Chapter VII: Part 7

If a striking characteristic of the music of Beethoven is its individuality with accompanying infinite variety--as seen in the symphonies, the concertos, nearly all of the pianoforte sonatas, and the chamber music--a no less striking feature is its intense dramatic spirit. The reproach has been made against Beethoven that his genius was not dramatic, but surely reference was here made to the scenic conventionalities of opera. But if the dramatic in music lies in the development of passion, Beethoven was one of the greatest dramatic composers. To quote Henri Lavoix in his remarks on the Fifth Symphony: "Is this not the drama in its purity and its quintessence, where passion is no longer the particular attribute of a theatrical mask, but the expression of our own peculiar feeling?"

An important factor in the full expression of this dramatic intensity in his orchestral writing is the instrumentation. All the instruments are used with greater freedom and effect than ever before. In order to express his great musical ideas the instruments move in a wider compass with greater technical execution. In instrumental coloring, in variety of solo and chorus treatment, and in massive rhythmical effects, Beethoven advanced the art of orchestration to a point never before conceived, His effects, however, are not gained by the introduction of unusual instruments. With the exception of the Ninth Symphony and a few other instances, his orchestra is practically the one used by Mozart. In the Ninth Symphony, as in "the Battle of Vittoria," there is a liberal use of percussion instruments. Beethoven used the contra fagott and the basset horn on occasions; and he once indulged himself in the singular fancy of arranging his "Battle of Vittoria" for Maelzel's instrument, the Panharmonikon, a machine that brought in play all sorts of military instruments. But the instrumentation of his symphonies does not depend for its effects on unusual combinations; it is remarkable for the manner of the speech of well-known members of the orchestra. Take the strings for example. He knew full well the value of the _pizzicato_, and _tremolo_ as well as the power of the unison. Outside of the famous chamber music, the symphonies are filled with passages for the 'cello and double bass that are unusual for his time. In his treatment of the double bass, which in the C-minor Symphony was a stumbling block to Habeneck and his trained men, he was influenced by the skill of Dragonetti. In his use of the wood-wind he showed rare instinct and imagination. The oboe, for instance, is with him not a gay rustic pipe of acid character; it is positive, it is melancholy, it is tender and it soothes. In the famous solos of the first movement of the Fifth Symphony and the dungeon scene of Fidelio, the oboe utters heart-piercing accents of sorrow. What is more characteristic than the odd cluckings of the bassoons in the scherzo of the Fifth Symphony; the soulful clarinet solo in the allegretto of the Seventh, or the weird effect of the low notes of the horn in the _trio_ of the scherzo of the Seventh Symphony? Beethoven held the trombones in great reserve, but whenever he employed them the effect was impressive, as for instance in the _finale_ of the Fifth Symphony and the storm of the Pastoral Symphony. Two famous passages in his symphonies, passages that have provoked angry disputes, are made remarkable by a singular use of the horn in which the laws of tonality are set at nought. Beethoven was the first that knew the value of the kettle-drums. He first raised the drum to the dignity of a solo instrument, as in the Fourth, Fifth and Ninth Symphonies. His instrumental effects went hand in hand with the development of the melodic idea. The different tone-masses are used in conversation; or a solo instrument announces the return of the theme; or the whole orchestra rages violently and then stops suddenly to listen to a far off voice.

It would be impossible in an article of this brevity to speak of his manifold effects of instrumentation, or of the characteristics of his compositions in detail. Among his instrumental works are the 9 symphonies, overture and music to "Egmont," overture and music to "Prometheus," "The Battle of Vittoria," 9 overtures, 5 concertos for pianoforte and orchestra, 1 triple concerto, the Choral Fantasia, the violin concerto, 16 quartets for strings, 8 trios for pianoforte and strings, 10 sonatas for pianoforte and violin, 2 octets for wind, 1 septet for strings and wind, 1 quintet for pianoforte and wind, 5 sonatas for pianoforte and 'cello, 38 sonatas for pianoforte, and 21 sets of variations for pianoforte. The chief vocal works are "Fidelio," the two masses, the oratorio, "Christus am Oelberge," "Meerstille und glückliche Fahrt," the aria "Ah perfido!" and 66 songs with pianoforte accompaniment.

We have already considered briefly the various ways in which Beethoven expanded the structural elements of the sonata, and now it may not be amiss to examine for a moment the æsthetical characteristics of his pianoforte works in sonata form. In the early sonatas he began with the four movements which others had almost wholly reserved for the symphony. The scherzo in sonata and symphony was peculiarly his invention. To be sure the name is older, and was used in describing secular songs in the 16th century as well as for instrumental pieces in the 17th. But the peculiar quickly moving number with its piquant harmonies and rhythm and its mocking, grotesque or fantastically capricious spirit is the musical thought of Beethoven. At times the scherzo assumed gigantic proportions as in the Third, Fifth and Ninth Symphonies, and in the sonata Op. 106. Before his day the imagination of the composer had not had full play; it was more or less hampered by conventionalities, by the necessities of the men dependent on princes' favors. The expansion of a great idea in the sonata is found first in his works. Deep feeling, passionate longing took the place in the slow movement of simple melody with its unmeaning and elaborate ornamentation. He introduced the recitative with thrilling effect. Although the breadth of the thought in different movements is majestic even to awe, all phases of human feeling are expressed. Strength and delicacy, gloom and playfulness are found side by side. The sonata form with Beethoven was the means of the full development of all the expressive elements in music.

These considerations are likewise true of his piano and violin sonatas, trios and concertos, the most prominent of which are the so-called Kreutzer Sonata, for piano and violin, trio in B flat, violin concerto, and piano concertos in G and E flat. These famous works stand foremost in their respective branches, but to dwell on their individual characteristics would exceed the limits of this article.

In contrast with the later symphonies, the First and Second seem without the rare personality of the composer. Yet when the First Symphony appeared its opening was regarded as daring; and there is the seriousness of purpose that is found in all of his greater compositions. In the Second the introduction is built on broader foundations; there is a warmth in the slow movement that was unusual for the time, and the scherzo is new in character. But in the Heroic, Beethoven laid the cornerstone of modern symphonic music. It was written with a definite aim; the glorification of a great man. The instrumentation is noticeable in a historical sense on account of the treatment of the orchestra as a whole; the balance of the parts, the conversations, the antiphonal choirs. The Funeral March is the departure from the traditional slow movement that was generally devoted to prettiness or the display of genteel emotion. And in this symphony the scherzo is Shakesperian in spirit where melancholy or grimness is mingled with the jesting. It has been said that the last movement of the Haydn Symphony was designed to send the audience home in gay spirits; but with Beethoven the finale became the crown of the work. The finale of the Heroic is not as impressive as are the preceding movements; but it abounds in interesting detail, and was in its day a remarkable revelation. The Fourth is built on a lesser scale, and yet as Berlioz well said, the adagio defies analysis, "the movement that seems to have been sighed by the Archangel Michael when, a prey to melancholy, he contemplated from the threshold of heaven the worlds below him." In the Fifth Beethoven rid himself completely of the shackles of conventionality. It is the story in music of the composer's defiance of Fate, the battling of man with nature and unseen forces. Here trombones and contra fagott appeared for the first time in the history of the symphony. The Sixth is full of peace and serenity and joy in life that comes from the contemplation of Nature, and stands in strong contrast with the sublime struggle and exulting triumph of the Fifth. The Seventh is perhaps the most truly romantic and sensuously beautiful of all. Joy and sorrow, humor and wild passion alternate in its strongly contrasted movements. This great work, together with the three string quartets, Op. 59, are held by some musicians to be the highest manifestation of subjective feeling and ideal beauty that musical art has yet revealed. In conciseness of form the Eighth is almost a return to earlier conditions, but in concentrated power and joyousness it is one of the most remarkable and Beethovenish. He himself described it as a "little symphony in F." The substitution of the Ariel-like and humorous _allegretto_ in place of the slow movement, and the use of the _menuetto_ are eminently characteristic. The Choral Symphony stands alone in the history of music. It is said that the first three movements "have reference, more or less intelligible according to the organization and sympathies of the hearer, to the _finale_," which is a setting of Schiller's "Ode to Joy," or rather "Liberty," which was the original title of the poem. Here all "the dramatic and human elements which Beethoven introduced into his instrumental music to a degree before undreamed of" are brought together in complete expression. Moreover in the Ninth Symphony as in his great Mass in D there dwells the profound spirit of religious consciousness. The burden of the hymn heard above the symphonic struggle of the orchestra is joy, love and brotherhood for all mankind, or that charity which is the true essence of the Christian religion. Like Dante's Divine Comedy or Bach's Passion Music, the Ninth Symphony will live as one of the greatest monuments of genius.

Executed by Prof. Hähnel. Unveiled in August, 1845. From a photograph made in 1880.]

The human voice was to Beethoven an orchestral instrument, and he too often treated it as such. This failing is seen particularly in the Mass in D, "Fidelio," and the Ninth Symphony. Yet he showed in the song-cycle, "To the Absent Loved-one," a knowledge of the art of Italian song and the principles of _bel canto_ that accompanied German taste and sentiment, as also in his most famous song "Adelaide." In his great choral works and in his opera he showed himself everywhere as the instrumental writer _par excellence_. "Fidelio" is undoubtedly a masterpiece. The text has been praised highly, but probably more on account of its noble subject than dramatic treatment; for the interest stops with the great dungeon-scene. As a drama it has the defects of operas in general of his time. Spoken dialogue and separate solo and concerted numbers naturally prevent dramatic unity and consistency of effect.

Undoubtedly the orchestra is the chief figure of the opera, dominating constantly the scene. This, however, is as true of Wagner as of Beethoven. "There is not an instrumental note that has not its passionate, dramatic meaning; there is not an instrument that is not a party to the drama." With the exception of the prisoners' chorus, the most impressive passages of "Fidelio" are those in which the orchestra is openly master: the overture No. III., the melodramas, the introduction to the air of _Florestan_. The overture No. III. is the whole story of the agony and the womanly devotion of Leonore in concise and tragic form; just as the overtures to "Egmont" and "Coriolanus" are the summing up of the tragedies of Goethe and Collin, although "Coriolanus" is undoubtedly derived directly from Plutarch and Shakespeare. The force and the meaning of the accompaniment is always in proportion with the degree of passion on the stage. When _Pizarro_ meditates his vengeance and the orchestra mimics the storm within his breast, it matters little that the voice of the singer is drowned. And so the air of the delirious _Florestan_ is less thrilling than the preceding prelude; and the oboe tells of his agony although he himself cries it to the dungeon walls.

There is little or no doubt that when Beethoven wrote his Ninth Symphony, he thought of Schiller's original conception, the ode to Freedom, and not the altered and present version, the ode to Joy. To Beethoven, freedom was the only joy; to him the universal freedom of loving humanity was true religion: the brotherhood of man. That the singers rebelled against the frightful difficulties of their task was nothing to him; he heard the voices of a triumphant world, and he was not to be confined by individual limitations. So in his mass in D, he thought not of the service of the Roman Catholic church: he arrayed the human against the supernatural. It is not church music so much as the direct, subjective expression of a religious heart, which cannot be restrained by the barriers of mere form and ritual. Some have argued seriously that because Beethoven was not punctilious in the observance of the rites of the Church he was therefore unfitted to celebrate in music her solemn service. Now whatever his religious opinions were, whether he was deist or pantheist, there is no doubt that he appreciated fully the dignity of his task and consecrated all his energies to the performance of it. He meditated it most carefully, as we know by his sketch-books. In 1818 he wrote a memorandum: "To compose true religious music, it is necessary to consult the olden chorals in use in monasteries"; and he added below: "Make once more the sacrifice of all the petty necessities of life for the glory of thy art. God before all!" In the manuscript is written over the _Kyrie_, "From the heart! May it go back to the heart!" and over the _Dona Nobis, "Dona nobis pacem_. Representing the inner and exterior peace."

It is idle to compare this Mass with the religious works of Palestrina and Bach and to say that if Beethoven had been a devout Catholic or an orthodox Lutheran his Mass would have been more thoroughly imbued with religious feeling. In the first place it is necessary to define the word "religious." Palestrina wrote in his peculiar style not because he was a devout Catholic, but because his religious individuality found expression in the methods of his time. Bach wrote his great Mass in a time when counterpoint ruled in the music of the church and of the dance. Beethoven was a man, not only of his time, but of the remaining years of this century.

Now in this mass Beethoven wherever he is most imposing, he is intensely dramatic, and when he follows tradition, he is least himself. Notice for instance the change from the passionate entreaty that is almost a defiance in the _Kyrie_ to the ineffable tenderness in the _Christe eleison_; the wonderful setting of the _Incarnatus_ and the _Crucifixus_. On the other hand, where Beethoven felt that it was his duty to follow the approved formulas, as in certain passages of the _Credo_ that relate to the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, etc., we realize fully the story of Schindler, who found the composer singing, shouting, stamping, and sweating at his work; for although he was a master of the _fugato_, the fugue was to him, apparently, not his natural mode of expression. But von Bülow's commentary should not be forgotten: "The fugue is with Beethoven the last and highest means of intensifying the expression of emotions."

Again, the religious element in the music of Beethoven is not confined to works which have a sacred text. The yearning after heavenly rest, the discontent with the petty vanities of life, sublime hope and humble thanksgiving,--these are not found exclusively in his works for the church or in such a movement as the _canzona in moda lidico_ in the A minor quartet Op. 132. The finale of the Ninth Symphony as well as movements in the sonatas, the chamber-music and the symphonies are religious music in the profoundest sense of the word.

And yet the great works of his last years have been decried and are not now accepted by many. He himself was discontented with many of his earlier compositions, and this self-depreciation does not seem the singular yet not uncommon affectation of genius. In a letter written to Ries in 1816 he declared that the death of his brother had impressed him profoundly and influenced not only his character but his works. For a time following he wrote but little; and then he pondered compositions of gigantic proportions. The pianoforte ceased to accommodate itself to his thoughts; the string quartet and the orchestra were constantly in his mind. "The most exalted, the most wondrous, the most inconceivable music," says Rubinstein, "was not written until after his total deafness. As the seer may be imagined blind, that is, blind to his surroundings, and seeing with the eyes of the soul, so the hearer may be imagined deaf to all his surroundings and hearing with the hearing of the soul." Deafness befriended him when it closed the doors of sense. It helped him to turn from outward things, and find peace and consolation in the ideal world of tones. The spiritual voices that he heard were the companions of his solitude. He thus vindicated the true spirituality of music. The deaf man justified its ancient, poetical significance. This inward life accounts for his early inclination for instrumental music. The highly developed forms gave wide range to his imagination, through the almost unlimited resources of the orchestra, in compass, technical execution, and tone-color.

While in his orchestral works Beethoven reveals all the tragic fire, and dramatic strength of his nature, it is in his string quartets that he is most spiritual and mystical. This is due, first, to the nature of the four combined instruments, so pure and ethereal in their tone effects.

His friend Schuppanzigh, the violinist, complained to him that certain passages in one of his quartets were impossible; and Beethoven replied: "Do you believe that I think of a wretched violin, when the spirit speaks to me and I write it down?" The last five quartets have been called transcendental, even incomprehensible, on account of their strangeness and obscurity. They are his last utterances, the mystical creations of a man who neared the end of his life-tragedy. "The events in Beethoven's life," says Nohl, "were calculated more and more to liberate him heart and soul from this world, and the whole composition of the quartets appears like a preparation for the moment when the mind, released from existence here, feels united with a higher being. But it is not a longing for death that here finds expression. It is the heartfelt, certain, and joyful feeling of something really eternal and holy, that speaks to us in the language of a new dispensation. And even the pictures of this world, here to be discerned, be they serious or gay, have this transfigured light, this outlook into eternity." Spirituality is impressed on the eternal features of the music: that is, the technical treatment of the four instruments. The melodies move freely in a wide compass, the voices cross each other frequently. Widely extended, open harmony is often employed, giving wonderful etherealness and spirituality to the effect of the strings by their thinness and delicacy of tone when thus separated by long intervals between the several parts of the chords. Nor is the polyphonic melodiousness of the voices abandoned, as in certain quartets of later masters in which the treatment is more orchestral than is in keeping with the character of the solo instruments.

And yet these great quartets are not even now accepted by certain men of marked musical temperament and discriminating taste. They are called "charcoal sketches"; they are erroneously regarded as draughts for elaboration in orchestral form. Others shrug their shoulders and speak compassionately of the deafness of Beethoven. But he was deaf when, in directing the Seventh Symphony, he was obliged to follow the movements of the first violin that he might keep his place; he was deaf when he thought out the melodic freshness and elegance of the Eighth Symphony; and even before the Heroic, the Fifth and the Pastoral he mourned his physical infirmity in the celebrated letter to his brothers. In judging of the masterpieces of the so-called third period it is not necessary to join the cry of the critics like Fétis who complain of "the aberrations of a genius that goes out in darkness," or to swell the chorus of wild enthusiasts as Nohl and Lenz, who wrench the dictionary in the expression of their delight. In the light of these great works all criticism is blind and impotent.

In the cyclical forms of instrumental music, Beethoven is preëminent from all points of view, formally, technically, aesthetically, and spiritually. Moreover, there is a Shakesperian quality in his wonderful tone-poems. Like the great poet he touches every chord of the heart and appeals to the imagination more potently than other poets. Beethoven's creations, like Shakespeare's, are distinguished by great diversity of character; each is a type by itself. His great symphonies stand in as strong contrast with each other as do the plays of Shakespeare with each other. Beethoven is the least of a mannerist of all composers. "Each composition leaves a separate image and impression on the mind." His compositions are genuine poems, that tell their meaning to the true listener clearly and unmistakably in the language of tones, a language which, however, cannot be translated into mere words, as has often been attempted in the flowery and fanciful effusions of various writers, like Wagner, Lenz, Marx, and others, who waste labor and thought in trying to do the impossible.

In the Pantheon of art Beethoven holds a foremost place beside the great poets and artists of all time, with Æschylus and Dante, Michael Angelo and Shakespeare. Like these inspired men he has widened and ennobled the mind and the soul of humanity. "In his last works," says Edward Dannreuther, "he passes beyond the horizon of a mere singer and poet, and touches upon the domain of the seer and prophet, where in unison with all genuine mystics and ethical teachers he delivers a message of religious love and resignation, and release from the world." Or as Wagner wrote, "Our civilization might receive a new soul from the spirit of Beethoven's music, and a renovation of religion which might permeate it through and through."

From a photograph. Representing scenes from the Opera of Fidelio.]

_Reproduction of a lithograph portrait made by Kriehuber, of Vienna._]

FRANZ PETER SCHUBERT

Franz Peter Schubert was born in Vienna, January 31, 1797, and died there November 19, 1828. The house in which Schubert was born is now Number 54 in the Nussdorfer Strasse, and the fact is recorded upon a marble tablet over the door. His immediate ancestry were peasants. His father and uncle came from Moravia to Vienna, and were schoolmasters there for many years. His mother, Elizabeth Fitz, before her marriage, was in domestic service as a cook. After her death in 1812 the elder Schubert married Anna Klayenbök. By his first marriage he had fourteen children, of whom Franz was the thirteenth; by the second marriage there were five children, two of whom were living about 1880. The step-mother was an excellent mother to Franz. Two of his elder brothers, Ignaz and Ferdinand, lived and died as schoolmasters, like their father. It seems to have been an admirable family; its members, so far as we know, were noted for conscientious industry and integrity, and were affectionately devoted to one another. It is clear that there was a love for music in the family, though we have few details on this point. Ignaz and Ferdinand were taught the violin by their father. The little Franz began of himself to pick out melodic themes on an old piano much the worse for wear, and thought it a rare treat when a friendly joiner's apprentice used now and then to take him to a piano shop, where he was allowed to try his infant hands upon new and fine instruments. At the age of seven he began to study the violin with his father, and the piano with his brother Ignaz, then aged nineteen; but in a very short time he had got quite beyond these teachers, and was sent to the parish choir-master, Michael Holzer, for instruction in violin, piano, organ, and thorough-bass, as well as in singing. But the astounded Holzer soon found, as he said long afterward, "whenever I wished to teach him anything fresh, he always knew it already." Holzer was fond of giving him themes on which to extemporize, and used to exclaim with rapture that the little fellow "had harmony at his fingers' ends."

Instances of precocity among musicians of genius are by no means rare. But for precocity of the highest order, as well as for spontaneous exuberance of musical originality, Schubert has probably been equalled by none save Mozart. The world is familiar with the stories of Mozart found by his father in the act of scrawling a piano concerto at four years of age, and of his composing a symphony for full orchestra at eight. A piano sonata in D major for four hands, which he wrote in his ninth year, is still very commonly played, and is astonishing for its maturity of thought and its complete mastery of the sonata form. There is no evidence of the beginning of such work on Schubert's part at such an early age. His fantasia for four hands was written when he was thirteen years old, and his first recorded song, "Hagar's Lament," in the following year; but there is reason for believing that he had before that time composed songs, pieces for piano, and string quartettes. Before completing his eleventh year he had come to be leading soprano singer and violin player in the choir at the parish church of Lichtenthal, in Vienna. The next year he obtained a situation as chorister in the Emperor's Chapel, and became a pupil in the Imperial school known as the "Convict," a name derived not from _convincere_, but from _convivere_, and implying that the members or "convictors" were "messmates." It was but scant conviviality that was allowed by the ignorant parsimony with which that somewhat famous institution was managed. Those poor growing boys, with the wolfish appetites belonging to their time of life, had but two wretched meals daily and more than eight hours apart, while in the winter season their benumbed fingers shrank from contact with the ice-like key-boards. How often some promising lad may have succumbed to such a regimen, while his death was piously ascribed to Providence, we are not informed. That the effect upon Schubert's constitution was deleterious may readily be believed. In one of the earliest of his letters that have been preserved, dated November 24, 1812, we find him beseeching his brother for a few kreutzers wherewith to get now and then a roll or some apples to keep off starvation during the long exercises in the freezing schoolroom.

In the _Convict_ more or less instruction was given in history and mathematics, French and Italian, drawing and writing. In such branches as he studied, Schubert seems to have done fairly well, but as he went on the tendency grew upon him to neglect everything else for the sake of music. Instrumental music was elaborately studied, and symphonies and overtures of Haydn, Mozart, and others were diligently practised by an orchestra of boys, in which Schubert distinguished himself from the first. Soon after his arrival in the school, the conductor of this orchestra--a big boy, named Joseph von Spaun, afterward Baron and Member of the Imperial Council, and well known as an amateur musician--remarked how finely "the little fellow in spectacles" played; from which we may infer that Schubert's near-sightedness dated from his childhood. After a while the little fellow himself became first violin and often served as conductor. A warm friendship grew up between Schubert and Spaun, who presently discovered that the shy boy of twelve was already possessed by an unappeasable rage for composition. His head was brimming over with melodious thoughts, with which he would cover every scrap of music paper that he could get hold of. But either the _Convict_ was niggardly in its supply of writing materials no less than of food and fuel, or else the needs of the new-comer were such as had never before been heard of; for he could not get enough paper on which to jot down the daily flow of musical ideas, nor was his scanty stock of copper coins sufficient to procure sheets enough to meet his wants. Having made this discovery, the kindly Spaun determined that his little friend should no longer suffer from this kind of privation; and from that time forth Schubert's consumption of music paper was astonishing. In April, 1810, he wrote the four-hand fantasia for piano, probably the earliest of his compositions that is still preserved. It fills thirty-two closely written pages, and contains a dozen movements, each ending in a different key from that in which the piece begins. "Hagar's Lament," written in March, 1811, is the earliest of his songs still preserved. Perhaps it ought rather to be called a nondescript vocal piece, or an attempt at a song-cycle; it comprises twelve numbers, with singular and sometimes irrelevant changes of key, and covers twenty-eight pages. In spite of its fragmentary and inorganic character, it bears the unmistakable stamp of genius. From the outset, whatever his faults, Schubert was always free from the fault of which Schiller complains that it fetters so many of us poor mortals: he was never guilty of being commonplace. Whatever came from him was sure to be something that no one else would have thought of, and it was sure to be rich in beauty. In view of this, the spontaneity of his creativeness was almost incredible, and fully justifies the comparison with Mozart. This same year saw the production of two other vocal pieces, a second piano fantasia, a string quartet, and a quintet-overture,--to mention only those that have survived. Doubtless many writings of that early time were neglected and lost. Schubert seldom showed much interest in a work of his own after it was finished, for his attention was absorbed in fresh composition. But he had a methodical habit of dating his works and signing them "Frz. Schubert, _mpia_," i.e. _manu propria_; and this habit has been helpful to his biographers in studying the progress of his artistic labors. The list for 1812 is remarkable for this half-starved boy of fifteen, containing as it does an overture for full orchestra, two string quartets, and a sonata for piano, violin, and viola, besides other works for piano and strings.

But the list for 1813 begins to seem portentous. Here comes the first symphony (in D; four movements), an octet for wind instruments, three string quartets, a third piano fantasia, thirty-four minuets, a cantata for his father's birthday, and about thirty other vocal pieces, including canons, terzets, and songs for a single voice. Besides all this he began to set to music Kotzebue's opera "Des Teufels Lustschloss," which he completed in the following year. In looking over the vocal pieces, one observes an almost unbroken succession of about a dozen with words by Schiller; and this illustrates one of Schubert's ways of doing things. When he happened to turn over the leaves of a volume of poetry, verses that pleased him would become straightway clothed in melody; they would sing themselves in his mind, often in all their concrete fullness, with superb accompaniments, noble in rhythm and rich in wondrous harmonies. If paper happened to be within reach the song would at once be written down, and the inspired youth would turn to some other poem, with like results. What in the ordinary reader fond of poetry is simply an emotional reaction of keen indescribable pleasure was in his case a sudden thrill of musical creation. Thus we are told that on a July evening in 1826, after a long walk, the thirsty Schubert strolled into a beer-garden and found a friend sitting at one of the tables with a volume of Shakespeare. After he had laid down the book Schubert picked it up and alighted upon the song in Cymbeline, "Hark, hark, the lark!" The beautiful melody with its accompaniment, as we now have it, instantly flashed upon him and was written down upon some staves hastily drawn across the back of a bill of fare. In like manner, in the course of the same evening, he set to music the drinking song in Antony and Cleopatra, and clothed with fresh immortality the verses "Who is Sylvia" in the Two Gentlemen of Verona. In its matchless perfection the Sylvia song would of itself suffice for a composer's reputation. In such wise would Schubert often look through a book, and come from its hasty perusal with a dozen or more new songs.

It is in this astonishing spontaneity that Schubert's greatness largely consists. In some elements of artistic perfection he is lacking, and the want may be traced to some of the circumstances of his education. His early teachers were simply overwhelmed by his genius and let him go unguided. Holzer, as we have seen, whenever he wished to teach the boy anything, found that the boy could teach him. So Ruzicka, instructor in thorough-bass at the _Convict_, simply protested that Schubert must have learned music directly from heaven, and he could do nothing for him. Sir George Grove very properly asks, "If all masters adopted this attitude toward their pupils, what would have become of some of the greatest geniuses?" Schubert certainly suffered from defective knowledge of counterpoint; after coming to maturity he recognized this defect in his education and sought to remedy it by study. Herein he was at a disadvantage compared with his younger contemporary Mendelssohn. Himself a musician of extraordinary precocity and spontaneity, Mendelssohn became thoroughly grounded in counterpoint under one of the best of teachers, Zelter; and in all his works Mendelssohn shows that absolute mastery of form, the lack of which is often noticeable in Schubert, especially in his instrumental works. Upon this point we shall have occasion to make some further comment. There can be little doubt that the worthy Ruzicka would have done well had he given his wonderful pupil a careful training in counterpoint. The heaven-sent music would have lost nothing of its heavenly quality by enlarging its means of expression.

About the first of November, 1813, Schubert left the _Convict_ and studied for awhile in the Normal School of St. Anna, in order to qualify himself for a school-teacher. He escaped conscription by entering his father's parish school, where he served three years as teacher and discharged the monotonous and irksome duties of that position with scrupulous fidelity. He still, however, found time for music. The compositions of the year 1814 show a marked advance in maturity. The most important is the first mass, in F, a work that has been pronounced superior to the first mass of any other composer except Beethoven's mass in C. Then we have the second symphony, in B flat, the overture in Italian style for full orchestra, five string quartets, eleven dances for strings and horns, and twenty-two songs, more than half of them to Matthisson's words. Among the songs "Gretchen am Spinnrade," to Goethe's words, is especially to be noted.

The record for the year 1815 is marvellous:--the third symphony, in D, the second mass, in G, and the third, in B flat, one opera and six operettas, a stabat mater, a salve regina, the string quartet in G minor, four piano sonatas, thirty miscellaneous pieces for the piano, and one hundred and thirty-seven songs! Among the larger of these works the mass in G merits especial notice for its beauty. Among the songs are some of Schubert's most famous,--"Heidenröslein," "Rastlose Liebe," the "Wanderer's Nachtlied," the exquisite "Nähe des Geliebten," the Ossian songs, and the magnificent Erl King. This most dramatic and descriptive of songs was thrown off instantaneously in a fit of wild inspiration. Schubert had just come upon Goethe's ballad, which he had not seen before; he had read it two or three times and was dashing the music upon paper when his friend Spaun came in and found him. It was all done in a few moments, the rushing accompaniment and all; and that same evening it was sung at the _Convict_ before Schubert's friends and devoted admirers, his old teachers and fellow pupils. It was quite customary for Schubert to carry his new compositions there to be tried, and he was wont to find warm sympathy and appreciation. But the Erl King was received rather coldly, as will be hereafter explained.

This year 1816 saw one hundred and thirty-one new compositions by Schubert. Among these were the fourth or "Tragic" symphony, in C minor, the fifth symphony, in B flat, an overture for full orchestra, a concerto for violin and orchestra, a rondo for violin and string orchestra, one string quartet, one string trio, seven pieces of dance music for piano, three sonatinas for piano and violin, and other piano music. There was an unfinished opera, "Die Bürgschaft," followed by four cantatas; one, called "Prometheus," was the first work composed by Schubert for money; it was written in a single day and the honorarium was one hundred florins in Viennese currency; the occasion was the name-day of a certain Herr Heinrich Watteroth, of Vienna. Another similar but slighter work was composed in honor of Herr Joseph Spendon, chief inspector of schools; a third was for Schubert's father; the fourth was for the occasion of Salieri's jubilee hereafter to be mentioned. Among the sacred compositions was a magnificat for solo and mixed voices with accompaniment of violin, viola, hautboy, bassoon, trumpet, drum, and organ; the duetto "Auguste jam Cœlestium" for soprano and tenor voices, accompanied by violins and violoncello, double-bass, bassoon, and hautboy; the "Tantum ergo" for four voices and orchestra; the fragment of a requiem in E flat; the "Salve regina" for four voices and orchestra; and especially the noble "Stabat mater" in F minor, one of the finest of Schubert's earlier contributions to church music. Of this year's songs ninety-nine have been preserved, including the Wanderer, the three songs of the Harper in "Wilhelm Meister," Mignon's "Sehnsucht," and "Kennst du das Land," "Der König in Thule," and "Jäger's Abendlied." These songs are remarkable for strength, originality, and exquisite beauty. In the Wanderer, and "Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass," we find Schubert at an elevation which he afterward scarcely surpassed.

It was Schubert's custom, from an early age, to have quartet parties at his father's house on Sunday afternoons. When at the _Convict_ he used to go home on Sundays for this purpose. As first arranged, the elder Schubert used to play the 'cello, Ferdinand first violin, Ignaz second, and Franz the viola. In those early days, if a wrong note was heard from the 'cello, young Franz would modestly say, "Father, there must be a mistake somewhere," and the hint was always well received. These Sunday quartets were often joined by friends and neighbors. By degrees the number of violins was increased, a double-bass and sundry wind instruments were added, and the affair grew into an orchestra which could perform Haydn's and Mozart's symphonies. Presently it became necessary to have the performances in a larger house, and in this way two or three moves were made, and the Orchestral Society of Amateurs was organized. Overtures by Cherubini, Spontini, Boieldieu, and Méhul, and the first and second symphonies of Beethoven were performed. It was for this Society that Schubert wrote his fourth and fifth symphonies and other orchestral works. In the autumn of 1820 the society broke down, as such societies are apt to do, under its own weight. It became necessary to have a large public hall for the meetings, and the expense thus entailed put an end to the pleasant and instructive enterprise. There can be little doubt that it was of much use to Schubert in giving him a chance to hear his own instrumental works performed and criticised. To a young man of his extremely modest and retiring disposition, moreover, the friendships thus formed were of much value.

Schubert was a man to whom friends became devotedly attached. He was faithful and true, a man of thoroughly sound character, disinterested and unselfish, without a particle of envy or jealousy about him. He won affection without demanding it or seeming to need it. He was one of those men whom one naturally and instinctively loves. Among his special friends we have already mentioned Spaun. Toward the end of 1814 he became acquainted with the poet Johann Mayrhofer, about ten years his senior, and the acquaintance ripened into a life-long intimacy. Mayrhofer was a man of eccentric nature, with a tinge of melancholy, possibly an incipient symptom of the insanity which many years afterward drove him to suicide. Perhaps the most interesting feature of his intimacy with Schubert was the powerful influence which the latter's music exercised upon the development of his poetical genius. It was under the spell of Schubert's charm that Mayrhofer's best poems came to blossom; and many of them were set to music by Schubert, among which "Erlasse," "Sehnsucht," "Nachtstück," "Die zürnende Diana," "Der Alpenjäger," "Der Schiffer," "Am Strome," and "Schlummerlied" deserve especial mention.

Another of Schubert's friends, and the one who probably exerted the most influence upon him, was Franz von Schober. Their acquaintance began at a critical moment. After three years of faithful and conscientious work in school-teaching, Schubert began to find the drudgery of his position intolerable, and in 1816, as a public school of music was about to be opened as an appendage to the normal school at Laybach, near Trieste, he applied for the post of director. To appreciate the situation, we must not fail to note the amount of the director's salary, five hundred Viennese florins, or about one hundred dollars, a year! Such was the coveted income to which the _alternative_ seemed to be for Schubert, in Herr Kreissle's phrase, "an impecunious future." From Salieri and from Spendon recommendations were obtained, such as they were. There was nothing cordial in them, nothing to indicate that Schubert was a person of greater calibre than a certain commonplace Jacob Schaufl who obtained the appointment instead of him. Perhaps, however, they may only have doubted Schubert's capacity for a position of executive responsibility. It was at this juncture that young Schober came upon the scene, a student in comfortable circumstances, about eighteen years of age, who came to Vienna to continue his studies. He had fallen in with some of Schubert's songs a year or two before, and had conceived an enthusiastic admiration for the composer. When he found that the wonderful genius was a boy of about his own age, wearing out his nerves in a school room, and yet turning off divine music by the ream, he made up his mind to interpose. He could at least offer a home, and he persuaded Schubert to come and occupy his rooms with him. There Schubert began to give music lessons, but his earnings do not seem to have been considerable or constant. With Schober he remained a chum for some time, until the need of room for Schober's brother, a captain of hussars, led to a temporary change. From 1819 to 1821 Schubert had rooms with his friend Mayrhofer. After 1821 he lived nearly all the time with Schober until within a few weeks of his death. Their acquaintances were in the main a set of fine, cultivated young men who felt strong affection and respect for the inspired musician. Among Schubert's songs we find several set to Schober's words, among which we may mention "Pax vobiscum" and "Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden."

The third of the friends whose names are inseparably associated with Schubert was not one of the circle of young men just referred to, but a much older person. Johann Michael Vogl was nearly thirty years older than Schubert. In his youth he had had some monastic training and had afterward studied law and practised at the bar, but his rich baritone voice and his love for music led him in time to become a public singer, and for eight-and-twenty years he was a member of the German Opera Company. In an epoch notable for its great dramatic singers he was rated high, not so much for his vocal method as for the native quality of his voice and his intelligent and sympathetic rendering of his parts. He was a learned man, widely read in philosophy and theology, with a deeply religious nature and an intense feeling for music,--not a bad sort of man to sing Schubert's songs. It was in 1817 that Vogl first became aware of these treasures. Schober pestered him to come and see his wonderful friend and try some of his songs, but it was not the first time that this veteran had heard of wonderful young men, and he did not want to be bored. After a while, however, he called one evening, hummed through half a dozen songs--among them "Ganymed" and "Des Schäfer's Klage"--and became more and more interested. "Well, young man," he observed, on taking his leave, "there is stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead of making the most of them." But the more Vogl thought about the songs the more they loomed up in his memory as strangely and wondrously beautiful. He called again at the young composer's room, uninvited, found more and more music which riveted his attention, and it was not long before that house became one of his haunts. It was this intelligent and highly cultivated singer who first made Schubert known beyond the limited circle of his early friends and school-mates. People in the fashionable society of Vienna made their first acquaintance with the Wanderer and the Erl King as sung by Vogl's rich voice and in his noble style, with Schubert himself at the piano. Presently this furnished a new career for Vogl. In 1821 circumstances led to the discontinuance of his work at the Opera House, and he then began giving concerts, in which German _Lieder_ were sung, and those of Schubert occupied a foremost place. In 1825 the two friends made a little concert tour together in the Salzburg country and Upper Austria. By that time the new songs were becoming famous, though one serious obstacle to the wide diffusion of their popularity was the want of singers able to grapple with their technical difficulties and to express their poetical sentiment in an artistic manner. Operatic quips and cranks and wanton flourishes would by no means answer the purpose. Old conventional methods were of no use. A passage from Vogl's diary is worth quoting in this connection for the glimpse it gives us of his fine artistic intelligence:--"Nothing shows so plainly the want of a good school of singing as Schubert's songs. Otherwise, what an enormous and universal effect must have been produced throughout the world, wherever the German language is understood, by these truly divine inspirations, these utterances of a musical _clairvoyance!_ How many would have comprehended, probably for the first time, the meaning of such expressions as 'speech and poetry in music,' 'words in harmony,' 'ideas clothed in music,' etc., and would have learned that the finest poems of our greatest poets may be enhanced and even transcended when translated into musical language! Numberless examples may be named, but I will mention only the Erl King, Gretchen am Spinnrade, Schwager Kronos, the Mignon and Harper's songs, Schiller's Sehnsucht, Der Pilgrim, and Die Bürgschaft."

SCHUBERT AND HIS FRIENDS.

_Reproduced from photograph of painting which does not represent any historical scene, as Beethoven and Schubert never met amid such surroundings. This grouping of Schubert's friends is made by poetical license_.]

No subsequent year of Schubert's life witnessed so great a number of compositions as 1816. For the next year eighty-six compositions are given in Sir George Grove's list. Of these fifty-two are songs, including many of those set to Mayrhofer's words. The two songs to Schober's words, above mentioned, came in this year. Special mention should also be made of the "Gruppe aus dem Tartarus," to Schiller's words, and of "Lob der Thränen" and "Die Forelle." "The Pilgrim" and "Ganymede" also belong to this time. Of large compositions for piano there were the sonatas in E minor; B, Op. 147; A minor, Op. 164; F minor; and A flat; besides the sonata in A, Op. 162, for piano and violin. There were also the variations for piano on a theme of Hüttenbrenner's; an adagio and rondo; two scherzos, and seventeen dances for piano; a set of polonaises for violin; and a string trio. The sixth symphony, in C, was written or finished in November, 1817, and performed by the amateur orchestral company above described. There were also three overtures, of which two, written in the Italian style, remind us that 1817 was the year in which Rossini's operas, newly introduced to Vienna, were received with wild enthusiasm. Schubert was altogether too far above Rossini's plane of thought to feel such interest in his work as he felt for the masterpieces of polyphonic composition. But he appreciated highly the Italian's gift of melody, and with the assimilative power which is wont to characterize great genius, he took hints from him which are apparent not only in the two Italian overtures, but perhaps also in the sixth symphony. Or in other words, as all creative work is influenced by its environment, there was a discernible Rossini tinge in the atmosphere which Schubert was for the moment breathing, and it has left its slight traces upon a few of his compositions for that year, as upon the work of less potent creators it left many and deep impressions.