Schumann, in the middle section of his song, Widmung, has such a melody, one which leads us straight to the centre of a mood as profound as one can find in many symphonies:

Du bust die Ruh’, du bist der Frieden etc.

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One can imagine Beethoven building a long, superb movement out of this theme; the ’cellos would take it over rich bass harmony, the counterpoint would grow deeper and more complex, a grand crescendo of many measures would lead to a climax with the brass; the whole body of violins would take up the theme in unison; it would be exchanged between the wood-winds and strings; and the movement would fade away on some magical effect with the theme in the high registers of the violins. The theme is abundantly worth such extended and serious treatment. Schumann uses it for two lines and then returns to his original motive. If his purpose had been to get the greatest possible effect out of given materials, such a procedure would have been criminal wastefulness. But his purpose was to express the spirit of the words. So he used the theme as the expression demanded, not begrudging a motive which would have served him for a whole symphony movement. And, thanks to this restraint, he made a perfect song.

And the restraint which the composer showed in using themes in naked simplicity must be reflected in the delivery of the song by the singer. Conscious restraint is foreign to the spirit of the folk-song, excepting for the universal rule that every work of art must show some reserve power. But in the art-song, artificed as it is with conscious pains, reserve in the singer is a virtue in itself. Unless one feels that every detail of the delivery is firmly under control one has an uneasy sense that the singer may fly off the handle at any moment. And this feeling robs us of any sense we might have that the singer has a message to give.

Most concert-goers know only too well how little this principle is regarded among Lieder singers. Is there one singer out of ten who does not try to transcend his or her song? Is there one singer out of ten who would not rather have his or her hearers at the end of a piece exclaim: ‘A great singer!’ rather than ‘A great song!’ And to force their personalities to the foreground singers will abuse their songs from beginning to end. Often they do it intentionally, sincerely believing that this is the only kind of singing that is effective. But in a great number of cases, without doubt, it is done unconsciously, as the natural and only way of singing. A special coloring on one of the singer’s pet tones, a long pause on a high note, an exaggerated retard in a sentimental passage—these sins against taste are being constantly committed by singers whose only interest in songs is to advance their personal reputations. In a way they are not to be blamed, for competition is keen; a hundred fail where one succeeds, and that one succeeds usually only by forcing his personality on the public; and the public is inclined to be blasé, to demand picturesque personalities, and to grumble if a singer is ‘ordinary.’ Singers need intelligent audiences as much as audiences need intelligent singers.

But, whatever may be the lamentable state of actual conditions, a song, if well sung, is sung with intelligent restraint. The ideal singer will give a song as he believes it should be given, without concession to the prejudices of the audiences, content to let the work of art speak for itself and to allow people to forget the workman in their joy at the work.

And as soon as the demand for restraint is met, the singer discovers a new and kindred demand in the song, one which is quite as inherent in the art-type. This is the demand for style. Style, as an artist uses it, is a ticklish thing, one which cannot quite be put into words. But every working artist feels it as a value. For, if the singer is to pick and choose (as the composer picked and chose previously) in the singing of a song, he must do so according to some principle. This principle, if it be genuine and not arbitrary, will be the style of the song. It will make the hearer feel that the interpretative details were not only chosen carefully, but were chosen well. It is that subtle thing that seems to make the song ‘hang together.’

Style, in short, is one more of the typical characteristics of the good art-song. The style of a song is unique. No two songs, thoroughly well sung, have exactly the same style. The style is developed out of the music itself; it is implied in the notes as they rest on the printed page; it has awaited the discerning eye of the interpretive artist. And so when a song has been thoroughly understood and ‘lived in’ by the singer, it will always have a personality or style of its own which will hover above the song and embrace every note. An art-song which on hearing does not reveal a unique style is either a bad song or a good song badly sung.