The first of the great quartets, that in C minor—written in December, 1820—is but a fragment. Schubert completed but the first movement. Why he neglected to add others remains unknown. But the single movement is inspired throughout. The opening measures give at once an example of the tremolo, of which Schubert made great use in all his quartets. The general triplet rhythm is familiar in all his later works. We have here the Schubert of the great songs, of the B minor symphony, of the later pianoforte sonatas; warm, intense, inspired.
Two quartets were written in 1824, that in A minor, published as opus 29, and that in D minor,[75] the best known of all his quartets. The A minor is dedicated to Ignaz Schuppanzigh, with whom Schubert was on friendly terms. The second movement of the quartet in D minor is a series of variations on the song Der Tod und das Mädchen.
Finally there is the great quartet in G major, written in 1826, which may be taken as representative throughout of the very best of Schubert’s genius as it showed itself in the form. In it are to be found all the qualities associated with Schubert especially. The opening major triad, swelling to a powerful minor chord in eleven parts, and the constant interchange of major and minor throughout the movement; the tender second theme with its delicate folk-rhythm, its unrestrained harmonies, its whispering softness in the variation after the first statement; these could have been the work of Schubert alone. Peculiar to Schubert’s treatment of the quartet are the tremolo, and the general richness of scoring—the sixths for second violin in the variation of the second theme, for example; the frequent use of octaves and other double-stops, the eleven-voiced chord at the beginning, and other such effects of fullness. There is little sign of the polyphonic drawing which so distinguished the last quartets of Beethoven. The quartet is made up of rich masses of sound that glow warmly, and fade and brighten. The inner voices are used measure after measure frankly to supply a richly vibrating harmony, nothing more. And an occasional dialogue between two instruments is all of polyphonic procedure one meets.
The beautiful andante in E minor begins with a melody for violoncello, a true Schubertian melody, which is carried on for two sections. Then a new spirit enters through hushed chords, and breaks forth loudly in G minor. There follows a passage full of wild passion. The agitated chords swell again and again to fortissimo. At last they die away, only the monotonous F-sharp of the cello suggests the throbbing of a despair not yet relieved. Over this the first violin and the viola sing the opening melody. Later the hushed tapping is given to other instruments and the cello takes up its melody again. Once more the despair breaks wildly forth, and yet again is hushed but not relieved. The sudden major in the ending can not take from the movement its quality of unconsoled sadness. The scherzo, in B minor, is built upon the constant imitation and play of a single merry figure. The trio is in G major, one of those seemingly naïve yet perfect movements such as Schubert alone could write. There is only the swing of a waltz, only the melody that a street gamin might carelessly whistle; but somewhere beneath it lies genius. The interchange of phrases of the melody between the different instruments, and the mellifluous counter-melodies, have something the same sort of charm as the Scherzo of the symphony in C major. The final movement is a rondo with a profusion of themes. There are the familiar marks of Schubert: the triplet rhythm (6/8), the shifting between major and minor; the full, harmonic style; the naïve swing, the spontaneous and ever fresh melodies.
Schubert worked at the string quartet with special devotion. Excepting the songs, his steady development toward perfect mastery of his expression is nowhere better revealed than in the quartets. Certainly the last two quartets are second only to the songs as proof of his genius. There is that soft, whispering, quality in Schubert’s music, for the expression of which the string quartet is a perfect instrument. Much of Schubert is intimate, too, and happily suited to the chamber. Less than any of the great composers did Schubert make use of polyphonic skill. It is easy to say that he lacked it; but what is hard to understand is how without it he could have contributed to music some of its most precious possessions.
II
We may say that Schubert applied himself to the composition of string quartets with a special devotion and ultimately with great success; that certain qualities of his genius were suited to an expression in this form. Mendelssohn applied himself to all branches of music with equal facility and with evidently little preference. Most of his chamber music for strings alone, however, belongs to the early half of his successful career. This in the case of Mendelssohn does not mean, as in the case of almost every other composer, that the quartets may not be the expression of his fully-matured genius. Mendelssohn never wrote anything better than the overture to ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ This before he was twenty! But having put his soul for once into a few quartets he passed on to other works.
There was a time when these quartets were considered a worthy sequel to Beethoven’s. In the English translation of Lampadius’ ‘Life of Mendelssohn’ occurs the sentence: ‘But in fact they [his works] stand in need neither of approval nor defense: the most audacious critic bows before the genius of their author; the power and weight of public opinion would strike every calumniator dumb.’ And yet what can now be said of Mendelssohn’s quartets save that they are precise in form, elegant in detail?
There are six in all. The first, opus 12, is in E-flat major. The slow introduction and the first allegro have all the well-known and now often ridiculed marks of the ‘Songs Without Words’: short, regular phrases; weak curves and feminine endings; commonplace harmonies, monotonous repetitions, uninteresting accompaniment. The second movement—a canzonetta—is interesting as Mendelssohn could sometimes be in light pieces; but the andante oozes honey again, and the final allegro is very long.
Is it unfair to dwell upon these wearisome deficiencies? Is there anything substantially better in the last of the six, in the quartet in F minor, opus 80? Here we have to do with one of the composer’s agitated spells. There is a rough start and measures of tremolo for all the instruments follow. This is the first theme, properly just eight measures long and as thoroughly conventional as music well may be. Then measures in recitative style, and again the first theme, and its motives endlessly repeated. Suddenly the instruments in an access of fury break into triplets; but this being calmed, the second theme appears, as it should in A-flat major, a theme that positively smirks.