The most imaginative and the most fantastic of the works as a whole is the series of twenty short pieces which make up the Carnaval, opus 9. Here there is a kaleidoscopic mixture of pictures, characters, moods, ideas, and personalities; the blazonry of spectacle, the noise and tumult, the quiet absorption that may come over one in the midst of such animation, the cool shadows beyond the edge of it wherein lovers may wander and converse; strange flashes of thought, sudden darting figures, apparitions and reminiscences. All is presented with unrelaxing intensity. One cannot pick out a piece from the twenty which does not show Schumann’s imagination at fever heat. There is a wealth of symbolism; the Sphinxes, mysterious sequences of notes that are common to all the pieces, and dancing letters which spell the birthplace of one of Schumann’s early loves.
As to the Sphinxes it may be said, as before, that the coherence which they may add can hardly exist outside the mind of the player, or of the student who has made himself thoroughly familiar with the work. The average listener may hear the whole work a hundred times, learn to know it and to love it, without ever realizing that the first intervals of the Arlequin, the Florestan, of the Papillons and others are the same; those of the Chiarina, the Reconnaissances, and the Aveux likewise, note for note identical. Such hidden relationships in music are vaguely felt if felt at all. Just as two words spelled the same may have different meanings, so may two musical phrases made up of the same intervals be radically different in effect.
The Carnaval opens with a magnificent prelude. The first section of it suggests trumpeters and banners, the splendid announcement and regalia of a great fête. After this we are plunged at once into the whirr of merry-making. Schumann’s cross-accents and syncopations create a fine confusion; there is hurly-burly and din, a press of figures, measures of dance, light and tripping, an ever-onward rush, animato, vivo, presto! There is a splendid effect in the last section, the presto. The measure beat is highly syncopated. It will be observed that in the first eight measures the first notes of every other measure, which are in all dance music the strongest, are single notes. These alone keep up a semblance of order in the rhythm. By the extension of one measure to four beats, the sequence of notes is so changed that in the repetition of this first phrase the strong accent falls upon a full chord, thus greatly re-enforcing the intended crescendo.
The next two numbers in the scene are pictures of two figures common to nearly every fair, the Pierrot and the Harlequin. The distinction between them is exquisite. In Pierrot we have the clown, now mock-mournful and pathetic, only to change in a second and startle with some abrupt antic. Harlequin, on the other hand, is nimble and quick, full of hops and leaps. At the end of the Pierrot, by the way, there is the chance to experiment with the pedal in overtones. The sharp fortissimo dominant seventh, just before the end, will set the notes of the following chord, all but the fundamental E-flat, in vibration if the pedal is pressed down; so that the keys of this second chord need hardly to be struck but only to be pressed. And when the pedal is lifted, this second chord will be left still sounding, by reason of the sympathetic vibration which was set about in its strings by the loud chord preceding.
Pierrot and Arlequin are professional functionaries at the fair. We are next introduced to a few of the visitors. There is a Valse noble and then Eusebius. Schumann imagined within himself at least three distinct personalities of which two often play a rôle in his music. One is active and assertive. He is Florestan. The other is Eusebius, reflective and dreamy. Here, then, is Eusebius at the fair, wrapped about in a mantle of gentle musing. His page of music in the Carnaval is one of the loveliest Schumann ever wrote. Elsewhere, too, the contemplative young fellow speaks always in gentlest and most appealing tones; as in the second, seventh, and fourteenth of the Davidsbündler Dances, all three of which are subscribed with a letter E.
In the Carnaval, as in the Dances, Florestan breaks roughly into the meditations of Eusebius. He works himself into a very whirlwind of energy; and then Schumann, by a delicious sense of humor, lets the artful Coquette slide into his eye and put an end to his vociferations. To her there is no reply but the gentle, short Replique. Are the Papillons which follow masqueraders? The horn figures of the accompaniment bring in a new group to the fair, fresh from the outer world. They are gone in a flash, and their place is taken by three dancing letters, ‛As,’ C, and H; As being German for A-flat, and H for B. And these letters spell the birthplace, as we have said, of one of Schumann’s early loves.
The love of his whole life follows—Chiarina, his beloved Clara; and, as if with her were associated the loveliest and most poetic of pianoforte music, he calls Chopin to mind. Chopin at this fair! It is a fantastic touch. More than when Eusebius speaks, the background of gay dancers and masqueraders fades from sight. For a moment Chopin is in our midst. Then he has vanished. And at once another thought of Clara, this time as Estrella; then an acquaintance in the throng. He has seen a face he knew, it is a friend. It is the Sphinx of Chiarina in the music. Is it she he recognized? Are the lovely interchanges in the middle section conversations with her? If so, their mood is light. They have met at a fair. They are in the merry-making.
Two more professionals, masquers this time—the world-favorites, Pantalon and Colombine; and at the end of their piece an exquisite thought of Schumann’s. Then the German waltz, simplicity itself; and in the midst of it none other than the wizard, Paganini! Surely, there was never a stranger trick of thought than that which thus placed Paganini in the midst of a simple, tender German waltz. He vanishes in a puff of smoke, as conjured devils are supposed to do; and the waltz goes on, as if all this intermission had been but a flash in the air above the heads of dancers too absorbed in their pastime to note such infernal phenomena.
After the waltz, a lover’s confession, hesitating but enraptured; and then a Promenade. There is full feeling, there is delight and ecstasy. Our lover whirls his maiden from the fair. Farther and farther they go, hand in hand, into the shadowy, calm night. Fainter and fainter the sounds of revelry, till all is silence.
There is a pause. The lovers are dispatched. Away with dreaming, away with sentiment! Back into the hurly-burly and the din. Here comes the band of David down the plaisance, hats in air, banners flying, loudly cheering. These are the sons of the new music. These are the champions of the new era of freedom, these the singers of young blood. More and more reckless, madder and more gay! Spread consternation abroad among the Philistines, put the learned doctors to rout, send them flying with their stale old tunes and laws! So the Carnaval ends, with the flight of the old and dusty, and the triumph of the enthusiasm of youth.