The third movement is built on a restless, jerky figure, in ceaseless movement. There are strong accents and unusual harmonies. A middle section offers yet another happy instance of Schumann’s skill in dialogue between two melodies, such as we have already noticed in Warum? and the eleventh of the ‘Symphonic Études.’ The movement is somewhat slower than the main body of the piece, but a strange sort of half-accompaniment does not allow the restlessness to subside altogether.
The fourth and sixth movements are slow. In both there is some thickness of scoring, a sinking too deep into the lower registers. Both are about the same length and both are constructed on the same plan; consisting of an incompleted, or broken, melody of the most intimately expressive character, a few measures of recitative, the melodious phrases again—in the one wandering down alone into the bass, disappearing rather than ending, in the other not completing itself, but developing into a contrasting section. In both there are these contrasting sections of more articulate and more animated music; and in both there is a return of the opening melody. There is wonderful music in these two short movements; but it is mysterious, fragmentary and incomplete, visionary, as it were, and without definite line.
The remaining movements escape language. The fifth is full of changing moods; the seventh more than the others, consistent, this time in a vein of something like fury. The eighth and last is delicate and whimsical. The right hand keeps to a light, hopping figure most of the time; the left hand has little more than long single notes, which pursue a course of their own, without regular rhythm.
There is a lack of titles, there is no motto, there is even no mark of Florestan and Eusebius. This most whimsical, most subjective, and, in many ways, most beautiful and most complicated of Schumann’s creations, stands before us, then, with no clue to its meaning except its title. This, as we have said, refers us to a half-crazy, fantastical musician. There is more in the music than lunacy, full of vagaries as it is. There is much poetry, a clearness and sanity in diction, inconsequential as the thought may be, a mastery of the science of music. Yet it is not surprising if some, bearing in mind the preternatural activity of Schumann’s imagination even in early manhood, and the breaking-down of his mind toward the end of his life, will hear in this music a note of something more tragic than whimsical fancies, will feel that Schumann has strayed perilously far afield from the world of orderly nature and warm blood.
A few short pieces that Schumann published, like the Novelletten, are not held together in a cycle. In these the humor is prevailingly happy and active, the workmanship clear, and the form well-balanced. Fine as they are, in listening to them separately one misses something of Schumann. The man was a dreamer. He sank himself deep into moods. He lived in complete worlds, created by his fancy. A single piece like one of the ‘Novelettes’ hardly initiates the listener into these wide domains. Fully to put ourselves in touch with Schumann we must wander with him, and in the course of our wandering, drift farther and farther into his land of phantoms.
Four works in broad form must be reckoned among his greatest compositions. These are two sonatas: one in F-sharp minor, opus 11, one in G minor, opus 22; the great ‘Fantasy’ in C major, opus 17; and the concerto for pianoforte and orchestra in A minor, opus 54. It is hard to estimate the worth of the sonatas. That in F-sharp minor is rambling in structure, and too long; yet there are pages of splendid music in it. The introduction is full of a noble passion and strength; the first theme of the first movement has a vitality which, better ordered, would have made of the whole movement a great masterpiece; and the second theme is undeniably beautiful. But transitional sections and the development are monotonous and too little restrained. The second movement, making fuller use of the themes hinted at in the introduction, is wholly satisfying; the scherzo, likewise, with its grotesque Intermezzo and mock-heroic recitatives. But in the last movement again there is far too much music, far too little art; and, despite the healthy vigor of the chief theme, the piece staggers rather than walks.
The sonata in G minor is more concise, is, indeed, perfect and clear-cut in form. All of it is lovely, particularly so the Andantino and the Rondo. There is perhaps too much restlessness in the first movement and, consequently, too little variety. It is all flame and no embers.
The Fantasy is colossal. It is said that Schumann intended the first movement to represent ruins, the second a triumphal arch, the last a starry crown. Subsequently he changed his intention; but something of these original characteristics still remains. The first movement is a strange mixture of stark power, tenderness, and romantic legend. It is not hard to find in it the groundwork of the triplex form. There is a first theme, the dominant theme of the movement, strangely gaunt and bare; and a contrasting theme beautifully melodious which Schumann associated with his beloved Clara. These two themes are presented fairly regularly in the first section of the movement; and the last section brings them back again, as in the triplex form. But there is a broad middle section, in legendary character, which presents a wealth of different material, some of which has been freely used between the first and second themes in the first section. The whole is greatly expanded, full of pauses, passages of unrestrained modulation. The effect is truly magnificent.
The second movement exceeds the finale of the ‘Symphonic Études’ in triumphant vigor. The last movement is long, richly scored, exalted in sentiment. The endings of the three movements, especially of the first and last, are inspired, wholly without trace of the commonplace. It is one of the truly big works for the piano, lacking perhaps in subtlety and refinement of technique, sometimes a little awkward and out of proportion, but full of such a richness of harmony and melody, of such passion, strength, and romance, of such poetry and inspiration, as to defy criticism. It is, as we have said, colossal.
The concerto stands as a flawless masterpiece. The themes are inspired. There is no trace of sentimentality or morbidness. The form is ruled by an unerring and fine sense of proportion and line. It is neither too long nor too short. There is no awkwardness, no tentativeness, no striving for effect. No note is unwisely placed. The treatment of both pianoforte and orchestra leaves nothing to be desired, either when the one is set against the other or when both are intimately blended. Though it in no way suggests the virtuoso, it is perfectly suited to the piano, bringing out unfailingly the very best the instrument is capable of. Thus it stands unique among Schumann’s compositions. There must be many to whom it stands for an ideal realized. To them it will be unique among concertos, the most excellent, the perfect type.