In spite of the many inspired themes in the sonatas, and of the variety and richness of pianoforte effects with which they are often presented, the works are, as we have already said, too faulty or too weak in structure to hold a secure and honored place in pianoforte literature. It is vain to speculate on what Schubert might have done with the form had he lived longer. The last sonata is discouraging.
But in shorter forms there is no doubt that he was a supreme and perfect artist. The two sets of impromptus and the set of shorter pieces called the Moments Musicals are masterpieces. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that in them lie concealed the root and flower of the finest pianoforte literature produced during the next half century or more in Germany. Mendelssohn, Schumann, and Brahms owe immensely to them.
Each set of Impromptus consists of four pieces. The title was not given to them by Schubert, but was added by the publishers of the first editions, the Haslingers of Vienna. Schumann suggested that the first, second, and fourth of the second set might be taken as three movements of a sonata in F minor. The first of these is very much after the manner of the first movements of Schubert’s sonatas; but the first section is not repeated, and the section which at first might suggest a real development section is repeated entirely at the end of the piece.
The first impromptu of the first set is built on a single phrase. The quality of the music is legendary. A sharp preliminary G claims our attention, and then the story begins, pianissimo, a single voice, answered, as it were, by a chorus; and what this voice sings, or rather chants, is the burden of the rest. One might fancy the piece a series of variations but that there seems to be some story progressing with it. At times the theme is smooth and serene, as in the A-flat major section near the beginning, where it floats along over a rolling accompaniment. Later on it is passing through dark, wild forests. The agitated triplet octaves, inexorably on G, suggest the ‘Erl King.’ And so ever on, the same phrase, as if it were a lone soldier on his way through a land now wild and dreary, now sunny. During the last two pages the restless triplet figures are never still, and always they come back to beat on G. Just before the end the agitation stops, but still the G persists, in long octaves, and still the tramp of the soldier keeps on. What it may mean no one can tell. The impression is that the strange music continues on, long after our ears have heard it die away.
The second impromptu is for the most part in a light and happy vein. There is a constant flow of triplet figures, wonderfully graceful and sinuous, over the simplest of accompaniments. A sudden change of mood, an abrupt modulation, usher in a section in the nature of a trio. There is a bold melody, greatly impassioned, very much after the manner of Schumann; a breadth of style and a power wholly different from the light figure-work which has preceded it. But back to the lighter mood the music comes again, back to the flow of exquisite, light sound, only to be brought once more to a sudden check. There is a short coda of greatest vehemence and brilliance.
Here is salon music of a wholly new variety. It has nothing in common with the showy polonaises and rondos of Weber, nor yet with the sentimental nocturnes of Field. In fact, one would find it difficult to find its parallel elsewhere in the literature of pianoforte music, its strange combination of ingenuousness and grace and wild passion.
The third is in G-flat major, though it is perhaps better known in the key of G, to which Haslinger took the liberty of transposing it, much to the harm of its effect. It is in the nature of a reverie, akin to the nocturnes of Field in spirit, but far broader in plan and more healthy in sentiment.
Something of the airiness of the second impromptu is to be found in the fourth; but here the runs have an harmonic significance rather than a melodic. They are flowing chords, successive light showers of harmonies. The very sameness of the figuration adds to the charm, and does not, it may be added, take away from the difficulty. Only twice is the gentle vibration so produced interrupted for long; once to give way to a short melody, once during the long, impassioned middle-section in C-sharp minor.
What stands out in this group of pieces as a whole is the restraint in form, so lacking in the sonatas, and the fineness of pianoforte style. There is a great economy of writing. The piano is left to speak for itself; it is not often taxed to make music grand enough for the orchestra. In the second and fourth of the series an accompaniment is hardly more than suggested, except in the impassioned middle sections; yet the passage work is in no way of the virtuoso type. It has a refinement that is, apart from Bach, Mozart, and Chopin, unusual in pianoforte music. And what is ever worthy of notice in all the work of Schubert is the prevalent pianissimo. The spiritual visitor is ever present. One feels that Schubert was wholly lost in his music, that he surrendered himself utterly to the delight of sound, of softest sound. The four works are equally inspired. They are full of ecstasy, full of rapture.
The impromptus of the second set are not so invariably fine, yet as a whole they are a momentous contribution. The first and the fourth are longer and more elaborate than any in the first set, and consequently one feels in them the lack of proportion and control which weakened the sonatas. The third is, as a matter of fact, a series of variations; and they can hardly be said to suffer from any weakness. Rather they are exceedingly well done. However, better variations have been written—not, it may be remarked, by Weber—and the form is dangerously likely to prove stupid except in the hands of a man who has a special skill in it. There is necessarily lacking a chance for that spontaneity and freedom which one associates more with Schubert than with any other composer.