The great masters of the last century tried their hands in the domain
of song with only comparative success, partly because they did not
fully realise the nature of this form of art, partly because they
could not limit the sweep of the creative power within such narrow
limits. Schubert was a revelation to his countrymen in his musical
treatment of subjective passion, in his instinctive command over
condensed, epigrammatic expression. This rich and gifted life, however
quiet in its exterior facts, was great in its creative and spiritual
manifestation. Born at Vienna of humble parents, January 31, 1797, the
early life of Franz Schubert was commonplace in the extreme, the most
interesting feature being the extraordinary development of his genius.
At the age of fourteen he had made himself a master of counterpoint
and harmony, and composed a large mass of chamber-music and works for
the piano. His poverty was such that he was oftentimes unable to
obtain the music-paper with which to fasten the immortal thoughts that
thronged through his brain. It was two years later that his special
creative function found exercise in the production of the two great
songs, the "Erl-King" and the "Serenade," the former of which proved
the source of most of the fame and money emolument he enjoyed during
life. It is hardly needful to speak of the power and beauty of this
composition, the weird sweetness of its melodies, the dramatic
contrasts, the wealth of colour and shading in its varying phrases,
the subtilty of the accompaniment, which elaborates the spirit of the
song itself. The piece was composed in less than an hour. One of
Schubert's intimates tells us that he left him reading Goethe's great
poem for the first time. He instantly conceived and arranged the
melody, and when the friend returned after a short absence Schubert
was rapidly noting the music from his head on paper. When the song was
finished he rushed to the Stadtconvict school, his only _alma mater_,
and sang it to the scholars. The music-master, Rucziszka, was
overwhelmed with rapture and astonishment, and embraced the young
composer in a transport of joy. When this immortal music was first
sung to Goethe, the great poet said, "Had music, instead of words,
been my instrument of thought, it is so I would have framed the
legend."
The "Serenade" is another example of the swiftness of Schubert's
artistic imagination. He and a lot of jolly boon-companions sat one
Sunday afternoon in an obscure Viennese tavern, known as the Biersack.
The surroundings were anything but conducive to poetic fancies--dirty
tables, floor, and ceiling, the clatter of mugs and dishes, the loud
dissonance of the beery German roisterers, the squalling of children,
and all the sights and noises characteristic of the beer-cellar. One
of our composer's companions had a volume of poems, which Schubert
looked at in a lazy way, laughing and drinking the while. Singling out
some verses, he said, "I have a pretty melody in my head for these
lines, if I could only get a piece of ruled paper." Some staves were
drawn on the back of a bill-of-fare, and here, amid all the confusion
and riot, the divine melody of the "Serenade" was born, a tone-poem
which embodies the most delicate dream of passion and tenderness that
the heart of man ever conceived.
Both these compositions were eccentric and at odds with the old canons
of song, fancied with a grace, warmth, and variety of colour hitherto
characteristic only of the more pretentious forms of music, which had
already been brought to a great degree of perfection. They inaugurate
the genesis of the new school of musical lyrics, the golden wedding of
the union of poetry with music.
For a long time the young composer was unsuccessful in his attempts to
break through the barren and irritating drudgery of a schoolmaster's
life. At last a wealthy young dilettante, Franz von Schober, who had
become an admirer of Schubert's songs, persuaded his mother to offer
him a fixed home in her house. The latter gratefully accepted the
overture of friendship, and thence became a daily guest at Schober's
house. He made at this time a number of strong friendships with
obscure poets, whose names only live through the music of the composer
set to verses furnished by them; for Schubert, in his affluence of
creative power, merely needed the slightest excuse for his genius to
flow forth. But, while he wrote nothing that was not beautiful, his
masterpieces are based only on themes furnished by the lyrics of such
poets as Goethe, Heine, and Rückert. It is related, in connection with
his friendship with Mayrhofer, one of his rhyming associates of these
days, that he would set the verses to music much faster than the other
could compose them.
The songs of the obscure Schubert were gradually finding their way to
favour among the exclusive circles of Viennese aristocracy. A
celebrated singer of the opera, Vogl, though then far advanced in
years, was much sought after for the drawing-room concerts so popular
in Vienna, on account of the beauty of his art. Vogl was a warm
admirer of Schubert's genius, and devoted himself assiduously to the
task of interpreting it--a friendly office of no little value. Had it
not been for this, our composer would have sunk to his early grave
probably without even the small share of reputation and monetary
return actually vouchsafed to him. The strange, dreamy unconsciousness
of Schubert is very well illustrated in a story told by Vogl after his
friend's death. One day Schubert left a new song at the singer's
apartments, which, being too high, was transposed. Vogl, a fortnight
afterwards, sang it in the lower key to his friend, who remarked:
"Really, that _Lied_ is not bad; who composed it?"