Every December, for the past decade, I have laid a red rose on Schubert’s grave in Vienna’s southern cemetery. What began as a gesture has become a custom, a way of giving thanks to the most lovable of all composers. Schubert may not be as great as Bach or Beethoven, who established the musical language of an entire culture, but no musician has touched so many hearts. Blessed Franz, holy Franz, immortal Franz: nobody, not even Mozart, has inspired such love.
The details of Schubert’s last days are well known. In March 1827 he walked behind Beethoven’s coffin and, upon repairing to a local inn to toast the memory of the older man, raised his glass ‘to the one who shall follow him’. The next 18 months brought the greatest flowering of genius in the history of music as a man under sentence of death produced a succession of masterpieces for piano, string quartet, quintet, and the human voice, as well as the ‘Great’ C major symphony. In November 1828, stricken by syphilis, he died of typhoid fever. He was 31.
It is impossible to reflect on those painful months and not wonder what remarkable feats he might have achieved had he been granted 20 more years. Instead we must make do with what he left us, and that is sufficient to sustain any life. Next week, in one of those bold declarations that have defined Roger Wright’s stewardship of Radio 3, the station clears its decks for a modern Schubertiade, called Spirit of Schubert. For eight days listeners can immerse themselves in a sea of joy; every note of every piece he wrote and, in the completion of the Unfinished Symphony, one or two he didn’t.
Like many people, my first exposure to Schubert came through that symphony, and even in those pre-teen days I could sense the exquisite melancholy that characterises Schubert’s unique emotional world. In modern terms he was bipolar, subject to violent mood swings, but that clinical term cannot do justice to the unforced lyricism of his music, rendered all the more powerful by its lack of sentimentality.
In everything Schubert wrote, but particularly in those three last sonatas for piano, and the famous quintet, there is an unfailing sense of sorrow, which he knew lay at the heart of all human life. Yet this sorrow is not tainted by misery or self-pity. It is a transcendent sorrow, that one may feel at sunset or when looking at the sky at night; a sense of the evanescence of all things, and the fleeting nature of joy.
The usual literary comparison is with Chekhov, whose plays and tales underscore the co-existence of tragedy and comedy. A more valuable point of reference may be a great writer of our time. Philip Larkin’s ‘much-mentioned brilliance, love …still promising to solve, and satisfy and set unchangeably in order’ comes close to the spirit of Schubert, except words, even the noblest words, lack the mystery of music.
Every December, therefore, as I stand before Schubert’s grave, having placed a red rose in the snow, I am all too aware of my inability to honour the memory of this great man, whose music means more to me than any other. Yes, more than Beethoven, who was the greater composer, and more than Wagner, whose operas, once imbibed, can never leave the bloodstream. Why? Because Schubert’s music comes closest to a distillation of life.
Before his grave I think of Fritz Reiner’s recording of the Unfinished Symphony, which is where it all began. Then I say a few words in memory of Bernard Levin, whose essays in the Times helped to forge my musical personality (not that I recognised it at the time). I think, too, of Alfred Brendel, whose performances of the sonatas and impromptus have added a lustrous chapter to the history of piano playing.
There can never be a greater interpreter of Schubert than Brendel. It’s partly a matter of temperament, of the twin rivers of intellect and feeling coming together in a mighty roar, and partly a Viennese thing. Schubert was the only one of the great Viennese composers to have been born in the city, and Brendel is the great inheritor of that magnificent tradition. My inner ear always hears him playing the slow movement of the last sonata, in B flat major. Imbued with a heavenly sadness, it is Schubert’s final word, his benediction to us all.
Thank you, blessed Franz. Thank you for furnishing my life, the lives of all who truly love art, with music of unsurpassable emotional truth. Nobody speaks more lightly, or more movingly, about the things that lie within us, and every day we can renew that bond. For those who have yet to set off on this journey of self-discovery, next week brings a wonderful opportunity.
Spirit of Schubert begins on Radio 3 on Friday, 23 March.
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