III
The other cycles of Schumann comparable to it are the Papillons, opus 2, the Davidsbündler Tänze, opus 6, and the Faschingsschwank aus Wien, opus 26. The first of these is short and slight, but of singularly faultless workmanship and rare charm. The last must be cherished for the Romanza, the Scherzo, and the splendid Intermezzo; but the first movement is rather out of proportion, and parts of the last are perfunctory and uninteresting.
Most of the Dances of the Davidsbündler are beautiful. The series is, however, much too long and too loose to be regarded as a whole. There are passages of unsuccessful workmanship, notably in the third; some of the dances are rambling, some rather commonplace. On the other hand, many may be ranked among the best of Schumann’s compositions. The second, seventh, and fourteenth have been mentioned as among the beautiful utterances of Eusebius; the fifth is less distinguished but is delightful pianoforte music. Florestan does not make quite such a good impression, except possibly in the fourth and the twelfth. The fifteenth speaks for both Florestan and Eusebius; and the E-flat major section is splendidly rich and full-throated music. The last dance of all is like a happy, wayward elf waltzing along in the wake of more substantial dancers. The series may properly end with the seventeenth; but, as Schumann said, though Eusebius knew well that the eighteenth was quite superfluous, yet one could see by his eyes that he was blissful over it.[32]
Both the ‘Symphonic Studies’ and the Kreisleriana stand apart from the works previously discussed. The former, opus 13, was written in 1834, the latter, opus 16, in 1838. A brief glance at opus 1, the ‘Abegg’ variations, written in 1830, will serve to make clear the immense progress Schumann made in the art of composition in the brief space of four years. The early work is by no means lacking in interest. Schumann reveals himself in nearly every page. The theme itself is made up of the notes a, b, e, g, g, spelling the name of the honorable lady to whom the variations were dedicated. In the middle of the last movement he experiments with a new style of diminuendo, allowing a chord to die away by separate notes, till only one note of it is left sounding. He tried the same effect again at the end of the Papillons. But the workmanship, though clever, is for the most part conventional. The statement of the theme is laughably simple, particularly the ‘echoes,’ pianissimo, in broken octaves. Such a device recalls the ‘Maiden’s Prayer’ and fountain curls. The variations show a fine ear for pianoforte effects. The first especially is in virtuoso style and makes more use of the upper registers of the keyboard than is common in the later works. But the harmonies, though richly altered, are conventional, and so are the figures. The third, fourth, and fifth might have been written by Hummel.
The ‘Symphonic Études’ are immeasurably broader and more original. They are written as variations; but Schumann confines himself very little to the conventional scheme; and the third and ninth are not variations at all, but études made up of wholly extraneous ideas. The theme itself is dignified and rich, and its statement in the sonorous middle registers of the piano is impressive. In the first measures of the first variation there is little or no suggestion of the theme save in harmony. The opening phrase is given low down, repeated in higher registers, till the music has climbed nearly four octaves; at which point a phrase of the theme makes its appearance. Toward the end of the variation the same phrase is heard again; but the whole is distinctly dominated by the figure announced in the first measure.
In the second variation the theme is carried throughout in the bass; but a beautiful new melody is imposed upon it which carries the burden of the music. The third of the series is unrelated to the theme except in key. It is a study in light, wide, staccato figures for the right hand; under which the left hand carries a suave and expressive melody. In the next movement, the theme is treated consistently as a canon at the octave. The next is at once a study in a capricious dotted rhythm and a subtle variation of the theme. And in the following, the sixth, the theme is wholly prominent in both hands, the left anticipating the right by the fraction of a beat. The seventh is a magnificent study for the movement of the arm from one group of notes to another. It is in E major, and the theme makes but an occasional and fragmentary appearance. The eighth is a study in sharp cross-accents, the theme again wholly concealed, except for its harmonies; the ninth a study in double notes and octaves for the wrist. The tenth, eleventh, and twelfth are high-water marks in Schumann’s treatment of the pianoforte, both in brilliant and poetic effects. Particularly worthy of study are the accompaniment figure in the latter, with its rich shimmering of harmony, and the skillful interweaving of two melodies in the fashion not long before employed in the short Warum?. The finale, which, with the repeats Schumann incorporated into it, is far too long, practically exhausts the power of the piano in big chordal effects.
There is but little trace of the composer of the Abegg variations in these imposing and wholly beautiful studies. Schumann shows himself in them such a master of the pianoforte as has no need to display his wares, but may let their intrinsic richness and splendor speak for them. Only in the last of them does he lay himself open to the criticism of having treated the piano in a style too nearly orchestral, which expects from the instrument a little more than it can furnish. Elsewhere in the series the very spirit of the piano speaks, a noble and moving language, full of imagery and of color. The obvious virtuoso trappings of Weber are left far behind. We are on one of the great heights of pianoforte literature.
Schumann considered the Kreisleriana to be his best work for the piano alone. It was inspired by the character of Johannes Kreisler, an eccentric, highly gifted kapellmeister who figured in the tales and musical papers of E. T. A. Hoffmann.[33] Just what it means few will venture to suggest. The last movement may recall the account of the last appearance of Kreisler on this earth, as he was seen hopping along the road beyond the town, with a red hat on the side of his head and a wooden sword by his side. Dr. Oskar Bie quotes from Hoffmann in connection with the second movement, the tale of the young girl who was lured to a magic oak by the sound of a lute, and there killed; whose heart grew into a twining rose-bush.[34] In the main, however, the music eludes analysis. It is eccentric. Though full of the mannerisms of Schumann, much of it presents an unfamiliar mood of the composer. The moods of it are different from the moods of the ‘Carnival,’ the ‘Symphonic Études,’ the ‘Fantasy,’ the ‘Scenes of Childhood.’ On the whole, it lacks the warmth of his other works. It is fantastic, and not unfrequently grotesque; parts of it strangely deliberate. Many pages of it are out of the usual and consequently baffling. It is more involved, too, in workmanship, and the separate movements full of contrasts that seem to be vagaries. Schumann has, of course, here as elsewhere put himself into the person of his inspiration; and the result is a tribute to the power of his imagination. Never was music more fantastic, less consequential.
It is, on the other hand, superb. The opening movement alone, with its figures like short waves in a windy sea, its sharp cross-accents, its filmy, elusive trio, is a masterpiece. The second movement is unbalanced, yet at times most wondrously beautiful. The opening theme in itself is inspired, though it is perhaps overworked. But what is the meaning of the harsh chords which interrupt it and shatter the mood which it might else instill? The style is polyphonic in places; there are inner melodies that slide long distances up and down the keyboard, oftenest in tenths. The two intermezzi furnish a welcome contrast to the intense subjectivity of most of this second movement. After the second there comes one of the loveliest pages in all Schumann’s pianoforte music.
The third movement is built on a restless, jerky figure, in ceaseless movement. There are strong accents and unusual harmonies. A middle section offers yet another happy instance of Schumann’s skill in dialogue between two melodies, such as we have already noticed in Warum? and the eleventh of the ‘Symphonic Études.’ The movement is somewhat slower than the main body of the piece, but a strange sort of half-accompaniment does not allow the restlessness to subside altogether.
The fourth and sixth movements are slow. In both there is some thickness of scoring, a sinking too deep into the lower registers. Both are about the same length and both are constructed on the same plan; consisting of an incompleted, or broken, melody of the most intimately expressive character, a few measures of recitative, the melodious phrases again—in the one wandering down alone into the bass, disappearing rather than ending, in the other not completing itself, but developing into a contrasting section. In both there are these contrasting sections of more articulate and more animated music; and in both there is a return of the opening melody. There is wonderful music in these two short movements; but it is mysterious, fragmentary and incomplete, visionary, as it were, and without definite line.
The remaining movements escape language. The fifth is full of changing moods; the seventh more than the others, consistent, this time in a vein of something like fury. The eighth and last is delicate and whimsical. The right hand keeps to a light, hopping figure most of the time; the left hand has little more than long single notes, which pursue a course of their own, without regular rhythm.
There is a lack of titles, there is no motto, there is even no mark of Florestan and Eusebius. This most whimsical, most subjective, and, in many ways, most beautiful and most complicated of Schumann’s creations, stands before us, then, with no clue to its meaning except its title. This, as we have said, refers us to a half-crazy, fantastical musician. There is more in the music than lunacy, full of vagaries as it is. There is much poetry, a clearness and sanity in diction, inconsequential as the thought may be, a mastery of the science of music. Yet it is not surprising if some, bearing in mind the preternatural activity of Schumann’s imagination even in early manhood, and the breaking-down of his mind toward the end of his life, will hear in this music a note of something more tragic than whimsical fancies, will feel that Schumann has strayed perilously far afield from the world of orderly nature and warm blood.
A few short pieces that Schumann published, like the Novelletten, are not held together in a cycle. In these the humor is prevailingly happy and active, the workmanship clear, and the form well-balanced. Fine as they are, in listening to them separately one misses something of Schumann. The man was a dreamer. He sank himself deep into moods. He lived in complete worlds, created by his fancy. A single piece like one of the ‘Novelettes’ hardly initiates the listener into these wide domains. Fully to put ourselves in touch with Schumann we must wander with him, and in the course of our wandering, drift farther and farther into his land of phantoms.
Four works in broad form must be reckoned among his greatest compositions. These are two sonatas: one in F-sharp minor, opus 11, one in G minor, opus 22; the great ‘Fantasy’ in C major, opus 17; and the concerto for pianoforte and orchestra in A minor, opus 54. It is hard to estimate the worth of the sonatas. That in F-sharp minor is rambling in structure, and too long; yet there are pages of splendid music in it. The introduction is full of a noble passion and strength; the first theme of the first movement has a vitality which, better ordered, would have made of the whole movement a great masterpiece; and the second theme is undeniably beautiful. But transitional sections and the development are monotonous and too little restrained. The second movement, making fuller use of the themes hinted at in the introduction, is wholly satisfying; the scherzo, likewise, with its grotesque Intermezzo and mock-heroic recitatives. But in the last movement again there is far too much music, far too little art; and, despite the healthy vigor of the chief theme, the piece staggers rather than walks.
The sonata in G minor is more concise, is, indeed, perfect and clear-cut in form. All of it is lovely, particularly so the Andantino and the Rondo. There is perhaps too much restlessness in the first movement and, consequently, too little variety. It is all flame and no embers.
The Fantasy is colossal. It is said that Schumann intended the first movement to represent ruins, the second a triumphal arch, the last a starry crown. Subsequently he changed his intention; but something of these original characteristics still remains. The first movement is a strange mixture of stark power, tenderness, and romantic legend. It is not hard to find in it the groundwork of the triplex form. There is a first theme, the dominant theme of the movement, strangely gaunt and bare; and a contrasting theme beautifully melodious which Schumann associated with his beloved Clara. These two themes are presented fairly regularly in the first section of the movement; and the last section brings them back again, as in the triplex form. But there is a broad middle section, in legendary character, which presents a wealth of different material, some of which has been freely used between the first and second themes in the first section. The whole is greatly expanded, full of pauses, passages of unrestrained modulation. The effect is truly magnificent.
The second movement exceeds the finale of the ‘Symphonic Études’ in triumphant vigor. The last movement is long, richly scored, exalted in sentiment. The endings of the three movements, especially of the first and last, are inspired, wholly without trace of the commonplace. It is one of the truly big works for the piano, lacking perhaps in subtlety and refinement of technique, sometimes a little awkward and out of proportion, but full of such a richness of harmony and melody, of such passion, strength, and romance, of such poetry and inspiration, as to defy criticism. It is, as we have said, colossal.
The concerto stands as a flawless masterpiece. The themes are inspired. There is no trace of sentimentality or morbidness. The form is ruled by an unerring and fine sense of proportion and line. It is neither too long nor too short. There is no awkwardness, no tentativeness, no striving for effect. No note is unwisely placed. The treatment of both pianoforte and orchestra leaves nothing to be desired, either when the one is set against the other or when both are intimately blended. Though it in no way suggests the virtuoso, it is perfectly suited to the piano, bringing out unfailingly the very best the instrument is capable of. Thus it stands unique among Schumann’s compositions. There must be many to whom it stands for an ideal realized. To them it will be unique among concertos, the most excellent, the perfect type.
With this masterpiece we may take leave of Robert Schumann, for whom most pianists will ever have a special love. The first movement was composed in 1841, the Intermezzo and Finale in 1845, all after his marriage in the fall of 1840. After this happy termination to long and troubled years, his attention turned to other branches of music, to songs, to oratorios and symphonies; and, though he never forsook the piano entirely, the best of his work for it, with few exceptions, was left behind him. The ten years between 1830 and 1840 saw its creation. In this relatively brief period all the works we have mentioned, except the concerto, were composed. They were the flower of his early manhood, and they bear witness in every page to the romantic eagerness and fire of youth. In many a measure they show a lack of skill, an excess of zeal, an over-reaching that is awkward; but what are these in the fire of his poetic imagination? The spirit of Schumann rises far, far above them, one of the most ardent, soaring spirits that ever sought expression in music. It was destined to fall back, ruined, charred, and blackened by its own fire; but happily we have left to us in pianoforte music its song at the height of its flight.