Philip Hale's Boston Symphony Programme Notes

CHARLES CAMILLE
SAINT-SAËNS

(Born at Paris, October 9, 1835; died at Algiers, December 16, 1921)

An enemy of Saint-Saëns—and Saint-Saëns made enemies by his barbed words—might have applied to him the lines of Juvenal:

for Saint-Saëns was not satisfied with the making of music or the career of a virtuoso. Organist, pianist, caricaturist, dabbler in science, enamored of mathematics and astronomy, amateur comedian, feuilletonist, critic, traveler, archæologist—he was a restless man.

He was of less than average height, thin, nervous, sick-faced; with great and exposed forehead, hair habitually short, beard frosted. His eyes were almost level with his face. His eagle-beak would have excited the admiration of Sir Charles Napier, who once exclaimed: “Give me a man with plenty of nose.” Irritable, whimsical, ironical, paradoxical, indulging in sudden changes of opinion, he was faithful to friends, appreciative of certain rivals, kindly disposed toward young composers, zealous in practical assistance as well as in verbal encouragement. A man that knew the world and sparkled in conversation; fond of society; at ease and on equal terms with leaders in art, literature, fashion. A man whose Monday receptions were long famous in Paris, eagerly anticipated by Tout Paris; yet never so happy as when acting Calchas to Bizet’s or Regnault’s Helen in Offenbach’s delightful La Belle Hélène, or impersonating in an extraordinary costume Gounod’s Marguerite surprised by the casket of jewels. An indefatigable student of Bach, he parodied the Italian opera of the ’thirties, ’forties, ’fifties in Gabriella di Vergi.

Then there is his amusing Carnival des Animaux, which was written, as his Gabriella di Vergi, without intention of publication. A Parisian from crown of head to sole of foot; yet a nomad.

In 1867 Berlioz called Saint-Saëns “one of the greatest musicians of our epoch.” In 1878 Bülow lamented in a letter to Hans von Bronsart that there was no musician in Germany like Saint-Saëns “except you and me.” Liszt’s admiration for Saint-Saëns is well known. In 1918 there were some, even in this country, who applauded him as the greatest living composer. On the other hand, there have been critics who said that he was too much of a musician to be a great composer or creator. The praise of Gounod—“Saint-Saëns will write at will a work à la Rossini, à la Verdi, à la Schumann, à la Wagner”—was counted by them a reproach; it was regarded as a courteous manner of saying, “Saint-Saëns has the unfortunate faculty of assimilation.” Hugues Imbert, discussing him, admitted that there is no graver censure than to say of an artist, “He is incapable of being himself.”

So far as an intimate knowledge of music as a science is concerned, so far as fluency and ease of expression are concerned, Saint-Saëns was beyond a doubt a remarkable musician.

An extraordinary man and musician. Possessing an uncommon technical equipment as composer, pianist, organist; French in clearness of expression, logic, exquisite taste; a master of rhythm, with a clear appreciation of tonal color and the value of simplicity in orchestration, he is seldom warm and tender; seldom does he indulge himself in sentiment, passion, imagination. With him orthodox form must always be kept in mind. Hence perhaps the reactionary attitude of his later years; his sharp criticism of the more modern school of French composers, including César Franck. His wit and brilliancy are indisputable. He seldom touches the heart or sweeps away the judgment. He was not a great creator, yet his name is ever to be mentioned with respect. Without consideration of his many admirable compositions, one should bear this in mind: In the face of difficulties, discouragement, misunderstanding, sneers, he worked steadily from his youth up, and always to the best of his ability, for righteousness in absolute music; he endeavored to introduce into French music thoughtfulness and sincerity for the advantage and the glory of the country that he dearly loved.

SYMPHONY NO. 3, IN C MINOR (WITH ORGAN), OP. 78

I. Adagio; allegro moderato; poco adagio

II. Allegro moderato; presto; maestoso; allegro

Saint-Saëns’ Symphony in C minor has the finest and most characteristic qualities of the best French music: logical construction, lucidity, frankness, euphony. The workmanship is masterly. There is no hesitation. The composer knew exactly what he wanted and how to express himself. A few of the themes that when first exposed might seem to some insignificant assume importance and even grandeur in the development. The chief theme of the adagio, the theme for strings, is very French in its sustained suavity, in a gentle, emotional quality that never loses elegance, and the preparation for the entrance of this adagio is worthy of the greatest masters. It is not necessary to speak of the many beautiful or stirring pages; of the consummate skill of the technician; of the unerring instrumentation.

This symphony was composed for the London Philharmonic Society and first performed at a concert of that society in London, May 19, 1886, when the composer conducted. It was performed at Aix-la-Chapelle in September of that year under the direction of the composer.

For the first performance in London, Saint-Saëns prepared the following analysis, which was translated into English:

“This symphony is divided into two parts, after the manner of Saint-Saëns’ Fourth concerto for piano and orchestra and Sonata for piano and violin. Nevertheless, it includes practically the traditional four movements: the first, checked in development, serves as an introduction to the adagio, and the scherzo is connected, after the same manner, with the finale. The composer has thus sought to shun in a certain measure the interminable repetitions which are more and more disappearing from instrumental music.

“The composer thinks that the time has come for the symphony to benefit by the progress of modern instrumentation, and he therefore establishes his orchestra as follows: three flutes, two oboes, English horn, two clarinets, bass clarinet, two bassoons, double bassoon, four horns, three trumpets, three trombones, tuba, three kettledrums, organ, pianoforte (now for two hands and now for four), triangle, a pair of cymbals, bass drum, and the usual strings.

“After an introduction adagio of a few plaintive measures the string quartet exposes the initial theme, which is somber and agitated (allegro moderato). The first transformation of this theme leads to a second motive, which is distinguished by greater tranquillity; after a short development, in which the two themes are presented simultaneously, the motive appears in a characteristic form, for full orchestra, but only for a short time. A second transformation of the initial theme includes now and then the plaintive notes of the introduction. Varied episodes bring gradually calm, and thus prepare the adagio in D flat. The extremely peaceful and contemplative theme is given to the violins, violas, and violoncellos, which are supported by organ chords. This theme is then taken by clarinet, horn, and trombone, accompanied by strings divided into several parts. After a variation (in arabesques) performed by the violins, the second transformation of the initial theme of the allegro appears again, and brings with it a vague feeling of unrest, which is enlarged by dissonant harmonies. These soon give way to the theme of the adagio, performed this time by some of the violins, violas, and violoncellos, with organ accompaniment and with a persistent rhythm of triplets presented by the preceding episode. This first movement ends in a coda of mystical character, in which are heard alternately the chords of D flat major and E minor.

“The second movement begins with an energetic phrase (allegro moderato), which is followed immediately by a third transformation of the initial theme in the first movement, more agitated than it was before, and into which enters a fantastic spirit that is frankly disclosed in the presto. Here arpeggios and scales, swift as lightning, on the pianoforte, are accompanied by the syncopated rhythm of the orchestra, and each time they are in a different tonality (F, E, E flat, G). This tricky gayety is interrupted by an expressive phrase (strings). The repetition of the allegro moderato is followed by a second presto, which at first is apparently a repetition of the first presto; but scarcely has it begun before a new theme is heard, grave, austere (trombone, tuba, double basses), strongly contrasted with the fantastic music. There is a struggle for the mastery, and this struggle ends in the defeat of the restless, diabolical element. The phrase rises to orchestral heights, and rests there as in the blue of a clear sky. After a vague reminiscence of the initial theme of the first movement, a maestoso in C major announces the approaching triumph of the calm and lofty thought. The initial theme of the first movement, wholly transformed, is now exposed by divided strings and the pianoforte (four hands), and repeated by the organ with the full strength of the orchestra. Then follows a development built in a rhythm of three measures. An episode of a tranquil and pastoral character (oboe, flute, English horn, clarinet) is twice repeated. A brilliant coda, in which the initial theme by a last transformation takes the form of a violin figure, ends the work; the rhythm of three measures becomes naturally and logically a huge measure of three beats; each beat is represented by a whole note, and twelve quarters form the complete measure.”

This symphony is dedicated to the memory of Franz Liszt.

Liszt died at Bayreuth, July 31, 1886. The symphony was performed at London before his death. When Liszt was in Paris in March of 1886 to hear the performance of his Graner Messe at St. Eustache, the symphony was nearly completed, and Saint-Saëns gave Liszt an idea of it by playing it on the pianoforte. The statement that Saint-Saëns intended the symphony to be “a funereal memorial and an apotheosis of the glorious master” is nonsensical. The dedication was a posthumous tribute.

ARNOLD
SCHOENBERG

(Born at Vienna, September 13, 1874)

“VERKLÄRTE NACHT” (RADIANT NIGHT), ARRANGED FOR STRING ORCHESTRA, OP. 4

Schoenberg’s music, to be enjoyed, does not need either the original verse or the paraphrase. Indeed, it would be better if the argument were not printed for the concertgoer. As it is, he may be too anxious to discover the emancipated woman and the good, easy-going, complaisant man in the music, and be oblivious of the strains of beauty and passion. For this music, on the whole prolix, has beautiful and passionate pages of compelling eloquence. Other pages are a sandy, dreary waste. The impression would be still stronger, the music still more significant, if the composition were much shorter. Whether the music itself gains by the revision and enlargement, is a question that admits of discussion.

This piece, originally a sextet, was published in 1905; the arrangement for string orchestra was published in 1917. The sextet was composed in 1899.

An excerpt from Richard Dehmel’s poem, “Weib und die Welt,” is printed on a flyleaf of the score. When the sextet was first performed in New York by the Kneisel Quartet, Mr. Krehbiel paraphrased this poetic fragment as follows:

“Two mortals walk through a cold, barren grove. The moon sails over the tall oaks, which send their scrawny branches up through the unclouded moonlight. A woman speaks. She confesses a sin to the man at her side: she is with child, and he is not its father. She had lost belief in happiness, and, longing for life’s fullness, for motherhood and mother’s duty, she had surrendered herself, shuddering, to the embraces of a man she knew not. She had thought herself blessed, but now life had avenged itself upon her, by giving her the love of him she walked with. She staggers onward, gazing with lack-lustre eye at the moon which follows her. A man speaks. Let her not burden her soul with thoughts of guilt. See, the moon’s sheen enwraps the universe. Together they are driving over chill waters, but a flame from each warms the other. It, too, will transfigure the little stranger, and she will bear the child to him. For she has inspired the brilliant glow within him and made him too a child. They sink into each other’s arms. Their breaths meet in kisses in the air. Two mortals wander through the wondrous moonlight.”

FRANZ PETER
SCHUBERT

(Born at Lichtenthal, near Vienna, January 31, 1797; died at Vienna, November 19, 1828)

Schubert was a clumsy man, short, round-shouldered, tallow-faced, with a great shock of black hair, with penetrating though spectacled eyes, strong-jawed, stubby-fingered. He shuffled in his walk, and he expressed himself in speech with difficulty. He described himself as unhappy, miserable; but his practical jokes delighted tavern companions, and he was proud of his performance of The Erlking on a comb. He kept a diary and jotted down platitudes. He had little taste for literature, painting, sculpture, travels; he was not interested in politics or in questions of sociology. He went with his own kind. Unlike Beethoven, he could not impose on the aristocracy of Vienna. He loved the freedom of the tavern, the dance in the open air or late at night, when he would play pretty tunes for the dancers. Handel was the superb personage of music. Gluck was a distinguished person at the Court of Marie Antoinette; Sarti pleased the mighty Catherine of Russia; Rossini, the son of a strolling horn player, was at ease with royalty and worshiped by women. There is little in the plain life of Schubert to fire the zeal of the anecdotical or romantic biographer. No Grimm, no Diderot, relished his conversation. There is no gossip of noble and perfumed dames looking on him favorably. There is a legend that he was passionately in love with Caroline of the House of Esterhazy; but his passion followed a spell of interest in a pretty housemaid. He sang love in immortal strains; but women were not drawn towards him as they were towards Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven—the list is a long one. He was not a spectacularly heroic figure. His morbidness has not the inviting charm of Schumann’s torturing introspection. We sympathize more deeply with the sufferings of Mozart, and yet the last years of Schubert were perhaps as cruel. Dittersdorf is close to us by his autobiography. Smug Blangini amuses by his vanity and by his indiscreet defence of Pauline Bonaparte, his pupil. No one can imagine Schubert philosophizing in books after the fashion of Wagner, Gounod, Saint-Saëns. It would have been easier for him to write a dozen symphonies than a feuilleton in the manner of Hector Berlioz. Schubert was a simple, kindly, loving, honest man, whose trade, whose life, was music.

Schubert thought in song even when he wrote for the pianoforte, string quartet, or orchestra. The songs which he wrote in too great number were composed under all sorts of conditions, almost always hurriedly, in the fields, in the tavern, in bed. There were German songs before Schubert—folk songs, songs of the church, set songs for home and concert; but Schubert created a new lyric—the emotional song. Plod your weary way through the ballads of Zumsteeg, the songs of J. A. Hiller, Reichardt, Zelter, and the others: how cold, formal, precise they are! They are like unto the cameo brooches that adorn the simpering women in old tokens or keepsakes; as remote and out of fashion as the hair jewelry of the early ’sixties. Take away “The Violet,” and what interest is there in Mozart’s book of songs? There is Haydn’s famous Canzonet; there is perhaps Beethoven’s “In Questa Tomba” with a few of the songs addressed to the “Ferne Geliebte”; but Beethoven knew the voice best as an orchestral instrument. The modern song was invented by Franz Schubert.

The striking characteristics of Schubert’s songs, spontaneity, haunting melody, a birthright mastery over modulation, a singular good fortune in finding the one inevitable phrase for the prevailing sentiment of the poem and in finding the fitting descriptive figure for salient detail, are also found in the best of his instrumental works.

There is the spontaneous simplicity, the simplicity praised by Walt Whitman: “The art of art, the glory of expression is simplicity. To speak with the perfect rectitude and insouciance of the movements of animals and the unimpeachableness of the sentiment of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside is the flawless triumph of art. The greatest poet swears to his art: ‘I will not be meddlesome. I will not have in my writing any elegance or effect or originality to hang in the way between me and the rest like curtains. What I tell, I tell for precisely what it is. Let who may exalt or startle or fascinate or soothe, I will have purposes as health or heat or snow has, and be as regardless of observation. What I experience or portray shall go from my composition without a shred of my composition. You shall stand by my side and look in the mirror with me.’”

Then there is the ineffable melancholy that is the dominating note. There is gayety such as was piped naïvely by William Blake in his Songs of Innocence; there is the innocence that even Mozart hardly reached in his frank gayety; yet in the gayety and innocence is a melancholy—despairing, as in certain songs of “The Winter Journey,” when Schubert smelled the mould and knew the earth was impatiently looking for him—a melancholy that is not the titanic despair of Beethoven, not the whining or shrieking pessimism of certain German and Russian composers; it is the melancholy of an autumnal sunset, of the ironical depression due to a burgeoning noon in spring, the melancholy that comes between the lips of lovers.

No one has treated the passion of love more purely. Love with the modern French composer is too often merely a pronounced phase of eroticism, or it is purely, or impurely, cerebral. With Wagner it is as a rule heroically sensuous if not sensual. Is there one page of Schubert’s music that is characterized first of all by sensuousness? A few measures are played or sung; the music may be unknown to the hearer, but he says to himself “Schubert,” and not merely because he recognizes restless changes from major to minor and from minor to major, tremulous tonalities, surprising ease in modulation, naïve, direct melody. The sedulous ape may sweat in vain; there is no thought of Schubert, whose mannerisms are his whole individuality.

This individuality defies analysis. It was finely said by Walt Whitman that all music is “what awakens from you when you are reminded by the instruments”; the hearer’s thoughts are sweeter and purer, his soul is cheered or soothed, when he is reminded by the music of Schubert.

Pompous eulogies have been paid this homely, human, inspired man, who knew poverty and distress, who was ignored by the mob while he lived his short life, who never heard some of his most important works, whose works were scattered.

“Schubert, turning round, clutched at the wall with his poor, tired hands, and said in a slow voice, ‘Here, here is my end.’ At three in the afternoon of Wednesday, November 19, 1828, he breathed his last, and his simple, earnest soul took its flight from the world. There never has been one like him, and there will never be another.” When you read these words of Sir George Grove, something chokes you; they outweigh the purple phrases and dexterously juggled sentences of the rhetorician.

SYMPHONY NO. 8, IN B MINOR (“UNFINISHED”)

I. Allegro moderato

II. Andante con moto

Let us be thankful that Schubert never finished the work. Possibly the lost arms of the Venus of Milo might disappoint if they were found and restored. The few measures of the scherzo that are in the manuscript furnish but slight hope that here at last Schubert would not, as in so many of his works of long breath, maintain a steady decrescendo of interest.

Surely, no one would deny the melancholy beauty of the first movement of Schubert’s symphony, with its lyricism that is appealingly feminine, with its melancholy that is without touch of peevishness and without taint of pessimism; and the second movement has the serenity—that is, Schubert’s romantic serenity, which is another thing than the classic serenity of Mozart.

The symphony is eminently Schubertian in its beauty and in its weakness. In the first movement there are measures of a grandeur that is seldom found in Schubert’s compositions. In these measures we recognize the Schubert that conceived the “Doppelgänger,” the “Gruppe aus dem Tartarus,” and a few other songs in which dramatic force comes before charming lyricism.

Two brothers, Anselm and Joseph Hüttenbrenner, were fond of Schubert. Their home was in Graz, Styria, but they were living at Vienna. Anselm was a musician; Joseph was in a government office. Anselm took Schubert to call on Beethoven, and there is a story that the sick man said, “You, Anselm, have my mind; but Franz has my soul.” Anselm closed the eyes of Beethoven in death. These brothers were constant in endeavor to make Schubert known. Anselm went so far as to publish a set of Erlking Waltzes, and assisted in putting Schubert’s opera, Alfonso and Estrella (1822), in rehearsal at Graz, where it would have been performed if the score had not been too difficult for the orchestra. In 1822 Schubert was elected an honorary member of musical societies of Linz and Graz. In return for the compliment from Graz, he began the Symphony in B minor, No. 8 (October 30, 1822). He finished the allegro and the andante, and he wrote nine measures of the scherzo. Schubert visited Graz in 1827, but neither there nor elsewhere did he ever hear his unfinished work.

Anselm Hüttenbrenner went back to his home about 1820. It was during a visit to Vienna that he saw Beethoven dying. Joseph remained at Vienna. In 1860 he wrote from the office of the Minister of the Interior a singular letter to Johann Herbeck, who then conducted the concerts of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde. He begged permission to sing in concerts as a member of the society, and urged him to look over symphonies, overtures, songs, quartets, choruses by Anselm. He added towards the end of the letter, “He [Anselm] has a treasure in Schubert’s B minor symphony, which we put on a level with the great Symphony in C, his instrumental swan song, and any one of the symphonies by Beethoven.”

Herbeck was inactive and silent for five years, although he visited Graz several times. Perhaps he was afraid that if the manuscript came to light he could not gain possession of it, and the symphony, like the one in C, would be produced elsewhere than in Vienna. Perhaps he thought the price of producing one of Anselm Hüttenbrenner’s works in Vienna too dear. There is reason to believe that Joseph insisted on this condition.[43]

In 1865 Herbeck was obliged to journey with his sister-in-law, who sought health. They stopped in Graz. On May 1 he went to Ober-Andritz, where the old and tired Anselm, in a hidden little one-story cottage, was awaiting death. Herbeck sat down in a humble inn. He talked with the landlord, who told him that Anselm was in the habit of breakfasting there. While they were talking, Anselm appeared. After a few words, Herbeck said, “I am here to ask permission to produce one of your works at Vienna.” The old man brightened, he shed his indifference, and after breakfast took him to his home. The work-room was stuffed with yellow and dusty papers, all in confusion. Anselm showed his own manuscripts, and finally Herbeck chose one of the ten overtures for performance. “It is my purpose,” he said, “to bring forward three contemporaries, Schubert, Hüttenbrenner, and Lachner, in one concert before the Viennese public. It would naturally be very appropriate to represent Schubert by a new work.” “Oh, I have still a lot of things by Schubert,” answered the old man; and he pulled a mass of papers out of an old-fashioned chest. Herbeck immediately saw on the cover of a manuscript “Symphonie in H moll,” in Schubert’s handwriting. Herbeck looked the symphony over. “This would do. Will you let me have it copied immediately at my cost?” “There is no hurry,” answered Anselm. “Take it with you.”

The symphony was first played at a Gesellschaft concert, Vienna, December 17, 1865, under Herbeck’s direction. It was played at the Crystal Palace, Sydenham, in 1867.

SYMPHONY NO. 7, IN C MAJOR

I. Andante; allegro non troppo

II. Andante con moto

III. Scherzo: allegro vivace; trio

IV. Finale: allegro vivace

There are some who are not persuaded by Schumann and Weingartner into enjoying the extreme length of the symphony. They would fain have the work undergo some process of condensation, and yet it would be difficult for them to indicate the measures or sections that should be omitted.

It is still a marvelous work in certain respects. The Hungarian dash in the second theme of the first movement; the wonderful trombone passage; the melodic charm of the andante and the infinite beauty of the detail—but when one begins to speak of this movement he might vie with Schubert in length; the expressive trio of the scherzo; the rush of the finale—these place the symphony high on the list; and yet, and yet—but Schubert was not a severe critic of his own compositions. He wrote at full speed, and he had not the time to revise, to condense.

The manuscript of this symphony, numbered 7 in the Breitkopf & Härtel list and sometimes known as No. 10, bears the date March, 1828. In 1828 Schubert composed besides this symphony the songs “Die Sterne” and “Der Winterabend”; the oratorio, Mirims Siegesgesang; the song “Auf dem Strom”; the Schwanengesang cycle; the string quintet, Op. 163, and the Mass in E flat. On November 14 he took to his bed. It is said that Schubert gave the work to the Musikverein of Vienna for performance; that the parts were distributed; that it was even tried in rehearsal; that its length and difficulty were against it, and it was withdrawn on Schubert’s own advice in favor of his earlier Symphony in C, No. 6 (written in 1817). All this has been doubted; but the symphony is entered in the catalogue of the society under the year 1828, and the statements just quoted have been fully substantiated. Schubert said, when he gave the work to the Musikverein, that he was through with songs and should henceforth confine himself to opera and symphony.

It has been said that the first performance of the symphony was at Leipsic in 1839. This statement is not true. Schubert himself never heard the work; but it was performed at a concert of the Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde, Vienna, December 14, 1828, and repeated March 12, 1829. It was then forgotten until Schumann visited Vienna in 1838 and looked over the mass of manuscripts then in the possession of Schubert’s brother Ferdinand. Schumann sent a transcript of the symphony to Mendelssohn for the Gewandhaus concerts, Leipsic. It was produced at the concert of March 21, 1839, under Mendelssohn’s direction, and repeated three times during the following season—December 12, 1839, March 12 and April 3, 1840. Mendelssohn made some cuts in the work for these performances. The score and parts were published in January, 1850.

The manuscript is full of alterations. As a rule Schubert made few changes or corrections in his score. In this symphony, alterations are found at the very beginning. The subject of the introduction and that of the allegro were materially changed; the tempo of the opening movement was altered from allegro vivace to allegro ma non troppo. Only the finale seems to have satisfied him as originally conceived, and this finale is written as though at headlong speed.

The symphony[44] is scored for two flutes, two oboes, two clarinets, two bassoons, two horns, two trumpets, three trombones, kettledrums, strings. There is a story that Schubert was afraid he had made too free use of trombones and asked advice of Franz Lachner.

The second theme of the first movement has a decidedly Slav-Hungarian character, and this character colors other portions of the symphony both in melody and general mood. The rhythm of the scherzo theme had been used by Schubert as early as 1814 in his Quartet in B flat. It may also be remarked that the scherzo is not based on the old minuet form, and that there is more thematic development than was customary in such movements at that period.

There is a curious tradition—a foolish invention is perhaps the better phrase—that the finale illustrates the story of Phaëton and his justly celebrated experience as driver of Apollo’s chariot. Others find in the finale a reminiscence of the terrible approach of the Statue towards the supper table of Don Giovanni.

ROBERT ALEXANDER
SCHUMANN

(Born at Zwickau, Saxony, June 8, 1810; died at Endenich, near Bonn, July 29, 1856)

It has been urged against Schumann that his symphonies were thought for the pianoforte and then orchestrated crudely, as by an amateur. This, however, is not the fatal objection. He had his own orchestral speech. Good, bad, or indifferent, it was his own. He could not have otherwise expressed himself through the orchestral instruments. His speech is to be accepted or rejected as the hearer is impressed chiefly by ideas, or by the manner of expression.

A more serious objection is this: the genius of Schumann was purely lyrical, although occasionally there is the impressive expression of a wild or melancholy mood, as in the chords of unearthly beauty soon after the beginning of the overture to Manfred. Whether the music be symphonic, chamber, a pianoforte piece or a song, the beauty, the expressive force lies in the lyric passages. When Schumann endeavored to build a musical monument, to quote Vincent d’Indy’s phrase, he failed; for he had not architectonic imagination or skill.

His themes in symphonies, charming as they often are, give one the impression of fragments, of music heard in sleep-chasings. Never a master of contrapuntal technique, he repeated these phrases over and over again instead of broadly developing them, and his filling in is generally amateurish and perfunctory.

The best of Schumann’s music is an expression of states and conditions of soul. This music is never spectacular; it is never objective. Take, for instance, his music to Goethe’s Faust. The episodes that attracted the attention of Berlioz, Liszt, Gounod, were not to Schumann a source of inspiration. It was the mysticism in the poem that led him to musical interpretation. His music, whether for voice or instruments, is first of all innig, and this German word is not easily translated into English. Heartfelt, deep, ardent, fervent, intimate; no one of these words conveys exactly the idea contained in innig. There is the intimacy of personal and shy confession.

Schumann in his life was a reticent man. He dreamed dreams. He was lost in thought when others, in the beerhouse or at his home, were chattering about art. He put into his music what he would with difficulty have said aloud to his Clara. As a critic he was bold in praise and blame. As a composer he was often not assertive as one on a platform. He told his dreams, he wove his romantic fabric for a few sympathetic souls. It is true that in his days of wooing he was orchestrally jubilant, as in the first movement of the Symphony in B flat, but in this movement the anticipation aroused by the first measures is not realized. The thoughts soared above the control of the thinker; there was not the mastery over them that allowed no waste material, that gives golden expression without alloy.

In his own field, Schumann is lonely, incomparable. No composer has whispered such secrets of subtle and ravishing beauty to a receptive listener. The hearer of Schumann’s music must in turn be imaginative and a dreamer. He must often anticipate the composer’s thought. This music is not for a garish concert hall; it shrinks from boisterous applause.

SYMPHONY NO. 1, IN B FLAT MAJOR, OP. 38

I. Andante un poco maestoso; allegro molto vivace

II. Larghetto

III. Scherzo: molto vivace. Trio (1): molto più vivace; Trio (2)

IV. Allegro animato e grazioso

The opening is imposing with need of re-orchestration. Charming is the lyric passage in the scherzo that puts one in mind of Schubert’s “Hark, Hark, the Lark”; but for the most part there is rhythmic uniformity and boresome repetition that no change in the instrumentation could redeem. As the thick orchestration stands, if the music is played according to Schumann’s directions, Weingartner says, it is impossible to produce a true forte or an expressive pianissimo.

Schumann was married to Clara Wieck, September 12, 1840, after doubts, anxieties, and opposition on the part of her father; after a nervous strain of three or four years. His happiness was great, but to say with some that this joy was the direct inspiration of the First symphony would be to go against the direct evidence submitted by the composer. He wrote Ferdinand Wenzel: “It is not possible for me to think of the journal” (the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, founded by Schumann, Wieck, Schunke, and Knorr in 1834, and edited in 1841 by Schumann alone). “I have during the last days finished a task (at least in sketches) which filled me with happiness, and almost exhausted me. Think of it, a whole symphony—and, what is more, a Spring symphony; I myself can hardly believe that it is finished.” And he said in a letter (November 23, 1842) to Spohr: “I wrote the symphony toward the end of the winter of 1841, and, if I may say so, in the vernal passion that sways men until they are very old, and surprises them again with each year. I do not wish to portray, to paint; but I believe firmly that the period in which the symphony was produced influenced its form and character, and shaped it as it is.” He wrote to Wilhelm Taubert, who was to conduct the work in Berlin: “Could you infuse into your orchestra in the performance a sort of longing for the Spring, which I had chiefly in mind when I wrote in February, 1841? The first entrance of trumpets, this I should like to have sounded as though it were from high above, like unto a call to awakening; and then I should like reading between the lines, in the rest of the introduction, how everywhere it begins to grow green, how a butterfly takes wing; and, in the allegro, how little by little all things come, that in any way belong to Spring. True, these are fantastic thoughts, which came to me after my work was finished; only I tell you this about the finale, that I thought it as the good-bye of Spring.”

(It may here be noted that the symphony was fully sketched in four days, and that Schumann now speaks of composing the work in February, 1841, and now of writing it towards the end of that year.)

Berthold Litzmann, in the second volume of his Clara Schumann (Leipsic, 1906), gives interesting extracts from the common diary of Schumann and his wife, notes written while Schumann was composing this symphony.

Towards the end of December, 1840, she complained that Robert had been for some days “very cold toward her, yet the reason for it is a delightful one.” On January 17-23, 1841, she wrote that it was not her week to keep the diary, “but, if a man is composing a symphony, it is not to be expected that he will do anything else.... The symphony is nearly finished. I have not yet heard a note of it, but I am exceedingly glad that Robert at last has started out in the field where, on account of his great imagination, he belongs.” January 25: “Today, Monday, Robert has nearly finished his symphony; it was composed chiefly at night—for some nights my poor Robert has not slept on account of it. He calls it ‘Spring symphony.’... A spring poem by [Boettger] gave him the first impulse toward composition.”

According to the diary Schumann completed the symphony on Tuesday, January 26. “Begun and finished in four days.... If there were only an orchestra for it right away. I must confess, my dear husband, I did not give you credit for such dexterity.” Schumann began to work on the instrumentation January 27; Clara impatiently waited to hear a note of the symphony. The instrumentation of the first movement was completed February 4, that of the second and third movements on February 13, that of the fourth on February 20, in the year 1841. Not till February 14 did Schumann play the symphony to her. E. F. Wenzel, later a teacher at the Leipsic Conservatory, and E. Pfundt, a kettledrum player of the Gewandhaus orchestra, were present. “I should like,” she wrote in her diary, “to say a little something about the symphony, yet I should not be able to speak of the little buds, the perfume of the violets, the fresh green leaves, the birds in the air.... Do not laugh at me, my dear husband! If I cannot express myself poetically, nevertheless the poetic breath of this work has stirred my very soul.” The instrumentation was completed on February 20.

Clara wrote to Emilie Liszt after the performance: “My husband’s symphony achieved a triumph over all cabals and intrigues.... I never heard a symphony received with such applause.”

Robert wrote in the diary some days before that his next symphony should be entitled “Clara; and I shall paint her therein with flutes, oboes, and harps.”

The first movement opens with an introduction, andante un poco maestoso, B flat major, 4-4, which begins with a virile phrase in the horns and trumpets, answered by the full orchestra fortissimo. There are stormy accents in the basses, with full chords in the brass and other strings, and each chord is echoed by the wood-wind. Flute and clarinet notes over a figure in the violas lead to a gradual crescendo ed accelerando, which introduces the allegro molto vivace, B flat major, 2-4. This begins at once with a brilliant first theme. The chief figure is taken from the initial horn and trumpet call as Schumann originally wrote it. The development of the theme leads finally to a modulation to the key of C major, and there is the thought, naturally, of F major as the tonality of the second theme, but this motive given out by the clarinets and bassoons is in no definite tonality; it is in a mode which suggests A minor and also D minor; the second section ends, however, in F major, and the further development adheres to this key. The first part of the movement is repeated. The free fantasia is long and elaborately worked out. The first movement does not return in the shape it has at the beginning of the allegro, but in the broader version heard at the opening of the introduction. The long coda begins animato, poco a poco stringendo, on a new theme in full harmony in the strings, and it is developed until horns and trumpets sound the familiar call.

The second movement, larghetto, E flat major, 3-8, opens with a romanza developed by the violins. The second theme, C major, is of a more restless nature, and its phrases are given out alternately by the wood-wind and violins. The melodious first theme is repeated, B flat major, by the violoncellos against an accompaniment in second violins and violas and syncopated chords in the first violins and the wood-wind. There is a new episodic theme. The first motive appears for the third time, now in E flat major. It is sung by the oboe and horn, accompanied by clarinets and bassoons, with passages in the strings. Near the close of the short coda are solemn harmonies in bassoons and trombones. This movement is enchained with the scherzo.

The scherzo, molto vivace, D minor, 3-4, begins in G minor. The first trio, molto più vivace, D major, 2-4, includes harmonic interplay between strings and wind instruments. It is developed at some length, and the scherzo is repeated. There is a second trio, B flat major, 3-4, with imitative contrapuntal work, and it is followed by a second repetition of the scherzo. A short coda has the rhythm of the first trio and brings the end.

Finale: allegro animato e grazioso, B flat major, 2-2. It begins with a fortissimo figure which is used hereafter. The first theme, a cheerful, tripping dance melody, enters and is developed by strings and wood-wind. The second theme, equally blithe, is in G major, and the impressive initial figure of the full orchestra at the beginning of the movement, now given out by the strings, is in the second phrase. The two motives are worked up alternately. The free fantasia opens quietly. Trombones sound the rhythm of the first theme of the first movement. There is a long series of imitations on the first theme of the finale. This series leads to some horn calls and a cadenza for the flute. The third section of the movement is regular, and there is a brilliant coda.

SYMPHONY NO. 2, IN C MAJOR, OP. 61

I. Sostenuto assai; allegro ma non troppo

II. Scherzo: allegro vivace. Trio (1); Trio (2)

III. Adagio espressivo

IV. Allegro molto vivace

With the exception of the introduction to the first movement and the adagio, in which the romantic dreamer Schumann is revealed, the symphony has aged. And in this symphony, more than the other three, the orchestration seems hopelessly crude, ineffective, distressing to the ear, while the musical contents are seldom worthy of a more tasteful dress.

Yet there are few adagios to be compared with this dramatic song of Schumann. If he had only had the courage to cut out that meaningless and incongruous little episode, too deliberately contrapuntal.

In October, 1844, Schumann left Leipsic, where he had lived for about fourteen years. He had in July given up the editorship of the Neue Zeitschrift; he had been a teacher of pianoforte playing and composition at the Leipsic Conservatory from April, 1843. A singularly reserved man, hardly fitted for the duties of a teacher and without pupils, he was in a highly nervous state, so that a physician recommended a change of scene and told him he should not hear too much music. Schumann therefore moved back to Dresden. “Here,” he wrote in 1844, “one can recover the old lost longing for music, there is so little to hear. This suits my condition, for I still suffer very much from my nerves, and everything affects and exhausts me immediately.” He saw few people; he talked little. In the early ’eighties they still showed in Dresden a restaurant frequented by him, where, seated in a room with his head against a wall, he would sit for hours at a time, dreaming daydreams. In 1846 he was very sick, mentally and bodily. “He observed that he was unable to remember the melodies that occurred to him when he was composing; the effort of invention fatigued his mind to such an extent that it impaired his memory.” When he did work, he applied himself to contrapuntal problems.

The Symphony in C major, known as No. 2, but really the third—for the one in D minor, written first, was withdrawn after performance, remodeled, and finally published as No. 4—was composed in the years 1845 and 1846. The symphony was published, score and parts, in November, 1847. The symphony was first played at the Gewandhaus, Leipsic, under Mendelssohn’s direction, on November 5, 1846.

Schumann wrote from Dresden on April 2, 1849, to Otten, a writer and conductor at Hamburg, who had brought about the performance of the symphony in that city: “I wrote the symphony in December, 1845, when I was still half sick. It seems to me one must hear this in the music. In the finale I first began to feel myself; and indeed I was much better after I had finished the work. Yet, as I have said, it recalls to me a dark period of my life. That, in spite of all, such tones of pain can awaken interest, shows me your sympathetic interest. Everything you say about the work also shows me how thoroughly you know music; and that my melancholy bassoon in the adagio, which I introduced in that spot with especial fondness, has not escaped your notice, gives me the greatest pleasure.” In the same letter he expressed the opinion that Bach’s Passion according to John was a more powerful and poetic work than his Passion according to Matthew.

And yet, when Jean J. H. Verhulst of The Hague (1816-91) visited Schumann in 1845 and asked him what he had written that was new and beautiful, Schumann answered he had just finished a new symphony. Verhulst asked him if he thought he had fully succeeded. Schumann then said, “Yes, indeed, I think it’s a regular Jupiter.”

There is a dominating motive, or motto, which appears more or less prominently in three of the movements. This motto is proclaimed at the very beginning, sostenuto assai, 6-4, by horns, trumpets, alto trombone, pianissimo, against flowing counterpoint in the strings. This motto is heard again in the finale of the following allegro, near the end of the scherzo, and in the concluding section of the finale. (It may also be said here that relationship of the several movements is further founded by a later use of other fragments of the introduction and by the appearance of the theme of the adagio in the finale.) This motto is not developed: its appearance is episodic. It is said by one of Schumann’s biographers that the introduction was composed before the symphony was written, and that it was originally designed for another work. The string figure is soon given to the wood-wind instruments. There is a crescendo of emotion and an acceleration of the pace until a cadenza for the first violins brings in the allegro, ma non troppo, 3-4. The first theme of this allegro is exposed frankly and piano by full orchestra with the exception of trumpets and trombones. The rhythm is nervous, and accentuation gives the idea of constant syncopation. The second theme, if it may be called a theme, is not long in entering. The exposition of this movement, in fact, is uncommonly short. Then follows a long and elaborate development. In the climax the motto is sounded by the trumpets.

The scherzo, allegro vivace, C major, 2-4, has two trios. The scherzo proper consists of first violin figures in sixteenth notes, rather simply accompanied. The first trio, in G major, 2-4, is in marked contrast. The first theme, in lively triplet rhythm, is given chiefly to wood-wind and horns; it alternates with a quieter, flowing phrase for strings. This trio is followed by a return of the scherzo. The second trio, in A minor, 2-4, is calm and melodious. The simple theme is sung at first in full harmony by strings (without double basses) and then developed against a running contrapuntal figure. The scherzo is repeated, and, towards the close, trumpets and horns loudly sound the motto.

The third movement, adagio espressivo, 2-4, is the development of an extended cantilena that begins in C minor and ends in E flat major. Violins first sing it; then the oboe takes it, and the song is more and more passionate in melancholy until it ends in the wood-wind against violin trills. This is followed by a contrapuntal episode, which to some is incongruous in this extremely romantic movement. The melodic development returns, and ends in C major.

The finale, allegro molto vivace, C major, 2-2, opens after two or three measures of prelude with the first theme of vigorous character (full orchestra except trombones). This is lustily developed until it reaches a transitional passage, in which the violins have prominent figures. All this is in rondo form. The second theme is scored for violas, violoncellos, clarinets, and bassoons, while violins accompany with the figures mentioned. This theme recalls the opening song of the adagio. A new theme, formed from development of the recollection, long hinted at, finally appears in the wood-wind and is itself developed into a coda of extraordinary length. Figures from the first theme of the finale are occasionally heard, but the theme itself does not appear in the coda, although there is a reminiscence of a portion of the first theme of the first movement. The motto is sounded by the brass. There is a second exultant climax, in which the introductory motive is of great importance.

SYMPHONY NO. 3, IN E FLAT MAJOR, “RHENISH,” OP. 97

I. Vivace

II. Moderato assai

III. Allegro non troppo

IV. Maestoso

V. Vivace

This music has not the buoyancy and exciting rush of the First symphony, or the romantic spirit of the one in D minor. Nor are there pages equal in sheer beauty to those of the adagio in the Second symphony. One wishes that the first movement was not in so continuously heroic, exultant vein; that there was at least a breathing spell. The second movement expresses a sort of clumsy joviality. The third might be a pretty piano piece that had been orchestrated. The fourth movement, the “cathedral scene,” is the most impressive portion of the symphony. Here we have lofty ideas and a solemn, ecstatical mood befitting a gorgeous ceremony of the holy church.

Schumann’s symphony was intended by him to be a glorification of Rhenish scenes and Rhenish life. It was composed first of all for Düsseldorf, the city where he met with many disappointments, many vexations. He was temperamentally unfitted for the position of city conductor. He did not have a firm control over the players—in a word he was a composer—a man of dreams and visions—not an interpreter of works by others, not even of his own works. It was received coldly when it was first heard. The compositions that followed showed his failing powers. There were intrigues that vexed him. Little by little his mind gave way. There was the attempt at suicide; then madness. But the Schumann of this symphony was still the composer to be reckoned with.