ROBERT SCHUMANN
About the Composer
In 1830, when the 20-year-old Robert Schumann decided to pursue a
career as a pianist, he also began to compose. (At the time,
concert artists were expected to write music for their own
performances.) His plans for a concert career, however, were soon
thwarted by a lazy ring finger, so he consequently devoted himself
to composition. Eventually, his oeuvre would include more than 200
songs, four symphonies, and even an opera—but until 1840, he wrote
almost exclusively for the piano.
During the second half of the 1830s, Schumann wrote many of his
best-known piano works, including Kinderszenen and
Kreisleriana, but also Carnaval (1834–1835),
Fantasiestücke, (1837),
Davidsbündlertänze (1837), and
Novelletten (1838). These were tumultuous years for
the composer as he courted Clara Wieck in the face of her father's
stern resistance. The changing fortunes of his relationship with
her are reflected in his music. Kinderszenen has been said
to depict the couple's childlike joy in their young love, and
Kreisleriana was composed "in part to prove himself in
Clara's and Wieck's eyes," musicologist John Daverio
noted.
Kinderszenen, Op. 15
About the Work
The 13 short pieces of Kinderszenen owe their birth to a
remark by the composer's soon-to-be wife Clara Wieck, a
professional pianist and talented composer in her own right; she
described her betrothed as being sometimes "like a child," and he
took that as his inspiration. He began the collection in February
1838 and finished it in March. Originally, there were 30 movements,
from which Schumann chose 13 to publish as Op. 15. Clara
immediately fell in love with these "small, droll things," as the
composer himself described the pieces; they were not intended for
children, but rather for adults looking back lovingly on the grace
of childhood. The couple would eventually have eight children (one
of whom died in infancy); fittingly, he presented
Kinderszenen to Clara as something "gentle and loving
and happy—like our future."
A Closer Listen
"Von fremden Ländern und Menschen" ("Of Foreign Lands and Peoples")
is in A-B-A form with a poignant, arching melody in the outer
sections. The title of each movement suggests (but does not define)
the character of the music; Schumann himself described them as
"delicate hints for execution and interpretation." Here, the hint
is not of some exotic land, but rather nostalgia for home.
The striking detail in "Kuriose Geschichte" ("A Curious Story") is
the hiccupping rhythm, relieved only briefly during a few measures
of a more fluid, even line.
"Hasche-Mann" ("Blind Man's Bluff") is a brief blur of staccato
runs and sharp accents in a minor key. Its two sections contrast
only in harmony, while the basic melody and patterns remain the
same; each is repeated in an overall A-A-B-B form.
A musical pun hides in "Bittendes Kind" ("Pleading Child"). The
second half of the short piece—which is just a restatement of the
first—drags out with ritardandos, slowing the music
to match the plaintive wheedling of a toddler.
"Glückes genug" ("Perfect Happiness") has a soaring melody in the
right hand and busy accompaniment—characteristic writing featured
in much of Schumann's music. The dizzying ascent and quick
punctuations at the end of each phrase suggest a child's
boisterous, physical joy more than an adult's sense of
contentment.
The dotted rhythms, rich chords, and heavy octaves in "Wichtige
Begebenheit" ("An Important Event") lend the short piece a certain
gravitas. Here, Schumann forgoes the kind of dialogue between hands
featured in movements like "Blind Man's Bluff" in favor of a purely
homophonic texture with both hands moving largely in lock step.
After its bluster, the delicate and beloved "Träumerei"
("Dreaming") comes as a relief. It takes the form of a 32-bar song
in A-A-B-A form, with the A section defined by the languorous
ascent. Its repetition reaches even higher, the apex underscored by
a poignant harmony. This piece marks the midway point through the
set.
The concluding measures of "Am Kamin" ("By the Fireside") lead
naturally into "Ritter vom Steckenpferd" ("Knight of the Hobby
Horse") with rocking intervals that are transformed into a
syncopated, hiccupping dialogue between hands.
What is too serious about "Fast zu ernst" ("Almost Too Serious") is
the key—a remote G-sharp minor—and the rather complicated metrical
displacements that keep the entire piece off balance. The creeping,
chromatic opening descent of "Fürchtenmachen" ("Frightening") sets
up the scurrying, scared response in the quick contrasting
sections. But all ends happily with a final cadence in the major
mode.
The more serious tone (and minor-mode inflection) of this second
half of the set continues in "Kind im Einschlummern" ("Child
Falling Asleep"). The piece combines hints of a sweetly rocking
lullaby with a gorgeous, descending sequence at the end that
suggests the slow nodding off of a rambunctious toddler.
The chorale continues in the final piece, "Der Dichter spricht"
("The Poet Speaks"). Schumann is obviously the poet in question
whose fancy takes flight in the middle, recitative-like section.
The dozen preceding pieces have traced a busy day in the life of a
child (complete with the midday nap of "Träumerei"). Now, with the
baby asleep, comes a more adult conversation.
Kreisleriana, Op. 16
About the Work
Kinderszenen was completed in March 1838 and
Kreisleriana begun in April. By mid-September, the
set of eight pieces that took its name from the writings of E. T.
A. Hoffmann was complete. Schumann identified with Hoffmann's
fictional Kapellmeister, Johannes Kreisler, who (like the real
composer) cycled from wild highs to deep emotional lows. Perhaps
wary of the mood swings in the music and in the man, Clara
responded cautiously upon first reviewing the new opus: "Sometimes
your music actually frightens me," she confessed, "and I wonder, is
it really true that the creator of such things is going to be my
husband?"
A Closer Listen
The two sides of Kreisler's character are represented in
Kreisleriana by different keys: G minor for his wild
character and B-flat major for his melancholy, sensitive nature. Or
alternately, these two keys could represent two completely separate
characters: Kreisler and his cat. The novel by E. T. A. Hoffmann
that inspired Schumann is titled Lebensansichten des
Katers Murr nebst fragmentarischer Biographie des Kapellmeisters
Johannes Kreisler in zufälligen
Makulaturblättern (The Life and Opinions of the
Tomcat Murr, Together with a Fragmentary Biography of Kapellmeister
Johannes Kreisler on Random Sheets of Wastepaper). The
biography of the musician is interleaved with the autobiography of
his cat, Murr. Thus, there are two separate but related stories
told at the same time in the novel—and in the music.
Kreisleriana alternates between fast and slow
movements, and even fast and slow sections within movements. The
slow movements are cast in B-flat major, the fast in G minor;
however, the opening and penultimate movements fall outside this
set scheme. The finale brings together—but does not unite—the two
distinct voices. The melody in the right hand never quite coincides
with its supposed accompaniment in the left. Instead, the two
characters exist in their separate but shared realms. The composer
himself worried about how the decrescendo softening at the close
would come off, fearing audiences would not know when to
applaud.
—Elizabeth Bergman
FRÉDÉRIC CHOPIN
Nocturne in E-flat Major, Op. 55, No. 2; Scherzo No. 3 in C-sharp
Minor, Op. 39; Waltz in A-flat Major, Op. 64, No. 3; Waltz in
C-sharp Minor, Op. 64, No. 2; Waltz in F Major, Op. 34, No. 3;
Ballade No. 3 in A-flat Major, Op. 47
Chopin is a unique figure in music history. Virtually
self-taught as pianist and composer, he made a wholly personal
synthesis of disparate traditions: Polish folk music, French salon,
the traditional disciplines of Bach and Mozart, and Bellinian
bel canto. (Ravel reportedly spoke of Chopin as "the
greatest of the Italians!") He achieved greatness despite writing
chiefly for one instrument and mostly in small forms. This most
personal of composers wrote pieces with self-effacing, generic
titles; the poetic spirit coexisted with an impenetrable
reserve.
There is nothing especially nocturnal about the nocturnes. They are
among the purest examples of Chopin's art of translating voice to
piano. Much of the magic is in its characteristic sound: The bass
and widely spaced inner voices provide the harmonic web on which
the treble voice can float. The sustaining pedal makes this
possible; it is the key to Chopin's sonority, and he is the only
composer who writes all pedal markings into his scores. The melodic
writing of the Nocturne in E-flat Major often imitates an
intertwining vocal duet, and the harmonies have the richness and
chromaticism of late Chopin.
The demonic side of Chopin can be heard in the C-sharp–Minor
Scherzo, dedicated to pianist Adolph Gutmann—notable according to
contemporaries for his powerful assaults on the keyboard (Chopin
was more of a piano whisperer). The motoric middle section is
succeeded by a solemn, Lutheran-sounding chorale whose effect is
transformed by the delicate waterfall of arpeggios between
phrases.
For me, Chopin's lighter music can be as moving as his more
ambitious works. In the waltzes, the relative simplicity of the
form was a challenge to the composer, who responded with wonderful
melodic and harmonic subtleties. In the middle of the Op. 64 Waltz
in A-flat Major—the most suave and debonair of his A-flat
waltzes—Chopin quietly introduces a jaunty dotted figure in C Major
(a fragment of a mazurka or polonaise?) that quickly dissolves in
the flow. The celebrated C-sharp–Minor Waltz alternates between a
seductive opening strain and agitated perpetual motion music, with
a radiant major episode at the center. The F-Major Waltz chases its
tail brilliantly—one frivolous episode that must have charmed
Rossini and Chabrier.
Of the four ballades, three are dramatic or tragic in tone and end
in Chopin's closest approaches to violent chaos. All are in 6/8 or
6/4 meter and seem to embody a hidden poetic narrative. The Third
Ballade is the exception, a noble and sunlit work in A-flat major
(which even for Beethoven was a gentle and mellifluous key.) The
mood is set by the flowerlike opening of the first melody. A
wayward, oscillating motive turns stormy, then gives way to a waltz
episode. There is a wonderful moment when the opening tune rises
sotto voce from the depths unexpectedly before the
exultant coda.
—Richard Goode