assured; but we must pause in our story to recount the means by which,
apart from the initiative taken in the matter by his faithful friends,
Schubert's recognition at the hands of the public was brought about.
On March 7, 1821, the 'Erl King' was sung by Johann Vogl, a famous
opera singer in Vienna at that time, at a public concert held under
royal patronage. The song was received with storms of applause, and
from this point the public demand for Schubert's writings commenced.
The attention of Vogl, whose intellectual gifts are said to have
outshone even his vocal attainments, had been drawn to Schubert's
songs some five years before the event just mentioned. Franz Schober,
who knew him well as a visitor at his father's house, had pressed the
singer to accompany him to his lodgings in order to be introduced to
Schubert, and Vogl had smilingly acquiesced. Schober's praises of his
newfound friend had sounded so often in Vogl's ears that the request
could not be refused. Schober was certain that the great man would be
enchanted with Schubert's writings, at which the actor-singer had only
smiled once more; he deemed it to be merely youthful enthusiasm
influenced by personal affection. On reaching the lodgings in the
Landkrongasse they had found Schubert hard at work as usual, and the
floor as well as the table strewn with sheets of music-paper. Vogl,
whose society was courted by all ranks, at once made himself at home,
and did his best by a few gay sallies to put the composer at his ease.
In this, however, he was quite unsuccessful. The fact that there was a
difference of twenty years between their respective ages, when added
to the singer's popularity, may have partly accounted for the failure;
at any rate, Schubert was overwhelmed by confusion, and had nothing to
say in his own behalf. Vogl thereupon took up several of the songs,
humming them to himself as he went along, and Schober, watching him
intently, saw his interest deepen, until at length, despite his great
experience as a singer, he was evidently impressed by what he read.
When he left he shook Schubert's hand warmly, and said: 'There is
stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead of making
the most of them.'
[Illustration: '_They found Schubert hard at work._']
Nevertheless, Schober was right; Vogl had been deeply impressed, and
the visit marked the beginning of a close friendship. Schubert soon
learned to appreciate Vogl's sincerity and advice, and as time went on
the latter's visits became more and more frequent, until the picture
might often have been seen of Vogl singing Schubert's latest songs to
the latter's accompaniment. To the completeness of this union Schubert
himself testifies in a letter to his brother Ferdinand: 'When Vogl
sings and I accompany him we seem for the moment to be one.' Vogl, for
his part, afterwards wrote of Schubert's songs that they were 'truly
Divine inspirations, utterances of a musical _clairvoyance!_' and he
emphasised the fact, which had not hitherto been appreciated, that
'the finest poems of our greatest poets may be enhanced and even
transcended when translated into musical language'--an important
testimony to the great service which Schubert was rendering to vocal
music.
The five years which had elapsed since the friendship with Vogl began
had been passed in the production, as we have seen, of an immense mass
of compositions covering almost every branch of the art; but as none
of these works had so far produced any money it is obvious that, for
the first two years after leaving his father's house, Schubert must
have been dependent upon the hospitality of his friends. His residence
with Schober lasted only six months, at the end of which time
Schober's brother came to reside with him, and Schubert had to give up
his room. Teaching was entirely distasteful to him, as we know; yet we
can well understand that the pressure of circumstances alone may have
compelled him to accept, in the summer of 1818, an engagement as
music-teacher in the family of Count Johann Esterhazy. The terms of
this engagement were that he should spend the summer months with the
family at their seat at Zelész, in Hungary, returning with them to
Vienna for the winter. How difficult it must have been for Schubert to
sever himself, even for a time, from the circle of which he was the
life and centre, in order to enter a family belonging to those ranks
with which he avowedly had nothing in common, may be imagined. Within
his own circle he was adored--nay, worshipped--by one and all. The
life, too, was so entirely free and unrestrained; the members
addressed each other by nicknames. Schubert had several pet names,
amongst them the 'Tyrant,' from his affectionate persecution of young
Hüttenbrenner, who in return lavished upon him the affection of a
slave for his idol. They were all boisterous, merry, life-loving
spirits, venting their feelings in howls, repartees, sham-fights, and
mock-concerts--there is even a story of their 'performing' the 'Erl
King,' with Schubert himself accompanying them on a tooth-comb! The
change from this unconventional life to the aristocratic surroundings
of Zelész was therefore immense; yet Schubert was not unhappy. The
family were musical, the comforts were undeniable, and the duties not
so heavy as to preclude his enjoying a considerable amount of leisure
for composition.
At Zelész he heard for the first time many of the national Hungarian
melodies sung or played by the gypsies, or by the servants at the
castle, and their beauty seems to have been impressed upon his memory
by the beautiful country in which he took his rambles. Later on he was
to give these airs an artistic setting in the shape of his 'First
Waltzes.' Of one of his pieces--the 'Divertissement à la
hongroise'--it is told that returning late one afternoon from a walk,
he lingered beside the open window of the kitchen, in order to listen
to the air which was being sung by the kitchen-maid within as she
leaned against the fireplace. He wrote frequent letters to his
friends--his home circle--whom he addresses as his 'dearest, fondest
friends, Spaun, Schober, Mayrhofer, and Senn--you who are everything
to me.' He entreats them to write soon: 'Every syllable of yours is
dear to me.' Nobody is overlooked or forgotten, for his messages
include 'all possible acquaintances.' As for himself, he speaks of his
happiness and good health, and tells them that he 'is composing like a
god.' As regards his duties, he describes himself as 'composer,
manager, audience, everything in one.' 'No one here,' he says in
another letter, 'cares for true art, unless it be now and then the
Countess, so I am left alone with my beloved, and have to hide her in
my room, or my piano, or my own breast. If this often makes me sad, on
the other hand it often elevates me all the more. Several songs have
lately come into existence, and I hope very successful ones.' Of his
relations with the family he says: 'The Count is a little rough; the
Countess proud, but not without heart; the young ladies good children.
I need not tell you, who know me so well, that with my natural
frankness I am good friends with everybody.'
A letter[24] of this time, written to his brother Ferdinand, affords a
pleasing insight into his frank, loving nature, as well as an instance
of his fondness for his old home. Ferdinand had sent him a Requiem of
his own composing to look over.
_August 24, 1818._
'DEAR BROTHER FERDINAND,
'It is half-past eleven at night, and your Requiem is ready. It
has made me sorrowful, as you may believe, for I sang it with
all my heart. What is wanting you can fill in, and put the
words under the music and the signs above. And if you want much
rehearsal you must do it yourself, without asking me in Zelész.
Things are not going well with you; I wish you could change
with me, so that for once you might be happy. You should find
all your heavy burdens gone, dear brother; I heartily wish it
could be so. My foot is asleep, and I am mad with it. If the
fool could only write it wouldn't go to sleep!
'Good morning, my boy, I have been asleep with my foot, and now
go on with my letter at eight o'clock on the 25th. I have one
request to make in answer to yours. Give my love to my dear
parents, brothers, sisters, friends, and acquaintances,
especially not forgetting Carl.[25] Didn't he mention me in his
letter? As for my friends in the town, bully them, or get some
one to bully them well, till they write to me. Tell my
mother[26] that my linen is well looked after, and that I am
well off, thanks to her motherly care. [After asking for some
articles of clothing, for which he will send the money very
soon, he proceeds.] For July, with the journey-money, I got 200
florins [about £8].... Though I am so well and happy, and every
one so good to me, yet I shall be immensely glad when the
moment arrives for going to Vienna. Beloved Vienna, all that is
dear and valuable to me is there, and nothing but the actual
sight of it will stop my longing! Again entreating you to
attend to all my requests, I remain, with much love to all,
your true and sincere.
'FRANZ MPIA.'
The story of Schubert's life, from the time when by the powerful aid
of his friend Vogl the musical public of Vienna were awakened to the
fact that a composer of rare quality was working in their midst
unknown, unfolds itself to us as a record of continuous struggle,
relieved by occasional success. It is true that as he became better
known the appreciation of his works spread far beyond the confines of
his native city; at the same time it must be remembered that his
poverty was extreme. As yet his works had brought him little or
nothing; add to this his native bashfulness, together with the fact
that his marvellous productive powers were animated by no desire to
push himself where, as a composer, he had every right to be; that he
was always retiring, and always modestly undervaluing everything he
produced; that even when he had finished a fine composition it was
often put aside in some receptacle and forgotten; that, in a word, he
wrote, not for the public eye, not for praise, but simply and solely
because he was impelled by the spirit within him. When we consider all
this it need not surprise us to learn that Schubert's progress in a
worldly sense was slow and halting. Again, his physical strength was
by no means adapted to bear the immense strain which this continuous
labour involved; and when we learn that his mode of living was most
irregular (when he was not staying with friends he would be living
from hand to mouth in poor lodgings by himself), and that his
sensitive overstrung nature was denied the nourishment which it so
sorely needed--a result due in part to his distresses, but partly also
to his improvidence--we can form a tolerably clear picture of the
manner in which his days were passed.
Yet if his distresses and anxieties were so many dense clouds shutting
out, for months together, the sunshine and warmth from his life, that
life itself, taken as a whole, was by no means destitute of
happiness. The musical temperament is one which cannot be cast down
for long; let the cloud-rift be ever so small, it suffices to let in a
flood of sunshine to such a nature as that which Schubert possessed.
But how much happier might his life have been if, in the absence of
the ability to manage his own affairs to better advantage, some one
had been at hand to take this responsibility off his shoulders. Alas!
not one of his friends seems to have assumed this important part,
notwithstanding the affection they professed for him. Left to himself,
no sooner had his songs attained a marketable value than, pressed by
hunger and the other necessaries of life, he consented to part with
the copyright of the first twelve of his published songs--including in
this number the 'Erl King' and the 'Wanderer'--for the sum of eight
hundred silver gulden (equal to eighty pounds sterling), and this in
face of the fact that more than eight hundred copies of the 'Erl King'
had already been sold![27]
Of his improvidence there is much that could be told; his inherent
good nature was never proof against imposition, and he gave away as
freely as he earned. Moreover, he was regarded by a certain set of his
friends as a Croesus, or, rather, as a never-failing coiner of
money, and two of these so-called friends were not ashamed to live
openly upon his easy-going, careless ways, under the pretence of
sharing the expenses of a joint lodging. The partnership, if such it
could be called where one was called upon to find the money, extended
even to articles of clothing--boots, hats, coats, cravats, etc., being
regarded as common property--whilst if one of the trio found himself
unable to pay his reckoning, it fell to the lot of the 'man of wealth'
to discharge his obligation. Needless to say, this friendly office was
cheerfully filled by Schubert for either or both of his companions.
Great was the jubilation when the composer brought back the news that
he had sold a piece of music. For the time being he was regarded by
the others as literally swimming in money, and expected to spend right
and left so long as it lasted, and then they would all go short until
the next piece of luck came along. One day, when the trio were in very
low water, Schubert and one of the others met at a small coffee-house
and surprised each other in the act of ordering coffee and biscuits,
because neither could summon from his pockets the requisite
amount--namely, eightpence halfpenny--wherewith to pay for a dinner!
But no amount of distress could check his capacity for work. Save
during the hours of sleep, his pen would seem never to have been idle;
even whilst talking to a friend who was waiting to take him for a
walk, he was jotting down at great speed one of his most beautiful
dramatic ballads, the 'Zwerg.' Another friend, Carl Umlauff, has
related how he used to go to Schubert's lodgings in the mornings, and
find him lying in bed jotting down musical ideas; at other times he
would be out of bed, clad in his dressing-gown, composing at his
standing-desk. Writing would go on till two o'clock. 'When I have done
one piece I begin the next,' was his own way of describing the
continuity of his work, and it is known that a single morning produced
no fewer than six songs. The afternoon would be devoted to
music-making at the house of a friend, or to a walk in the suburbs,
whilst the evening would be divided between a pipe at the Gasthaus
with his companions, and a visit to the theatre or the house of a
musical friend. The hours reserved for sleep were constantly being
curtailed by the encroachments of nightly pleasures, and yet he was
always ready to seize his pen and begin work directly he was awake.
The story even goes that he slept in his spectacles in order to save
the trouble and time of putting them on in the morning!
His omnivorous appetite for setting to music every poem which struck
his fancy--whether it were suited for the purpose of a song, or, what
is far more important, in any way worthy of the setting which he
proposed to give to it--was one of Schubert's most marked
characteristics. Another was the rapidity with which, having once
grasped the sense of the words, he translated them into music, and
such music, let it be remembered, as was destined in many cases to
live for ever. Like the 'Erl King,' the beautiful song the 'Wanderer'
was composed in the space of a few hours; again, with respect to the
strikingly beautiful collection of songs known as the 'Schöne
Müllerin,' the poems were lighted upon quite by accident. Schubert was
visiting a friend, and when the latter was called away he picked up a
volume of Müller's poems which was lying upon the table; he grew
interested in them, the friend delayed his return, and finally
Schubert put the book in his pocket and went home. The next morning,
when the friend called to apologise for his detention and to inquire
for the missing volume, he found that Schubert had already set several
of the poems to music. What Schumann the composer wrote of Schubert
was true: 'Everything that he touched he turned into music.' One day
in the month of July, 1826, he was returning with his friends from a
Sunday walk through the village of Währing, and, passing by a
beer-garden, he espied an acquaintance seated at one of the tables. On
joining him Schubert found he was reading a volume of Shakespeare; he
seized the book, and began turning over the pages, and then, drawing
his friends' attention to the line, 'Hark, hark, the lark,' he
exclaimed: 'Such a lovely melody has come into my head, if I had but
some music-paper!' One of his companions seized a bill-of-fare, and on
the back of it scribbled a few staves, and then, upon the spot, 'amid
the hubbub of the beer-garden, that beautiful song, so perfectly
fitting the words, so skilful and so happy in its accompaniment, came
into perfect existence.' Later on in the evening of the same day he
added to this creation two more songs from Shakespeare--the
drinking-song from 'Antony and Cleopatra,' and the well-known 'Who is
Sylvia?' In the instances just given Schubert's choice could not have
been more happily made; but this does not render it less difficult for
us to understand why in so many cases he should have elected to
immortalise by his music poems devoid of merit both in feeling and
expression.
We have seen something of Schubert's veneration for Beethoven as a
grand personality, even before the latter's music had begun to take
hold of him. At first there is no doubt that the music of Mozart had
the greatest fascination for him; there is evidence of this in
Schubert's early instrumental works, and in the following passage from
his diary, penned after he had heard one of Mozart's quintets played
in 1816: 'Gently, as if out of the distance, did the magic tones of
Mozart's music strike my ears. With what inconceivable, alternate
force and tenderness did Schlesinger's masterly playing impress it
deep, deep into my heart! Such lovely impressions remain on the soul,
there to work for good, past all power of time or circumstance. In the
darkness of this life they reveal a clear, bright, beautiful prospect,
inspiring confidence and hope. O Mozart, immortal Mozart! what
countless consolatory images of a bright better world hast thou
stamped on our souls,' Beethoven was a great personality then, but as
time went on the influence of his music grew ever stronger. So far,
however, Schubert had been content to worship his hero at a distance,
for which purpose he would haunt the restaurant at which Beethoven
usually dined. But in 1822 he published a set of Variations on a
French Air, which he dedicated to Beethoven 'as his admirer and
worshipper,' and his longing to present these in person to the
composer was so great as to overcome his natural timidity.
Accordingly, accompanied by the publisher, Diabelli, he called at
Beethoven's house; they found the composer at home, and a courteous
but somewhat formal welcome was accorded them. This in itself was bad
enough for poor Schubert, whose courage straightway forsook him; but
when Beethoven proceeded to hand to him the bundle of paper and the
carpenter's pencil which, owing to his deafness, he kept in readiness
for his visitors, Schubert's shyness prevented him writing a single
word. The production of the Variations afforded a welcome relief to
his confusion, and as Beethoven was in an uncommonly good humour the
dedication pleased him very much. The effect of the diversion,
however, was only momentary, for Beethoven, looking through the
composition, lighted upon something to which he took exception, and
forthwith proceeded to point it out to his visitor. This was the last
straw, and Schubert, losing his presence of mind altogether, fled from
the room. On reaching the street his courage returned, and too late he
thought of all that he might have said. Let us complete the anecdote
by relating that Schubert derived some consolation from the knowledge
that Beethoven not only retained the Variations, but was very pleased
with them, and often played them over with his nephew.
[Illustration: '_Schubert fled from the room._']
It was not until five years after this event that Beethoven realised
how great a singer had been uttering his sweet notes within the span
of the city in which he lived, and then the master lay upon his
death-bed. Into his hands had been placed a collection of Schubert's
songs, some sixty in all, and as he turned them over his attention was
arrested by their beauty, and he uttered frequent expressions of
surprise and delight. But even greater was his astonishment when he
learned that there were more than five hundred of such songs extant.
'How can he have found time,' he asked, 'for the setting of such long
poems, many of them containing ten others?' (by which he meant to
convey that they were as long as ten ordinary poems). For several
days the collection occupied his attention. 'Ah, if I had had this
poem I would have set it myself!' he would exclaim. 'Truly, Schubert
has the Divine fire in him!' He made frequent references to Schubert,
expressing his regret that he had not sooner known him for the
composer he was, and prophesying a great future for him in the world
of music. Schubert himself longed to pay his respects to the master he
revered so highly, and one day, in company with his friends Anselm
Hüttenbrenner and Schindler (both of whom were well known to
Beethoven), he presented himself at the door of the sick man's
chamber. Schindler informed Beethoven of their arrival, and asked who
he would like to see first. 'Schubert may come in first,' was the
reply. Before they left, Beethoven, regarding them with a smile, said:
'You, Anselm, have my mind, but Franz has my soul.' When for the
second time Schubert found his way to the bedside of the master death
was very near, and though as they stood around the bed he made signs
to them with his hand to show that he recognised their presence, he
could not speak, and, overcome with emotion, Schubert quitted the
room.
A little more than three weeks after the second visit Schubert was
walking as one of the torch-bearers beside the coffin of his loved
master, as the latter was borne to his last resting-place in the
Währinger cemetery. On the way back Schubert and his friends passed
through the Himmelpfortgrund, close to the old home, and, entering a
tavern, called for wine. Schubert, having filled his glass, raised it
aloft: 'I drink,' said he, 'to the memory of Beethoven.' Then once
more filling the glass, he drained it to the first of the three
friends then present, who was destined to follow the master to his
grave.
Little did Schubert dream that he was emptying his glass to his own
memory! Nor in the eyes of his friends would there seem to have been
anything in his appearance at that moment which could be taken as
foreshadowing the early closing of that eager, active life. Gazing at
him then, as he sat drinking his grim toast, the picture presented to
his companions was that of a short, stout, thick-set man of about
thirty, with a head of thick, black hair, disposed in crisp curls,
bushy eyebrows, and a pair of bright black eyes which beamed through
his spectacles. The face was round with full cheeks, the complexion
pasty, the nose short and insignificant, the lips full and protruding,
the jaw broad and strong; the hands, like the rest of the body, were
plump, and the fingers thick and short. There was nothing striking
about his general expression; but when the conversation turned upon
music, and especially if Beethoven were the topic of discussion, his
eyes would brighten at once, and the whole face light up with
animation.
As he sat in the dingy parlour of the little tavern, beaming upon his
friends, whilst the minds of all three were rapt by the solemn event
which they had just witnessed, the proximity of death within that
circle was not contemplated. Yet the story of his life shows us that
the period which had elapsed between the date of his presenting his
Variations to Beethoven and that of his first visit to the composer on
his death-bed had been full of anxieties and bitter disappointments;
and there is no doubt that the continuous struggle for existence,
coupled with the strain of unceasing work, had only too surely
undermined a constitution which could never have been robust.
One of Schubert's greatest longings was to write for the stage. The
longing was evident almost at the first, and it grew with his strength
and the consciousness of his powers as a composer. As the finger of
fame beckoned him forward it had directed his steps to the theatre as
the goal of his aspirations, and it was upon the attainment of this
object that he lavished all the later powers of his genius--only,
alas! to reap the bitter fruit of disappointment. One after another of
his operas was rejected, even, as in the case of 'Fierabras,' when at
the very point of production--the reasons assigned in each case being
either the unsuitableness of the libretto or the difficulties
presented by the music, and the door which he hoped to enter was
closed against him during his lifetime. The score of 'Fierabras'
comprised no fewer than one thousand pages, and the mournful state
into which he was thrown by its rejection may be gathered by an
extract from a letter penned just after the fate of the opera had been
sealed. He refers to himself as 'the most unfortunate, most miserable
being on earth,' and proceeds: 'Think of a man whose health can never
be restored, and who from sheer despair makes matters worse instead of
better. Think, I say, of a man whose brightest hopes have come to
nothing, to whom love and friendship are but torture, and whose
enthusiasm for the beautiful is fast vanishing, and ask yourself if
such a man is not truly unhappy.
'My peace is gone, my heart is sore,
Gone for ever and evermore.