"Music has here entombed a rich treasure, but much fairer hopes."
XFELIX MENDELSSOHN-BARTHOLDY
Mendelssohn has often been named "Felix the Happy," and he truly deserved the title. Blest with a most cheerful disposition, with the power to make friends of every one he met, and wherever he went, the son of a rich banker, surrounded with everything that wealth could give, it was indeed no wonder that Felix Mendelssohn was happy. He did not have to struggle with poverty and privation as most of the other great musicians were forced to do. Their music was often the expression of struggle and sorrow. He had none of these things to bear; he was carefree and happy, and his music reflects the joyous contentment of his life.
The Mendelssohn family originally lived in Hamburg. Their house faced one of the fine squares of the city, with a handsome church on the opposite side. The building is still there and well preserved, although the principal story is used as public dining rooms. A large tablet has been placed above the doorway, with a likeness of the composer encircled by a wreath of laurel. Here little Felix was born, February 3, 1809. There were other children, Fanny a year or two older, then after Felix came Rebekka and little Paul. When French soldiers occupied the town in 1811, life became very unpleasant for the German residents, and whoever could, sought refuge in other cities and towns. Among those who successfully made their escape was the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy family, the second name belonged to the family and was used to distinguish their own from other branches of the Mendelssohn family. With his wife and children, Abraham Mendelssohn fled to Berlin, and made his home for some years with the grandmother, who had a house on the Neue Promenade, a fine broad street, with houses only on one side, the opposite side descended in a grassy slope to the canal, which flowed lazily by.
It was a happy life the children led, amid ideal surroundings. Felix very early showed a great fondness for music, and everything was done to foster his budding talent. With his sister Fanny, to whom he was devotedly attached, he began to have short music lessons from his mother when he was only four years old. Their progress was so satisfactory, that after a while, professional musicians were engaged to teach them piano, violin and composition, as a regular part of their education. Besides these, they must study Greek, Latin, drawing and school subjects. With so much study to be done each day, it was necessary to begin work at five o'clock in the morning. But in spite of hard work all were happy, and as for Felix nothing could dampen the flow of his high spirits; he enjoyed equally work and play, giving the same earnest attention to each. Both he and Fanny were beginning to compose, and Felix's attempts at improvising upon some comical incident in their play time would call forth peals of laughter from the inseparable children.
Soon more ambitious attempts at composition were made, the aim being to write little operas. But unless they could be performed, it was useless to try and make operas. This was a serious difficulty; but Felix was deeply in earnest in whatever he undertook, and decided he must have an orchestra to try out his operatic efforts. It looked like an impossibility, but love and money can accomplish wonders. A small orchestra was duly selected from among the members of the Court band. The lad Felix was to conduct these sedate musicians, which he did modestly but without embarrassment, standing on a footstool before his men, waving the baton like a little general. Before the first performance was quite ready, Felix felt there must be some one present who could really judge of the merits of his little piece. Who would do so better than his old professor of thorough bass and composition, Carl Zelter, the director of the Berlin Singakademie. Zelter agreed to accept this delicate office, and a large number of friends were invited for the occasion.
This was only the beginning of a series of weekly musical evenings at the Mendelssohn home. Felix, with his dark curls, his shining eyes, and charming manners, was the life of anything he undertook. He often conducted his little pieces, but did not monopolize the time. Sometimes all four children took part, Fanny at the piano, Rebekka singing, Paul playing the 'cello and Felix at the desk. Old Zelter was generally present, and though averse to praising pupils, would often say a few words of encouragement at the close.
Felix was at this time but little more than twelve years old. He had within the last year composed fifty or sixty pieces, including a trio for piano and strings, containing three movements, several sonatas for the piano, some songs and a musical comedy in three scenes, for piano and voices. All these were written with the greatest care and precision, and with the date of each neatly added. He collected his pieces into volumes; and the more work he did the more neatly he wrote.
The boy Felix had a wonderful gift for making friends. One day he suddenly caught sight of Carl Maria von Weber walking along the streets of Berlin, near his home. He recognized the famous composer at once, as he had lately visited his parents. The boy's dark eyes glowed with pleasure at the recognition, and tossing back his curls, he sprang forward and threw his arms about Weber's neck, begging him to go home with him. When the astonished musician recovered himself, he presented the boy to Jules Benedict, his young friend and pupil who walked at his side, saying, "This is Felix Mendelssohn." For response Felix, with a bright look, seized the young man's hand in both his own. Weber stood by smiling at the boy's enthusiasm. Again Felix besought them to come home with him, but Weber had to attend a rehearsal. "Is it for the opera?" the boy cried excitedly.
"Yes," answered the composer.
"Does he know all about it?" asked Felix, pointing to Benedict.
"Indeed he does," answered the composer laughing, "or if he doesn't he ought to for he has been bored enough with it already." The boy's eyes flashed.
"Thenyou, will come with me to my home, which is quite near, will you not?" There was no refusing those appealing dark eyes. Felix again embraced Weber, and then challenged his new friend, Mr. Benedict, to race him to the door of his house. On entering he dragged the visitor upstairs to the drawing-room, exclaiming, "Mama, Mama, here is a gentleman, a pupil of Carl Weber, who knows all about the new opera, 'Der Freischütz.'"
The young musician received a warm welcome, and was not able to leave until he had played on the piano all the airs he could remember from the wonderful new opera, which Weber had come to Berlin to superintend. Benedict was so pleased with his first visit that he came again. This time he found Felix writing music and asked what it was. "I am finishing my new quartet for piano and strings," was the simple reply. To say that Benedict was surprised at such an answer from a boy of twelve hardly expresses what he felt. It was quite true he did not yet know Felix Mendelssohn. "And now," said the boy, laying down his pen, "I will play to you, to prove how grateful I am that you played to us last time." He then sat down at the piano and played correctly several melodies from "Der Freischütz," which Benedict had played on his first visit. After that they went into the garden, and Felix for the moment, became a rollicking boy, jumping fences and climbing trees like a squirrel.
Toward the close of this year, 1821, his teacher Zelter announced he intended going to Wiemar, to see Goethe, the aged poet of Wiemar, and was willing to take Felix with him. The poet's house at Wiemar was indeed a shrine to the elect, and the chance of meeting the object of so much hero worship, filled the impressionable mind of Felix with reverential awe. Zelter on his part, felt a certain pride in bringing his favorite pupil to the notice of the great man, though he would not have permitted Felix to guess what he felt for anything he possessed.
When they arrived, Goethe was walking in his garden. He greeted both with kindness and affection, and it was arranged that Felix should play for him next day. Zelter had told Goethe much about his pupil's unusual talents, but the poet wished to prove these accounts by his own tests. Selecting piece after piece of manuscript music from his collection, he asked the boy to play them at sight. He was able to do so with ease, to the astonishment of the friends who had come in to hear him. They were more delighted when he took a theme from one of the pieces and improvised upon it. Withholding his praise, Goethe announced he had a final test, and placed on the music desk a sheet which seemed covered with mere scratches and blotches. The boy laughingly exclaimed, "Who could ever read such writing as that?" Zelter rose and came to the piano to look at this curiosity. "Why, it is Beethoven's writing; one can see that a mile off! He always wrote as if he used a broomstick for a pen, then wiped his sleeve over the wet ink!"
The boy picked out the strange manuscript bit by bit; when he came to the end he cried, "Now I will play it through for you," which he did without a mistake. Goethe was well pleased and begged Felix to come every day and play, while he was in the city. The two became fast friends; the poet treated him as a son, and at parting begged he would soon return to Wiemar, that they might again be together. During the following summer the whole family made a tour through Switzerland, much to the delight of Felix, who enjoyed every moment. There was little time for real work in composition, but a couple of songs and the beginning of a piano quartet were inspired by the view of Lake Geneva and its exquisite surroundings.
When Felix returned to Berlin, he had grown much, physically as well as mentally. He was now tall and strong, his curling locks had been clipped, and he seemed at a single bound to have become almost a man. His happy, boyish spirits, however, had not changed in the least. About this time the family removed from their home on the Neue Promenade, to a larger and more stately mansion, No. 3 Leipsiger Strasse, then situated on the outskirts of the town, near the Potsdam Gate. As those who know the modern city realize, this house, now no longer a private residence, stands in the very heart of traffic and business. The rooms of the new home were large and elegant, with a spacious salon suitable for musicals and large functions. A fine garden or park belonged to the house, where were lawns shaded by forest trees, winding paths, flowering shrubs and arbors in shady nooks, offering quiet retreats. Best of all there was a garden house, with a central hall, which would hold several hundred people, having long windows and glass doors looking out upon the trees and flowers. Sunday concerts were soon resumed and given in the garden house, where, on week days the young people met, with friends and elders, to play, and act and enjoy the social life of the home. The mansion and its hospitality became famous, and every great musician, at one time or another, came to pay his respects and become acquainted with this art-loving family.
At a family party in honor of Felix's fifteenth birthday, his teacher Zelter saluted him as no longer an apprentice, but as an "assistant" and member of the Brotherhood of Art. Very soon after this the young composer completed two important works. The first was an Octet for strings. He was not yet seventeen when the Octet was finished, which was pronounced the most fresh and original work he had yet accomplished. It marked a distinct stage in the gifted youth's development. The composition which followed was the beautiful "Midsummer Night's Dream" music. He and his sister Fanny had lately made the acquaintance of Shakespeare through a German translation, and had been fascinated by this fairy play. The young people spent much of their time in the lovely garden that summer, and amid these delightful surroundings the music was conceived.
The Overture was first to spring into being. When it was written out, Felix and Fanny often played it as a duet. In this form the composer-pianist Moscheles heard it and was impressed by its beauty. The fascinating Scherzo and dreamy Nocturne followed. When all were elaborated and perfected, the complete work was performed by the garden house orchestra for a crowded audience, who abundantly expressed their delight. Sir G. Macfarren has said of it: "No one musical work contains so many points of harmony and orchestration that are novel yet none of them have the air of experiment, but all seem to have been written with a certainty of their success."
And now a great plan occupied Mendelssohn's mind, a project which had been forming for some time; this was nothing less than to do something to arouse people to know and appreciate the great works of Johann Sebastian Bach. Two years before Felix had been presented with a manuscript score of Bach's "Passion according to St. Matthew," which Zelter had allowed to be copied from the manuscript preserved in the Singakademie. The old man was a devoted lover of Bach's music, and had taught his pupil in the same spirit. When Felix found himself the possessor of this wonderful book, he set to work to master it, until he knew every bit of it by heart. As he studied it deeply he was more and more impressed with its beauty and sublimity. He could hardly believe that this great work was unknown throughout Germany, since more than a hundred years had passed since it had been written. He determined to do something to arouse people from such apathy.
Talking the matter over with musicians and friends, he began to interest them in the plan to study the music of the Passion. Soon he had secured sixteen good voices, who rehearsed at his home once a week. His enthusiasm fired them to study the music seriously, and before very long they were anxious to give a public performance. There was a splendid choir of nearly four hundred voices conducted by Zelter, at the Singakademie; if he would only lend his chorus to give a trial performance, under Mendelssohn's conducting, how splendid that would be! But Felix knew that Zelter had no faith in the public taking any interest in Bach, so there was no use asking. This opinion was opposed by one of his little choir, named Devrient, who insisted that Zelter should be approached on the subject. As he himself had been a pupil of Zelter, he persuaded Mendelssohn to accompany him to the director's house.
Zelter was found seated at his instrument, enveloped by a cloud of smoke from a long stemmed pipe. Devrient unfolded the plan of bringing this great work of Bach to the knowledge of the public. The old man listened to their plea with growing impatience, until he became quite excited, rose from his chair and paced the floor with great strides, exclaiming, "No, it is not to be thought of—it is a mad scheme." To Felix argument then seemed useless and he beckoned his friend to come away, but Devrient refused to move, and kept up his persuasive argument. Finally, as though a miracle had been wrought, Zelter began to weaken, and at last gave in, and besides promised all the aid in his power.
How this youth, not yet twenty, undertook the great task of preparing this masterpiece, and what he accomplished is little short of the marvelous. The public performance, conducted by Mendelssohn, took place March 11, 1829, with every ticket sold and more than a thousand persons turned away. A second performance was given on March 21, the anniversary of Bach's birth, before a packed house. These performances marked the beginning of a great Bach revival in Germany and England, and the love for this music has never been lost, but increases each year.
And now it seemed best for Felix to travel and see something of other countries. He had long wished to visit England, and the present seemed a favorable time, as his friends there assured him of a warm welcome. The pleasure he felt on reaching London was increased by the enthusiastic greeting he received at the hands of the musical public. He first appeared at a Philharmonic concert on May 25, when his Symphony in C minor was played. The next day he wrote to Fanny: "The success of the concert last night was beyond all I had ever dreamed. It began with my Symphony. I was led to the desk and received an immense applause. The Adagio was encored, but I went on; the Scherzo was so vigorously applauded that I had to repeat it. After the Finale there was lots more applause, while I was thanking the orchestra and shaking hands, till I left the room."
A continual round of functions interspersed with concerts at which he played or conducted, filled the young composer's time. The overture to "Midsummer Night's Dream" was played several times and always received with enthusiasm. On one occasion a friend was so careless as to leave the manuscript in a hackney coach on his way home and it was lost. "Never mind, I will write another," said Mendelssohn, which he was able to do, without making a single error.
When the London season closed, Mendelssohn and his friend Klingemann went up to Scotland, where he was deeply impressed with the varied beauty of the scenery. Perhaps the Hebrides enthralled him most, with their lonely grandeur. His impressions have been preserved in the Overture to "Fingal's Cave," while from the whole trip he gained inspiration for the Scottish Symphony.
On his return to London and before he could set out for Berlin, Felix injured his knee, which laid him up for several weeks, and prevented his presence at the home marriage of his sister Fanny, to William Hensel, the young painter. This was a keen disappointment to all, but Fanny was not to be separated from her family, as on Mendelssohn's return, he found the young couple had taken up their residence in the Gartenhaus.
Mendelssohn had been greatly pleased with his London visit, and though the grand tour he had planned was really only begun, he felt a strong desire to return to England. However, other countries had to be visited first. The following May he started south, bound for Vienna, Florence and Rome. His way led through Wiemar and gave opportunity for a last visit to Goethe. They passed a number of days in sympathetic companionship. The poet always wanted music, but did not seem to care for Beethoven's compositions, which he said did not touch him at all, though he felt they were great, astonishing.
After visiting numerous German cities, Switzerland was reached and its wonderful scenery stirred Mendelssohn's poetic soul to the depths. Yet, though his passionate love of nature was so impressed by the great mountains, forests and waterfalls, it was the sea which he loved best of all. As he approached Naples, and saw the sea sparkling in the sun lighted bay, he exclaimed: "To me it is the finest object in nature! I love it almost more than the sky. I always feel happy when I see before me the wide expanse of water." Rome, of course, was a center of fascination. Every day he picked out some special object of interest to visit, which made that particular day one never to be forgotten. The tour lasted until the spring of 1832, before Mendelssohn returned to his home in Berlin, only to leave it shortly afterwards to return to London. This great city, in spite of its fogs, noises and turmoil, appealed to him more than the sunshine of Naples, the fascination of Florence or the beauty of Rome.
The comment on Mendelssohn that "he lived years where others only lived weeks," gives a faint idea of the fulness with which his time was occupied. It is only possible to touch on his activities in composition, for he was always at work. In May 1836 when he was twenty-seven, he conducted in Düsseldorf the first performance of his oratorio of "St. Paul." At this period he wrote many of those charming piano pieces which he called "Songs without Words." This same year brought deepest happiness to Mendelssohn, in his engagement to Cécile Jean-Renaud, the beautiful daughter of a French Protestant clergyman. The following spring they were married, a true marriage of love and stedfast devotion.
The greatest work of Mendelssohn's career was his oratorio of "Elijah" which had long grown in his mind, until it was on the eve of completion in the spring of 1846. In a letter to the famous singer Jenny Lind, an intimate friend, he writes: "I am jumping about my room for joy. If my work turns out half as good as I fancy it is, how pleased I shall be."
During these years in which he conceived the "Elijah," his fame had spread widely. Honors had been bestowed on him by many royalties. The King of Saxony had made him Capellmeister of his Court, and Queen Victoria had shown him many proofs of personal regard, which endeared him more than ever to the country which had first signally recognized his genius.
It was Leipsic perhaps which felt the power of his genius most conclusively. The since famous Leipsic Conservatory was founded by him, and he was unceasing in his labors to advance art in every direction. He also found time to carry out a long cherished plan to erect, at the threshold of the Thomas School, Leipsic, a monument to the memory of Sebastian Bach.
Let us take one more glimpse of our beloved composer. It was the morning of August 26, 1846. The Town Hall of Birmingham, England, was filled with an expectant throng, for today the composer of the "Elijah" was to conduct his greatest work, for the first time before an English audience. When Mendelssohn stepped upon the platform, he was greeted by a deafening shout; the reception was overwhelming, and at the close the entire audience sprang to its feet in a frenzy of admiration. He wrote to his brother Paul that evening: "No work of mine ever went so admirably at the first performance, or was received with such enthusiasm both by musicians and public." During April the following year, four performances of the "Elijah" took place in Exeter Hall, the composer conducting, the Queen and Prince Albert being present on the second occasion. This visit to England which was to be his last, had used his strength to the limit of endurance, and there was a shadow of a coming breakdown. Soon after he rejoined his family in Frankfort, his sister Fanny suddenly passed away in Berlin. The news was broken to him too quickly, and with a shriek he fell unconscious to the floor.
From this shock he never seemed to rally, though at intervals for a while, he still composed. His death occurred November 4, 1847. It can be said of him that his was a beautiful life, in which "there was nothing to tell that was not honorable to his memory and profitable to all men."
Mendelssohn's funeral was imposing. The first portion was solemnized at Leipsic, attended by crowds of musicians and students, one of the latter bearing on a cushion a silver crown presented by his pupils of the Conservatory. Beside the crown rested the Order "Pour le Mérite," conferred on him by the King of Prussia. The band, during the long procession, played the E minor "Song without Words," and at the close of the service the choir sang the final chorus from Bach's "Passion." The same night the body was taken to Berlin and placed in the family plot in the old Dreifaltigkeit Kirch-hof, beside that of his devoted sister Fanny.
XIROBERT SCHUMANN
Many of the composers whose life stories we have read were surrounded by musical atmosphere from their earliest years; Robert Schumann seems to have been an exception. His father, August Schumann, was the son of a poor pastor, and the boy August was intended to be brought up a merchant. At the age of fifteen he was put into a store in Nonneburg. He was refined in his tastes, loved books, and tried even in boyhood to write poetry. He seemed destined, however, to live the life marked out for him, at least for a time. It grew so distasteful, that later he gave it up and, on account of extreme poverty, returned to his parents' home, where he had the leisure to write. At last he secured a position in a book store in Zeitz. In this little town he met the daughter of his employer. The engagement was allowed on the condition that he should leave the book store and set up his own business. But where was the money to come from? He left the store, returned home and in a year and a half had earned a thousand thalers, then quite a handsome sum.
He now claimed the hand of his chosen love and established in the book business, labored so unceasingly, that the business increased. Then he moved to a more favorable location, choosing the mining town of Zwickau, in Saxony.
Here, this industrious, honorable man and his attractive, intelligent, but rather narrow and uneducated young wife lived out their lives, and brought up their children, of whom Robert, born June 8, 1810, was the youngest; before him there were three brothers and a sister. All passed away before Robert himself.
He was the so-called "handsome child" of the family, and much petted by the women. Besides his mother there was his god-mother, who was very fond of him, and at her home he would spend whole days and nights. As his talents developed, the boy became the spoilt darling of everybody. This lay at the foundation of his extreme susceptibility, even the obstinacy of his riper years.
Little Robert at six was sent to a popular private school and now for the first time mingled with a number of children of his own age. The first symptoms of ambition, the source of much of his later achievement, began to show itself, though quite unconsciously. It made him the life of all childish games. If the children played "soldiers," little Robert was always captain. The others loved his good nature and friendliness, and always yielded to him.
He was a good student in the primary school, but in no way distinguished himself in his studies. The following year he was allowed to take piano lessons of an old pedantic professor from Zwickau High School. This man had taught himself music, but had heard little of it. The kind of instruction he was able to give may be imagined, yet Robert was faithful all his life to this kind old friend.
In spite of inadequate guidance, music soon kindled the boy's soul. He began to try to make music himself, though entirely ignorant of the rules of composition. The first of these efforts, a set of little dances, were written during his seventh or eighth year. It was soon discovered that he could improvise on the piano; indeed he could sketch the disposition of his companions by certain figures on the piano, so exactly and comically that every one burst out laughing at the portraits. He was fond of reading too, much to his father's delight, and early tried his hand at authorship. He wrote robber plays, which he staged with the aid of the family and such of his youthful friends as were qualified. The father now began to hope his favorite son would become an author or poet; but later Robert's increasing love for music put this hope to flight.
The father happened to take his boy with him to Carlsbad in the summer of 1819, and here he heard for the first time a great pianist, Ignatz Moscheles. His masterful playing made a great impression on the nine year old enthusiast, who began now to wish to become a musician, and applied himself to music with redoubled zeal. He also made such good progress at school that at Easter 1820 he was able to enter the Zwickau Academy.
The love for music grew with each day. With a boy of his own age, as devoted as himself to music, four-hand works of Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven, as well as pieces by Weber, Hummel and Czerny, were played almost daily. The greatest ecstasy was caused by the arrival of a Steck piano at the Schumann home, which showed that father Schumann endeavored to further his boy's taste for music. About this time Robert found by chance, the orchestral score of an old Italian overture. He conceived the bold idea of performing it. So a bit of an orchestra was gathered among the boys he knew, who could play an instrument. There were two violins, two flutes, a clarinet and two horns. Robert, who conducted with great fervor, supplied as best he could the other parts on the piano.
This effort was a great incentive to the boys, principally to Robert, who began to arrange things for his little band and composed music for the one hundred fiftieth Psalm. This was in his twelfth year.
August Schumann was more and more convinced that Providence had intended his son to become a musician, and though the mother struggled against it, he resolved to see that Robert had a musical education. Carl Maria von Weber, then living in Dresden, was written to, and answered he was willing to accept the boy as a student. The plan never came to anything however, for what reason is not known. The boy was left now to direct his own musical studies, just when he needed an expert guiding hand. He had no rivals in his native town, where he sometimes appeared as a pianist. It was no wonder he thought he was on the right road, and that he tried more than ever to win his mother's consent to his following music as a life work.
And now a great change took place in the lively, fun-loving boy. He seemed to lose his gay spirits and become reflective, silent and reserved. This condition of mind never left him, but grew into a deeper reserve as the years passed.
Two events deeply stirred Robert's nature with great force—the death of his father in 1826, and his acquaintance with the works of Jean Paul. The Jean Paul fever attacked him in all its transcendentalism, and this influence remained through life, with more or less intensity.
After his father left him, Robert found he must make a choice of a profession. His mother had set her heart on his making a study of law, while his heart was set on music. Yielding to her wishes for a time he went to Leipsic in March 1828 to prepare to enter the University as a student of law. He also gained consent to study piano at the same time, and began lessons with Frederick Wieck. The desire to study with Wieck was inspired by the piano playing of his little daughter, Clara, then nine years old, who had already gained a considerable degree of musical culture and promised to make her mark as a pianist.
Under his new teacher, Robert for the first time was obliged to study a rational system of technic and tone production. He was also expected to learn harmony correctly, but strangely enough he seemed to take no interest in it, even saying he thought such knowledge useless. He held to this foolish idea for some time, not giving it up till forced to by realizing his total ignorance of this branch of the art.
Robert now became greatly impressed by the genius of Franz Schubert. He eagerly played everything the master had composed for the piano, both for two and four hands, and Schubert's death during this year, filled him with profound grief. The young musical friends with whom Robert had become intimate, while living in Leipsic, shared his enthusiasm about his hero of German song, and they desired to enlarge their knowledge of Schubert's work. They did more, for they decided to take one representative composition and practise together till they had reached the highest perfection. The choice fell on the Trio in B flat major, Op. 99, whose beauties had greatly impressed them. After much loving labor the performance was well nigh perfect. Schumann arranged a musical party at which the Trio was played. Besides students and friends, Wieck was invited and given the seat of honor.
This musical evening was the forerunner of many others. Weekly meetings were held in Robert's room, where much music was played and discussed. The talk often turned to grand old Bach and his "Well-tempered Clavichord," to which in those early days, he gave ardent study.
With all this music study and intercourse with musical friends there was very little time left for the study of law. Yet he still kept up appearances by attending the lectures, and had intended for some months to enter the Heidelberg University. This decision was put into execution in May 1829, when he started by coach for Heidelberg.
We find Robert Schumann at nineteen domiciled in the beautiful city of Heidelberg, and surrounded by a few musical friends, who were kindred spirits. With a good piano in his room, the "life of flowers," as he called it, began. Almost daily they made delightful trips in a one-horse carriage into the suburbs. For longer trips they went to Baden-Baden, Wurms, Spires and Mannheim. Whenever Robert went with his friends he always carried a small "dumb piano" on which he industriously practised finger exercises, meanwhile joining in the conversation. During the following August and September, Robert and two or three chosen companions made a delightful journey through Italy, the young man preparing himself by studying Latin, in which he became so fluent that he could translate poems from one language to the other.
The next winter Robert devoted himself to music more than ever—"played the piano much," as he says. His skill as a pianist gradually became known in Heidelberg and he frequently played in private houses. But he was not content with the regular study of the piano. He wanted to get ahead faster and invented some sort of a device to render his fourth finger more firm and supple. It did not have the desired effect however, but was the means in time of injuring his hands so that he never could attain the piano virtuosity he dreamed of.
Before starting on the trip to Italy just mentioned, he felt that a decision must be reached about his music. It had become as the breath of life to him. He wrote his mother and laid bare his heart to her. "My whole life has been a twenty years struggle between poetry and prose, or let us say—between music and law. If I follow my own bent, it points, as I believe correctly, to music. Write yourself to Wieck at Leipsic and ask him frankly what he thinks of me and my plan. Beg him to answer at once and decisively." The letter was duly written to Wieck, who decided in favor of Robert and his plans.
Robert on hearing his decision was wild with joy. He wrote an exuberant letter to Wieck promising to be most submissive as a piano pupil and saying "whole pailfuls of very very cold theory can do me no harm and I will work at it without a murmur. I give myself up wholly to you."
With a heart full of hope, young Schumann returned to Leipsic, which he had gladly left more than a year before. It was during this early resumption of piano lessons with Wieck that he began the treatment which he thought would advance his technic in such a marvelously short time. He fastened his third finger into a machine, of his own invention, then practised unceasingly with the other four. At last he lost control over the muscles of the right hand, to his great distress. He now practised unremittingly with the left hand, which gained great facility, remarkable long after he had given up piano playing.
Under these difficulties piano lessons with Wieck had to be given up and were never resumed. He studied theory for a short time with Kupach, but soon relinquished this also. He was now free to direct his own path in music and to study—study, and compose.
One of the first pieces he wrote was "The Papillons"—"Butterflies,"—published as Op. 2. It was dedicated to his three sisters-in-law, of all of whom he was very fond. In the various scenes of the Butterflies there are allusions to persons and places known to the composer; the whimsical spirit of Jean Paul broods over the whole.
Robert began to realize more and more his lack of thorough theoretical knowledge and applied to Dorn, who stood high in the musical profession in Leipsic. On his introduction, in spite of his lame hand he played his "Abegg Variations," published as Op. 1, and Dorn was willing to accept the timid quiet youth as pupil. He studied with great ardor, going from the A.B.C. to the most involved counterpoint.
Thus passed two or three busy years. Part of the time Schumann had a room in the house of his teacher Wieck and thus was thrown more or less in the society of Clara Wieck, now a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. Later he gave up his room—though not his intimate relations with the family—and moved to a summer residence in Riedel's Garden, where he spent the days in music and the evenings with his friends.
The year 1833, was one of the most remarkable in his life so far. Not the least important event was the establishment of the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik." Schumann himself says of this:—
"At the close of the year '33, a number of musicians, mostly young, met in Leipsic every evening, apparently by accident at first, but really for the interchange of ideas on all musical subjects. One day the young hot heads exclaimed: 'Why do we look idly on? Let's take hold and make things better.' Thus the new Journal for music began.
"The youthful, fresh and fiery tone of the Journal is to be in sharp contrast to the characterless, worn-out Leipsic criticism. The elevation of German taste, the encouragement of young talent must be our goal. We write not to enrich tradespeople, but to honor artists."
Schumann took up arms in favor of the younger generation of musicians and helped make the fame of many now held in the world's highest esteem. Sometimes, he admits, his ardor carried him too far in recognition of youthful talent, but in the main he was very just in his estimates. We do not forget how his quick commendation aided Brahms.
The young musicians who founded the paper had formed themselves also into an alliance, which they called the Davidsbündlerschaft. The idea of this alliance, which was derived from David's war with the Philistines, seemed to exist only in the mind of Schumann himself. It gave him a chance to write under the name of different characters, chief of whom were Florestan and Eusebius, between whom stood Master Raro. In Florestan Schumann expressed the powerful, passionate side of his nature, and in Eusebius the mild and dreamy side.
He wrote to a friend: "Florestan and Eusebius are my double nature, which I would gladly—like Raro—melt down into one man." As time passed however, he made less and less use of these fanciful images until they finally seemed to fade out of his mind.
An important event of 1834, was Schumann's acquaintance with Ernestine von Fricken, who came to Leipsic from the little town of Asch, on the Bohemian border. She lived at the Wiecks', expecting to become a pianist under Papa Wieck's tuition. Schumann became greatly interested in Ernestine and for some time he had in mind an engagement with her. The noble "Études Symphoniques" were written this year. The theme was suggested by Ernestine's father. The "Carnival" was partly written in this year, but not completed till the following year. In this collection of charming short pieces he brings in the characters of his dreams,—Florestan, Eusebius, Chiarina (Clara), Estrella (Ernestine). There is the March against the Philistines, and the titles of many other of the little pieces are characteristic. It is a true Schumann composition, full of his traits. Here we have the sweet, graceful, elegant and the very humorous and comical finale.
The tone creations of 1835 consist of the two Sonatas, F sharp minor, Op. 11 and G minor, Op. 22, which are held by pianists to be among his most interesting and poetical works.
By the next year Schumann had suffered a deep sorrow in the loss of his mother, and also his love for Ernestine began to cool, until the partial bond was amicably dissolved. Meanwhile his affection for Clara Wieck, who was just budding into womanhood, began to ripen into devoted love. This, too, was the beginning of the long struggle for the possession of his beloved, since the father had opposed such a connection from beginning to end. Schumann wrote a friend in 1839: "Truly from the struggle Clara has cost me, much music has been caused and created; the Concerto, Sonatas, Davidsbündler Dances, Kreisleriana and Novellettes are the result." Beyond the compositions just mentioned, he relieved his oppressed heart by a composition rich in meaning—nothing less than the great Fantaisie, Op. 17. He meant to contribute the profits from its sale to the fund for the erection of a monument to Beethoven. The titles to the three movements were "Ruins," "Triumphal Arch," "Starry Crown." He afterwards gave up the whole idea, and dedicated the work to Franz Liszt.
Schumann lived a quiet, busy life, and if he could have gained the consent of Clara's father for their union, he would have been supremely happy. He feared the principal reason of Wieck's refusal was that the young man should earn more money first, before thinking of settling down with a wife. Robert therefore reverted more seriously to a plan he had thought of, to go to Vienna, and move his paper to that city, hoping to better his fortunes. He felt, too, that he ought to travel, as he had remained in Leipsic for eight years without change.
Thus, by the end of September, 1838, Schumann started for Vienna with many high hopes. A friend invited him to remain at his house, which was of much advantage. He made many calls and visits, saw musicians and publishers, and really learned to know the city for itself. He found it would not be profitable for him to publish the Journal there, also that the Austrian capital was a no more propitious place to make one's fortune than the smaller town of Leipsic. However he was able to compose a number of works which have become among the best known and beloved of all, including the "Arabesque," "Faschingsschwank," or "Carnival Strains from Vienna," the "Night Pieces," Op. 24, and other short compositions.
When Robert discovered Vienna was not the city to prosper in, he thought of a return to Leipsic, to win his bride. He came back in April, and succeeded, with the help of legal proceedings, in securing Clara's hand in marriage. This was in 1840. From now on Schumann began to write songs. In this one year he composed as many as a hundred and thirty-eight songs, both large and small. He writes at this time: "The best way to cultivate a taste for melody, is to write a great deal for the voice and for independent chorus."
He now began to express himself not only in song but in orchestral music. His first effort was the beautiful B flat major Symphony, which, with the songs of that time seems to embody all the happiness he enjoyed in winning his Clara. She proved a most admirable helpmate, trying to shield him from interruptions and annoyance of every sort, so he should have his time undisturbed for his work. Thus many of his best compositions came into being in the early years of wedded happiness.
This retirement was interrupted in 1844, by a long concert tour planned by Clara. She was firmly decided to go and made Robert solemnly promise to accompany her to St. Petersburg. He was loath to leave the quiet he loved, but it had to be done. Clara had great success everywhere, as a pianist, giving many recitals during their travels from place to place. From Russia the artist pair went to Helsingfors, Stockholm and Copenhagen. They started on their tour in January and did not reach home till the first of June.
Schumann now seemed to lose interest in the Journal and expressed a wish to withdraw from it and live only for his creative art. An alarming state of health—both mind and body—seemed to make this retirement desirable. Perhaps owing to this condition of health he decided to leave Leipsic for good and make his home in Dresden. He and his wife took formal leave of Leipsic in a Matinée musical given on the eighth of December.
But life in Dresden became even more strenuous and more racking than it had been in Leipsic. He threw himself into the labor of composing the epilogue of Goethe's "Faust" with such ardor that he fell into an intensely nervous state where work was impossible. However, with special medical treatment he so far recovered that he was able to resume the work, but still was not himself. We can divine from brief remarks he let drop from time to time, that he lived in constant fear—fear of death, insanity or disaster of some kind. He could not bear the sight of Sonnenstein, an insane asylum near Dresden. Mendelssohn's sudden death in November, 1847, was a great shock and preyed on his mind.
Schumann had intervals of reprieve from these morbid dreams, and he again began to compose with renewed—almost abnormal—vigor and productiveness.
The artist pair took a trip to Vienna where Clara gave several concerts. They spent some weeks there and before returning to Dresden, gave two splendid concerts in Prague, where Schumann received a perfect ovation for his piano quintette and some songs. A little later the two artists made a trip north. In Berlin Robert conducted a performance of "Paradise and the Peri" at the Singakademie, while Clara gave two recitals.
This year of 1847 was a very active one outside of the musical journeys. The master composed several piano trios, much choral music, and began the opera "Genevieve," which was not completed however, until the middle of 1848. All the compositions of the previous year were perfectly lucid and sane. The opera unfortunately had a text from which all the beauty and romance had been left out.
The music, however, revealed a rare quality of creative power, combined with deep and noble feeling. Schumann's nature was more lyric than dramatic; he was not born to write for the stage. The lyric portions of his opera are much the best. He did not realize that he failed on the dramatic side in his work, indeed seemed quite unconscious of the fact.
"Genevieve" was given in Leipsic in June 1850, directed by the composer. Two more performances were given and then the work was laid away.
In 1848, Schumann, who loved children dearly and often stopped his more serious work to write for them, composed the "Album for the Young," Op. 68, a set of forty-two pieces. The title originally was: "Christmas Album for Children who like to play the Piano." How many children, from that day to this have loved those little pieces, the "Happy Farmer," "Wild Rider," "First Loss," "Reaper's Song," and all the rest. Even the great pianists of our time are not above performing these little classics in public. They are a gift, unique in musical literature, often imitated, but never equaled by other writers. Schumann wrote of them: "The first thing in the Album I wrote for my oldest child's birthday. It seems as if I were beginning my life as a composer anew, and there are traces of the old human here and there. They are decidedly different from 'Scenes from Childhood' which are retrospective glances by a parent, and for elders, while 'Album for the Young' contains hopes, presentments and peeps into futurityfor the young."
After the children's Album came the music to Byron's "Manfred." This consists of an overture and fifteen numbers. The whole work, with one exception, is deep in thought and masterly in conception. The overture especially is one of his finest productions, surpassing other orchestral works in intellectual grandeur.
A choral club of sixty-seven members, of which Schumann was the director, inspired him to compose considerable choral music, and his compositions of this time, 1848-9, were numerous.
The intense creative activity of 1849 was followed by a period of rest when the artist pair made two trips from Dresden, early in 1850. Leipsic, Bremen, and Hamburg were visited. Most of the time in Hamburg was spent with Jenny Lind, who sang at his last two concerts.
The late summer of 1850 brought Schumann an appointment of director of music in Düsseldorf, left vacant by the departure of Ferdinand Hiller for Cologne. Schumann and his wife went to Düsseldorf the first week of September and were received with open arms. A banquet and concert were arranged, at which some of the composer's important works were performed. His duties in the new post were conducting the subscription concerts, weekly rehearsals of the Choral Club and other musical performances. He seemed well content with the situation and it did not require too much of his physical strength.
Outside of his official duties his passion for work again gained the ascendent. From November 2, to December 9, he sketched and completed the Symphony in E flat in five parts, a great work, equal to any of the other works in this form.
From this time on, one important composition followed another, until increasing illness forshadowed the sad catastrophe of the early part of 1854. He wrote in June 1851, "we are all tolerably well, except that I am the victim of occasional nervous attacks; a few days ago I fainted after hearing Radecke play the organ." These nervous attacks increased in 1852. He could not think music in rapid tempo and wished everything slow. He heard special tones to the exclusion of all others.
The close of 1853, brought two joyful events to Schumann. In October he met Johann Brahms, whom he had introduced to the world through his Journal, as the "Messiah of Art." In November he and his wife took a trip through Holland, which was a triumphal procession. He found his music almost as well known in Holland as at home. In Rotterdam and Utrecht his third symphony was performed; in The Hague the second was given, also "The Pilgrimage of the Rose." Clara also played at many concerts.
Just before Christmas the artist pair returned to Düsseldorf.
The hallucinations which had before obsessed him now returned with alarming force. He could no longer sleep—he seemed to be lost in mental darkness.
One day in February 1854, his physician made a noon call upon him. They sat chatting when suddenly Schumann left the room without a word. The doctor and his friends supposed he would return. His wife went in search of him. It seems he had left the house in dressing-gown, gone to the Rhine bridge and thrown himself into the river. Some sailors rescued him.
He now received constant care, and it was found best to place him in a private hospital near Bonn. Here he remained till the end of July, 1856, when the end came.
In his death the world of music lost one of the most highly gifted spirits. His life was important and instructive for its moral and intellectual grandeur, its struggles for the noblest, loftiest subjects as well as for its truly great results.