Franz Schubert's C Major Symphony

and other writings

by Robert Schumann

Introduction

Robert Schumann was a great enthusiast for Franz Schubert. He is reported as having 'cried all night' when, at the age of 18, he heard of Schubert's death. Schumann was a noted music critic, starting this career in 1831 in the "Allgemeine Musikalische Zeitung" with an article on Chopin's Opus 2. In 1834 he started his own paper, the "Neue Zeitschrift für Musik". Many of the writings in this paper were written as if from the perspective of a group of individuals Schumann called the Davidite Society - which allowed him to use different styles in his reviews and remarks.

In 1853, not long before his madness appeared and he was moved to a private mental hospital for the last 2 years of his life, he collected his essays from the "Neue Zeitschrift" into a book "Music and Musicians". The text in this article comes from the 1876 translation of that book by Fanny Raymond Ritter.

In 1838, Schumann visited Vienna for 6 months in a failed attempt to establish the "Neue Zeitschrift" there. During his stay he visited Ferdinand, Schubert's brother. Ferdinand still held the manuscripts for many works, notwithstanding the fact that he had sold the majority to Diabelli and Co. Included in the manuscripts he still held were the symphonies (excluding the 'unfinished', at that time not known, and still to languish in Anselm Hüttenbrenner's music chest for another 25 years), the masses, the operas, etc.

Schumann helped Ferdinand to try to find publishers for these works, but most importantly, his enthusiasm for the 9th led to its premiere in Leipzig under Mendelssohn. It still took many years to become established - there are incidents both in Vienna and in London, of orchestras simply refusing to play it!

I have added a few notes which are indicated by links in square brackets. If you follow the link to the notes at the bottom of the page, press 'back' on your browser to get you back to where you came from.

THE musician who visits Vienna for the first time, awhile delights in the festive life of the streets, and often stands admiringly before the door of St. Stephen's Tower; but he soon remembers how near to the city lies a cemetery, containing something more worthy - for him - of regard than all the city boasts, - the spot where two of the glorious ones of his art rest, only a few steps apart. No doubt, then, many a young musician has wandered like me (1838) to the Währinger Cemetery, after the first few days of excitement in Vienna, to lay his flowery gift on those graves, even were it but a wild rosebush, such as I found planted on Beethoven's grave. Franz Schubert's resting-place was undecorated. One warm desire of my life was fulfilled; I gazed long on those sacred graves, almost envying the one buried between them - a certain Earl O'Donnell, if I am not mistaken [1]. The first time of gazing on a great man, of pressing his hand, is for every one an earnestly-desired moment. It had never been possible for me to meet either of the two whom I venerate most highly among all modern artists; but after this visit to their graves, I wished I could have stood by the side of a man who loved either one of them most dearly - if possible, his own brother. On the way home, I remembered that Schubert's brother Ferdinand, to whom he had been much attached, was still living. I sought him out, and found that he bore a strong resemblance to the bust that stands beside Schubert's grave; shorter than Franz [2], but strongly built, with a face expressive of honesty as well as of musical ability. He knew me from that veneration for his brother, which I have so often publicly professed; told me and showed me many things, of which, with his permission, I have already spoken in our paper, under the heading "Reliques". Finally, he allowed me to see those treasures of Schubert's composition, which he still possesses. The sight of this hoard of riches thrilled me with joy; where to begin, where to leave off! Among other things, he directed my attention to the scores of several symphonies, many of which have never yet been heard, but are laid on the shelf and prejudged as too heavy and turgid. One must understand Vienna, its peculiar circumstances with regard to concerts, and the difficulties attendant on bringing together the necessary material for great performances, before one can forgive the city where Schubert lived and laboured, that only his songs, but his grand instrumental works seldom or never, are brought before the public. Who knows how long the symphony of which we speak to-day, might not have lain buried in dust and darkness, had I not at once arranged with Ferdinand Schubert, to send it immediately to the direction of the Gewandhaus concerts in Leipzig, or rather, to the directing artist himself, whose fine glance perceives even the most timid of new-budding beauties, - and necessarily therefore, the dazzling splendours of masterly perfection. My hopes were fulfilled. The symphony went to Leipzig, was listened to, understood, again heard, and received with joyous and almost universal admiration. The busy publishing house of Breitkopf and Haertel purchased the work, and now it lies before me in separate parts; for the benefit of the world, I hope it will soon appear in score also.

I must say at once, that he who is not yet acquainted with this symphony, knows very little about Schubert; and this, when we consider all that he has given to art outside of this work, will appear to many as too exaggerated praise. Partly, no doubt, because composers have been so often advised to their own injury, that it is better for them - after Beethoven - to abstain from symphonic plans; which advice, notwithstanding, with the state of feeling that has given rise to it, we can scarcely consider as unreasonable. For we have lately had few orchestral works of consequence; and those few have rather interested us as illustrations of their composers' progress, than that of art, or as creations of decided influence with the masses. Many have been absolute reflections of Beethoven; and it is scarcely necessary to mention those tiresome manufacturers of symphonies, with power enough to shadow forth the powder and perruques of Mozart and Haydn, but not indeed the heads that wore them. Berlioz is thoroughly French, and we are too much accustomed to regard him merely as an interesting foreigner and rattle pate. The hope I had always entertained - and many, no doubt, with me - that Schubert, who had shown himself, through many other kinds of composition, so firm in form, so rich in imaginativeness, so many-sided, would also treat the symphony and find that mode of treatment certain to impress the public, is here realised in the noblest manner. Assuredly he never proposed to excel Beethoven's ninth symphony, but, an industrious artist, he continually drew forth his creations from his own resources, one symphony after another. The only thing that seems to us objectionable in the publication of this seventh symphony [3], or that may lead even to a misunderstanding of the work, is the fact that the world now receives it without having followed its creator's development of this form through its forerunners. Perhaps, however, the bolts may now be drawn from the others; the least of them must possess Schubertian significance; Viennese symphony writers did not need to wander very far in search of the laurel they are so much in need of, for in a suburb of Vienna, in Ferdinand Schuberts study, they might have found sevenfold richer booty, leaf heaped on leaf. And here, too, was the place of all others which they should have crowned with laurel! But it often happens in the world that such opportunities are neglected! Should the conversation turn upon —, the Viennese never know how to finish with their praise of their own Franz Schubert; when they are only among themselves, it does not seem as if they thought much of one or the other. But let us leave these things, and refresh ourselves with the wealth of mind that in its fullness overflows this glorious work! Vienna, with its tower of St. Stephen, its lovely women, its public pageantry, its Danube that garlands it with countless watery ribbons; this Vienna, spreading over the blooming plain, and reaching towards the higher mountains; Vienna, with its reminiscences of the great German masters, must be a fertile domain for the musician's fancy to revel in. Often when gazing on the city from the heights above, I have thought how frequently Beethoven's eyes may have glanced restlessly over the distant line of the Alps; how Mozart may have dreamily followed the course of the Danube, as it seems to vanish amid bush and wood; and how Haydn may have looked up to the tower, shaking his head at its dizzy height. If we draw together the tower, the Danube, and the distant Alps, casting over the whole a soft Catholic incense-vapour, we shall have a fair picture of Vienna; and when the charming, living landscape stands before us, chords will vibrate that never resounded within us before. On leaving Schubert's symphony, the bright, blooming, romantic life of Vienna appears to me clearer than ever; such works ought to be born amid precisely such surroundings. But I shall not attempt to set the symphony in its fitting soil; different ages select different bases for their texts and pictures; where the youth of eighteen hears a world-famous occurrence in a musical work, a man only perceives some rustic event, while the musician probably never thought of either, but simply gave the best music that he happened to feel within him just then. But every one must acknowledge that the outer world, sparkling to-day, gloomy tomorrow, often deeply impresses the inward feeling of the poet or the musician; and all must recognise, while listening to this symphony, that it reveals to us something more than mere fine melody, mere ordinary joy and sorrow, such as music has already expressed in a hundred ways, - that it leads us into a region which we never before explored, and consequently can have no recollection of. Here we find, besides the most masterly technicalities of musical composition, life in every vein, colouring down to the finest grade of possibility, sharp expression in detail, meaning throughout, while over the whole is thrown that glow of romanticism that everywhere accompanies Franz Schubert. And then the heavenly length of the symphony, like that of one of Jean Paul's romances in four thick volumes, never able to come to an end, for the very best reasons - in order to leave the reader able to go on romancing for himself. How refreshing is this feeling of Overflowing wealth! With others we always tremble for the conclusion, troubled lest we find ourselves disappointed. It would be incomprehensible whence Schubert had all at once acquired this sparkling, sportive mastery of the orchestra, did we not know that this symphony had been preceded by six others, and that it was written in the ripest years of manly power (on the score is the date, "March, 1828" Schubert died in November) [4]. We must grant that he possessed an extraordinary talent, in attaining to such peculiar treatment of separate instruments, such mastery of orchestral masses - they often seem to converse like human voices and chorusses - although he scarcely heard any of his own instrumental works performed during his life. Save in some of Beethoven's works, I have not elsewhere observed so striking and deceptive a resemblance to the voice, in the treatment of instruments; Meyerbeer, in his treatment of the human voice, attains precisely the opposite effect. Another proof of the genuine, manly inspiration of this symphony, is its complete independence of the Beethoven symphonies. And how correct, how prudent in judgment, Schubert's genius displays itself here! As if conscious of his own more modest powers, he avoids imitating the grotesque forms, the bold proportions that meet us in Beethoven's later works; he gives us a creation of the most graceful form possible, which, in spite of its novel intricacies, never strays far from the happy medium, but always returns again to the central point. Every one who closely studies this symphony, must agree with me. At first, every one will feel a little embarrassed by the brilliancy and novelty of the instrumentation, the length and breadth of form, the charming variety of vital feeling, the entirely new world that opens to us - just as the first glance at anything to which we are unaccustomed, embarrasses us; but a delightful feeling remains, as though we had been listening to a lovely tale of enchantment, we feel that the composer was master of his subject, and after a time, its intricacies and connections all become clear to us. The feeling of certainty is produced at once by the splendid, romantic introduction, over which, notwithstanding, a mysterious veil seems to have been drawn here and there. The passage from this into the allegro is wholly new; the tempo does not seem to change, yet we reach the port, we know not how. It would not give us or others any pleasure to analyse the separate movements; for to give an idea of the novel-like character that pervades the whole symphony, the entire work ought to be transcribed. Yet I cannot take leave of the second movement, which speak. to us with such touching voices, without a few words. There is a passage in it, where a horn calls from a distance, that seems to have descended from another sphere. And every other instrument seems to listen, as if aware that a heavenly guest had glided into the orchestra. [5]

The symphony produced such an effect among us, as none has produced since Beethoven's. Artists and connoisseurs united in its praise, and I heard a few words spoken by the master who had studied it with the utmost care for its perfect success, that I should have been only too happy, had such a thing been possible, to report to the living Schubert, as the gladdest of glad tidings. Years must pass, perhaps, before the work will be thoroughly made at home in Germany; but there is no danger that it will ever be overlooked or forgotten; it bears within it the core of everlasting youth.

And thus my visit to those honoured graves, reminding me of a relation of one of the great departed, became doubly a reward to me. I received my first recompense on the day itself; for I found, on Beethoven's grave, a steel pen, which I have treasured up carefully ever since. I never use it save on festal occasions, as to-day; I trust that good things may have proceeded from it!

IF fertility be a distinguishing mark of genius, then Franz Schubert is a genius of the highest order. Not much over thirty when he died, he wrote an astonishing quantity of things, about half of which, perhaps, have been published; a part of these, only, are widely known, while a still greater part will never, or not for a long time, attain publicity. Among his first-mentioned works, his songs obtained the quickest and widest celebrity; he would have gradually set the whole German literature to music; he was the man for Telemann, who claimed that "a good composer should be able to set wall advertisements to music." Whatever he felt, flowed forth in music; Æschylus, Klopstock, so stiff in composition, yielded under his hand, while he added a deeper sense to the light lyrics of Müller and others. Then what a multitude of instrumental works of every form and kind; trios, quartettes, sonatas, rondos, dances, variations, for two and four hands, large and small, full of wonderful, rare beauties, which our paper has more closely characterized, in other articles. Among the works that still await publication, masses, quartettes, a great number of songs, and other things, have been mentioned to us, as well as his greater compositions, several operas, church pieces, several symphonies and overtures in the possession of his heirs.

He should have lived to see how he is idolised today; it would have inspired him to do his best and highest. Now that he has long lain at rest, we carefully endeavour to collect and examine all that he left behind him; and there is nothing among all that does not betray its origins. Few authors have left the stamp of their minds so clearly impressed on their works as he has done. Every page in the two first of the above impromptus whispers "Franz Schubert," as we know him in his inexhaustible moods; as he charms, deceives, and again fetters us, we find him here. And yet I can scarcely believe that Schubert really entitled these movements 'impromptus." The first is evidently the first movement of a sonata, so perfectly carried out and concluded, that no doubt can exist about it. I consider the second impromptu to be the second movement of the same sonata; in key and character it fits it precisely. Schubert's friends must know what has become of the conclusion of the sonata, or whether he ever concluded it. Perhaps the fourth impromptu may be regarded as the finale, yet if the key be in favour of this supposition, the volatility of the whole plan is opposed to it. These are only conjectures, which a glance into the original manuscript might clear up. yet I do not consider them of no consequence; titles and superscriptions are of little value, while a fine sonata is so great an ornament in the wreath of a composer's productions, that I would willingly imagine another - yes, twenty - added to Schubert's many works in this form. I should scarcely have attributed the third impromptu to Schubert, unless, indeed, as the work of his boyhood; it is a set of indifferent or insignificant variations on a similar theme. They are wholly devoid of invention or fancy - qualities which Schubert has displayed to so high a degree in the variation style in other places. But if the two first impromptus are played in succession, and rounded with the fourth to make a lively close, we shall possess, if not a complete sonata, one more fine souvenir of Schubert. To those who are well acquainted with him already it needs but a single performance for the complete understanding of it. The light, fantastic embroidery between the melodic pauses in the first movement, is precisely what should lull us to slumber; the whole seems to have been written during a pensive hour, as if while meditating on the past. The second movement is of a contemplative character, like many things of Schubert's; the third (the fourth impromptu) is quite different; it pouts, yet softly and good naturedly. Its mood is difficult to comprehend; it reminded me often of Beethoven's amusing, littleknown piece, "Anger over a Lost Penny."

This is a fitting opportunity to mention Franz Liszt's transcriptions of Schubert's songs, which have found such favour with the public. Performed by Liszt, they must be highly effective, but other than master-hands will vainly labour with them; they are perhaps the most difficult things for the pianoforte in existence. A witty fellow wonders "whether an easier arrangement could not be published, and also whether the result of such a one would be the original Schubert Lied again ?" Not always. Liszt has added to and altered; the way in which he has done it betrays the powerful nature of his conception and execution; others would think and write differently. And now the old question suggests itself whether the executive artist shall be allowed the privilege of modifying the works of the creative artist, so as to suit his individual powers ? The answer is easy. A bungler is ridiculous when he does it badly, but we approve of the intelligent artist's arrangement, unless he destroys the sense of the original. This kind of workmanship forms a separate chapter in a method of pianoforte-playing.

The last of Schubert's compositions which have appeared are entitled "Grand Pianoforte Duo for Four Hands," Opus 140, and F. Schubert's last composition, three grand sonatas for pianoforte.

There was a time when I talked unwillingly of Schubert, whose name, I thought, should only be whispered at night to the trees and stars. Who is not, at some period, enthusiastic ? Enraptured with this new mind, whose wealth seemed to me measureless and boundless, deaf to everything that could bear witness against him, I thought of him alone. Who is the master we can esteem the same at every period of our lives ? With increasing years, with increasing demands, the circle of our favourites grows smaller and smaller. The cause of this lies within ourselves as well as in them. In order to value Bach properly, we must have passed through experiences impossible in youth; even the sunlit heights of Mozart are at that time under-estimated. Mere musical studies are not enough to enable us to understand Beethoven, who inspires us more in certain years with certain works. It is at least sure that equal ages exercise a reciprocal attraction on each other, that youthful enthusiasm is best understood by youth, and the power of the mature master by the full-grown man. So Schubert will always remain the favourite of youth. He gives what youth desires - an overflowing heart, daring thoughts, and speedy deeds; he tells of what youth loves best - of knights and maidens, romantic stories and adventures; he mingles wit and humour with these, but not to so great a degree that the softer ground-tone is disturbed. He gives wings to the performer's own fancy, as no other composer has done save Beethoven. Some of his peculiarities, which may be easily imitated, allure to imitation; we carry out a thousand ideas which he only lightly suggests. Such is the effect he produces, and thus he will long influence us.

Ten years ago I should have declared, without more ado, that these lately published works were the finest in the world, - and, compared with the productions of to-day, such they still appear to me. But, as compositions by Schubert, I do not place them in the class where I place his quartet in D minor for string instruments, his trio in E flat major,[6] and many of his lesser songs and pianoforte pieces. The duo, especially (which I regarded as a symphony arranged for the pianoforte, until the original manuscript, in which, in his own hand, it is entitled a " Sonata for Four Hands," taught me otherwise), seems to me still to stand within Beethoven's influence. And, in spite of Schubert's handwriting, I still hold to my own opinion respecting the duo. One who wrote as much as Schubert, cannot have given much time to reviewing or reflecting on his titles, and thus he probably wrote in haste over his work "sonata," while "symphony" was what he had in his mind. Then, to give a more vulgar ground for my opinion, it is probable that at a time when his name was only beginning to be known, he was more likely to find publishers for a sonata than for a symphony. And, in comparing this work with his other sonatas, in which the purest pianoforte character is expressed, I can only, familiar as I am with his style and his manner of treating the pianoforte, regard it as an orchestral work. We hear string and wind instruments, Tuttis, solos, the mutter of drums; and my view is also supported by the broad symphonic form, even by its reminiscences of Beethoven's symphonies, such as, in the second movement, that of the andante of Beethoven's second, and, in the last, that of Beethoven's last in his A major symphony, as well as several paler passages, which seem to me to have lost in the arrangement. In this way, too, I shield the duo from the reproach of being unfitted to the pianoforte, that something has been attempted with the instrument of which it is incapable; while, as an arranged symphony, it must be looked at in a different light. If we so accept it, we are the richer by one symphony. I have mentioned the reminiscences of Beethoven; but do we not all subsist on his treasures ? Yet even without this noble forefather, Schubert would have been the same, though his originality might have found its way out later. To one who has some degree of cultivation and feeling, Beethoven and Schubert may be recognised, yet held apart, on their very first pages. Schubert is a maidenly character compared to the other, far more talkative, softer, broader; compared to him he is a child, sporting carelessly among the giants. Such is the relation these symphonic movements bear to those of Beethoven, and, in their inwardness, they could not have been imagined by any other than Schubert. To be sure, he brings in his powerful passages, and works in masses; but there is always a masculine and feminine contrast; one commands, and one beseeches and persuades. This, however, is in contrast to Beethoven alone; compared to others, he is man enough, and even the boldest and most freethinking of musicians. With this conviction we should take up the duo. It is not necessary to seek for its beauties; they meet and win us more and more the oftener we consider it; indeed, this loving poet-soul cannot fail to win us all completely. And though the adagio so strongly reminds me of Beethoven, yet I scarcely know anything in which Schubert is more distinctly himself; he stands bodily before us - with the first measures his name passes our lips. And all will agree that the work sustains itself at the same height from beginning to end - a quality that should always be insisted on, yet one which modern works seldom offer to us. No musician dare remain a stranger to such a work, and if so many among them fail to understand some creations of to-day, and some of the future, it is their own fault; their insight is blind to transition. The new (so-called) Romantic school is not woven from the air; everything has its own good foundation.

The sonatas are sufficiently distinguished and remarkable, as being the last work of Franz Schubert. Probably those to whom the period of their creation was unknown would judge them differently - as I did, placing them at an earlier epoch in the composer's career, while I always considered the trio in E flat major as Schubert's last work, as well as his most original one. It may be, however, that these sonatas were really the last work of his hand, for it would be something more than human in a man who wrote so much and so continually as Schubert were he to improve and surpass himself in every succeeding effort. I cannot learn whether he wrote these sonatas on his sick-bed or not; from the music I rather surmise that he did; and yet it may be that one's opinion and fancy are influenced beforehand by the sad ideas awakened by the word "last" on the title-page. However it may be, these sonatas seem to me to differ from his others in their greater simplicity of invention, their voluntary resignation of novel brilliancy (just where he formerly made such great demands on his powers), and through a general spinning out of musical ideas where he formerly joined period to period with new threads. It flows on from page to page, ever more musical and melodious, as if it could never come to an end or lose its continuity, broken, here and there, by a somewhat more lively emotion, that is, however, soon quieted again. Colder judges must decide whether or not my opinion has been influenced here by the thought of his illness; but the work affects me as I describe it. Then it closes so lightly, cheerfully, courageously, as though he would be ready to begin again the next day. But it was otherwise ordained. He met his last moments with composure. And if the words are written on his tombstone, that "a rich possession, but still fairer hopes," lie buried there, we will thankfully remember only the first. It will lead to nothing to guess at what more he might have attained. He did enough; and those must be honoured who have striven and accomplished as he has done.

Notes

[1] According to Deutsch in the Docs, Schubert's grave was No. 323 and Beethoven's was No. 290. Between them were the graves of the Hardtmuth and Schlechta families, and then that of Johann, Count O'Donell. The bodies of both Beethoven and Schubert were exhumed in 1888, and reburied in memorials in the musicians grove of the Central Cemetery of Vienna.

[2] I can find no reference to Ferdinand's height, but Franz was only about 5ft tall. I take this reference to be against Schumann's romantic view of Schubert, rather than of reality.

[3] The 'Great' C major symphony was given the number 7 by Ferdinand, and retained this number for many years (and still does in parts of Germany, I hear), although it is later than the 'unfinished', which is normally numbered as 8. We now know it as the 9th, with the 7th being occupied by another unfinished symphony, in E. Just to confuse matters even more, the editors of the Neue Schubert Ausgabe are now trying to educate us to number the unfinished as 7, and the Great as 8. I suggest that we stick to Deutsch numbers!

[4] Despite the date on the score, modern scholarship dates the work as being from 1825, possibly tidied a little in 1828.

[5] Now that's what I call a paragraph!

[6] There is a translator's note inserted here: The Symphony in C was not known at the time this article was written.

Richard Morris June 1996