Schumann: Waldszenen, Op. 82 - Carnaval de Vienne, Op. 26 - Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor, Op. 14 - Aldo Ciccolini

Robert SCHUMANN : Faschingsschwank aus Wien, Op. 26: I. Allegro – II. Romanze – III. Scherzino – IV. Intermezzo – V. Final – Waldszenen, Op. 82: I. Eintritt – II. Jäger auf der Lauer – III. Einsame Blumen – IV. Verrufene Stelle – V. Freundliche Landschaft – VI. Herberge – VII. Vogel als Prophet – VIII. Jagdlied – IX. Abschied – Piano Sonata No. 3 in F Minor, Op. 14 “Concerto without Orchestra”: I. Allegro – II. Scherzo – III. Quasi variazioni – IV. Prestissimo possibile.

Aldo Ciccolini, piano.

ICARUS OF FORM

“Literary fata morgana, romantic vertigo in front of Being, materialistic sound, impressionism, desperate longing for infinite thought and accomplished form: too many seeds of wrong manoeuvres” (Marcel Beaufils).

Thus could we describe the icaric gesture defined by Schumann’s artistic attitude. We can see him as a poet, light-hearted, tormented, in love, even close to insanity; all these descriptions are justified in view of one fundamental preoccupation: form.

Deliberately eluded at the beginning, form became a constant worry for Schumann, haunted by Beethoven’s ghost and at the same time fascinated and attracted to romantic sensitivity. The effort to reconcile a classical form, always fleeing, with the infinite movement of art that seems to condemn him to sketches, soon reveals itself as a source of creative energy.

The divide is not diminished, but in the meantime form mocks differences and awkwardness and, through a touch of genius, becomes a momentum of clearness.

“Creative dynamism sews the idea, mends rhapsodically, grammars vanish in the name of eternal change,” writes Marcel Beaufils. For the idea to adapt itself to form, in order to paint infinite horizons, it will need other architectures—its own. In this sense, the structure of the cycle, such as can be found in Waldszenen, op. 82, seems to reconcile the inner world with the demands of writing.

Started in 1848 and finished the following year, this work was created during one of the most productive periods in Schumann’s life. Echoing this creativity, he finds the same simplicity and intimacy, characteristic of Kinderszenen; the whole composition is strengthened by the pre-eminent tone of B-flat major so dear to him.

The typically romantic universe invoked by the forest blends into a child’s daydream. Apart from the “Verrufene Stelle” scene, darker than the others, light is never black; it is rather twilight. From the innocence of “Eintritt” to the joy of a trip to the “Herberge”, from the brilliance of “Jäger auf der Lauer” to the softly restrained lyricism of “Abschied”, Schumann is above all a poet and a painter.

In the almost fantastic universe of the Waldszenen—the precious Wald of German Romanticism—Schumann plunges, but inescapably emerges, bringing with him a new reality. As Stricker says: “There is, in the very writing of his music, a surprising ability to enter the other side of the mirror.” Between reality and fiction, it is difficult to choose, and the same ambiguity is developed in Faschingsschwank aus Wien, op. 26, composed much earlier, in 1839. From a stay in Vienna, which he considered a frivolous and superficial city, the passionate twenty-nine-year-old returned with this inspired work; very different from Carnaval, op. 9, composed four years earlier, this one exhibits five movements, more in the manner of a suite or a free-form sonata than as a succession of scenes. Here Schumann is less of a portraitist: he seeks to create an atmosphere, imprinting the initial Allegro with the exuberance of a popular masked festival’s joy.

The succession of episodes, blending a tribute to Schubert, then to Beethoven, with a citation of La Marseillaise, is a real insult to Metternich’s censorship. They are followed by four more concise parts: a melancholic Romance, briefly contrasting with the density and breadth of the first movement; a light Scherzo; and finally a passionately expressive Intermezzo, equalled only by the force and brilliance of the Finale.

Here again, Schumann strives to master form, mocks it—first detaching himself completely from it, then turning it away from its original structure. But as “we must work when there is daylight,” he also turns to the lied, to chamber music, to orchestra. His compositions accumulate as he consumes his energy trying to reconquer forms that no longer correspond to his subjectivity.

The story of the Sonata op. 14, or “Concert sans orchestre”, is revealing. Dated 1836 and published soon after, it is contemporary with the other sonatas, although greatly differing by its complexity and richness of writing (five movements and two scherzos). But if Liszt adored this work, the difficulty of the score as well as the lack of orthodoxy of the form received mixed comments, starting with the editor who convinced him to change the title: cutting off the two scherzos and reworking the first movement, the Sonata op. 14 would be called “Concert sans orchestre”. In 1853, however, Schumann published a second edition, resuming the first movement’s original form and inserting the second Scherzo after the Allegro. The work was again renamed: Third Piano Sonata, op. 14.

It is a mixed work bearing the undeniable premise of maturity, a witness to the organic coherence of Schumann’s entire output, even with the seventeen years between the two editions. In the intensity of the pages of the Allegro, as in the whirlwinds and intoxication of the Finale, we hear not only the young romantic’s voice but also the profound instability of the soul, foreshadowing the madness of the last days. In the Scherzo (II), so favourable to formal ravings, we find the audacity and taste for the fantastic that will follow him to the end. In the Quasi Variazioni, a muffled anguish, a perpetual unrest, will consume him for the benefit of his art. “You will understand the spirit only when you have mastered form”: this was his recommendation to young musicians—the quest of his whole life. With soaring genius, but burning his wings.