# A Dictionary of Music and Musicians/Schumann, Robert

​SCHUMANN, Robert Alexander, born June 8, 1810, at Zwickau in Saxony, was the youngest son of Friedrich August Gottlob Schumann (born 1773), a bookseller, whose father was a clergyman in Saxony, and whose mother, Johanna Christiana (born 1771), was the daughter of Herr Schnabel, Rathschirurgus (surgeon to the town council) at Zeitz. Schumann cannot have received any incitement towards music from his parents; his father, however, took a lively interest in the belles lettres, and was himself known as an author. He promoted his son's leanings towards art in every possible way, with which however his mother seems to have had no sympathy. In the small provincial town where Schumann spent the first eighteen years of his life there was no musician capable of helping him beyond the mere rudiments of the art. There was a talented town-musician, who for several decades was the best trumpeter in the district, but, as was commonly the case, he practised his art simply as a trade. The organist of the Marienkirche, J. G. Kuntzsch, Schumann's first pianoforte teacher, after a few years declared that his pupil was able to progress alone, and that his instruction might cease. He was so impressed with the boy's talent, that when Schumann subsequently resolved to devote himself wholly to art, Kuntzsch prophesied that he would attain to fame and immortality, and that in him the world would possess one of its. greatest musicians. Some twenty years later, in 1845, Schumann dedicated to him his Studies for the Pedal-Piano, op. 56. [See vol. ii. p. 77a.]
His gift for music showed itself early. He ​began to compose, as he tells us himself, before he was seven. According to this he must have begun to play the piano, at latest, in his sixth year. When he was about eleven, he accompanied at a performance of Friedrich Schneider's 'Weltgericht,' conducted by Kuntzsch, standing up at the piano to do it. At home, with the aid of some young musical companions, he got up performances of vocal and instrumental music which he arranged to suit their humble powers. In more extended circles too, he appeared as a pianoforte-player, and is said to have had a wonderful gift for extempore playing. His father took steps to procure for him the tuition of C. M. von Weber, who had shortly before (1817) been appointed Capellmeister in Dresden. Weber declared himself ready to undertake the guidance of the young genius, but the scheme fell through for reasons unknown. From that time Schumann remained at Zwickau, where circumstances were not favourable to musical progress; he was left to his own instruction, and every inducement to further progress must have come from himself alone. Under these circumstances, a journey made when he was nine years old to Carlsbad, where he first heard a great pianoforte-player—Ignaz Moscheles—must have been an event never to be forgotten; and indeed during his whole life he retained a predilection for certain of Moscheles's works, and a reverence for his person. The influence of the pianoforte technique of Moscheles on him appears very distinctly in the variations published as op. 1.
At the age of ten he entered the 4th class at the Gymnasium (or Academy) at Zwickau, and remained there till Easter, 1828. He had then risen to the 1st class, and left with a certificate of qualification for the University. During this period his devotion to music seems to have been for a time rather less eager, in consequence of the interference of his school-work and of other tastes. Now, at the close of his boyhood, a strong interest in poetry, which had been previously observed in him, but which had meanwhile been merged in his taste for music, revived with increased strength; he rummaged through his father's book-shop, which favoured this tendency, in search of works on the art of poetry; poetical attempts of his own were more frequent, and at the age of 14 Robert had already contributed some literary efforts to a work brought out by his father and called 'Bildergallerie der berühmtesten Menschen aller Volker und Zeiten' (Portrait-gallery of the most famous men of all nations and times). That he had a gift for poetry is evident from two Epithalamia given by Wasielewski (Biographie Schumann's, 3rd ed., Bonn 1880, p. 305). In 1827 he set a number of his own poems to music, and it is worthy of note that it was not by the classical works of Goethe and Schiller that Schumann was most strongly attracted. His favourite writers were Schulze, the tender and rhapsodical author of 'Die bezauberte Rose' (The Enchanted Rose); and the unhappy Franz von Sonnenberg, who went out of his mind; of foreign poets, Byron especially; but above all, Jean Paul, with whose works he made acquaintance in his 17th year (at the same time as with the compositions of Franz Schubert). These poets represent the cycle of views, sentiments and feelings, under whose spell Schumann's poetical taste, strictly speaking, remained throughout his life. And in no musician has the influence of his poetical tastes on his music been deeper than in him.
On March 29, 1828, Schumann matriculated at the University of Leipzig as Studiosus Juris. It would have been more in accordance with his inclinations to have devoted himself at once wholly to art, and his father would no doubt have consented to his so doing; but he had lost his father in 1826, and his mother would not hear of an artist's career. Her son dutifully submitted, although decidedly averse to the study of jurisprudence. Before actually joining the university he took a short pleasure trip into South Germany, in April, 1828. He had made acquaintance in Leipzig with a fellow-student named Gisbert Rosen; and a common enthusiasm for Jean Paul soon led to a devoted and sympathetic friendship. Rosen went to study at Heidelberg, and the first object of Schumann's journey was to accompany him on his way. In Munich he made the acquaintance of Heine, in whose house he spent several hours. On his return journey he stopped at Bayreuth to visit Jean Paul's widow, and received from her a portrait of her husband.
During the first few months of his university life, Schumann was in a gloomy frame of mind. A students' club to which he belonged for a time, struck him as coarse and shallow, and he could not make up his mind to begin the course of study he had selected. A large part of the first half-year had passed by and still—as he writes to his friend—he had been to no college, but 'had worked exclusively in private, that is to say, had played the piano and written a few letters and Jean Pauliads.'
In this voluntary inactivity and solitude the study of Jean Paul must certainly have had a special charm for him. That writer, unsurpassed in depicting the tender emotions, with his dazzling and even extravagant play of digressive fancy, his excess of feeling over dramatic power, his incessant alternations between tears and laughter, has always been the idol of sentimental women and ecstatic youths. 'If everybody read Jean Paul,' Schumann writes to Rosen, 'they would be better-natured, but they would be unhappier; he has often brought me to the verge of desperation, still the rainbow of peace bends serenely above all the tears, and the soul is wonderfully lifted up and tenderly glorified.' In precisely the same way did Gervinus give himself up for a time to the same influence; but his manly and vigorous nature freed itself from the enervating spell. Schumann's artistic nature, incomparably more finely strung, remained permanently subject to it. Even in his latest years he would become violently angry if any one ventured to doubt or criticise Jean Paul's greatness as an imaginative writer, and the close affinity of their natures is ​umnistakeable. Schumann himself tells us how once, as a child, at midnight, when all the household were asleep, he had in a dream and with his eyes closed, stolen down to the old piano, and played a series of chords, weeping bitterly the while. So early did he betray that tendency to overstrung emotion which found its most powerful nourishment in Jean Paul's writings.
Music, however, is a social art, and it soon brought him back again to human life. In the house of ProfessorCarus he made several interesting acquaintances, especially that of Marschner, who was then living in Leipzig, and had brought out his 'Vampyr' there in the spring of 1828. His first meeting with Wieck, the father of his future wife, took place in the same year; and Schumann took several pianoforte lessons from him. Several music-loving students met together there, and all kinds of chamber-music were practised. They devoted themselves with especial ardour to the works of Schubert, whose death on Nov. 19, 1828, was deeply felt by Schumann. Impelled by Schubert's example, he wrote at this time 8 Polonaises for four hands; also a Quartet for piano and strings, and a number of songs to Byron's words; all of which remain unpublished. Besides these occupations, he made a more intimate acquaintance with the clavier works of Sebastian Bach. It is almost self-evident that what chiefly fascinated Schumann in Bach's compositions was the mysterious depth of sentiment revealed in them. Were it not so, it would be impossible to conceive of Bach in connection with the chaotic Jean Paul; and yet Schumann himself says that in early life Bach and Jean Paul had exercised the most powerful influence upon him. Considering the way in which his musical education had been left to itself, the fact of his so thoroughly appreciating the wealth and fulness of life in Bach's compositions at a time when Bach was looked upon only as a great contrapuntist, is clear evidence of the greatness of his own genius; which indeed had some affinity with that of Bach. The ingenuity of outward form in Bach's works was neither strange nor unintelligible to him. For although Schumann had hitherto had no instructor in composition, it need scarcely be said that he had long ago made himself familiar with the most essential parts of the composer's art, and that constant practice in composition must have given him much knowledge and skill in this branch of his art.
At Easter, 1829, Schumann followed his friend Rosen to the university of Heidelberg. The young jurists were perhaps tempted thither by the lectures of the famous teacher, A. F. J. Thibaut; but it is evident that other things contributed to form Schumann's resolution: the situation of the town a perfect Paradise the gaiety of the people, and the nearness of Switzerland, Italy and France. A delightful prospect promised to open to him there: 'That will be life indeed!' he writes to his friend; 'at Michaelmas we will go to Switzerland, and from thence who knows where?' On his journey to Heidelberg chance threw him into the society of Willibald Alexis. As they found pleasure in each other's company, Schumann incontinently turned out of his way and went with the poet some distance down the Rhine. Like Marschner, who indeed was somewhat their senior, Alexis had trodden the path which Schumann was destined to follow, and had reached art by way of the law. No doubt this added to Schumann's interest in the acquaintance. It cannot be denied that even in Heidelberg Schumann carried on his legal studies in a very desultory manner, though Thibaut himself was a living proof that that branch of learning could co-exist with a true love and comprehension of music. Only a few years before (in 1825) Thibaut had published his little book, 'Ueber Reinheit der Tonkunst' (On Purity in Musical Art), a work which at that time essentially contributed to alter the direction of musical taste in Germany. Just as in his volume Thibaut attacks the degenerate state of church music, Schumann, at a later date, was destined to take up arms, in word and deed, against the flat insipidity of concert and chamber music. Nevertheless the two men never became really intimate; in one, no doubt, the doctor too greatly preponderated, and in the other the artist. Thibaut himself subsequently advised Schumann to abandon the law and devote himself entirely to music.
Indeed if Schumann was industrious in anything at Heidelberg it was in pianoforte-playing. After practising for seven hours in the day, he would invite a friend to come in the evening and play with him, adding that he felt in a particularly happy vein that day; and even during an excursion with friends he would take a dumb keyboard with him in the carriage. By diligent use of the instruction he had received from Wieck in Leipzig, he brought himself to high perfection as an executant; and at the same time increased his efforts at improvisation. One of his musical associates at this time used afterwards to say that from the playing of no other artist, however great, had he ever experienced such ineffaceable musical impressions; the ideas seem to pour into the player's mind in an inexhaustible flow, and their profound originality and poetic charm already clearly foreshadowed the main features of his musical individuality. Schumann appeared only once in public, at a concert given by a musical society at Heidelberg, where he played Moscheles's variations on the 'Alexandermarsch' with great success. He received many requests to play again, but refused them all, probably, as a student, finding it not convenient.
It will no doubt be a matter of surprise that Schumann could have justified himself in thus spending year after year in a merely nominal study of the law, while in fact wholly given up to his favourite taste and pursuit. A certain lack of determination, a certain shrinking from anything disagreeable, betray themselves during these years as his general characteristics, and ​were perhaps an integral part of his nature. At the same time his conduct is to a certain extent explicable, by the general conditions of German student-life. Out of the strict discipline of the Gymnasium the student steps at once into the unlimited freedom of the University. The violence of the contrast most easily overpowers the most gifted natures, and sweeps them away into an exclusive enjoyment of the life it offers. Those who have some self-control after a time struggle out of the whirlpool, and avail themselves as best they may of the remaining years of study, rescuing from that period a precious store of poetical reminiscences which suffice to gild the prose of later life with an ideal light. It was the intoxicating poetry of the student life which Schumann drank in deep draughts. Its coarseness was repellent to his refined nature, and his innate purity and nobility guarded him against moral degradation; but he lived like a rover rejoicing in this bright world as it lies open to him, worked little, spent much, got into debt, and was as happy as a fish in the water. Besides its tender and rapturous side, his nature had a vein of native sharpness and humour. With all these peculiarities he could live his student's life to the full, though in his own apparently quiet and unassertive way. The letters in which he discusses money-matters with his guardian, Herr Rudel, a merchant of Zwickau, show how he indulged his humorous mood even in these: 'Dismal things I have to tell you, respected Herr Rudel,' he writes on June 21, 1830; 'in the first place, that I have a repetitorium which costs 80 gulden every half-year, and secondly, that within a week I have been under arrest by the town (don't be shocked) for not paying 30 gulden of other college dues.' And on another occasion, when the money he had asked for to make a journey home for the holidays did not arrive: 'I am the only student here, and wander alone about the streets and woods, forlorn and poor, like a beggar, and with debts into the bargain. Be kind, most respected Herr Rudel, and only this once send me some money—only money—and do not drive me to seek means of setting out which might not be pleasant to you.' The reasons he employs to prove to his guardian that he ought not to be deprived of means for a journey into Italy are most amusing: 'At any rate I shall have made the journey; and as I must make it once, it is all the same whether I use the money for it now or later.' Then in a perfectly amiable way he puts the pistol to his breast, 'Of course I could borrow the money here at once if I chose, at 10 or 12 per cent, but this method I should of course adopt only under the most unnatural circumstances, i.e. if I get no money from home.' When, at Easter 1830, he wished to remain another half-year at Heidelberg, he excused the wish by saying that 'residence here is immeasurably more instructive, useful and interesting, than in flat Leipzig.' This contrast of 'flat' Leipzig with the picturesque hilliness of Heidelberg, sufficiently betrays what it was that Schumann included under the terms 'instructive and useful.' His compositions, too, plainly evince how deeply the poetical aspect of student life had affected him, and had left its permanent mark on him. I need only remind the reader of Kerner's 'Wanderlied' (op. 35, no. 3), dedicated to an old fellow-student at Heidelberg, and of Eichendorff's 'Frühlingsfahrt' (op. 45, no. 2). Among German songs of the highest class, there is not one in which the effervescent buoyancy of youth craving for distant flights has found such full expression, at once so thoroughly German and so purely ideal, as in this 'Wanderlied,' which indeed, with a different tune, is actually one of the most favourite of student songs. 'Frühlingsfahrt' tells of two young comrades who quit home for the first time:—
So jubelnd recht in die hellen Klingeuden, singenden Wellen Des vollen Frühlings hinaus.
Rejoicing in the singing And joyous, echoing ringing Of full and perfect Spring.
One of them soon finds a regular subsistence and a comfortable home; the other pursues glittering visions, yields to the thousand temptations of the world, and finally perishes; it is a portrait of a German student drawn from the life, and the way in which Schumann has treated it shows that he was drawing on the stores of his own experience. And indeed he trod on the verge of the abyss which yawns close to the flowery path of a youth who, for the first time, enjoys complete liberty. His letters often indicate this, particularly one written April 5, 1833, to one of his former fellow-students, in which he says that his life as a citizen is, to his great joy, sober, industrious and steady, and thus a contrast to that at Heidelberg.
Several journeys also served to infuse into Schumann's student life the delight of free and unrestrained movement. In August 1829 he went for a pleasure trip to north Italy, quite alone, for two friends who had intended to go, failed him. But perhaps the contemplative and dreamy youth enjoyed the loveliness of the country and the sympathetic Italian nature only the more thoroughly for being alone. Nor were little adventures of gallantry wanting. Fragments of a diary kept at this time, which are preserved (Wasielewski, p. 325), reveal to us the pleasant sociableness of the life which Schumann now delighted in. The Italian music which he then heard could indeed do little towards his improvement, except that it gave him, for the first time, the opportunity of hearing Paganini. The deep impression made by that remarkable player is shown by Schumann's visit to Frankfort (Easter 1830) with several friends to hear him again, and by his arrangement of his 'Caprices' for the pianoforte (op. 3 and 10). Shortly after this he seems to have heard Ernst also in Frankfort. In the summer of 1830 he made a tour to Strassburg, and on the way back to Saxony visited his friend Rosen at Detmold.
​When Schumann entered upon his third year of study, he made a serious effort to devote himself to jurisprudence; he took what was called a Repetitorium, that is, he began going over again with considerable difficulty, and under the care and guidance of an old lawyer, what he had neglected during two years. He also endeavoured to reconcile himself to the idea of practical work in public life or the government service. His spirit soared up to the highest goal, and at times he may have flattered his fancy with dreams of having attained it; but he must have been convinced of the improbability of such dreams ever coming true; and indeed he never got rid of his antipathy to the law as a profession, even in the whole course of his Repetitorium. On the other hand it must be said, that if he was ever to be a musician, it was becoming high time for it, since he was now 20 years old. Thus every consideration urged him to the point. Schumann induced his mother, who was still extremely averse to the calling of a musician, to put the decision in the hands of Friedrich Wieck. Wieck did not conceal from him that such a step ought only to be taken after the most thorough self-examination, but if he had already examined himself, then Wieck could only advise him to take the step. Upon this his mother yielded, and Robert Schumann became a musician. The delight and freedom which he inwardly felt when the die was cast, must have shown him that he had done right. At first his intention was only to make himself a great pianoforte-player, and he reckoned that in six years he would be able to compete with any pianist. But he still felt very uncertain as to his gift as a composer; the words which he wrote to his mother on July 30, 1830—'Now and then I discover that I have imagination, and perhaps a turn for creating things myself'—sound curiously wanting in confidence, when we remember how almost exclusively Schumann's artistic greatness was to find expression in his compositions.
He quitted Heidelberg late in the summer of 1830, in order to resume his studies with Wieck in Leipzig. He was resolved, after having wasted two years and a half, to devote himself to his new calling with energetic purpose and manly vigour. And faithfully did he keep to his resolution. The plan of becoming a great pianist had, however, to be given up after a year. Actuated by the passionate desire to achieve a perfect technique as speedily as possible, Schumann devised a contrivance by which the greatest possible dexterity of finger was to be attained in the shortest time. By means of this ingenious appliance the third finger was drawn back and kept still, while the other fingers had to practice exercises. But the result was that the tendons of the third finger were overstrained, the finger was crippled, and for some time the whole right hand was injured. This most serious condition was alleviated by medical treatment. Schumann recovered the use of his hand, and could, when needful, even play the piano; but the third finger remained useless, so that he was for ever precluded from the career of a virtuoso. Although express evidence is wanting, we may assume with certainty that this unexpected misfortune made a deep impression upon him; he saw himself once more confronted with the question whether it was advisable for him to continue in the calling he had chosen. That he answered it in the affirmative shows that during this time his confidence in his own creative genius had wonderfully increased. He soon reconciled himself to the inevitable, learned to appreciate mechanical dexterity at its true value, and turned his undivided attention to composition. He continued henceforth in the most friendly relations with his pianoforte-master, Wieck; indeed until the autumn of 1832 he lived in the same house with him (Grimmaische Strasse, No. 36), and was almost one of the family. For his instructor in composition, however, he chose Heinrich Dorn, at that time conductor of the opera in Leipzig, subsequently Capellmeister at Riga, Cologne, and Berlin, and still living in Berlin in full possession of his intellectual vigour. Dorn was a clever and sterling composer; he recognised the greatness of Schumann's genius, and devoted himself with much interest to his improvement. It was impossible as yet to confine Schumann to a regular course of composition: he worked very diligently, but would take up now one point of the art of composition and now another. In 1836 he writes to Dorn at Riga that he often regrets having learnt in too irregular a manner at this time; but when he adds directly afterwards that, notwithstanding this, he had learnt more from Dorn's teaching than Dorn would believe, we may take this last statement as true. Schumann was no longer a tyro in composition, but had true musical genius, and his spirit was already matured. Under such circumstances he was justified in learning in his own way.
In the winter of 1832–3, he lived at Zwickau, and for a time also with his brothers at Schneeberg. Besides a pianoforte concerto, which still remains a fragment, he was working at a symphony in G minor, of which the first movement was publicly performed in the course of the winter both at Schneeberg and Zwickau. If we may trust certain evidence (see 'Musikalisches Wochenblatt'; Leipzig, 1875, p. 180), the whole symphony was performed at Zwickau in 1835, under Schumann's own direction, and the last movement was almost a failure.
At all events the symphony was finished, and Schumann expected it to be a great success; in this he must have been disappointed, for it has never been published. The first performance of the first movement at Zwickau took place at a concert given there on Nov. 18, 1832, by Wieck's daughter Clara, who was then thirteen years of ​age. Even then the performances of this gifted girl, who was so soon to take her place as the greatest female pianist of Germany, were astonishing, and by them, as Schumann puts it, 'Zwickau was fired with enthusiasm for the first time in its life.' It is easily conceivable that Schumann himself was enthusiastically delighted with Clara, adorned as she was with the twofold charm of childlike sweetness and artistic genius. 'Think of perfection,' he writes to a friend about her on April 5, 1833, 'and I will agree to it.' And many expressions in his letters seems even to betray a deeper feeling, of which he himself did not become fully aware until several years later.
Schumann's circumstances allowed him to revisit Leipzig in March, 1833, and even to live there for a time without any definite occupation. He was not exactly well off, but he had enough to enable him to live as a single man of moderate means. The poverty from which so many of the greatest musicians have suffered, never formed part of Schumann's experience. He occupied himself with studies in composition, chiefly in the contrapuntal style, in which he had taken the liveliest interest since making the acquaintance of Bach's works; besides this his imagination, asserting itself more and more strongly, impelled him to the creation of free compositions. From this year date the impromptus for piano on a romance by Clara Wieck, which Schumann dedicated to her father, and published in August, 1833, as op. 5. In June he wrote the first and third movements of the G minor Sonata (op. 22), and at the same time began the F♯ minor Sonata (op. 11) and completed the Toccata (op. 7), which had been begun in 1829. He also arranged a second set of Paganini's violin caprices for the piano (op. 10), having made a first attempt of the same kind (op. 3) in the previous year. Meanwhile he lived a quiet and almost monotonous life. Of family acquaintances he had few, nor did he seek them. He found a faithful friend in Frau Henriette Voigt, who was as excellent a pianist as she was noble and sympathetic in soul. She was a pupil of Ludwig Berger, of Berlin, and died young in the year 1839. Schumann was wont as a rule to spend his evenings with a small number of intimate friends in a restaurant. These gatherings generally took place at the 'Kaffeebaum' (Kleine Fleischergasse No. 3). He himself however generally remained silent by preference, even in this confidential circle of friends. Readily as he could express himself with his pen, he had but little power of speech. Even in affairs of no importance, which could have been transacted most readily and simply by word of mouth, he usually preferred to write. It was moreover a kind of enjoyment to him to muse in dreamy silence. Henriette Voigt told W. Taubert that one lovely summer evening, after making music with Schumann, they both felt inclined to go on the water. They sat side by side in the boat for an hour in silence. At parting Schumann pressed her hand and said, 'To-day we have perfectly understood one another.'
It was at these evening gatherings at the restaurant in the winter of 1833–4 that the plan of starting a new musical paper was matured. It was the protest of youth, feeling itself impelled to new things in art, against the existing state of music. Although Weber, Beethoven, and Schubert had only been dead a few years, though Spohr and Marschner were still in their prime, and Mendelssohn was beginning to be celebrated, the general characteristic of the music of about the year 1830 was either superficiality or else vulgar mediocrity. 'On the stage Rossini still reigned supreme, and on the pianoforte scarcely anything was heard but Herz and Hünten.' Under these conditions the war might have been more suitably carried on by means of important works of art than by a periodical about music. Musical criticism, however, was itself in a bad way at this time. The periodical called 'Cæcilia,' published by Schott, which had been in existence since 1824, was unfitted for the general reader, both by its contents and by the fact of its publication in parts. The 'Berliner allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,' conducted by Marx, had come to an end in 1830. The only periodical of influence and importance in 1833 was the 'Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung,' published by Breitkopf & Härtel of Leipzig, and at that time edited by G. W. Fink. But the narrow view taken of criticism in that periodical, its inane mildness of judgment—Schumann used to call it 'Honigpinselei' or 'Honey-daubing'—its lenity towards the reigning insipidity and superficiality, could not but provoke contradiction from young people of high aims. And the idea of first bringing the lever to bear on the domain of critical authorship, in order to try their strength, must have been all the more attractive to these hot-headed youths, since most of them had had the advantage of a sound scholarly education and knew how to handle their pens. On the other hand, they felt that they were not yet strong enough to guide the public taste into new paths by their own musical productions; and of all the set Schumann was the most sensible of this fact.
Such were the grounds on which, on April 3, 1834, the first number of the 'Neue Zeitschrift für Musik' saw the light. Schumann himself called it the organ of youth and movement. As its motto he even chose this passage from the prologue to Shakespeare's Henry VIII:—
Only they Who come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, Will be deceived—
a passage which sufficiently expresses his intention of contending against an empty flattering style of criticism, and upholding the dignity of art. 'The day of reciprocal compliments,' says the preliminary notice, 'is gradually dying out, and we must confess that we shall do nothing ​towards reviving it. The critic who dares not attack what is bad, is but a half-hearted supporter of what is good.' The doings of 'the three archfoes of art—those who have no talent, those who have vulgar talent, and those who having real talent, write too much,' are not to be left in peace; 'their latest phase, the result of a mere cultivation of executive technique,' is to be combatted as inartistic. 'The older time,' on the other hand, 'and the works it produced, are to be recalled with insistance, since it is only at these pure sources that new beauties in art can be found.' Moreover the 'Zeitschrift' is to assist in bringing in a new 'poetic' period by its benevolent encouragement of the higher efforts of young artists, and to accelerate its advent. The editing was in the hands of Robert Schumann, Friedrich Wieck, Ludwig Schunke, and Julius Knorr.
Of all these Schunke alone was exclusively a musician. That gifted pianist, who belonged to a widely dispersed family of esteemed musicians, came to Leipzig in 1833, and became a great friend of Schumann's, but died at the end of the following year at the early age of 24. The three other editors were by education half musicians and half littérateurs, even Julius Knorr (born 1807) having studied philology in Leipzig. Schumann co-operated largely in Schunke's contributions (signed with the figure 3), for handling the pen was not easy to him. Hartmann of Leipzig was at first the publisher and proprietor of the Zeitschrift, but at the beginning of 1835 it passed into the hands of J. A. Barth of Leipzig, Schumann becoming at the same time proprietor and sole editor. He continued the undertaking under these conditions till the end of June 1844; so that his management of the paper extended over a period of above ten years. On Jan. 1, 1845, Franz Brendel became the editor, and after the summer of 1844 Schumann never again wrote for it, with the exception of a short article on Johannes Brahms to be mentioned hereafter.
Schumann's own articles are sometimes signed with a number—either 2 or some combination with 2, such as 12, 22, etc. He also concealed his identity under a variety of names—Florestan, Eusebius, Raro, Jeanquirit. In his articles we meet with frequent mention of the Davidsbündler, a league or society of artists or friends of art who had views in common. This was purely imaginary, a half-humorous, half-poetical fiction of Schumann's, existing only in the brain of its founder, who thought it well fitted to give weight to the expression of various views of art, which were occasionally put forth as its utterances. The idea betrays some poetic talent, since in this way mere critical discussions gain the charm of dramatic life. The characters which most usually appear are Florestan and Eusebius, two personages in whom Schumann endeavoured to embody the two opposite sides of his nature. The vehement, stormy, rough element is represented by Florestan; the gentler and more poetic one by Eusebius. These two figures are obviously imitated from Vult and Walt in Jean Paul's 'Flegeljahre'; indeed Schumann's literary work throughout is strongly coloured with the manner of Jean Paul, and frequent reference is made to his writings. Now and then, as moderator between these antagonistic characters, who of course take opposite views in criticism, 'Master Raro' comes in. In him Schumann has conceived a character such as at one time he had himself dreamed of becoming. The explanation of the name 'Davidsbündler' is given at the beginning of a 'Shrove Tuesday discourse' by Florestan in the year 1835. 'The hosts of David are youths and men destined to slay all the Philistines, musical or other.' In the college-slang of Germany the 'Philistine' is the non-student, who is satisfied to live on in the ordinary routine of every-day life, or—which comes to the same thing in the student's mind—the man of narrow, sober, prosaic views, as contrasted with the high-flown poetry and enthusiasm of the social life of a German university. Thus, in the name of Idealism, the 'Davidsbündler' wage war against boorish mediocrity, and when Schumann regarded it as the function of his paper to aid in bringing in a new 'poetical phase' in music he meant just this. Though Schumann was himself the sole reality in the 'Davidsbündlerschaft,' he indulged his fancy by introducing personages of his acquaintance whose agreement with his views he was sure of. He quietly included all the principal co-operators in the Zeitschrift, and even artists such as Berlioz, whom he did not know, but in whom he felt an interest, and was thus justified in writing to A. von Zuccamaglio in 1836:—'By the Davidsbund is figured an intellectual brotherhood which ramifies widely, and I hope may bear golden fruit.' He brings in the brethren, who are not actually himself, from time to time in the critical discussions; and the way in which he contrives to make this motley troupe of romantic forms live and move before the eyes of the reader is really quite magical. He could say with justice:—'We are now living a romance the like of which has perhaps never been written in any book.' We meet with a Jonathan, who may perhaps stand for Schunke (on another occasion however Schumann designates himself by this name); a Fritz Friedrich, probably meant for Lyser the painter, a lover of music; Serpentin is Carl Banck, a clever composer of songs, who at the outset was one of his most zealous and meritorious fellow-workers; Gottschalk Wedel is Anton von Zuccamaglio [App. p.791 "Zuccalmagio"], then living in Warsaw, who had made a name by his collection of German and foreign 'Volkslieder'; Chiara is of course Clara Wieck, and Zilia (apparently shortened from Cecilia) is probably the same. Felix Mendelssohn appears under the name of Felix Meritis, and the name Walt occurs once (in 1836, 'Aus den Büchern der Davidsbündler,' ii. Tanzlitteratur). It cannot be asserted that any particular person was meant, still his direct reference to Jean Paul's ​'Flegeljahre' is interesting. There is also a certain Julius among the 'Davidsbündler,' probably Julius Knorr. The name occurs in Schumann's first essay on music, 'Ein opus ii.' This is not included in the 'Neue Zeitschrift,' but appears in No. 49 of the 'Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung' for 1831 (then edited by Fink). The editor has prefixed a note to the effect that 'it is by a young man, a pupil of the latest school, who has given his name,' and contrasts it with the anonymous work of a reviewer of the old school discussing the same piece of music. The contrast is indeed striking, and the imaginative flights of enthusiastic young genius look strange enough among the old-world surroundings of the rest of the paper.
Schumann placed this critique—which deals with Chopin's variations on 'La ci darem'—at the beginning of his collected writings, which he published towards the close of his life ('Gesammelte Schriften,' 4 vols. GeorgWigand, Leipzig, 1854). It is a good example of the tone which he adopted in the 'Neue Zeitschrift.' His fellow-workers fell more or less into the same key, not from servility, but because they were all young men, and because the reaction against the Philistine style of criticism was just then in the air. This may be plainly detected, for instance, in a critique written by Wieck for the periodical called 'Cecilia,' on Chopin's airs with variations, and which is indeed fanciful enough. Thus it is easy to understand that the total novelty of the style of writing of the 'Neue Zeitschrift' should have attracted attention to music; the paper soon obtained a comparatively large circulation; and as, besides the charm of novelty and style, it offered a variety of instructive and entertaining matter, and discussed important subjects earnestly and cleverly, the interest of the public was kept up, and indeed constantly increased from year to year. The influence exerted by Schumann on musical art in Germany through the medium of this paper, cannot but be regarded as very important.
It has been sometimes said that Schumann's literary labours must have done him mischief, by taking up time and energy which might have been better employed in composition. But this view seems to me untenable. Up to the period at which we have now arrived, Schumann, on his own statement, had merely dreamed away his life at the piano. His tendency to self-concentration, his shyness, and his independent circumstances, placed him in danger of never achieving that perfect development of his powers which is possible only by vigorous exercise. Now the editing of a journal is an effectual remedy for dreaming; and when, at the beginning of 1835, he became sole editor, however much he may have felt the inexorable necessity of satisfying his readers week after week, and of keeping his aim constantly in view, it was no doubt a most beneficial exercise for his will and energies. He was conscious of this, or he certainly would not have clung to the paper with such affection and persistency; and it is a matter of fact that the period of his happiest and most vigorous creativeness coincides pretty nearly with that during which he was engaged on the 'Zeitschrift.' Hence, to suppose that his literary work was any drawback to his artistic career is an error, though it is true that as he gradually discovered the inexhaustible fertility of his creative genius, he sometimes complained that the details of an editor's work were a burthen to him. Besides, the paper was the medium by which Schumann was first brought into contact and intercourse with the most illustrious artists of his time; and living as he did apart from all the practically musical circles of Leipzig, it was almost the only link between himself and the contemporary world.
Nor must we overlook the fact that certain peculiar gifts of Schumann's found expression in his writings on musical subjects, gifts which would otherwise scarcely have found room for display. His poetic talent was probably neither rich enough nor strong enough for the production of large independent poems; but, on the other hand, it was far too considerable to be condemned to perpetual silence. In his essays and critiques, which must be regarded rather as poetic flights and sympathetic interpretations than as examples of incisive analysis, his poetical gift found a natural outlet, and literature is by so much the richer for them. Nay, it is a not unreasonable speculation whether, if his imaginative powers had not found this vent they might not have formed a disturbing and marring element in his musical creations. Even as it is, poetical imagery plays an important part in Schumann's music, though without seriously overstepping the permissible limits. This too we may safely say, that in spite of his silent and self-contained nature, there was in Schumann a vein of the genuine agitator, in the best and noblest sense of the word; he was possessed by the conviction that the development of German art, then in progress, had not yet come to its final term, and that a new phase of its existence was at hand. Throughout his writings we find this view beautifully and poetically expressed, as for instance, 'Consciously or unconsciously a new and as yet undeveloped school is being founded on the basis of the Beethoven-Schubert romanticism, a school which we may venture to expect will mark a special epoch in the history of art. Its destiny seems to be to usher in a period which will nevertheless have many links to connect it with the past century.' Or again: 'A rosy light is dawning in the sky; whence it cometh I know not; but in any case, O youth, make for the light.'
To rouse fresh interest and make use of that already existing for the advancement of this new movement was one of his deepest instincts, and this he largely accomplished by means of his paper. From his pen we have articles on almost all the most illustrious composers of his generation—Mendelssohn, Taubert, Chopin, Hiller, Heller, Henselt, Sterndale-Bennett, Gade, Kirchner, and Franz, as well as Johannes Brahms, undoubtedly the most remarkable composer of the generation after Schumann. On some he first threw the ​light of intelligent and enthusiastic literary sympathy; others he was actually the first to introduce to the musical world; and even Berlioz, a Frenchman, he eulogised boldly and successfully, recognising in him a champion of the new idea. By degrees he would naturally discern that he had thus prepared the soil for the reception of his own works. He felt himself in close affinity with all these artists, and was more and more confirmed in his conviction that he too had something to say to the world that it had not heard before. 'If you only knew,' he wrote in 1836 to Moscheles in London, 'how I feel, as though I had reached but the lowest bough of the tree of heaven; and could hear overhead, in hours of sacred loneliness, songs, some of which I may yet reveal to those I love—you surely would not deny me an encouraging word.' In the Zeitschrift he must have been aware that he controlled a power which would serve to open a shorter route for his own musical productions. 'If the publisher were not afraid of the editor, the world would hear nothing of me—perhaps to the world's advantage. And yet the black heads of the printed notes are very pleasant to behold.' 'To give up the paper would involve the loss of all the reserve force which every artist ought to have if he is to produce easily and freely.'
So he wrote in 1836 and 1837. But at the same time we must emphatically contradict the suggestion that Schumann used his paper for selfish ends. His soul was too entirely noble and his ideal aims too high to have any purpose in view but the advancement of art; and it was only in so far as his own interests were inseparable from those of his whole generation, that he would ever have been capable of forwarding the fortunes of his own works. The question even whether, and in what manner, his own works should be discussed in the Neue Zeitschrift he always treated with the utmost tact. In one of his letters he clearly expresses his principles on the subject as follows: 'I am, to speak frankly, too proud to attempt to influence Härtel through Fink (editor of the 'Allgemeine mus. Zeitung'); and I hate, at all times, any mode of instigating public opinion by the artist himself. What is strong enough works its own way.'
His efforts for the good cause indeed went beyond essay-writing and composing. Extracts from a note-book published by Wasielewski prove that he busied himself with a variety of plans for musical undertakings of general utility. Thus he wished to compile lives of Beethoven and of Bach, with a critique of all their works, and a biographical dictionary of living musicians, on the same plan. He desired that the relations of operatic composers and managers should be regulated by law. He wished to establish an agency for the publication of musical works, so that composers might derive greater benefit from their publications, and gave his mind to a plan for founding a Musical Union in Saxony, with Leipzig as its head-quarters, to be the counterpart of Schilling's National German Union (Deutschen National Verein fur Musik).
In the first period of his editorship, before he had got into the way of easily mastering his day's labour, and when the regular round of work had still the charm of novelty, it was of course only now and then that he had leisure, or felt in the mood, for composing. Two great pianoforte works date from 1834 (the 'Carnaval,' op. 9, and the 'Etudes Symphoniques,' op. 13), but in 1835 nothing was completed. After this, however, Schumann's genius began again to assert itself, and in the years 1836 to 1839 he composed that splendid set of pianoforte works of the highest excellence, on which a considerable part of his fame rests; viz. the great Fantasia (op. 17), the F minor Sonata (op. 14), Fantasiestücke (op. 12), Davidsbündlertänze, Novelletten, Kinderscenen, Kreisleriana, Humoreske, Faschingsschwank, Romanzen, and others. The fount of his creative genius flowed forth ever clearer and more abundantly. 'I used to rack my brains for a long time,' writes he on March 15, 1839, 'but now I scarcely ever scratch out a note. It all comes from within, and I often feel as if I could go playing straight on without ever coming to an end.' The influence of Schumann the author on Schumann the composer may often be detected. Thus the 'Davidsbündler' come into his music, and the composition which bears their name was originally entitled 'Davidsbündler dances for the Pianoforte, dedicated to Walther von Goethe by Florestan and Eusebius.' The title of the F♯ minor Sonata, op. 11, which was completed in 1835, runs thus: 'Pianoforte Sonata. Dedicated to Clara by Florestan and Eusebius.' In the 'Carnaval,' a set of separate and shorter pieces with a title to each, the names of Florestan and Eusebius occur again, as do those of Chiarina (the diminutive of Clara), and Chopin; the whole concluding with a march of the Davidsbündler against the Philistines.
The reception of Schumann's works by the critics was most favourable and encouraging, but the public was repelled by their eccentricity and originality; and it was not till after the appearance of the 'Kinderscenen' (1839) that they began to be appreciated. Ops. 1 and 2 actually had the honour of a notice in the Vienna 'Musikalische Zeitung' of 1832, by no less a person than Grillparzer the poet. Fink designedly took hardly any notice of Schumann in the 'Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung.' But Liszt wrote a long, discriminating, and very favourable article in the 'Gazette Musicale' of 1837 upon the Impromptus (op. 5), and the Sonatas in F♯ minor and F minor. Moscheles wrote very sympathetically on the two sonatas in the 'Neue Zeitschrift für Musik' itself (vols 5 and 6), and some kind words of recognition of Schumann's genius were published subsequently from his diary (Moscheles's 'Leben,' Leipzig, 1873, vol. ii. p. 15; English translation by A. D. Coleridge, vol. ii. p. 19, 20). Other musicians, though not expressing their sentiments publicly, continued to hold aloof from him. Hauptmann at that time calls Schumann's pianoforte compositions 'pretty and curious little things, all wanting in proper ​solidity, but otherwise interesting.' (See Hauptmann's Letters to Hauser, Leipzig, 1871, vol. i. p. 255.)
In October 1835 the musical world of Leipzig was enriched by the arrival of Mendelssohn. It was already in a flourishing state: operas, concerts, and sacred performances alike were of great excellence, and well supported by the public. But although the soil was well prepared before Mendelssohn's arrival, it was he who raised Leipzig to the position of the most musical town of Germany. The extraordinarily vigorous life that at once grew up there under the influence of his genius, drawing to itself from far and near the most important musical talent of the country, has shown itself to be of so enduring a character that even at the present day its influences are felt. Schumann too, who had long felt great respect for Mendelssohn, was drawn into his circle. On Oct. 4, 1835, Mendelssohn conducted his first concert in the Gewandhaus; the day before this there was a musical gathering at the Wiecks', at which both Mendelssohn and Schumann were present, and it seems to have been on this occasion that the two greatest musicians of their time first came into close personal intercourse. (Moscheles's 'Leben,' i. 301; English translation, i. 322.) On Oct. 5, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Moscheles, Banck, and a few others, dined together. In the afternoon of the 6th there was again music at Wieck's house; Moscheles, Clara Wieck, and L. Rakemann from Bremen, played Bach's D minor Concerto for three claviers, Mendelssohn putting in the orchestral accompaniments on a fourth piano. Schumann, who was also present, writes in the 'Zeitschrift,' 'It was splendid to listen to.' Moscheles had come over from Hamburg, where he was staying on a visit, to give a concert in Leipzig. Schumann had already been in correspondence with him, but this was the first opportunity he had enjoyed of making the personal acquaintance of the man whose playing had so delighted him in Carlsbad when a boy of 9. Moscheles describes him as 'a retiring but interesting young man,' and the F♯ minor Sonata, played to him by Clara Wieck, as 'very laboured, difficult, and somewhat intricate, although interesting.'
A livelier intimacy, so far as Schumann was concerned, soon sprang up between him and Mendelssohn. When Mendelssohn had to go to Düsseldorf in May 1836, to the first performance of 'St. Paul' at the Niederrheinische Musikfest, Schumann even intended to go with him, and was ready months beforehand, though when the time arrived he was prevented from going. They used to like to dine together, and gradually an interesting little circle was formed around them, including among others Ferdinand David, whom Mendelssohn had brought to Leipzig as leader of his orchestra. In the early part of January 1837 Mendelssohn and Schumann used in this way to meet every day and interchange ideas, so far as Schumann's silent temperament would allow. Subsequently when Mendelssohn was kept more at home by his marriage, this intercourse became rarer. Schumann was by nature unsociable, and at this time there were outward circumstances which rendered solitude doubly attractive to him. Ferdinand Hiller, who spent the winter of 1839–40 in Leipzig with Mendelssohn, relates that Schumann was at that time living the life of a recluse and scarcely ever came out of his room. Mendelssohn and Schumann felt themselves drawn together by mutual appreciation. The artistic relations between the two great men were not as yet, however, thoroughly reciprocal. Schumann admired Mendelssohn to the point of enthusiasm. He declared him to be the best musician then living, said that he looked up to him as to a high mountain-peak, and that even in his daily talk about art some thought at least would be uttered worthy of being graven in gold. And when he mentions him in his writings, it is in a tone of enthusiastic admiration, which shows in the best light Schumann's fine ideal character, so remarkable for its freedom from envy. And his opinion remained unaltered: in 1842 he dedicated his three string quartets to Mendelssohn, and in the 'Album für die Jugend' there is a little piano piece called 'Erinnerung,' dated Nov. 4, 1847, which shows with eloquent simplicity how deeply he felt the early death of his friend. It is well known how he would be moved out of his quiet stillness if he heard any disparaging expression used of Mendelssohn. Mendelssohn, on the contrary, at first only saw in Schumann the man of letters and the art-critic. Like most productive musicians, he had a dislike to such men as a class, however much he might love and value single representatives, as was really the case with regard to Schumann. From this point of view must be regarded the expressions which he makes use of now and then in letters concerning Schumann as an author. (See Mendelssohn's 'Briefe,' ii. 116; Lady Wallace's translation ii. 97; and Hiller's 'Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy,' Cologne, 1878, p. 64.) If they sound somewhat disparaging, we must remember that it is not the personal Mendelssohn speaking against the personal Schumann, but rather the creative artist speaking against the critic, always in natural opposition to him. Indeed it is obviously impossible to take such remarks in a disadvantageous sense, as Schumann quite agreed with Mendelssohn on the subject of criticism. One passage in his writings is especially remarkable in this respect. He is speaking of Chopin's pianoforte concerto, and Florestan exclaims 'What is a whole year of a musical paper compared to a concerto by Chopin? What is a magister's rage compared to the poetic frenzy? What are ten complimentary addresses to the editor compared to the Adagio in the second Concerto? And believe me, Davidites, I should not think you worth the trouble of talking to, did I not believe you capable of composing such works as those you write about, with the exception of a few like this concerto. Away ​with your musical journals! It should be the highest endeavour of a just critic to render himself wholly unnecessary; the best discourse on music is silence. Why write about Chopin? Why not create at first hand—play, write, and compose?' ('Gesammelte Schriften,' i. 276; Engl. trans, in 'Music and Musicians,' series i. p. 205.) True, this impassioned outburst has to be moderated by Eusebius. But consider the significance of Schumann's writing thus in his own journal about the critic's vocation! It plainly shows that he only took it up as an artist, and occasionally despised it. But with regard to Schumann's place in art, Mendelssohn did not, at that time at all events, consider it a very high one, and he was not alone in this opinion. It was shared, for example, by Spohr and Hauptmann. In Mendelssohn's published letters there is no verdict whatever on Schumann's music. The fact however remains that in Schumann's earlier pianoforte works he felt that the power or the desire for expression in the greater forms was wanting, and this he said in conversation. He soon had reason to change his opinion, and afterwards expressed warm interest in his friend's compositions. Whether he ever quite entered into the individualities of Schumann's music may well be doubted; their natures were too dissimilar. To a certain extent the German nation has recovered from one mistake in judgment; the tendency to elevate Schumann above Mendelssohn was for a very long time unmistakable. Latterly their verdict has become more just, and the two are now recognised as composers of equal greatness.
Schumann's constant intimacy in Wieck's house had resulted in a tender attachment to his daughter Clara, now grown up. So far as we know it was in the spring of 1836 that this first found any definite expression. His regard was reciprocated, and in the summer of the following year he preferred his suit formally to her father. Wieck however did not favour it; possibly he entertained loftier hopes for his gifted daughter. At any rate he was of opinion that Schumann's means and prospects were too vague and uncertain to warrant his setting up a home of his own. Schumann seems to have acknowledged the justice of this hesitation, for in 1838 he made strenuous efforts to find a new and wider sphere of work. With the full consent of Clara Wieck he decided on settling in Vienna, and bringing out his musical periodical in that city. The glory of a great epoch still cast a light over the musical life of the Austrian capital—the epoch when Gluck, Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert were living and working there. In point of fact, all genuine music had vanished even during Beethoven's lifetime, and had given way to a trivial and superficial taste. Rossini and his followers were paramount in opera; in orchestral music there were the waltzes of Strauss and Lanner; and in vocal music the feeble sentimentalities of Proch and his fellow-composers. So far as solo playing was concerned, the fourth decade of the century saw it at its highest pitch of executive brilliancy, and its lowest of purpose and feeling—indeed it may be comprehensively designated as the epoch of Thalberg. Thus Schumann would have found in Vienna ample opportunity for doing good work, for the Viennese public was still as ever the most responsive in the world, and one to justify sanguine hopes. Schumann effected his move with the assistance of Professor Joseph Fischhof, his colleague in the paper; settling himself in Oct. 1838 in the Schönlaterngasse, No. 679. Oswald Lorenz edited the 'Zeitschrift' as Schumann's deputy, and for a time it was still to be issued in Leipzig. Schumann hoped to be able to bring it out in Vienna by Jan. 1839, and made every effort to obtain the prompt permission of the authorities, as well as the support of influential persons for himself and his journal. But the consent of the censor's office and the police were long withheld; and he was required to secure the co-operation of an Austrian publisher, in itself a great difficulty. It is hard to believe that in the great city of Vienna no strictly musical newspaper then existed, and that a small catalogue, the 'Allgemeine musikalischer Anzeiger,' published weekly by Tobias Haslinger, and almost exclusively devoted to the business interests of his firm, was the only publication which could pretend to the name. But the publishers were either too indolent or too timid to attempt any new enterprise, and sought to throw impediments in Schumann's way.
His courage and hopefulness were soon much reduced. The superficially kind welcome he met everywhere could not conceal the petty strife of coteries, the party spirit and gossip of a society which might have been provincial. The public, though keenly alive to music, was devoid of all critical taste. 'He could not get on with these people,' he writes to Zuccamaglio as early as Oct. 19, 1838; their utter insipidity was at times too much for him, and while he had hoped that on its appearance in Vienna the 'Zeitschrift' would have received a fresh impulse, and become a medium of intercourse between North and South, he was forced as early as December to say: 'The paper is evidently falling off, though it must be published here; this vexes me much.' Sterndale Bennett, who was residing in Leipzig during 1837–8, and who, Schumann hoped, would settle with him in Vienna, was obliged to relinquish his intention; and in Vienna itself he sought in vain for an artist after his own heart, 'one who should not merely play tolerably well on one or two instruments, but who should be a whole man, and understand Shakespeare and Jean Paul.' At the same time he did not abandon the scheme of making a wide and influential circle of activity for himself; he was unwilling to return to Leipzig, and when in March 1839 he made up his mind to do so, after trying in vain to carry on the journal in Vienna, it was with the intention of remaining there but a short time. He indulged in a dream of going to England never to return! What the anticipations could have been that led him tocherish such an idea we know not; perhaps his friendship for Bennett may have led to it; but, ​in point of fact, he never set foot on English ground.
As far, therefore, as making a home for himself went, his half-year's stay in Vienna was without result. But without doubt Schumann received impulses and incitements towards further progress as a musician through his acquaintance with Vienna life. A work which is to be referred directly to this influence is the 'Faschingsschwank aus Wien' (op. 26, published by Spina in 1841). In the first movement, which seems to depict various scenes of a masquerade, there springs up quite unnoticed the melody of the 'Marseillaise' (p. 7, bar 40 etc.; Pauer's edition, vol. iii. p. 596, l. i), at that time strictly forbidden in Vienna. Schumann, who had been much worried by the government officials on account of his newspaper, took this opportunity of playing off a good-tempered joke upon them.
It was very natural that, with his enthusiastic admiration for Schubert, he should take pains to follow out the traces of that master, who had now been dead just ten years. He visited the Wahring cemetery, where Schubert is buried, divided by a few intervening graves from Beethoven. On the tomb of the latter a steel pen was lying; this Schumann took possession of, and being always fond of symbolical associations and mystic connections, used on very special occasions. With it he wrote his Symphony in B♭ (op. 38), and the notice of Schubert's C major Symphony, which is found in the 'Zeitschrift' for 1840. And here we encounter one of the chief benefits which Schumann received from his stay in Vienna. He visited Franz Schubert's brother Ferdinand, who showed him the artistic remains of his too early lost brother, and among them the score of the C major Symphony. This he had composed in March 1828, but never lived to hear it performed entire, and no one had since cared to take any trouble about it. Schumann arranged for the score to be sent to Leipzig, and there on March 21, 1839, it was performed for the first time under Mendelssohn's direction. Its success was very striking, and was of great influence on the more thorough and widespread appreciation of Schubert's genius. Schumann retained pleasant memories of Vienna throughout his life, in spite of the little notice he attracted on this occasion, and the meagre success of a concert consisting of his own works, which he gave with his wife on a subsequent visit in the winter of 1846. In the summer of 1847 he even wished to apply for a vacant post on the board of direction at the Conservatorium, but when the year 1848 came, he was extremely glad that the plan had come to nothing.
At the beginning of April 1839 Schumann returned to his old life in Leipzig. He devoted himself with new zest to the interests of the journal, and delighted in once more being associated with prominent and sympathetic musicians. In the summer he paid a short visit to Berlin, which pleased and interested him from its contrast to Vienna.
Unfortunately Wieck's opinion as to the match between Schumann and his daughter remained unchanged, and his opposition to it became even stronger and more firmly rooted. Since persuasion was unavailing, Schumann was forced to call in the assistance of the law, and Wieck had to account for his refusal in court. The case dragged on for a whole year, but the final result was that Wieck's objections to the marriage were pronounced to be trivial and without foundation. A sensitive nature such as Schumann's must have been deeply pained by these difficulties, and the long-delayed decision must have kept him in disastrous suspense. His letters show signs of this. For the rest, his outward circumstances had so much improved, that he could easily afford to make a home without the necessity of such a round of work as he had attempted in Vienna. 'We are young,' he writes on Feb. 19, 1840, 'and have hands, strength, and reputation; and I have a little property that brings in 500 thalers a year. The profits of the paper amount to as much again, and I shall get well paid for my compositions. Tell me now if there can be real cause for fear.' One thing alone made him pause for a time. His bride-elect was decorated with different titles of honour from the courts at which she had played in her concert-tours. He himself had, it is true, been latterly made a member of several musical societies, but that was not enough. In the beginning of 1840 he executed a scheme which he had cherished since 1838, and applied to the university of Jena for the title of Doctor of Philosophy. Several cases in which the German universities had granted the doctor's diploma to musicians had lately come under Schumann's notice; for instance the university of Leipzig had given the honorary degree to Marschner in 1835, and to Mendelssohn in 1836, and these may have suggested the idea to him. Schumann received the desired diploma on Feb. 24, 1840. As he had wished, the reason assigned for its bestowal is his well-known activity not only as a critical and æsthetic writer, but as a creative musician. At last, after a year of suspense, doubts, and disagreements, the marriage of Robert Schumann with Clara Wieck took place on Sept. 12, 1840, in the church of Schönefeld, near Leipzig.
The 'Davidsbündlertanze,' previously mentioned, bore on the title-page of the first edition an old verse—
In all und jeder Zeit Verknüpft sich Lust und Leid: Bleibt fromm in Lust, und seyd Beim Leid mit Muth bereit;
which may be rendered as follows:
Hand in hand we always see Joy allied to misery: In rejoicing pious be, And bear your woes with bravery.
And when we observe that the two first bars ​of the first piece are borrowed from a composition by Clara Wieck (op. 6, no. 5), we understand the allusion. Schumann himself admits that his compositions for the piano written during the period of his courtship reveal much of his personal experience and feelings, and his creative work in 1840 is of a very striking character. Up to this time, with the exception of the Symphony in G minor, which has remained unknown, he had written only for the piano; now he suddenly threw himself into vocal composition, and the stream of his invention rushed at once into this new channel with such force that in that single year he wrote above one hundred songs. Nor was it in number alone, but in intrinsic value also, that in this department the work of this year was the most remarkable of all Schumann's life. It is not improbable that his stay in Vienna had some share in this sudden rush into song, and in opening Schumann's mind to the charms of pure melody. But still, when we look through the words of his songs, it is clear that here more than anywhere, love was the prompter—love that had endured so long a struggle, and at last attained the goal of its desires. This is confirmed by the 'Myrthen' (op. 25), which he dedicated to the lady of his choice, and the twelve songs from Rückert's 'Liebesfrühling'—Springtime of Love—(op. 37), which were written conjointly by the two lovers. 'I am now writing nothing but songs great and small,' he says to a friend on Feb. 19, 1840; 'I can hardly tell you how delightful it is to write for the voice as compared with instrumental composition, and what a stir and tumult I feel within me when I sit down to it. I have brought forth quite new things in this line.' With the close of 1840 he felt that he had worked out the vein of expression in the form of song with pianoforte accompaniment, almost to perfection. Some one expressed a hope that after such a beginning a promising future lay before him as a song-writer, but Schumann answered, 'I cannot venture to promise that I shall produce anything further in the way of songs, and I am satisfied with what I have done.' And he was right in his firm opinion as to the peculiar character of this form of music. 'In your essay on song-writing,' he says to a colleague in the 'Zeitschrift,' 'it has somewhat distressed me that you should have placed me in the second rank. I do not ask to stand in the first, but I think I have some pretensions to a place of my own.'
As far as anything human can be, the marriage was perfectly happy. Besides their genius, both husband and wife had simple domestic tastes, and were strong enough to bear the admiration of the world without becoming egotistical. They lived for one another, and for their children. He created and wrote for his wife, and in accordance with her temperament; while she looked upon it as her highest privilege to give to the world the most perfect interpretation of his works, or at least to stand as mediatrix between him and his audience, and to ward off all disturbing or injurious impressions from his sensitive soul, which day by day became more and more irritable. Now that he found perfect contentment in his domestic relations, he withdrew more than ever from intercourse with others, and devoted himself exclusively to his family and his work. The deep joy of his married life produced the direct result of a mighty advance in his artistic progress. Schumann's most beautiful works in the larger forms date almost exclusively from the years 1841—5.
In 1841 he turned his attention to the Symphony, as he had done in the previous year to the Song, and composed in this year alone, no fewer than three symphonic works. The B♭ Symphony (op. 38) was performed as early as March 31, 1841, at a concert given by Clara Schumann in the Gewandhaus at Leipzig. Mendelssohn conducted it, and performed the task with so much zeal and care as truly to delight his friend. The other two orchestral works were given at a concert on Dec. 6 of the same year, but did not meet with so much success as the former one. Schumann thought that the two together were too much at once; and they had not the advantage of Mendelssohn's able and careful direction, for he was spending that winter in Berlin. Schumann put these two works away for a time, and published the B♭ Symphony alone. The proper title of one of these was 'Symphonistische Phantasie,' but it was performed under the title of 'Second Symphony,' and, in 1851, the instrumentation having been revised and completed, was published as the 4th Symphony (D minor, op. 120). The other was brought out under an altered arrangement, which he made in 1845, with the title 'Ouverture, Scherzo, et Finale' (op. 52); and it is said that Schumann originally intended to call it 'Sinfonietta.' Beside these orchestral works the first movement of the Pianoforte Concerto in A minor was written in 1841. It was at first intended to form an independent piece with the title of 'Fantasie.' As appears from a letter of Schumann's to David, it was once rehearsed by the Gewandhaus orchestra in the winter of 1841–2. Schumann did not write the last two movements which complete the concerto until 1845.
The year 1842 was devoted to chamber music. The three string quartets deserve to be first mentioned, since the date of their composition can be fixed with the greatest certainty. Although Schumann was unused to this style of writing, he composed the quartets in about a month—a certain sign that his faculties were as clear as his imagination was rich. In the autograph, after most of the movements is written the date of their completion. The Adagio of the first quartet bears the date June 21, 42; the finale was 'finished on St. John's day, June 24, 1842, in Leipzig.' In the second quartet the second movement is dated July 2, 1842, and the last July 5, 1842, Leipzig. The third is dated as follows: first movement July 18, second July 20, third July 21, and the fourth ​Leipzig, July 22, all of the same year. Thus the two last movements took the composer only one day each. These quartets, which are dedicated to Mendelssohn, were at once taken up by the Leipzig musicians with great interest. The praise bestowed upon them by Ferdinand David called forth a letter from Schumann, addressed to him, which merits quotation, as showing how modest and how ideal as an artist Schumann was:—'Härtel told me how very kindly you had spoken to him about my quartets, and, coming from you, it gratified me exceedingly. But I shall have to do better yet, and I feel, with each new work, as if I ought to begin all over again from the beginning.' In the beginning of October of this year the quartets were played at David's house; Hauptinann was present, and expressed his surprise at Schumann's talent, which, judging only from the earlier pianoforte works, he had fancied not nearly so great. With each new work Schumann now made more triumphant way—at all events in Leipzig. The same year witnessed the production of that work to which he chiefly owes his fame throughout Europe—the Quintet for Pianoforte and Strings (op. 44). The first public performance took place in the Gewandhaus on Jan. 8, 1843, his wife, to whom it is dedicated, taking the pianoforte part. Berlioz, who came to Leipzig in 1843, and there made Schumann's personal acquaintance, heard the quintet performed, and carried the fame of it to Paris. Besides the quintet, Schumann wrote, in 1842, the Pianoforte Quartet (op. 47) and a pianoforte Trio. The trio, however, remained unpublished for eight years, and then appeared as op. 88, under the title of 'Phantasiestücke for Pianoforte, Violin, and Violoncello.' The quartet too was laid aside for a time; it was first publicly performed on Dec. 8, 1844, by Madame Schumann, in the Gewandhaus, David of course taking the violin part, and Niels W. Gade, who was directing the Gewandhaus concerts that winter, playing the viola.
With the year 1843 came a total change of style. The first works to appear were the Variations for two pianos (op. 46), which are now so popular, and to which Mendelssohn may have done some service by introducing them to the public, in company with Madame Schumann, on Aug. 19, 1843. The principal work of the year, however, was 'Paradise and the Peri,' a grand composition for solo-voices, chorus, and orchestra, to a text adapted from Moore's 'Lalla Rookh.' The enthusiasm created by this work at its first performance (Dec. 4, 1843), conducted by the composer himself, was so great that it had to be repeated a week afterwards, on Dec. 11, and on the 23rd of the same month it was performed in the Opera House at Dresden. It will be easily believed that from this time Schumann's fame was firmly established in Germany, although it took twenty years more to make his work widely and actually popular. Having been so fortunate in his first attempt in a branch of art hitherto untried by him, he felt induced to undertake another work of the same kind, and in 1844 began writing the second of his two most important choral works, namely, the music to Goethe's 'Faust.' For some time however the work consisted only of four numbers. His uninterrupted labours had so affected his health, that in this year he was obliged for a time to forego all exertion of the kind.
The first four years of his married life were passed in profound retirement, but very rarely interrupted. In the beginning of 1842 he accompanied his wife on a concert-tour to Hamburg, where the B♭ Symphony was performed. Madame Schumann then proceeded alone to Copenhagen, while her husband returned to his quiet retreat at Leipzig. In the summer of the same year the two artists made an excursion into Bohemia, and at Königswart were presented to Prince Metternich, who invited them to Vienna. Schumann at first took some pleasure in these tours, but soon forgot it in the peace and comfort of domestic lite, and it cost his wife great trouble to induce him to make a longer journey to Russia in the beginning of 1844. Indeed she only succeeded by declaring that she would make the tour alone if he would not leave home. 'How unwilling I am to move out of my quiet round,' he wrote to a friend, 'you must not expect me to tell you. I cannot think of it without the greatest annoyance.' However, he made up his mind to it, and they started on Jan. 26. His wife gave concerts in Mitau, Riga, Petersburg and Moscow; and the enthusiasm with which she was everywhere received attracted fresh attention to Schumann's works, the constant aim of her noble endeavours. Schumann himself, when once he had parted from home, found much to enjoy in a journey which was so decidedly and even brilliantly successful. At St. Petersburg he was received with undiminished cordiality by his old friend Henselt, who had made himself a new home there. At a soirée at Prince Oldenburg's Henselt played with Madame Schumann her husband's Variations for two pianos. The B♭ Symphony was also performed under Schumann's direction at a soirée given by the Counts Joseph and Michael Wielhorsky, highly esteemed musical connoisseurs; and it is evident that the dedication of Schumann's PF. Quartet (op. 47) to a Count Wielhorsky was directly connected with this visit.
In June they were once more in Leipzig, and so agreeable were the reminiscences of the journey that Schumann was ready at once with a fresh plan of the same kind—this time for a visit to England with his wife in the following year; not, indeed, as he had once intended, with a view to permanent residence, but merely that she might win fresh laurels as a player, and he make himself known as a composer. He proposed to conduct parts of 'Paradise and the Peri' in London, and anticipated a particular success for it because the work 'had as it were sprung from English soil, and was one of the sweetest flowers of English verse.' On June 27, 1844, he writes to Moscheles concerning the project, which had the full support of Mendelssohn; but the scheme ​ultimately came to nothing, chiefly because of the refusal of Buxton, the proprietor of the publishing firm of Ewer & Co., to bring out 'Paradise and the Peri' with English words. Still Schumann, even long after, kept his eye steadily fixed on England. He was delighted at being told that Queen Victoria often listened to his music, and had had the B♭ Symphony played by the private band at Windsor, and he contemplated dedicating his Manfred music (op. 115) to Her Majesty, but the idea was given up.
Instead of going to England, they at length paid a visit to Vienna in the winter of 1846. Here again Schumann conducted his B♭ Symphony, and his wife played his Pianoforte Concerto. This was on Jan. 1, 1847. But the public were perfectly unsympathetic, and justified an earlier utterance of Schumann's that 'The Viennese are an ignorant people and know little of what goes on outside their own city.' Nor were matters much more satisfactory in Berlin, whither they went from Vienna to conduct 'Paradise and the Peri'; while in Prague, where they performed on their way, they met with the warmest reception.
The year 1844 was the last of Schumann's residence in Leipzig; for in October he left the town where he had lived and worked with short intervals for fourteen years, and moved to Dresden. He had given up the editorship of the 'Neue Zeitschrift' in July, and from April 3, 1843, had held a Professor's chair in the Conservatorium, founded at Leipzig by Mendelssohn's exertions, and opened on that date. [See vol. ii. 115, 281 a, 282a.] He was professor of pianoforte-playing and composition; but his reserved nature was little suited to the duties of a teacher, though his name and the example afforded by his work were no doubt highly advantageous to the infant Institution. Schumann had no disciples, properly speaking, either in the Conservatorium or as private pupils. In a letter to David from Dresden he incidentally mentions Carl Ritter as having instruction from him, and as having previously been a pupil of Hiller's; and he writes to Hiller that he has brought young Ritter on a little. But what the style of Schumann's teaching may have been cannot be told; and a single exception only proves the rule.
The move to Dresden seems to have been chiefly on account of Schumann's suffering condition. His nervous affection rendered change of scene absolutely necessary to divert his thoughts. He had overworked himself into a kind of surfeit of music, so much so that his medical attendant forbade his continually hearing it. In the musical world of Leipzig such a prohibition could not be strictly obeyed, but at Dresden it was quite different. 'Here,' he writes to David on Nov. 25, 1844, 'one can get back the old lost longing for music, there is so little to hear! It just suits my condition, for I still suffer very much from my nerves, and everything affects and exhausts me directly.' Accordingly he at first lived in Dresden in the strictest seclusion. A friend sought him out there and found him so changed that he entertained grave fears for his life. On several occasions he tried sea-bathing, but it was long before his health can be said to have radically improved. In February, 1846, after a slight improvement, he again became very unwell, as he did also in the summer of the following year. He observed that he was unable to remember the melodies that occurred to him when composing; the effort of invention fatiguing his mind to such a degree as to impair his memory. As soon as a lasting improvement took place in his health, he again devoted himself wholly to composition. He was now attracted more powerfully than before to complicated contrapuntal forms. The 'Studies' and 'Sketches' for the pedal-piano (ops. 56 and 58), the six fugues on the name of 'Bach' (op. 60), and the four piano fugues (op. 72), owe their existence to this attraction. The greatest work of the years 1845–6 however, was the C major Symphony (op. 61), which Mendelssohn produced at the Gewandhaus in Leipzig, Nov. 5, 1846. Slight intercourse with a few congenial spirits was now gradually resumed. Among those whom he saw was the widow of C. M. v. Weber (the 'Lina' of Weber's letters), whose fine musical feeling was highly valued by Schumann. The first year in Dresden was spent with Ferdinand Hiller, who had been living there since the winter of 1844. Their intercourse gradually grew into a lively and lasting intimacy. When Hiller was getting up subscription concerts in the autumn of 1845, Schumann took an active share in the undertaking. With Richard Wagner, too, then Capellmeister at Dresden, he was on friendly terms. He was much interested in the opera of Tannhäuser, and heard it often, expressing his opinion of it in terms of great though not unqualified praise. But the natures of the two musicians differed too widely to allow of any real sympathy between them. Wagner was always lively, versatile and talkative, while, since Schumann's illness, his former silence and reserve had increased, and even intimate friends, like Moscheles and Lipinski, had to lament that conversation with him was now scarcely possible.
At the end of Schumann's collected works we find a 'Theaterbüchlein' (1847–50) in which are given short notes of the impressions made upon him by certain operas. From this we learn that in 1847 he went comparatively often to the theatre; the reason being that at that time he himself was composing an opera. He had long cherished the idea. So early as Sept. 1, 1842, he writes, 'Do you know what is my morning and evening prayer as an artist? German Opera. There is a field for work.' He concludes a critique of an opera by Heinrich Esser in the number of the 'Zeitschrift' for September 1842 with these significant words,—'It is high time that German composers should give the lie to the reproach that has long lain on them of having been so craven as to leave ​the field in possession of the Italians and French. But under this head there is a word to be said to the German poets also.' In 1844 he composed a chorus and an aria for an opera on Byron's poem of the Corsair. The work however went no farther, and the two pieces still remain unpublished. He also corresponded with his friend Zuccalmaglio as to the subject for an opera, which he wished to find ready on his return from Russia; and made notes on more than twenty different subjects of all kinds, periods and nationalities; but none of these were found suitable, and circumstances led to the abandonment of the project. At length, in 1847, he decided on the legend of Ste. Genevieve. The two versions of the story contained in the tragedies of Tieck and Hebbel (principally that of Hebbel) were to serve as the basis of the text. The treatment of the words he persuaded Robert Reinick, the poet, who had been living in Dresden since 1844, to undertake. Reinick however failed to satisfy him, and Hebbel, who came to Dresden at the end of July 1847, could not say that he thought it a satisfactory text, though he declined to assist in remedying the deficiencies and bringing it into the desired form. This however was from no lack of interest in Schumann himself. On the contrary Hebbel always preserved the highest esteem for him, and subsequently dedicated to him his drama of 'Michel Angelo,' accepting in return from Schumann the dedication of his 'Nachtlied' (op. 108). But it was repugnant to him to see his work mutilated in the way which Schumann considered necessary for an opera. The composer was at last obliged to trust to his own poetic powers and construct a text himself from those already mentioned.
By August 1848 the music for the opera was so far complete that Schumann thought he might take steps for its performance. His first thought was of the theatre at Leipzig, where he knew that he was most warmly remembered. Wirsing was at that time the director, Julius Rietz the conductor, and the opera was to have been brought out in the spring of 1849, but it came to nothing. In June, when the preparations were to have begun, Schumann was detained by domestic circumstances, and the rest of the year slipped away with constant evasions and promises on the part of the director of the theatre. Even the promise, 'on his honour,' that the opera should be performed at the end of February 1850, at latest, was not kept. And so on this his very first attempt at dramatic work, Schumann made acquaintance with the shady side of theatrical management in a way which must have disgusted his upright and honourable spirit. In his indignation, he would have made the director's breach of faith public, by invoking the aid of the law; but his Leipzig friends were happily able to dissuade him from this course. At last, on June 25, 1850, the first representation of 'Genoveva' actually took place under Schumann's own direction. But the time was unfavourable; 'Who,' he writes to Dr. Hermann Härtel,' goes to the theatre in May or June, and not rather into the woods?' However, the number of his admirers in Leipzig was great, and the first opera by so famous a master excited great expectations; the house was full, and the reception by the public, though not enthusiastic, was honourable to the composer. Still, artists and connoisseurs were tolerably unanimous in thinking that Schumann lacked the special genius for writing opera. His almost entire exclusion of recitative was very widely disapproved of. No one but the venerable Spohr, who had attended many of the rehearsals, gave a really favourable verdict upon the work. In his last opera, 'The Crusaders,' Spohr himself had adopted similar methods of making the music follow the plot closely without ever coming to a standstill, and he was naturally delighted to find the same in Schumann's work. After three representations (June 25, 28, 30) 'Genoveva' was laid aside for the time. Schumann, already vexed by the tedious postponements of the first performance, and disappointed by the cold reception of the work, was greatly annoyed by the discussions in the public prints, especially by a critique from Dr. E. Krüger, one of the collaborateurs in the 'Neue Zeitschrift.' A letter from Schumann to Krüger, in stronger terms than might have been expected from him, put an end for ever to their acquaintance.
Schumann derived far more gratification from the reception of his music to 'Faust.' In 1848 he completed the portion he had originally intended to write first, viz. the salvation of Faust, which forms the end of the second part of Goethe's poem. On June 25, 1848, the first performance took place among a limited circle of friends, upon whom it made a deep impression. The most cultivated portion of the audience was of opinion that the music made the meaning of the words clear for the first time, so deeply imbued was the composer with the poet's inmost spirit. As the 100th anniversary of Goethe's birthday was approaching (Aug. 28, 1849) it was decided tc give a festival concert in Dresden, at which this 'Faust' music and Mendelssohn's 'Walpurgisnacht' should form the programme. When the Leipzig people heard of this intention, they would not be behind Dresden, and also got up a performance of the same works on August 29. In Weimar too the 'Faust' music was performed on the same occasion. Schumann was exceedingly delighted that his work had been employed for so special an occasion. He writes to Dr. Härtel; 'I should like to have Faust's cloak, and be able to be everywhere at once, that I might hear it.' In Dresden the success of the work was very considerable, but it made less impression at its first performance in Leipzig. Schumann took this quite calmly. 'I hear different accounts,' says he in a letter, 'of the impression produced by my scenes from Faust; some seem to have been affected, while upon others it made no definite impression. This is what I expected. Perhaps an opportunity may occur in the winter for a repetition of the work, when it is possible that ​I may add some other scenes. This repetition however did not take place in Schumann's lifetime. He fulfilled his scheme of adding several scenes; and in 1853 pre-fixed an overture to the whole work, which was divided into three parts. It was not published complete until two years after his death.
In the meantime, Schumann's health had again improved, as was evident from his augmented creative activity. Indeed his eager desire for work increased in a way which gave rise to great apprehensions. In the year 1849 alone ne produced thirty works, most of them of considerable extent. It had never seemed so easy to him to create ideas and bring them into shape. He composed as he walked or stood, and could not be distracted, even by the most disturbing circumstances. Thus he wrote Mignon's song 'Kennst du das Land' at Kreischa, near Dresden, in the midst of a group of his noisy children. And in a restaurant near the post-office, much frequented by the artistic society of Dresden, where he used to drink his beer in the evening, he would usually sit alone, with his back to the company and his face to the wall, whistling softly to himself, and developing his musical ideas all the time. No preference for any particular form of art can be traced in Schumann's work at this time. Pianoforte works and chamber trios, songs and vocal duets, choruses, choral works with orchestra, concertos with orchestra, compositions for horn, clarinet, oboe, violoncello, or violin, with pianoforte accompaniment, even melodramatic music—all these thronged as it were out of his imagination in wild and strange succession. Among all the beautiful and important works produced at this time, the music to Byron's Manfred deserves especial mention. The first stage performance of it was given by Franz Liszt in Weimar on June 13, 1852. For that occasion the drama was adapted for the stage by Schumann himself, in an arrangement which is printed as a preface to the score of the work. The first performance of the music at a concert took place at Leipzig on March 24, 1859.
Dresden was Schumann's place of residence until 1850. In the latter years of his stay there his outward life was more active than before. No journeys of note were made, it is true, with the exception of those to Vienna and Berlin already mentioned, and a longer expedition undertaken in 1850 to Bremen and Hamburg, where many concerts were given. He avoided the passing disturbance occasioned by the Dresden insurrection of 1849, by leaving the town with his family. Though no revolutionary, like Bichard Wagner, scarcely even a politician, Schumann loved individual liberty and wished others to enjoy it also. But what gave a different aspect to his life as a musician in the last years of his stay in Dresden, was his occupation as a conductor. Ferdinand Hiller had conducted a choral society for men's voices; and when he left Dresden to go to Düsseldorf as municipal director of music, Schumann succeeded him in his post. He conducted the society for some time with great interest, and was glad to find that his capacity for conducting was not so small as he had generally fancied it to be. He was even induced to write a few works for male chorus. Three songs of War and Liberty (Kriegs- und Freiheitslieder, op. 62) and seven songs in canon-form, to words by Rückert (op. 65), were written in 1847, and a grand motet for double chorus of men's voices (op. 93) in 1849. But a nature like Schumann's could not thrive in the atmosphere of a German singing club. He was in all respects too refined for the tone of vulgar comfort, and often even of low sentimentality, which pervades these assemblies, and they could not but be irksome to him. 'I felt myself,' he says, in a letter to Hiller written on April 10, 1849, after his withdrawal, 'out of my element; they were such nice (hübsch) people.' This is even noticeable in his compositions for male chorus; they are not of the right kind, and have in consequence never been much sung. Of greater artistic importance was a society of mixed voices, which was constituted in January 1848, and of which Schumann was asked to take the lead. It was not very large—in 1849 it numbered only 60 or 70 members—but these were efficient, and Schumann was able 'to perform correctly any music he liked with pleasure and delight.' It was this society that gave the first performance of the third part of 'Faust's Salvation' in June 1848, at a private party; Schumann was induced to write many new compositions for them, and they did much service in promoting a knowledge of his music in Dresden by two performances of 'Paradise and the Peri' on Jan. 5 and 12, 1850. They even succeeded in drawing him into social amusements. In August 1848 a general excursion was arranged, in which Schumann took what was, for him, a lively interest. He even invited David and his wife to come over from Leipzig for the occasion, writing, 'Listen; on Sunday week we are going with the choral society for a trip of pleasure and music to Pillnitz. It will be great fun; there will be some pretty women and plenty of singing. How would it be, David, if you were to come too? Much indeed depends upon the weather, but the party will only be put off in case of heavy rain.'
That Schumann, after so successful a beginning in the art of conducting, considered himself fitted to undertake the direction of performances on a larger scale, is evident from the following circumstance. After Mendelssohn's death the Gewandhaus concerts were conducted by Julius Rietz, who until 1847 had been at work in Düsseldorf. In the summer of 1849 a report reached Dresden that Rietz was going to succeed O. Nicolai as royal Capellmeister at Berlin. Schumann thereupon applied for the post of concert director at the Gewandhaus. Dr. Hermann Härtel was to be the medium of communication, and Schumann, with a well-founded expectation that the choice would fall upon him, gave himself up for a time with great pleasure to the idea of becoming the successor of the honoured Mendelssohn. 'It would give me great pleasure,' he wrote, 'if the thing came to pass. I long for ​regular duty, and though I can never forget the last few years, during which I have lived exclusively as a composer, and know that so productive and happy a time may perhaps never be mine again, yet I feel impelled towards a life of active work, and my highest endeavour would be to keep up the renown which the institution has so long enjoyed.' This wish was not realised, for Rietz remained in Leipzig. But Schumann's desire for a more extended field of work as a conductor was to be satisfied in another way in the following year.
In 1850 Hiller gave up his post in Düsseldorf to obey a call to Cologne as Capellmeister to that city. He suggested that Schumann should be his successor, and opened negotiations with him. Some efforts were made to keep him in Dresden and to obtain his appointment as Capellmeister to the King of Saxony; but the attempt was unsuccessful, and Schumann accepted the directorship at Düsseldorf that summer though he left his native place with deep regret, and not without some suspicions as to the condition of music in Düsseldorf, of which he had heard much that was unfavourable from Mendelssohn and Rietz. In his new post he had the direction of a vocal union and of an orchestra, and a number of concerts to conduct in the course of the winter. He arrived at Düsseldorf Sept. 2, 1850, and the first winter concert was in some sort a formal reception of him, since it consisted of the overture to 'Genoveva,' some of his songs, and Part I. of 'Paradise and the Peri.' It was under the direction of Julius Tausch; Schumann himself appearing as conductor for the first time on Oct. 24.
He was very well satisfied with his new sphere of work. The vocal resources, as is the case with all the choirs of the Rhine towns, were admirable; Hiller had cultivated them with special zeal, and he and Rietz had left the orchestra so well drilled that Schumann, for the first time in his life, enjoyed the inestimable advantage of being able to hear everything that he wrote for the orchestra performed at once. The concerts took up no more of his time than he was willing to give, and left him ample leisure for his own work. Chamber music was also attainable, for in J. von Wasielewski there was a good solo violinist on the spot. Schumann and his wife were at once welcomed in Düsseldorf with the greatest respect, and every attention and consideration was shown to them both. It might be said that their position here was one of special ease, and they soon formed a delightful circle of intimate acquaintances. Little as his music was then known in the Rhine-cities, Schumann's advent in person seems to have given a strong impulse to the public feeling for music in Düsseldorf. The interest in the subscription concerts during the winter of 1850 was greater than it had ever been before; and the board of directors was able at the close of the usual series of six concerts, to undertake a second series of three or four. At Schumann's instance one of the winter concerts was entirely devoted to the works of living composers, an idea then perfectly novel, and showing that he had remained faithful to his desire—manifested long before through the Zeitschrift—of facilitating the advancement of young and gifted composers. At first Schumann's direction gave entire satisfaction. If some performances were not perfectly successful, they were compensated for by others of special excellence; and the execution of Beethoven's A major Symphony at the third concert even seemed to shew that he was a born conductor. But it was not so in reality; indeed he was wholly wanting in the real talent for conducting; all who ever saw him conduct or who played under his direction are agreed on this point. Irrespective of the fact that conducting for any length of time tired him out, he had neither the collectedness and prompt presence of mind, nor the sympathetic faculty, nor the enterprising dash, without each of which conducting in the true sense is impossible. He even found a difficulty in starting at a given tempo; nay, he sometimes shrank from giving any initial beat; so that some energetic pioneer would begin without waiting for the signal, and without incurring Schumann's wrath. Besides this, any thorough practice bit by bit with his orchestra, with instructive remarks by the way as to the mode of execution, was impossible to this great artist, who in this respect was a striking contrast to Mendelssohn. He would have a piece played through, and if it did not answer to his wishes, had it repeated. If it went no better the second, or perhaps even a third time, he would be extremely angry at what he considered the clumsiness or even the ill-will of the players; but detailed remarks he never made. Any one knowing his silent nature and his instinctive dislike to contact with the outer world, might certainly have feared from the first that he would find great difficulty in asserting himself as a director of large masses. And as years went on his incapacity for conducting constantly increased, as the issue showed, with the growth of an illness, which, after seeming to have been completely overcome in Dresden, returned in Düsseldorf with increasing gravity. His genius seemed constantly to shrink from the outside world into the depths of his soul. His silence became a universally accepted fact, and to those who saw him for the first time he seemed apathetic. But in fact he was anything rather than that; he would let a visitor talk for a long time on all kinds of subjects without saying a word, and then when the caller rose to leave, 'not to disturb the master longer,' he would discover that Schumann had followed the one-sided 'conversation' with unfailing interest. When sitting for an hour, as he was accustomed of an evening, with friends or acquaintances at the restaurant, if anything was said that touched or pleased him he would give the speaker a radiant, expressive glance, but without a word; and the incessant creative labours to which he gave himself up so long as he was able are the best proof of the rich vitality which constantly flowed ​from the deepest sources of his soul. In the family circle he was a different man; there he could be gay and talkative to a degree that would have surprised a stranger. He loved his children tenderly and was fond of occupying himself with them. The three piano sonatas (op. 118) composed for his daughters Julie, Elise and Marie, the Album for beginners (op. 68); the Children's Ball (op. 130), and other pieces, are touching evidence of the way in which he expressed this feeling in music.
The first great work of the Dusseldorf period was the E♭ Symphony (op. 97), marked by the composer as no. 3, although it is really the fourth of the published ones, the D minor Symphony preceding it in order of composition. If we call the Overture, Scherzo and Finale (op. 52) a symphony too, then the E♭ Symphony must rank as the fifth. It would seem that Schumann had begun to work at it before his change of residence. As soon as he conceived the project of leaving Saxony for the Rhine, he bethought himself of the great musical festival which ever eince 1818 had been held in the lower Rhine districts, and was inspired by the idea of assisting at one of these in the capacity of a composer. He wrote down this great work with its five movements between Nov. 2 and Dec. 9, 1850. He has told us that it was intended to convey the impressions which he received during a visit to Cologne; so that its ordinary name of the 'Rhenish Symphony' may be accepted as correct. It was first performed at Düssefdorf on Feb. 6, 1851, and then at Cologne on Feb. 25, both times under the direction of the composer, but was coldly received on both occasions.
Although Schumann had had no pleasant experiences in connection with the opera 'Genoveva,' he was not to be deterred from making another essay in dramatic composition. In Oct. 1850 he received from Richard Pohl, at that time a student in the Leipzig university, Schiller's 'Bride of Messina' arranged as an opera libretto. Schumann could not make up his mind to set it to music; but in Dec. 1850 and Jan. 1851 he wrote an Overture to the 'Braut von Messina' (op. 100), which showed how much the material of the play had interested him, in spite of his refusal to set it. He inclined to a more cheerful, or even a comic subject, and Goethe's 'Hermann und Dorothea' seemed to him appropriate for an operetta. He consulted several poets concerning the arrangement, and having made out a scheme of treatment, wrote the Overture at Christmas 1851 (op. 136). The work however progressed no farther. He subsequently turned his attention to Auerbach's 'Dorfgeschichten,' but without finding any good material, and no second opera from his pen ever saw the light.
He completed however a number of vocal compositions for the concert-room, in which his taste for dramatic music had free play. A young poet from Chemnitz, Moritz Horn, had sent him a faery poem, which greatly interested him. After many abbreviations and alterations made by Horn himself at Schumann's suggestion, 'The Pilgrimage of the Rose' (Der Rose Pilgerfahrt, op. 112) was really set to music between April and July 1851. The work, which both in form and substance resembles 'Paradise and the Peri,' except that it is treated in a manner at once more detailed and more idyllic, had at first a simple pianoforte accompaniment, but in November Schumann arranged it for orchestra. June 1851 is also the date of the composition of Uhland's ballad 'Der Königssohn' (op. 116) in a semi-dramatic form, to which indeed he was almost driven by the poem itself. Schumann was much pleased with his treatment of this ballad, which he has set for soli, chorus, and orchestra. In the course of the next two years he wrote three more works of the same kind: 'Des Sängers Fluch' (op. 139), a ballad of Uhland's; 'Vom Pagen und der Königstochter' (op. 140) a ballad by Geibel; and 'Das Glück von Edenhall' (op. 143), a ballad by Uhland.
In the last two poems he made alterations of more or less importance, to bring them into shape for musical setting, but the 'Sängers Fluch' had to be entirely remodelled—a difficult and ungrateful task, which Richard Pohl carried out after Schumann's own suggestions.
At that time this young man, a thorough artenthusiast, kept up a lively intercourse with Schumann both personally and by letter. They devised together the plan of a grand oratorio. Schumann wavered between a biblical and an historical subject, thinking at one time of the Virgin Mary, at another of Ziska or Luther. His final choice fell upon Luther. He pondered deeply upon the treatment of his materials. It was to be an oratorio suitable both for the church and the concert room, and in its poetical form as dramatic as possible. In point of musical treatment he intended the chorus to predominate, as in Handel's 'Israel in Egypt,' of which he had given a performance in the winter of 1850. Moreover it was not to be complicated and contrapuntal in style, but simple and popular, so that 'peasant and citizen alike should understand it.' The more he pondered it the more was he inspired with the grandeur of the subject, although by no means blind to its difficulties. 'It inspires courage' he says, 'and also humility.' He could not however coincide with his poet's opinion as to the extent of the work, the latter having formed the idea of a sort of trilogy, in oratorio form, while Schumann wished the work to be within the limit of one evening's performance, lasting about two hours and a half. In this way the few years of creative activity that were still granted to him slipped away, and the oratorio remained unwritten. The impossibility of satisfying, by the oratorio on Luther, the inclination for grave and religious music which became ever stronger with increasing years, is partly the reason of his writing in 1852 a Mass (op. 147) and a Requiem (op. 148). But to these he was also incited by outward ​circumstances. The inhabitants of Düsseldorf are mostly Catholics, the organ-lofts in the principal churches are too small to hold a large choir and orchestra, and the regular church-music was in a bad condition. The choral society which Schumann conducted was accustomed, as a reward for its labours, to have several concerts of church music, or at least sacred compositions, every year; and Schumann was probably thinking of this custom in his Mass and his Requiem, but he was not destined ever to hear them performed.
In the summer of 1851 he and his family made a tour in Switzerland, which he had not visited since the time of his student-life in Heidelberg; on his return he went to Antwerp, for a competitive performance by the Belgian 'Männergesangverein' (a society of male singers), on August 17, at which he had been asked to aid in adjudging the prizes. Two years later, towards the end of 1853, he and his wife once more visited the Netherlands, and made a concert-tour through Holland, meeting with such an enthusiastic reception that he could not help saying that his music seemed to have struck deeper root there than in Germany. In March 1852 they revisited Leipzig, where, between the 14th and the 21st, a quantity of his music was performed; the Manfred overture and the 'Pilgerfahrt der Rose' at a public matinée on the 14th; the D minor Sonata for pianoforte and violin (op. 121) in a private circle, on the 15th; the E♭ Symphony at a concert at the Gewandhaus on the 18th; the Pianoforte Trio in G minor (op. 110) at a chamber concert on the 21st. On Nov. 6, 1851, the overture to the 'Braut von Messina' was also performed at the Gewandhaus. The public had thus, during this season, ample opportunity of becoming acquainted with the latest works of this inexhaustible composer. But although he had lived in Leipzig for fourteen years, and had brought out most of his compositions there, besides having a circle of sincerely devoted friends in that city, he could not on this occasion boast of any great success; the public received him with respect and esteem, but with no enthusiasm. But in this respect Schumann had lived through a variety of experience; 'I am accustomed,' he writes to Pohl, Dec. 7, 1851, when speaking of the reception of the overture to the 'Braut von Messina,' 'to find that my compositions, particularly the best and deepest, are not understood by the public at a first hearing.' Artists however had come to Leipzig from some distance for the 'Schumann-week'; among them Liszt and Joachim.
In August 1852 there was held in Düsseldorf a festival of music for men's voices, in which Schumann assisted as conductor, though, owing to his health, only to a very limited extent. He took a more important part at Whitsuntide 1853, when the 31st of the Lower Rhine Festivals was celebrated in Düsseldorf on May 15, 16, and 17. He conducted the music of the first day, consisting of Handel's 'Messiah' and of his own Symphony in D minor, which was exceedingly well received. In the concerts of the two following days, which were conducted chiefly by Hiller, two more of Schumann's larger compositions were performed; the Pianoforte Concerto in A minor, and a newly composed Festival Overture with soli and chorus on the 'Rheinweinlied' (op. 123). But although Schumann appeared in so brilliant a way as a composer, and as such was honoured and appreciated in Düsseldorf, yet there was no concealing the fact that as a conductor he was inefficient. The little talent for conducting that he showed on his arrival in Düsseldorf had disappeared with his departing health. It was in fact necessary to procure some one to take his place. An attempt was made after the first winter concert of the year (Oct. 27, 1853) to induce him to retire for a time from the post of his own accord. But this proposal was badly received. The fact however remains, that from the date just mentioned all the practices and performances were conducted by Julius Tausch, who thus became Schumann's real successor. No doubt the directors of the society were really in the right; though perhaps the form in which Schumann's relation to the society was expressed might have been better chosen. The master was now taken up with the idea of leaving Düsseldorf as soon as possible, and of adopting Vienna, for which he had preserved a great affection, as his permanent residence. But fate had decided otherwise.
The dissatisfaction induced in his mind by the events of the autumn of 1853 was however mitigated partly by the tour in Holland already mentioned, and partly by another incident. It happened that in October a young and wholly unknown musician arrived, with a letter of introduction from Joachim. Johannes Brahms—for he it was—immediately excited Schumann's warmest interest by the genius of his playing and the originality of his compositions. In his early days he had always been the champion of the young and aspiring, and now as a matured artist he took pleasure in smoothing the path of this gifted youth. Schumann's literary pen had lain at rest for nine years; he now once more took it up, for the last time, in order to say a powerful word for Brahms to the wide world of art. An article entitled 'Neue Bahnen' (New Paths) appeared on Oct. 28, 1853, in No. 18 of that year's 'Zeitschrift.' In this he pointed to Brahms as the artist whose vocation it would be 'to utter the highest ideal expression of our time.' He does not speak of him as a youth or beginner, but welcomes him into the circle of Masters as a fully equipped combatant. When before or since did an artist find such words of praise for one of his fellows? It is as though, having already given so many noble proofs of sympathetic appreciation, he could not leave the world without once more, after his long silence, indelibly stamping the image of his pure, lofty, and unenvious artist-nature on the hearts of his fellow men.
So far as Brahms was concerned, it is true that this brilliant envoi laid him under a heavy debt of duty, in the necessity of measuring his productions by the very highest standard; and at the ​time Schumann was supposed to have attributed to Brahms, as he did to the poetess Elisabeth Kulmann, gifts which he did not actually possess. Twenty-eight years have passed and we now know that Schumann's keen insight did not deceive him, and that Brahms has verified all the expectations formed of him. His intercourse with the young composer (then 20 years old), in whom he took the widest and most affectionate interest, was a great pleasure to Schumann.
At that time too Albert Dietrich (now [App. p.791 "for now read afterwards"] Hofcapellmeister at Oldenburg) was staying in Düsseldorf, and Schumann proved to the utmost the truth of what he had written only a few months previously of Kirchner, that he loved to follow the progress of young men. A sonata for pianoforte and violin exists in MS. which Schumann composed during this month (October 1853), in conjunction with Brahms and Dietrich. Dietrich begins with an allegro in A minor; Schumann follows with an intermezzo in F major; Brahms—who signs himself Johannes Kreissler junior—adds an allegro in C minor; and Schumann winds up the work with a finale in A minor, ending in A major. The title of the sonata is worth noting. Joachim was coming to Düsseldorf to play at the concert of Oct. 27, so Schumann wrote on the title-page 'In anticipation of the arrival of our beloved and honoured friend Joseph Joachim, this sonata was written by Robert Schumann, Albert Dietrich, and Johannes Brahms.'
This interesting intimacy cannot have continued long, since in November Schumann went to Holland with his wife, and did not return till Dec. 22. But he met Brahms again in Hanover in January 1854, at a performance of 'Paradise and the Peri,' where he found also Joachim and Julius Otto Grimm (now musical director at Miinster). A circle of gifted and devoted young artists gathered round the master and rejoiced in having him among them, little imagining that within a few months he would be suddenly snatched from them for ever.
Schumann's appearance was that of a man with a good constitution; his figure was above the middle height, full and well-built; but his nervous system had always shown extreme excitability, and even so early as his twenty-fourth year he suffered from a nervous disorder which increased to serious disease. At a still earlier date he had shown a certain morbid hypertension of feeling, in connection with his passionate study of Jean Paul, of whom he wrote, even in his 18th year, that he often drove him to the verge of madness. Violent shocks of emotion, as for instance the sudden announcement of a death, or the struggle for the hand of Clara Wieck, would bring him into a condition of mortal anguish, and the most terrible state of bewilderment and helplessness, followed by days of overwhelming melancholy. A predisposition to worry himself, an 'ingenuity in clinging to unhappy ideas,' often embittered the fairest moments of his life. Gloomy anticipations darkened his soul; 'I often feel as if I should not live much longer,' he says in a letter to Zuccalmaglio of May 18, 1837, 'and I should like to do a little more work'; and later, to Hiller 'man must work while it is yet day.' The vigour of youth for a time conquered these melancholy aberrations, and after his marriage the calm and equable happiness which he found in his wife for a long time expelled the evil spirit. It was not till 1844 that he again fell a prey to serious nervous tension. This was evidently the result of undue mental strain, and for a time he was forced to give up all work, and even the hearing of music, and to withdraw into perfect solitude at Dresden. His improvement was slow and not without relapses; but in 1849 he felt quite re-established, as we gather from his letters and from the work he accomplished; and his condition seems to have remained satisfactory till about the end of 1851. Then the symptoms of disease reappeared; he had, as usual, been again working without pause or respite, and even with increased severity; and was himself so much alarmed as to seek a remedy. Various eccentricities of conduct betrayed even to strangers the state of nervous excitability in which he was. By degrees delusions grew upon him, and he fancied that he incessantly heard one particular note, or certain harmonies, or voices whispering words of reproof or encouragement. Once in the night he fancied that the spirits of Schubert and Mendelssohn brought him a musical theme, and he got up and noted it down. He was again attacked by that 'mortal anguish of mind' of which he had had former experience, and which left him perfectly distracted. Still, all these symptoms were but temporary, and between the attacks Schumann was in full possession of his senses and self-control. He himself expressed a wish to be placed in an asylum, but meanwhile worked on in his old way. He wrote some variations for the piano on the theme revealed to him by Schubert and Mendelssohn, but they were his last work, and remained unfinished. On Feb. 27, 1854, in the afternoon, in one of his fits of agony of mind, he left the house unobserved and threw himself from the bridge into the Rhine. Some boatmen were on the watch and rescued him, and he was recognised and carried home. Unmistakeable symptoms of insanity now declared themselves, but after a few days a peculiar clearness and calmness of mind returned, and with it his irrepressible love of work. He completed the variation on which he had been at work before the great catastrophe. These last efforts of his wearied genius remain unpublished, but Brahms has used the theme for a set of 4-hand variations which form one of his most beautiful and touching works (op. 23), and which he has dedicated to Schumann's daughter Julie.
The last two years of Schumann's life were spent in the private asylum of Dr. Richarz at Endenich near Bonn. His mental disorder developed into deep melancholy; at times—as in the spring of 1855—when for a while he seemed ​better, his outward demeanour was almost the same as before. He corresponded with his friends and received visits, but gradually the pinions of his soul drooped and fell, and he died in the arms of his wife, July 29, 1856, only 46 years of age.
Soon after Schumann's death his music achieved a popularity in Germany which will bear comparison with that of the most favourite of the older masters. When once the peculiarities of his style grew familiar, it was realised that these very peculiarities had their origin in the deepest feelings of the nation. The desire of giving outward expression to the love which was felt towards him, soon asserted itself more and more strongly. Schumann was buried at Bonn, in the churchyard opposite the Sternenthor, and it was resolved to erect a monument to him there. On Aug. 17, 18 and 19, 1873, a Schumann festival took place at Bonn, consisting entirely of the masters compositions. The conducting was undertaken by Joachim and Wasielewski, and among the performers were Madame Schumann, who played her husband's Pianoforte Concerto, and Stockhausen. The festival was one of overwhelming interest, owing to the sympathy taken in it, and the manner in which that sympathy was displayed. The proceeds of the concerts were devoted to a monument to Schumann's memory, which was executed by A. Donndorf of Stuttgart, erected over the grave, and unveiled on May 2, 1880. On this occasion also a concert took place, consisting of compositions by Schumann, and Brahms's Violin Concerto (op. 77), conducted by himself, and played by Joachim.
Schumann, with his activity both as an author and as a composer, was a new phenomenon in German music. It is true that he had had a predecessor in this respect in C. M. von Weber, who also had a distinct gift and vocation for authorship, and whose collected writings form a literary monument possessing far more than a merely personal interest. Still Weber was prevented by circumstances and by his own natural restlessness from fully developing his literary talent, while Schumann benefitted by the restraint and discipline of his ten years of editorship. In 1854 he had his 'Gesammelte Schriften über Musik und Musiker' published in four volumes by Wigand in Leipzig, and it was not long in reaching its second edition, which appeared in two volumes in 1871. This collection however is not nearly complete, and the essays it includes have been much altered. A full and correct edition of his writings is still a desideratum.
It must not however be imagined that Schumann's aim as an author was to lay down the principles on which he worked as a composer; it is indeed hardly possible to contrast the critical and the productive elements in his works. His authorship and his musical compositions were two distinct phases of a creative nature, and if it was by composition that he satisfied his purely musical craving it was by writing that he gave utterance to his poetical instincts. His essays are for the most part rather rhapsodies on musical works, or poetical imagery lavished on musical subjects, than criticisms properly speaking; and the cases where he writes in the negative vein are very rare exceptions. A high ideal floats before his mind, and supported by the example of the greatest masters of the art, his one aim is to introduce a new and pregnant period of music in contrast to the shallowness of his own time. Again and again he speaks of this as the 'poetic phase' and here we must guard against a misunderstanding. The term poetic music is often used in antithesis to pure music, to indicate a work based on a combination of poetry and music; as, for instance, a Song, which may be conceived of either as a purely musical composition founded on the union of definite feelings and ideas, or as intended to express the preconceived emotions and ideas of the poet. But it was not anything of this kind that Schumann meant to convey: he simply regarded poetry as the antithesis to prose, just as enthusiasm is the antithesis to sober dulness, the youthful rhapsodist to the Philistine, the artist with his lofty ideal to the mechanical artisan or the superficial dilettante. His aim is to bring to birth a living art, full of purpose and feeling, and he cannot endure a mere skeleton of forms and phrases. In this key he pitches his writings on music, and their purport is always the same. He once speaks of reviewers and critics under a quaint simile—'Music excites the nightingale to love-songs, the lap-dog to bark.' Nothing could more accurately represent his own attitude in writing on music than the first of these images. From his point of view a piece of music ought to rouse in the true critic sympathetic feeling, he ought to absorb and assimilate its contents, and then echo them in words—Schumann was in fact the singing nightingale. Though we may not feel inclined to apply his other comparison to every critic who does not follow in his steps, we may at least say that the difference between Schumann's style and that of the musical periodicals of his day was as great as that between a nightingale and a lap-dog. And how strange and new were the tones uttered by this poet-critic! A considerable resemblance to Jean Paul must be admitted, particularly in his earlier critiques: the ecstatic youthful sentiment, the humorous suggestions, the highly wrought and dazzling phraseology, are common to both; but the style is quite different. Schumann commonly writes in short and vivid sentences, going straight at his subject without digressions, and indulging in bold abbreviations. There is a certain indolence of genius about him, and yet a sure artistic instinct throughout. Nor has he a trace of Jean Paul's sentimental 'luxury of woe,' but we everywhere find, side by side with emotional rhapsody, the refreshing breeziness of youth and health.
It has already been said that Schumann connects certain definite characteristics with different feigned names (Florestan, Eusebius, Raro, etc.), a device which none but a poet could have hit on. Indeed, it would be a hindrance to the ​writing of calm criticism, which must have a fixed and clearly defined position as its basis. But it often introduces a varied and even dramatic liveliness into the discussion, which is very attractive, and leads to a deeper consideration of the subject. Schumann, however, could use still more artificial forms in his critiques. Thus he discusses the first concert conducted by Mendelssohn at the Gewandhaus, Oct. 1835, in letters addressed by Eusebius to Chiara in Italy; and within this frame the details of the concert are gracefully entwined with ingenious reflections and fanciful ideas which add brilliancy to the picture. On another occasion, when he was to write about a mass of dance-music, Schumann has recourse to the following fiction:—the editor of a certain musical paper gives a historical fancy ball. Composers are invited, young lady amateurs and their mothers, music publishers, diplomatists, a few rich Jewesses, and—of course—the Davidsbündler; the dance-programme includes the music to be criticised, to which the couples whirl about during the whole evening. Hence arise all sorts of humorous incidents—satirical, whimsical, and sentimental outpourings, in which a criticism of the compositions is brought in unperceived. On another occasion, the Davidsbündler have met, and the new compositions are played in turns; during the playing the rest carry on a variety of amusements which culminate in a magic lantern, throwing the figures of a masked ball on the wall, which Florestan, standing on the table, explains, while 'Zilla' plays Franz Schubert's 'Deutsche Tänze.' Anything more vivid, charming and poetical than this essay has never been written on music (it is in the 'Gesam. Schriften,' vol. ii. p. 9; and is partly translated in Music and Musicians,' i. p. 102); a little work of art in itself! Once, in reviewing a concert given by Clara Wieck, he gives us a real poem ('Traumbild, am 9 September, 1838, Abends,' vol. ii. p. 233). In this he combines his own tender sentiments with a skilful characterisation of all that was peculiar in the performance. For sketching character-portraits Schumann shows a conspicuous talent; the articles in which he has characterised Sterndale Bennett, Gade, and Henselt are unsurpassed by any thing since written concerning these artists. He seems to have penetrated with the insight of a seer to the core of their natures, and has set forth his conclusions in a delicate and picturesque manner that no one has succeeded in imitating. In his article 'Der alte Hauptmann' (cited as 'The Old Captain' in 'Music and Musicians,' i. 98) he tells the story of an old military man with a passion for music, who has become intimate with the Davidsbündler, and describes his identity with a subtle observation and keen insight that result in a really classical treatment of the type of a kindly and amiable dilettante, with a slight vein of melancholy adding to the charm of the picture.
The foundation of Schumann's critiques lay in kindness; his distingué character would simply have nothing to do with anything bad enough to demand energetic reproof. The most cutting and bitter article he ever wrote was the famous one on Meyerbeer's 'Huguenots' (vol. ii. p. 220; translated in 'Music and Musicians,' i. p. 302). In its violence it has no doubt somewhat overshot the mark; but nowhere perhaps do the purity and nobleness of Schumann's artistic views shine forth more clearly than in this critique and in the one immediately following on Mendelssohn's 'St. Paul.' It was the great success of the 'Huguenots' which infused the acid into Schumann's antagonism; for when dealing with inoffensive writers he could wield the weapons of irony and ridicule both lightly and effectively. But he is most at his ease when giving praise and encouragement; then words flow so directly from his heart that his turns of expression have often quite a magical charm. As an example we may mention the article on Field's 7th Concerto (ibid. i. 268; Music and Musicians,' i. p. 267). Anything more tender and full of feeling was never written under the semblance of a critique than the remarks on a sonata in C minor by Delphine Hill-Handley formerly Delphine Schauroth (ibid. i. 92). Schumann has here given us a really poetical masterpiece in its kind, full of intelligent appreciation of the purport of the work and giving covert expression to its maidenly feeling, even in the style of his discussion; it must delight the reader even if he does not know a note of the composition. Schumann had fresh imagery always at command, and if in a generally meritorious work he found something to blame, he contrived to do it in the most delicate manner. His amiable temper, his tender heart and his conspicuous talents for literary work combined, never left him at a loss in such cases for some ingenious or whimsical turn. Sometimes, though rarely, in his eager sympathy for youthful genius in difficulty he went too far; Hermann Hirschbach, for instance, never fulfilled the hopes that Schumann formed of him; and even in his remarks on Berlioz, he at first probably said more than he would afterwards have maintained.
In later years Schumann's flowery and poetic vein gave way to a calm and contemplative style. His opinions and principles remained as sound as ever, but they are less keenly and brilliantly expressed than at the earlier period when he took peculiar pleasure in turning a flashing and ingenious sentence (see Ges. Schriften, vol. i. pp. 27, 208). Still, the practical musician always predominates, and Schumann himself confesses that 'the curse of a mere musician often hits higher than all your æsthetics' (ibid. ii. 246). Here and there however we come upon a profound æsthetic axiom, the value of which is in no degree diminished by our perception that it is the result rather of intuition than of any systematic reflection. It is universally acknowledged that by his essay 'On certain corrupt passages in classical works' (ibid. iv. 59; 'Music and Musicians,' i. 26), Schumann gave a real impetus to the textual criticism of music; historical clues and comparisons are frequently suggested, and though these indications are not founded on any ​comprehensive historical knowledge, on all important subjects they show a happy instinct for the right conclusion, and are always worthy of attention.
It may be said of Schumann's literary work in general that it was not calculated to attract attention merely for the moment, though it did in fact open up new paths, but that it took the form of writings which have a high and permanent value. They will always hold a foremost place in the literature of music, and may indeed take high rank in the literature of art. For analytical acumen they are less remarkable. Schumann cannot be called the Lessing of music, nor is it by the display of learning that he produces his effects. It is the union of poetic talent with musical genius, wide intelligence, and high culture, that stamps Schumann's writings with originality, and gives them their independent value.
Schumann's literary work was connected with another phase of the musical world of Germany, as new in its way as the twofold development of his genius—the rise of party feeling. No doubt Schumann gave the first impetus to this movement, both by his imaginary 'Davidsbündlerschaft,' and by that Radical instinct which was part of his nature. Schumann's principles as an artist were the same which have been professed and followed by all the greatest German masters; what was new in him was the active attempt to propagate them as principles. So long as he conducted the Zeitschrift he could not of course lend himself to party feeling; the standard he had assumed was so high that all who took a serious view of art were forced to gather round him. But the spirit of agitation was inflamed, and when he retired from the paper other principles of less general application were put forward. It was self-evident that Schumann was the only contemporary German composer who could stand side by side with Mendelssohn, and they were of course compared. It was asserted that in Mendelssohn form took the precedence of meaning, while in Schumann meaning predominated, striving after a new form of utterance. Thus they were put forward as the representatives of two antagonistic principles of art, and a Mendelssohn party and a Schumann party were formed. In point of fact there was scarcely any trace of such an antagonism of principle between the two composers; the difference was really one of idiosyncrasy; and so, being grounded more or less on personal feeling the parties assumed something of the character of cliques. The literary Schumannites, having the command of an organ of their own, had an advantage over the partisans of Mendelssohn, who like Mendelssohn himself, would have nothing to do with the press. Leipzig was for a time the head quarters of the two parties. There, where Mendelssohn had worked for the delight and improvement of the musical world, it was the fate of his art to be first exposed to attack and detraction, which, to the discredit of the German nation, rapidly spread through wider and wider circles, and was fated too to proceed first from the blind admirers of the very master for whom Mendelssohn ever felt the deepest attachment and respect. 'Oh, Clique!' exclaims Moscheles in his Diary for 1849, 'as if in a town where the genius of a Schumann is honoured it were necessary to cry down a Mendelssohn as pedantic and inferior to him. The public is losing all its judgment, and placing its intelligence and its feelings under an influence which misleads it as much as the revolutionists do the populace.' That Schumann himself must have been painfully affected by this spirit is as clear as that it could only result in hindering the unprejudiced reception of his works; and the process thus begun with Schumann has been carried on, in a greater degree, in the case of Wagner.
As a composer Schumann started with the pianoforte, and until the year 1840 wrote scarcely anything but pianoforte music. For some time he used to compose sitting at the instrument, and continued to do so even until 1839, though he afterwards condemned the practice (in his 'Musikalische Haus- und Lebensregeln'). At all events it had the advantage of making him write from the first in true pianoforte style. If ever pianoforte works took their origin from the innermost nature of the pianoforte, Schumann's did so most thoroughly. His mode of treating the instrument is entirely new. He develops upon it a kind of orchestral polyphony, and by means of the pedal, of extended intervals, of peculiar positions of chords, of contractions of the hands, and so forth, he succeeds in bringing out of it an undreamt-of wealth of effects of tone. How deeply and thoroughly Schumann had studied the character of the instrument may be seen from the detailed preface to his arrangement of Paganini's caprices (op. 3). Even in his earliest PF. works he nowhere shows any inclination to the method of any of the older masters, except in the variations, op. 1, which betray the influence of the school of Hummel and Moscheles. But it is evident that he knew all that others had done, and the time and attention devoted in his writings to works of technical pianoforte study were no doubt deliberately given. Notwithstanding this his compositions are scarcely ever written in the bravura style; for he seldom, cared to clothe his ideas in mere outward brilliancy. Sometimes one is constrained to wonder at his abstemiousness in using the higher and lower registers of the pianoforte.
As is the case with the technical treatment of the piano, so it is from the beginning with the substance and form of his compositions. Few among the great German masters show such striking originality from their very first compositions. In the whole range of Schumann's works there is scarcely a trace of any other musician. At the outset of his course as a composer he preferred to use the concise dance or song-form, making up his longer pieces from a number of these smaller forms set together as in a mosaic, instead of at once casting his ​thoughts in a larger mould. But the versatility with which the small forms are treated is a testimony to the magnitude of his creative faculty. The predominance of the small forms is explained by his earlier method of composing. Diligent and constant though he was in later years, in early life his way of working was fitful and inconstant. The compositions of this period seem as if forced out of him by sudden impulses of genius. As he subsequently says of his early works, 'the man and the musician in me were always trying to speak at the same time.' This must indeed be true of every artist; if the whole personality be not put into a work of art, it will be utterly worthless. But by those words Schumann means to say that as a youth he attempted to bring to light in musical form his inmost feelings with regard to his personal life-experiences. Under such circumstances it is but natural that they should contain much that was purely accidental, and inexplicable by the laws of art alone; but it is to this kind of source that they owe the magic freshness and originality with which they strike the hearer. The variations, op. 1, are an instance of this. The theme is formed of the following succession of notes:—
the names of which form the word 'Abegg.' Meta Abegg was the name of a beautiful young lady in Mannheim, whose acquaintance Schumann when a student had made at a ball. Playful symbolism of this kind is not unfrequent in him. To a certain extent it may be traced back to Sebastian Bach, who expressed his own name in a musical phrase; as Schumann afterwards did Gade's. (See 'Album für die Jugend, op. 68, no. 41). In the same way (Ges. Schriften, ii. 115) he expresses the woman's name 'Beda' in musical notes, and also in the 'Carnaval' tried to make those letters in his own name which stand as notes—s (es), c, h, a—into a musical phrase. But the idea really came from Jean Paul, who is very fond of tracing out such mystic connections. Schumann's op. 2 consists of a set of small pianoforte pieces in dance-form under the name of 'Papillons.' They were written partly at Heidelberg, partly in the first years of the Leipzig period which followed. No inner musical connection subsists between them. But Schumann felt the necessity of giving them a poetical connection, to satisfy his own feelings, if for nothing else, and for this purpose he adopted the last chapter but one of Jean Paul's 'Flegeljahre,' where a masked ball is described at which the lovers Wina and Walt are guests, as a poetic background for the series. The several pieces of music may thus be intended to represent partly the different characters in the crowd of maskers, and partly the conversation of the lovers. The finale is written designedly with reference to this scene in Jean Paul, as is plain from the indication written above the notes found near the end—'The noise of the Carnival-night dies away. The church clock strikes six.' The strokes of the bell are actually audible, being represented by the A six times repeated. Then all is hushed, and the piece seems to vanish into thin air like a vision. In the finale there are several touches of humour. It begins with an old Volkslied, familiar to every household in Germany as the Grossvatertanz.
This is immediately followed by a fragment of; second Volkslied, in another tempo—
also old, and sung in Saxony in the early part of the 18th century. Sebastian Bach employed the whole of it, also in a humorous way, in his 'Bauercantate.'
Schumann, notwithstanding his intimate acquaintance with much of Bach's music, can scarcely have known of this, and so the fact of their both lighting on the theme is only an interesting coincidence. In contrast to these two old-fashioned love-tunes is placed the soft and graceful melody of No. 1 of the 'Papillons,' which is afterwards worked contrapuntally with the 'Grossvatertanz.' The name 'Papillons' is not meant to indicate a light, fluttering character in the pieces, but rather refers to musical phases which, proceeding from various experiences of life, have attained the highest musical import, as the butterfly soars upwards out of the chrysalis. The design of the title-page in the first edition points towards some such meaning as this; and the explanation we have given corresponds with his usual method of composing at that time. There exists however no decisive account of it by the composer himself.
In a kind of connection with the 'Papillons' is the 'Carnaval,' op. 9. Here again Schumann has depicted the merriment of a masquerade in musical pictures and a third and somewhat similar essay of the same kind is his 'Faschingsschwank aus Wien,' op. 26. The 'Carnaval' is a collection of small pieces, written one by one ​without any special purpose, and not provided either with collective or individual titles until later, when he arranged them in their present order. The musical connection between the pieces is, that with few exceptions they all contain some reference to the succession of notes a, es, c, h (A, E♭, C, B) or as, c, h (A♭, C, B). Now Asch is the name of a small town in Bohemia, the home of a Fraulein Ernestine von Fricken, with whom Schumann was very intimate at the time of his writing this music. The same notes in another order, s (or es) c, h, a, are also the only letters in Schumann's own name which represent notes. This explains the title 'Sphinxes,' which is affixed to the 9th number on p. 13 of the original edition. The pieces are named, some from characters in the masked ball—Pierrot (Clown,) Arlequin, Pantalon, and Colombine,—and some from real persons. In this last category we meet with the members of the Davidsbund—Florestan, Eusebius, and Chiarina; Ernestine von Fricken, under the name Estrella, Chopin, and Paganini; there is also a 'Coquette,' but it is not known for whom this is intended. Besides these, some of the pieces are named from situations and occurrences at the ball; a recognition, an avowal of love, a promenade, a pause in the dance (Reconnaissance, Aveu, Promenade, Pause); between these are heard the sounds of waltzes, and in one of the pieces the letters A•S•C•H, and S•C•H•A, 'Lettres dansantes,' themselves dance boisterously and noisily, and then vanish like airy phantoms. A piece called 'Papillons' rushes by like a hasty reminiscence, and in the numbers entitled 'Florestan'—an actual passage from No. 1 of the Papillons (op. 2) is inserted. The finale is called 'March of the Davidsbündler against the Philistines.' The symbol of the Philistines is the 'Grossvatertanz,' here called by Schumann a tune of the 17th century. The fact of the march being in 3–4 time, a rhythm to which it is of course impossible to march, has perhaps a humorous and symbolic meaning.
The 'Davidsbündlertänze' (op. 6), the 'Fantasiestücke' (op. 12), 'Kinderscenen' (op. 15), 'Kreisleriana' (op. 16), 'Novelletten' (op. 21), 'Bunte Blätter' (op. 99), and 'Albumblätter' (op. 124), the contents of which all belong to Schumann's early period, and, of the later works, such pieces as the 'Waldscenen' (op. 82)—all bear the impress of having originated like the 'Papillons' and the 'Carnaval,' in the personal experiences of Schumann's life. They are poèsies d'occasion (Gelegenheitsdichtungen), a term which, in Goethe's sense, designates the highest form that a work of art can take. As to the 'Davidsbündlertänze' the 'Kreisleriana,' and the 'Novelletten,' Schumann himself tells us that they reflect the varying moods wrought in him by the contentions about Clara Wieck. In the 'Davidsbündlertänze' the general arrangement is that Florestan and Eusebius appear usually by turns, though sometimes also together. The expression 'dance' does not however mean, as is sometimes supposed, the dances that the Davidsbündler led the Philistines, but merely indicates the form of the pieces, which is, truth to say, used with scarcely less freedom than that of the march in the finale to the 'Carnaval.' The 'Kreisleriana' have their origin in a fantastic poem [App. p.791 "story"] with the same title by E. T. A. Hoffmann, contained in his 'Fantasiestücke im Callots Manier' (Bamberg, 1814, p. 47). Hoffmann was a follower of Jean Paul, who indeed wrote a preface to 'Fantasiestücke.' Half musician, half poet, Schumann must have looked on him as a kindred spirit; and in the figure of the wild and eccentric yet gifted 'Kapellmeister Kreisler,' drawn by Hoffmann from incidents in his own life, there were many traits in which Schumann might easily see a reflection of himself. Of the 'Novelletten' Schumann says that they are 'long and connected romantic stories.' There are no titles to explain them, although much may be conjectured from the indications of time and expression. But the rest of the works we have just mentioned nearly always have their separate component parts, headed by names which lead the imagination of the player or hearer, in a clear and often deeply poetic manner, in a particular and definite direction. This form of piano piece was altogether a very favourite one with Schumann. He is careful to guard against the supposition that he imagined a definite object in his mind, such as a 'pleading child' (in op. 15) or a 'haunted spot in a wood' (in op. 82), and then tried to describe it in notes. His method was rather to invent the piece quite independently and afterwards to give it a particular meaning by a superscription. His chief object was always to give the piece a value of its own, and to make it intelligible of itself. This principle is undoubtedly the right one, and, by adopting it, Schumann proved himself a genuine musician, with faith in the independent value of his art. Nevertheless, had he considered the poetical titles utterly unimportant, he would hardly have employed them as he has in so large a majority of his smaller pianoforte pieces. His doing so seems to evince a feeling that in the composition of the piece alone, he had not said everything that struggled within him for expression. Until a particular mood or feeling had been aroused in the hearer or the player by means of the title, Schumann could not be sure that the piece would have the effect which he desired it to have. Strictly speaking, poetry and music can only be really united by means of the human voice. But in these pianoforte pieces with poetical titles Schumann found a means of expression which hovered as it were between pure instrumental music on the one hand, and vocal music on the other, and thus received a certain indefinite and mysterious character of its own, which may most justly be called Romantic.
Among the compositions consisting of small forms we must count the Variations. Schumann treated the variation-form freely and fancifully, but with a profuse wealth of genius and depth of feeling. For the Impromptus on a ​theme by Clara Wieck (op. 5), Beethoven's so-called 'Eroica Variations' (op. 35) apparently served as a model; they remind us of them both in general arrangement and in the employment of a ground-bass, without being in any way wanting in originality. In the Andante and Variations for two pianofortes (op. 46), one of the most charming and popular of Schumann's pianoforte works, he treated the form with such freedom that they are not so much variations as fantasias in the style of variations. His most splendid work in this form is his op. 13, a work of the grandest calibre, which alone would be sufficient to secure him a place in the first rank of composers for the pianoforte, so overpowering is the display of his own individual treatment of the pianoforte—frequently rising to the highest limits of the bravura style of execution—of his overflowing profusion of ideas, and his boldness in turning the variation form to his own account. In the finale the first two bars only of the theme are employed, and these only occasionally in the 'working-out section.' In other respects the proud edifice of this elaborately worked number has nothing in common with a variation. It contains however a delicate reference to the person to whom the whole work is dedicated, William Sterndale Bennett. The beginning of the chief subject is a fragment of the celebrated romance in Marschner's 'Templer und Jüdin,' in which Ivanhoe calls on proud England to rejoice over her noble knights ('Du stolzes England, freue dich,' etc.). It is an ingenious way of paying homage to his beloved English composer.
Schumann had made early attempts at works of larger structure, but it cannot be denied that they were not at first successful. The F♯ minor Sonata (op. 11) teems with beautiful ideas, but is wanting in unity to a remarkable degree, at least in the Allegro movements. The F minor Sonata (op. 14) shows a decided improvement in this respect, and the Sonata in G minor (op. 22) is still better, although not entirely free from a certain clumsiness. Schumann afterwards showed himself quite aware of the faults of these sonatas in regard to form. They offer the most striking example of his irregular and rhapsodical method of working at that period. The second movement of the G minor Sonata was written in June 1830, the first and third in June 1833, the fourth in its original form in October 1835, and in its ultimate form in 1838, the whole sonata being published in 1839. The F♯ minor Sonata was begun in 1833, and not completed till 1835. The F minor Sonata, finished on June 5, 1836, consisted at first of five movements, an Allegro, two Scherzos, one after the other, an Andantino with variations, and a Prestissimo. When the work was first published, under the title of 'Concerto sans Orchestra,' Schumann cut out the two scherzos, apparently intending to use them for a second sonata in F minor. This however was not carried out, and in the second edition of the work he restored the second of the scherzos to its place. When we observe how he took up one sonata after another, we see how impossible it is that any close connection can subsist between the several parts, or that there should be any real unity in them as a whole.
The Allegro for pianoforte (op. 8) is somewhat disjointed in form, while the Toccata (op. 7), a bravura piece of the greatest brilliancy and difficulty in perfect sonata-form, exhibits a great degree of connection and consequence. In the great Fantasia (op. 17) we are led by the title to expect no conciseness of form. The classical masters generally gave to their fantasias a very clearly defined outline, but Schumann in this case breaks through every restriction that limits the form, especially in the first movement, where he almost seems to lose himself in limitless freedom. In order to give unity to the fantastic and somewhat loosely connected movements of this work of genius, he again had recourse to poetry, and prefaced the piece with some lines of F. Schlegel's, as a motto:—
| Durch alle Töne tönet Im bunten Erdentraum, Ein leiser Ton gezogen Für den der heimlich lauschet. | Through all the tones that vibrato About earth's mingled dream, One whispered note is sounding For ears attent to hear. |
The 'mingled earthly dream' is in a manner portrayed in the substance of the composition. Schumann means that 'the ear attent to hear' will perceive the uniting tones that run through all the pictures which the imagination of the composer unrolls to his view. Schlegel's motto seems almost like an excuse offered by Schumann. The original purpose of this Fantasia was not however to illustrate these lines. About Dec. 17, 1835, an appeal having been made from Bonn for contributions to a Beethoven memorial, Schumann proposed to contribute a composition; and this was the origin of the work now called 'Fantasia,' the three movements of which were originally intended to bear the respective inscriptions of 'Ruins,' 'Triumphal Arch' and 'The Starry Crown.' By these names the character both of the separate parts and of the whole becomes more intelligible. In order to get into the right disposition for the work Schumann's four articles on Beethoven's monument should be read (Gesammelte Schriften, i. p. 215).
Although few of Schumann's pianoforte works of the first period are without defects of form, yet their beauties are so many that we easily forget those defects. In certain ways the compositions of the first ten years present the most characteristic picture of Schumann's genius. In after life he proposed and attained loftier ideals in works worthy of the perfect master. But the freshness and charm of his earlier pianoforte works was never surpassed, and in his later years was but rarely reached. A dreamy imaginative nature was united in Schumann's character with a native solidity that never ​descended to the commonplace. From the first his music had in it a character which appealed to the people—nay, which was in a way national; and quickly as he reached his present immense popularity in Germany, it will probably be long before he has the same influence in other nations, especially in France and Italy. After Beethoven, Schumann is the only master who possesses the power of giving full and free expression to the humorous element in instrumental music. Both in his writings and compositions he allows it to have full play, and it is in his earlier PF. works that it is most prominent. One of his freshest and fullest works is the Humoreske (op. 20), the most wonderful portrayal of a humorous disposition that it is possible to imagine in music. Schumann's thorough individuality is prominent, both in harmonies, rhythm, and colouring, and in the forms of the melodies. It is, however, characteristic of his early PF. works that broad bold melodies rarely occur in them, though there is a superabundance of melodic fragments—germs of melody, as they might be called, full of a deep expression of their own. This music is pervaded by a Spring-like animation and force, a germ of future promise, which gives it a peculiar romantic character; a character strengthened by the admixture of poetic moods and feelings. Schumann was both musician and poet, and he who would thoroughly understand his music must be first imbued with the spirit of the German poets who were most prominent in Schumann's youth; above all others Jean Paul and the whole romantic school, particularly Eichendorff, Heine, and Rückert. And just as these poets were specially great in short lyrics, revealing endless depths of feeling in a few lines, so did Schumann succeed, as no one has done before or since, in saying great things and leaving unutterable things to be felt, in the small form of a short pianoforte piece.
Schumann's enthusiastic admiration and thorough appreciation of Bach has been already described. He shared this with Mendelssohn, but it is certain that he entered more thoroughly than Mendelssohn did into the old master's mysterious depth of feeling. It would therefore have been wonderful if he had not attempted to express himself in the musical forms used by Bach. His strong natural inclination towards polyphonic writing is perceptible even in his earliest pianoforte works, but it was not until 1840 that it comes prominently forward. His six fugues on the name 'Bach' (op. 60), the four fugues (op. 72), the seven pianoforte pieces in fughetta form (op. 126), the studies in canon form for the pedal-piano (op. 56), and the other separate canons and fugues scattered up and down his pianoforte works—all form a class in modern pianoforte music just as new as do his pianoforte works in the free style. The treatment of the parts in the fugues is by no means always strictly according to rule, even when viewed from the standpoint of Bach, who allowed himself considerable freedom. In employing an accompaniment of chords in one part, he also goes far beyond what had hitherto been considered allowable. But yet, taken as a whole, these works are masterpieces; no other composer of modern times could have succeeded as he has done in welding together so completely the modern style of feeling with the old strict form, or in giving that form a new life and vigour by means of the modern spirit. In these pieces we hear the same Schumann whom we know in his other works; his ideas adapt themselves as if spontaneously to the strict requirements of the polyphonic style, and these requirements again draw from his imagination new and characteristic ideas. In short, though a great contrapuntist he was not a pedantic one, and he may be numbered among the few musicians of the last hundred years to whom polyphonic forms have been a perfectly natural means of expressing their ideas.
As a composer of Songs Schumann stands by the side of Schubert and Mendelssohn, the youngest of the trio of great writers in this class of music. Schubert shows the greatest wealth of melody, Mendelssohn the most perfect roundness of form; but Schumann is by far the most profoundly and intellectually suggestive. He displays a more finely cultivated poetic taste than Schubert, with a many-sided feeling for lyric expression far greater than Mendelssohn's. Many of his melodies are projected in bold and soaring lines such as we meet with in no other composer but Schubert; for instance, in the well-known songs 'Du meine Seele, du mein Herz' (op. 25, no. 1), 'Lied der Braut' (op. 25, no. 12), 'Liebesbotschaft' (op. 36, no. 6), 'Stille Thränen' (op. 35, no. 10), and others. Still more frequently he throws himself into the spirit of the German Volkslied, and avails himself of its simpler and narrower forms of melody. Indeed his songs owe their extraordinary popularity chiefly to this conspicuously national element. The reader need only be reminded of the song 'O Sonnenschein' (op. 36, no. 4), of Heine's 'Liederkreis' (op. 24), and of the Heine songs 'Hör' ich das Liedchen klingen,' 'Allnächtlich im Traume,' 'Aus alten Märchen' (op. 48, nos. 10, 14, 15), of most of the songs and ballads (op. 45, 49, 53), and above all of the Wanderlied 'Wohlauf, noch getrunken den funkelnden Wein' (op. 35 no. 3) which sparkles with youthful life and healthy vigour. Besides these there are many songs in which the melody is hardly worked out, and which are—as is also frequently the case with his pianoforte works—as it were, mere essays, or germs, of melodies. This style of treatment, which is quite peculiar to Schumann, he was fond of using when he wished to give the impression of a vague, dreamy, veiled sentiment; and by this means he penetrated more deeply into the vital essence and sources of feeling than any other song-writer. Such a song as 'Der Nussbaum' (op. 25, no. 3), or 'Im Walde,' by Eichendorff (op. 39, no. 11) are masterpieces in this kind. Besides this, Schumann always brought a true poet's instinct to bear on the subtlest ​touches and most covert suggestions in the poems which he chose for setting, and selected the musical expression best fitted to their purport. Schubert and Mendelssohn set verses to tunes, Schumann wrote poems to them in music. He was the first who ventured to close on the dominant seventh when his text ended with a query (as in op. 49, no. 3). With him also the vocal part often does not end on the common chord, but the true close is left to the accompaniment, so as to give an effect of vague and undefined feeling. The part filled by the pianoforte in Schumann's songs is a very important one. With Schubert and Mendelssohn we may very properly speak of the pianoforte part as an 'accompaniment,' however rich and independent it occasionally appears. But with Schumann the word is no longer appropriate, the pianoforte asserts its dignity and equality with the voice; to perform his songs satisfactorily the player must enter fully into the singer's part and the singer into the player's, and they must constantly supplement and fulfil each other. It was evidently of moment in the history of his art that Schumann should have come to the work of writing songs after ten years' experience as a composer for the pianoforte, and after instituting an entirely new style of pianoforte music. This style supplied him with an immense variety of delicate and poetic modes and shades of expression, and it is owing to this that he displays such constant novelty in his treatment of the pianoforte part. The forms of phrase which he adopts in his 'accompaniments' are infinitely various, and always correspond with perfect fitness and ingenuity to the character of the verses. In some cases the pianoforte part is an entirely independent composition, which the voice merely follows with a few declamatory phrases (op. 48, no. 9, 'Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen '); while in others, in contrast to this, the voice stands almost alone, and the pianoforte begins by throwing in a few soft chords which nevertheless have their due characteristic effect (op. 48, no. 13, 'Ich hab' im Traum'). In Schumann's songs the proper function of the pianoforte is to reveal some deep and secret meaning which it is beyond the power of words, even of sung words, to express; and he always disliked and avoided those repetitions of the words of which other composers have availed themselves in order to fill out in the music the feeling to which the words give rise. When he does repeat he always seems to have a special dramatic end in view rather than a musical one, and often makes the piano supplement the sentiment aroused by the text, while the voice is silent. He is particularly strong in his final symphonies, to which he gave a value and importance, as an integral portion of the song, which no one before him had ventured to do, often assigning to it a new and independent musical thought of its own. Sometimes he allows the general feeling of the song to reappear in it under quite a new light; sometimes the musical phrase suggests some final outcome of the words, opening to the fancy a remote perspective in which sight is lost (a beautiful example is op. 48, no. 16, 'Die alten bösen Lieder'). Nay he even continues the poem in music; of which a striking instance is the close of the 'Frauenliebe und Leben' (op. 42), where by repeating the music of the first song he revives in the fancy of the lonely widow the memory of her early happiness. The realm of feeling revealed to us in Schumann's songs is thoroughly youthful, an unfailing mark of the true lyric; the sentiment he principally deals with is that of love, which in his hands is especially tender and pure, almost maidenly coy. The set of songs called 'Frauenliebe und Leben'—the Love and Life of Woman—gives us a deep insight into the most subtle and secret emotions of a pure woman's soul, deeper indeed than could have been expected from any man, and in fact no composer but Schumann would have been capable of it. The author of the words, A. von Chamisso, elegant as his verses are, lags far behind the composer in his rendering. But indeed such depths of feeling can be sounded by music alone.
Schumann also found musical equivalents and shades of colour for Eichendorff's mystical views of nature; his settings of Eichendorff's poems may be called absolutely classical, and he is equally at home in dealing with the bubbling freshness or the chivalrous sentiment of the poet. Many of Schumann's fresh and sparkling songs have a touch of the student's joviality, but without descending from their high distinction; never under any circumstances was he trivial. Indeed he had no sympathy with the farcical, though his talent for the humorous is amply proved by his songs. A masterpiece of the kind is the setting of Heine's poem 'Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen' (op. 48, no. 11), which has been very unnecessarily objected to. It was principally in dealing with Heine's words that he betrays this sense of humour; 'Wir sassen am Fischerhause' (op. 45, no. 3) is an example, and still more 'Es leuchtet meine Liebe' (op. 127, no. 3), where a resemblance to the scherzo of the A minor String Quartet is very obvious. A thing which may well excite astonishment as apparently quite beside the nature of Schumann's character, is that he could even find characteristic music for Heine's bitterest irony (op. 24, no. 6) 'Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann.' But he was throughout and above all romantic.
Schumann's Symphonies may without any injustice be considered as the most important which have been written since Beethoven. Though Mendelssohn excels him in regularity of form, and though Schubert's C major Symphony is quite unique in its wealth of beautiful musical ideas, yet Schumann surpasses both in greatness and force. He is the man, they the youths; he has the greatest amount of what is demanded by that greatest, most mature, and most important of all forms of instrumental music. He comes near to Beethoven, who it is quite evident was almost the only composer that he ever took as a model. No trace whatever of Haydn or Mozart is to be found in his symphonies, and of ​Mendelssohn just as little. A certain approximation to Schubert is indeed perceptible in the 'working out' (Durchführung) of his Allegro movements. But the symphonies, like the pianoforte works, the songs, and indeed all that Schumann produced, bear the strong impress of a marvellous originality, and a creative power all his own. Even the first published Symphony (in B♭, op. 38) shows a very distinct talent for this branch of composition. We do not know that Schumann had ever previously attempted orchestral compositions, except in the case of the symphony written in the beginning of 1830, which still remains in MS. In 1839 he writes to Dorn: 'At present it is true that I have not had much practice in orchestral writing, but I hope to master it some day.' And in his next attempt he attained his object. In a few passages in the B♭ Symphony, the effects of the instruments are indeed not rightly calculated. One great error in the first movement he remedied after the first hearing. This was in the two opening bars, from which the theme of the Allegro is afterwards generated, and which were given to the horns and trumpets. It ran originally thus, in agreement with the beginning of the Allegro movement:
which, on account of the G and A being stopped notes, had an unexpected and very comic effect. Schumann himself was much amused at the mistake; when he was at Hanover in January 1854 he told the story to his friends, and it was very amusing to hear this man, usually so grave and silent, regardless of the presence of strangers (for the incident took place at a public restaurant), sing out the first five notes of the subject quite loud, the two next in a muffled voice, and the last again loud. He placed the phrase a third higher, as it stands in the printed score:
Another, but less important passage for the horns has remained unaltered. In bar 17 of the first Allegro, Schumann thought that this phrase
ought to be made more prominent than it usually was on the horns, and requested both Taubert and David, when it was in rehearsal at Berlin and Leipzig in the winter of 1842, to have it played on the trombones.
But in general we cannot but wonder at the certain mastery over his means that he shows even in the 1st Symphony. His orchestration is less smooth and clear than that of either Mendelssohn or Gade, and in its sterner style reminds us rather of Schubert. But this stern power is suited to the substance of his ideas, and there is no lack of captivating beauty of sound. We even meet in his orchestral works with a number of new effects of sound such as only true genius can discover or invent. Instances of these are the treatment of the three trombones [App. p. 791 "trumpets"] in the 'Manfred' Overture, the use made of the horns in the second movement of the E♭ Symphony, the violin solo introduced into the Romanza of the D minor Symphony, etc. etc. It is hard to decide which of Schumann's four symphonies (or five, counting op. 52) is the finest. Each has individual beauties of its own. In life and freshness and the feeling of inward happiness the B♭ Symphony stands at the head. Schumann originally intended to call it the 'Spring Symphony'; and indeed he wrote it, as we learn from a letter to Taubert, in Feb. 1841, when the first breath of spring was in the air. The first movement was to have been called 'Spring's Awakening,' and the Finale (which he always wished not to be taken too fast) 'Spring's Farewell.' Many parts of the symphony have an especial charm when we thus know the object with which they were written. The beginning of the introduction evidently represents a trumpet-summons sent pealing down from on high; then gentle zephyrs blow softly to and fro, and everywhere the dormant forces awake and make their way to the light (we are quoting from the composer's own programme). In the Allegro the Spring comes laughing in, in the full beauty of youth. This explains and justifies the novel use of the triangle in the first movement—an instrument not properly admissible in a symphony. An enchanting effect is produced by the Spring song at the close of the first movement, played as though sung with a full heart; and it is an entirely new form of coda (see p. 67 of the score). In publishing the Symphony, Schumann omitted the explanatory titles, because he believed that the attention of the public is distracted from the main purpose of a work by things of that kind. We may well believe, moreover, that a good part of the spring-like feeling in this symphony comes from the deep and heart-felt joy which Schumann felt at being at last united to his hardly-won bride. The same influence is seen in the D minor Symphony (op. 120), written in the same year with that just described, and immediately after it. It is entirely similar to its predecessor in its fundamental feeling, but has more passion. The form too is new and very successful; the four sections follow each other consecutively without any pauses, so that the work seems to consist of only one great movement. The subjects of the Introduction reappear in the Romanze, with different treatment, and the chief subject of the first Allegro is the foundation of that of the last. The second part of the first Allegro is in quite an unusual form, and before the last Allegro we find a slow introduction—imaginative, majestic, and most original. As has been already mentioned, Schumann intended to call the work 'Symphonic Fantasia.' ​Here too poetic pictures seem to be hovering round him on every side.
His third symphonic work of the year 1841 is also irregular, but only in form, and has as good a right as the second to the name of 'Symphony.' It appeared, however, under the name 'Overture, Scherzo, and Finale,' as op. 52. Of this work, which is charming throughout, the first movement offers us the only example to be found in Schumann of the influence of Cherubini, a master for whom he had a great reverence. Perhaps the most lovely movement is the highly poetic Scherzo in gigue-rhythm, which might constitute a type by itself among symphony-scherzos. His other scherzos approximate in style to those of Beethoven, whose invention and speciality this form was, and who had no successor in it but Schumann. The characteristic of the C major Symphony (op. 61) is a graver and more mature depth of feeling; its bold decisiveness of form and overpowering wealth of expression reveal distinctly the relationship in art between Schumann and Beethoven. The form too, as far as regards the number and character of the movements, is quite that of the classical masters, while in the last symphony (E♭, op. 97) Schumann once more appears as one of the modern school. This is divided into five separate movements, including a slow movement in sustained style, and of a devotional character between the Andante and the Finale. Schumann originally inscribed it with the words 'In the style of an accompaniment to a solemn ceremony' (im Charakter der Begleitung einen feierlichen Ceremonie), and we know that it was suggested to him by the sight of Cologne cathedral, and the festivities on the occasion of Archbishop von Geissel's elevation to the Cardinalate. The other movements are powerful, and full of variety and charm, and the whole symphony is full of vivid pictures of Rhineland life. Perhaps the gem of the whole is the second movement (Scherzo), in which power and beauty are mingled with the romance which in every German heart hovers round the Rhine and its multitude of songs and legends. Although written in 1850, when Schumann's imagination was becoming exhausted, the work bears no trace of any diminution of power.
The poetical concert-overture, invented by Mendelssohn, and practised by Bennett and Gade, was a form never cultivated by Schumann. His overtures are really 'opening pieces,' whether to opera, play, or some festivity or other. In this again he follows Beethoven. His overtures, like those of Beethoven, are most effective in the concert-room, when the drama or occasion for which they were composed is kept in mind. It is so even with the wonderful 'Genoveva' overture, which contains something of Weber's power and swing; but more than all is it true of the overture to Byron's 'Manfred,' so full of tremendous passion. None of the overtures subsequently written by Schumann reached this degree of perfection, least of all his 'Faust' overture, though that to the 'Braut von Messina' (op. 100) is not much inferior to 'Manfred.' In the last year of his productive activity Schumann was much occupied with this form, but the exhausted condition of his creative powers cannot be disguised, either in the 'Faust' overture or in those to Shakespeare's 'Julius Cæsar' (op. 128) and Goethe's 'Hermann und Dorothea' (op. 136), which last he had intended to set as an opera. The festival overture on the 'Rheinweinlied' (op. 123) is cleverly worked, and a very effective pièce d'occasion.
It was in the spring of 1838 that Schumann made his first attempt, so far as we know, at a String Quartet. It was scarcely successful, for he was too much immersed in pianoforte music; at any rate the world has hitherto seen nothing of it. In June and July 1842 he was much more successful. The three string quartets (op. 41), written at this time, are the only ones that have become known. They cannot be said to be in the purest quartet style; but as Schumann never played any stringed instrument, this is not surprising. They still retain much of the pianoforte style; but even by this means Schumann attains many new and beautiful effects. In several places the influence of Beethoven is clearly discernible; especially in the Adagio of the A minor and the Adagio-variations of the F major Quartet. On the other hand, the 'Quasi Trio' in the style of a gavotte, in the Finale of the A major, shows an affinity with Bach (compare the gavotte in the sixth of the so-called 'French suites' in E major), though not as something appropriated from without, but rather as an individuality developed from within. At the same time the Scherzo of the A minor Quartet is an example of how a fleeting impression often becomes fixed in an independently creative imagination, until it reaches a more perfect degree of development. At the time of writing this quartet Schumann had become acquainted with Marschner's G minor Trio (op. 112), and speaks of it in the Zeitschrift. The fine scherzo of that work struck him very much, and in his own scherzo it reappears, in a modified form certainly, but yet recognisable enough. In spite of this plagiarism however we must allow the quartet to be in the highest degree original, and full of richness and poetry. It contains much enchanting beauty, never surpassed even by Schumann. He seems here to have resumed his practice of mixing up poetic mysticism with his music. What other reason could there be for proposing to use the four bars of modulation from the first quartet (bars 30—34), exactly as they stand, for an introduction to the second quartet? He afterwards struck them out, as may be seen in the autograph. The other quartets also arrived at their present form only after manifold alterations. The slow introduction to the A minor Quartet was at first intended to be played con sordini. The third quartet began with a chord of the 6-5 on D, held out for a whole bar. The greatest alterations were made in the first Allegro of the A minor and in the variations in A♭ of the F major Quartets. Whole sections were re-written and modified in ​various ways. But Wasielewski is mistaken in saying (3rd ed. p. 178, note) that the più lento over the coda in these variations is a misprint for più mosso. Schumann wrote più lento quite plainly, and evidently meant what he wrote. He may possibly have changed his mind afterwards, for in regard to tempo he was often accessible to the opinions of others.
Of the works for strings and pianoforte, the Quintet (op. 44) is of course the finest. Nay more: it is undoubtedly the best piece of chamber music since Beethoven, and will always keep its place in the first rank of musical masterpieces. This quintet claims the highest admiration, not only because of its brilliant originality, and its innate power which seems to grow with every movement, and at the end of the whole leaves the hearer with a feeling of the possibility of never-ending increase but also because of its gorgeous beauty of sound, and the beautiful and well-balanced relations between the pianoforte and the strings. Musicians are still living, like Carl Reinecke of Leipzig, who at the time of its appearance were in the most susceptible period of youth, and who tell of the indescribable impression the work made upon them. It must have seemed like a new paradise of beauty revealed to their view. The Pianoforte Quartet (op. 47) only wants animation, and a more popular character in the best sense of the word, to make it of equal merit with the Quintet. There is much in it of the spirit of Bach, as is perhaps most evident in the wonderful melody of the Andante. A high rank is taken by the Trios in D minor (op. 63) and F major (op. 80), both, as well as the quintet and quartet, written in one and the same year. In the first a passionate and sometimes gloomy character predominates, while the second is more cheerful and full of warmth in the middle movements. The canonic style is employed in the Adagios of both trios with new and powerful effect. The treatment of the strings with respect to the pianoforte may here and there be considered too orchestral in style; but it must not be forgotten that it was adopted to suit the piano style, which in Schumann is very different from that of the classical masters and of Mendelssohn. The two trios, however, are wanting in that expression of perfect health which is so prominent in both the quintet and the quartet. They show traces of the hurry and breathless haste which in his later years increases the complication of his rhythms. The third and last Trio (G minor, op. 110) is far inferior to the others. There is still the same artistic design, and in isolated passages the noble genius of the master still shines clearly out; but as a whole this trio tells of exhaustion. The same may be said of most of the other chamber works of Schumann's latest years. Among them are two sonatas for piano and violin, gloomy, impassioned compositions, which can hardly be listened to without a feeling of oppression. There are also a number of shorter pieces for different instruments, among which the 'Märchenbilder für Pianoforte und Viola' (op. 113) are prominent. No one who bears in mind Schumann's ultmate fate can hear without emotion the last of these 'Märchenbilder,' which bears the direction 'Langsam, mit melancholischem Ausdruck' (Slowly, with an expression of melancholy).
In the sphere of the concerto Schumann has left an imperishable trace of his genius in the Pianoforte Concerto in A minor (op. 54). It is one of his most beautiful and mature works. In addition to all his peculiar originality it has also the qualities, which no concerto should lack, of external brilliancy, and striking, powerful, well rounded subjects. The first movement is written in a free form with happy effect; the cause being that Schumann had at first intended it to stand as an independent piece, with the title 'Fantasia.' He did not add the other two movements until two years afterwards. The 'Introduction und Allegro appassionato,' for pianoforte and orchestra (op. 92), is a rich addition to concerto literature. In Schumann there is a deeper connection between the pianoforte and orchestra than had before been customary, though not carried to such a point as to interfere with the contrast between the two independent powers. He was far from writing symphonies with the pianoforte obbligato. His other works in concerto-form, written in the last years of his life, do not attain to the height of the Concerto. Among them is an unpublished violin concerto written between Sept. 21 and Oct. 3, 1853, and consisting of the following movements: (1) D minor alla breve, 'Im kräftigen, nicht zu schnellen Tempo'; (2)B♭ major, common time, 'Langsam'; (3) D major, 3–4, 'Lebhaft, doch nicht zu schnell.' The autograph is in the possession of Joachim. A Fantasia for violin and orchestra, dedicated to the same great artist, is published as op. 131. The Violoncello Concerto (op. 129) is remarkable for a very beautiful slow middle movement. There is also a Concerto for four horns and orchestra (op. 86). Schumann himself thought very highly of this piece, partly because, as he wrote to Dr. Härtel, 'it was quite curious.' It is indeed the only attempt made in modern times to revive the form of the old Concerto grosso which Sebastian Bach had brought to perfection in his six so-called 'Brandenburg' concertos. As these concertos of Bach were not printed until 1850, and Schumann can scarcely have known them in manuscript, it is a remarkable and interesting coincidence that he should thus have followed Bach's lead without knowing it. The piece is particularly hard for the first horn, because of the high notes. When well rendered it has a peculiarly sonorous, often very romantic effect, to which however the ear soon becomes insensible from the tone of the four horns.
In his account of Marschner's 'Klänge aus Osten,' a work performed in Leipzig on Oct. 22, 1840, Schumann says: 'We must admire the pattern which the composer has felt himself encouraged to set, and which others need only follow, to enrich the concert-room with a new form of music.' The 'Klänge aus Osten' consist of an overture, solos, and choruses, and treat of ​the adventures of a pair of lovers in the East. By the term 'new form of music' Schumann means a form in which it was possible to make use for concert performances of romantic stories, which had hitherto been only used on the stage. He was the first to follow this example in his 'Paradise and the Peri.' The text was taken from Moore's poem, of which Schumann shortened some parts to suit his purpose, while he lengthened others by his own insertions. It was his first work for voices and orchestra, and is one of his greatest and most important. The subject was happily chosen. The longing felt by one of those ideal beings created by the imagination from the forces of nature, to attain or regain a higher and happier existence, and using every means for the fulfilment of this longing, is of frequent occurrence in the German popular legends, and is still a favourite and sympathetic idea in Germany. It is the root of the legends of the Fair Melusina, of the Water Nixie, and of Hans Heiling. Schumann's fancy must have been stimulated by the magic of the East, no less than by Moore's poem, with its poetic pictures displayed on a background of high moral sentiment. It has been very unnecessarily objected to 'Paradise and the Peri' that it follows none of the existing forms of music. If it be necessary for the enjoyment of a work of art that it should be ticketed after some known pattern, it is obvious that this one belongs to the class of Oratorio. That the oratorio may be secular as well as sacred was shown by Handel, and confirmed by Haydn in his 'Seasons.' For the text no especial poetic form is required. It may be dramatic or narrative, or a mixture of the two; Handel has left examples of each. The essential characteristic of an oratorio is that it should bring the feelings into play, not directly, as is done in the cantata, but by means of a given event, about which the emotions can be aroused. The form of the poetry, the choice of material and form in the music, should all depend upon the particular subject to be treated. The fact of Schumann's having retained so much of Moore's narrative is worthy of all praise; it is the descriptive portions of the poem that have the greatest charm, and the music conforms to this. To call this method an imitation of the music of the Evangelist in Bach's Passion Music is unnecessary and untrue; for the narrative portions are given by Schumann both to solos and chorus. True, there will always be a certain disadvantage in using a complete self-contained poem as a text for music, a great deal of which will inevitably have been written without regard to the composer. Much that we pass over lightly in reading has, when set to music, a more definite and insistent effect than was intended. In other places again, the poem, from the musician's point of view, will be deficient in opportunities for the strong contrasts so necessary for effect in music. This is very obvious in Schumann's composition. The third portion of the work, although he took much trouble to give it greater variety by additions to the poetry, suffers from a certain monotony. Not that the separate numbers are weaker than those of the former parts, but they are wanting in strong shadows. But there is something else that prevents the work from producing a really striking effect upon large audiences, and that is, if we may say so, that there is too much music in it. Schumann brought it forth from the fulness of his heart, and threw, even into its smallest interludes, all the depth of expression of which he was capable. The beauties are crowded together, and stand in each other's light. If they had been fewer in number they would have had more effect. But, with all these allowances, 'Paradise and the Peri' is one of the most enchanting musical poems in existence. And we can now confirm his own words in a letter to a friend after the completion of the work: 'A soft voice within me kept saying while I wrote, It is not in vain that thou art writing'; for this composition will go far to make him immortal. No comparison is possible between it and the great oratorios of Mendelssohn, with their grand structure and historical character. Its object is wholly different to lead us into the bright magical fairy-world of the East, and make us sympathise with the sorrows and the struggles of a gentle daughter of the air. It can only be really impressive to a somewhat small circle. The more so that the chorus, the chief means for representing broad and popular emotions, has only a moderate share in the work. All the choruses in 'Paradise and the Peri,' perhaps with the exception of the last, are fine, original, and effective. But it must be admitted that choral composition was not really Schumann's strong point. In this respect he is far inferior to Mendelssohn. In many of his choruses he might even seem to lack the requisite mastery over the technical requirements of choral composition, so instrumental in style, so impracticable and unnecessarily difficult do they seem. But if we consider Schumann's skill in polyphonic writing, and recall pieces of such grand conception and masterly treatment as the beginning of the last chorus of the Faust music, we feel convinced that the true reason of the defect lies deeper. The essential parts of a chorus are large and simple subjects, broad and flowing development, and divisions clearly marked and intelligible to all. In a good chorus there must be something to speak to the heart of the masses. Schumann took exactly the opposite view. The chorus was usually an instrument unfitted for the expression of his ideas. His genius could have mastered the technical part of choral composition as quickly and surely as that of orchestral composition. But since the case was otherwise, the chief importance of 'Paradise and the Peri' is seen to be in the solos and their accompaniments, especially in the latter, for here the orchestra stands in the same relation to the voice as the pianoforte does in Schumann's songs. A good orchestral rendering of 'Paradise and the Peri' is a task of the greatest difficulty, but one rewarded by perfect enjoyment. Compositions such as this, as we have already said, correspond in ​the concert-room to the German romantic opera. 'Paradise and the Peri' may be likened to Weber's 'Oberon,' and Mendelssohn's 'First Walpurgisnight' to Weber's 'Der Freischütz.'
In the fairy-tale of 'The Pilgrimage of the Rose' (op. 112) Schumann intended to produce a companion picture to 'Paradise and the Peri,' but in less definite outline and vaguer colours. The idea of the poem is similar to that of the former work, but Horn's execution of the idea is entirely without taste. Schumann was possibly attracted by its smooth versification and a few really good musical situations. The music contains much that is airy and fresh, as well as a beautiful dirge. On the other hand, it is full of a feeble sentimentality utterly foreign to Schumann's general character, and ascribable only to the decay of his imagination. The insignificant and wholly idyllic subject was quite inadequate to give employment to the whole apparatus of solo, chorus, and orchestra, and Schumann's first idea of providing a pianoforte accompaniment only was the right one. With a small section of Schumann's admirers the work will always keep its place, and produce a pleasing though not very deep effect. His other works in this form consist of four ballads:—'Der Königssohn' (op. 116), 'Des Sängers Fluch' (op. 139), 'Das Glück von Edenhall' (op. 143), all by Uhlaud; and 'Vom Pagen und der Königstochter' (op. 140), by Geibel. Moore's 'Paradise and the Peri' was peculiarly fitted for musical treatment, and lent itself happily to it. And it will always be easier to extract an available text from a poem of large dimensions, than from a ballad of more concise form. This Schumann had to find out by experience. His chief error was not in taking widely-known masterpieces of German poetry and curtailing or even re-arranging them to suit his purpose; Uhland's and Geibel's poems remain as they were, and a musician must always be permitted to take his subjects wherever and however he likes. He is rather to be blamed for not going far enough in his alterations, and for retaining too much of the original form of the ballad. What has been already said with regard to 'Paradise and the Peri' holds good here too, and in a greater degree. It is painfully evident that these ballads were not really written for music. The way the principal events of the story are described, and the whole outward form of the verses, imply that they were intended to be recited by a single person, and that not a singer but a speaker. If necessary to be sung, the form of a strophic song should have been chosen, as is the case with 'Das Glück von Edenhall,' but this would confine the varieties of expression within too narrow a range. It is as though Schumann's pent-up desire for the dramatic form were seeking an outlet in these ballads; especially as we know that in the last years of his creative activity he was anxious to meet with a new opera-libretto. The faults of texts and subjects might however be overlooked, if the music made itself felt as the product of a rich and unwearied imagination. Unfortunately, however, this is seldom the case. It is just in the more dramatic parts that we detect an obvious dulness in the music, a lameness in rhythm, and a want of fresh and happy contrasts. It must be remarked, however, that isolated beauties of no mean order are to be met with; such as the whole of the third part and the beginning and end of the second, in the ballad 'Vom Pagen und der Königstochter.' These works, however, taken as a whole, will hardly live.
On the other hand, there are some works of striking beauty for voices and orchestra in a purely lyrical vein. Among these should be mentioned the 'Requiem for Mignon' from 'Wilhelm Meister' (op. 98b), and Hebbel's 'Nachtlied' (op. 108). The former of these was especially written for music, and contains the loveliest thoughts and words embodied in an unconstrained and agreeable form. Few composers were so well fitted for such a work as Schumann, with his sensitive emotional faculty and his delicate sense of poetry; and it is no wonder that he succeeded in producing this beautiful little composition. But it should never be heard in a large concert room, for which its delicate proportions and tender colouring are utterly unfitted. The 'Nachtlied' is a long choral movement. The peculiar and fantastic feeling of the poem receives adequate treatment by a particular style in which the chorus is sometimes used only to give colour, and sometimes is combined with the orchestra in a polyphonic structure, in which all human individuality seems to be merged, and only the universal powers of nature and of life reign supreme.
Beethoven, as is well known, had the intention of setting Goethe's 'Faust' to music. Of course the first part only was in his mind, for the second did not appear until six years after his death. The idea conceived by Beethoven was executed by Schumann; not, it may be, in Beethoven's manner, but perhaps in the best and most effective way conceivable. Schumann's music is not intended to be performed on the stage as the musical complement of Goethe's drama. It is a piece for concert performance, or rather a set of pieces, for he did not stipulate or intend that all three parts should be given together. What he did was to take out a number of scenes from both parts of Goethe's poem, and set music to them. It follows that the work is not self-contained, but requires for its full understanding an accurate knowledge of the poem. From the First Part he took the following:—(1) Part of the first scene in the garden between Gretchen and Faust; (2) Gretchen before the shrine of the Mater dolorosa; (3) The scene in the Cathedral. These three form the first division of his Faust music. From the Second Part of the play he adopted: (1) The first scene of the first act (the song of the spirits at dawn, the sunrise, and Faust's soliloquy); (2) The scene with the four aged women from the fifth act; (3) Faust's death in the same act (as far as the words, 'Der Zeiger fällt—Er fällt, es ist vollbracht'). These form the second division of the music. Schumann's third division consists ​of the last scene of the fifth act (Faust's glorification) divided into seven numbers. The experiment of constructing a work of art, without central point or connection in itself, but entirely dependent for these on another work of art, could only be successful in the case of a poem like 'Faust'; and even then perhaps, only with the German people, with whom Faust is almost as familiar as Luther's Bible. But it really was successful, and Schumann's name will be eternally linked with that of Goethe. This is the case more particularly in the third division, which consists of only one great scene, and is the most important from a musical point of view. In this scene Goethe himself desired the co-operation of music. Its mystic import and splendid expression could find no composer so well fitted as Schumann, who seemed, as it were, predestined for it. He threw himself into the spirit of the poem with such deep sympathy and understanding, that from beginning to end his music gives the impression of being a commentary on it. To Schumann is due the chief meed of praise for having popularized the second part of Faust. In musical importance no other choral work of his approaches the third division of his work. In freshness, originality, and sustained power of invention it is in no way inferior to 'Paradise and the Peri.' Up to about the latter half of the last chorus it is a chain of musical gems, a perfectly unique contribution to concert literature, in the first rank of those works of art of which the German nation may well be proud. The second division of the Faust music, consisting of three other scenes from the Second Part of the poem, is also of considerable merit. It is, however, evident in many passages that Schumann has set words which Goethe never intended to be sung. This is felt still more in the scenes from the First Part, which are moreover very inferior in respect of the music. The overture is the least important of all; in fact the merit of the work decreases gradually as we survey it backwards from the end to the beginning; a circumstance corresponding to the method pursued in its composition, which began in Schumann's freshest, happiest, and most masterly time of creativeness, and ended close upon the time when his noble spirit was plunged in the dark gloom of insanity.
There exist only two dramatic works of Schumann's intended for the theatre: the opera of 'Genoveva' and the music to Byron's 'Manfred.' The text of the opera may justly be objected to, for it scarcely treats of the proper legend of Genoveva at all; almost all that made the story characteristic and touching being discarded, a fact which Schumann thought an advantage. This may perhaps be explained by remembering his opinion that in an opera the greatest stress should be laid on the representation of the emotions, and that this object might most easily be attained by treating the external conditions of an operatic story as simply and broadly as possible. He also probably felt, that a great part of the Genoveva legend is epic rather than dramatic. He was mistaken, however, in thinking that after the reductions which he made in the plot, it would remain sufficiently interesting to the general public. He himself, as we have said, arranged his own libretto. His chief model was Hebbel's 'Genoveva,' a tragedy which had affected him in a wonderful way; though he also made use of Tieck's 'Genoveva.' Besides these he took Weber's 'Euryanthe' as a pattern. The mixture of three poems, so widely differing from one another, resulted in a confusion of motives and an uncertainty of delineation which add to the uninteresting impression produced by the libretto. The character of Golo, particularly, is very indistinctly drawn, and yet on him falls almost the chief responsibility of the drama. The details cannot but suffer by such a method of compilation as this. A great deal is taken word for word from Hebbel and Tieck, and their two utterly different styles appear side by side without any compromise whatever. Hebbel however predominates. Tieck's work appears in the finale of the first act, and in the duet (No. 9) in the second act, e.g. the line 'Du liebst mich, holde Braut, da ist der Tag begonnen.' Genoveva's taunt on Golo's birth is also taken from Tieck, although he makes the reproach come first from Wolf and afterwards from Genoveva herself, but without making it a prominent motive in the drama. Beside this several Volkslieder are interspersed. This confusion of styles is surprising in a man of such fine discrimination and delicate taste as Schumann displays elsewhere. The chief defect of the opera, however, lies in the music. If 'Paradise and the Peri,' as we have said, may be compared with Weber's 'Oberon,' the one holding the same place in the concert-room that the other does on the stage, Schumann's opera may be compared to one of Weber's concert cantatas say to 'Kampf und Sieg.' As Weber always shows himself a dramatic artist even where it is not required, so does Schumann show himself a lyric artist. In the opera of 'Genoveva,' the characters all sing more or less the same kind of music; that which Schumann puts to the words is absolute music, not relative, i.e. such as would be accordant with the character of each individual. Neither in outline nor detail is his music sufficiently generated by the situations of the drama. Lastly, he lacks appreciation for that liveliness of contrast which appears forced and out of place in the concert-room, but is absolutely indispensable on the stage. 'Genoveva' has no strict recitatives, but neither is there spoken dialogue; even the ordinary quiet parts of the dialogue are sung in strict time, and usually accompanied with the full orchestra. Schumann considered the recitative a superannuated form of art, and in his other works also makes scarcely any use of it. This point is of course open to dispute; but it is not open to dispute that in an opera, some kind of calm, even neutral form of expression is wanted, which, while allowing the action to proceed quickly, may serve as a foil to the chief parts in which highly-wrought emotions are to be delineated. The want of such a foil in 'Genoveva' ​weakens the effect of the climaxes, and with them, that of the whole. As in the formation of the libretto Schumann took 'Euryanthe' as his model, so, as a musician, he intended to carry out Weber's intentions still farther, and to write, not an opera in the old-fashioned ordinary sense, but a music-drama, which should be purely national. At the time when 'Genoveva' was written, he was utterly opposed to Italian music, not in the way we should have expected him to be, but exactly as Weber was opposed to it in his time. 'Let me alone with your canary-bird music and your tunes out of the waste-paper basket,' he once said angrily to Weber's son, who was speaking to him of Cimarosa's 'Matrimonio Segreto.' But although he may not have succeeded in producing a masterpiece of German opera, we may appreciate with gratitude the many beauties of the music, the noble sentiment pervading the whole, and the constant artistic feeling, directed only to what is true and genuine. After the experiments of the last ten years in Germany, it seems not unlikely that 'Genoveva' will yet attain to a settled position on the stage. And well does it deserve this place. The finest part of the work is the overture, a masterpiece in its kind, and worthy to rank with the classical models.
The music to Byron's 'Manfred' (op. 115) consists of an overture, an entr'acte, melodramas, and several solos and choruses. Byron expressly desired the assistance of music for his work, though not so much of it as Schumann has given. Schumann inserted all the instrumental pieces in the work, with the exception of the tunes on the shepherd's pipe in the first act; also the requiem heard at Manfred's death, sounding from the convent church. On the other hand, it is remarkable that he left the song of 'The captive usurper' in Act ii. Scene iv. without music. The whole work consists of 16 numbers, including the overture; this Schumann composed first of all, and probably without intending to write music for the drama itself. Even here he does not evince any special gift for dramatic writing. In the present day Byron's drama is frequently performed upon the stage with Schumann's music, and its effectiveness can thus be tested. The music hardly ever serves to intensify the dramatic effects, and yet this is all that is necessary in a drama. It appears rather to be the outcome of the impression produced on Schumann by Byron's poem. There is one peculiarity about the Manfred music. On the stage it loses a great part of its effect, just as, in my opinion, the poem loses half its fantastic and weird magic by being dressed in the clumsy and palpable illusions of a scenic representation. The overture is a piece of music of the most serious character, and much more fitted for concert performance than for assembling an audience in a theatre. This is still more true of all the other pieces, so delicate in construction and subtle in feeling, the closing requiem by no means excluded. And yet in the concert-room the music does not make its due effect; partly because the hearer is withdrawn from the influence of the action, which is indispensable to the full understanding of the whole work; and also because in the melodramas the spoken words and the music which accompanies them disturb one another more than when performed on the stage. From these remarks it might be imagined that the Manfred music is an inferior work; but strange to say such is by no means the case. It is a splendid creation, and one of Schumann's most inspired productions. It hovers between the stage and the concert-room; and, paradoxical as it may seem, the deepest impression is produced by reading the score, picturing in one's mind the action and the spoken dialogue, and allowing the music to sink deep into the ears of one's mind. Perhaps the most striking parts of it all are the melodramas, and among them the deeply touching speech of Manfred to Astarte; and these all stand out with a peculiar purity and unity, when read as just described. They are in a manner improvements upon those highly poetic piano pieces of Schumann's with superscriptions; and we ought to think of the words when hearing the piece. In this music, if nowhere else, is revealed Schumann's characteristic struggle after the inward, to the disregard of the outward, and we see how diametrically opposed to his nature was the realisation of dramatic effects where all is put into visible and tangible form. But he devoted himself to the composition of the Manfred music just as if he had been fitted for it by nature. The poet and the composer seem to have been destined for one another as truly as in the case of the Faust music, but in a different way. Byron had no idea of stage representation in writing Manfred; he only wished his poem to be read. Its romantic sublimity of thought, spurning all firm foothold or support on the earth, could only find its due completion in music such as this, which satisfies the requirements of neither stage nor concert-room. That a work of art, mighty and instinct with life, can be produced with a sublime disdain of all limits set by circumstance, provided only genius is at work upon it, is amply proved by Byron and Schumann in this their joint production. It has been already remarked more than once that the gloomy, melancholy, and passionate intensity of strife in Byron's Manfred, heightened by contrast with the splendid descriptions of nature, corresponded to the conditions of Schumann's spirit at the time when the music was written. And indeed a deep sympathy speaks in every bar. But there was in Schumann a longing for peace and reconciliation, which is wanting in Byron. This comes out very plainly in different passages in the music, of which the most striking is the 'Requiem' at the close, which sheds over the whole work a gentle gleam of glory. If we were to go into details, we should neither know where to begin nor to end.
In January 1851 Schumann wrote to a friend, 'It must always be the artist's highest aim to apply his powers to sacred music. But in youth we are firmly rooted to the earth by all our joys and sorrows; it is only with advancing age that the branches stretch higher, and so I hope that ​the period of my higher efforts is no longer distant.' He is here speaking emphatically of 'sacred,' not of church music. Church music he never wrote, his Mass and his Requiem notwithstanding. It should be adapted to the church-services, and calculated to produce its effect in combination with the customary ceremonial; but sacred or religious music is intended to turn the mind of the hearers, by its own unaided effect, to edifying thoughts of the eternal and divine. Of compositions of this class we possess several by Schumann; nor was it in 1851 that he first began writing them. There is an Advent hymn for solo, chorus, and orchestra (op. 71), written in 1848; a motet for men's voices with organ, subsequently arranged for orchestra (op. 93), of 1849, and a New Year's hymn for chorus and orchestra (op. 144) of the winter of the same year; all three settings of poems by Friedrich Rückert. The Mass (op. 147) and the Requiem (op. 148), on the other hand, were composed in 1852, and Schumann may have been thinking mainly of works of this kind when he wrote the letter quoted above. As a Protestant his relations to the Mass and Requiem were perfectly unfettered; and in the composition of these works he can have had no thought of their adaptation to divine service, since even in form they exhibit peculiarities opposed to the established order of the Mass. It may however be assumed that it was the Catholic feeling of Düsseldorf which suggested them, and that he intended the works to be performed on certain occasions at church concerts. The words of the Mass will always have a great power of elevating and inspiring an earnest artist; but irrespective of this, the composition of a mass must have had a peculiar attraction for Schumann on other grounds. A poetical interest in the Catholic Church of the middle ages was at that time widely prevalent in Germany, particularly in circles which were most influenced by romantic poetry, and found in the middle ages the realisation of their most cherished ideals. Schumann shared in this tendency; a vein of mystical religionism, which otherwise might have lain dormant, often shows itself in his later compositions. For instance, under the name Requiem we find the setting of a hymn, ascribed to Heloise, the beloved of Abelard (op. 90, no. 7),
Requiescat a labore Doloroso, et amore, etc.
Other instances are the poems of Mary Stuart (op. 135), and the Requiem for Mignon. In the Mass he has, contrary to custom, introduced an offertorium, Tota pulchra es, Maria, et macula non est in te—not because he was personally an advocate of Mariolatry, but because the poetical reverence for the Virgin of mediæval times had a peculiar charm for him.
In judging of Schumann's sacred music, it is necessary to repeat that, though the chorus is not strictly speaking the musical means by which he was best able to express himself, yet both custom and the character and importance of the uubject urged him to make considerable use of it in these works. Thus they contain a contradiction in themselves; they are all nobly and gravely conceived, but as choral music are only very rarely satisfactory. The Mass no doubt ranks highest, and contains much that is very beautiful; the 'Kyrie,' the 'Agnus,' the beginning and end of the 'Sanctus,' and part of the 'Credo,' being among Schumann's very best choral works. Unfortunately there is less to be said for the Requiem; we should have expected the mere idea of a mass for the dead to have inspired such a genius as Schumann's, even without recollecting the wonderful tones which he has found for the final requiem in Manfred. But this work was undoubtedly written under great exhaustion; and the first romantic chorus alone makes a uniformly harmonious impression. It closes the list of Schumann's works, but it is not with this that we should wish to complete the picture of so great and noble a master. He once said with reference to the Requiem, 'It is a thing that one writes for oneself.' But the abundant treasure of individual, pure, and profound art which he has bequeathed to us in his other works is a more lasting monument to his name, stupendous and imperishable.
Among the published works that treat of Schumann's life and labours, that by Wasielewski deserves the first mention ('Robert Schumann, eine Biographie von Josef W. von Wasielewski'; Dresden, R. Kunze, 1858; ed. 3, Bonn, E. Strauss, 1880). Though in time it may yet receive additions and revision, it has still the enduring merit of giving from accurate acquaintance the broad outlines of Schumann's life. Other valuable contributions to his biography have been written by Franz Hueffer, 'Die Poesie in der Musik' (Leipzig, Leuckart, 1874); by Richard Pohl, 'Erinnerungen an R. Schumann,' in the 'Deutsche Revue,' vol. iv, Berlin, 1878 (pp. 169 to 181, and 306 to 317); by Max Kalbeck, 'R. Schumann in Wien,' forming the feuilletons of the 'Wiener Allgemeine Zeitung' of Sept. 24, 29, and Oct. 5, 1880. An accurate and sympathetic essay on Schumann, 'Robert Schumann's Tage und Werke,' was contributed by A. W. Ambros to the 'Culturhistorischen Bilder aus dem Musikleben der Gegenwart' (Leipzig, Matthes, 1860; pp. 51-96). Schumann's literary work has been reviewed by H. Deiters in the Aug. musik. Zeitung (Leipzig, Breitkopf & Härtel, 1865, nos. 47–49).
Schuberth & Co. published in 1860–61 a Thematic Catalogue of Schumann's printed works, extending to op. 143 only. A complete index to all the published compositions of Schumann, with careful evidence as to the year in which each was written, published, and first performed, and their different editions and arrangements, was compiled by Alfred Dörffel as a supplement to the 'Musikalisches Wochenblatt' (Leipzig, Fritzsch, 1875). It is impossible to indicate all the shorter notices of Schumann in books and periodicals. The author of this article has had the advantage of seeing a considerable number ​of his unpublished letters and of obtaining much information at first hand from persons who were in intimate relations with him.
[App. p.791: "Add that a complete edition of the works of Schumann has been undertaken by the firm of Breitkopf & Härtel, who are also issuing a 'Volksausgabe' of the same at a very moderate price."]
Catalogue of Schumann's Published Works.
A. For PF. Alone.
    (1) Solos.
Variations on the name 'Abegg.' Op. 1. Papillions (12 pieces). Op. 2. Studies after Paganini's Caprices. Op. 3. Intermezzi, in 2 books. Op. 4. Impromptus (Variations) on a theme by Clara Wieck. Op. 5. 'Davidsbündlertänze' (18 characteristic pieces). Op. 6. Toccata. Op. 7. Allegro. Op. 8. 'Carnaval' (21 pieces). Op. 9. Studies after Paganini's Caprices. Op. 10. Sonata in F♯ minor. Op. 11. Fantasiestücke, in 2 books. Op. 12. Etudes in the form of variations (Etudes symphoniques). Op. 13. Sonata in F minor. Op. 14. 'Kinderscenen' (13 pieces). Op. 15. 'Kreisleriana' (8 pieces). Op. 16. Fantasia. Op. 17. 'Arabeske.' Op. 18. 'Blumenstück.' Op. 19. 'Humoreske.' Op. 20. 'Novelletten,' in 4 books. Op. 21. Sonata in G minor. Op. 22. 'Nachtstücke.' Op. 23. 'Faschingsschwank aus Wien.' Op. 26. 'Drei Romanzen.' Op. 28. 4 PF. pieces (Scherzo, Gigue, Romanze, and Fughette). Op. 32. Album for the young (40 PF. pieces). Op. 68. 4 Fugues. Op. 72. 4 Marches. Op. 76. 'Waldscenen' (9 pieces). Op. 82. 4 Bunte Blätter (14 pieces). Op. 99. 8 Fantasiestücke. Op. 111. 3 PF. Sonatas for the young. Op. 118. 'Albumblätter' (20 pieces). Op 124. 7 pieces in fughetta form. Op. 126 'Gesänge der Frühe' (Morning Songs. 5 pieces). Op. 133. Scherzo, originally belonging to the F minor Sonata, Op. 14; published as No. 12 of the posthumous works. Presto passionato. originally the last movement of the G minor Sonata. Op. 22; published as No. 13 of the posthumous works PF. accompaniment to Bach's Suites and Sonatas for violin alone (Leipzig, Breitkopf & Härtel).
    (2) Duets.
'Bilder aus Osten' (6 pieces). Op. 66. '12 vierhändige Clavierstücke für kleine und grosse Kinder.' Op. 85. 'Ballscenen' (9 pieces). Op. 109. 'Kinderball' (6 pieces in dance form). Op. 130.
    (3) Duet for 2 PF.s (4 hands).
Andante and variations. Op. 46.
    (4) For pedal PF. or Organ.
'Studies for the pedal PF.' (6 pieces in canon form). Op. 56. 'Sketches for ihe pedal PF.' (4 pieces). Op. 58. 6 Fugues on the name Bach. Op. 60.
B. For PF. with other Instruments.
Quintet for PF., 2 Violins, Viola and Cello. Op. 44. Quartet for PF., Violin, Viola, and Cello. Op. 47. Trio for PF., Violin, and Cello (D minor). Op. 63. Adagio and Allegro for PF. and Horn (ad lib. Cello or Violin). Op. 70. Fantasiestücke for PF. and Clarinet (ad lib. Violin or Cello), 3 pieces. Op. 73. Trio for PF., Violin, and Cello (F major). Op. 80. Phantasiestücke for PF., Violin, and Cello (4 pieces). Op. 88. 3 Romances for PF. and Oboe (ad lib. Violin or Cello). Op. 94. 5 Stücke im Volkston for PF. and Cello (ad lib. Violin). Op. 102. Sonata for PF. and Violin (A minor). Op. 105. Trio for PF., Violin, and Cello (G minor). Op. 110. 'Märchenbilder': 4 pieces for PF. and Viola (ad lib. Violin). Op. 113. Sonata for PF. and Violin (D minor). Op. 121. 'Märchenerzählungen'; 4 pieces for PF., Clarinet (ad lib. Violin), and Viola. Op. 132.
C. For Strings.
3 Quartets for 2 Violins. Viola, and Cello. Op. 41.
D. Instrumental Concertos.
Concerto for PF. and Orchestra (A minor). Op. 54. Concertstück for 4 Horns and Orchestra. Op. 86. Introduction and Allegro appassionato. Concertstück for PF. and Orchestra (G major). Op. 92. Concerto for Cello and Orchestra. Op. 129. Phantasie for Violin and Orchestra. Op. 131. Concert-allegro, with Introduction; for PF. and Orchestra (D minor). Op. 134.
E. For Orchestra.
    (1) Symphonies.
Symphony in B♭. Op. 38. Overture, Scherzo, and Finale. Op. 52. Symphony in C major. Op. 61. Symphony in E♭. Op. 97. Symphony in D minor. Op. 120.
    (2) Overtures.
Overture to Schiller's 'Braut von Messina.' Op. 100. Festival Overture with Chorus on the Rheinweinlied. Op. 123. Overture to Shakespeare's 'Julius Cæsar.' Op. 128. Overture to Goethe's 'Hermann und Dorothea.' Op. 136. Overtures to the opera 'Genoveva,' op. 81; to Byron's 'Manfred,' op. 115; and to the Scenes from Goethe's 'Faust.'
F. For 1 Voice, with PF. Accompaniment.
Liederkreis, by Heine (9 songs). Op. 24. 'Myrthen,' in 4 books (20 songs). Op. 25. Lieder und Gesänge (5). Op. 27. 3 Poems by Geibel. Op. 30. 3 Song-poems by Chamisso. Op. 31. 12 Poems by Justinus Kerner, in 2 books. Op. 35. 6 Poems by Reinick. Op. 36. 12 Poems from Rückert's 'Liebes frühling.' Op. 37. (Nos. 2, 4, and 11 composed by Clara Schumann.) Liederkreis; 12 poems by Eichendorff. Op. 39. 5 Songs. Op. 40. 'Frauen-Liebe und Leben'; cycle of songs by Chamisso. Op. 42. Romanzen und Balladen (3). Op. 45. 'Dichterliebe'; cycle of songs by Heine, in 2 books (16 songs). Op. 48. Romanzen und Balladen (3). Op. 53. 'Belsatzar'; ballad by Heine. Op. 57. Romanzen und Balladen (3). Op. 64. Lieder und Gesänge (5). Op. 77. Album of songs for the young (29). Op. 79. 3 Songs. Op. 83. 'Der Handschuh'; ballad by Schiller. Op. 87. 6 Songs by Willfried von der Nenn. Op. 89. 8 Poems by Lenau, and 'Requiem' (old Catholic poem). Op. 90. 3 Songs from Byron's Hebrew Melodies (with Harp or PF. acct). Op. 95. Lieder und Gesänge (5). Op. 96. Lieder und Gesänge from Goethe's 'Wilhelm Meister' (9). Op. 98a. 7 Songs by Elisabeth Kulmann. Op. 104. 6 Songs. Op. 107. 4 Husarenlieder by Lenau. Op. 117. 8 Poems from the 'Wildlieder' of Pfarrius. Op. 119. '5 heitere Gesänge.' Op. 125. Lieder und Gesänge (5). Op. 127. 'Gedichte der Königin Maria Stuart' (5). Op. 135. 4 Songs. Op. 142. 'Der deutsche Rhein'; patriotic song by N. Becker (with chorus)
G. For various Solo Voices with PF.
3 Poems by Geibel (the 1st for 2 Sopranos, the 2nd for 3 Sopranos, and the 3rd [Zigeunerleben—'Gipsy Life'] for small Chorus, Triangle, and Tambourines ad lib.). Op. 29. 4 Duets for Soprano and Tenor. Op. 34. 8 two-part Songs. Op. 43. 'Spanisches Liederspiel'; a cycle of songs (9, besides one as an appendix) for single and severas voices (S.A.T.B.). Op. 74. 4 Duets for Soprano and Tenor Op. 78. 'Minnespiel' from Rückert's 'Liebesfrühling' for single and several voices (8 numbers). Op. 101 'Mädchenlieder.' by Elisabeth Kulmann, for 2 Soprano voices. Op. 103. 3 Songs for 3 female voices. Op. 114. 'Spanische Liebeslieder'; a cycle of 10 songs for single and several voices, with 4-hand accompaniment on the PF. Op. 138.
H. For Chorus without Accompaniment.
5 four-part Songs for men's voices. Op. 33. Songs by Burns for mixed chorus. Op. 55. 4 Songs for mixed chorus. Op. 69. Songs for male chorus. Op. 62. 'Ritornelle,' by Rückert, In canon form, for men's voices in several parts (7 numbers). Op. 65. Romanzen und Balladen for chorus (5). Op. 67. Romances for female voices, with PF. acct. ad lib. (6). Op. 69. Romanzen und Balladen for chorus (5). Op. 75. Romances for female voices, with PF. acct. ad lib. (6). Op. 91. Motet, 'Verzweifle nicht im Schmerzensthal,' by Rückert, for double male chorus (Organ acct. ad lib.). Op. 93. Hunting songs (5), for male chorus, in several parts (with an ad lib. acct. for 4 Horns). Op. 137. 4 Songs for double chorus. Op. 141. Romanzen und Balladen for chorus (5). Op. 145. Romanzen und Balladen for chorus (5). Op. 146.
I. For Solo, Chorus, and Orchestra.
Paradise and the Peri. Op. 60. Adventlied, by Rückert. Op. 71. 'A Parting Song' (beginning 'Es ist bestimmt in Gottes Rath'). Op. 84. Requiem for Mignon, from Goethe's 'Wilhelm Meister.' Op. 98b. Nachtlied, by Hebbel. Op. 108. The Pilgrimage of the Rose. Op. 112. Der Königssohn; ballad by Uhland. Op. 116. Des Sängers Fluch; ballad after Uhland. Op. 139. Vom Pagen und der Königstochter; 4 ballads by Geibel. Op. 140. Der Gluck von Edenhall; ballad by Uhland. Op. 143. New Year's Song, by Rückert. Op. 144. Mass. Op. 147. Requiem. Op. 148. Scenes from Goethe's 'Faust' (without opus number).
K. Dramatic Works.
'Genoveva'; opera in 4 acts. Op. 81. Music to Byron's 'Manfred.' Op. 115.
L. Melodramas.
Schön Hedwig; ballad by Hebbel for declamation with PF. Op. 106. Ballade vom Haideknabe, by Hebbel, for the same. Op. 122, No. 1. Die Flüchtlinge (The Fugitives); ballad by Shelley, for the same. Op. 122, No, 2.
[ P. S. ]
* ↑ Schumann's 'Gesammelte Schriften,' ii. 126 (1st ed.)
* ↑ 'Potientibus Carus, sed clarus inter doctos.' (Berlioz. Voyage Musical. Letter IV.)
* ↑ Schumann's gratitude to him is thus expressed: 'The man who first gave a hand to me as I climbed upwards, and, when I began to doubt myself, drew me aloft so that I should see less of the common-herd of mankind, and more of the pure air of art.'
* ↑ Hofmeister, Leipzig, and Ch. Schumann, Schneeberg.
* ↑ 'Neue Bahnen,' New Paths, Oct. 28. 1853.
* ↑ Author of the sketch of Beethoven engraved at p. 170 of vol. i of this Dictionary.
* ↑ Hardly recognisable, owing to 'Die musikalische Zeitung' (Schumann's Paper) being rendered 'The musical papers.'
* ↑ See also the 'Gesammelte Schriften.' iii. 195.
* ↑ Qui rerum Maris sacrarum et artifex ingeniosus et judex elegans modis musicis tum scite componendis tum doctis judicandis alque præceptis de senen pulchritudinis venustatisque optimis colendis magnam nomminis famam adeptus est, says the original in its flowery Latin.
* ↑ Now in the possession of Herr Raymund Härtel, of Leipzig.
* ↑ The first performance of the B♭ Symphony in England was at the Philharmonic Concert, June 5. 1854.
* ↑ See the entry under Aug. 7, 1847—'Were he as melodious as he is intellectual (geistreich) he would be the man of the age.'
* ↑ See this Dictionary, vol. ii. p. 457.
* ↑ Its first performance in England was at a Concert of Signor Arditti's, Dec. 4, 1863.
* ↑ The MS. is in Joachhim's possession.
* ↑ In a letter to his friend Henrietta Volgt, Schumann calls it the last chapter. This, although obviously a slip of the pen, has led several writers to wonder what grand or fanciful idea lurks behind the 'Papillons.'
* ↑ See Grossvatertanz, vol. i. p. 634a.
* ↑ Dehn's edition of the Bauercantate was published in 1839, 8 years after Schumann had composed the 'Papillons.'
* ↑ Fasching is a German word for the Carnival.
* ↑ The first appeared in 1866 as No. 12 of the Posthumous Works, published by Bieter-Biedermann, together with the discarded Finale of the Sonata in G minor as No. 13.
* ↑ Schumann intended the Più vívace of the Introduction to be taken distinctly faster at once, so that the time might glide imperceptibly into the Allegro.