MODERN MELODISTS.SCHUMANN.[199]Robert Schumannwas the true successor of Schubert. The impassioned admirer of him whom he designated as “the Prince of Melody,” Schumann, though not equalling his inimitable predecessor, succeeded nevertheless in winning for himself a lofty place among the masters of lyric music.We say that Schumann has not equalled Schubert; but it must not thence be concluded that he is necessarily inferior to his rival each time that he treats an analogous subject. Schumann has perhaps rendered all the shades of human love with as much truth and depth as Schubert, but scarcely ever has he reached the dramatic power of “The Erl King” and “The Young Nun”; never has he found the brilliant coloring and light which shines out in “The Mariner,” “The Departure,” and “The Stars.” Thus Schumann’sHidalgois evidently the same cavalier as he of Schubert’s “Departure.” In Schubert he quits his German Fatherland and hurries forth to seek new pleasures. Schumann takes him into Spain: “Mine be fresh flow’rets rare,” he cries, “the hearts of ladies fair, and mine the combat fierce.” Alas!Quantum mutatus!The beauties of Spain bring small inspiration, and Schumann’s bolero resembles the joyous song of Schubert just as much as a military band of Madrid resembles an orchestra of Vienna.In the same way, in dramatic situations, Schumann is not always well inspired. Instead of being simple, his thought is vulgar (as in “The Hostile Brothers” and “The Two Grenadiers”), or else, in larger works, his search for the dramatic accent gives a strained expression to his style and a wearisome obscurity to his intention. This, however, is not always the case. Who does not know the admirable “Funeral March” of his Quintette, assuredly the most beautiful of his symphonic works, and excelling all themusique de chambreof Schubert?The overture toManfredhas many sombre beauties; but instead of following these lugubrious accents by a plaint more melodious, more human, and less infernal—instead of letting in a little light to make his “darkness” yet more “visible”—Schumann only quits the shadows to precipitate himself into utter blackness, and horror succeeds alarm.We find, however, the true note of dramatic inspiration in theLied“J’ai pardonné,” with its cry of love betrayed and of terrible malediction.“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]The effect is all the more striking because absolutely new: an harmonicsequence of incredible boldness, resolving itself into fresh discords more audacious still, and, hovering above, a simple phrase of song, which falls cold and solemn, like a malediction from on high!Towards the middle the discords resolve themselves regularly; and before resuming the original idea, before returning to the expressions of anguish uttered by the first harmonies, Schumann allows us, through eight bars, a breathing-time, on a very simple phrase which he keeps in the proximate keys to the primitive. If, with regard to the overture toManfred, Schumann is to be reproached with having allowed so little light to find entrance among its shadows, he has, at any rate in this case, had the good sense to submit to the necessary laws of contrast, and thus gains much by allowing us to breathe a few moments, that we may realize more fully the depth of despair to which he is about to drag us down. He returns to the first phrase, and we hear again the chords which have already so deeply moved us; still the melodic phrase enlarges and mounts upward, while the discords take a new development. After this tempest of the soul we reach the haven, the key returns to ut on the wordsJ’ai pardonne(“I have pardoned”), and Schumann leaves us filled with admiration, not unmixed with horror.Strange eccentricity of the human genius! In this sublimeLied, perhaps the most powerful page which Schumann has written, we can discover the germ of those defects which too often mar his more extended works, and begin to understand why Schumann has fallen into the obscurities we just now named. What is, in fact, the especial characteristic of this wonderfulmelody? Despair; but despair under tortuous and exaggerated forms.If only Schumann would have been content to paint the sufferings of the heart, all might have gone well; but no, he exhausts himself in attempting also to render the tortures of the mind, the anxious doubting of Manfred, the absolute negation incarnate in Faust. Now, if the torments of the heart furnish one of the most powerful elements of the drama (Orestes,Œdipus, andPhædrusprove this truth), there is absolutely nothing artistic whatever in mental torments, philosophic doubt, and scepticism. The true artist, by his very nature, must believe and love.If against this assertion Goethe, Byron, and Alfred de Musset are quoted—three great poets, with whom Schumann has some analogy—we would say: All three were poets, not because, but in spite, of doubt; and, what is truer still, they are poets when they cease to doubt, or when they struggle against it. Even Alfred de Musset was no sceptic when he exclaimed in his immortal “August Night” (Nuit d’Août):“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]Alas! Schumann also knew the evil of our time. Was it not doubt which made him lose his way in the search after some impossible and anti-artistic ideal? Was it not doubt which, by day and night, tortured his sick soul and urged him on to commit suicide? Doubt, in his impassioned mind, engendered madness; need we, after this, wonderthat his artistic ideas were confused, his tone unhealthy, and that his music oftener makes us think of death than life, darkness than light? But when Schumann succeeds in tearing himself from the fatal embrace of scepticism, his musical inspirations take sublime flights. When he sang of love he was truly great, because he believed in love.While Schubert was content to throw off, one by one, without apparent connection, his admirableLieder,[202]Schumann gathered all the shades of tenderness into a marvellous unity—as, for instance, in the “Loves of a Poet” and “Woman’s Love,” in which we are made to traverse all its phases.Before saying any more about these two important works, we would name several detachedLiederof singular gracefulness: “Désir,” or “Chanson du Matin” (A Morning Song), and “O ma Fiancée.” Nor must we forget a reverie, “Au Loin” (Far Away), on which is the impress of an infinite sadness. We seem in it to be listening, at the dead of night, to the lament of an exile weeping at the thought of his country and all whom he loves. It reminds us of a Daniel singing, on the banks of the Euphrates, the divine plaint of captivity:Super flumina Babylonis, illic sedimus et flevimus.The “Loves of a Poet” open with a series of little melodies full of poesy—a little nosegay of fragrant flowers which the poet offers to his beloved. It is when, alas! he has been betrayed by the faithless one that he sings his sublime song “J’ai pardonné”—a pardon which is, nevertheless, worse than a malediction.If only the “Loves of a Poet” ended with this admirable melody, the work would be complete; and the effect marvellous. But no; Henri Heine, the author of the poem, prolonged in an inexplicable fashion the situation, henceforth without interest, and the betrayed poet comes back to tell us that he is—unfortunate! Did we not know it already? He repeats this stale bit of informationninetimes over consecutively, innine“Lieder,” and underninedifferent forms!—a literary impossibility which inevitably reminds us of the despair of the Cid, persistently offering his head to Chimenes.At the fourth reapparition Heine seems at last to begin to suspect that the plaintive tone is wearisome; but he finds nothing better, by way of a change, than to throw his hero into the humoristic style—we had almost said the grotesque. Our readers shall judge:“A man loves a woman,Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”Already we have a trio of lovers. We continue:“But he who reigns in this heartFancies another, inhisturn.”Here, then, is an interesting quarternion of people who cannot contrive to come to an understanding with one another; but we are not at the end. Enter another individual—Number 5.“The fair one, in revenge,Makes choice of an unknown.”And now, place for the last lover,Whose “hand and heart alikeWill be for the first comer.”A jurisconsult would simplyhave told us:PrimusamatSecundam, quæTertium, quiQuartam, quæQuintum, qui Sextam … (cætera desiderantur)—which, at any rate, would have had the merit of clearness; and, on remarking immediately that thespeciescontained three feminine terminations and three masculine, he would have celebrated three marriages.Even the genius of Goethe, which imagined theElective affinities, would never have sufficed to create theseRepulsive affinities. But the one most to be pitied is the unfortunate Schumann, who had condemned himself to set thistheory of Elective Repulsionsto music. In his place one would have preferred, like Rameau, to seek one’s inspirations fron theGazette de Hollande.Henri Heine, after thistour de force, has nothing left but to kill his poet; and he kills him accordingly. After a few more insipidities which fill the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenthLieder, the poet will order his coffin—“Of wood encircled with iron,Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,Longer than the bridge of TrevesOr that of Frankfort,” etc.The last feature might have been touching, if it had been better managed. “Know you,” asks the poet, “what makes my coffin so heavy?“It is that it contains my joy,My sorrow, and my love.”The music of Schumann is affected by the feebleness of the poem. The melodies which follow “J’ai pardonné” are inferior to the preceding ones. It is only towards the end that the musician escapes from the material hindrances of the subject; the air gains in freedom, the harmonies in richness; the poorpoet recovers some of his first accents when he sings: “It is that it contains my joy, my sorrow, and my love.”“A Woman’s Love.” Here is a little poem far superior to the preceding. The author is Adalbert de Chamisso, well known for hisWonderful History of Peter Schlemihl. This time poet and musician identify themselves with each other marvellously, and Schumann lives and breathes in every verse of the poet.In the first song the young girl owns her love:“Have I, then, had a dream?But him I see!* * * * *What makes me tremble thus,And takes my sleep from me,And makes my heart beat fast?—Yes; it is he!”Throughout this melody one is conscious of a deep and inward happiness, which is not without a pleasing touch of melancholy.In that which next follows the young girl sings her beloved. The rhythm is lofty, the melody brilliant. There are, however, in thisLiedparts which are not equal to the preceding, and which are wanting in naturalness. But listen; she is loved:“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!Me has he chosen among all;And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”The enthusiasm which fills this melody makes it comparable to the deepest melodies of Schubert. What we feel peculiar in it to Schumann is a feverish tone, a shade of delirium, if we may say so, which we might seek for in yain in Schubert. The ternary rhythm, especially when the measure is rapid, is singularly suitable to impassioned movements. A chord, detached not too strongly falls upon the first beat of eachbar; the hurrying melody stops upon the wordAh, on a concord of the seventh, very simple, but of a pleasing effect after the regular ascent of the bass. Then it continues, rapid and fevered, and the first phrase closes in C, on the words: “And thou, my heart, believ’st not.”Then, more slowly, the maiden caresses her precious memories:“His mouth has said to me:I love thee.”The melody softens, the phrase is more free and becomes freshly animated on the words, “A dream bewilders me,” then bursts out powerfully when the young girl exclaims:“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,Then may I wake no more.”This phrase, by its lofty accent and a certain lyric transport, pleasantly recalls certain movements of Gluck’s.When, in a low voice, the maiden resumes, “Why tremble thus,” etc., we might think the melody terminated. But the artist has kept us a few last notes, breathed from the depths of his soul. After an eager repetition of the words, “Me has he chosen among all, and thou, my heart, believ’st it not,” she once more utters them, very slowly and very softly, in a melodic phrase full of tenderness and supplication. She is more calm; her heart belies her mouth, and she believes.The fourth and fifthLiederare two songs of an affianced maiden. The young girl at first sings to herself of her betrothed, and the sentiment of the music is inward, tranquil, and deep; but on quitting her father’s roof to meet her husband thefiancéesings to her sisters, witha youthful pride and gladness, “If I am fair, I owe it only to my happiness,” and the melody breaks into a song of exceeding beauty.A wife, she murmurs soon into her husband’s ear, “I hope,” and in the followingLiedwe see her as a mother. She presses her little one to her heart, and a melody of exquisite sweetness expresses the words:“Fresh brightness and new loveIn a cradle are revealed.”Alas! the eighthLiedrecalls us to sorrow, the great reality of life. “O bitter woe! my best-beloved beneath the wing of death is sleeping; forlorn, I shrink within myself, and solace my sad heart with weeping.” Then the veil falls.“Again I see thee, happiness gone byOf former days.”So ends the poem. But if the part of the poet is finished when he has made this sorrowful appeal to the past, there is nothing to enchain the inspiration of the musician. From the depth of his grief, at the foot of this coffin, the poet has just evoked the memories of happiness for ever fled. The musician will give a voice to that soul which is called music—O marvellous power! Words would be misplaced; harmonies are more discreet, more silent. There is nothing outward here; it is the soul, contemplating the past, to which music lends its poignant reality.We cannot quit Schumann without a few words on the wife he so loved, and who has shown herself worthy of his love by a steadfast devotion to the memory of her husband, so long and so unjustly unappreciated. The author of anumber of remarkableLieder,Mme.Clara Schumann deserves a place among the most distinguished representatives of the melodic style. Her place should be elsewhere, among living composers, but we could not separate her even in thought from the husband to whom, in death, she proves so faithful.We have read with exceeding pleasure a little collection ofLieder, of which the idea is touching. The husband and wife contributed each their flowers (of melody) to the garland they have woven. We even doubt whether the best page of this collection is not a melody byMme.Schumann, entitled “Love for Love.”If we were asked, What is the style ofMme.Schumann? we should answer, That of Robert Schumann. Can we wonder at it? They loved each other so much that their souls must gradually have come to bear a mutual resemblance, and they would have but one inspiration, as they had but one love.Schubert and Schumann are the two composers of the past who occupy the first rank in the melodic style; they have in common that theLiedhas been carried by them to its highest expression, and that in return they owe to it their most lasting renown.In a complete work we should have now to inquire what the different great composers have been at the time when they were drawn by their inspirations on melodic ground. Without entering into disquisitions which would here be out of place, we ought nevertheless, from the fear of being too incomplete, bring forward certainLiederwhich, however small a place they may claim among the works of the masters of whom we are about tospeak, none the less reveal an illustrious origin. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven have written a tolerably large number of melodies, very little known until twenty years ago, when an intelligent editor had the happy idea of collecting in one volume forty of these melodies, chosen from the most beautiful.[203]It needs no long examination to show that Haydn and Beethoven, always inspired, but above all symphonists, generally take some large phrase which one would suppose borrowed from one of their symphonies. Thus Haydn’s “Love Song” reminds us of those fine themes with which his andantes open; and in the same manner Beethoven, who, by exception, has found in his charming “Adelaide” the true form of the melody, surprisingly recalls, in the canzonetta, “In questa tomba,” the admirable adagio of the grand Sonata Appassionnata in F minor.Mozart, who was more of a melodist[204]than these two masters, has composed realLieder, in which, at times, we seem to have a presentiment of Schubert. Thus, “The Cradle Song” might very suitably bear the signature of the author of “The Young Mother.” Elsewhere, on the contrary, in “L’Amour Malheureux” and “Loin de toi,” we find the style and the dramatic accent of the author ofDon JuanandThe Magic Flute.TheLiederof Weber and Mendelssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz and Richard Wagner, will not detain us longer. These illustrious masters have cultivated theLiedwith too little zeal to have wonfrom it any lasting fame. Even Meyerbeer would gain nothing by our dwelling on this subject in regard to him. He has a certain “Monk” upon his conscience, of which the less we say the better. On the other hand, other artists, greatly inferior to those just named, have given in their melodic compositions the full measure of their talent. We may quote, as examples, Niedermeyer, an accomplished musician, whose “Lake” has obtained a great and deserved success; Monpou, the author of “Castibelza,” whose merit must not be confounded with that of such contemporaries as Abbadie, Arnaud, and Loïsa Puget.In Italy Rossini and Donizetti have left melodies to which they have given the singular name ofSoirées. Our readers will recallRossini’s “Mira la bianca luna,” which has a real charm, but which reminds one rather of the author of the “Gazza ladra” than of the inspired singer of “William Tell.”In the “Abbandonata” Donizetti reaches a truth of expression of which, unfortunately, he has not been too lavish. In listening to those prettinesses, written chiefly to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and which, in the hands of writers like Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their compeers, have been lowered to the level of the most vulgar vocalization, we find ourselves regretting the old masters of the Italian school—Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello, Durante, whose melodies are incontestably more youthful and fresh than the romances of the modern Italian composers.[199]See“Les Mélodistes,”by M. Arthur Coquard inLe Contemporainfor Nov. 1, 1872.[200]“In dreams I have seen thy soul; I have seen the night in which she hides her woe; I have seen remorse to thy footsteps chained, and thy springtime doomed to tears.”[201]“Weep not, my Muse; oh! weep no more. God stays with him who loses all beside—God on high, and hope below!”[202]We hope that in a former notice we have shown that there is an artistic connection between them. (SeeThe Catholic Worldfor February, 1877.)[203]Quarante Mélodies de Beethoven, Mozart, et Haydn, chez Flaxland.[204]We saymelodist, and notmelodic. One may be a musician of the first order without being a great melodist. Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other respects, is a poor melodist; but will any one say that he is not melodic?
SCHUMANN.[199]
Robert Schumannwas the true successor of Schubert. The impassioned admirer of him whom he designated as “the Prince of Melody,” Schumann, though not equalling his inimitable predecessor, succeeded nevertheless in winning for himself a lofty place among the masters of lyric music.
We say that Schumann has not equalled Schubert; but it must not thence be concluded that he is necessarily inferior to his rival each time that he treats an analogous subject. Schumann has perhaps rendered all the shades of human love with as much truth and depth as Schubert, but scarcely ever has he reached the dramatic power of “The Erl King” and “The Young Nun”; never has he found the brilliant coloring and light which shines out in “The Mariner,” “The Departure,” and “The Stars.” Thus Schumann’sHidalgois evidently the same cavalier as he of Schubert’s “Departure.” In Schubert he quits his German Fatherland and hurries forth to seek new pleasures. Schumann takes him into Spain: “Mine be fresh flow’rets rare,” he cries, “the hearts of ladies fair, and mine the combat fierce.” Alas!Quantum mutatus!The beauties of Spain bring small inspiration, and Schumann’s bolero resembles the joyous song of Schubert just as much as a military band of Madrid resembles an orchestra of Vienna.In the same way, in dramatic situations, Schumann is not always well inspired. Instead of being simple, his thought is vulgar (as in “The Hostile Brothers” and “The Two Grenadiers”), or else, in larger works, his search for the dramatic accent gives a strained expression to his style and a wearisome obscurity to his intention. This, however, is not always the case. Who does not know the admirable “Funeral March” of his Quintette, assuredly the most beautiful of his symphonic works, and excelling all themusique de chambreof Schubert?
The overture toManfredhas many sombre beauties; but instead of following these lugubrious accents by a plaint more melodious, more human, and less infernal—instead of letting in a little light to make his “darkness” yet more “visible”—Schumann only quits the shadows to precipitate himself into utter blackness, and horror succeeds alarm.
We find, however, the true note of dramatic inspiration in theLied“J’ai pardonné,” with its cry of love betrayed and of terrible malediction.
“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]
“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]
“J’ai vu ton âme en songe,
J’ai vu la nuit où sa douleur la plonge,
Et le remords à tes pas enchainé.
Et ton printemps aux larmes destiné.”[200]
The effect is all the more striking because absolutely new: an harmonicsequence of incredible boldness, resolving itself into fresh discords more audacious still, and, hovering above, a simple phrase of song, which falls cold and solemn, like a malediction from on high!
Towards the middle the discords resolve themselves regularly; and before resuming the original idea, before returning to the expressions of anguish uttered by the first harmonies, Schumann allows us, through eight bars, a breathing-time, on a very simple phrase which he keeps in the proximate keys to the primitive. If, with regard to the overture toManfred, Schumann is to be reproached with having allowed so little light to find entrance among its shadows, he has, at any rate in this case, had the good sense to submit to the necessary laws of contrast, and thus gains much by allowing us to breathe a few moments, that we may realize more fully the depth of despair to which he is about to drag us down. He returns to the first phrase, and we hear again the chords which have already so deeply moved us; still the melodic phrase enlarges and mounts upward, while the discords take a new development. After this tempest of the soul we reach the haven, the key returns to ut on the wordsJ’ai pardonne(“I have pardoned”), and Schumann leaves us filled with admiration, not unmixed with horror.
Strange eccentricity of the human genius! In this sublimeLied, perhaps the most powerful page which Schumann has written, we can discover the germ of those defects which too often mar his more extended works, and begin to understand why Schumann has fallen into the obscurities we just now named. What is, in fact, the especial characteristic of this wonderfulmelody? Despair; but despair under tortuous and exaggerated forms.
If only Schumann would have been content to paint the sufferings of the heart, all might have gone well; but no, he exhausts himself in attempting also to render the tortures of the mind, the anxious doubting of Manfred, the absolute negation incarnate in Faust. Now, if the torments of the heart furnish one of the most powerful elements of the drama (Orestes,Œdipus, andPhædrusprove this truth), there is absolutely nothing artistic whatever in mental torments, philosophic doubt, and scepticism. The true artist, by his very nature, must believe and love.
If against this assertion Goethe, Byron, and Alfred de Musset are quoted—three great poets, with whom Schumann has some analogy—we would say: All three were poets, not because, but in spite, of doubt; and, what is truer still, they are poets when they cease to doubt, or when they struggle against it. Even Alfred de Musset was no sceptic when he exclaimed in his immortal “August Night” (Nuit d’Août):
“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]
“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]
“O ma muse, ne pleurez pas;
A qui perd tout, Dieu reste encore.
Dieu là-haut, l’espoir ici-bas!”[201]
Alas! Schumann also knew the evil of our time. Was it not doubt which made him lose his way in the search after some impossible and anti-artistic ideal? Was it not doubt which, by day and night, tortured his sick soul and urged him on to commit suicide? Doubt, in his impassioned mind, engendered madness; need we, after this, wonderthat his artistic ideas were confused, his tone unhealthy, and that his music oftener makes us think of death than life, darkness than light? But when Schumann succeeds in tearing himself from the fatal embrace of scepticism, his musical inspirations take sublime flights. When he sang of love he was truly great, because he believed in love.
While Schubert was content to throw off, one by one, without apparent connection, his admirableLieder,[202]Schumann gathered all the shades of tenderness into a marvellous unity—as, for instance, in the “Loves of a Poet” and “Woman’s Love,” in which we are made to traverse all its phases.
Before saying any more about these two important works, we would name several detachedLiederof singular gracefulness: “Désir,” or “Chanson du Matin” (A Morning Song), and “O ma Fiancée.” Nor must we forget a reverie, “Au Loin” (Far Away), on which is the impress of an infinite sadness. We seem in it to be listening, at the dead of night, to the lament of an exile weeping at the thought of his country and all whom he loves. It reminds us of a Daniel singing, on the banks of the Euphrates, the divine plaint of captivity:Super flumina Babylonis, illic sedimus et flevimus.
The “Loves of a Poet” open with a series of little melodies full of poesy—a little nosegay of fragrant flowers which the poet offers to his beloved. It is when, alas! he has been betrayed by the faithless one that he sings his sublime song “J’ai pardonné”—a pardon which is, nevertheless, worse than a malediction.
If only the “Loves of a Poet” ended with this admirable melody, the work would be complete; and the effect marvellous. But no; Henri Heine, the author of the poem, prolonged in an inexplicable fashion the situation, henceforth without interest, and the betrayed poet comes back to tell us that he is—unfortunate! Did we not know it already? He repeats this stale bit of informationninetimes over consecutively, innine“Lieder,” and underninedifferent forms!—a literary impossibility which inevitably reminds us of the despair of the Cid, persistently offering his head to Chimenes.
At the fourth reapparition Heine seems at last to begin to suspect that the plaintive tone is wearisome; but he finds nothing better, by way of a change, than to throw his hero into the humoristic style—we had almost said the grotesque. Our readers shall judge:
“A man loves a woman,Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”
“A man loves a woman,Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”
“A man loves a woman,
Of whom one, more fortunate, has the love.”
Already we have a trio of lovers. We continue:
“But he who reigns in this heartFancies another, inhisturn.”
“But he who reigns in this heartFancies another, inhisturn.”
“But he who reigns in this heart
Fancies another, inhisturn.”
Here, then, is an interesting quarternion of people who cannot contrive to come to an understanding with one another; but we are not at the end. Enter another individual—Number 5.
“The fair one, in revenge,Makes choice of an unknown.”
“The fair one, in revenge,Makes choice of an unknown.”
“The fair one, in revenge,
Makes choice of an unknown.”
And now, place for the last lover,
Whose “hand and heart alikeWill be for the first comer.”
Whose “hand and heart alikeWill be for the first comer.”
Whose “hand and heart alike
Will be for the first comer.”
A jurisconsult would simplyhave told us:PrimusamatSecundam, quæTertium, quiQuartam, quæQuintum, qui Sextam … (cætera desiderantur)—which, at any rate, would have had the merit of clearness; and, on remarking immediately that thespeciescontained three feminine terminations and three masculine, he would have celebrated three marriages.
Even the genius of Goethe, which imagined theElective affinities, would never have sufficed to create theseRepulsive affinities. But the one most to be pitied is the unfortunate Schumann, who had condemned himself to set thistheory of Elective Repulsionsto music. In his place one would have preferred, like Rameau, to seek one’s inspirations fron theGazette de Hollande.
Henri Heine, after thistour de force, has nothing left but to kill his poet; and he kills him accordingly. After a few more insipidities which fill the twelfth, thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenthLieder, the poet will order his coffin—
“Of wood encircled with iron,Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,Longer than the bridge of TrevesOr that of Frankfort,” etc.
“Of wood encircled with iron,Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,Longer than the bridge of TrevesOr that of Frankfort,” etc.
“Of wood encircled with iron,
Bigger than the tun of Heidelberg,
Longer than the bridge of Treves
Or that of Frankfort,” etc.
The last feature might have been touching, if it had been better managed. “Know you,” asks the poet, “what makes my coffin so heavy?
“It is that it contains my joy,My sorrow, and my love.”
“It is that it contains my joy,My sorrow, and my love.”
“It is that it contains my joy,
My sorrow, and my love.”
The music of Schumann is affected by the feebleness of the poem. The melodies which follow “J’ai pardonné” are inferior to the preceding ones. It is only towards the end that the musician escapes from the material hindrances of the subject; the air gains in freedom, the harmonies in richness; the poorpoet recovers some of his first accents when he sings: “It is that it contains my joy, my sorrow, and my love.”
“A Woman’s Love.” Here is a little poem far superior to the preceding. The author is Adalbert de Chamisso, well known for hisWonderful History of Peter Schlemihl. This time poet and musician identify themselves with each other marvellously, and Schumann lives and breathes in every verse of the poet.
In the first song the young girl owns her love:
“Have I, then, had a dream?But him I see!* * * * *What makes me tremble thus,And takes my sleep from me,And makes my heart beat fast?—Yes; it is he!”
“Have I, then, had a dream?But him I see!* * * * *What makes me tremble thus,And takes my sleep from me,And makes my heart beat fast?—Yes; it is he!”
“Have I, then, had a dream?
But him I see!
* * * * *
What makes me tremble thus,
And takes my sleep from me,
And makes my heart beat fast?
—Yes; it is he!”
Throughout this melody one is conscious of a deep and inward happiness, which is not without a pleasing touch of melancholy.
In that which next follows the young girl sings her beloved. The rhythm is lofty, the melody brilliant. There are, however, in thisLiedparts which are not equal to the preceding, and which are wanting in naturalness. But listen; she is loved:
“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!Me has he chosen among all;And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”
“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!Me has he chosen among all;And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”
“Why tremble thus? why doubt, my heart?
Thou beatest nigh to breaking. Ah!
Me has he chosen among all;
And thou, my heart, believ’st it not!”
The enthusiasm which fills this melody makes it comparable to the deepest melodies of Schubert. What we feel peculiar in it to Schumann is a feverish tone, a shade of delirium, if we may say so, which we might seek for in yain in Schubert. The ternary rhythm, especially when the measure is rapid, is singularly suitable to impassioned movements. A chord, detached not too strongly falls upon the first beat of eachbar; the hurrying melody stops upon the wordAh, on a concord of the seventh, very simple, but of a pleasing effect after the regular ascent of the bass. Then it continues, rapid and fevered, and the first phrase closes in C, on the words: “And thou, my heart, believ’st not.”
Then, more slowly, the maiden caresses her precious memories:
“His mouth has said to me:I love thee.”
“His mouth has said to me:I love thee.”
“His mouth has said to me:
I love thee.”
The melody softens, the phrase is more free and becomes freshly animated on the words, “A dream bewilders me,” then bursts out powerfully when the young girl exclaims:
“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,Then may I wake no more.”
“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,Then may I wake no more.”
“O Heaven! if this is but a dream,
Then may I wake no more.”
This phrase, by its lofty accent and a certain lyric transport, pleasantly recalls certain movements of Gluck’s.
When, in a low voice, the maiden resumes, “Why tremble thus,” etc., we might think the melody terminated. But the artist has kept us a few last notes, breathed from the depths of his soul. After an eager repetition of the words, “Me has he chosen among all, and thou, my heart, believ’st it not,” she once more utters them, very slowly and very softly, in a melodic phrase full of tenderness and supplication. She is more calm; her heart belies her mouth, and she believes.
The fourth and fifthLiederare two songs of an affianced maiden. The young girl at first sings to herself of her betrothed, and the sentiment of the music is inward, tranquil, and deep; but on quitting her father’s roof to meet her husband thefiancéesings to her sisters, witha youthful pride and gladness, “If I am fair, I owe it only to my happiness,” and the melody breaks into a song of exceeding beauty.
A wife, she murmurs soon into her husband’s ear, “I hope,” and in the followingLiedwe see her as a mother. She presses her little one to her heart, and a melody of exquisite sweetness expresses the words:
“Fresh brightness and new loveIn a cradle are revealed.”
“Fresh brightness and new loveIn a cradle are revealed.”
“Fresh brightness and new love
In a cradle are revealed.”
Alas! the eighthLiedrecalls us to sorrow, the great reality of life. “O bitter woe! my best-beloved beneath the wing of death is sleeping; forlorn, I shrink within myself, and solace my sad heart with weeping.” Then the veil falls.
“Again I see thee, happiness gone byOf former days.”
“Again I see thee, happiness gone byOf former days.”
“Again I see thee, happiness gone by
Of former days.”
So ends the poem. But if the part of the poet is finished when he has made this sorrowful appeal to the past, there is nothing to enchain the inspiration of the musician. From the depth of his grief, at the foot of this coffin, the poet has just evoked the memories of happiness for ever fled. The musician will give a voice to that soul which is called music—O marvellous power! Words would be misplaced; harmonies are more discreet, more silent. There is nothing outward here; it is the soul, contemplating the past, to which music lends its poignant reality.
We cannot quit Schumann without a few words on the wife he so loved, and who has shown herself worthy of his love by a steadfast devotion to the memory of her husband, so long and so unjustly unappreciated. The author of anumber of remarkableLieder,Mme.Clara Schumann deserves a place among the most distinguished representatives of the melodic style. Her place should be elsewhere, among living composers, but we could not separate her even in thought from the husband to whom, in death, she proves so faithful.
We have read with exceeding pleasure a little collection ofLieder, of which the idea is touching. The husband and wife contributed each their flowers (of melody) to the garland they have woven. We even doubt whether the best page of this collection is not a melody byMme.Schumann, entitled “Love for Love.”
If we were asked, What is the style ofMme.Schumann? we should answer, That of Robert Schumann. Can we wonder at it? They loved each other so much that their souls must gradually have come to bear a mutual resemblance, and they would have but one inspiration, as they had but one love.
Schubert and Schumann are the two composers of the past who occupy the first rank in the melodic style; they have in common that theLiedhas been carried by them to its highest expression, and that in return they owe to it their most lasting renown.
In a complete work we should have now to inquire what the different great composers have been at the time when they were drawn by their inspirations on melodic ground. Without entering into disquisitions which would here be out of place, we ought nevertheless, from the fear of being too incomplete, bring forward certainLiederwhich, however small a place they may claim among the works of the masters of whom we are about tospeak, none the less reveal an illustrious origin. Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven have written a tolerably large number of melodies, very little known until twenty years ago, when an intelligent editor had the happy idea of collecting in one volume forty of these melodies, chosen from the most beautiful.[203]It needs no long examination to show that Haydn and Beethoven, always inspired, but above all symphonists, generally take some large phrase which one would suppose borrowed from one of their symphonies. Thus Haydn’s “Love Song” reminds us of those fine themes with which his andantes open; and in the same manner Beethoven, who, by exception, has found in his charming “Adelaide” the true form of the melody, surprisingly recalls, in the canzonetta, “In questa tomba,” the admirable adagio of the grand Sonata Appassionnata in F minor.
Mozart, who was more of a melodist[204]than these two masters, has composed realLieder, in which, at times, we seem to have a presentiment of Schubert. Thus, “The Cradle Song” might very suitably bear the signature of the author of “The Young Mother.” Elsewhere, on the contrary, in “L’Amour Malheureux” and “Loin de toi,” we find the style and the dramatic accent of the author ofDon JuanandThe Magic Flute.
TheLiederof Weber and Mendelssohn, of Meyerbeer, of Berlioz and Richard Wagner, will not detain us longer. These illustrious masters have cultivated theLiedwith too little zeal to have wonfrom it any lasting fame. Even Meyerbeer would gain nothing by our dwelling on this subject in regard to him. He has a certain “Monk” upon his conscience, of which the less we say the better. On the other hand, other artists, greatly inferior to those just named, have given in their melodic compositions the full measure of their talent. We may quote, as examples, Niedermeyer, an accomplished musician, whose “Lake” has obtained a great and deserved success; Monpou, the author of “Castibelza,” whose merit must not be confounded with that of such contemporaries as Abbadie, Arnaud, and Loïsa Puget.
In Italy Rossini and Donizetti have left melodies to which they have given the singular name ofSoirées. Our readers will recallRossini’s “Mira la bianca luna,” which has a real charm, but which reminds one rather of the author of the “Gazza ladra” than of the inspired singer of “William Tell.”
In the “Abbandonata” Donizetti reaches a truth of expression of which, unfortunately, he has not been too lavish. In listening to those prettinesses, written chiefly to obtain pleasing vocal effects, and which, in the hands of writers like Bordogni, Gordigiani, and their compeers, have been lowered to the level of the most vulgar vocalization, we find ourselves regretting the old masters of the Italian school—Scarlatti, Lotti, Marcello, Durante, whose melodies are incontestably more youthful and fresh than the romances of the modern Italian composers.
[199]See“Les Mélodistes,”by M. Arthur Coquard inLe Contemporainfor Nov. 1, 1872.
[200]“In dreams I have seen thy soul; I have seen the night in which she hides her woe; I have seen remorse to thy footsteps chained, and thy springtime doomed to tears.”
[201]“Weep not, my Muse; oh! weep no more. God stays with him who loses all beside—God on high, and hope below!”
[202]We hope that in a former notice we have shown that there is an artistic connection between them. (SeeThe Catholic Worldfor February, 1877.)
[203]Quarante Mélodies de Beethoven, Mozart, et Haydn, chez Flaxland.
[204]We saymelodist, and notmelodic. One may be a musician of the first order without being a great melodist. Thus Meyerbeer, so great in other respects, is a poor melodist; but will any one say that he is not melodic?