Part 27

We come now to a lofty form of choral and orchestral music, which we owe to Mendelssohn. In setting two of the Greek tragedies of Sophocles he had no old Greek music for a model. The spirit of the dramas lay in the text of Sophocles. He had read the _Antigone_ in the Greek, and so far got his inspiration at first hand. He took the suggestion from Frederic William IV., King of Prussia, during a summer residence in Berlin in 1841. The peculiar function of the Chorus in the Greek tragedies, as a mediator between the actors and the audience, commenting in some sort of rhythmical chant upon what was passing on the stage, and the sublimity of some of those choruses, make us feel that there could not have been a truer artistic idea than that of setting them to music, realizing and carrying out their vague embryonic musical aspiration as it could only be realized in these modern times after music had become an art. Mendelssohn's inspiration seems to have sprung congenially from that of Sophocles; and this music is of the freshest, manliest, most original and vigorous that he has left.

_Antigone_ was the first experiment. He composed it in eleven days:--Overtures, single and double choruses for male voices, with full orchestral accompaniment for all that are lyrical in subject; melodramatic bits, as where Antigone descends into the vault; and chords here and there making expressive background to the spoken verse. The piece was first played on the royal stage at Potsdam; and afterwards on the King's birthday before a select audience, the venerable Tieck presiding. When it was given at Leipsic, a meeting of "learned Thebans" signed an address to Mendelssohn, thanking him "for substantially reviving an interest in the Greek tragedy." The music has since made its mark everywhere, whether given on the stage with action, or only sung and played in concert rooms,--at Athens in the original Greek. Nobler men's choruses are never heard than that rich, sweet, pensive moralizing one which sings of man's wondrous faculties and limitations; or that superb hymn to "Bacchus" (double chorus),--as full of pomp and splendor as the Wedding March,--in which the composer gave free rein to his enthusiasm; or the opening invocation to "Helios."

_Oedipus at Colonos_ he composed at Frankfort in 1844, about the time when he began to finish _Elijah_, and write the Violin Concerto and the music to _Athaliah_. A favorite with the men's Choral clubs is the chorus which recounts the beauties of Colonos and the glories of Athens. The music is wonderfully faithful to the ever kindling enthusiasm of the words.

The Mendelssohn Greek choruses are far beyond and above the ordinary part-song, which is a much smaller, humbler affair,--simply, as its name denotes, a _song_, harmonized in four parts. But these are themes worked up, for single and double choir, with as complete art as the choruses in great oratorios, only avoiding the Fugue form, which is Gothic, Christian, suggestive of the Infinite, not Greek.

Racine's _Athalie_, often called his greatest drama, is constructed after the old Greek model, with choruses similarly employed. Mendelssohn's music for it, compared with _St. Paul_ and _Elijah_, the _Lobgesang_, or the Greek plays, must to many seem monotonous, in some parts dry and tame. The musical work, bound by the text, lacks climax. Yet there is much beautiful and some majestic, splendid music in it. Has it a Jewish, as its congeners a Greek flavor? The overture is very noble, with the two parts finely contrasted.

During the last years of his life the dramatic tendency in Mendelssohn, which we have traced all along through so many of his works in many forms, from his child operettas in his father's house to the _Walpurgis Night_, grew upon him with an irresistible momentum. His deep interest in Jenny Lind (Goldschmidt), who was his ideal of a singer, and to whom he became a most devoted friend, led him as the last musical problem of his life to write an opera for her in which she was to take the principal rôle in London. That was _Die Lorelei_, a theme as legendary and romantic, while more poetic and more inviting to music, than the monster Norse mythology. The composition was cut short by his early death. The fragments which he left of the unfinished work are of such rare excellence, that one wonders what might have been, had that ideal been achieved! Might not the German theatre have then possessed an opera, a lyric drama, which would have forestalled the paradoxical solution of the problem which so many, whether musical or not, appear so overready to accept? And how long will the fashion hold?

Greatly unlike in temperament, in character, in quality of genius, in outward circumstances and environment, largely, too, in their ideal aim and tendency, Mendelssohn and Schumann seem to be destined to be thought of together. They lived at the same time, and were intimate associates and friends in Leipsic. Each had the warmest admiration for the other. The two together were a double morning-star in music; yet "one star differeth from another star in glory." Opinions will not soon agree which in his works is the more significant or glorious, which the more potent and far-reaching influence. We do not discuss the point. If the sweetness of Mendelssohn's music does sometimes cloy; if with all the strength of his orchestral works, his oratorios and Greek plays, with all the Jewish masculinity of his Psalms, his male choruses and his part-songs, one feels the feminine, the sentimental minor vein predominate upon the whole; if his struggles with his formidable art-problems were less Titanic than those of Beethoven, and consequently his triumphs less complete; if his resolution of the discord was a joy less absolute, less wholesome and perennial (for with Beethoven Joy, joy--_Freude_--is ever the last word,--Joy as of the gods, admitting of no surfeit, no corruption), still there is no denying, except by some weak caprice of fashion, the essential greatness of the composer Mendelssohn. The most serious deduction to be made is, that he was to a certain extent imitable. Swarms of imitators sprang up, both in his own country and in England. Hence a certain sense of sameness began to attach to his music,--a sameness not fairly chargeable to the master, but to the imitators, with whom it was too easy to confound him, or through their fog to see him falsely. Well might he have said: "Save me from my friends!"

Once Mendelssohn was overrated, in a most partisan and partial spirit, especially in England. Now it is too much the fashion, with young critics and "disciples of the newness," to estimate him far below his real worth. But all new fashions bring their own reaction. In this case the reaction will be purifying and salubrious. A reviving interest in Mendelssohn's music will be so much new guaranty against all false, extravagant, or morbid taste.--While music remains music, whatever may be the ups and downs of fashion, whatever the novelties of style or method, however startling the juggleries of brilliant execution, the genius and the art of Mendelssohn will still hold good. Their fascination may be lost awhile amid the louder clamor of phenomenal new comers; in more sane, reposeful hours, it surely will return with many a sweet surprise. What oratorio society, of high aim and standing, can afford to let the _St. Paul_ and _Elijah_, or the _Hymn of Praise_, lose any of their lustre through neglect of frequent practice? What orchestra can fill out a worthy season without one or more of his symphonies and of his poetic overtures? Is any properly ambitious male chorus or part-song club well equipped without the _Antigone_ and _Oedipus_ music, or the _Ode to the Artists_, or the part-songs of Mendelssohn? Can any chamber music club dispense yet with his string quartets, quintets, or octet? And where is the pianist, however far advanced in virtuosity, who does not like to play sometimes his compositions for pianoforte with orchestra, or who fails to find grateful audience for the _Lieder ohne Wörter_? Indeed to ignore all this is to convict oneself of a very youthful bumptiousness of spirit, an arrogant fanaticism of unreasoning modernness in taste.

Four we count above all others in the temple of tone-art and genius:--Bach, Handel, Mozart and Beethoven. Can we fill out a second four without the name of Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy? Choice may vary as to one or two names in that second quartet; of Schubert and Schumann there can be no question; some may have preference for Haydn, or for Gluck, or Weber, Cherubini, even for Rossini; but when with the other distinctions we take into account that of many-sidedness, all-round musicianship, can any other four compete with Mendelssohn except to his advantage?

ROBERT SCHUMANN

Every professional musician or music-loving amateur, who examines the individual influence exerted by our great masters upon himself, should always hold in especial veneration the name of Robert Schumann. What an important factor in our dearest recollections is formed by his music, whether enjoyed in great orchestral, choral or chamber concerts, or in the familiarity and reserve of our homes! In how many directions have his compositions and writings influenced our musical feeling, knowledge and taste! That which has so early endeared itself to us must necessarily remain a lifelong companion, must, indeed, become a part of our soul; and this particular corner in our musical heart occupied by Schumann constantly requires fresh recognition of that spirit, which has found expression in such an enchanting language. Schumann being, however, a true German, both personally and artistically, the essence of this spirit is not readily recognized by foreigners. What the latter admire in him, the Germans love, and if they wish to express that which in Schumann's music is worthy of their highest esteem, they use words for which it would be difficult to find an exact equivalent in the French, English or Italian languages; as for instance, Gemüth, Innigkeit, Sinnigkeit and Schwärmerei. This is particularly true in the case of his vocal compositions, which suffer in translation both poetically and musically more than similar works of any other composer and are for this reason far from being fully appreciated outside of German speaking countries. Schumann's instrumental works, on the contrary, have made his name famous wherever music has become the object of a widespread interest.

Robert Schumann's career was not rich in striking events of a general interest, but it was of a more solitary character, revealing the inward life of a poetic dreamer whose language was to be music; of an artist who paved the way for a new and brilliant epoch of his art, who enlarged its domain, fought for its dignity, and by the splendid example of his own productions proved the possibility of his artistic creed. His works were his life; in him there was the closest union of man and artist. Just as a knowledge of his life and personal character helps us to understand his music, so the study of the latter reveals to us the man, for his works are not merely results of a natural or an acquired ability, but they form the musical history of the life of his soul.

The twenty years during which Schumann personally exerted a great influence upon the musical world cover a red-letter period of this century. Only a few years before, Beethoven, Schubert and Weber had died, closing the great epoch of the classic masters, while at the same time preparing a new one with new ideals and new prospects. In the centre of the musical world stood the masters of French and Italian opera: Auber, Halévy, Bellini, Donizetti, and soon Meyerbeer, while such men as Cherubini, Méhul and Boieldieu had already stepped into the background. Germany still had Spohr and a number of less famous composers excelling in some special field, as for instance, Marschner in opera, Lachner in song and instrumental music, Löwe in ballads and oratorios, Hummel and Moscheles in pianoforte music; but they all were far surpassed by the brilliant sun of Mendelssohn which had just risen. He, born in 1809, heads the list of those distinguished names, which opened a new epoch of our art, mainly represented beside himself by Chopin, Schumann, Liszt, Wagner, Franz, and their great French contemporary, Berlioz. Italian and French opera, and an exhibition of meaningless technical virtuosity, formed the general musical taste; Beethoven was neglected, Schubert hardly known; and it looks as if by some kind device of nature just in the right time a resurrection of the higher conception of art was brought about, no one assisting more in the great work than Robert Schumann. He was equipped not only with rarest creative gifts, but also with a superior intellect, a high general culture and a thorough and sincere character, which enabled him to persevere in his great undertaking with unflagging zeal. Alas! why has not nature been more kind to him? Why has not one so deserving been spared the saddest of all fates? Perhaps it was to make his memory still dearer to us, to increase our veneration for him so that even weaknesses or errors in his life or works elicit from us an honest sympathy, which increases whenever we read his many published letters or the story of his life as told by able and sympathetic writers like Wasielewski, Spitta, Reissmann, and others.

Robert Schumann was born on the 8th of June, 1810, in the town of Zwickau, Saxony. Neither his birthplace, nor his ancestry, were such as to favor an early development of his musical talent. His father, August Schumann, son of a minister, had, after a long struggle between business and poetry, finally entered into partnership with a brother as a bookseller, and became widely known as a publisher of valuable books and magazines, and besides as an author. He had a particular fondness for English poets, such as Milton, Scott, and Byron, whose "Beppo" and "Childe Harold" he translated into German. He was a self-made man, who owed all his success to his own untiring energy. His wife, Johanna Christiana Schnabel, whom he won only after a severe struggle, was the daughter of the town-surgeon in Zeitz; she is described as an agreeable lady, of kind disposition, deep feeling and a certain romantic sentimentality, which was also a conspicuous feature of Robert's nature. Her loving care and motherly anxiety for her son is well known to all readers of young Schumann's correspondence.

Robert was the youngest of five children. His older brothers entered upon a business career, and his only sister died in her twentieth year in a state of incurable melancholy. The handsome little boy was petted by everybody and much surrounded by women. He received his education first in a popular private school, later in the public schools, receiving piano instruction from a school teacher, Baccalaureus Kuntzsch, when only six years old. Kuntzsch, who was not a professional musician, at least taught him the most indispensable elements and was held in highest esteem by Schumann till his death. Little Robert early showed a disposition to lead his playmates. One particular friend was chosen to assist in four-hand pieces and a small boys' orchestra was even formed, which Robert directed and for which he made his first efforts as a composer, without having had any theoretical instruction. There were overtures, even operatic sketches, and especially a setting of the 150th psalm for chorus and orchestra, written in Schumann's twelfth year. He also showed a rare skill in improvising on the pianoforte, trying to portray certain persons or dispositions. In public he played the accompaniment of Schneider's oratorio "The Day of Judgment." He was very fond of poetry and private theatricals, but his love of music, which was rapidly increasing, surpassed everything else. This was particularly noticeable after the summer of 1819, when he attended a concert given by Moscheles in Carlsbad. The father had now become convinced that Providence intended Robert for a musician, and notwithstanding all the violent objections on the part of his wife, who foresaw nothing but a career full of deprivations, he applied to Carl Maria von Weber, in Dresden, as a teacher for his son. Weber consented to accept Robert as a pupil, but for unknown reasons the excellent plan was abandoned and the boy's golden opportunity was lost. In spite of this neglect of early and well directed training (which may explain why his first compositions were so original in character and style), Schumann instinctively kept steadily on in the right path, a fact that greatly increases our admiration for him. Thus he pursued his musical studies at home, besides reading as much as possible, and helping his father in his compilations and translations. But already then he began to grow more and more reserved and reflective, loving to be alone, in a world of imagination and dreams. That great romanticist and humorist Jean Paul Friedrich Richter had completely enchanted him; he knew his novels almost by heart and never ceased to adore him as the richest source for his own imagination.

In 1826 Schumann met with a severe loss in the death of his father, who left the responsibility of the lad's future in the hands of his mother and his guardian, the merchant Rudel. They wished him to learn some profession that would promise a safe position early in life, and obediently submitting, he was inscribed as a law student at the university of Leipsic. Before this he had graduated brilliantly from the Zwickau Academy and had made a trip to Southern Germany with a friend, visiting, among other places, Bayreuth, where he stopped at Jean Paul's home, and Munich, where he met Heinrich Heine.

The young law student had not been long in Leipsic, when he began to thoroughly dislike the chosen profession as well as the noisy student life. To the enthusiastic admirer of Beethoven, Schubert, Jean Paul and Shakespeare the law seemed utterly dry and uninteresting. However he promised his guardian that he would pursue his legal studies, although strong signs of a melancholy disposition had begun to make their appearance. He joined some students' societies, but preferred the company of a few friends who were also much given to musical and poetic dreamings. In the house of Professor Carus, whose wife was a clever singer, his musical penchant found all desired satisfaction; here he met Marschner and Friedrich Wieck, the eminent piano teacher, father of that wonderful little Clara who, then nine years old, had already become famous as a piano-player of rare ability. With his mother's consent Schumann became Wieck's pupil, enjoying at last a rational method of technical education, though still neglecting and even despising all theoretical studies. In February, 1829, Wieck's instruction ended, Schumann gaining more time for ensemble playing. Beethoven's and Prince Louis Ferdinand's chamber compositions were frequently rendered, but especially the works of Franz Schubert, whose early death in the preceding year had impressed Schumann very deeply. Bach's "Well-tempered Clavichord" never left his piano. Happy in extemporizing all kinds of new melodies and harmonies, controlled only by his musical instinct, he wrote a number of songs and piano pieces, and even a pianoforte quartet, none of which have ever been published. The law lectures he neglected, but was much interested in those on the great German philosophers Kant, Fichte and Schelling. The next year he spent in Heidelberg, that romantic old town so beautifully situated in the neighborhood of Switzerland and Italy. Here Schumann met the eminent pandectist Thibaut; but even this great professor was unable to overcome the student's aversion for the legal profession. Again music became the centre of his existence. Life was charming, the time being much occupied by social events and trips which were made to the neighboring towns and valleys. On these occasions Schumann used to practice on a dumb piano even when riding in a carriage. In the fall he enjoyed a delightful trip to Switzerland and upper Italy, and the spirit in which he describes his impressions, changing from wit or rapture into melancholy, from admiration into home-sickness, is very characteristic of his peculiar nature. The stay in Heidleberg was prolonged for another term, which, however, was again mainly devoted to piano study and composition, it being here that he composed his first piano pieces. His skill being widely known, he was often invited to parties, appearing also in a public concert, where he played variations by Moscheles. The struggle between filial obedience and loyalty to his genius had now reached its climax. At a concert given by Paganini in Frankfort, he was deeply impressed, and resolved to live no longer in uncertainty. Accordingly in July, 1830, he sent his mother that famous letter in which he pleads that his future must be devoted to art, and offers to submit unreservedly to the decision of Wieck. To his immense delight the latter's advice was favorable and removed all doubts and objections. Thus Schumann returned to Leipsic as an enthusiastic student of his beloved art.

Of the four ways in which a musician may shape his practical career, teaching, conducting, playing and composing, Schumann chose the last two as being most congenial to him, aiming particularly at the greatest possible virtuosity. He devoted himself to mechanical exercises with an almost sacred energy, even inventing devices to promote his abilities in shorter time than a natural development would allow. At the same time he continued composing, and though having no thorough instruction, he found by his wonderful instinct an adequate form for the expression of his feelings and ideas, a form which could not be called unmusical or amateurish. Indeed in looking to-day at these earlier compositions, we forget that they were written by a man who was only half educated in music, and we admire the genius which guided him in finding the truest language for his rich musical nature. But this was not all. His highly cultivated mind, his desire to promote art by every possible means, compelled him to become also a leading literary champion of its interests. Leipsic was at that time a great musical centre, although the famous epoch only began in 1835, when Mendelssohn was appointed conductor of the Gewandhaus Orchestra.

Before this, however, Schumann had to experience a sad disappointment. A gradually increasing lameness of the middle finger of the right hand (a consequence of his mechanical contrivances) spoiled every hope of his becoming a virtuoso. In spite of this new obstacle he devoted himself only the more to composition, and feeling sadly the lack of the necessary theoretical instruction, applied to Dorn, conductor of the opera, for lessons. During the winter 1832-33 he stayed with his family in Zwickau, where, in a concert given by Clara Wieck, he conducted the first movement of an unpublished symphony in G minor.