Program notes by Eric Bromberger

Märchenbilder for Viola and Piano, Opus 113
Robert SCHUMANN
Born June 8, 1810, Zwickau, Germany
Died July 29, 1856, Endenich, Germany

In the fall of 1850, Schumann took up the post of Director of Music for the city of Düsseldorf. It was a mixed blessing for the forty-year-old composer. Schumann, not a particularly good conductor, soon became aware of criticism and began to suspect intrigues against him. And there were increasing signs of the mental instability that would overwhelm him a few years later. But Schumann’s first months in Düsseldorf brought a great burst of creative energy, and that fall he wrote major orchestral works, including the Cello Concerto and the “Rhenish” Symphony, and songs.

In March 1851, just a month after the première of the “Rhenish,” Schumann composed his Märchenbilder, subtitled “Four Pieces for Piano and Viola” (that title, which means “Fairy-Tale Pictures,” should not be confused with Schumann’s Märchenerzahlungen–“Fairy Tales”–for clarinet and piano, composed two years later). The Märchenbilder do not refer to specific fairy tales nor do they attempt to tell stories–audiences should not search for descriptions of ogres, dragons, and princesses here. Rather, these instrumental miniatures evoke the atmosphere that might accompany fairy tales: this music is by turn gentle, charming, and evocative.

The four pieces surrender their pleasures easily and require little detailed comment. The first is somber, while the second, with its dotted rhythms and double stops, is the most overtly virtuosic; in the energetic third, Schumann directs that the viola’s incessant triplets should be played “with a springing bow.” Schumann saves the best for last. His marking–Slow, with melancholy expression–is exactly right: this gentle music sings a sad and haunting song in the outer sections, which frame a more energetic middle, where the viola soars above the piano’s triplets. At the end, the music fades into silence on the viola’s barely-audible pizzicato strokes.

Variations on a Theme of Robert Schumann, Opus 9
Johannes BRAHMS
Born May 7, 1833, Hamburg
Died April 3, 1897, Vienna

In September 1853, Johannes Brahms–then 20 years old, rosy-cheeked, and endlessly talented–knocked on the door of the Schumann household in Düsseldorf. Robert and Clara were charmed by the young man and his music, and Brahms quickly became a virtual member of the Schumann household. In a critical review of the young pianist-composer, Schumann hailed Brahms as “a young eagle” who was bound to do great things. If this all sounds like a fairy tale too good to be true, it was. The Schumanns’ affection was real, but in February 1854, Schumann–never wholly stable–threw himself in the Rhine in a suicide attempt. He was rescued by fishermen but was incarcerated in a mental asylum, where he would die two years later. The Schumann household was stunned: Clara–pregnant with her seventh child–faced not only the loss of her husband but also serious financial problems. Perhaps as a way of consoling herself, she wrote a set of variations on a theme from her husband’s Bunte Blätter, Opus 99, and she played this for Brahms on May 24, 1854.

Brahms, then 21 years old, had been just as devastated by Schumann’s collapse. As a way of helping the family get through this episode, he moved in with them, helped manage the household, consoled Clara, and visited Robert in the asylum. If the Schumann family was crushed, Brahms had to face his own demons: he felt gratitude and loyalty to Robert, who had been one of his most generous mentors, but he was swept up in his own youthful love for Clara. After hearing her variations on her husband’s theme, he set out to write his own variations on that same theme. He worked quickly: over the next few weeks he composed fourteen variations on that theme, giving each variation to Clara for review as she recovered from the birth of her child. Later that summer, Brahms came back to this music and added two more variations (Nos. 10 and 11), and the set was published under the title Variations on a Theme of Robert Schumann. Brahms’ cryptic dedication of this music gives a sense of his state of mind at this difficult moment: “Little Variations on a Theme by Him. Dedicated to Her.”

Brahms begins with Schumann’s theme, here spread over 24 slow measures. Its melancholy demeanor establishes the atmosphere for the entire set of variations–this music sets out not to show off a performer’s virtuosity but rather to give voice to the sadness that ran through Brahms, Clara, and her children at this dismal moment. These are very accomplished variations. They are not so much melodic variations as subtle explorations of Schumann’s theme: some are written in canon, some range far from the home key of F-sharp minor, and some contain private meanings and messages (the ninth variation quotes the second piece in Schumann’s Opus 99). The set ends not in brilliance but with two subdued and expressive variations, and finally this very personal music fades into silence.

Clara was moved by Brahms’s music, and so was her husband. From within the asylum (and from a moment of lucidity), he was able to examine Brahms’ score and play through it, and he wrote to the young composer: “How I long to see you, dear friend, and hear your lovely Variations played either by you or by Clara . . . There is an exquisite coherence about the whole work, a wealth of fantastic glamour peculiarly your own . . . Thank you, too, my dear Johannes, for all your kindness to my Clara. She speaks of it constantly in her letters.”

Three Romances for Oboe and Piano, Opus 94
Robert SCHUMANN

Schumann composed his Three Romances for Oboe and Piano in December 1849, while living in Dresden. The title romance, which originally came from vocal music, here suggests music of a gentle and expressive character, and these three brief pieces–all in ABA form–are suffused with a quiet lyricism. This simple and unaffected music may at first hearing sound easy, but the Three Romances in fact require superb breath control from the performer, who must sustain Schumann’s lengthy melodic lines.

The three pieces require little detailed comment. The first is in somber A minor, while the second–in A major–is probably the best-known, as it is sometimes performed by itself. The singing simplicity of its outer sections contrasts with the dark and surging interior episode. In the final movement, Schumann asks for great fluidity of phrasing, as the music holds back and then rushes ahead continuously; the center section sings gracefully over triplet accompaniment. All three Romances end very quietly.

When he published this music in 1850, Schumann specified that it could be played by either oboe or violin. This attractive music has appealed to other instrumentalists, and it is now sometimes performed in versions for clarinet, cello, French horn, and flute.

Piano Quartet in E-flat Major, Opus 47

Robert Schumann’s marriage on September 12, 1840, to the young piano virtuosa Clara Wieck–a match that had been bitterly opposed by her father–brought joy to the young couple, and it also marked the beginning of the most productive three years of the composer’s career. From the first year of their marriage came a great outpouring of song, from 1841 came symphonic works, and in 1842 Schumann turned to chamber music. He quickly wrote three string quartets that summer, then the Piano Quintet in October. Working at white heat and assailed by “constant fearful sleepless nights,” Schumann pressed on to complete the Piano Quartet at the end of November.

The Quartet has always been overshadowed by the Quintet, one of Schumann’s greatest chamber works, but this is a strong work in its own right. It is one of the finest of all piano quartets–a form that presents composers with numerous problems of voicing, texture, and the balance between piano and strings–and its slow movement is one of the glories of chamber music. The Quartet opens with a slow introduction, marked Sostenuto assai (“Very sustained”); this quiet music will return twice during the course of the movement. The main section of the movement, Allegro ma non tanto, leaps out brightly on four sharp chords, and Schumann gives some idea of his conception of this music in his marking sempre con molto sentimento. The second subject is a big singing tune for cello (marked espressivo), and Schumann develops both themes across the span of this sonata-form movement. The very brief Scherzo: Molto vivace hurries along its steady pulse; Schumann offers two trio sections, both related thematically to the scherzo itself.

The third movement is appropriately marked Andante cantabile, for this music does indeed sing. It is in ABA form, and the cello’s lyric main subject dominates the opening section. But the really impressive part of this movement comes in the middle section, which moves into the unexpected key of G-flat major. In the child-like simplicity of its melodic line and the intensity of its expression, this music sounds very much like the slow movements of Beethoven’s late string quartets. The cello does not play during the ornate return of the opening material, for Schumann asks here that the cellist retune the C-string down to B for the closing measures of the movement; this section outlines very slowly the theme-shape of the final movement, marked Vivace. Full of fugal entries based on this three-note shape, the finale gives the impression of never-ending energy; even its lyric episodes seem touched with vitality, and the music rushes to an exciting close.