issued complete editions of Schumann's vocal and pianoforte
compositions, as soon as the copyright had expired, shows how
profitable they must be. But during his lifetime it was quite
otherwise, and in a letter to Kossmaly he adduces the following four
reasons for this state of affairs: "(1) inherent difficulties of form
and contents; (2) because, not being a virtuoso, I cannot perform them
in public; (3) because I am the editor of my musical paper, in which I
could not allude to them; (4) because Fink is editor of the other
paper, and would not allude to them." Elsewhere he remarks, concerning
this rival editor: "It is really most contemptible on Fink's part not
to have mentioned a single one of my pianoforte compositions in nine
[seven] years, although they are always of such a character that it is
impossible to overlook them. It is not for my name's sake that I am
annoyed, but because I know what the future course of music is to be."
It was in behalf of this tendency that he toiled on his paper, which
at first barely paid its expenses, having only 500 subscribers several
years after its foundation. And he not only avoided puffing his own
compositions, but even inserted a contribution by his friend Kossmaly
in which he was placed in the second rank of vocal composers! Yet,
though he printed the article, he complains about it in a private
letter: "In your article on the Lied, I was a little grieved that you
placed me in the _second_ class. I do not lay claim to the first, but
I think I have a claim to a place of _my own_, and least of all do I
wish to see myself associated with Reissiger, Curschmann, etc. I know
that my aims, my resources, are far beyond theirs, and I hope you will
concede this and not accuse me of vanity, which is far from me."
Many of the letters in the present collection are concerned with the
affairs of Schumann's paper, the _Neue Zeitschrift für Musik_,
detailing his plans for removing it to a larger city than Leipsic, and
the atrocious red-tape difficulties and delays he was subjected to
when he finally did transfer it to Vienna. Although the paper was
exclusively devoted to music, the _Censur_ apparently took three or
four months to make up its mind whether the state was in danger or not
from the immigration of a new musical periodical. The editor confesses
that he did not find as much sympathy as he had expected in Vienna;
yet the city--as he writes some years later at Düsseldorf--"continues
to attract one, as if the spirits of the departed great masters were
still visible, and as if it were the real musical home of Germany."
"Eating and drinking here are incomparable. You would be delighted
with the Opera. Such singers and such an _ensemble_ we do not have."
"The admirable Opera is a great treat for me, especially the chorus
and orchestra. Of such things we have _no conception_ in Leipsic. The
ballet would also amuse you." "A more encouraging public it would be
difficult to find anywhere; it is really too encouraging--in the
theatre one hears more applause than music. It is very merry, but it
annoys me occasionally." "But I assure you confidentially that long
and alone I should not care to live here; serious men and affairs are
here in little demand and little appreciated. A compensation for this
is found in the beautiful surroundings. Yesterday I was in the
cemetery where Beethoven and Schubert are buried. Just think what I
found on Beethoven's grave: _a pen_, and, what is more, a steel pen.
It was a happy omen for me and I shall preserve it religiously." On
Schubert's grave he found nothing, but in the city he found Schubert's
brother, a poor man with eight children and no possessions but a
number of his brother's manuscripts, including "a few operas, four
great masses, four or five symphonies, and many other things." He
immediately wrote to Breitkopf & Härtel to make arrangements for their
publication.
It is anything but complimentary to the discernment of Viennese
publishers and musicians of that period that, eleven years after
Schubert's death, another composer had to come from Leipsic and give
to the world the works of a colleague who not only had genius of the
purest water, but the gift of giving utterance to his musical ideas in
a clear style, intelligible to the public. Schubert died in 1828, and
in 1842 Schumann could still write to one of his contributors: "It is
time, it seems to me, that some one should write something weighty in
behalf of Schubert; doesn't this tempt you? True, his larger works are
not yet in print. But his vocal and pianoforte compositions suffice
for an approximate portrait. Consider the matter. Do you know his
symphony in C? A delightful composition, somewhat long, but
extraordinarily animated, in character entirely new." To a Belgian
friend who intended to write an article on the new tendencies in
pianoforte music, he wrote: "Of older composers who have influenced
modern music I must name above all Franz Schubert.... Schubert's songs
are well known, but his pianoforte compositions (especially those for
four hands) I rate at least equally high."
Of the numerous criticisms of well-known composers contained in this
correspondence, a few more may be cited. They are mostly favorable in
tone, but concerning the "Prophète" he writes: "The music appears to me
very poor; I cannot find words to express my aversion to it."
"Lortzing's operas meet with success--to me almost incomprehensible."
To Carl Reinecke he writes that he is "no friend of song-transcriptions
(for piano), and of Liszt's some are a real abomination to me." He
commends Reinecke's efforts in this direction because they are free
from pepper and sauce _à la_ Liszt. Nevertheless, those of Liszt's
song-transcriptions in which he did not indulge in too much bravura
ornamentation are models of musical translation, and the collection of
forty-two songs published by Breitkopf & Härtel should be in every
pianist's library. "Of Chopin," he writes in 1836, "I have a new ballad
[G minor]. It seems to me to be his most enchanting (though not most
_genial_) work; I told him, too, that I liked it best of all his
compositions. After a long pause and reflection he said: 'I am glad you
think so, it is also my favorite.' He also played for me a number of
new études, nocturnes, mazurkas--everything in an incomparable style.
It is touching to see him at the piano. You would be very fond of him.
Yet Clara is more of a _virtuoso_, and gives almost more significance
to his compositions than he does himself."
Brendel having sent him some of Palestrina's music, he writes that "it
really sounds sometimes like music of the spheres--and what art at the
same time! I am convinced he is the greatest musical genius Italy has
produced." Nineteen years previous to this he had written from
Brescia: "Were not the Italian language itself a kind of eternal music
(the Count aptly called it a long-drawn-out A-minor chord), I should
not hear anything rational. Of the ardor with which they play, you can
form no more conception than of their slovenliness and lack of
elegance and precision." Handel appears to be mentioned only once in
all of Schumann's correspondence ("I consider 'Israel in Egypt' the
ideal of a choral work"), but Bach is always on his tongue. The
following is one of the profoundest criticisms ever written: "Mozart
and Haydn knew of Bach only a few pages and passages, and the effect
which Bach, if they had known him in all his greatness, would have had
on them, is incalculable. The harmonic depth, the poetic and humorous
qualities of modern music have their source chiefly in Bach:
Mendelssohn, Bennett, Chopin, Hiller, all the so-called Romanticists
(I mean those of the German school) _approximate in their music much
closer to Bach than to Mozart_."
To Wagner there are several references, betraying a most remarkable
struggle between critical honesty and professional jealousy. Thus, in
1845, Schumann writes to Mendelssohn of "Tannhäuser:"
"Wagner has just finished a new opera--no doubt a clever fellow, full
of eccentric notions, and bold beyond measure. The aristocracy is
still in raptures over him on account of his 'Rienzi,' but in reality
he cannot conceive or write four consecutive bars of good or even
correct music. What all these composers lack is the art of writing
pure harmonies and four-part choruses. The music is not a straw better
than that of 'Rienzi,' rather weaker, more artificial! But if I should
write this I should be accused of envy, hence I say it only to you, as
I am aware that you have known all this a long time."
But in another letter to Mendelssohn, written three weeks later, he
recants: "I must take back much of what I wrote regarding
'Tannhäuser,' after reading the score; on the stage the effect is
quite different. I was deeply moved by many parts." And to Heinrich
Dorn he writes, a few weeks after this: "I wish you could see Wagner's
'Tannhäuser.' It contains profound and original ideas, and is a
hundred times better than his previous operas, though some of the
music is trivial. In a word, he may become of great importance to the
stage, and, so far as I know him, he has the requisite courage. The
technical part, the instrumentation, I find excellent, incomparably
more masterly than formerly."
Nevertheless, seven years later still, he once more returns to the
attack, and declares that Wagner's music, "apart from the performance,
is simply amateurish, void of contents, and disagreeable; and it is a
sad proof of corrupt taste that, in the face of the many dramatic
master-works which Germany has produced, some persons have the
presumption to belittle these in favor of Wagner's. Yet enough of
this. The future will pronounce judgment in this matter, too." Poor
Schumann! His own opera, "Genoveva," was a failure, while "Tannhäuser"
and "Lohengrin" were everywhere received with enthusiasm. This was a
quarter of a century ago; and the future _has_ judged, "Tannhäuser"
and "Lohengrin" being now the most popular of all works in the
operatic repertory.
What caused the failure of Schumann's only opera was not a lack of
dramatic genius, but of theatrical instinct. He believed that in
"Genoveva" "every bar is thoroughly dramatic;" and so it is, as might
have been expected of the composer of such an intensely emotional and
passionate song as "Ich grolle nicht" and many others. But Schubert,
too, could write such thrilling five-minute dramas as the "Erlking"
and the "Doppelgänger," without being able to compose a successful
opera. Like Schumann, he could not paint _al fresco_, could not
command that bolder and broader sweep which is required of an operatic
composer. It is characteristic of Schumann that he did not write an
opera till late in life, whereas born operatic composers have commonly
begun their career with their specialty. Indeed, it was only ten years
before he composed his opera that Schumann wrote to a friend: "You
ought to write more for the voice. Or are you, perhaps, like myself,
who have all my life placed vocal music below instrumental, and never
considered it a great art? But don't speak to anyone about this."
Oddly enough, less than a year after this he writes to another friend:
"At present I write only vocal pieces.... I can hardly tell you what a
delight it is to write for the voice as compared with instruments, and
how it throbs and rages within me when I am at work. Entirely new
things have been revealed to me, and I am thinking of writing an
opera, which, however, will not be possible until I have entirely
freed myself from editorial work."
Like other vocal composers, Schumann suffered much from the lack of
suitable texts. In one letter he suggests that Lenau might perhaps be
induced to write a few poems for composers, to be printed in "The
Zeitschrift:" "the composers are thirsting for texts." In several
other letters we become familiar with some of his plans which were
never executed, owing, apparently, to the shortcomings of the
librettists. One of these was R. Pohl, who in all earnestness sent
Schumann a serious text in which the moon was introduced as one of the
vocalists! Schumann mildly remonstrated that "to conceive of the moon
as a person, especially as singing, would be too risky." So the
project of "Ritter Mond" was abandoned, and it is to be regretted that
Schumann did not reject his "Genoveva" libretto, which was largely
responsible for the failure of the opera.
One project of Schumann's is mentioned which it is to be very much
regretted he never carried out. "I am at present [1840] preparing an
essay on Shakspere's relations to music, his utterances and views, the
manner in which he introduces music in his dramas, etc., etc.--an
exceedingly fertile and attractive theme, the execution of which
would, it is true, require some time, as I should have to read the
whole of Shakspere's works for this purpose." His object was to send
this to Jena as a dissertation for a Doctor's degree, with which he
hoped to soften the heart of the obdurate Wieck, who opposed his
marriage with Clara, and at the same time to make an impression on the
public. Schumann had had painful experience of the fact that for
genius itself there is little recognition in Germany unless it has a
handle to its name--a "von" or a "Herr Doctor." Clara, however, loved
him for his genius, and for the impassioned pieces and songs he wrote
to express his admiration of her and of woman in general; and, like
other German men of genius, he had his reward--after death. "No tone
poet," says Naumann, "has been more enthusiastic in the praise of
woman than Robert Schumann; he was a second Frauenlob. This was
acknowledged by the maidens of Bonn, who, at his interment, filled the
cemetery, and crowned his tomb with innumerable garlands."
IV
MUSIC AND MORALS
Although music in the complex harmonic form known to us is only a few
centuries old, simple rhythmic melodies were sung, or played on
various instruments, by all the ancient civilized nations, and are
sung or played to-day by African and Australian savages who have never
come into contact with civilization. And what is more, the remarkable
influence which music has in arousing human emotions has been
appreciated at all times.
Tourists relate that in some of the inland countries of Africa,
scarcely any work is done by the natives except to the sound of music;
and Cruikshank, speaking of the coast negroes, says it is laughable to
observe the effect of their rude music on all classes, old and young,
men, women, and children. "However employed, whether passing quietly
through the street, carrying water from the pond, or assisting in some
grave procession, no sooner do they hear the rapid beats of a distant
drum, than they begin to caper and dance spontaneously. The bricklayer
will throw down his trowel for a minute, the carpenter leave his
bench, the corn grinder her milling stone, and the porter his load, to
keep time to the inspiriting sound."
Dr. Tschudi, in his fascinating work on Peru, describes two of the
musical instruments used by the Indians, and their emotional function.
One is the Pututo, "a large conch on which they perform mournful
music, as the accompaniment of their funeral dances." The other is
called Jaina, and is a rude kind of clarionet made from a reed. "Its
tone," says Tschudi, "is indescribable in its melancholy, and it
produces an extraordinary impression on the natives. If a group of
Indians are rioting and drinking, or engaged in furious conflicts with
each other, and the sound of the Jaina is suddenly heard, the tumult
ceases, as if by a stroke of magic. A dead stillness prevails, and all
listen devoutly to the magic tones of the simple reed; tones which
frequently draw tears from the eyes of the apathetic Indians."
If the untutored primitive man can be thus overpowered by the charm of
such simple music, we can hardly wonder at the extravagant power
ascribed to this art by the ancient civilized nations. The fairy tale
of Orpheus, who tamed wild animals and moved rocks and trees with his
singing and playing, and the story of the dolphin that was attracted
by Arion's song and carried him safely across the sea, are quite as
significant as if they were true stories, for they show that the
Greeks were so deeply moved by music that they could readily imagine
it to have a similar effect on animals, and even on inanimate objects.
Almost three thousand years ago, Homer represented Achilles as
"comforting his heart with the sound of the lyre," after losing his
sweet Briseis; "stimulating his courage and singing the deeds of the
heroes." And, as Emil Naumann fancies, there is a moral underlying the
myth of the siren; "for, as Homer elsewhere suggests, noble and manly
music invigorates the spirit, strengthens wavering man, and incites
him to great and worthy deeds, whereas false and sensuous music
excites and confuses, robs man of his self-control, till his passions
overcome him as the waves overwhelmed the bewitched sailor who
listened to the voice of the charmer."
At a later period in Greek history, the philosophers, including Plato
and Aristotle, continued to attribute to music power so great, that we
can only understand them if we bear in mind that with the Greeks the
word music was a comprehensive term for all the arts presided over by
the Muses, and that, even when music in our sense is alluded to by
them, the reference is at the same time to the poetry which was almost
always associated with music, and made its meaning and expression more
definite. Thus, we can realize how Terpander could, by the power of
his song, reconcile the political factions in Sparta, and how Plato
could write, in the "Republic," that "any musical innovation is full
of danger to the state and ought to be prevented." He looked upon
music as a tonic which does for the mind what gymnastics do for the
body; and taught that only such music ought to be tolerated by the
state as had a moral purpose, while enervating forms should be
suppressed by the law makers.
Yet, after making due allowance for the fact that the word music was
used in this comprehensive sense, enough remains to show that the
power of music proper, the power of rhythmic melody, was profoundly
appreciated by the Greeks. If they had not felt how greatly music
intensifies and quickens the emotions, they would not have wedded all
their poetry to it, nor have resorted to it on all solemn and festive
occasions; nor would the Pythagoreans have found anyone willing to
believe in their doctrine that music has power to control the
passions. "They firmly believed," says Naumann, "that sweet harmony
and flowing melody alone were capable of restoring the even balance of
the disturbed mind, and of renewing its harmonious relations with the
world. Playing on the lyre, therefore, formed part of the daily
exercises of the disciples of the renowned philosopher, and none dared
seek his nightly couch without having first refreshed his soul at the
fount of music, nor return to the duties of the day without having
braced his energies with jubilant strains. Pythagoras is said to have
recommended the use of special melodies as antidotal to special
passions, and indeed, it is related of him that on a certain occasion
he, by a solemn air, brought back to reason a youth who, maddened by
love and jealousy, was about setting fire to the house of his
mistress."
Similar marvellous powers were ascribed to music by the other nations.
The Chinese have an old saying that "Music has the power to make
Heaven descend upon earth." This art was constantly kept under rigid
supervision by the government, and 354 years before Christ, one of the
Emperors issued a special edict against weak, effeminate music; to
which, therefore, a demoralizing influence was obviously attributed.
The Japanese, we read, likewise "revere music and connect it with
their idol worship," and in olden times it seems to have had even a
political function, for it is said that "formerly an ambassador, in
addressing a foreign court to which he was accredited, did not speak,
but sang his mission." The Hindoos, again, attributed supernatural
power to music. Some melodies had the power, as they believed, to
bring down rain, others to move men and animals, as well as lifeless
objects. The fact that they traced the origin of music to the gods
shows in what esteem they held it; and their quaint story of the
16,000 nymphs and shepherdesses, each of whom invented a new key and
melody in her emulous eagerness to move the heart and win the love of
the handsome young god Krishna, shows that the amorous power of music
was already understood in those days.
Once more, the exalted notions which the ancient Hebrews had of the
dignity and importance of music, is indicated by the fact that,
according to Josephus, the treasures of Solomon's Temple (which was
also a great school of music) included 40,000 harps and psalteries of
pure copper, and 200,000 silver trumpets. In the schools of the
prophets, musical practice was an essential item. During the period of
captivity the Israelites at first gave way to despondency, exclaiming,
"How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" "But by and by
they would take down their harps again from the willow bows and seek
solace for the sorrows of the long exile in recalling the loved melody
of their native land, and the sacred psalmody of their desolated
temple" (McClintock and Strong). There was hardly an occasion arising
above the commonplace events of everyday life, when the ancient
Hebrews did not resort to music. Trumpets were used at the royal
proclamations and at the dedication of the Temple. There were doleful
chants for funeral processions; joyous melodies for bridal
processions and banquets; stirring martial strains to incite courage
in battle and to celebrate victories, religious songs, and domestic
music for private recreation and pleasure; and even "the grape
gatherers sang as they gathered in the vintage, and the wine-presses
were trodden with the shout of a song; the women sang as they toiled
at the mill, and on every occasion the land of the Hebrews, during
their national prosperity, was a land of music and melody." And
finally, the therapeutic value of music and its power to stimulate the
creative faculties were recognized. The prophets composed their songs
and uttered their prophecies to the sound of musical instruments, and
David drove out the evil spirit from Saul, as we read in the Bible:
"And it came to pass when the spirit from God was upon Saul, that
David took a harp and played with his hands. So Saul was refreshed,
and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him."
The preceding facts sufficiently illustrate the effects of music on
the emotions and morals of ancient and primitive nations. Now, within
the Christian era music has made enormous strides in its evolution as
an art, and it seems therefore reasonable to infer that its emotional
and moral power has also increased. Yet, strange to say, a tendency
has manifested itself of late, in many quarters, to flatly deny the
emotional and moral potency of music. The late Richard Grant White,
for instance, in a series of articles on the Influence of Music, in
"The Atlantic Monthly," comes to the conclusion that "a fine
appreciation of even the noblest music is not an indication of mental
elevation, or of moral purity, or of delicacy of feeling, or even
(except in music) of refinement of taste." "The greatest, keenest
pleasure of my life," he adds, "is one that may be shared equally with
me by a dunce, a vulgarian, or a villain;" and he ends by asserting,
dogmatically, that a taste for music has no more to do with our minds
or morals than with our complexions or stature. Dr. Hanslick, the
eminent critic and professor of musical history in the University of
Vienna, goes even farther. "There can be no doubt," he says, "that
music had a much more direct effect on the ancient nations than it has
on us." To-day, "the feelings of the layman are affected most, those
of an educated artist least, by music." "The moral influence of tones
increases in proportion as the culture of mind and character
decreases. The smaller the resistance offered by culture, the more
does this power strike home. It is well known that _it is on savages
that music exerts its greatest influence_."