as a pianoforte virtuoso to undertake a concert tour to Carlsbad. There he met the Hungarian Count Thaddeus von Amadée, who persuaded him to seek his fortune in Vienna. He went thither in 1816, made the acquaintance of Beethoven and, aided by the music-loving Count, was appointed to a position as teacher in Pressburg where three years later he married his first wife, Eugenie Jaggi, and completed the first of his operas which achieved the distinction of a representation. This opera was "Henry IV. and d'Aubigné" which he sent to Weber at Dresden in 1818. A year earlier he had set Kotzebue's "The Kyffhaus Mountain." The title of this, his first opera, indicates that his mind was from the beginning turned toward the legendary materials which afterward became the inspiration of the Neo-Romantic school. It is possible, too, that this predisposition toward the supernatural was strengthened by an incident which has been related by Louis Köhler in connection with the first representation of "Henry IV. and d'Aubigné." This story is to the effect that one night in 1819 Marschner, living far from Dresden (the year must have been 1820, the place Pressburg) dreamed that he was witnessing a performance of his opera. The applause so excited him that he awoke and sprang from his bed. Ten days later he received a letter from Weber enclosing ten ducats honorarium and conveying the intelligence that on the night of the dream "Henry IV. and d'Aubigné" had been produced at Dresden with great success. As has already been indicated in one respect the credibility of the story suffers somewhat from analysis of its details. The fact that he dreamed of a performance of his opera and the possibility of the influence of the dream upon his mind need not be disputed. It is extremely improbable, however, that he was ignorant of the date set for the performance as is implied in the story, for on July 7, 1820, twelve days before the first representation, Weber, in continuance of the friendly policy which he adopted five years before in order to introduce Meyerbeer to Prague, published a description of the opera in the Abendzeitung of Dresden. It seems to be beyond question, however, that Weber produced the opera chiefly to encourage the young composer.
After spending over five years in Pressburg, Marschner visited Saxony to look after some family affairs. The kindness with which Councillor von Könneritz, Theatrical Intendant, and Weber received him, determined him to remove to Dresden. His wife had died soon after marriage. He now took up a residence in the Saxon Capital, and after he had composed incidental music for Kleist's drama, "Prince Frederick of Homburg," he was by royal rescript, dated September 4, 1824, appointed Royal Music Director of the German and Italian Opera, becoming thus an associate of Weber, whose friendship manifested itself daily in the most helpful manner.
Marschner's "Henry IV." was brought out by Weber in the year which gave "Der Freischütz" to the world. It was followed by "Saidar," words by Dr. Hornbostel, composed in 1819, "The Wood Thief," words by Kind, the poet of "Der Freischütz," and "Lucretia," words by Ehschlagen. "Saidar" was performed without success in Strassburg, "The Wood Thief" in January, 1825, in Dresden, and "Lucretia" in 1826 in Dantsic under Marschner's direction. Weber's death in London on June 5, 1826, marked a turning-point in the energetic young composer's career. Failing in the appointment to the post made vacant by Weber's death, he severed his connection with the Dresden Theatre, married a singer named Marianne Wohlbrück on July 3, and a few months later removed to Leipsic.
His second marriage was celebrated at Magdeburg. A brother of the bride was Wilhelm A. Wohlbrück, to whom Marschner submitted the subject of "The Vampire" before he returned to Leipsic. Two years afterwards the opera had its first representation. Its immediate success, and possibly his newly attained domestic happiness, were a mighty spur to his industry and fancy. "The Templer and the Jewess," founded on Scott's "Ivanhoe," followed in 1829, and "The Falconer's Bride" in 1830, Wohlbrück being the poet in both cases. The triumph of "The Vampire" was eclipsed by that of "The Templar and the Jewess," whose chivalresque subject was naturally much more amiable than the gruesome story of "The Vampire." Marschner's attention was drawn to Scott's "Ivanhoe" when, having been invited like Weber to compose an opera for London, he imitated Weber's example and prepared himself for the work by learning English. "The Vampire," translated by Planché, the librettist of "Oberon," had been well received in London, though Planché took the liberty of changing the scene from Scotland, where the author of the story had placed it, to Hungary. Nothing came of the London invitation, because of the burning of the Covent Garden Theatre.
Marschner was now at the zenith of his fame. Toward the close of 1830 he accepted an invitation to become Royal Chapelmaster at Hanover and distinguished himself at once in his new position by composing "Hans Heiling," his finest work and the strongest prop of his present fame. The book of this opera had been submitted to him anonymously. When the opera was first performed in 1833 in Berlin the librettist sang the titular rôle. It was none other than Edward Devrient. Marschner's reception at Hanover was in every way distinguished, but long before his death he forfeited some of the good will of the court circles and the portion of society influenced by them. Domestic misfortunes doubtless contributed much to embitter his disposition. He lost his wife in 1854. The immediate cause of his withdrawal in 1859 from active service was the appointment of C. L. Fischer as second Chapelmaster against his wishes. He lost his interest in the orchestra which he had brought to a high state of efficiency and was pensioned off as a General Music Director. Before then he married a third wife, a contralto singer named Therese Janda of Vienna, who survived him. He died of an apoplectic stroke on December 15, 1861, at nine o'clock in the evening. Besides the works mentioned in the foregoing recital, he composed "The Castle on Aetna," "The Babü," "Adolph of Nassau," and "Austin," operas, and incidental music to Kind's "Fair Ella," Hell's "Ali Baba," Rodenberg's "Waldmüller's Margret" and Mosenthal's "The Goldsmith of Ulm."
Fac-simile of a letter thanking an unnamed composer for a set of variations on themes from his opera "Hans Heiling."
Marschner was not an old man when he died, yet his life compassed the climax of the Classic Period of German Music, the birth and development of the Romantic School and the first vigorous stirrings of the spirit exemplified in the latter-day dramas of Richard Wagner. He knew Beethoven, stood elbow to elbow with Weber, fought by the side of Spohr and exerted an influence of no mean potency in the development of Wagner. He was the last of the three foremost champions who carried the banner of Romanticism into the operatic field. It is likely that had he asserted his individuality more boldly instead of fighting behind the shields of his two great associates the world would know better than it does that he was a doughty warrior; and criticism would speak less often of his music as a reflection and of him as merely a strong man among the epigonoi of Beethoven and Weber. Wagner set his face sternly against the estimate which lowers him to the level of a mere imitator. Schumann esteemed his operas more highly than those of any of his contemporaries, in spite of their echoes of Weber's ideas and methods. His record of the impression made on his mind by a performance of "The Templar and the Jewess" is a compact and comprehensive estimate of Marschner's compositions: "The music occasionally restless; the instrumentation not entirely lucid; a wealth of admirable and expressive melody. Considerable dramatic talent; occasional echoes of Weber. A gem not entirely freed from its rough covering. The voice-treatment not wholly practicable, and crushed by the orchestra. Too much trombone."
It is scarcely to be marvelled at that the world should have accepted the old verdict. Outside of Germany Marschner has had no existence for more than half a century. In Germany three of his operas may occasionally be heard. All the rest of his list have disappeared from the stage as completely as the hundreds of his compositions in the smaller forms. These three operas, "The Vampire," "The Templar and the Jewess" and "Hans Heiling," not only contain his best music but also exemplify the sum of his contributions to the Romantic movement. In them he appears in his fullest measure complementary to Weber and Spohr. Yet to appreciate this fact it is necessary to view them in the light of the time and the people for which they were created. It is scarcely possible to conceive their existence, much less to perceive their significance under changed conditions and beyond the borders of the German land. The measure of their present popularity in Germany is also the measure of their comparative merit. In them is exhibited Marschner's growth in clearness, truthfulness and forcefulness of expression and his appreciation of Romantic ideals. At this late day it is impossible to perceive anything else than a wicked perversion of those ideals in "The Vampire"; yet it finds a two-fold explanation in the morbid tendency of literature and the stage in Europe two generations ago, and the well-known proneness of the Germans to supernaturalism. The story is an excresence on the face of Romanticism for which the creators of the literary phase of the movement are not responsible. It tells of a nobleman who, having forfeited his life, prolongs it and wins temporary immunity from punishment by drinking the life-blood of his brides, three of whom he is compelled by a compact with the Evil One to sacrifice between midnight and midnight once a year. At the base of this dreadful superstition lies the notion that the Vampire's unconquerable thirst for blood is a punishment visited upon a perjurer. It may be largely fanciful, but it must, nevertheless, not be overlooked in accounting for the popularity of this subject that a degree of sympathy for it among the German people may have been due to the fact that it contains a faint mythological echo. In the Volüspa perjurers are condemned in their everlasting prison-house to wade knee-deep in blood. It is this superstition which prolongs the action in the opera until the fiend has killed two of his victims and stands before the altar with her who had been selected as the third. In treating this gruesome subject Marschner and his librettist compelled their hearers to sup full of horrors; nor did they scorn the melodramatic trick, which survived in the Bertrams and Rigolettos of a later time, of investing a demon with a trait of character calculated to enlist sympathetic pity in his behalf. The direct responsibility for this bit of literary and theatrical pabulum rests with Byron. He wrote the tale for the delectation of his friends in Geneva. But the time was ripe for it. Planché adapted a French melodrama on the subject for London six years before he performed a similar service to Marschner's opera, and Lindpaintner composed his "Vampire" a year after Marschner's work had been brought forward.
Fac-simile autograph manuscript from "Hans Heiling," written by Marschner.
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The frank supernaturalism of "The Vampire," though it can only present itself to us in the light of perverted and vulgarized Romanticism, made a powerful appeal to the Germans with their innate if unconscious sympathy with the dethroned creatures of paganism. It was the vivid embodiment of this sympathy which gave to the Romantic School the characteristic element which Marschner represents in his estate of originality. The supernaturalism which is little more than an influence in "Der Freischütz" is boldly personified in "The Vampire." Already at the outset of the opera, the silent diabolism of Weber's Samiel is magnified and metamorphosed into a chorus of witches, ghosts, and devils. The opening scene is a choral Wolf's Glen, the copy going so far as the choice of Weber's key, F-sharp minor. Yet in spite of the imitation it is here that Marschner first struck the keynote of the strongest element of his dramatic music,—the demoniac. It was the fault of the subject that he could not give a sign here of the element in which he is stronger still, or at least, more original,—the element of rude humor. That manifestation had to wait for the coming of Friar Tuck in his setting of the story of "Ivanhoe." The third element in which the strong talent of the composer moves most freely and effectually is the delineation of folk-scenes. Here he has followed closely in the footsteps of Weber and caught up the spirit of the common people as they gave it expression in their songs and dances. As Luther, in transforming a dialect into a literary language, caught the idiom from the lips of the people in the market-place, so Weber and Marschner went for their folk-music to the popular revels in tavern, field, and forest.
A want of dramatic cohesion and homogeneity has militated against "The Templar and the Jewess," the only opera of the three which might by virtue of its subject, have achieved and retained popularity in England, France and America as well as Germany. It suffers, too, in contrast with Weber's "Euryanthe" by reason of its failure to reach the lofty plane of chivalresque sentiment on which Weber's almost ineffable opera moves with an aristocratic grace and ease that put even "Lohengrin" to shame. Nevertheless, some of the significance of "The Templar and the Jewess" may be found in the evidences that "Lohengrin" is in part its offspring. The parallelisms are too striking to be overlooked, especially in the ordeals by which the two heroines are tried. The prayers of Rebecca and Elsa, the reliance of each upon a heaven-sent champion, the employment of the accompanying wood-winds stamp them as sisters in art. In "Hans Heiling," the supernaturalism is greatly purified and idealized. The hero of the opera is a king of underground spirits, who relinquishes his throne for love of a mortal maiden. He is deceived in his love, but stifles his desire for vengeance and returns to his old dominion. The musical advance over "The Vampire" is commensurate with the ethical. The musical declamation approaches in truthfulness that of the modern lyric drama, and an ingenious compromise is effected with the cumbersome device of spoken dialogue. In the scenes which play on the earth, this relic of the old German Singspiel is retained; but in Heiling's subterranean kingdom all speech is music.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY
Reproduction of an engraving after an oil portrait from life, made by Mendelssohn's brother-in-law. W. Hensel.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY
HE story of his fine life, watched over from the cradle as by fairies, is a poem. The family names are compound. Mendelssohn is German for son of Mendel; Bartholdy is Hebrew for son of Tholdy. One key to his artistic character is the general culture, intellectual and social, of the man, for which the opportunities were granted him from infancy in fuller measure than to any other great musician. Born in prosperity, amid refining influences; taught Greek and Latin classics; familiar with living poets, scholars and philosophers who frequented his father's house; passing a fortnight at the impressible age of eleven in the house of Goethe; imbued with reverence for the character and teaching of his wise Platonic grandfather, the Jew Moses Mendelssohn, the model for Lessing's "Nathan the Wise"; stimulated by the piquant and genial letters of his three gifted aunts (two of whom had turned Catholic), and above all by the tender, wise, exacting and appreciative oversight of his excellent father, to whom the best was only "just good enough," he grew unconsciously into a large and liberal way of thinking. He was at home in the most cultivated circles, "a native there, and to the manner born." What might it not have been to Schubert to have germinated and unfolded under such a genial sun in such a soil! Well was the youth named Felix!
Moses Mendelssohn, a little humpbacked Jew peddler boy, with keen eyes and winning face, came to Berlin about the middle of the last century. He had a hard fight with penury, and an unconquerable passion for knowledge and the culture of his mind. At that time the Jews in Germany were at the lowest stage of social repression. Excluded from nearly all honorable and profitable pursuits, restricted to Jew quarters, outcast and despised, they were the chosen victims of Christian intolerance. On the other hand, driven back upon the synagogue, upon the even fiercer bigotry of their own priests and rabbis, with whom "to speak the German language correctly or to read a German book was heresy," the young man was caught between two fires. Yet so brave, so able was he, so faithful to his great life purpose, and withal so winning by his hearty, sterling honesty of spirit, that he became one of the lights of German literature, one of its recognized apostles; the intimate associate of Lessing, Herder, Kant, etc. His conversation had the Socratic quality; and his "Phaedo," a dialogue on immortality, founded on that of Plato, was so persuasive that it was translated into many languages. He married a Jewess in Hamburg, and grew prosperous as well as learned. He left three daughters and three sons. Abraham, the father of Felix, was the second son, a thriving banker, for a while in Paris, when he married Lea Salomon, of the Bartholdy family, a lady of wealth and culture, from Berlin, and formed a partnership with his elder brother in his native Hamburg. Their first child was Fanny, born, as her mother said, with "Bach fugue fingers." The second child, Jakob Ludwig Felix, was born February 3, 1809. Before he was three years old, the French occupied Hamburg, and Abraham fled to Berlin, where he formed a new banking house, and his whole family were baptized into the Protestant Communion, taking the added name Bartholdy.
The patriarchal rule, obedience and industry, was strict in the house. But the father was kind and gentle as well as severe, and Felix loved him dearly; called him "not only my father, but my teacher both in art and in life"; and wondered how it was possible that a father, not a technical musician, could criticize the son's early efforts in composition so shrewdly and so justly. After Felix became famous, Abraham said once humorously of himself: "Formerly I was the son of my father, now I am the father of my son."
The mother, a lady of fine person, with an air of much benevolence and dignity, was a model housewife; spoke several languages, read Homer in the Greek, played the piano, and gave the first frequent five-minute lessons to her two eldest children, Fanny and Felix. The boy was full of life and fond of out-door play, very attractive with his long brown curls and great brown eyes. He was frank, unspoiled, earnest in what he undertook, and could bear no foolish flattery, no nonsense.
MENDELSSOHN'S BIRTHPLACE IN HAMBURG.
Feb. 3—1809.
After a short visit of the family to Paris, in 1816, when Fanny was eleven and Felix seven years old, the children's education began systematically. Heyse (father of the novelist) was their tutor at large; Ludwig Berger, teacher for piano; the strict, conservative Zelter (Goethe's friend) for thorough bass and counterpoint; Henning for violin. Felix, whose pen and pencil sketches in his letters show such a facile gift for drawing, was taught landscape by Rösel. Greek he learned with his younger sister Rebecka, even reading Æschylus. The children were kept closely to their lessons; Felix used to say how much they enjoyed the Sundays, when they had not to get up at five o'clock to work.
He was first heard in a public concert on Oct. 24, 1818, when he played the piano part in a trio with two horns with much applause. Early in his eleventh year he entered the singing class of the Singakademie as an alto. "There he took his place," writes his friend Devrient, "amongst the grown people, in his child's suit, a tight fitting jacket cut very low at the neck, and with full trousers buttoned over it. Into the slanting pockets of these he liked to thrust his hands, rocking his curly head from side to side, and shifting restlessly from one foot to the other."—He spoke French and English fluently; wrote a letter in good Italian; and translated the "Andrea" of Terence into German verse, besides making such good headway in Greek. He could ride and swim and dance, right heartily, but was not fond of mathematics.
In 1820, his twelfth year, he set about composing regularly. With that year begins the series of forty-four volumes in which he methodically preserved autograph copies of a great part of his works down to the time of his death, with date and place carefully noted. These are now in the Imperial Library at Berlin. Another proof of his methodical self-discipline is found in the fact that for many years he made it an invariable rule to compose something every day.
His productive activity during the six early years from 1820 to 1826 was incessant, many-sided and prolific. In 1820, among other compositions named by Grove, are a Trio for piano and strings; a Sonata for pianoforte and violin; another for pianoforte solo; four organ pieces; a Cantata, bearing the earliest date of all (Jan. 13); a Lustspiel for voices and pianoforte, in three scenes, beginning: "Ich Felix Mendelssohn," etc. In 1821, five Symphonies for strings, songs, one-act operas. This was the year when Zelter first took him to Goethe at Weimar.
The next two years were no less productive. In the summer of 1822 the whole family made a leisurely tour in Switzerland, visiting on the way Spohr at Cassel, on the return Schelble, conductor of the famous Cäcilien-Verein at Frankfort, and Goethe again at Weimar. Near Geneva he wrote the first (Op. I) of three Quartets for pianoforte and strings. In the two years six more quartet Symphonies, making twelve in all, which do not figure in the catalogue, although they were not mere exercises. Then, too, an opera, "The Uncle from Boston," in three acts. He was then nearly fifteen, growing fast, his features and expression altering and maturing, and his hair cut short.
It is pleasant to read of the Sunday morning music in his grandmother's large dining-room, with a small orchestra, Felix conducting, Fanny or himself at the piano, Rebecka singing, and the young brother Paul playing the 'cello. Some composition of his own had place in every programme. Noted musicians passing through Berlin were often present. For critic there was his own father, besides the wise old Zelter. Every evening, also, more or less, the house was enlivened by music, theatrical impromptus, and "constant flux and reflux of young, clever, distinguished people, who made the suppers gay and noisy, and among whom Felix was the favorite." Among the intimates were Moscheles and Spohr.
MENDELSSOHN'S FATHER.
Abraham Mendelssohn—from a pencil drawing made by his son-in-law William Hensel.
A great advance was shown in the compositions of 1824. In the summer Felix, with his father and Rebecka, visited a bathing place on the shores of the Baltic, where he got his first impressions of the sea, afterwards reproduced in the Meeresstille overture. In the next spring father and son were in Paris. There Felix met all the famous French musicians. Their devotion to effect and superficial glitter, their ignorance of German music (Onslow, for instance, having never heard a note of Fidelio), the insulting liberties they took with some of its masterpieces, enraged the enthusiastic lad. With Cherubini his intercourse was more satisfactory. On the way home they paid a third, short visit to Goethe. The fiery Capriccio in F sharp minor, and the score of the two-act opera, Camacho's Wedding, from Don Quixote, were fruits of that year.
That summer Abraham Mendelssohn purchased the large house and grounds (ten acres) at No. 3 Leipziger Strasse, which became the sumptuous abode of the family, until the death of Felix, when it was occupied by the Herrenhaus, or House of Lords of the Prussian government. As described by Hensel, it was a dignified, old-fashioned, spacious palace, then in the suburbs of Berlin, near the Potsdam gate, on the edge of the Thiergarten. Behind the house was a court with offices, then gardens and a park with noble trees,—just the ideal seat for such an artistic family! There was a room for large musical parties and private theatricals. Between the court and the garden stood the Gartenhaus, the middle of which formed a hall large enough to hold several hundred persons, with glass doors opening on the lawns and alleys. It was a delightful summer house, but rather bleak in winter. There the Sunday music found new life; there Felix composed the Octet for strings; there, too, in the fine summer of 1826, the work with which he "took his final musical degree," astonishing the world as a full-fledged composer, a master of original, imaginative genius, the overture to A Midsummer Night's Dream. He had been reading with his sisters the Schlegel and Tieck version of Shakespeare's play. In this and many instances Fanny, herself a good musician and composer, was her brother's confidante and critic. The fairy vein, which had cropped out in earlier works (the Quintet in A, the Octet, etc.), seemed to have reached its full expression here. And the wonder is that the motives of the Overture all came in place when he wrote music for the whole play seventeen years later.
MENDELSSOHN'S MOTHER.
From a pencil drawing made by William Hensel.
Meanwhile Camacho was granted one unwilling hearing by Spontini, in the smaller theatre. Galled by the sneering remarks of the critics, Felix found the art atmosphere of Berlin more and more antipathetic. Entering the University of that city, he had less time for composition. How far he followed the course does not appear. He attended lectures of Hegel (one of whose courses was on music), and of Ritter, the great geographer. And he resumed his study of Italian classics, translating into German verse sonnets of Dante and others. There too he became a proficient in landscape drawing. Ten years later the University of Leipsic conferred on him the honorary degree of Doctor of Philosophy.
The life in the new house was very genial and active. Felix practised riding, swimming and other gymnastics with characteristic ardor "to the utmost"; for skating he could not bear the cold. And what a brilliant and élite society frequented those large rooms: Rahel Varnhagen, Bettina, Heine, Holtei, Lindblad, Marx, Humboldt, W. Müller, Hegel,—all famous then or afterwards! Young people were there "in troops." They had a little newspaper of their own, called in summer Garten-Zeitung, in winter Schnee-und Thee-Zeitung, edited by Felix and Marx, to which all comers were free to contribute; paper, ink and pens lay ready in the summer-houses. Graver heads, like Humboldt and Zelter, used the opportunity! "In all this brilliant interchange of art, science and literature," says Grove, "Felix, even at this early date, was the prominent figure. When he entered the room every one was anxious to speak to him. Women of double his age made love to him; and men, years afterwards, treasured every word that fell from his lips."
During the next winter, hearing a complaint that Bach seemed like an arithmetical exercise, Felix formed a choir of sixteen voices for the practice of the Passion Music at his house. That led to the public performance of the great neglected master-work a year later; and that to the "Bachgesellschaft" for the stately publication of all Bach's works, not yet completed. The little choir warmed to the heavenly music, and grew eager for its public performance, under Felix's own care, by the three to four hundred voices of the Singakademie, of which Zelter was Director. Besides the intrinsic difficulty of the music, there were two serious obstacles: the opposition of Zelter, and the apathy of the public. The first was overcome with the sanguine aid of his friend Devrient, the actor, who with him faced the lion in his den, and made him finally consent. The second melted to enthusiasm before the splendid success of the performance. Felix conducted the rehearsals without notes, knowing the music all by heart; the leading opera singers undertook the solos; the public flocked to the rehearsals; and on Wednesday, March 11, 1829, this greatest choral work of the great old master composer was introduced to the world for the first time since his death. A thousand people were turned away from the doors. Said Felix: "It was an actor and a Jew who restored this great Christian work to the people." That was the dawn of the Bach culture, which steadily if slowly gains ground in these our modern times.
In the midst of this excitement, his gifted, darling sister Fanny became engaged to William Hensel, the distinguished Berlin painter. Mendelssohn had reached the age of twenty. Not on the best terms with the musical world of Berlin, he yearned for more congenial air and stimulus. To improve himself in art and general culture, and "to make friends," he set out on his "grand tour." He arrived in London (April 21), where he was welcomed by his friends Klingemann (then secretary of legation there) and Moscheles. At the Philharmonic Concert, May 25, he conducted his C-minor Symphony, old John Cramer leading him to the piano, at which in those days, the conductor sat or stood. The applause was immense, and the Scherzo (which he had scored from his Octet, in place of the Minuet and Trio) was persistently encored against his wish. The London reception had "wiped out the sneers and misunderstandings of Berlin." Near the close of his life he spoke of it as "having lifted a stone from his heart." Indeed, the English, from that day to this, have been warm, even to the extreme of partiality, in their enthusiasm for the man and for his music. He took part in several other London concerts, was much petted in aristocratic circles, and disported himself in so many fashionable balls and gaieties, that the sober family at home became alarmed for him.
From London to Scotland, where he called upon Sir Walter, and stopped at the Hebrides, sending thence in a glowing letter to Fanny the first motive of the famous overture which he scored in Rome. Returning to London in September, he was confined to his room two months and could not go home to his sister Fanny's wedding. In December he found her with her artist husband installed in the Gartenhaus as studio, together with the Devrients. These, indeed every member of the family took part in the little comedy, Das Heimkehr aus der Fremde ("The Son and Stranger"), which Felix had composed for his parents' silver wedding. For Hensel, utterly unmusical, he wrote a part upon one note. That winter he composed his "Reformation Symphony." A chair of Music was founded expressly for him in the Berlin University, which he knew himself too well to accept.
In May, 1830, the "grand tour" was resumed. He reached Weimar on the 30th, spent a fortnight of close intercourse with Goethe, leading what he called a "heathenish life"; then several very interesting weeks in Munich. Then, through the Salzkammergut, to Vienna, where he found Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven ignored in favor of Hummel, Field, and Kalkbrenner; and where he passed a gay month with musicians, but managed to compose some serious things.
MENDELSSOHN'S SISTER.
Fanny Mendelssohn—from a pencil drawing made by her husband, William Hensel.
Then came the leisurely, long stay in Italy, particularly Rome, of which his letters give such glowing and minute accounts. There he lived a most genial and happy life, giving himself up completely to the sunny scene and climate, to art, and fine churches (of which he found the music dull), old ruins, and all that was picturesque and characteristic in roba di Roma of all sorts. He was six months in Rome; six weeks in Naples, finding there his old friend Benedict, whom he first knew as Weber's pupil in Berlin; then Florence, Genoa, Milan and the Italian Lakes. In Italy he composed the "Italian" and "Scotch" Symphonies, the Walpurgisnacht music, and many smaller things. And he filled several drawing-books with sketches. Then, by way of Switzerland, walking from Geneva to Interlachen (all minutely, graphically chronicled in the Letters), to Paris again, where he threw himself into the musical and social "swim." But in spite of his warm reception, and the presence of Hiller, Meyerbeer, and many friends, he found the gay metropolis no more to his taste than before, and was glad to spend two months again in the "smoky nest" of London, playing, composing, and publishing.
MENDELSSOHN'S WIFE.
From a pencil drawing by William Hensel.
During a second stay in Munich he became "on a brotherly footing" with the very musical family of the Baermanns. For Heinrich Baermann, one of the finest of clarinet players, he, as well as Weber, composed concert pieces. It is his grandson, Carl Baermann, the admirable pianist, who now adds to the musical prestige of Boston. There, too, he brought out his G-minor Concerto (Oct. 17, 1831). And there he was commissioned to compose an opera, and went to Düsseldorf to consult the poet Immermann about a libretto with Shakespeare's Tempest for a subject.
Early in 1832, his great friends Goethe and Zelter died. Mendelssohn seemed to be the man of all others to succeed the latter at the Singakademie; but he lost the election. As a proof of his wise and noble loyalty to art about this period, read what he wrote to William Taubert from Lucerne: "Don't you agree with me, that the first condition for an artist is, that he have respect for the great ones, and do not try to blow out the great flames, in order that the petty tallow candle may shine a little brighter?"
In May, 1833, his success in conducting the Lower Rhine Festival brought him an offer to take general charge of the Music in Düsseldorf for three years at an annual salary of six hundred thalers ($450)! But his father advised him to accept duties before emoluments. There he brought out operas by Mozart and Cherubini; and in the church, Palestrina, Bach, Handel, Beethoven: above all Israel in Egypt. There he composed the greater part of St. Paul, and his Melusina Overture. Socially Düsseldorf was a delightful place to him; but musically it was disappointing. In the spring of 1835 he conducted the Cologne Festival.
Soon we find him settled (from 1835 to 1844, and again from 1845 to the end of his life) in the most genial home sphere of his artistic labors, Leipsic, where he held the first conductor's post in Europe, at the head of the famous Gewandhaus Concerts. Hardly had he begun his notable career there, when he was summoned to Berlin to the death-bed of his father (Nov. 19, 1835). His grief was profound; for we have seen in what respect and love he held him. He carried back to Leipsic two fixed purposes: first, to finish Paulus, then to seek a wife. The Oratorio, for which he selected the words himself, had lain complete before him a year when it was first given at the Lower Rhine Festival in 1836 with great enthusiasm. The wife was found in Frankfurt am Main. It was Cecile Jeanrenaud, the lovely seventeen-year-old daughter of a deceased pastor of the Reformed French Church there, who lived with her mother, née Souchay, a highly respected, rich, patrician family of Frankfort. The happy honeymoon ran over with fun and drollery in their joint diary full of sketches.
In Leipsic his hands were soon full of most congenial tasks: conducting the Messiah; the Israel in Egypt, with his own organ part; his own St. Paul; besides a series of historical concerts; and composing his Forty-Second Psalm, E-minor string Quartet, the D-minor piano Concerto, the three organ Preludes and Fugues, etc. And is it not worth notice, by the way, that here Mendelssohn commonly shines as the best of programme-makers? Indeed, he seems to have been the first in whom that function rose to the dignity of an art, when he was not balked by others. Certainly the concerts, ("academies") which Mozart and Beethoven gave mostly in noble houses, to make their new works heard, offered no models of good programme-making, containing often far too much of a good thing, say three great Beethoven Symphonies, with much other matter, in a single evening! The democratic age of concert-giving had not yet come in.
In all this he was strong and happy in the sympathetic companionship of his young wife, though often torn from her to fulfil engagements at the Birmingham Festival and elsewhere. Thenceforth for several years he gave his heart and soul to Leipsic, chiefly to the Gewandhaus concerts; he worked with enthusiasm, and was rewarded by the enthusiasm he created.
In June, 1838, he conducted the Cologne Festival, and we have a cogent letter in which he induced the committee to include "at least one important vocal work of Bach" (a Church Cantata) in the programme, besides pieces from Handel's Joshua. The summer was spent in the dear garden-house at Berlin; and that was the young wife's first introduction to her husband's family. He kept on composing noble things; among them the Violin Concerto and a Psalm for eight voices: "When Israel," etc. And he fell just short of giving the world another Symphony (in B flat). The great event of the next Gewandhaus season was the first performance, at the last concert (March 22, 1839), of the great Schubert Symphony in C. It was played from the MS., which had been found in Vienna by Schumann.
It would require a volume to detail the programmes of those ten or eleven years of Gewandhaus concerts under his direction,—to say nothing of great musical enterprises outside of all that. In December, 1842, his mother died, and then the Berlin house was his. Yet he lived for the most part in Leipsic, aiding as a professor, with David, Hauptmann, Schumann and the like, in the carrying out of his pet scheme of a Conservatorium of Music. Since 1838 Elijah had been in his mind as the subject of an oratorio. It was finished for the Birmingham Festival of 1846. He was on hand there to conduct it, all the world knows with what success. Yet his own fastidious taste saw much in it to alter and polish, and he returned to England for the tenth and last time to conduct it in the revised edition, so to speak.
WILLIAM HENSEL.
From a pencil drawing made by himself.
Meanwhile, near the end of 1840, he was prevailed on to accept a year's engagement at Berlin, and lend his labor and his genius to certain high artistic schemes of king Frederick William IV. Taking leave of Leipsic with a performance of Bach's St. Matthew Passion Music, he became Kapellmeister to the King. The first fruit of that was his noble music to the Antigone, and afterwards the Œdipus Coloneus of Sophocles; and in another vein, the Athalie of Racine. It was also by the king's request that he wrote the Midsummer Night's Dream music, into which the early overture fitted as if pre-ordained, and his both beautiful and wildly melodramatic setting of Goethe's Walpurgisnacht. Not far from the same time he was moved to make an overture, more dramatic than any of his early ones, to Ruy Blas.
MENDELSSOHN ON HIS DEATH-BED
From an English engraving.
On his last return from England a shadow came over that serene and happy life. He met the sudden news of his sister Fanny's death, and with a cry fell unconscious to the ground. He sought relief and rest in Switzerland that summer, painting in water-colors, and playing the organ all alone in a little village church—what a touching picture his letters give of it! His own hour was near at hand. A trouble in his head grew worse. He died in the evening of Thursday, Nov. 4, 1847. He was mourned by all Europe. In Leipsic it was as if the most beloved and honored, the soul and centre of all their higher life and aspiration, were withdrawn. Memorial concerts were organized in London, Manchester and Birmingham, even in Paris. To this day among English music-lovers Mendelssohn has been a name to conjure by, adopted as their own like Handel. Mendelssohn scholarships, busts, statues, became frequent. And a commission was appointed to publish selections from the mass of works he left in manuscript; nor could they keep pace with the impatient, almost angry outcry (at least in England) for every scrap of manuscript withheld.
Mendelssohn stands as the best modern representative of sound, many-sided, conservative, and yet progressive musical culture. He was artist to the marrow. Gifted with original creative genius—a genius not so deep and absolute, so elemental, so Titanic as that of Bach and Handel and Beethoven, nor of so celestial temper as that of Mozart;—trained to consummate musicianship through earnest study and personal absorption of the world's great musical inheritance; compelling himself to daily exercise of his own productive faculty, he summed up in himself the rounded whole of musical art down to his own time. He was the ripe musical scholar. Haunted by original and beautiful ideas, he resisted all extravagant solicitations of the ambitious passion for sensation-making novelty. He kept within bounds of reason and good taste; he respected "Terminus, the god of bounds." Standing at the height of the musical culture of his age, he won all his triumphs without setting up new theories, new forms of art, without resorting to questionable ways. He was nothing if not sincere, frank, simple in his art. Within the approved forms and principles of Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, he found free air and scope for the expression of what was in him. He never dreamed of questioning the validity of absolute, pure music,—music in itself, without words or programme. On the contrary, he maintained that music is a language far more definite and less ambiguous than speech; that speech is the gainer by translation into music, but that music is the loser by any attempt to translate or "interpret" it in words.
Fac-simile autograph letter from Mendelssohn containing corrections of a four-hand arrangement of one of his symphonies
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Fac-simile autograph manuscript of Mendelssohn's most popular song for male voices, "Farewell to the Forest" Composed in 1840.
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Of his complete musicianship there is no question. As a performing artist, an interpreter, he was a masterly pianist. We do not measure him by the phenomenal virtuosity of the Liszts, von Bülows, Rubinsteins, and Tausigs, who came after him. Such comparison would be irrelevant; he was not of their kind; not primarily a virtuoso, but essentially an artist and interpreter. In that sense his playing was remarkable; fluent, brilliant, vital, full of fire and feeling; his touch sensitive, decided, strong or delicate as the phrase required; his technique free and faultless; its perfection seemed to be spontaneous. Hiller said his playing was what flying is to a bird. Mme. Schumann said: "Of mere effects of performance he knew nothing; he was always the great musician; in hearing him one forgets the player in the full enjoyment of the music." Joachim says: "His playing was full of fire, which could scarce be controlled, and yet was controlled and combined with the greatest delicacy." His adherence to strict time and to his author's meaning is said to have been absolute. He had a rare faculty of playing at sight from a MS. orchestral score, characterizing each instrument by a peculiar quality of tone. He rarely played from book, trusting to his prodigious memory. His improvisations astonished all; they were no vague, random excursions over the keyboard, all digression, with which so many flashy finger-knights dazzle their audiences; they were consistent, well-planned compositions, in which the themes were not merely touched and set in shifting lights, but were contrapuntally worked and carried out; thematic development was with him a second nature. This was partly owing to his early practice in counterpoint under Zelter.
He deeply loved the organ, and was one of the most masterly organ players and composers of his time. For intrinsic worth and beauty his Organ Sonatas rank only next to Bach and Handel.
For conductorship he showed a passion and a gift from boyhood, when he improvised little private concerts in his father's house. Older musicians did not disdain to play under his bâton. Charming pictures are given by his biographers of the overtures and symphonies, as well as his own juvenile operas, performed there under his enthusiastic lead. Later he became one of the first conductors living, whether in symphony or oratorio. He had the magnetic quality; all the grace and flexibility of his attractive person, the electric eloquence of look and gesture, made each point of the music felt by performers and hearers. The former never could mistake his meaning, which was the meaning of the music. We have heard it said by those who knew him, that in the rendering of orchestral music, even movements of his own, he was subject to his moods, would take the same movement at one time much quicker, with more fire than at others; but it was all genuine, all loyal; there was a reason for it, and the essential music never suffered from this elasticity.
His seemingly instinctive and spontaneous command of counterpoint, already seen in his improvisation, is manifest in his organ music, in his psalms and oratorios, in his fugues as such, in the clear, symmetrical development of his orchestral and chamber works, in fact in all his compositions of whatever form. He was happily at home in this soul secret of the plastic tone-art. For the truth is, he was musically, spiritually, a true child of Sebastian Bach: who more fit than he to be the first exponent to our century of the long-shelved Matthew Passion of that mighty master? Through Mendelssohn has Bach gained a foothold in the more modern world of music.
His instrumentation is a model in its way, neither too much nor too little. Never dry and meagre, it is never bloated and excessive, weighed down to monotony by superfluous multitude of heavy instruments, which give each other scarcely room to vibrate freely, like so much in the "advanced" instrumentation of to-day. It is never extravagant, bent on sensational surprises and effects, if sometimes droll for cause. It is chaste, simple, clear, while it is vivid, graphic, and expressive. There is no false, exaggerated coloring, only just what suits the subject. Now it is airy, delicate, and fairylike; now bold, majestic, or sublime; now fraught with changing atmospheric quality, as in the "Rain" chorus in Elijah, in the Hebrides overture, and the Becalmed at Sea and Prosperous Voyage, now light-hearted and elastic, as in the "Italian" Symphony and the youthful overture to the Return from Abroad. If he does not touch the spiritual depths, nor strike with the lightning suddenness and fire of Beethoven, it is because he is himself, not Beethoven. But alike in his purely instrumental and his choral works, his instrumentation is always interesting, always clear and telling, and in keeping with the whole, always original, poetic, full of life and power.
We might discourse upon his mastery of Form. Enough to say, that with him all is in "good form," yet not formal, at least to a fault.
So much of his musicianship, his technical equipment, of what might be learned from masters. In him it all ministered to a creative genius of an original, rare order, as we shall see in a slight, cursory survey of his productions.
MENDELSSOHN IN HIS TWELFTH YEAR.[A]
Painted by Begas.
[A] At this age he had written two operas and almost completed a third,—six symphonies, a quartet for piano and strings, a Cantata, six fugues for the piano, a psalm for four or five voices with a double fugue, and many minor pieces.—K. K.
We begin with the Midsummer Night's Dream Overture, in which the lad of sixteen sprang into fame a masterly composer. Well had he read his Shakespeare,—the bard who fascinates the heart and soul of childhood before any child can be supposed to understand him! What a felicitous reproduction of the fairy element in tones! The perfect fairy overture, it is still heard with delight by old and young, and ever will be, it is so fresh, spontaneous, genuine, such an honest emanation from the enthusiastic heart and imagination of the boy composer. The other movements now commonly sung and played with the drama were the afterthought of Mendelssohn's riper period, when he was thirty-four years old. Schumann says: "His music is a meditation on the play, a bridge between Bottom and Oberon, without which the passage into Fairy Land is almost impossible." The same fairy vein, the same dainty elfin motives, or some of the same family, are met in many of the earlier and later works of Felix. That vein haunted him; it was a lucky string to play upon. Ballad movements, Canzonettas, Volkslieder, and the like quaint melodies, abound as well. The Overture is numbered Op. 21. Sketched or completed about the same time were the Octet, Op. 20, the first set of the Songs without Words, and the first Quintet, in A; all works of ripe and finished art of a clearly asserted, pronounced individuality. These mark the culmination of his youthful period.
His early piano efforts are in many forms, mostly with strings. He wrote three Sonatas for piano solo, but soon ceased to cultivate that field (in face of Beethoven?). But he had already opened a new and original field for himself, albeit a less ambitious one, in the Songs without Words, a field to which he returned con amore from time to time until late in his short life. One is tempted to describe some of these choice little tone-poems, were there room; at least the three Gondola Songs. Had he been reading Shelley:
"My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which like a sleeping swan doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing."
These perhaps express the daintiest, most exquisite of the many moods and themes poetic, sentimental, picturesque, or wideawake and stirring or heroic, in these eight and forty wordless songs. Perhaps the last two sets have not quite the verve of the earlier and more spontaneous numbers. But think of the Volkslied, the hunting and the martial strains, the deeper meditations, the Duet, above all the exhilarating "Spring Song" in A! In these, if in nothing else, he opened a new field in musical art, in which many followed him, but none approached him. These Lieder ohne Worte are of his most genuine, most individual inspirations. There is hardly a characteristic trait of the composer's style, as developed in his larger works, which you do not find here clearly announced and pronounced in these perfect little miniatures. In them we have the whole of Mendelssohn,—we mean of the innate, the essential, not the acquired music of the man. If to some they have come to look commonplace, it is their own radiance that veils them.
Of his many other piano compositions, the most important are the Six Preludes and Fugues, Op. 35; another in E minor, full of fire and strength, his contribution to the Album "Notre Temps"; and the Variations Sérieuses. All the great composers, notably Beethoven, were fond of writing variations. Those of Mendelssohn are full of character, and often figure to advantage in the artistic programmes of pianists. For the piano with strings, the two Trios are the most interesting, and still challenge the chamber-concert givers. The two Sonatas with 'Cello also hold their own.
He loved to employ the piano with orchestra. The brilliant Capriccio in B minor, and the Rondo in E flat, swift as an arrow and going as straight to the mark, are concert favorites; still more the Serenade and Allegro Giojoso, full of life and charm. But most important, masterworks indeed, are the two Concertos. That in G minor, by the very fascination of its beauty, and by being such a model in form, so clear and pure throughout, has been practised so much in conservatories, and played at the début of so many callow virtuosos, that a shade of commonplace has settled over it. The other, in D minor, keeps itself more select, so that for the more exacting taste it is publicly too seldom played.
And, speaking of Concertos, we must not forget the one for the violin, which surely ranks only after that by Beethoven, and is attempted by all the violinists. Its charm is never failing. The fine intensity of the impassioned Allegro has something feminine and far reaching in its quality, so that it was a rare pleasure to hear it interpreted by such an artist as Camilla Urso, with such true nervous grasp and accent. The middle movement seemed divine; and the finale, heralded by the brass ff, is so uncontainable and full of fire, so brilliant and impetuous, that it admits of being taken at the most rapid tempo. It is perhaps the most popular of all violin concertos.
All the great masters have written string quartets. The Quartet for two violins, viola and 'cello, corresponding to the four essential parts in harmony, each maintaining its individuality, yet each essential to the whole, is the quintessence of musical expression. Any imperfection betrays itself inevitably; all is exposed; there is nothing hidden under an orchestral coloring or vague passages of mere effect. The four voices are four persons. Not to speak of Haydn, father and founder of the race, the greatest models are those of Mozart and Beethoven. Those of Beethoven often seem like foreshadowings in outline of later phases in his larger grand creations. Those of Mendelssohn are less purely quartet-like. They have more of a singing quality,—a melody with an accompaniment,—and seem to seek orchestral development. The early one in E flat is of highly impassioned character, and might be distinguished as the Quartet Pathetique. It has a pathetic introductory Adagio, followed by a passionate Allegro; then a Canzonetta, a quaint minor strain in the spirit of some sad old Volkslied or Ballad; then an Andante of profoundest melancholy; then a bold finale, in 12-8, running in very rapid triplets. The three Quartets of Op. 44 are in a riper style. But the first begins with a swift and fiery Allegro, of which the theme is strikingly symphonic, and which has been well said to be not quartet-writing at all, but a melody with a bass and a mere filling-in of middle parts; not a conversation between four distinct individualities. The Mendelssohnian ardor, depth of feeling, yearning aspiration, with all his grace, facility, and clearness, pervade these quartets; but more perfect as quartets are his part-songs for mixed and for male voices. His last quartet, in F minor, written just after the death of his beloved sister Fanny, so soon before his own, has spontaneous unity in all its movements. It is said to have been written in forty-eight hours, in one close closeting with grief.
Of the two Quintets, that in A, of the juvenile period, is fresh, bright, full of life and charm, having a lovely Andante Intermezzo, and an elfin Scherzo. The much later one, in B flat, by the irrepressible and soaring impetus of its Allegro vivace,—challenge bravely answered in the finale,—by the sad ballad-like Andante scherzando in D minor; and by its profoundly, grandly beautiful Adagio, is perhaps more popular and always welcomed with sincere delight.
There remains the Octet, written just before the Midsummer Night's Dream. It is not a double quartet, two quartets reinforcing or offsetting one another; but it is a conference of eight real parts, eight individualities. The ensemble, especially the fiery opening Allegro, has the richness and fullness of an organ's diapasons, and naturally abounds in contrapuntal imitation to keep eight such parts employed. It is laid out on the broad scale of a symphony, with great contrast between its several movements, especially between the airy-light, crisp staccato of its Scherzo (forerunner of the fairy overture) and the grand sweep and rush, like a freshet, of the Presto finale. The work bears performance by all the strings of an orchestra, and is not seldom so presented.
We come now to his poetic, fascinating Concert Overtures, already ushered in by Shakespeare's fairy wand. Three of these date shortly after the Midsummer Night's Dream. The finest of them is the first, scored in Rome a year or two after his visit to the Hebrides, the outgrowth of an attempt to convey to his sister Fanny, in a piano sketch, his impressions of the "lonely island." The overture is often called "Fingal's Cave." It does not deal in literal description. It is not realistic. It is the feeling of the scene, subjectively conceived. The leading theme (B minor) suggests the dreamy reverie of one leaning over the water, absorbed in its commingling, fluctuating, mystic ebb and flow. The same poetic spirit sang the Gondellieder. In the strong answering motive you feel the wild force of the waves dashing on the rock-bound shores; loud calls give the sense of distance; you hear cries of sea-birds; while all bespeaks the watery atmosphere, the solemn silence and the mystic solitude of ocean.
Then came Meeresstille und Glückliche Fahrt,—a reproduction as Overture of two sea-pictures from two little poems of Goethe; the first conveying the sensation of a dead calm at sea; then the rising of a breeze, the boatswain's whistle, the setting of sails and swinging round of the huge, heavy hulk, the addressing itself to motion, making smooth, gallant headway (with ever and anon great, deep, mysterious sighs!) and entering port amid a triumphal blaze of trumpets. It is a wonderfully graphic and imaginative reproduction of the subjects. The instrumentation is as telling and artistic as the thematic working. The introduction of the piccolo and of the deep serpent and contrafagotto conveys a sense of illimitable height and depth.
The third, to "the Fair Melusina," Felix tells his sister, he wrote for an opera of Conradin Kreutzer's, based on Tieck's Mährchen, which he saw at a theatre. He disliked Kreutzer's music, especially the Overture, which was encored, and he resolved to write another "which the people might not encore, but which would cause them more solid pleasure." It is romantic music in the fullest sense. In the two contrasted themes,—the first (in F) watery, cool and rippling, tempting one beneath the waves,—the other (F minor) chivalric, heroic, proud, impatient,—he clearly had in view the princess Melusina (supposed to be a mermaid in the hours denied to her lord), and the brave knight who weds her. Schumann says it revives "those fables of the life deep down beneath the watery abyss." How bright and beautiful the mingling colors of the instruments! With what fine contrapuntal unity in variety the imitation and development proceeds!
More to the humor of to-day, perhaps, is his much later powerfully dramatic Overture to Ruy Blas. It is exciting, with bold contrasts, fraught with impending tragic crises, clear, strong, concise, and very effectively instrumented. Not so great as Beethoven's Coriolanus overture, it is his nearest approach to that, and shows that Mendelssohn was capable of something more impassioned, concentrated, fateful, than dreams of fairyland, breathings of sentiment and reproductions of romance.
Now for his Symphonies. First, his greatest, in A minor, which is supposed to owe its inspiration to his recollections of Scotland. In its wild, tender, melancholy melody and coloring, its romantic, breezy, sea-shore character, it has affinity with the Hebrides overture. How deep and tender the introductory Andante con Moto, 3-4! And how charmingly the kindred Allegro melody, 6-8, sets out from it and runs so smoothly and so rapidly, most of the way in octaves between the first violins and low clarinet tones! How it winds in and out among the instruments, now quiet and individual, now borne along upon the swelling, roaring tide of the whole orchestra! How it keeps its sweet, sad, minor mood, relieved only by one little bit of sunshiny major! Then, after the repeat, what wild, strange, sea-shore modulations, the cool, mysterious thrill of ocean and the Infinite! And when again those shuddering modulations cross the smooth mirror, the excitement swells to a furious climax, and all the strings rush up and down the chromatic scale with a tremendous vehemence; and it all dies down again, till only flutes and reeds are left streaming in the air, sliding leisurely down tone by tone, and leading back to the Andante. Compare this exciting climax with one correspondingly placed in the seventh symphony of Beethoven; if it has not that Promethean fire that could defy Olympus, is it feeble in comparison?
In the Scherzo the scene shifts to sunny playfulness. Vividly the laughing theme leaps out from voice after voice; the instruments seem to speak, as Schumann says, like men. What hurrying, huddling gleesomeness in the accompaniments, like the tiny waves that crowd up round the spot where the fountain's column falls! In hushed staccato the strings whisper a new motive, which is taken up by all and developed, with fragments of the laughing theme; and there seems to be a pointed allusion, fond and playful, to a characteristic of Scotch melody, in that emphatic mocking of the cadence of a minor third! It floats sportively away, in the violins, against a skyey background of oboe and horn tones, charming the soul away with it in pleased forgetfulness, when with a sudden revulsion of consciousness we are in the minor chord of D (like a great sob, escaping involuntarily), leading with solemn, stately measure and a sound of warning into the Adagio in A, 2-4, a most lovely, deep and tender movement, in which the orchestra seems to sing a Psalm of Life.... Upon this bursts, like a flash of sunshine over the sombre water, the Vivacissimo, a most dashing, brilliant theme, pausing anon to let a more pensive melody of reeds be heard; but with rough, impatient vehemence the basses break off the episode, and the bacchic frenzy of the movement storms itself away again, until its force is spent, and the quiet naïve little reed theme gets another chance and runs fondling and chatting along in duet between bassoon and oboe, and the strain sinks to sleep as in the fairy overture. The short finale, in A major, is in kindred melody and rhythm with the first Allegro, but with a bold and swaggering carelessness of movement, as of a party breaking up and marching off from a glorious carouse, to the tune (at least its spirit) of "We won't go home till morning!"
After the immortal nine of Beethoven, there is no Symphony more perfect in form than this, of charm more enduring, although we have the great one of the "heavenly length" in C by Schubert, and such noble ones by Schumann. But Mendelssohn has the advantage over Schumann in point of instrumentation and of general clearness (the importance of clearness was a mooted point between the two friends and mutual admirers).
Even more enjoyable in some respects is the "Italian" Symphony in A. It was written earlier than the so-called third, the "Scotch," and is commonly numbered the fourth. Both were well advanced before he left Rome. Its movements are finely contrasted. After the fresh, sunshiny, buoyant Allegro, calling up the blue, blue sky and boundless green of Italy,—brought out all the more vividly by the pensive Mendelssohnian subjectivity of the low-running staccato of the violins which sets in right after the announcement of the bright first theme,—how impressive is the sombre, solemn, antique-sounding, steady chant of reeds in the Andante, with the soft, warm gush of mingling flutes above! It is like passing from Italian noon-day into the rich gloom of some old church. The tranquil, blissful melody of the Minuet flows on in limpid, peaceful beauty; and the mellow horn Trio makes a delicious episode. In the Saltarello we feel the rush and whirl of Carnival, not without a dash of Mendelssohnian melancholy. The passage from that into the yet wilder Tarantella, with its whirling triplets, indicates the very abandon and delirium of excitement, whereas the former, by the hitch in the alternate triplet, denotes a dance in which the dancer still keeps some control upon himself.
MENDELSSOHN.
Painted by Th. Hildebrand. Engraved by E. Eichens.
This portrait was probably made in 1835, Mendelssohn being at that time in his twenty-sixth year.
The "Reformation Symphony" (No. 5) dates back almost to his juvenile period. It was written at the age of twenty-two. With the exception of one bright gem, the Scherzo, it seems to labor under the proverbial fatality of occasional works. As a Symphony it is exceptional in form, consisting really of only two parts, with a refreshing interlude between. The first part, in which the idea of the Old, the frowning Catholic faith, predominates, includes the Allegro with its short Andante prelude. The second part, the triumph of the New, with its curious variations on the Lutheran Choral, "Ein' feste Burg," has likewise its short Andante prelude, whose rather feeble prayer for peace it answers. Suppose a curtain dropped between the two parts, while for interlude and recreation we are vouchsafed that happy Scherzo.—But it is hardly fair to count this early effort into his symphonic period, any more than the Symphony "No. 1," in C minor, which bears date 1824.
From Symphony to Oratorio we have a noble bridge in the Symphony-Cantata "Lobgesang" or "Hymn of Praise." It is of later date, to be sure, than the oratorio St. Paul, and was composed to celebrate the invention of the art of printing, and to lend éclat to the inauguration of the statue of Guttenberg, at Leipsic, June 25, 1840. Many regard it as the most felicitous and most inspiring of his larger works, although prompted by an "occasion"! Praise and gratitude to God for LIGHT; the waiting and longing for it through the long darkness of the middle ages; then the break of day; the free career and joy of a redeemed humanity; and first and last and everywhere the Praise of God: such were the themes and promptings of Mendelssohn's heart and genius when he composed the Lobgesang. The three orchestral movements which prepare the chorus are essentially symphonic. From the first trombone proclamation of the pregnant choral motive, through the rapidly unfolding, fiery, complex Allegro; through the sweet, sad (almost over-sweet) tune (as of "the heart musing, while the fire burns," yet with a slight flutter) of the middle movement, Allegretto, and its alternations with the cheery, choral-like full chords of the wind; to the last deep-drawn sigh of the rich, soulful Adagio, it is pure symphony, all leading up to the superb outburst of the irrepressible chorus of Praise. Thenceforth we breathe the mountain air of oratorio. The work is too familiar to require description. Enough to note the innate strong dramatic tendency of Mendelssohn, as shown in the middle point and climax of the work, the thrilling scene beginning with the anxious Tenor recitative; "Watchman, will the night soon pass?" with fitful, wild accompaniment; the startling Soprano answer: "The night is departing," flooding all with instant light; and then the blazing outburst of full chorus, taking up the words in an exciting fugue.—It is surely an inspired, a master-work, both instrumentally and vocally.
Of his two great Oratorios proper,—the greatest certainly since Handel,—the one most esteemed among musicians is the earliest, St. Paul, produced in 1836. It shows the influence of Bach throughout, in the frequency of narrative recitative; in the use made of the Lutheran Choral; in the introduction of turbulent Jewish people's choruses (turbae); and in a generally dramatic conception and shaping of the whole. It stands between a Bach Passion, and the more epical Handel Oratorio. Depth of religious feeling and great dignity of style pervade the entire composition. The music is contrapuntal, never dry and pedantic. The overture is of quite a different character from his concert overtures; it is a solemn, contrapuntal, sacred prelude, with the old-school profundity, yet genial and interesting enough to serve as a good concert piece by itself. The orchestral resources throughout are carefully husbanded, after the way of Mendelssohn, to the great gain of true and clear effect, affording room for great variety of coloring. He relies on the intrinsic strength of his ideas, rather than on a noisy over-fulness of instrumentation.
The choruses range from grand, uplifting ones to others very lovely and tender; others mob-like and vindictive, like "Stone him to death"; again others of a vivid local coloring, like those in which the Gentile crowd worship Paul and Barnabas, "O be gracious, ye Immortals," etc., full of light-hearted, sensuous Greek adoration, of "oxen and garlands" and ear-tickling flutes. The arias are characteristic, heartfelt, deeply pious melodies. St. Paul is the oratorio which is most sure to gain, at every hearing, on a serious and truly music-loving listener.
Elijah, most popular of oratorios (after the Messiah), and most familiar, requires even less comment. Description or analysis would bore. The subject began to occupy his mind in 1838. It was finished for the Birmingham Festival of 1846, where, himself conducting, it was received with utmost enthusiasm. Yet it did not satisfy himself, and he at once set about revising and polishing. This was but a year before his death. When he returned to England for the last time to conduct it, the Prince Consort addressed him as another Elijah "faithful to the worship of true Art, though surrounded by the idolators of Baal." In greatness and variety of poetic and imaginative design, in wealth of musical ideas, in ripeness of consummate musicianship, in sure calculation of effects, it is a full expression of the composer's genius. It abounds in numbers which captivate alike refined and simple listeners. It betrays the dramatic element in the opening picture of the drought relieved and culminating in the wonderful "Rain" chorus; in the episode of the Widow who has lost her son; in the scene between the Prophet and the wicked Queen; in the Baal choruses, secular, impatient, boastful, impotently clamoring for miracle; in the sweet soliloquy and meditation of Elijah in the wilderness; in his ascension in the fiery chariot; and more or less in all the great choruses, all very graphic. Then what lovely restful choruses, like "He watching over Israel," followed by the perfect Angel Trio: "Lift thine eyes"! And arias full of meaning and of exhortation, like the soprano "Hear ye, Israel," in composing which, beginning with the high F sharp, his mind was haunted by that note as he had heard it in the voice of Jenny Lind!
Judging from the few fragments published, his unfinished oratorio Christus would have been his greatest sacred composition. From the first part, the Birth of Christ, we have the Trio of the Magi, teeming with wonder and anticipation; then the chorus: "There shall a star come forth," which has a sweet, pure, star-like beauty, ending with the choral: "Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern!" From the second part, or Passion, the tenor narratives, the accusing choruses before Pilate, terribly dramatic, especially the multitudinous echoes of "Crucify him," and the inexorable pronunciamento: "We have a sacred Law," bring him into still closer affinity with Bach; and even more so the exquisitely plaintive weeping chorus at the end.
Reproduced from Frontispiece to E. Devrient's "My Recollections of Mendelssohn." Sculptor's name not given.
Much might be said of his one Catholic work, the Lauda Sion, composed in 1846 for the feast of Corpus Christi at Liège, very beautiful in spite of the dry dogmatic Latin text, strange text for him! Much, too, of the three Motets for female voices; of the Hymn: "Hear my Prayer," with its soaring, bird-like soprano solo: "O for the wings of a dove!" of his masculine, strong settings of eight or ten of the Psalms, mostly for chorus with orchestra, with their Old Testament flavor; and of numerous smaller sacred compositions.
Of course so sensitive a nature, subject to many moods, quick to take impressions and to turn them into music, was prolific in songs with piano accompaniment. From his earliest composing days, at intervals throughout his life, he produced sets of Lieder and duets, to the number of ninety or more. They are all musical, refined, full of feeling, some of them strikingly original; but before the few great ones of Beethoven, the numberless songs of Schubert, those of Schumann, and above all Robert Franz, they retreat into the shade. Yet they have been favorites in musical homes and concert rooms, especially in England, where they introduced the love of German song, tempting many feeble imitators, while awakening there some worthier responses from the kindred spirit, Sterndale Bennett.
More truly original, with more marrow in them, and more of the enduring quality, are his four-part songs, both for mixed and for male voices. These have been the staple and the best material on which the Liedertafeln all over Germany, and the part-song clubs of England and America have built. After more pretentious, ingenious, sensational part-songs of later origin, it is always refreshing to hear one of them; for they are sincere music, thoroughly artistic, with heart and soul and poetry in them. With them we may mention several larger pieces for male chorus, such as he composed to Schiller's Ode "To the Artists," with accompaniment of brass. The exhortation of the music is worthy of the poem; male choirs feel well when they lift their voices in a strain so manly and so edifying.
We come now to a lofty form of choral and orchestral music, which we owe to Mendelssohn. In setting two of the Greek tragedies of Sophocles he had no old Greek music for a model. The spirit of the dramas lay in the text of Sophocles. He had read the Antigone in the Greek, and so far got his inspiration at first hand. He took the suggestion from Frederic William IV., King of Prussia, during a summer residence in Berlin in 1841. The peculiar function of the Chorus in the Greek tragedies, as a mediator between the actors and the audience, commenting in some sort of rhythmical chant upon what was passing on the stage, and the sublimity of some of those choruses, make us feel that there could not have been a truer artistic idea than that of setting them to music, realizing and carrying out their vague embryonic musical aspiration as it could only be realized in these modern times after music had become an art. Mendelssohn's inspiration seems to have sprung congenially from that of Sophocles; and this music is of the freshest, manliest, most original and vigorous that he has left.
Antigone was the first experiment. He composed it in eleven days:—Overtures, single and double choruses for male voices, with full orchestral accompaniment for all that are lyrical in subject; melodramatic bits, as where Antigone descends into the vault; and chords here and there making expressive background to the spoken verse. The piece was first played on the royal stage at Potsdam; and afterwards on the King's birthday before a select audience, the venerable Tieck presiding. When it was given at Leipsic, a meeting of "learned Thebans" signed an address to Mendelssohn, thanking him "for substantially reviving an interest in the Greek tragedy." The music has since made its mark everywhere, whether given on the stage with action, or only sung and played in concert rooms,—at Athens in the original Greek. Nobler men's choruses are never heard than that rich, sweet, pensive moralizing one which sings of man's wondrous faculties and limitations; or that superb hymn to "Bacchus" (double chorus),—as full of pomp and splendor as the Wedding March,—in which the composer gave free rein to his enthusiasm; or the opening invocation to "Helios."
Oedipus at Colonos he composed at Frankfort in 1844, about the time when he began to finish Elijah, and write the Violin Concerto and the music to Athaliah. A favorite with the men's Choral clubs is the chorus which recounts the beauties of Colonos and the glories of Athens. The music is wonderfully faithful to the ever kindling enthusiasm of the words.
The Mendelssohn Greek choruses are far beyond and above the ordinary part-song, which is a much smaller, humbler affair,—simply, as its name denotes, a song, harmonized in four parts. But these are themes worked up, for single and double choir, with as complete art as the choruses in great oratorios, only avoiding the Fugue form, which is Gothic, Christian, suggestive of the Infinite, not Greek.
Racine's Athalie, often called his greatest drama, is constructed after the old Greek model, with choruses similarly employed. Mendelssohn's music for it, compared with St. Paul and Elijah, the Lobgesang, or the Greek plays, must to many seem monotonous, in some parts dry and tame. The musical work, bound by the text, lacks climax. Yet there is much beautiful and some majestic, splendid music in it. Has it a Jewish, as its congeners a Greek flavor? The overture is very noble, with the two parts finely contrasted.
During the last years of his life the dramatic tendency in Mendelssohn, which we have traced all along through so many of his works in many forms, from his child operettas in his father's house to the Walpurgis Night, grew upon him with an irresistible momentum. His deep interest in Jenny Lind (Goldschmidt), who was his ideal of a singer, and to whom he became a most devoted friend, led him as the last musical problem of his life to write an opera for her in which she was to take the principal rôle in London. That was Die Lorelei, a theme as legendary and romantic, while more poetic and more inviting to music, than the monster Norse mythology. The composition was cut short by his early death. The fragments which he left of the unfinished work are of such rare excellence, that one wonders what might have been, had that ideal been achieved! Might not the German theatre have then possessed an opera, a lyric drama, which would have forestalled the paradoxical solution of the problem which so many, whether musical or not, appear so overready to accept? And how long will the fashion hold?
Greatly unlike in temperament, in character, in quality of genius, in outward circumstances and environment, largely, too, in their ideal aim and tendency, Mendelssohn and Schumann seem to be destined to be thought of together. They lived at the same time, and were intimate associates and friends in Leipsic. Each had the warmest admiration for the other. The two together were a double morning-star in music; yet "one star differeth from another star in glory." Opinions will not soon agree which in his works is the more significant or glorious, which the more potent and far-reaching influence. We do not discuss the point. If the sweetness of Mendelssohn's music does sometimes cloy; if with all the strength of his orchestral works, his oratorios and Greek plays, with all the Jewish masculinity of his Psalms, his male choruses and his part-songs, one feels the feminine, the sentimental minor vein predominate upon the whole; if his struggles with his formidable art-problems were less Titanic than those of Beethoven, and consequently his triumphs less complete; if his resolution of the discord was a joy less absolute, less wholesome and perennial (for with Beethoven Joy, joy—Freude—is ever the last word,—Joy as of the gods, admitting of no surfeit, no corruption), still there is no denying, except by some weak caprice of fashion, the essential greatness of the composer Mendelssohn. The most serious deduction to be made is, that he was to a certain extent imitable. Swarms of imitators sprang up, both in his own country and in England. Hence a certain sense of sameness began to attach to his music,—a sameness not fairly chargeable to the master, but to the imitators, with whom it was too easy to confound him, or through their fog to see him falsely. Well might he have said: "Save me from my friends!"
MENDELSSOHN'S LAST PLACE OF RESIDENCE IN LEIPSIC.
In the Königsstrasse.
Once Mendelssohn was overrated, in a most partisan and partial spirit, especially in England. Now it is too much the fashion, with young critics and "disciples of the newness," to estimate him far below his real worth. But all new fashions bring their own reaction. In this case the reaction will be purifying and salubrious. A reviving interest in Mendelssohn's music will be so much new guaranty against all false, extravagant, or morbid taste.—While music remains music, whatever may be the ups and downs of fashion, whatever the novelties of style or method, however startling the juggleries of brilliant execution, the genius and the art of Mendelssohn will still hold good. Their fascination may be lost awhile amid the louder clamor of phenomenal new comers; in more sane, reposeful hours, it surely will return with many a sweet surprise. What oratorio society, of high aim and standing, can afford to let the St. Paul and Elijah, or the Hymn of Praise, lose any of their lustre through neglect of frequent practice? What orchestra can fill out a worthy season without one or more of his symphonies and of his poetic overtures? Is any properly ambitious male chorus or part-song club well equipped without the Antigone and Oedipus music, or the Ode to the Artists, or the part-songs of Mendelssohn? Can any chamber music club dispense yet with his string quartets, quintets, or octet? And where is the pianist, however far advanced in virtuosity, who does not like to play sometimes his compositions for pianoforte with orchestra, or who fails to find grateful audience for the Lieder ohne Wörter? Indeed to ignore all this is to convict oneself of a very youthful bumptiousness of spirit, an arrogant fanaticism of unreasoning modernness in taste.
Four we count above all others in the temple of tone-art and genius:—Bach, Handel, Mozart and Beethoven. Can we fill out a second four without the name of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy? Choice may vary as to one or two names in that second quartet; of Schubert and Schumann there can be no question; some may have preference for Haydn, or for Gluck, or Weber, Cherubini, even for Rossini; but when with the other distinctions we take into account that of many-sidedness, all-round musicianship, can any other four compete with Mendelssohn except to his advantage?
FROM A CAST OF MENDELSSOHN'S HAND.
ROBERT SCHUMANN
Reproduction of an etching by L. Otto, after a Danish photograph. This portrait is preferred by Schumann's family as the most faithful and characteristic.
ROBERT SCHUMANN
VERY professional musician or music-loving amateur, who examines the individual influence exerted by our great masters upon himself, should always hold in especial veneration the name of Robert Schumann. What an important factor in our dearest recollections is formed by his music, whether enjoyed in great orchestral, choral or chamber concerts, or in the familiarity and reserve of our homes! In how many directions have his compositions and writings influenced our musical feeling, knowledge and taste! That which has so early endeared itself to us must necessarily remain a lifelong companion, must, indeed, become a part of our soul; and this particular corner in our musical heart occupied by Schumann constantly requires fresh recognition of that spirit, which has found expression in such an enchanting language. Schumann being, however, a true German, both personally and artistically, the essence of this spirit is not readily recognized by foreigners. What the latter admire in him, the Germans love, and if they wish to express that which in Schumann's music is worthy of their highest esteem, they use words for which it would be difficult to find an exact equivalent in the French, English or Italian languages; as for instance, Gemüth, Innigkeit, Sinnigkeit and Schwärmerei. This is particularly true in the case of his vocal compositions, which suffer in translation both poetically and musically more than similar works of any other composer and are for this reason far from being fully appreciated outside of German speaking countries. Schumann's instrumental works, on the contrary, have made his name famous wherever music has become the object of a widespread interest.
Robert Schumann's career was not rich in striking events of a general interest, but it was of a more solitary character, revealing the inward life of a poetic dreamer whose language was to be music; of an artist who paved the way for a new and brilliant epoch of his art, who enlarged its domain, fought for its dignity, and by the splendid example of his own productions proved the possibility of his artistic creed. His works were his life; in him there was the closest union of man and artist. Just as a knowledge of his life and personal character helps us to understand his music, so the study of the latter reveals to us the man, for his works are not merely results of a natural or an acquired ability, but they form the musical history of the life of his soul.
The twenty years during which Schumann personally exerted a great influence upon the musical world cover a red-letter period of this century. Only a few years before, Beethoven, Schubert and Weber had died, closing the great epoch of the classic masters, while at the same time preparing a new one with new ideals and new prospects. In the centre of the musical world stood the masters of French and Italian opera: Auber, Halévy, Bellini, Donizetti, and soon Meyerbeer, while such men as Cherubini, Méhul and Boieldieu had already stepped into the background. Germany still had Spohr and a number of less famous composers excelling in some special field, as for instance, Marschner in opera, Lachner in song and instrumental music, Löwe in ballads and oratorios, Hummel and Moscheles in pianoforte music; but they all were far surpassed by the brilliant sun of Mendelssohn which had just risen. He, born in 1809, heads the list of those distinguished names, which opened a new epoch of our art, mainly represented beside himself by Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, Wagner, Franz, and their great French contemporary, Berlioz. Italian and French opera, and an exhibition of meaningless technical virtuosity, formed the general musical taste; Beethoven was neglected, Schubert hardly known; and it looks as if by some kind device of nature just in the right time a resurrection of the higher conception of art was brought about, no one assisting more in the great work than Robert Schumann. He was equipped not only with rarest creative gifts, but also with a superior intellect, a high general culture and a thorough and sincere character, which enabled him to persevere in his great undertaking with unflagging zeal. Alas! why has not nature been more kind to him? Why has not one so deserving been spared the saddest of all fates? Perhaps it was to make his memory still dearer to us, to increase our veneration for him so that even weaknesses or errors in his life or works elicit from us an honest sympathy, which increases whenever we read his many published letters or the story of his life as told by able and sympathetic writers like Wasielewski, Spitta, Reissmann, and others.
Robert Schumann was born on the 8th of June, 1810, in the town of Zwickau, Saxony. Neither his birthplace, nor his ancestry, were such as to favor an early development of his musical talent. His father, August Schumann, son of a minister, had, after a long struggle between business and poetry, finally entered into partnership with a brother as a bookseller, and became widely known as a publisher of valuable books and magazines, and besides as an author. He had a particular fondness for English poets, such as Milton, Scott, and Byron, whose "Beppo" and "Childe Harold" he translated into German. He was a self-made man, who owed all his success to his own untiring energy. His wife, Johanna Christiana Schnabel, whom he won only after a severe struggle, was the daughter of the town-surgeon in Zeitz; she is described as an agreeable lady, of kind disposition, deep feeling and a certain romantic sentimentality, which was also a conspicuous feature of Robert's nature. Her loving care and motherly anxiety for her son is well known to all readers of young Schumann's correspondence.
Robert was the youngest of five children. His older brothers entered upon a business career, and his only sister died in her twentieth year in a state of incurable melancholy. The handsome little boy was petted by everybody and much surrounded by women. He received his education first in a popular private school, later in the public schools, receiving piano instruction from a school teacher, Baccalaureus Kuntzsch, when only six years old. Kuntzsch, who was not a professional musician, at least taught him the most indispensable elements and was held in highest esteem by Schumann till his death. Little Robert early showed a disposition to lead his playmates. One particular friend was chosen to assist in four-hand pieces and a small boys' orchestra was even formed, which Robert directed and for which he made his first efforts as a composer, without having had any theoretical instruction. There were overtures, even operatic sketches, and especially a setting of the 150th psalm for chorus and orchestra, written in Schumann's twelfth year. He also showed a rare skill in improvising on the pianoforte, trying to portray certain persons or dispositions. In public he played the accompaniment of Schneider's oratorio "The Day of Judgment." He was very fond of poetry and private theatricals, but his love of music, which was rapidly increasing, surpassed everything else. This was particularly noticeable after the summer of 1819, when he attended a concert given by Moscheles in Carlsbad. The father had now become convinced that Providence intended Robert for a musician, and notwithstanding all the violent objections on the part of his wife, who foresaw nothing but a career full of deprivations, he applied to Carl Maria von Weber, in Dresden, as a teacher for his son. Weber consented to accept Robert as a pupil, but for unknown reasons the excellent plan was abandoned and the boy's golden opportunity was lost. In spite of this neglect of early and well directed training (which may explain why his first compositions were so original in character and style), Schumann instinctively kept steadily on in the right path, a fact that greatly increases our admiration for him. Thus he pursued his musical studies at home, besides reading as much as possible, and helping his father in his compilations and translations. But already then he began to grow more and more reserved and reflective, loving to be alone, in a world of imagination and dreams. That great romanticist and humorist Jean Paul Friedrich Richter had completely enchanted him; he knew his novels almost by heart and never ceased to adore him as the richest source for his own imagination.
In 1826 Schumann met with a severe loss in the death of his father, who left the responsibility of the lad's future in the hands of his mother and his guardian, the merchant Rudel. They wished him to learn some profession that would promise a safe position early in life, and obediently submitting, he was inscribed as a law student at the university of Leipsic. Before this he had graduated brilliantly from the Zwickau Academy and had made a trip to Southern Germany with a friend, visiting, among other places, Bayreuth, where he stopped at Jean Paul's home, and Munich, where he met Heinrich Heine.
ROBERT SCHUMANN'S BIRTHPLACE IN ZWICKAU.
From an engraving by A. Krausse, in Leipsic.
The young law student had not been long in Leipsic, when he began to thoroughly dislike the chosen profession as well as the noisy student life. To the enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven, Schubert, Jean Paul and Shakespeare the law seemed utterly dry and uninteresting. However he promised his guardian that he would pursue his legal studies, although strong signs of a melancholy disposition had begun to make their appearance. He joined some students' societies, but preferred the company of a few friends who were also much given to musical and poetic dreamings. In the house of Professor Carus, whose wife was a clever singer, his musical penchant found all desired satisfaction; here he met Marschner and Friedrich Wieck, the eminent piano teacher, father of that wonderful little Clara who, then nine years old, had already become famous as a piano-player of rare ability. With his mother's consent Schumann became Wieck's pupil, enjoying at last a rational method of technical education, though still neglecting and even despising all theoretical studies. In February, 1829, Wieck's instruction ended, Schumann gaining more time for ensemble playing. Beethoven's and Prince Louis Ferdinand's chamber compositions were frequently rendered, but especially the works of Franz Schubert, whose early death in the preceding year had impressed Schumann very deeply. Bach's "Well-tempered Clavichord" never left his piano. Happy in extemporizing all kinds of new melodies and harmonies, controlled only by his musical instinct, he wrote a number of songs and piano pieces, and even a pianoforte quartet, none of which have ever been published. The law lectures he neglected, but was much interested in those on the great German philosophers Kant, Fichte and Schelling. The next year he spent in Heidelberg, that romantic old town so beautifully situated in the neighborhood of Switzerland and Italy. Here Schumann met the eminent pandectist Thibaut; but even this great professor was unable to overcome the student's aversion for the legal profession. Again music became the centre of his existence. Life was charming, the time being much occupied by social events and trips which were made to the neighboring towns and valleys. On these occasions Schumann used to practice on a dumb piano even when riding in a carriage. In the fall he enjoyed a delightful trip to Switzerland and upper Italy, and the spirit in which he describes his impressions, changing from wit or rapture into melancholy, from admiration into home-sickness, is very characteristic of his peculiar nature. The stay in Heidleberg was prolonged for another term, which, however, was again mainly devoted to piano study and composition, it being here that he composed his first piano pieces. His skill being widely known, he was often invited to parties, appearing also in a public concert, where he played variations by Moscheles. The struggle between filial obedience and loyalty to his genius had now reached its climax. At a concert given by Paganini in Frankfort, he was deeply impressed, and resolved to live no longer in uncertainty. Accordingly in July, 1830, he sent his mother that famous letter in which he pleads that his future must be devoted to art, and offers to submit unreservedly to the decision of Wieck. To his immense delight the latter's advice was favorable and removed all doubts and objections. Thus Schumann returned to Leipsic as an enthusiastic student of his beloved art.
From a portrait taken in 1831, Schumann being then in his twenty-first year. During this year he wrote his opus 2—"Papillons."
Of the four ways in which a musician may shape his practical career, teaching, conducting, playing and composing, Schumann chose the last two as being most congenial to him, aiming particularly at the greatest possible virtuosity. He devoted himself to mechanical exercises with an almost sacred energy, even inventing devices to promote his abilities in shorter time than a natural development would allow. At the same time he continued composing, and though having no thorough instruction, he found by his wonderful instinct an adequate form for the expression of his feelings and ideas, a form which could not be called unmusical or amateurish. Indeed in looking to-day at these earlier compositions, we forget that they were written by a man who was only half educated in music, and we admire the genius which guided him in finding the truest language for his rich musical nature. But this was not all. His highly cultivated mind, his desire to promote art by every possible means, compelled him to become also a leading literary champion of its interests. Leipsic was at that time a great musical centre, although the famous epoch only began in 1835, when Mendelssohn was appointed conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra.
CLARA SCHUMANN.
From an engraving by Weger after a photograph.
Before this, however, Schumann had to experience a sad disappointment. A gradually increasing lameness of the middle finger of the right hand (a consequence of his mechanical contrivances) spoiled every hope of his becoming a virtuoso. In spite of this new obstacle he devoted himself only the more to composition, and feeling sadly the lack of the necessary theoretical instruction, applied to Dorn, conductor of the opera, for lessons. During the winter 1832-33 he stayed with his family in Zwickau, where, in a concert given by Clara Wieck, he conducted the first movement of an unpublished symphony in G minor.
Schumann was fortunate in being so well situated pecuniarily that he was not obliged to earn his living during the years of the development of his genius. After his return to Leipsic he studied in private, surrounding himself with a few talented friends. Not content with their own mutual instruction in the spirit and beauty of old masterworks, and the enthusiastic appreciation of the productions of younger composers; firmly believing in the possibility of a new and brilliant epoch of musical art, these young men desired to do all in their power to realize their hopes. In pursuance of this idea they started a magazine, "Die neue Zeitschrift für Musik," which for many years was destined to exercise a wide influence in Germany. Its principal mission was to plead for a more poetic conception of music, and this cause was presented in an entirely new poetic language. Poetry and prose, reality and fiction were combined in a very ingenious manner. A society of Davidites was founded, more in fiction than reality, not confined to a circle of enthusiasts, but comprising all the old masters as well as those then living, Mozart and Bach as well as Berlioz, Chopin and Mendelssohn. All writers of meaningless trivialities or dry, unpoetic formalities were attacked as "Philistines." In a similar way Schumann combined fiction and reality in this literary occupation by substituting for his own individuality three different characters, to personify the different sides of his nature, Florestan representing all that was passionate, manly, energetic; Eusebius embracing all that was sweet, tender or imaginative; with the more objective, experienced and reconciling figure of old Raro, acting as moderator of both. Some years before this paper was started, Schumann had made his literary debut by contributions to other magazines, his first work, when he was twenty-one years old, being that glorious article on Chopin's opus 2, giving a most poetic record of the feeling which the music of the rising genius had awakened within him. His own paper made its first appearance in April, 1834, and Schumann, who soon became its sole editor and proprietor, kept this position until 1844, when he took up his residence in Dresden. That small portion of his time which was unoccupied with journalistic work, was devoted to composing, the fruits being a number of piano works of striking originality and of a great variety of moods and forms.
In German A flat is As, B natural is H, and E flat is Es.
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Although Schumann's musical and literary occupations laid strong claim to his time and attention, yet much of his interest was absorbed by affairs of a private nature. For years he had watched closely the development of Clara Wieck; but warm as his feelings were for her, there was another young woman who for a while took possession of his heart, Ernestine von Fricken, daughter of a Bohemian baron from Asch, a name made famous through Schumann's "Carnival scenes," which are mostly based on the four notes corresponding with the letters of that town (also the only musical letters in his own name). This engagement was, however, broken in 1835, and the following years, so rich in musical and literary productions, were also marked by a continuous struggle for that wonderful artist, Clara Wieck, whose name was to become inseparably united with his own. Not only from his letters, but also from many compositions, we learn the extent of Schumann's sufferings from Wieck's obstinate refusal to give his daughter to one who had not yet gained a safe position and who was so far known more as a critic than as a composer. Schumann tried everything to improve his position, publishing his paper for a while in Vienna but without finding the desired success, and, after his return to Leipsic, procuring from the university of Jena the honorary degree of doctor of philosophy, on the ground of his writings and efforts in the interest of art. His stay in Vienna was not without influence on his future development as a composer, and it had, besides this, the great result of bringing to light some of Schubert's finest compositions, especially the symphony in C, which Schumann not only sent at once to Mendelssohn for its first glorious performance, but presented to the world in all its beauty through a wonderful article published in his magazine. His doctor diploma, dated Feb. 24, 1840, speaks in the highest terms of his merits as a composer and critic.
ROBERT AND CLARA SCHUMANN.
From an engraving after a daguerreotype.
With all his efforts and his growing popularity, Schumann could not gain favor in the eyes of father Wieck; only after a long term of legal proceedings were the happy pair united in marriage, their wedding being celebrated in a church near Leipsic in Sept., 1840. It was a union of greatest importance not only to themselves but to music. Both were true companions in an ideal struggle, true Davidites and priests of art, Clara Schumann not only continuing her career as a splendid interpreter of the classics of Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin and Schumann, but at the same time tenderly watching over her husband's health and temper, which was marked by a growing irritability. Honor though it was to be Robert Schumann's wife, it required a great character and supreme devotion. Looking at his happy family life, reading his expressions of gratitude, esteem and love for his wife; hearing those who have seen him play with his children, once more we say that it is not only the artist, but the man Schumann for whom we feel a deep sympathy and esteem. Yet his disposition was not wholly free from features of a less agreeable nature. His sensitiveness and taciturnity often made him appear in an unsympathetic light, or offend those who meant well with him. But this was only a sign of the deep-rooted disease, which developed so steadily and which so early wrecked his mind and body.
The culmination of Schumann's happiness being attained, his creative powers increased wonderfully. Now he felt compelled to confide the music of his soul to the human voice and suddenly appeared as a great master in a new field, by producing a wealth of songs, perfectly original in style, form and spirit. Love, of course, plays a prominent but not exclusive part in them. Yet his genius was seeking for still higher fields and larger forms. The following year was devoted to the composition of great orchestral works, three symphonies (two of which were published much later in different shape) and the first movement of the pianoforte concerto. In this higher sphere Schumann again proved himself a master, the first symphony in B-flat, given most successfully under Mendelssohn's direction, showing his genius at once in the most brilliant light. This fever for composing did not in the least abate in 1842, the year devoted to chamber music, when he wrote the three string quartets, the quintet and quartet for pianoforte and strings, which were unsurpassed by any later efforts. Far from being exhausted, in 1843 he completed besides the famous variations for two pianofortes, the great cantata "Paradise and the Peri." It was received most enthusiastically, and its success stimulated him to write a similar work of still higher order, the musical setting of the most difficult and mysterious scenes from the second part of Goethe's "Faust." Meanwhile he had continued the work for his musical journal, accompanied his wife to concerts in Hamburg and Russia, where he was highly honored as a composer, and had also filled a position as professor for pianoforte and composition at the new Conservatory opened in April, 1843, with Mendelssohn as director. Of this latter work of Schumann little has become known, and from his uncommunicative nature one has inferred that he lacked the talent of a true teacher. In 1844 he severed his connection with the Conservatory and with his journal also, and took up his residence in Dresden. Overwork and the exerting musical life in Leipsic had greatly increased his nervousness and he expected a speedy recovery in the royal capital, with its lovely surroundings and quiet life. However it took years to fully restore him. Yet in these very years Schumann wrote his glorious symphony in C, and devoted much time to strict contrapuntal studies, composing several works in this style. He finally took a more active part in Dresden's social life, keeping a friendly intercourse with other musicians, poets and artists, and a sincere interest in the opera, then directed by young Wagner. At that time the reform of the musical drama was in Dresden the centre of all musical interests, and Schumann felt a deep desire to solve the great problem in his own way.
We shall speak below more extensively about his only opera "Genoveva." Although it was completed in Dresden, in 1848, it had its first performance in the summer of 1850, in Leipsic, under his own direction. It was repeated there a few times, but was undeniably a great disappointment in spite of all its musical beauties. Schumann was deeply affected, disagreeing entirely with the critics as to the dramatic character of his work. Much more successful were the first performances of his music to "Faust," presented at the centenary of Goethe's birthday in Dresden, Leipsic and Weimar. Several years later Schumann added more numbers, but the entire work was given in its present shape only after his death.
In the winter of 1846-47, Robert and Clara Schumann made a trip to Vienna, where the latter played her husband's concerto (completed in 1845), and he conducted his first symphony. The Viennese admired her playing but showed far less appreciation for his music than the North Germans or even the Russians. In 1847, Schumann succeeded Hiller as director of the Dresden "Liedertafel," and in 1848 he started a mixed chorus, which afforded him more genuine pleasure than the male chorus. With them he gave the Faust music, and "Paradise and the Peri," studied Beethoven's great Mass in D, and began to believe in his abilities as a conductor to such a degree, that when, in 1849, it was rumored that Rietz, Mendelssohn's successor in Leipsic, was going to Berlin, Schumann eagerly applied for the high position. Rietz, however, remained. During these last years in Dresden, Schumann had finished a large number of chamber works, songs, duets, male, female and mixed choruses with or without accompaniment, piano pieces, and the music to Byron's "Manfred."
MONUMENT TO ROBERT SCHUMANN IN THE BONN CEMETERY.
Modelled by the sculptor Dondorf.
In 1850, Hiller again recommended Schumann to become his successor as director of the orchestral and choral concerts in Düsseldorf, and a call being extended, it was readily accepted by the composer. For such a work he had neither the natural gifts nor the necessary preparation, his conducting being hesitating, his way of rehearsing not in the least instructive. Fluent as was his style in writing, he lacked the gift of easily imparting his ideas. However, he was received with high honors and for three seasons performed his new duties, also several times taking part in the great vocal festivals. All his works were listened to with delight; nevertheless it constantly became more evident that he was unfit for the position, and in 1853 his engagement was not renewed, the decision affecting him deeply. A visit to Leipsic made by the artists in 1852 for the performance of several novelties, was also rather disappointing, while the triumphant tour through Holland, at the end of 1853, forms the last sunny period of Schumann's life.
In these years he had composed feverishly, some of the results being such great and famous productions as the Rhenish symphony, the cantata, "the Pilgrimage of the Rose," several overtures, ballads for soli, chorus and orchestra, a mass, a requiem, several chamber works, songs, melodramas and pianoforte pieces. He also planned writing another opera on Schiller's "Bride of Messina" or Gœthe's "Hermann and Dorothea," or a great popular oratorio on "Luther," but was forced to abandon the scheme. He was happiest amongst his children and was as talkative with them as reticent with others. Yet his old interest in new talents remained unabated and the way in which he encouraged young musicians, such as Reinecke, Meinardus, Dietrich, Joachim and especially Brahms, shows him in a most amiable light. But all this time that mysterious influence which had so early affected his mind, was daily gaining in strength. He was troubled so much by nervousness, a feeling of permanent anxiety, and even by hallucinations, that he became desirous of a medical treatment in a hospital. One night he rushed from his bed to write down a theme just sent to him by the spirits of Schubert and Mendelssohn. Nor was he free from superstitions, for instance passionately taking part in the practice of table moving. On February 22, 1854, soon after dinner, without any warning he left his house and the society of a few friends, to seek his final rest in the floods of the Rhine. Saved by sailors, he recovered full possession of his faculties only for a few days, in which he wrote one variation on the theme of that strange night. During the two last years of his life he was confined in a private hospital near Bonn. There a few friends such as Joachim and young Brahms were admitted to see the beloved master, so sadly afflicted both physically and mentally. His darkened mind became clear only at rare intervals, when he would sit at the piano, once more seeking a musical expression for the strange world of thoughts within him. But soon all visits from friends were forbidden, and the wife of the great composer saw him only to close his eyes and bid him a last farewell. He died July 2, 1856, only forty-six years old. In Bonn, where he is buried, a beautiful monument by Donndorf is erected in his memory.
In appearance Schumann was rather tall and stately, calm and slow in his movements, the face, with deep, melancholy eyes and rich dark hair, being quite expressive, but seldom betraying the emotions of his soul, the wealth and depth of his imagination or the exquisite wit and humor, so often encountered in his works. Certain odd peculiarities of his personal and artistic character, which became more apparent when his health began to fail, can not impair the general impression of his true nature as manifested in the achievements of his happier days. If we remember how late Schumann entered upon a musical career, how late he enjoyed a thorough theoretical instruction, how much he has also done in the field of literature, how early his health began to be impaired, and at what an early age he was called away, we are astonished at the mass of his works, so many of them of the widest scope and importance, which place his name among the noblest and greatest masters.
Fac-simile autograph letter from Schumann to a lady, thanking her for her soulful singing in one of his concerts.
Fac-simile of portion of letter from Clara Schumann to Karl Klauser, thanking him for introducing her husband's music in Farmington, Conn., where it was performed before it became known in New York. The musicians of that period were pleased to call Farmington "Schumannville." Hence her greetings to that place, unknown to the Gazetteer of the U. S.
Fac-simile musical manuscript of the opening of Schumann's Quintette Op. 44. The original is in the possession of J. Brahms.
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In a certain sense Schumann's works may be regarded as a musical commentary on his life. This is particularly true of his earlier pianoforte compositions. Being neither the result of theoretical studies nor the imitation of favorite masters, they were of a surprising originality, melodically, rhythmically and harmonically, and revealed a new spirit in a new form in spite of all relationship to Schubert's small character pieces, Beethoven's last sonatas or Bach's polyphonic style. They were not only new, but bold and full of a higher significance. Schumann was never at a loss for ideas, but, being familiar with every style of pianoforte playing from Bach's to Moscheles' and Chopin's, and aiming at the career of a virtuoso, he wrote from the beginning in a very difficult style, rich in wonderful new effects and combinations. Sometimes we find a "pearl of great price" hidden beneath a wealth of ornament of unusual beauty, novelty and poetic significance. So peculiar indeed is the style of these pianoforte works, that special technical study is required in order to do them justice.
Like all our great composers, Schumann frequently makes use of variations, of course not in Henri Herz's manner, but in Beethoven's, creating out of one original idea a series of characteristic pieces, strongly contrasted in form and spirit. In Heidelberg, long before his studies with Dorn, he wrote those on A-b-e-gg, dedicated to a countess of this name, who, however, was in reality nothing but a modest, untitled young lady, with whom he had become acquainted at a ball. The Impromptu (Op. 5), on a theme of Clara Wieck, belongs to this class also. But of much greater importance are the two works, in which he best showed the peculiar character of his pianoforte virtuosity, the Symphonic Studies (Op. 13) and the Andante with variations for two pianofortes (Op. 46). The extremely interesting treatment in these works is very free, but always ingenious, and the technical and intellectual difficulties are very great.
Rarely one meets with a long cantilena, in Schumann's earlier works, the material generally having a short, somewhat fragmentary character, often consisting of but a few notes, though treated with a wealth of rhythmical or harmonical combinations. There is also a great variety of moods, and the contrasts are not only very distinct, but often unexpected and sudden. As a dreamer full of sweetest or saddest thoughts he is not less touching than as a musical knight of the most chivalrous spirit or as a humorist such as Beethoven. Nowhere can one find a finer exhibition of that peculiar German humor which "laughs through tears," than in Schumann's charming "Humoreske" (Op. 20). The arrangements of the Paganini caprices and studies have a more pedagogic purpose, while the great Toccata (Op. 7) and the Allegro (Op. 8) may be called Schumann's noblest contributions to the literature of bravoura-pieces. More characteristic of his individuality, however, are those works with which his name as a musical poet will always remain especially connected—"Papillons," "Carnival," "Davidsbündlertänze," "Phantasiestücke," "Scenes from Childhood," "Kreisleriana" and "Noveletten." Distinct pictures of his poetical imagination form their object, yet it is well to remember the composer's emphatic declaration, that the music originated in his mind and was written down before he even thought of the title, which he afterward gave the composition. Yet so wonderfully appropriate are many of these titles, that it is often impossible not to perceive their meaning in the music. What an inexhaustible wealth of musical ideas is hidden in all these productions, how many new rhythmical combinations, how many "sweetest discords"! Who has ever understood how to show so much depth of feeling and originality of thought, such a rich imagination within such narrow limits as has Schumann, particularly in the "Papillons" and "Carnival"! One feels that much of his own life's experience, much of the romance of his heart is embodied in this music. Thus the "Davidsbündlertänze" are by no means "dances," but the Davidites' knightly fights against the Philistines, nor are the "Kreisleriana" a portrayal of the eccentric Capellmeister in E. T. A. Hoffmann's tale, but the expression of Schumann's own enthusiastic, romantic, many-sided nature and of the ever-varying moods of his soul. In the Novelettes he tells us, in a most pleasing and spirited language, the story of his struggle for Clara's heart. The Phantasiestücke contain veritable gems among modern pianoforte music, such as "Evenings," "Why," "Traumeswirren" and "Aufschwung." The utmost delicacy of sentiment and fineness of musical expression are found in the "Scenes from Childhood," which are not meant as compositions for children, but as musical genre pictures from the children's life. Other fine pieces such as "Arabeske," "Blumenstück," "Nachtstücke," may be only mentioned, though each deserves a detailed analysis.
In three Sonatas Schumann has attempted to force the wealth of his imagination into an old classic form, but as he had not then perfected himself in the latter, and besides wrote the single movements at wide intervals, he could hardly be expected to make a complete success. The material is almost crowded, the development often lacks coherence, the different portions are not of equal value; and yet, considering these productions as free music, we recognize again the composer's vast powers of invention and combination, his passionate energy, delicacy of sentiment and brilliancy of style. Of these sonatas, the one in G minor is generally praised as the best. On a higher plane we place the great fantasia in C, Op. 17, dedicated to Liszt. Here Schumann's imagination was free from strict formal fetters; the four movements keep one's interest evenly and keenly alive, and, apparently written in hours of inspiration, they go directly from heart to heart. The earnest, noble character and lofty spirit of this work remind us indeed of Beethoven, to whose monument Schumann had first intended to contribute it as an "obolus." Its difficulties are such, that only eminent players are able to master them and make the meaning of the music clear.
Among Schumann's later pianoforte compositions the following are best known: the lively, fanciful "Faschingsschwank," composed in Vienna during the carnival; three romances, of which the one in F-sharp is particularly famous; some fugues and other pieces in strict contrapuntal style; the "Scenes from the Woods" (among which is the odd "Bird as Prophet"); "Bunte Blätter"; "Phantasiestücke"; "20 Album Leaves" (including the popular cradle song); and "Gesänge der Frühe"; "Three little Sonatas," dedicated to his daughters, and the well known "Album for the Young," with its forty-three charming pieces, are certainly among the most valuable works ever written for children.
Of the compositions for four hands none deserves more sympathy than the charming "Pictures from the Orient," inspired by Rückert's "Makamen des Hariri," certainly in no way inferior to the famous "Evening Song" from the twelve pieces Op. 85, while the elaborate "Ball Scenes" and the easier "Children's Ball" were written at a later period.
The pianoforte concerto in A minor ranks directly after Beethoven's. It has a truly symphonic character, especially in the first and last movements, the orchestra accompaniment being not less important than the brilliant solo part, while the middle movement, Intermezzo, seems even like a lovely solo for the violoncello with piano accompaniment. Two more concert pieces for pianoforte with orchestra are an Allegro appassionato (Op. 92) and a Concert Allegro with Introduction (Op. 134), the latter dedicated to Joh. Brahms.
When, in 1840, Schumann reached the sunshine of domestic happiness, he was compelled to express his joy in singing, not only in vocal compositions, but also in his instrumental pieces, which now began to assume a more sustained melodic breadth. He played no instrument besides the pianoforte, and for this reason has often been accused of not fully understanding the true nature of string or wood instruments. We admit that occasionally a desired effect is not well produced, but a thousand instances prove that as a general statement such an accusation is entirely false. There are portions where the composer shows a lack of transparency, but a great many more are very brilliant and most finely balanced. His use of the strings is certainly effective enough in his chamber works, though the finest results are obtained in their combination with the pianoforte.
The three string quartets dedicated to Mendelssohn show the latter's great influence on Schumann's progress in larger forms. Later the composer changed many details, and now we class them among the most valuable productions of the kind since Beethoven's death, the beauty of the ideas and their fascinating treatment increasing our admiration with each hearing. Schumann likes to place the Scherzo before the slow movement and to substitute for the Trio an Intermezzo in two-four time. Greater than these quartets, however, are the famous quintet and quartet in E-flat for pianoforte and strings. The former especially has been called the greatest chamber work since Beethoven, and it has not yet been thrust from this position of honor. How one would have liked to witness the first performance of this splendid work with Clara Schumann, to whom it is dedicated, at the piano! Two very short themes form the basis of the first movement, which has a bright, energetic character and received an extremely rich harmonic treatment with a brilliant ornamental figure work. Then follows a funeral march of a peculiar character, having a choral-like episode in the major key, and a passionate agitato in F minor. The highly spirited Scherzo has again two trios, one sweet and melodious, and the other a labyrinth of mysterious sounds and thoughts. The same harmonic wealth and energetic spirit we find again in the Finale, in which through a combination of the principal theme with the first one in the opening moment, a grand climax is reached, closing a work which, with all its romantic spirit and modern rhythm and harmony, retains the character of a perfectly classic masterpiece. The pianoforte quartet deserves as much praise, one of its most conspicuous features being the close relation which Schumann bears to Bach, while retaining his own strikingly modern poetical spirit.
ROBERT AND CLARA SCHUMANN.
From a lithograph from life, by Edward Kaiser, in 1847.
The trios for piano, violin and violoncello in D minor and F are of a high order too, full of ingenious ideas, one being especially interesting by its passionate, poetic spirit, the other through a greater perfection in form; but the originality and artistic perfection which characterize them do not appear in the G minor trio [Op. 110]. Of a lighter character, yet delightful on every page, are the "Phantasiestücke" for violin, 'cello and piano, and the "Märchenerzählungen" for piano, clarinet and viola.
The two passionate, melancholy Violin Sonatas of his later years are, in spite of their great musical worth, perhaps more gratifying for players than for a concert audience, while many an enjoyable page may be found among the different compositions for clarinet, horn, viola, or violoncello and pianoforte.
Schumann's organ compositions are few in number, the principal ones being the six fugues on B-A-C-H, which differ considerably in value and character.
Besides the pianoforte concerto already mentioned, Schumann has composed one for violoncello in A minor, demanding a player of great musical intelligence: one for four horns, a revival of the old concerto grosso, and a fantasia for violin with orchestral accompaniment dedicated to Joachim, who owns also the manuscript of a whole violin concerto. All these works belong to Schumann's last period, showing traces of exhaustion, but still his noble, always purely artistic purposes.
In order to picture Schumann's orchestral works with any degree of justice, we should be gifted with his own wonderful powers of description, thus producing upon our readers an impression similar to that produced by the musical work upon a sympathetic listener. What a splendid protest are they against the faint-hearted belief, that with Beethoven's "Ninth" the symphony as such had not only reached its supreme development, but died. Surely it required a genius, a great personality, a thorough master of the symphonic art to write in this field something worthy of the great predecessors, and yet original. But such a personality was Schumann, and his symphonies will forever belong to the golden treasure of instrumental music. Far from being imitations in any respect, they hold an independent position of their own and will live as long as their composer's name. Already the first one in B-flat appears at once as a masterpiece of lasting value. In this he might be called a younger brother of Beethoven, a lad with youthful thoughts and hopes and longings, with rosy cheeks and brilliant eyes, full of sweetest tenderness and mirth, but glowing with youth, manliness and vigor. His kinship with Schubert is often apparent too, although he always shows his own peculiar face. In regard to the form, he introduces many new features.
This is particularly noticeable in his treatment of the second theme in the first and last movements, in the use of two trios in the Scherzo, and in the melodious Larghetto, which greatly resembles his Phantasiestücke for piano. Throughout, this music is extremely inspiriting; in spite of an occasional lack of clearness in the instrumentation it is powerful and brilliant or of exquisite delicacy, and its spirit full of love, happiness and spring.
The second symphony in D minor, later revised and published as No. 4, is decidedly more passionate and concentrated, some of the four movements being closely connected, besides having partly a common thematic material. New also is the slow impressive introduction of the finale and the free, fantasia-like treatment of the second part of the opening movement. In the place of a broad adagio a lovely romance precedes the Scherzo, which retains its usual shape, and in all four movements the principal key of D is dominant.
Schumann's relationship to Beethoven seems however nowhere more conspicuous than in the great symphony in C. It has an eminently virile, strong and dithyrambic character. The solemn introduction of the first movement, the conciseness of its first part, the wide scope of the working-out portion, even the character of the themes, remind us at once of Beethoven's spirit. An extensive, fanciful scherzo with two different trios in two-four time precedes the beautiful Adagio, which, with its intense feeling, sweet sadness and almost transcendental loftiness, comes perhaps nearer to Beethoven than anything else in modern symphonic literature. An exultant finale crowns this truly monumental work. And let us not forget that it was written in a gloomy period of mental and physical distress. The deep study of Bach at that time left many traces in the masterly contrapuntal work.
A new world is revealed in the so-called Rhenish Symphony in E-flat. There Schumann begins at once with the Allegro, the first subject of the movement bearing a vigorous character with effective syncopations and clad in all the splendor of the full orchestra, the second being a charming melody in G minor. Omitting the usual repetition of the first part, he extends the working-out portion by new and ingenious combinations of the two subjects. Here again we are often reminded of Beethoven. After the brilliant Coda a lovely intermezzo follows with a sweet, almost popular melody for the 'celli, alternating with a lively staccato figure of the string and wood instruments and a romantic song for two horns, the whole suggesting perhaps a pleasant trip on the Rhine at sunset. And is there anything more delicate and touching in any modern symphony than the Andante in A-flat, where every instrument seems to have a soul and to sing directly into our inmost heart, now plaintive and sad, now consoling with an indescribable delicacy of feeling. Still the composer does not hasten to the finale, but puts in another slow movement in E-flat minor in the character of a solemn ceremony (suggested by the installation of the archbishop in Cologne), highly effective by its spirit, and vastly interesting by its masterly counterpoint and rich instrumentation. It touches us like liberty regained from such mysteries when the finale opens with its brilliant, vigorous theme, and the whole glorious movement fills our hearts with its own enthusiastic spirit. Yet this great work was written when Schumann's powers began to decay, and when he was occupied with many less successful efforts in other musical fields.
The fifth symphonic work, written directly after the first symphony, but revised and published later under the title "Overture, Scherzo and Finale," has also become a favorite because of its charming, inspiriting character, especially prominent in the scherzo, which is an excellent revival of the old gigue form.
KAPELLMEISTER KREISLER.
An imaginary and fantastic character introduced in various novels and sketches by E. T. A. Hoffman, impersonating a true musician devoted to the highest ideals in conflict with the banale and frivolous world and ending in insanity. This sketch is by Hoffman himself, showing Kreisler amusing himself blowing soap-bubbles, seeming to say: "What is the world after all, but a soap-bubble?"
The figure of Kreisler and his various moods depicted in Hoffman's novels induced Schumann to write his Op. 16 Kreisleriana, dedicated to F. Chopin.
A prototype of Schumann's own life and sad end.
Notwithstanding Schumann's admiration for Berlioz, his firm belief in the close relation between poetry and music, and his programmatic tendencies in earlier pianoforte works, it is very significant that he has in all his orchestral writing closely followed the path of his great predecessors. Hereby he gave great encouragement to still cling to the classic tradition, and to believe in the possibility of a further development of the symphonic form.
Even the master's overtures may be regarded in this light of pure music, although they refer to certain distinct objects. They all were first intended as preludes for some drama or festival occasion, such as the one on the Rhine-wine song, in which after a long orchestral movement a tenor solo leads over to the popular chorus finale. The overtures to his dramatic works "Genoveva" and "Manfred" rank highest, and will be dwelt upon later; the others refer to Shakespeare's "Julius Cæsar," scenes of Gœthe's "Faust," Gœthe's "Hermann and Dorothea," and Schiller's "Bride of Messina"; the last named being particularly worthy of a deep interest and sympathy.
Omitting the many songs for children (some of which have a peculiar charm), Schumann has composed over two hundred works in this smallest form of vocal music, the majority of which were written in the happy year of his marriage. They made Schumann at once a peer of Franz Schubert, and placed him in the front rank of German song composers as the representative of an entirely new style, which has been quite successfully adopted by younger masters. His poetic nature enabled him, so to speak, to repeat the whole process of the poet in the conception and shaping of his work, but as a musician and in the richer and more delicate language of music, and thus to more clearly express the finest thoughts and feelings of the poem. The words are treated very melodiously, but with a fine sense for correct accentuation. Although the voice retains the melodic expression of the sentiment, the accompaniment, far from being a conventional support, is raised to such importance that it is absolutely essential to the vocal strain. Thus much that the poet could only suggest, found a wonderfully distinct musical expression, partly in fine preludes, interludes and postludes, and partly in the details of the strict accompaniment. Here again, one is surprised at the abundance of new harmonic and rhythmic combinations. These songs demand the most intimate harmony between singer and player and most of them lose greatly by a translation in any other language, as the music is often closely connected, not only with the thought and sentiment, but with the special poetic diction of the German text. Schumann has sometimes been accused of lacking a thorough comprehension of the human voice; in a certain sense this may be true, on the other hand one must admit that there are few public singers who are capable of giving a just rendering of his finest songs, many of which are besides hardly appropriate for the concert hall.
The master's high culture guided him in the selection of poems, and the great representatives of German lyric poetry, Heine, Rückert, Eichendorff, Chamisso, and Kerner, owe a great deal of their popularity to Schumann, as so many of their finest poems have become inseparably connected with his music. In his several cycles of songs (Heine's and Eichendorff's "Liederkreis," Heine's "Dichterliebe," Rückert's "Liebesfrühling," to which Clara Schumann has contributed some numbers, and Chamisso's "Frauen-Liebe und Leben"), the single numbers are not connected, but their coherence is often indicated by some other way. Intensity and purity of feeling, truth of expression for situations or moods of every kind, and a rare harmony between the poetic and musical senses secure to many of these songs the highest position in this kind of literature. Some have a simple, almost popular character (particularly those by Burns), others are very elaborate. In ballads ("Belsazar," "Soldier's Bride," "Two Grenadiers," "Die Rothe Hanne," "Der arme Peter," etc.), Schumann has a peculiar style of his own, differing much from that of the great master of German ballad music, Loewe, less popular, yet in many ways not less effective. Less happy perhaps are his later settings of the songs from Gœthe's "Wilhelm Meister" and of poems of Elise Kullmann, Queen Mary Stuart and others.
Much could be said of the many delightful vocal duets, varying so much in style and spirit, and interesting us so much both in the vocal and piano parts. Yet we can only mention them here, as well as the several important and larger works for solo voices and piano in a cyclic form, such as the "Minnespiel" from Rückert's "Liebesfrühling," the "Spanische Liederspiel" and "Spanische Liebeslieder," all of which should be favorite numbers for vocal chamber concerts.
Next in our review stand the part songs for mixed, female or male voices. Some of them deserve a place beside Mendelssohn's little masterpieces, others are almost forgotten or, like the great motet for double male chorus and organ, or the canons on Rückert's "Ritornelle," are beyond the sphere of male chorus societies. Few have won a greater popularity than the "Gipsy Life" with piano, triangle and tambourine. Of greater importance, however, are several works with orchestra, undeservedly neglected, Rückert's "Advent" and "New Year Songs," Hebbel's gloomy "Nachtlied," and especially the touching "Requiem for Mignon" from Gœthe's "Wilhelm Meister." Less distinction is attributed to the four great ballads for chorus, soli and orchestra, Uhland's "Glück von Edenhall," "des Sänger's Fluch," "der Königssohn," and Geibel's "Vom Pagen und der Königstochter." By having these ballads arranged in a more extended, dramatic form, Schumann impaired the work of the poet; moreover he succeeded only partially in his musical setting, weak portions predominating over the more effective and even fine passages, which are by no means wanting. The Requiem and the Mass, both for chorus and orchestra without solos, the latter acknowledged as decidedly superior, were composed in feverish haste, and give little proof of his ability to reveal his religious feelings by means of great choruses or to adapt his music to the Catholic service. In these late years he tried his powers in almost every field of composition, even applying the melodramatic form to poems, which are recited to a pianoforte accompaniment ("Schön Hedwig," "die Flüchtlinge," "der Haideknabe.")
CLARA SCHUMANN.
From a photograph by Hanfstängl, Munich.
There yet remain several great works which have helped to make Schumann's name immortal. In the poem of "Paradise and the Peri," forming a part of Thomas Moore's "Lalla Rookh," Schumann found a subject particularly suited to his individuality, a touching romantic fairy tale with rich Oriental scenery and pictures of strongly contrasted vivid colors. Schumann changed the poem in some places and made a few additions of his own, but did not in the least impair its beauty or coherency. The epic portions are attributed to different solo voices and sometimes even to the chorus. The orchestral accompaniment is very elaborate, demanding great care for an adequate performance. All these scenes in India, Africa and at the gates of Eden required a sensuous, yet refined instrumentation to portray them in their peculiar colors. Orchestra and the human voice were called upon to furnish the truest and most touching expression for the varied emotions of every number, which might be warlike and thrilling or tender and sweet, exuberant with joy or hopeless with despair, illustrating the charm of a blooming scenery or the gloom, suffering and death brought by the plague. The solos demand singers with beautiful, well-trained voices, and a thorough comprehension of all the musical and poetic beauties. A more brilliant and impressive soprano solo part than the Peri does not exist in all concert literature. There are also parts assigned to a second soprano, alto, tenor and two bass voices, the solos alternating with concerted numbers of extreme beauty. Of the chorus numbers the finales of parts one and three are on a large plan and have a jubilant and highly spirited character. Not less beautiful are the smaller numbers, each so wonderfully adapted to its particular situation and mood. Indeed one cannot speak too highly of all this music, and even one who does not sympathize with some monotonous portions in the third part, or an occasional deviation from correct declamation, will admit that this work is indeed the finest repository of the wealth, beauty and peculiarity of Robert Schumann's musical genius, in a field in which he has no superior and hardly a rival. It inaugurated indeed a new form of secular chorus music, more modern in spirit and freer in the whole arrangement than the oratorio proper, more dramatic than the cantata, and of greater refinement than the opera.
"The Pilgrimage of the Rose" cannot claim a similar high position. Arranged for Schumann by Horn after a poem of Pfarrius, it deals with a conventional story of a weakly, sentimental character, in spite of a few highly poetical incidents, and is unduly extended. Yet the music contains a most beautiful chorus for male voices with horns, and charming mixed choruses for female and mixed voices, their tones being either soft and mellow or as bright and spirited as anything written in much younger and happier years. The solos are, however, more monotonous, the famous duet of the miller and his wife being one of the few exceptions. It is also doubtful whether Schumann did right in arranging the original piano accompaniment for a whole orchestra.
The second immortal work, by which Schumann has enriched vocal concert literature, is his music to scenes from Gœthe's "Faust." Part I. consists, after the weak overture, of the scenes in the garden, the dome, and before the Mater dolorosa, from the first part of Gœthe's tragedy; the scene in the garden is distinguished by a peculiarly fine musical dialogue and orchestral accompaniment, that in the dome by the addition of an impressive Dies iræ. The more important scenes, however, divided in two parts, are from Gœthe's second play: "Ariel's song in the morning dawn," "Sunrise," "Faust's monologue," "Scene of the four grey women," "Faust's blinding, death and glorification." For this mystic poetry Schumann has found a sublime musical language, which revealed to thousands the beauty of Gœthe's verses, and the hidden meaning of his thoughts. The fantastic scene of the grey women, Faust's farewell song, the dialogue between Mephisto and his Lemures, digging Faust's grave, the latter's death followed by a wonderful postlude, are extremely impressive. Yet the climax is reached in the half-religious, allegorical third part, where saints and angels sing, amongst them Gretchen as "una poenitentium." Here are true gems of musical sublimity, comparable with nothing else in the works of Schumann or any other composer. The incorporeal world of spirits becomes almost visible through the music. The final chorus in eight parts shows in its solemn beginning a marvellous mastery of contrapuntal art, while the allegro on the "eternal womanly" perhaps in neither of the two different settings which Schumann has written, fully reaches his high intentions, and is unduly extended. There are many solo and concerted numbers, yet Faust remains the central figure. The sublime music accorded to him makes his part unique, approaches nearest the Christ in Bach's "Passion," and demands a noble voice, technical perfection, and the finest shading in the spiritual expression of every phrase. The orchestral part, too, demands a careful preparation. Schumann also composed many numbers in which Gœthe did not prescribe the assistance of music, and if it is true that as a whole this work has a fragmentary character, one must not forget that Schumann originally intended it for the concert stage, and as such it will forever remain one of the noblest tasks for great choral societies. However it cannot be denied that here too a full enjoyment of all the musical depth and beauty is only possible in connection with the German text, with the peculiar melody, rhythm and color of Gœthe's diction.
Of a somewhat fragmentary character is also the music to Byron's "Manfred." This dramatic poem with its wealth of thought and almost unbearable gloom was never intended for theatrical purposes; it has a kindred spirit with Faust and even with Schumann's own nature, and certainly no composer could have entered deeper into this poetical glorification of melancholy and despair. Schumann wrote the music under such conditions of mind that it could only come from the depths of his heart. The overture ranks among his greatest productions as a highly impressive picture of a passionate mental struggle, rich in new orchestral effects and finenesses of expression. Besides a lovely entr'acte the many melodramas force even upon those who generally are opposed to this form, the confession that Schumann was one of the greatest musical psychologists; while the few vocal numbers (except perhaps the song of the spirits of Ahrimanes and the Requiem) have less significance. One feels this especially in theatrical performances, which, although not intended by either poet or composer, impress us still deeper than the usual reading, singing and playing in concert form.
Already in 1842, Schumann had confessed that German opera was the subject of his daily prayer, it being a field in which much could be accomplished. This longing took a more decided shape in Dresden, where the operatic interest predominated. There he heard many new and old operas, watching also the development of him who was destined to become the central figure of modern musical dramatic art. Schumann's relation to Wagner's personal and artistic individuality and his opinion of the latter's earlier works cover a ground on which we hope the future will gain more information than that afforded by the occasional remarks in Schumann's letters. He had an irresistible desire to participate in the reform of the opera, and has shown in his "Genoveva," at least his idea of the best solution of the problem. He believed honestly in his ability to write dramatic music. After searching a long while among old legends and stories, thinking also of Nibelungen, Wartburg Contest and similar subjects, he decided in favor of "Genoveva," already treated as tragedy by Tieck and Hebbel. The painter-poet Reinick was invited to write a libretto, based mainly on Hebbel's drama; his book not being satisfactory, Schumann applied to Hebbel, who, however, politely declined. The composer, being thus forced to arrange it himself, not only combined the two different plots and styles of Tieck and Hebbel, but added new features, and omitted others which would have greatly increased the sympathy for his play and heroine. Musically he followed Weber in his last operatic experiment "Euryanthe," closely uniting words, music and action, and connecting the single scenes into one coherent act. But he substituted for the old form of the recitative the more melodious, but certainly more monotonous, undramatic arioso. There are four acts and four principal parts of contrasting individuality. There is no lack of passionate or tender emotional scenes, of great ensemble numbers, or of scenic display; nor does the lyric element unduly predominate, but in Schumann's mode of treatment even the dramatic speech assumes a lyric character, and with all the variety of moods, all the great single effects and the large number of beautiful music pieces (prayer, hunting song, love duet, etc.), one does not feel able to retain a hearty, active interest till the end of the last act. Instead of an impressive picture of human passions, sufferings and joys, we have only a musical illustration of an old story which we liked to read in childhood. Schumann entertained a very high opinion of his work, saying that it did not contain one bar of undramatic music. He erred, but nevertheless "Genoveva" remains a most interesting attempt of one of our greatest masters to solve the operatic problem, an attempt noble in its sincerity, rich in musical beauty and fine psychological detail, bright in color, yet of more of the style of oil-painting than the al fresco required by the stage. Long after the unsuccessful performances in Leipsic the opera has been revived in many German cities, still finding to-day a limited, but highly interested audience of those who love its author from his immortal masterworks in other fields. At least the magnificent overture will perpetuate its memory as a favorite concert number all over the world.
Thus Schumann has cultivated every field of his art, not with equal success, but always with sincere earnestness of purpose and a noble ambition to widen its domain, and to refine its mode of expression. How original was he in its treatment of melody, rhythm, harmony, instrumentation, and of the relation of music to poetry, in the combination of old forms with a new spirit and in his endeavors to find new forms. Closely connected in spirit and form with Bach, Beethoven and Schubert, he was himself so rich and original that he became a great influence upon younger representatives of his art, even on the other side of the Rhine and the British channel, though less so in southern countries. Some younger composers were particularly successful as his followers in some special field, while others showed his great influence in the shaping or coloring of many of their best known and otherwise most original productions. His music will be forever an inexhaustible source of pure enjoyment for earnest music lovers, and of the most valuable studies for young aspiring composers of any nationality.
There was however another means by which Schumann exercised a far-reaching influence, namely, his literary and critical work. His writings, collected by himself and published in two volumes, belong among the most instructive and enjoyable books on music. Yet one must not forget the time when they were written. Since then we have become accustomed to many new ideas and names, while many once prominent men and once famous compositions are already forgotten. Still, even if many articles of Schumann are interesting more in a historical sense, we cannot help being impressed everywhere by his pure, noble, enthusiastic spirit, his high opinion of the dignity of art, his extensive knowledge of a general character, and by his fine taste and clear judgment. He was as far from cold scientific theories as from mystic philosophical comprehensions. He was fond of an epigrammatic style, abounding in exclamations and beautiful poetic pictures. Indeed there is undeniably a similarity of style between his earlier writings and compositions.
Schumann's aim was to promote all high interests of art, a better knowledge of old masters, a loving appreciation of any merits of contemporaneous composers and the preparation of new fields for coming talents. How happy is he, when permitted to praise enthusiastically! how rare his ability, to so describe the beauty of a composition that we become really acquainted with its form and spirit! Yet he is not always enthusiastic, but sometimes quietly instructive, sarcastic and witty, or passionately angry, as in his one-sided, yet comprehensible attacks on Meyerbeer, Italian opera, or light piano music after the fashion of Herz. But it shows a generous and noble character that he, a rare productive genius, found almost his greatest pleasure in discovering new talents; that even after many years' retirement from all journalistic work, he once more raised his enthusiastic, prophetic voice to introduce Brahms to the musical world! Nor was he narrow-minded regarding nationality; no Pole could ever write of Chopin with more enthusiasm, no Frenchman of Berlioz with a keener appreciation than Schumann did, and how heartily did he welcome Gade the Dane, Bennett the Englishman, Verhulst the Hollander! He calls art a fugue, in which all the civilized nations participate alternately. His articles also abound in most remarkable statements of a general nature. Of a true work of art he demands a spiritual meaning and a form corresponding to the composer's individuality. "Music impels nightingales to utter love-songs, pug-dogs to yelp." "An equipped eye sees stars where others only clouds and shadows." "The critic must hasten past those who are sinking and fight for the men of the future." He ridicules those who "on a ladder try to measure a colossus like Beethoven with yard-sticks in their hands." In his reviews on new publications he confined himself to instrumental music, with a few exceptions. The famous article on Schubert's symphony in C has hardly more lasting value than the one on Berlioz, with the many significant remarks on the power of orchestral instruments for expression and description. But his many high praises of Mendelssohn honor him most. When once told that Mendelssohn was not true to him, he refused to believe it and always kept his memory as sacred as that of Schubert. Yet in speaking of their mutual relations Schumann confessed that he could learn much from Mendelssohn, but Mendelssohn could also learn something from him, and that, if he had been brought up in the same happy circumstances as his contemporaries, he would surpass them one and all. In Dresden Schumann kept a little theatre journal, in which he wrote short notes on old and new pieces; interesting remarks just like those in "Meister Raro's, Florestan's and Eusebius' Denk- und Dichtbüchlein" or the well known "Rules for young people."
ROBERT AND CLARA SCHUMANN.
From an engraving by F. Schauer of Berlin, after the medallion in relief by Prof. Rietschel.
Aside from all musical interest, one may regard Schumann's writings as valuable contributions to literature emanating from an author of the finest artistic sense, a master of his language and of the most wonderful expressions for the subtleties of poetic or musical feelings. It would not be right not to mention here his many letters, which so far have been published in several collections and which are as instructive for the musician as enjoyable for the general reader. They help greatly to understand his individuality as man and artist. By his literary writings Schumann has perhaps exercised directly and indirectly as great an influence as by his musical works. Yet it is the latter, by which he will live for ever as one who has given his life-blood to his art and enriched our literature by masterworks of absolute beauty, greatness and originality, and who, even where he erred or made unsuccessful experiments, is worthy of our sincere sympathy because of the honesty of his purpose. Boundless is our gratitude and veneration for him whose genius will continue to reach thousands of new admirers that will honor in him a peer of those who are the corner stones of musical art.
Fac-simile musical manuscript No. 5 of Schumann's Ritornelles, for male chorus, in Canon form.
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ROBERT FRANZ
Reproduction of a photograph from life, made in 1891, by C. Höpfner of Halle.
ROBERT FRANZ
N the study of the history of musical art, nothing can strike our mind more impressively than the observation of its coherency, of the connection between the different phases in the development of each particular field and between its most prominent representatives; but most striking is this impression when we become aware of an influence directly felt through generations. When about a generation ago the conservative Professor Bischoff sarcastically threw the term "music of the future" into the world with reference to Wagner's music dramas, the master accepted it as a watchword, and in his pamphlet "The art work of the future," laid down the hopes and ideals which he strove to realize. Numberless times since then has this phrase been used everywhere, and those who, standing in the midst of the movement, wanted to become clear as to its true meaning, had at least to admit that all great music has ever been "music of the future," whether its value has been recognized by contemporaries or not. But most eminently it has seemed to apply to the great master, Johann Sebastian Bach. Of him, who died more than fourteen decades ago, it could have been said, that only a very remote future would do his works justice, for even to-day they must still be regarded as "music of the future," and the influence which they were destined to exert upon the development of musical art in various fields, is still far from having reached its end. It is inspiring to see how the thorough understanding and appreciation of this genius, and of the wealth, depth and greatness of his style, are progressing in the different countries, and just as inspiring to examine his extraordinary influence upon the more recent epochs of musical history. While some composers tried to follow him in his own fields, as Mendelssohn in the oratorio or Rheinberger in compositions for the organ, others, as Schumann and Brahms in instrumental works, have adopted his wonderful polyphonic and contrapuntal art, showing his influence just in those productions, which otherwise exhibit most strongly their own individuality. Even the revolutionary Wagner held Bach's genius in veneration, and paid a noble tribute to it in his Mastersingers. Indeed, considering these facts, an overwhelming sense of admiration and gratitude must fill our hearts, particularly in thinking of the great master of modern German song to whom this article is devoted.
Not an imitator, but a worthy successor of Bach, in a field, the highest cultivation of which has been preserved to modern time as one of its noblest tasks, is Robert Franz, whose life and works may perhaps awaken a double interest, if viewed in the light of the above introductory remarks. In outward appearance this life was, perhaps, even more quiet and simple than that of Bach. Franz's soul and mind had always turned toward the inner world, just as in his songs he studiously avoided all ostentation and meaningless brilliancy. There is indeed a significant harmony between his life and songs, the latter being the outgrowth of the former, not occasionally written down from a vain ambition to compose, nor as a pastime or fashion, but as the fulfilment of his life's task, to which his genius had committed him.
Robert Franz was born June 28, 1815, in Halle, the old university town in the centre of Germany, the birthplace of Handel. Here Franz has remained all his life. He did not descend from a musical family, but from plain, honest, business people; nor were there any direct early proofs of his musical genius, as only in his fourteenth year he was given an opportunity, on an antique, spinet-like pantaleon (or large dulcimer) to make his first practical experiments, at the same time trying, unaided, with a touching perseverance, to find out the secrets of musical notation. However, he had received his first musical impressions when very young. At two years of age he had been amply impressed by Luther's choral, "A Mighty Fortress is Our Lord," played by trombones from the steeple of a church at the celebration of the third centenary of the Reformation. At home his father was accustomed to sing the old church and folk songs. The effect of these early impressions on his young musical soul was soon obvious, for he says that in school he had an irresistible desire to add a second voice to the melodies which were being practised. His unsolicited assistance was looked upon as a crime by the teacher, who punished him for it repeatedly. It was the mother who first lent a helping hand to the boy's outspoken talent and inclination, and who succeeded in persuading his father to buy the already mentioned pantaleon. Naturally the instruction which young Robert received, first from a relative and then by nearly all the different music teachers of Halle in succession, was not of much value. He achieved more by his own impulses, practising chorals with friends, eagerly studying the organ and using every opportunity to play accompaniments, as for instance, in the choral rehearsals of the famous Franke Asylum. There he became acquainted with the music of Mozart, Haydn, and his great fellow citizen, Handel, and there he was first fired with the spirit of composition. Unadvised and without the least theoretical preparation he yielded to his desire to compose, neglecting even his school duties in favor of this impulse, the results of which, however, he has declared utterly worthless. It was difficult for him, especially in his own home, to brave all depreciation of his talents and to overcome all opposition; only the firm belief in his artistic calling enabled him to fight the battle through victoriously.
Franz was twenty years old, when at last his parents consented to his thorough professional education. The Leipsic Conservatory not having been founded, the music school of the famous theorist and composer, Friedrich Schneider, in Dessau, was at that time held in highest esteem, and there Franz was sent. The rather patriarchal, old fashioned, pedantic spirit which prevailed in this school, could certainly offer to the young aspiring student substantial knowledge, though it could do but little to develop his poetic nature. Yet he learned a great deal there, and laid a most excellent foundation to the eminent theoretical knowledge and mastery in the strict contrapuntal and polyphonic style by which he later won such a high distinction.
Besides this, the ever fresh impulses of his own nature and the inspiring intercourse with congenial fellow students helped to mature his own musical individuality. A peculiar influence is attributed to a certain Reupsch, whom Franz describes as quite extraordinary in improvisations on the organ and in the treatment of chorals. Nothing has ever been published of all the works (consisting of pianoforte sonatas, a mass, etc.) which were composed during these years. Franz felt that his nature would lead him upon an independent path of his own, but his instinct had not yet found this sphere. After two years of study he returned home, only to meet with new opposition and mistrust in his talent. No position was offered him, no compositions appeared in print; and it was then that the sympathy of his faithful mother remained his best comfort. In the circles of cultivated dilettanti he learned that the intrinsic value of a work of art is found in its inner significance, and that its formal value, if it be a really artistic production, should be a matter of course. This is the very idea for which Robert Schumann was then fighting, and which men like Wagner, Liszt and Berlioz have made the principle of their artistic creed. Yet all true art rests on the closest harmony between both elements, where the form is the necessary and most perfect expression of the ideal contents, the two forming a perfect union. What a blessing was it that Franz in this way found rich opportunities to become acquainted with old Italian music, and with the three great German masters, Bach, Schubert and Schumann, whose works have most essentially influenced the moulding of his own musical language.
He gave such close study to their works that his nervous system was overwrought, and becoming his own severest critic he destroyed all his former compositions. Courage and confidence seemed to leave him and for years his production ceased. This did not prevent him from striving to acquire a higher general education, however, and he applied himself especially to the study of philosophy and literature, availing himself of the rich opportunities afforded by the University of his city. At last a short dream of love brought forth the music of his soul, his first songs, which came forth from the depths of his heart. This was in 1843. Schumann, to whom he sent the songs, honored him with a most hearty recognition of his talent, and was helpful in finding a publisher. But Franz's nervous condition and ominous, early developing auricular sufferings obliged him to take an extended trip to Tyrol and Italy. The journey strengthened him so much that after his return he was finally able to devote with enthusiasm his rich talents untrammelled to the cultivation of his new field. Others followed Schumann in their sincere recognition of our composer's talent, among whom were Gade, Mendelssohn, and especially Liszt, who was so often the noble champion for new talents, and who wrote one of his finest pamphlets in praise of Franz's songs. Wagner, who certainly never could be accused of being too liberal in his praise of others, was not to be outdone. In a letter to Uhlig he says he will never forget that Franz was, after Liszt, the first German musician who had done him justice.
ROBERT FRANZ.
Reproduction of an engraving made by A. Weger from a daguerreotype.
Besides some compositions for the church, and a few part songs, Franz has confined himself to the cultivation of the German "Lied" with a wonderful concentration of all his faculties, reaching the highest perfection, richness, depth, and beauty in this one genre, as Chopin did in his field of pianoforte compositions. As regards his practical occupation in Halle, he held several positions, with which he had been entrusted soon after his first success as a composer, being organist at the St. Ulrici church and director of the singing Academy and the symphony concerts, as well as at the University. However, his increasing nervous and auricular maladies obliged him in 1868 to resign all these offices and to live from the limited earnings of his compositions. A generous gift in money started by the always noble minded Liszt, and supported by admirers in Germany, England and America, released him from all further anxieties. Thus the dear master, invalid in body but young in spirit, lived in retirement in his native city, with his wife, Maria Hinrichs, slowly winning the recognition of the musical world. Letters received from him in the summer of 1892 still showed an unusually bright and active mind, so that the announcement of his death, which occurred Oct. 24th in Halle, came as a sad surprise. Many an honor has been conferred upon him, the title of a royal music director, of an honorary doctor of the Halle University, and Bavarian and Prussian orders. Yet greater than all these is the honor of living forever through his works in the hearts of his people, and in the high esteem of all students of music and its history.
The collection of Robert Franz's songs may be well compared to a lovely garden, most carefully adorned with beautiful flowers of every variety, each of which attracts and deserves our special and close attention. Indeed, whoever takes pains, in an earnest and loving mind to review these songs one by one, and to penetrate into their peculiar nature, style and beauty, will be surprised to observe that the composer has allowed not one to be published without having perfected it in every detail. Even the simplest folk-song had to be a true work of art, worthy of his name and genius, before he would send it upon its wanderings through the world. Another significant fact, which also does him great credit, is that each song impresses us most forcibly as being born out of a deep, sympathetic comprehension of the peculiar genius of the poet, and the language, sentiment, and spirit of the poem. There is no conventionality, no mannerism, no following of certain patterns, which so often characterize ancient and modern manufacturers of songs. Every number presents, in closest harmony with the text of the poem, an individual musical organism, bearing the mark of Franz's artistic individuality, but forming with the poem such a perfect union that we do not wish to separate the music from the words, nor are we able to fully enjoy either independent of the other. The music of his songs is not of such a character as to detract from the beauty and interest of the poem. The musical setting is designed mainly to enhance the charm of the poetic gem, and display it to best advantage.
Fac-simile of musical manuscript and letter from Robert Franz.
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There are thousands of songs which please superficial singers and audiences without awakening the least question as to the worth of the poem and its author. This is not true of Franz's songs, however, and never has a song writer succeeded better than he in doing his chosen poets and poems full justice. He did not use them simply to serve his musical purpose, but adapted himself to them in a way which might be called self-abnegation of the highest form. It is this characteristic, together with his use of the old contrapuntal and polyphonic art, that gives Franz's compositions a classic aspect. His aim and task was to find a formally clear, distinct expression for every kind of poetical sentiment, and one hardly errs in saying that Franz has outgrown the romanticist in himself and donned the superior garb of classical art. The musical construction of his songs is firm and perfectly developed, and allows no room for misunderstanding or individual conceptions. His ideas are expressed fully and clearly, and although the general impression produced may continue to move us, it is brought to a complete, satisfactory conclusion by the last note. One feels that here a superior artistic spirit, an eminent musical genius reigns; a genius drawing inspiration from the purest musical source, guided by high literary and æsthetic culture, scorning imitation and cheap, tawdry effects, but in each new song striving for strength, character and perfect harmony with the poet whose work his music honors.
It will readily be understood why the creator of such beautiful works of art should be unwilling to make the piano accompaniment play a subordinate part. However, he does not raise it to the principal position, as does Wagner, in his latest music dramas, but melodically, rhythmically, harmonically, interweaves it with the vocal strain in such a way that each part completes the other, both forming a wonderful unity. In fact, as regards this intimate and organic connection of song and accompaniment, Franz hardly has his equal among the great song composers, notwithstanding many splendid instances of this combining power found in the songs of Schubert, Mendelssohn, Schumann and Brahms. Quite often Franz's song accompaniments are written in such a manner that each part forms a beautiful song by itself, so that one is almost tempted to sing one of the inner voices; while sometimes the accompaniment is even written strictly in four parts, making it seem like a choral composition. This leads us to the cardinal features of Franz's style, and shows his close relationship to Sebastian Bach and to the already mentioned old hymns and folk songs. August Saran has treated this subject most thoroughly in a very remarkable book culminating in the statement, "Robert Franz's song is in its whole nature and musical structure nothing else but the old German folk-song, enriched and idealized by the peculiar expressiveness of modern music." Those old folk-songs had once reached their highest development on sacred ground in the protestant Choral as it became so wonderfully perfected in Bach's polyphonic and contrapuntal art. We find that Franz has applied this same art and spirit to modern lyric songs, although at the same time he fully recognizes what all the later musical epochs have contributed in the way of greater delicacy or intensity of expression, richer, and freer use of the rhythms, new harmonic modulations, a closer regard for the intelligent phrasing of poetic words, and a richer and far more varied and effective technique of the pianoforte.
As regards his style Franz is thus an absolutely modern composer, else his songs would be mere scholarly experiments, having no inner life. But his melodies are evidently designed for a polyphonic treatment. They need to be supplemented by other parts, not merely by a simple chord accompaniment, although this is also used occasionally. Yet with all these finesses, and the difficulties of such a complicated style, most of the songs have quite a popular character in the noblest meaning of the word. Only a small number are what the Germans term "durchcomponirt," (composed through), a large majority are in the strophe form. Yet the composer understands just how in the most wonderful, scarcely perceptible, and often extremely delicate manner, to do justice to the changing moods of the different strophes. Quite a number of the compositions are true folk-songs, the poems being old German, Suabian, Swiss, Bohemian and Scotch.
Franz's favorites among prominent poets, are Heine, Lenau, Eichendorff, Burns and Osterwald, while secondary are Goethe, Rückert, Geibel, Möricke and Roquette. The subjects treated by him are many and varied; there are many beautiful songs of nature in various deeply affecting, concentrated moods, songs of night and stars, of water and waves, weather and storm, autumn and spring, forest and heath; also songs of love in all the phases which a heart may experience, from the first sweet, chaste dawn, to the exultation of final happiness; the woe of a broken heart, and of parting and death; nor are merry, dancing or humorous songs missing. Yet there are no ballads.
How many remarkable, strong, or delicate features could be singled out of this wealth of lyric music, but how much easier and more directly could this be done with the songs themselves before one! The sharp eye or ear would then be delightfully surprised by many strange and new details. They would meet with unusual keys and modulations, intentional indefinite fluctuations between major and minor keys, rhythmical finesses and curious combinations such as a 7/4 time or the periodical change of the time, impressive declamatory effects, an effective use of syncopations, sequences, inversions, cadences, characteristic figures and ornaments. And this never for purely musical purposes, but for the sake of a better expression of the poetic meaning. Would that these lines might help to induce many readers to study closely the songs of Robert Franz! They would then experience delightful surprises with nearly every song, and their hearts would be filled more and more with music of a new and independent style, each tone of which has life and meaning, and helps to arouse one's sympathy for a new, though limited, world of beauty and ideal contents. But never will the student's surprise and pleasure be greater than when meeting with songs such as are already familiar and dear to him in other famous settings. For none of these need to step aside and shun comparison with their more celebrated rivals. For illustration, his "Restless Love," by Goethe, certainly has not a less passionate melody than Schubert's setting of the same subject, while the brilliant accompaniment of the former is decidedly superior to Schubert's. "When Midnight Dreams" ("Allnächtlich im Traume") is a worthy rival of Schumann's fine song, and much better than Mendelssohn's conventional setting of Heine's poem. It is difficult to decide which deserves the preference, Franz's or Brahms' setting of the beautiful slumber-song "Ruhe Süssliebchen" from Tieck's "Schöne Magelone;" though quite dis-similar, both hold high places among the songs of these two masters. Especially interesting is the comparison of those, the poems of which, mostly written by Heine, have also inspired Schumann to some of his very finest productions. These are the songs which are recommended to all who desire to study the strong individuality and significance of Robert Franz as a composer of songs. In such a rich collection it is impossible to specify the merits of each song; for all appeal equally to our sympathy and attention.
ROBERT FRANZ
The adequate rendering of Franz's songs lies both with the singer and the accompanist. Most of them demand a well trained voice of a fine musical quality, and often of a wide compass, an unusual degree of general musical education, a clear poetical comprehension of text and music, and a most distinct enunciation and intelligent phrasing. The accompaniment calls for a very clever player, well schooled in Bach's polyphonic style, who has a singing tone and who, in the whole conception and delivery, is in full harmony with the singer. Nearly all of these songs can be well rendered and enjoyed in an English translation, if only the translator be guided in his work by the utmost regard for the melos and rhythm of the poem and its music. Franz's songs are still far too little known, although in the old world, and we are proud to say in the new also, some enthusiastic admirers, singers, musicians and writers have done a great deal for their introduction. They are everywhere respected, but unduly neglected in vocal concerts as well as in our homes, where their influence would be felt still more. May these lines help to win them many true and lasting friends.
There remains still another highly important musical achievement of Robert Franz to be noted,—a series of works through which he has deserved the lasting thanks of all earnest friends of musical art, and which will for all time connect his name with those of our greatest masters of the oratorio, Bach and Handel. Before him Mozart had made a similar attempt with the music of Handel, and Mendelssohn with that of Bach, but neither achieved a complete success. These old masters did not fully write out the accompaniments to their great works in the form which has become the rule with their successors, but rather left them as outlines, a mere figured bass indicating the accompaniment, which the composer either played or personally supervised. The old art of playing from a figured bass has in our time become almost obsolete; besides our ears have through the wonderful development of instrumental music become accustomed to new sounds and orchestral effects, which are now absolutely essential to us. Also, some instruments have since been discarded and others modified. It was an extremely difficult task to complete this accompaniment, which was merely suggested, and arrange it for our modern orchestral instruments, at the same time retaining the spirit and style of the old great masters. It required a thorough historical and theoretical knowledge, a fine sense of the peculiar character of the different instruments and a complete mastery of polyphonic and contrapuntal art, qualities found only in a true musician, who was himself highly gifted as a composer. Scholarly professors might perhaps have performed this feat in a merely correct and antiquarian manner, but only a true musician could inspire these accompaniments with the same life as the old masters would have done had they lived at the present stage of musical art. It will be easily understood that such an undertaking excited the most animated criticism, which several times led Franz to defend his standpoint in very interesting publications. Against such attacks by more or less famous and learned musical writers he was warmly assisted by enthusiastic friends and admirers in Germany, England and America, where Franz had early found many marks of a high appreciation of his genius. However the most gratifying reward for his labors is the fact that his arrangements of the old masterworks are steadily coming into general use. Modern as is his sentiment as a productive musician, he stands nearer to Bach and Handel in style and spirit than any other modern composer. We know of none who could have performed this great task more conscientiously, with a deeper comprehension of the old art and with a more loving devotion than Robert Franz. What he has achieved in this line secures him immortality not less than his songs.
The most important of these arrangements are: Handel's "Messiah," "Jubilate," "l'Allegro il Pensieroso ed il Moderato," and many arias and duets; Bach's "St. Matthew Passion," "Magnificat," "Christmas Oratorio," "Tragic Ode," and many cantatas and arias; Astorga's "Stabat Mater," Durante's "Magnificat," and quite a collection of old German chorals and songs.
Considering, then, all that Franz has done for us, we bow in admiration and thankfulness before a genius, who is one of the noblest representatives of the latest musical epoch, and whose name is one of the few worthy to continue the list of those masters whom we honor as the corner stones of musical art. For it is not the size, but the ideal significance and degree of perfection, which determines the greatness and lasting value of a work of art. Whoever produces works of absolute beauty and perfection, even in a minor field, deserves a place of honor amongst the masters of all times.
GIACOMO MEYERBEER
Reproduction of a lithograph portrait made from life by Kriehuber of Vienna. Meyerbeer in his fifty-sixth year.
GIACOMO MEYERBEER
HE great composer known under the name of Meyerbeer, and who occupied one of the most important places in the history of musical art in the nineteenth century, was in reality christened Jacob Liebmann Beer, his Christian name being afterward Italianized into Giacomo. He was born at Berlin, according to some authorities on Sept. 5th, according to others on Sept. 23, 1791. His father, who was a Hebrew, and one of the richest bankers of Prussia, had three other sons, William, Michael and Henry, all of whom were distinguished men, although their notoriety has been eclipsed by the glory of him who is known to the world as Meyerbeer. William Beer, indeed, who succeeded his father as banker, was at the same time a remarkable astronomer. He became the collaborator of Maedler for his scientific works, and published a chart of the moon which won for him an important prize from the Berlin Academy of Sciences; he died March 27, 1850. Michael Beer, who was born in 1800 and died when only thirty-three, acquired considerable renown as a dramatic poet by his various works, Clytemnestra, les Fiancés d'Aragon, le Paria, and especially Struensée, his masterpiece, which afterwards received a new lustre in being set to music by his brother the composer. To return to the latter, while he was still quite a child, one of his uncles, named Meyer, who had always had a great affection for him, died, leaving him his whole fortune on condition that he should add to his name that of Meyer, whence resulted the name Meyerbeer, under which the composer has always been known.
From his earliest years, Meyerbeer showed an exceptional bent for music. His father, far from opposing this tendency, rather encouraged him in it, and gave him an excellent piano teacher, Ignace Lauska, who had been a pupil of Clementi. The child made such rapid progress that he was able to appear at a public concert in Berlin, October 14, 1800, at which he made a great success. He appeared again in 1803 and 1804 with the same success, and it was then that the Abbé Vogler, whose disciple he became later on, hearing him improvise with a rare facility, predicted that he would one day be a great musician. Two or three years later, Meyerbeer had occasion to play before Clementi, who was staying for some time in Berlin, on his way back from Saint Petersburg, and the master was so charmed with the lad's talent that he consented to give him lessons during his sojourn in that city.
At this period, and without having given any attention to theoretic study, Meyerbeer already occupied himself with composition. Guided alone by his instinct and his natural taste, he wrote numerous songs and piano pieces, so that his father resolved to give him a master in composition, and fixed his choice on Bernard Anselme Weber, then leader of the orchestra at the Berlin Opera. But this artist, very distinguished in his way, and who could give excellent advice on dramatic style, instrumentation, etc., was not himself sufficiently versed in the science of counterpoint and fugue to be able to guide a pupil in this difficult study. Moreover, he showed himself too easily satisfied with Meyerbeer's efforts. One day when the latter brought him a fugue, he could not conceal his admiration, and, regarding it as a masterpiece, thought he would send it to the celebrated Abbé Vogler, who had been his own teacher, hoping thereby to prove to him that he, Weber, was able to form good pupils. For several weeks they anxiously awaited the Abbé's response, which arrived at length in the form of a bulky package. On opening it, they found that the contents were divided into three parts. The first constituted a sort of practical treatise on the fugue, written by Vogler's own hand, and in which all the rules for this kind of composition were set forth in a precise and succinct manner. The second part, which was called The Scholar's Fugue, reproduced that of Meyerbeer, analyzed step by step throughout its development, with remarks which proved super-abundantly that it was far from being good. The third part, entitled The Master's Fugue, was that which Vogler had constructed on Meyerbeer's theme, analyzed in all its details and in its ensemble, with an explanation of the reasons which justified its general form and all the incidents.
Meyerbeer was greatly impressed by the theories set forth by Vogler. He immediately put himself to work again and wrote a new fugue of eight parts, according to this master's principles, which he sent directly to Vogler at Darmstadt, his place of residence. The latter replied at once, expressing his satisfaction, and the confidence which this new work gave him in his future as an artist, and inviting him to come to Darmstadt; "I will receive you like a son," said he, "and you shall slake your thirst at the very sources of musical knowledge." Meyerbeer, delighted at this kind invitation, easily obtained from his father the necessary permission, and was soon on his way to Darmstadt.
The school of the Abbé Vogler was celebrated at that time throughout Germany, and this master, who had studied in Italy with Vallotti and Martini, was considered one of the first theoreticians of his time. One thing is certain, and that is, that he turned out excellent pupils, of whom some won great renown, and others became more or less famous. Among these were Knecht and Ritter, who themselves became remarkable theoreticians; the composers who were formed by the lessons and counsels of Vogler were Winter, Gänsbacher and the two immortal artists Carl Maria von Weber and Meyerbeer. It was at Vogler's house that these last two met for the first time, and formed a friendship which was broken only by the death of Weber. In after years Weber deplored the Italian tendencies of Meyerbeer, who, in the first days of his career, threw his whole being into the imitation of Rossini's style, but in spite of this divergence of artistic views the affection which these two friends felt for one another was never altered nor disturbed for a single instant.
Indeed, all the pupils who lived at the Abbé Vogler's house entertained pleasant and affectionate relations toward each other, and a touching respect and profound tenderness for their excellent master. One proof of this, among many others, is the fact that after Weber's death a cantata was found among his papers, bearing the following inscription: "Cantata written by Weber for Vogler's birthday, and set to music by Meyerbeer and Gänsbacher." In fact, Weber, who was a very ready verse-maker, had written the words of this cantata, while Meyerbeer had composed the music of the choruses and a trio, and Gänsbacher had been charged with that of the soli. It is probable also that the cantata was sung by the pupils of the school.
This house of Vogler's was patriarchal; the life there was very austere, very much occupied, and the time of the pupils was exclusively devoted to severe study and practice of the art. In the morning, after the regular exercises, the master gave his class an oral lesson in counterpoint. Then, giving them for treatment any musical subject, sacred or profane, a psalm, motet, kyrie, ode, dramatic scene, he demanded of them a severe composition. In the evening, all being assembled in the presence of the master, the compositions were performed, after which each work was analyzed theoretically, commented on, criticised, estimated, not only by the professor, but again by all the pupils, so that each of them, after having been judged, became in his turn the judge of his own attempts and those of his rivals. It cannot be denied that this was an excellent system of education, and one calculated to foster in the minds of the pupils reflection and the sentiment of criticism. On a Sunday the whole household went to the cathedral, which contained two organs; Vogler played one of them, while each of his pupils, in turn, took his place at the other, after the fashion of a kind of academic tourney, in which each endeavored to develop in a happy and artistic manner the subject improvised and set forth by the master.
It was during his residence at the Abbé Vogler's house that Meyerbeer wrote, for the purpose of forming his hand, a great number of pieces of sacred music, which he always refused to make known to the public. It was at this period also that he composed an oratorio, Gott und die Natur, which was his first piece publicly performed. He had been two years at Darmstadt, when Vogler, wishing to give his pupils a rest, and to fortify their minds by the contemplation of the beauties of nature, closed his school and undertook with them an excursion through Germany. It was just before his departure on this expedition that Meyerbeer had obtained a performance of his oratorio, which resulted in the grand duke of Hesse conferring on him the title of composer to the court. This oratorio was brought out at Berlin a short time after, May 8, 1811, in a concert given by Weber at the Royal Theatre, where the solos were sung by Eunike, Grell and Frl. Schmalz.
MEYERBEER IN HIS EIGHTH YEAR.
From large lithograph Memorial published at the time of his death.
This portion commemorates his first appearance in Berlin, where he was praised for his smooth performance of Mozart's Concertos.
This was the starting point of Meyerbeer's active career. We shall soon see him make his appearance as composer and virtuoso at the same time (for Meyerbeer was an exceptional pianist), then promptly abandon his success as a performer in order to give himself up without reserve to composition, with the theatre for his objective point. He was eager for glory and aimed at a great reputation, feeling himself equal to any effort for reaching his end; it is this which explains the hesitations and evasions of his youth. Desirous of meeting success, withal patient, persevering and gifted with an energy which nothing could baffle, he sought it in all possible ways, but, whatever his critics may say, without ever sacrificing his convictions, and while always preserving for his art, as well as for the public, the most complete, the most absolute respect. His first works performed in Germany, written in a somewhat scholastic form, perhaps a little pedantic, did not succeed according to his desire, because Germany at that time, like Italy herself, was under the spell of Rossini's music. He accordingly betook himself to Italy, and there wrote several operas in which he forced himself to adopt the style and methods of that master. It was this that brought down upon him the reproaches of Weber, irritated to see him, a German, deny the national genius, and submit, like so many others, to the influence of the author of the Barber of Seville. But in spite of the criticisms of his friend, Meyerbeer, who had seen his works received with favor in Italy, continued his career in that country, where he trained his hand and prepared the evolution which was to free his genius and direct him to France, there to write his incomparable masterpieces. For Meyerbeer, like Gluck before him, gave to France alone the full measure of his worth; like Gluck, it is to France that he owes his greatest triumphs and the best part of his glory; like Gluck, he lived to see his Italian operas laid aside and well-nigh forgotten, whereas his French operas made the tour of civilized lands, and are still played on all the stages of the world.
CARICATURE BUST OF MEYERBEER, BY DANTAN.
From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
It was after his trip with Vogler and his fellow-students that Meyerbeer decidedly entered his career, though not without some fumbling. In 1813 we find him at Munich, where he gave an unsuccessful performance of Jephtha's Daughter, an opera in three acts, which had much the flavor and style of an oratorio. Disheartened by the result, he left very soon for Vienna, resolved to make known there his exceptional talent as pianist. In this capacity he achieved triumph after triumph in the capital of Austria; his execution was solid and brilliant, and at the same time full of poetry and charm. He played at these concerts a great number of his own compositions, which have never been published. At the same time he came twice before the Vienna public as dramatic composer, first with a mono-drama for soprano, clarinet obligato and chorus (the clarinetist figured as a personage of the drama) entitled The Loves of Tevelind, then with a comic opera in two acts, entitled Abimelek, or The two Caliphs, performed at the court theatre. This latter, written in the somewhat heavy style of Jephtha's Daughter, found no favor with a public which, at that period, was under the complete influence of Italian music. Meyerbeer was very much affected by this failure, and took his troubles to Salieri, who was then imperial capellmeister at Vienna. Salieri, who had taken a great fancy to him, and who had confidence in his future, consoled him as best he could, lavished encouragement upon him, and counselled him to make a trip into Italy. "There," said he, "you will learn to ripen your talent, to train your hand, and particularly to make a better disposition of the voices in your compositions and to write for them in a more rational and less fatiguing manner."
At that time Rossini was the king of musical Italy, and the enthusiasm produced by his works was beginning to take from the renown of such richly inspired artists as Cimarosa, Guglielmo, Sarti, Paisiello, his immediate predecessors. Everybody knows the influence which was exerted all over musical Europe for half a century, by the exuberant and sensual, though charming and seductive, genius of the author of the Barber and Cenerentola. All the artists, not only of Italy, but of France as well and some even of Germany, came under this influence to a greater or less extent. Meyerbeer escaped it no more than the rest; one might even say that he had no desire to escape it. He went straight from Vienna to Venice, where he arrived just at the height of Tancredi's immense success in that city; this opera, by the way, was one of the most personal, most vivacious and most savory works from Rossini's pen. He could not resist the charm of this chivalresque and enchanting music, and he was so captivated by the èclat of the Rossinian forms that he began to assimilate them as rapidly as possible.
BUST OF MEYERBEER, BY DANTAN.
From the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
It is probable, however, that he reflected longer than people have hitherto given him credit for, on the transformation which he allowed to operate in his talent, for it was not until he had spent several years in Italy, that is to say in 1818, that he appeared to the public of that country for the first time. With his calm and meditative mind, with his studious and persevering nature, we may suppose that he employed his time in working silently, in solitude, to modify his style, to acquire the assurance which he lacked, to give elegance and facility to the forms of his melody, without compromising thereby the sentiment of a rich and abundant harmony, the beauties of an original and vigorous instrumentation. It was not, then, until after this complete remodelling of his early education, this training of his faculties, that he decided to brave the stage anew, and to solicit the approbation of a public to whom he was quite unknown. If this Italian career of Meyerbeer, of which I am about to give a brief review, offers only a secondary interest from the standpoint of the value of his works, it offers a very great one as a transitional stage, covering as it does the period of the development of his genius, and the evolution by which he was preparing himself for the great masterpieces with which he was to endow the French lyric stage, those masterpieces which were to seal his glory and render his fame universal.
CARICATURE OF MEYERBEER.
From collection of prints at the Paris Opera.
It was at Padua, July 10, 1818, that he gave his first Italian opera, Romilda e Costanza, the principal rôle of which was written for Pisaroni, one of the most illustrious cantatrices of that period. From the very first performance the opera was a great success, and he immediately wrote another work, Semiramide riconosciuta, on an ancient poem of Métastasio, which he brought out at the Royal Theatre at Turin in 1819. The following year he gave to the San Benedetto Theatre of Venice, his third opera, Emma di Resburgo, which met with enthusiastic success at a moment when, on this very stage, Rossini had just triumphed with his Edouardo e Christina. This work fully established his reputation in Italy, all the great cities esteemed it an honor to present him to their public, and everywhere he obtained the most complete success. This was not all. The Germans themselves, who made a point of disparaging Italian music, made two translations of this opera; one of them, Emma von Leicester, was played at Vienna, Dresden, Munich and Frankfort; the other, Emma von Roxburg, was performed at Berlin and Stuttgart. It may be well to recall here that the subject of this work was borrowed from the French opera Héléna, by Méhul.
This colossal success opened to Meyerbeer the doors of the largest theatres of Italy. The first of them all, the Scala of Milan, immediately ordered a great work of him. It was Margherita d'Angiù, which was performed at this theatre Nov. 14, 1820, where it was sung by Tacchinardi, Levasseur and Rosa Mariani. Here, again, the success was complete, and Margherita d'Angiù, almost immediately translated and performed in Germany, was afterwards translated into French for representation at the Odéon. On March 12, 1822, Meyerbeer gave to the Scala theatre the opera l'Esule di Granata, the first rôles of which were confided to the tenor Winter, to Lablache, to Mmes. Pisaroni, Adelaide Tosi and Carolina Bassi. But the last triumphs of the composer had excited envy; jealousy awoke on every side, and a cabal was organized for the purpose of crushing this new work. The first act indeed fell flat, thanks to this cabal, and the second seemed doomed to the same fate, when a beautiful duo, admirably sung by Lablache and Pisaroni came just in time to save all, and change into a triumph the fall which had appeared inevitable.
After this new success, Meyerbeer's health failed him. He had gone to Rome, where he was to bring out an opera in two acts entitled Almanzor. He had begun to write the score, when the state of his health obliged him to stop work and seek absolute rest. As soon as he was able he went to Germany, where he passed the whole of the year 1823, now at Berlin, now at some watering place. In the course of this year he wrote a German opera, The Brandeburg Gate, which was intended for the Königstadt theatre, but which, it is not known why, was never performed. He then returned to Italy, where awaited him the last and greatest triumphs in that country.
It is here that this second phase of Meyerbeer's remarkably active and productive career will come to a close. We may be sure that he had already felt a desire to work for the French stage, whither the very nature of his powerful and profoundly dramatic genius seemed to call him. We are now to see him direct his efforts towards this end, preparing himself for the change by his last Italian work, written in a more elevated, loftier strain than the preceding ones, and which seemed to indicate on his part a fixed determination to create another distinct manner. In order to attain this third and last manner, ingrafted, as it were, on the two preceding ones, it was necessary for him to adopt a method analogous to the one which he had used on arriving in Italy. Just as he had to abandon, on touching foot to Italian soil, everything in his style which might appear too scholastic, heavy and formal, so, in going to France, he was obliged to lay aside the affected elegance, frivolous grace and superficial language of the Italian forms. He endeavored to retain and combine the best elements in the various schools,—to unite the melodic sentiment of Italy to the harmonic richness of Germany, and to join to these the picturesque coloring, the passionate ardor, and above all the sense of dramatic truth which are the characteristic qualities of the French musical school. It was then, after he had transformed his style by this fusion of three different but not antagonistic elements, the union of which must form a harmonious and well balanced whole, after he had become master both of his thought and of the idea which should clothe it, it was then that he found himself in full possession of himself and of his genius and that he became the great man whose name was universally known and whose works everywhere challenged admiration.
The great work of transition with which Meyerbeer was to crown his brilliant career in Italy and prepare his future triumphs on the French stage, was called il Crociato Egitto. This opera, conceived in a broad and severe style, plainly showed the new preoccupations of his mind and gave a glimpse of his approaching evolution. The distinct individuality of the composer showed itself in this remarkable score, in which it was easy to see his inclination for energetic and vigorous expression of the grand dramatic situations. Il Crociato, brought out at the Fenice theatre, Venice, Dec. 26, 1824, had for its principal interpreters Mme. Mérie-Lalande, Lablache and Velluti. Its success was immense, and it soon made the tour of all Italy. This success was so great as to move Paris, and the duke of Rochefoucauld, then superintendent of the royal theatres, immediately arranged to have il Crociato played at the Thèâtre Italien. He wrote to the composer, inviting him to come and supervise the staging of his opera and direct the rehearsals. The rôles were given to Danzelli, Levasseur, Mmes. Pasta, Monbelli, Schiasetti and Giovanola. This was the first of Meyerbeer's works performed at Paris, and its success was as great as in Italy.
GIACOMO MEYERBEER.
From woodcut in "L'Univers Illustré," Paris.
Henceforth Meyerbeer was to belong entirely to France. After having seen his Crociato played at the Italien, he had the satisfaction of seeing his Margherita d'Angiù translated into French and performed successfully at the Odéon. It was to this last fact that he owed the speedy gratification of his desire to work for the musical stages of France, although, owing to an unexpected series of events, he was obliged to await for several years the representation of his first work, and this work, written with the Opéra Comique in view, had to be completely transformed and adapted for the Opéra. This is the way it happened.
The subject of the Italian opera of Margherita d'Angiù had been taken from a French drama, Marguérite d'Anjou, played in 1810 at the Gaité theatre, and the author of which was Guilbert de Pièxèrcourt. The two very naturally made each other's acquaintance, Pièxèrcourt's authorization being necessary for the representation on a French stage of a foreign opera whose subject belonged to him. An intimacy sprung up between them, and Meyerbeer profited by it to ask Pièxèrcourt for a poem to set to music for the Opéra Comique. The latter willingly consented, confided to him Robert le Diable, by Scribe, and the composer immediately set to work. The rôles of Robert le Diable were to be distributed as follows: Ponchard (Robert), Huet (Bertram), Mme. Boulanger (Alice) and Mme. Rigaud (Isabella). Obliged in the meantime to make a trip to Berlin, Meyerbeer took the poem with him, in order to continue the work during his absence. But while he was in Germany a little revolution took place at the Opéra Comique which resulted in Guilbert de Pièxèrcourt being dispossessed of his office of director. What happened then? All the particulars are not known, but Robert was withdrawn from the Opéra Comique, Scribe enlarged and transformed his poem, Meyerbeer rewrote his score, and the work was carried to the Opéra. It is easy to understand that all this occasioned a long delay. But this was not all. The revolution of 1830 occurred, which brought everything to a standstill, and which, after the change of dynasty at the head of the country, brought about a change in the management of the Opéra, where Lubbert was replaced by the famous Dr. Véron. The latter hesitated a good deal about mounting so important a work by a composer as yet little known in France, although he had achieved great success elsewhere. He finally decided in its favor, however, the rôles were distributed to Nourrir, Levasseur, Mmes. Dorus-Gras and Cinti-Damoreau, and Robert le Diable was finally performed Nov. 22, 1831.
However, Meyerbeer was still to grow, and les Huguenots, performed at the Opéra, Feb. 21, 1836, was to be the crowning point of his glory. It should be said that he was admirably served by his collaborator Scribe. The latter, after having given him the fantastic poem of Robert, wrote for him the the passionate, pathetic and dramatic poem of the Huguenots, which revived at the same time a splendid page of history, in which he introduced, in the happiest manner, a picturesque element which permitted the artist to vary his palette and give to each episode a color of its own. The most diverse and powerful situations abound in this superb poem, and it is just to declare that Meyerbeer has interpreted them with an incomparable genius.
After the Huguenots three years passed during which France received no new work from Meyerbeer. Meanwhile people had much to say about the Prophète; but Meyerbeer, exceptionally anxious about the good execution of his works, not finding in the personnel of the Opéra at that time the artists of whom he had dreamed for this work, waited patiently. Moreover, the office of capellmeister of the king of Prussia, to which he had been appointed, called him often to Berlin during this period. It was in this capacity that he composed a grand Italian cantata, la Festa nella corte di Ferrara, which was performed at court in 1843, and a German opera in three acts, A Camp in Silesia, composed for the inauguration of the new royal theatre of Berlin (Dec. 7, 1844) and which was rather coldly received. It was at this time also that he published, with French words, a great number of admirable songs, of which a collection in four volumes has recently been formed in Paris. It was during this period that he composed the beautiful music for his brother's drama, Struensée, and his first March (Fackeltanz), performed for the marriage of the princess Wilhelmina of Prussia with the king of Bavaria.
Finally, on April 16, 1849, the Prophète, so long expected, made its appearance at the Paris Opéra, interpreted by Roger (Jean de Leyde), Levasseur (Jacharie), Mme. Viardot (Fidès) and Mme. Castellan (Bertha).
Le Pardon de Plöermel was the last of Meyerbeer's works brought out before his death, which occurred at Paris, May 2, 1864. For nearly twenty years l'Africaine had been under consideration, but the master waited for this work as he had done for le Prophète, until the personnel of the Opéra could offer him such artists as he deemed necessary for its proper execution. Meanwhile, he had drawn up instructions relative to this Africaine, which he wished to have carried out after his death. Among other things he requested that the rôle of Sélika be confided to Mme. Marie Lasse, and that of Vasco to M. Naudin, whose voice he had admired at the Théâtre Italien. The direction of the Opéra took pains to conform to this posthumous desire and l'Africaine appeared at this theatre, under the conditions specified by the composer, April 28, 1865. While fully taking into account the great value of certain episodes of this work, it will surely be no violation to Meyerbeer's memory to say that l'Africaine has added nothing to his glory. Even without l'Africaine he would still have remained one of the most magnificent geniuses that has illumined the art of the nineteenth century.
TOMB OF THE MEYERBEER FAMILY.
From large lithograph Memorial published at the time of Meyerbeer's death.
The transformation of the genre of the French grand opera had begun with Auber's La Muette de Portici, performed in 1828. La Muette was the first work conceived in the new forms and in the vast proportions of the school which was to succeed the school of Gluck and his followers. The scenic development, the pursuit of new and piquant harmonies, the importance given to the orchestra; all this, joined to a more varied and less uniform melodic expression, had produced a deep impression on the public, and dethroned with a single blow the ancient opera which had reigned for more than half a century. Rossini had come later with his William Tell, in which the splendor of the style, the richness of inspiration and the fullness of dramatic expression, all carried to their highest degree, had marked an advance over the remarkable work of the French composer, without, however, surpassing the latter's elegance and originality. With Robert le Diable, Meyerbeer, in his turn, struck a note entirely personal, and in this work the passionate vigor of accent, the power of orchestral combinations, the particular character and relief given to each of the personages, indicated a musician of a new and profoundly original genius; a genius more complex than that of his predecessors, seeking for effects in the detail as well as in the ensemble, but arriving like them, and by different means, at an intensity of expression which was difficult to surpass.
It goes without saying that the score of Robert le Diable contained suggestions of the forms adopted by the author in the course of his Italian career. This is especially noticeable in the first act and the beginning of the second, and it would not have been an easy matter to avoid it. But the general style of the work has an incontestable grandeur, the declamation, noble and powerful, assumes the character of the French lyric declamation, the contrasts of situations are striking and managed with a remarkable intelligence, and the color of the music, its fantastic character, so well in accord with the subject, are of such an intensity as to produce on the hearer an ineffaceable impression. It is in the third act especially, divided into two distinct parts, that the genius of the composer is given full scope, and attains its most complete magnificence. The comic scene between Bertram and Raimbaut, that in which voices from below call to Bertram, the dramatic scene between Bertram and Alice, are all of a great beauty, and the tableau following, that of the evocation of nuns in the depth of their cloister, with the episode of the seduction of Robert, is of a wonderful poetry and grace, and contrasts in a striking manner with that which precedes. In the fourth act it is the human passion which speaks its most pathetic language from the grand duet of Robert and Isabelle to the moment when the powerful finale comes to prove to us that Gluck's genius and his transports are not unknown to the genius of Meyerbeer. As to the fifth act, it is of an admirable dramatic feeling.
The novelty of the forms and the hitherto unusual development of the score of Robert at first surprised the public, which was cautious about passing judgment. But surprise soon gave way to admiration, admiration grew to enthusiasm, and triumph, a triumph perhaps without precedent on the French stage, welcomed a work so abounding in beauties of a very high order. It is well known how rapidly the whole world ratified the judgment of the Parisian public.
Meyerbeer has been criticised for his Italian souvenirs in his opera les Huguenots, particularly that pretty air of Marguerite's in the second act, charming in itself and from a strict musical point of view, but which is evidently an aside, a concession made to virtuosity, and which breaks the ensemble and the unity of an otherwise strong, noble and severe work. This fault aside, however, what a masterpiece is this score of the Huguenots, in which the interest steadily increases, and which, from the first scene to the last, never ceases to rise higher and higher! Admiration knows not how to choose nor where to pause, so constant and varied are the demands made upon it, whether by the marvellous tableaux, like that of the arrival of Raoul at Marguerite's house, the picturesque curfew scene in the third act, the duel scene which follows, the powerful episode of the benediction of the poignards in the fourth, followed by the splendid duet of Raoul and Valentine, finally the scene of the massacre of the Huguenots in the fifth,—or by the delineation of the characters, traced with a surprising vigor and sureness of hand, such as those of Marcel, of Saint-Bris and of Nevers, which make an ineffaceable impression on the memory. And what color, what style, what grandeur from the beginning to the end of this work! Whether it be the dramatic element which dominates, as in the duel scene or that of the conjuration, whether it be the pathetic and passionate element, as in the duo of the lovers, whether it be the popular and picturesque element, as in the entire third act, the superiority of the artist is always the same, always equally complete, with no sign of weakness nor faltering. In this opera he recalls with vividness and truth a world which has disappeared, and his music is marvellously in accord with the period which he undertakes to depict, the personages which he presents to us, and even the costumes of those personages. As to the inspiration, always warm, noble and vigorous, it is of an inexpressible richness and power.
Fac-simile of Meyerbeer's musical manuscript, written in 1852.
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Fac-simile of Meyerbeer's letter to his brother, written in 1837.
The austere subject of the opera of le Prophète, in which the element of passion played only a very secondary rôle, caused it to be received at first with a certain reserve on the part of the public. But Meyerbeer had never been better inspired, and the nobleness, the grandeur and the severity of the style of this composition raises it to a level which he did not exceed. The beautiful introduction to the first act, the scene of the three anabaptists, the marvellous ballet of skaters, the arioso of Fidès in prison, a truly sublime and pathetic page, finally the grand tableau of the cathedral, are so many superb and living proofs of Meyerbeer's powerful and versatile genius. The public grew to admire the beauties of this bold and dignified work; as to the artists, there are many who unhesitatingly place the Prophète above all that he has written for the stage; for myself, I divide my highest admiration between le Prophète and les Huguenots.
REPRODUCTION OF ORIGINAL BILLBOARD OF FIRST PERFORMANCE OF THE HUGUENOTS.
From archives of the Paris Opera.
The success of l'Etoile du Nord, performed at the Opéra-Comique, Feb. 16, 1854, was much more spontaneous and considerable than that of the Prophète at the Opéra. Yet, after the lapse of forty years, the latter is still played on all the stages of the world, whereas l'Etoile du Nord is well-nigh forgotten. Assuredly there are some beautiful pages in this score, in which Meyerbeer embodied several pieces from his German opera, A Camp in Silesia, and especially should be mentioned the songs and the ballad of Catherine in the first act, the quintet in the second, the superb song of Pierre in the third, as well as the comic duet and trio; but the work is essentially lacking in unity, it is too heavy as a whole, and the orchestration is too noisy and brilliant for the demi-character of the opera. Meyerbeer was much better inspired in le Pardon de Plöermel (Dinorah), given also at the Opéra-Comique, April 4, 1839. This work contains some exquisite pages, among which I will mention particularly the overture with invisible chorus, Hoël's air in the first act, the drinking chorus and the trio in the second, and the touching and melancholy song of Hoël in the third. Unfortunately the insignificance and emptiness of the libretto have always been a drawback to this beautiful score.
What are the salient traits of Meyerbeer's genius, and what influence has this genius exerted upon his contemporaries? Such is the double question which presents itself to us in the presence of the works of this great man. First of all should be remarked his power of inspiration and power of conception. He was the first to give to France the example of these five-act operas of colossal dimensions, the performance of which requires fully five hours, and the richness, the power of his inspiration is such that so far from weakening during the course of these five long acts, it is often higher, more sublime at the end than at the beginning. Witness the fifth acts of all his great works; Robert, les Huguenots, le Prophète, l'Africaine; every one of them is a masterpiece! As to the power of conception, that mysterious faculty of unifying the different parts of a work so large and complex as each of his operas, and forming of them a harmonic, homogeneous whole, it is trully marvellous, and indicates a peculiarly organized and quite exceptional musical brain. Everything, indeed, is to be found in his works; dramatic sentiment is carried to its highest power, the musical style is full of splendor, the general form is superb, the harmony is solid and substantial, and the union of the voices with the instruments admits of no criticism. If there were any fault to be found with him it would be in the excess of sonority, sometimes overwhelming, which he gives to the orchestra. But on the other hand, how much he has improved the orchestra, giving it increased interest and life, as well as variety of color, of timbre and of effect! What an important part it takes in certain situations, and how carefully, conscientiously and cleverly it is managed!
Conscience, indeed, was one of Meyerbeer's master qualities. Others, so richly gifted, might perhaps have been content to follow the course of their inspiration, without taking the trouble to enrich it, to fortify it with the aid of all the means which art puts at the disposal of the composer. He neglected nothing, no detail, no effect, no method that enabled him to augment his resources, to complete his thought, in a word, to attain perfection, or what he believed to be perfection. Nothing dismayed him, he spared no pains to realize his ideal, to obtain the result at which he aimed, and he never felt that he had done a thing so well that it could not be improved. Thus his works have the solidity of marble and the strength of iron. And if a blemish be sometimes discovered in them, it is like the spots on the sun, which do not interfere with its dazzling light.
In regard to the influence exerted by Meyerbeer upon his contemporaries, although genuine and unmistakable, it cannot be said to be so complete or so general as that exerted by Rossini. And this is due to the nature of his genius, which was very complex, and in which cerebral reflection and the combination of means held as important a place as inspiration properly speaking. It was easy to imitate, without obtaining the same results, the methods and the forms employed by Rossini (I refer to the Italian Rossini, and not the Rossini of William Tell); very much less easy was it to imitate the forms and the methods of Meyerbeer, these being not only more complicated, more varied, but essentially dependent on the subject, on the situations, on the episodes. This is why Meyerbeer's influence has been mainly felt in the conception and general form of a work, and has been much less sensible in technical detail and musical method.
In closing, I would say that Meyerbeer is one of the noblest, most glorious artists who have ever shed lustre not only upon the French stage, but on musical art as applied to the theatre. A great musician, but especially a great dramatic musician, he has power, nobility, bold and heroic inspiration, and above all the gift of emotion, of that poignant and vigorous emotion which stirs the spectator, wrings his heart, lays hold upon his very vitals, and forces the tears from his eyes.
FRESCO IN THE VIENNA OPERA HOUSE,
Illustrating Meyerbeer's Opera "The Huguenots."
JOHANN STRAUSS
Reproduction of a photograph from life of the younger Johann Strauss.
Published by Reichard & Lindner, Berlin, 1887.
STRAUSS
HE name of Strauss bids fair to become as numerously represented in the annals of Nineteenth Century music as was that of Bach in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; with this difference, however, that while the Bachs were all of one family, three of the Strausses who have become sufficiently famous to win a place in the musical dictionaries are not related to the other three or four. It is with those that are related, the family of Johann Strauss, the Viennese "Waltz-King," that this article is concerned.
A few years ago (1887) the famous Leipsic publishing house of Breitkopf and Härtel commenced the issue of a complete collection of the waltzes, polkas, and other dance pieces of the elder Johann Strauss. The first volume has an interesting though brief biographic sketch by Johann Strauss, Jr., who relates some of his personal reminiscences of his father, besides other facts previously known to the public. "My father," he says in the opening paragraph, "was a musician by the grace of God. Had he not been guided by an inner, irresistible impulse, the difficulties which confronted him in his youth would have pushed him into another path."
It is interesting to note how this "impulse" would have its own way, as in the case of other famous musicians, notwithstanding parental opposition. Strauss was born at Vienna on March 14, 1804. When he was a mere child he used to amuse himself (as Haydn had done in his childhood) by taking two sticks and imitating the movements of a fiddler. Great was his joy when his father, having discovered this instinctive trait, made him a present of a small violin and allowed him to take lessons on it in the primary school. But this was as far as parental encouragement went. Little Johann's desire to become a professional musician was not countenanced, and at the age of fourteen he was sent to a book-binder to learn his trade; but he soon tired of this work and when his master added insult to injury by forbidding him to play the violin, he packed up his beloved instrument and his few other possessions and ran away. In a suburb of Vienna he came across a friend who induced him to return to his parents, whom he persuaded at the same time to give up opposing his musical inclinations. So he received regular lessons and was soon able to play in a small local orchestra.
As luck would have it, another musician, who was destined to be Strauss's colleague and rival, Joseph Lanner, was at that time beginning his brilliant career in Vienna. He was four years older than Strauss, and had associated himself with two other musicians for the purpose of playing in the cafés which abounded in that city. Strauss begged permission to join this club, and was accepted as viola player, one of his duties being the passing around of the plate for collections. There was so much animation and true musical feeling in the performances of this club that it became immensely popular and soon Lanner found it impossible to accept all the engagements that were offered. This led him to engage more musicians and ultimately to divide his orchestra into two smaller ones, over one of which he himself presided, while Strauss was placed at the head of the other.
But Strauss was an ambitious man, and after this companionship had lasted six years (1819-1825) he made his "declaration of independence" of Lanner and conducted an orchestra of his own, which soon became "all the rage" in Vienna. His son has sketched this important episode so eloquently that I cannot do better than translate his words: "The public now learned to know him as an independent conductor, and as such he soon became so popular that the dance-loving Viennese were divided into two parties—the Lannerianer and the Straussianer—each of which championed its idol with ardor. It redounds to the credit of the good old times that this partisanship could not cloud the personal relations between Lanner and Strauss, who continued to remain good friends. Their professional separation at this time was brought about by another circumstance: my father accidentally discovered his talent for composition. Composing was obviously at that time an easier matter than it is to-day. To produce a polka, contemporary musicians study the whole literature of music and perhaps a few philosophical systems too. Formerly, only one thing was needed to compose: One had to have a happy thought, as the popular saying is (es musste Einem was einfallen). And strange to say, these happy thoughts always came. Self-confidence in this respect was so great that we of the old school (wir Alten) frequently announced for a certain evening a new waltz of which on the morning of the same day not a single note was written. In such a case the orchestra usually went to the composer's house, and as soon as the latter had finished a part it was immediately copied for the orchestra. Meantime, the miracle of the 'happy thought' repeated itself for the other parts of the waltz; in a few hours the piece was completed, whereupon it was rehearsed, and in the evening it was played before a usually enthusiastic public.
"Lanner—light-hearted and careless—hardly ever composed any other way. One morning it happened that he felt ill and unable to work, while a new set of waltzes had been promised for the evening, and of course not a bar was on paper. He sent my father the simple message: 'Strauss, see if you can think of something' (in the quaint Viennese dialect: Strauss, schauen's dass Ihnen was einfällt.)—In the evening the new waltz was played—as Lanner's, of course—and was received with extraordinary favor. This circumstance, combined with his marriage in the same year, induced my father to secure his independence. He organized at first a quintet, but after barely a year his orchestra already numbered fourteen men. At what rate his fame and his popularity both as composer and conductor grew, is a thing of which we, in these prosaic days, can hardly have a conception. The years 1830 to 1836, during which my father presided over the music at the Sperl, will always remain memorable in the history of music at Vienna. The audiences were enormous, the enthusiasm unbounded, and as my father was persuaded to accept engagements for other amusement places too, he had at his disposal, during the carnival, about two hundred musicians. From this he selected a corps of élites—his Stammorchester—which he succeeded by unceasing rehearsals in bringing to a point of perfection such as no other private orchestra had ever reached. Visitors to Vienna carried the fame of these musicians to other parts of the world, and invitations soon came to him to play in other cities."
The rest of Johann Strauss's life is simply a record of his triumphs in the cities of Germany, Holland, France, Belgium and England, as well as in Vienna, where he was appointed director of the Court balls in 1835. From 1833 to 1849, the year of his death, he made a tour almost every year, and he was the first musician, so far as the records show, who undertook to travel with a whole orchestra. In 1837-38 his tour extended as far as Paris and London. In evidence of his great success in Paris it is related that when he gave a series of thirty concerts in conjunction with the popular Musard, whose orchestra played after Strauss's, one half of the audience usually left the hall after Strauss had finished his part of the program. In London he arrived most opportunely about the time of Queen Victoria's coronation, when merry music was in great demand, and here he gave no fewer than seventy-two concerts, besides playing at many balls. London, however, did not agree with his health. At his first visit he fell ill there, and his second visit, in 1849, proved fatal, for he brought with him the germs of disease (scarlet fever) to which he succumbed shortly after his return to Vienna. He died on Sept. 25, aged 45. All the Viennese joined in doing him homage, and a vast concourse—his son says one hundred thousand—accompanied his coffin to the grave.
Regarding his personal appearance, Herr C. F. Pohl, the Viennese librarian says, that "though small he was well made and distinguished looking, with a singularly formed head. His dress was always neat and well chosen. Though lively in company, he was naturally rather silent. From the moment he took his violin in his hand he became another man, whose whole being seemed to expand with the sounds he drew from it." In his own home the "Waltz-King," who contributed so much to ball-room merriment, appears to have been unhappy. His father had been the keeper of a beer house, and he himself married the daughter of an innkeeper, Anna Streim, from whom he was divorced on the ground of incompatibility of temper, after eighteen years. They had five children—two daughters and three sons, Johann, Joseph and Eduard, all three of whom have became famous in the annals of dance music.
FROM A PORTRAIT OF THE ELDER JOHANN STRAUSS IN EARLY MANHOOD.
Drawn and lithographed by C. Lutherer.
Eduard, the youngest, born on Feb. 14, 1835, has proved the least talented of the three. His compositions, numbering over two hundred, though often piquant in harmony and cleverly orchestrated, are deficient in melodic spontaneity and originality and often a mere echo of his brother Johann's genius. (There are melodious exceptions, the Doctrinen Walzer, opus 79, e. g.) He is a good conductor of dance music, and since the death of his brother Josef, in 1870, and the retirement of Johann from executive music in the same year, he has been sole conductor of the Strauss orchestra at court balls and in the Volksgarten.
Josef, the second of the brothers, had more talent for composition than Eduard. He was of delicate constitution and lived only forty-three years (Aug. 22, 1827, to July 22, 1870), yet the number of his original pieces is two hundred and eighty-three, to which must be added about three hundred arrangements. Some of his waltzes and polkas—like the "Village Swallows" and "Woman's Heart"—have become great favorites, and deservedly so, but I cannot agree with the opinion, which has been held, that he was the superior—or even the equal—of his brother Johann. He was a good pianist, and for a number of years divided with his brothers the task of conducting the Strauss orchestra in Vienna.
We now come to Johann Strauss, the oldest of the brothers, born Oct. 25, 1825, and still living. It is not often that a man of genius has a son who attains even greater eminence than himself, but in this case the palm must be awarded to Johann Strauss, Jr., whose creative power was not only greater than that of his brothers, but soared into regions of which even his father never dreamed.
His talent for music was manifested at a very early age, but his father did not encourage it—forgetting how much he himself had suffered in his childhood from parental opposition to his natural inclinations. It was Horace who remarked, almost two thousand years ago, that no man is quite satisfied with his occupation, and everyone fancies he would have been happier had he chosen some other career. This may have been the reason why the elder Strauss, in the midst of his honors and remarkable popularity, decided that none of his sons should become musicians. Johann was to be a merchant, Josef an engineer, and for Eduard, too, some non-musical employment would have been selected had not his father died before he was fourteen.
Fortunately for Johann, his mother secretly encouraged his fondness for music, allowing him to take lessons on the violin and in composition. His first waltz was written when he was only six years old, and called his 'First Thought.' That was sixty years ago, and every one of these years has added several waltzes to his list. As a conductor he made his first venture at the age of nineteen, with a band of his own; and when his father died, five years later, he took his place and remained at the head of his orchestra for ten years. As an "orchestral traveller" he was even more enterprising than his father had been, for he extended his journeys as far as America and St. Petersburg, being heard at Gilmore's Jubilee at Boston in 1869, while in St. Petersburg he gave a series of concerts every summer, from 1856 to 1866, always returning to Vienna in winter to furnish the music for the court festivities and the numerous other balls given in that gay city during the carnival.
The eminent Viennese critic, Dr. Hanslick, a personal friend of Strauss, says of this early period of his career: "The incessant dispenser of joys to all Vienna, Father Strauss, was a tyrant at home. The sons grew up amid the embittering and demoralizing impressions of an unhappy family life. Finally Johann emancipated himself, trusting in his talent, of which he felt certain, and on that Dommayer-evening suddenly came forth as a musical rival of his father. The first three works, with which he made his début, were the waltzes, 'Gunstwerber,' 'Sinngedichte' and the 'Herzenslust' Polka.... The young man's animal spirits, so long repressed, now began to foam over; favored by his talent, intoxicated by his early successes, petted by the women, Johann Strauss passed his youth in wild enjoyment, always productive, always fresh and enterprising, at the same time frivolous to the point of adventurousness. As in appearance he resembles his father, handsomer, however, more refined and modern, so also his waltzes had the unmistakableStrauss family physiognomy, not without a tendency to originality. Our Viennese, the most expert judges in such matters, at once recognized the budding talent of the young Strauss, who promised soon to overtake his famous parent."
JOSEPH STRAUSS.
From a lithograph by Maurin, at the Paris Opera Library.
For more than a quarter of a century Strauss continued to devote himself to the creation and the conducting of dance music; and the number of his pieces in this genre rose to over three hundred. His opus 314 was the "Blue Danube Waltz," which has since become famous not only as a sort of second Austrian national hymn, by the side of Haydn's "Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser," but as the transition to a new sphere of activity. For it was a vocal waltz, being written for male chorus and orchestra; and just as Beethoven's choral symphony, according to Wagner, pointed to the necessity of the music-drama, so it seems that Strauss used this vocal waltz as a transition to the Viennese operetta, a new style of stage-music which owes its present form and vogue chiefly to his genius.
It is said that Strauss's wife was largely instrumental in making him change his sphere from the humble dance hall to the more ambitious theatre. She was a famous singer and actress, named Jetty Treffz, when Strauss married her in 1863, and if she was really responsible for her husband's "new departure," the world owes her a large debt of gratitude. She died in April, 1879, and toward the close of the same year Strauss married the dramatic singer, Angelica Dittrich.
Two years after his first marriage he sent Eduard in his place to St. Petersburg, and in 1870 he also resigned his position as conductor of the court balls in his brother's favor. But if any one fancied that he had lost his interest in music, or, like Rossini, intended to retire from active life when his triumph was at its height, the error was soon made manifest; for in 1871 Johann Strauss appeared on the boards of the Theater an der Wien with something which no one had ever expected of him—an operetta. "Indigo" was its name, and its reception was sufficiently gratifying to encourage him to try another and still another, with ever-increasing success.
JOHANN STRAUSS (Senior).
Caricature by Dantan in the Carnavalet Museum, Paris.
Some of these operettas—especially The Bat (Fledermaus), the Merry War, the Queen's Lace Handkerchief, and the Gypsy Baron—became enormously popular in Austria, Germany and the United States (where they have been sung successfully in both German and English), and if anything had been needed to make the "Waltz King" known to the whole world, and admired by everybody, these operettas would have brought about that result.
It is a strange but suggestive fact that although no name is better known in the musical world than that of the Strauss family, most of the histories of music ignore it almost entirely. And why should the erudite historians honor with their attention a mere Strauss, who was only a man of genius and never constructed any symphonies, oratorios, or operas? Scores of composers are treated of in these histories whose genius was not a tithe of that of Johann Strauss, father or son; but because they wrote a number of (tedious and now forgotten) sonatas and symphonies, they are considered worthy of attention by these writers! Even Chopin has often been treated by historians in a similar gingerly manner, because he wrote hardly anything but short pieces for the pianoforte; as if there were not more genius and beauty and suggestiveness in most of Chopin's five-minute pieces than in many one-hour symphonies and four-hour operas. The same may be said of not a few Strauss waltzes.
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Wherein lies this originality that entitles the name of Strauss to so prominent a place in musical history? It lies partly in the individuality of their style and ideas; but still more in their having succeeded in making the waltz the most popular form of modern dance-music throughout the civilized world, and in the creation of a new style of operetta, or comic opera. In the first of these achievements all the members of the Strauss family have coöperated, while in the last the credit belongs to the second Johann alone.
To inoculate the world with a passion for a special form of dance music is not such an easy thing as it seems at first sight. National customs and inclinations stand in the way. As Rubinstein has remarked, "A melody which moves a Finn to tears will leave a Spaniard cold, a dance rhythm which makes a Hungarian skip will not disturb an Italian in his rest, etc." To have made all the young people in the world dance to the rhythm of the Austrian waltz is, therefore, a feat which required the magic power of genius for its performance. And not only has the waltz been universally adopted, but it has become the dance of dances, the modern dance par excellence, the rapturous dance in which the young people find an embodiment of the glowing passion of love, while in the old-fashioned dances,—the minuet at their head—it was the old people and the chaperons who did the stiff and formal dancing in a slow and stately movement.
Of course the honor of making the waltz cosmopolitan does not belong to the Strausses alone. The Austrian Lanner, the Bohemian Labitzky, the Hungarian Gungl and others had their share, but they can be regarded merely as satellites, who could only revolve around the world by revolving around Strauss. Nor did Strauss invent the waltz. It "just growed," like Topsy, among the people, and the time and even the country of its origin are under dispute. It was at Vienna however, about a century ago, that it first came into notice; and as it was developed chiefly by Viennese composers, and is danced most generally by the people of that part of Europe, the popular notion that Vienna is the home of the waltz does not call for correction. A few waltz-like pieces had been written by Mozart and Beethoven, but they are, as Dr. Hanslick remarks, "astonishingly dry and insignificant," and it remained for that genuine Viennese genius Franz Schubert, to first infuse true musical genius into this form of composition. Schubert is the real originator of the modern waltz, as of the Lied for the voice, and the song for the piano. In the Peters edition there is, besides a volume of Schubert's Marches and one of Polonaises, one of his "Dances" (seventy-four pages), mostly waltzes, "valses nobles," "valses sentimentales." No. 13 of the last name is that most exquisite piece which Liszt has made such fine use of in his "Soirées de Vienne," and which may be regarded as the predecessor, and the equal, of the noble waltzes of Chopin, Rubinstein, Brahms and other modern composers. Indeed, these Schubert waltzes contain the germs of most of the later developments of the waltz for the piano.
In thus giving Schubert his due we do not detract from the merit of the elder Strauss. He was of course far from having the genius of Schubert, but he did a great work in transferring the Schubert spirit to the orchestral and dance-waltz. For the first time people came to cafés and dance halls to listen to music for its own sake instead of regarding it merely as an aid to conversation and dancing. Strauss not only had the gift of inventing original themes, he also had the skill to clothe them in a charming orchestral garb. Great composers, like Cherubini, Meyerbeer and Mendelssohn, recognized his talent, and Wagner wrote in 1863 that "a single Strauss waltz surpasses in grace, refinement and real musical substance, the majority of the oft-laboriously-collected foreign products."
To quote Johann the younger once more on his father: "He has borne the fame of German dance-music over the whole world, and severe judges have not hesitated to acknowledge that his gay and piquant rhythms bubbled from the pure fount of musical art. As a conductor he had that indefinable quality which carried away the performers, was communicated by them to the hearers, and made their hearts and pulses beat faster." He was the first to introduce the custom of giving a name to his dance music, and each of his pieces—including one hundred and fifty waltzes, fourteen polkas, twenty-eight galops, nineteen marches, and thirty-five quadrilles, has its own title, either characteristically Viennese, or referring to his travels or the emotions which a dance piece is apt to evoke, or purely fanciful. The quadrille was imported by Strauss from Paris. His marches are the least interesting of his compositions, and his waltzes the most fascinating and meritorious, the polkas ranking next.
In his early waltzes the elder Strauss often begins, like Schubert, without an introduction and ends with a very short coda. Gradually, however (though with exceptions), the introduction and coda assume greater dimensions; but it remained for Johann the son to show how greatly the musical and emotional value of the waltz can be increased by elaborating the slow amorous introduction as well as the coda, in which all the themes of the preceding numbers can once more be brought forward and ingeniously developed or combined. Schubert's last set of waltzes consists of a chain of twenty links or parts. The elder Strauss has usually only five or six links in his chain; and his son shows a tendency to decrease that number to three or four separate parts, while giving the introduction the aspect of a short overture, with several changes of tempo, often delightfully fore-shadowing the waltz themes in a dreamy, passionate and tender manner, as if interpreting the thoughts of the young lovers who perchance are looking forward to their first embrace in the disguise of a waltz. In the "Stories from the Vienna Forest" Waltzes, opus 325, the introduction covers more than two pages of the piano score—one hundred and twenty bars, with four changes of tempo. The first number consists of forty-four bars, whereas originally each number consisted of eight or sixteen bars only; and the coda of one hundred and fifty-seven bars. And that this waltz, like all his best ones, is intended quite as much for the concert hall as for the ball room is indicated by the signs for retarding or accelerating and by the insertion of eighteen bars which are marked "to be omitted in playing for a dance." I have noticed, however, that at Viennese dances, when conductors, players, and dancers are simultaneously entranced by the intoxicating Strauss music, there is a slight tendency on the part of the couples to yield to the rubato or capricious coquetry of movement which is natural to this music. Such rubato dancing raises that art itself to a poetic height; but it is perhaps vain to hope for it outside of a Viennese dance hall.
As the younger Johann's waltzes ceased to be a mere accompaniment to dancing and assumed the function of interpreting the thoughts and feelings of lovers as they are whirled along, "imparadised in one another's arms," his harmonies became more and more piquant and novel, his instrumentation more tender, refined, dreamy and voluptuous. Berlioz, himself, in orchestrating Weber's superb "Invitation to the Dance," has not shown greater genius for instrumentation than Strauss the son has in his later waltzes. It might be said that whereas Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven built up the symphony from dance forms, Strauss, conversely, applied the symphonic resources of the orchestra to his dance pieces. One can get no idea of their real charm at the piano; but Americans have been fortunate in having had in Mr. Theodore Thomas for many years such a sympathetic and animated interpreter, who knew how to give them the true Strauss swing. Not all of these waltzes are of equal value, and popularity is no test of merit. Thus, the "Blue Danube" Waltz, of which over a million copies have been sold, is really one of the poorest, just as Schubert's Serenade is far from being his best song and the Wedding March from being the gem of "Lohengrin." Their number is enormous—440 is the opus number of the "Gross-Wien" Walzer, the last one printed up to the end of 1891.
When Strauss turned to composing operettas, there was great consternation, because it was feared that the Carnival in Vienna and elsewhere would have to dispense thereafter with its annual gifts from his pen. These fears were unfounded; his operettas were so full of waltz and polka buds and full-blown roses, that it was easy to pick them for a concert-hall and ball-room bouquet; so that some of his best recent dance pieces are taken from his operettas. Equally unfounded were the fears that after devoting more than a quarter of a century to the composition of dance music, Strauss would be unable to win distinction as a dramatic writer. In his first operettas, it is true, the libretto was little more than a peg to hang on waltzes, polkas and marches; but gradually he emancipated himself more and more from the simple saltatorial style, until, in "The Bat," the "Merry War" and subsequent works, he created a new type of operetta, with beautiful flowing, lyric melodies, and stirring dramatic ensembles. True, the "Waltz King" is never quite able to disguise his character, but in this very fact lie the originality and unique charm of the Strauss operetta. It is a new style of stage play—the Austrian operetta, a new "school" of comic opera; and in creating this, Strauss placed himself far above his father and his brothers. Millœcker would not have been possible but for Strauss, and Suppé did not write his best works till after Strauss had shown the way.
That J. Strauss, the younger, wrote four hundred and forty pieces of dance music has already been stated. The complete list of his operettas is as follows: Indigo, 1871; The Carnival in Rome, 1873; The Bat, 1874; Cagliostro, 1875; Prince Methusalem, 1877; Blind Man's Buff, 1878; The Queen's Lace Handkerchief, 1880; The Merry War, 1881; A Night in Venice, 1883; The Gypsy Baron, 1885; Simplicius, 1887. In my opinion there is in these operettas more good music than in the operettas of any other composer, but Strauss has been less fortunate in his librettists than Offenbach and Sullivan, and this has not only diminished the present popularity of his works in some countries, but will prevent them from enjoying as long a life as their truly prodigal wealth of new and charming melodies would otherwise entitle them to. Moreover, few things are so short-lived as operettas, and it is therefore probable that, to the next generation, Strauss will be chiefly known as the "Waltz King," after all, partly by the pieces which he wrote directly for the dance hall, and partly by those which are culled from his dramatic works. He is still at work, with greater ambition than ever, for his latest opus is a grand opera, Ritter Pásmán, which had its first performance at the Imperial Opera at Vienna on January 1, 1892. It is modelled partly on Wagner's Meistersinger, and the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik finds in it the true type of the comic opera of the future, "combining the esprit and grace of French opéra comique with German depth of sentiment, and that spontaneous melodiousness which is an Austrian specialty—that flow of fresh and natural melody which we find in Schubert and Haydn." Dr. Hanslick recommends the score as a model to students of instrumentation.
JOHANN STRAUSS (Junior) LEADING ORCHESTRA IN 1853.
From lithograph published at the time.
Transcriber notes:
P. [247]. Illustration, "Birthplace of Joseph Hayden in Rohrau", keeping typo, but should read "Joseph Haydn".
P. [249]. 'bouyant' changed to 'buoyant'.
P. [265]. 'Hadyn' changed to 'Haydn', in 'Hadyn ever wrote'.
P. [279]. 'antichamber' changed to 'antechamber'.
P. [279]. 'pianoforte sonates', changed 'sonates' to 'sonatas'.
P. [283]. 'finnished' changed to 'finished'.
P. [286]. 'Bach motett', 'motett' changed to 'motet'.
P. [354]. "Auguste jam Cœ estium", changed to "Auguste jam Cœlestium".
P. [380]. 'interruped' changed to 'interrupted'.
P. [395]. Caption, Dec. 15th? 1826.
Music Transcriber Notes
P. [261]. The autograph manuscript is difficult to read but appears to track the second movement of Haydn's String Quartet in C Major, Op. 76, with the "Austrian Hymn" theme and first variation reversed. The transcription was made from a public domain score of the quartet (available at the Petrucci Music Library, http://imslp.org/wiki).
P. [426]. The caption on this image erroneously gives the title of the piece as "Farewell to the Forest," which is a different piece by Mendelssohn ("Abschied vom Walde"). The piece in the image is actually "The Hunter's Farewell," as indicated by the title in the manuscript ("Jägers Abschied").