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
realize 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 color 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 color 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 Rilckert. 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
favor 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 afterward, sang it in the lower
key to his friend, who remarked: "Really, that _Lied_ is not so bad; who
composed it?"