Phonograph Monthly Review, Vol. 3, No. 3 (1928-12)

86 The Phonograph Monthly Review December, 1928 peachableness of the sentiments of trees in the woods and grass by the roadside, “and this, as Walt Whitman says of literature, is “the flawless triumph of art.” Then there is a gradual sure descrescendo of musical interest and worth unto the last chord of the finale. There is nothing of more complete, well rounded beauty in the litera- ture of music, than the first movement of the B minor symphony. That this symphony was un- finished is not to be deplored. The second move- ment is a falling off; it is diffuse, sentimental. The unfinished symphony in B minor is great be- cause it is unfinished. There are exceptions to this rule in Schubert’s case. The strength of the C major symphony, in spite of its appalling length, is pretty well main- tained.^ In the C major string quartet (op. 163), the trio of the scherzo is of that mysterious beauty peculiarly, solely Schubertian. That dif- fuseness is the curse of Schubert’s instrumental music in bulk is an old cry, and one that may well be provoked by the inferior songs. Like unto a child pleased with his babbling, he says the same thing over and over again; and some- times the thought is hardly worth the first say- ing. Perhaps his scanty education had much to do with this; but it must also be taken into con- sideration that he wrote at furious speed, as though he were a space writer; he did not take the trouble to revise this expression; and his ex- traordinary fertility of invention was such that he wrote hurriedly to finish one composition while the material for another was already fretting his brain.. He found it easier to write at length than to write concisely. And then, he had no oppor- tunities to hear his most elaborate works. This diffuseness is spoken of by Rubinstein: “God created woman; certainly the most beauti- ful of his creations, but full of faults. He did not polish them away; He was convinced that al] which was faulty in her would be outweighed by her charms. So is Schubert in his compositions; his melody outweighs all deficiency, if deficiency there be.” A kindly defence, but Rubinstein in his “Conversation on Music” enjoys paradox as though he were a pirate of Penzance. In Schubert’s best music for orchestra, cham- ber and piano, we find the same individual note that vivifies and distinguishes his songs. Now there is nothing so difficult to describe in words as the effect produced by absolute music. For what is music? “All music is what awakens from you when you are reminded of the instruments,” and so “all architecture is what you do to it when you look upon it.” One may choose cunningly and delicately pure and crimson words, and juggle with them dexterously until the sentences are music, but can one thus present clearly the intimate character of a composition to him that heard it not? In such attempts a writer easily waxes hysterical or falls into the bog of bathos. Yet it may be said of Schubert’s music that it alternates between such gaiety as is piped in cer- tain poems by William Blake, and a melancholy that is like unto an autumnal sunset — or the ironical depression felt on a burgeoning spring moon—or the death of the year. No one, except Mozart, could be in music so innocent and at the same time so gay. There is an innocence in Schu- bert that Mozart never reached. On the other hand, the melancholy of Schubert seldom ap- proaches the titanic despair of Beethoven, or the pessimism of certain modern composers. His melancholy is always human; it is often homely. Love with him is neither epidermic, as in Mas- senet’s “Esclarmonde,” nor is it heroically sensu- ous, as in the music dramas of Wagner. I do not remember one page of Schubert’s music that is sensual or erotic. How Schubert contrived these alternating ef- fects is foreign to the purpose of this article. Of what avail would it be to discourse on his rest- less changes from major to minor, from minor to major; his surprising ease in modulation, his tremulous, vague tonalities? These devices are free to all, and yet who has mastered the secret of Schubert by listening, prying imitating? Few, if any, great composers are without mannerisms which may be imitated easily; the mannerisms of Schubert are his natural methods of expres- sion. You hear a few measures and you say, “Schubert.” I have said that Schubert owed almost nothing to his predecessors and was not influ- enced seriously by the men of his period. He admired Zumsteeg; but if you plod your weary way through the songs and ballads of Zumsteeg, you will find no hint of Schubert. He wor- shipped Beethoven; but he persisted in writing his music in his own fashion, nor did he modulate or strain his voice in rivalry. He created a new lyric, the emotional song. He was amongst the first—was he not the first to invent the intimate piano-piece of small dimensions, as the “Moments Musicals,” the “Impromptus"” Above all he was the discoverer of new musical moods. Would Schubert have reached a still greater height if he had lived and applied his days and nights to counterpoint? This is a natural and futile question. Rigorous training might have taught him the need of self-examination and it might have given him the ability to stand aside from his work, to look at it as the work of an- other. But might not the apparent artlessness, which is one of his chief and peculiar charms, have disappeared? Might not the headlong spon- taneity have been checked? The Muse of Schubert would have ill-brooked the corset of the contrapuntist. Nevertheless, it must not be forgotten that some of Schubert’s finest compositions were writ- ten during the last and dismal year of his life. H. 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