Lithograph by Eichens, after Vogel, 1825.
To imagine that with Weber we already pass over into the fairy-land of romance is, alas, a mistake. He would doubtless have made the transit had not an early death overtaken him in the midst of the uprising of genius that began in 1820. But, as it is, his piano music belongs to the technically rich but spiritually empty style of the time. If he did not still live as operatic composer and orchestral poet, his piano-compositions would be forgotten. His technique, successful as it was, is never so rich as that of the majority of the virtuosos of his time. It is not hard to perceive that he recurs again and again to certain motives. The ornamentation which was earlier called “Anschlag”—the preparatory striking of the under and over note before the main note, which is seen brilliantly exemplified in the Rondo in E flat major—the S-curves of the melody, which are a simple re-arrangement of this “anschlag”—the “pizzicato” notes over embellishing or broken accompaniments—held notes over struck chords—broken combinations of three notes, ranging themselves chain-like after one another—these are his somewhat limited repertoire. In the Polonaises in E flat major and in E major, in numerous operatic variations, in Écossaises and popular national dances, he pays his tribute to the time. But there is no local colouring in the variations on the Russian “Schöne Minka,” or on a Gipsy song. Dussek and Hummel were in this point his superiors. The intellectual themes, like the second of the C major concerto, show the greatness of Weber as behind a mask. The favourite concerto Op. 79, if judged by a severe standard, is only a fashionable if very clever and successful mosaic of neat Études with the requisite melody. The daintiest mosaic piece, the March, is given to orchestra alone, as if Weber had felt compelled to enter his proper abode. Liszt perceived this when he played in the concerto, and played the tutti brilliantly with the instruments, and thus exhibited a remarkable tour de force. The four sonatas, often utterly trivial, are in the main a congeries which perishes by its eclecticism. As with all his contemporaries, the first movements, those touchstones of the inner meaning, are the weakest. The subjects are thin, the framework is that of the drawing-room; and the other movements have a higher stylistic value. The powerful rhythm of the second movement in the C major, the excellent minuet-scherzo, the stirring perpetuum mobile as last movement are admirable single ideas. But the importance rises only slowly; the fourth sonata has, not inner meaning, but a certain majesty. Yet what is this romance, this octave-scherzo with its rapid waltz-trio, this masquerade of elves, to Chopin, to Schumann, or even to Mendelssohn? Weber’s most popular piece is also his purest—the Invitation to the Dance. It is a pot-pourri, such as the age loved; and the very title is à la mode. But the conception of forming the introductory adagio as a dialogue, the brilliant advance from the ravishing waltz to Bacchanalian tumult the pure and not virtuoso-like colouring, which rests on this happy invention, raise the work far above all that is merely fashionable.
Moscheles in his youth.
The true man of the transition is Moscheles—double-souled, with his concessions to modishness on the one side, and on the other his wealth of invention and his musical intensity. He was born out of due time. He ought to have left virtuosity behind him, in order to be able to give full play to his characteristic, not undramatic, and broad-lined art. To-day he is almost forgotten; no opera, as in Weber’s case, preserved his fame to our times. But his works more than repay study; if our pianists would once again take up his C major concerto, they would be amazed.
Moscheles, later, 1859.