by Alex Ross
The early works of Schoenberg always come as a pleasant shock to listeners expecting a grueling atonal exercise. The music exudes a heady, luxurious tone, redolent of Klimt’s gilt portraits and other Jugendstil artifacts. Brash Straussian gestures mix with diaphanous textures that bear a possibly not coincidental resemblance to Debussy. There are spells of suspended animation, when the music becomes fixated on a single chord. The chamber tone poem Transfigured Night, written in 1899, ends with twelve bars of glistening D major, the fundamental note never budging in the bass. Gurre-Lieder, a huge Wagnerian cantata for vocal soloists, multiple choruses, and supersized orchestra, begins with a great steam bath of E-flat major, probably in imitation of the opening to Wagner’s Ring. Yet all is not well in Romantic paradise. Unexplained dissonances rise to the surface; chromatic lines intersect in a contrapuntal tangle; chords of longing fail to resolve.
The young Schoenberg encountered opposition, but he also received encouragement from the highest musical circles. The Mahlers regularly invited him to their apartment near the Schwarzenbergplatz, where, according to Alma, he would incite heated arguments by offering up “paradox of the most violent description.” Afterward, Gustav would say to Alma, “Take good care you never invite that conceited puppy to the house again.” Before long, another invitation would arrive.
Mahler found Schoenberg’s music mesmerizing and maddening in equal measure. “Why am I still writing symphonies,” he once exclaimed, “if that is supposed to be the music of the future!” After a rehearsal of Schoenberg’s First Chamber Symphony, Mahler asked the musicians to play a C-major triad. “Thank you,” he said, and walked out. Yet he made a show of applauding Schoenberg’s most controversial works, knowing how destructive the critics and claques of Vienna could be.
Strauss, too, found Schoenberg fascinating—“very talented,” he said, even if the music was “overloaded.” The two composers met during Schoenberg’s first stint in Berlin—Wolzogen, the director of the Buntes Theater, had collaborated with Strauss on his second opera, the anti-philistine comedy Feuersnot—and Strauss helped his younger colleague locate other sources of income. When Schoenberg later founded the Society for Creative Musicians in Vienna, Strauss accepted an honorary membership, and expressed the hope that the new organization would “blessedly light up many minds darkened by decades of malice and stupidity.”
Schoenberg withheld from Strauss the impertinence that he showed to Mahler. “I would like to take this opportunity to thank you, honored master,” the future revolutionary wrote obsequiously in 1903, “once again for all the help you have given me at a sacrifice to yourself in the most sincere manner. I will not forget this for the whole of my life and will always be thankful to you for it.” As late as 1912, Schoenberg still felt nervous and schoolboyish in Strauss’s presence: “He was very friendly. But I behaved very awkwardly…I stammered and surely left the impression of a servile devotion on Strauss.” Schoenberg told himself that he should have been more of a “Selfian”—as proudly self-determined as Strauss himself.
In May 1906, the Schoenberg contingent had gone to see Salome in Graz. Beforehand, Schoenberg painstakingly studied the vocal score, which Mahler had given to him. It stood on his music stand, open to the first page. “Perhaps in twenty years’ time someone will be able to explain these harmonic progressions theoretically,” Schoenberg told his students. Aspects of Salome’s fractured tonality show up in the First Chamber Symphony, which Schoenberg wrote that summer. Yet this new piece was very different in tone and style from Strauss’s opera. Its strenuous working out of brief motivic figures recalled Viennese practice in the Classical period from Haydn to Beethoven. In a deliberate rejection of fin-de-siècle grandiosity, it was scored for a mini-orchestra of fifteen instruments, its sonorities rough rather than lush. Schoenberg was throwing off excess baggage, perhaps in anticipation of lean years to come. The process of condensation led to Pierrot lunaire, in which the soloist is accompanied by an agile band of two winds, two strings, and a piano.
Just as Debussy imagined new sounds while perusing images in Verlaine and Mallarmé, Schoenberg let poetry guide him. He relished the erotic visions of Richard Dehmel, who furnished the story of Transfigured Night. He also investigated, at Strauss’s suggestion, the plays of Maeterlinck; and in 1902 and 1903, he fashioned a large-scale orchestral tone poem on the subject of Maeterlinck’s Pelléas et Mélisande, purportedly unaware that Debussy had just made a setting of the same text. But Schoenberg’s most crucial literary encounter was with the poetry of Stefan George, then the leading Symbolist among German writers.
George stood apart from his compatriots on account of his ardent Francophilia; he had gone to Paris in 1889, attended Mallarmé’s “Tues-days” (the poet dubbed him “one of us”), and translated the major French poets into German. He might have met Debussy, though there is no evidence that he did. So determined was he to honor his French masters that he dropped capital letters from German nouns. A self-styled artist-prophet in the fin-de-siècle mode, George surrounded himself with a bevy of acolytes, among whom could always be found several beautiful adolescent boys. George’s circle inspired Mann’s satire “At the Prophet’s”; minus the homosexual element, it might also have served as a model for Schoenberg, who treated his students as disciples and seldom appeared in public without them. More important, George showed Schoenberg a way out of the easygoing pleasures of Viennese aesthetics. The sheer density of the poet’s imagery did not permit easy access, although sensual secrets resided in the labyrinth.
Schoenberg’s voyage to the other side began on December 17, 1907, when he set a poem from George’s collection Year of the Soul, much of which is concerned with an intense scene of farewell. It begins: “I must not in thanks sink down before you / You are the spiritual plain from which we rose.” The music hangs by only the thinnest thread to the old harmonic order. It purports to be in B minor, yet the home chord appears only three times in thirty measures, once beneath the word “agonizing.” Otherwise, it is made up of a ghostly flow of unrooted triads, ambiguous transitional chords, stark dissonances, and crystalline monodic lines, approximating the picture of an “ice-cold, deep-sleeping stream” with which the poem concludes. The date of composition is telling: eight days earlier, Schoenberg had bid farewell to Mahler at the Westbahnhof in Vienna. If, as seems possible, the fact of Mahler’s departure impelled the choice of text, then it carries a double message: the young composer has been abandoned by a father figure, yet he is also liberated, free to pursue a different love.
The next leg of the journey took place in the midst of personal crisis. Schoenberg had admitted into his circle an unstable character named Richard Gerstl, a gifted painter of brutal Expressionist tendencies. Under Gerstl’s direction, Schoenberg had taken up painting and found that he had a knack for it: his canvas The Red Gaze, in which a gaunt face stares out with bloodshot eyes, has come to be recognized as a minor masterpiece of its time and place. In May 1908 Schoenberg discovered that Gerstl was having an affair with his wife, Mathilde, and that summer he surprised the lovers in a compromising position. Mathilde ran off with Gerstl, then returned to her husband, whereupon Gerstl proceeded to stage a suicide that exceeded Weininger’s in flamboyance: he burned his paintings and hanged himself naked in front of a full-length mirror, as if he wanted to see his own body rendered in Expressionist style. The suicide took place on November 4, 1908, on the night of a Schoenberg concert to which Gerstl had not been invited; evidently, that rejection was the final straw.
Schoenberg himself struggled with thoughts of suicide. “I have only one hope—that I will not live much longer,” he wrote to his wife at the end of the summer. In a last will and testament that may have been an unused suicide note, he wrote, “I have cried, have behaved like someone in despair, have made decisions and then rejected them, have had ideas of suicide and almost carried them out, have plunged from one madness into another—in a word, I am totally broken.” He warned that he would “soon follo
w the path, find the resolution, that at long last might be the highest culmination of all human actions.” But, in an intriguingly vague turn of phrase, he could not foresee “whether it be my body that will give way or my soul.”
Suicide was not Schoenberg’s style. Just as Beethoven, in his Heiligenstadt Testament, resolved to forge ahead into a life of misery, Schoenberg pressed on. That same summer of 1908 he finished his Second Quartet, in which he hesitates at a crossroads, contemplating various paths forking in front of him. The first movement, written the previous year, still uses a fairly conventional late-Romantic language. The second movement, by contrast, is a hallucinatory Scherzo, unlike any other music of the time. It contains fragments of the folk song “Ach, du lieber Augustin”—the same tune that held Freudian significance for Mahler (or so Freud said). For Schoenberg, the song seems to represent a bygone world disintegrating; the crucial line is “Alles ist hin” (all is lost). The movement ends in a fearsome sequence of four-note figures, which are made up of fourths separated by a tritone. In them may be discerned traces of the bifurcated scale that begins Salome. But there is no longer a sense of tonalities colliding. Instead, the very concept of a chord is dissolving into a matrix of intervals.
In the final two movements of the Second Quartet a soprano voice joins the string players to sing two George poems, “Litany” and “Rapture.” The texts come from a larger cycle that George wrote in memory of a handsome boy named Maximilian Kronberger, who died of meningitis one day after his sixteenth birthday, leaving the poet in spasms of grief. Schoenberg seems to identify not only with the poet’s emotion but also with his urge to manipulate pain to expressive ends, in the name of self-abnegation and purification. “Litany” cries out for a quick end to sexual and spiritual agony: “Kill the longing, close the wound!” “Rapture,” the culmination of George’s “Maximin” cycle, presents the solution. It begins in a state of profound estrangement, with the alienation of the individual turning universal:
I feel the wind of another planet.
Growing pale in the darkness are the faces
Of those who lately turned to me as friends.
This Martian breeze is mimicked in soft, sinister streams of notes, recalling the episode in Salome when Herod hallucinates a chilly wind. Special effects on the strings (mutes, harmonics, bowing at the bridge) heighten the sense of otherness, as singing tones become whispers and high cries. Then comes the transformation:
I dissolve in tones, circling, weaving…
I am but a spark of the holy fire
I am but a roaring of the holy voice.
The soprano declaims her lines in a cool, stately rhythm. The strings dwell on sustained chords, most of which can be named according to the old harmonic system, although they have been torn from the organic connections of tonality and move like a procession of ghosts. At the climactic moment, under the word “holy,” the composer’s motto chord, the dissonant combination of a fourth and a tritone, sounds with unyielding force. Even so, Schoenberg is not ready to go over the brink. At the close the motto chord gives way to pure F-sharp major, which, in light of what has gone before, sounds bizarre and surreal. The work is dedicated to “my wife.”
Schoenberg stayed in his Stefan George trance through the fall of 1908, when he completed a song cycle on the poet’s Book of Hanging Gardens. The otherworldly serenity persists, together with vestiges of tonality. Then something snapped, and Schoenberg let out his pent-up rage. In 1909, as Mahler was sinking into the long goodbye of his Ninth Symphony and Strauss was floating away into the eighteenth-century dream-world of Rosenkavalier, Schoenberg entered a creative frenzy, writing the Three Pieces for Piano, the Five Pieces for Orchestra, and Erwartung, or Expectation, a dramatic scene for soprano and orchestra. In the last of the Three Piano Pieces, the keyboard turns into something like a percussion instrument, a battlefield of triple and quadruple forte. In the first of the orchestral pieces, “Premonitions,” instrumental voices dissolve into gestures, textures, and colors, many of them derived from Salome: agitated rapid figures joined to trills, hypnotically circling whole-tone figures, woodwinds screeching in their uppermost registers, two-note patterns dripping like blood on marble, a spitting, snarling quintet of flutter-tongued trombones and tuba. Erwartung, the monologue of a woman stumbling through a moonlit forest in search of her missing lover, is distended by monster chords of eight, nine, and ten notes, which saturate the senses and shut down the intellect. In one especially hair-raising passage, the voice plunges nearly two octaves, from B to C-sharp, on a cry of “Help!” This comes straight from Wagner’s Parsifal; Kundry crosses the same huge interval when she confesses that she laughed at the suffering of Christ.
Schoenberg’s early atonal music is not all sound and fury. Periodically, it discloses worlds that are like hidden valleys between mountains; a hush descends, the sun glimmers in fog, shapes hover. In the third of the Five Pieces for Orchestra—the one titled “Farben,” or “Colors”—a five-note chord is transposed up and down the scale and passed through a beguiling array of orchestral timbres. The chord itself is not harsh, but it is elusive, poised between consonance and dissonance. Such utterly original experiments in shifting tone colors came to be classified as Klangfarbenmelodie, or tone-color melody.
The same rapt mood descends over the Six Little Pieces for Piano, Opus 19, which Schoenberg wrote in early 1911, as Mahler lay dying. The second piece is nine bars long and contains about a hundred notes. It is built on a hypnotic iteration of the interval G and B, which chimes softly in place, giving off a clean, warm sound. Tendrils of sound trail around the dyad, touching at one point or another on the remaining ten notes of the chromatic scale. But the main notes stay riveted in place. They are like two eyes, staring ahead, never blinking.
Scandal
“I feel the heat of rebellion rising in even the slightest souls,” Schoenberg wrote in a program note in January 1910, “and I suspect that even those who have believed in me until now will not want to accept the necessity of this development.”
Nothing in the annals of musical scandal—from the first night of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring to the release of the Sex Pistols’ “Anarchy in the U.K.”—rivals the ruckus that greeted Schoenberg early in his career. In February 1907, his thornily contrapuntal, though not yet atonal, First String Quartet was heard against a vigorous ostinato of laughter, catcalls, and whistles. Mahler, leaping to Schoenberg’s defense, nearly got into a fistfight with one of the troublemakers. Three days later, the First Chamber Symphony caused “seat-rattling, whistle-blowing, and ostentatious walk-outs,” according to Schoenberg’s student Egon Wellesz. When the Second Quartet had its premiere, in December 1908, the critic Ludwig Karpath couldn’t wait until the following morning to make his feelings known, and shouted, “Stop it! Enough!” A critic friendlier to Schoenberg shouted back, “Quiet! Continue to play!”
The resistance to Schoenberg was deep-seated. It came not only from reactionaries and philistines but also from listeners of considerable musical knowledge. One early scandal, we are told, was fomented by pupils of Heinrich Schenker, a giant in the new discipline of musicology. Anti-Semitism played no significant role, despite some latter-day claims. (Two of Schoenberg’s most vehement critics, Robert Hirschfeld and Julius Korngold, were Jews, and their colleague Hans Liebstöckl was a Prague-born German of antinationalist and pro-Debussy tendencies.) Even Mahler had trouble accepting the “necessity of this development,” in Schoenberg’s words. “I have your quartet with me and study it from time to time,” Mahler wrote to Schoenberg in January 1909. “But it is difficult for me. I’m so terribly sorry that I cannot follow you better; I look forward to the day when I shall find myself again (and so find you).” When Mahler saw the Five Pieces for Orchestra, he commented that he could not translate the notes on the page into sounds in his head. Nevertheless, he continued to encourage his “conceited puppy” and, in his last days, was heard to say, “If I go, he will have nothing left.”
Strauss, for his part, thought that Schoenberg had gone off the deep end. That reaction must have been especially disappointing, for Schoenberg had written the Five Pieces in answer to Strauss’s request for some short works for his Berlin concert series. Schoenberg was so eager to show Strauss what he had done that he mailed off the Pieces before they were complete, and only ten days after the fourth of the set was finished. “There is no architecture and no build-up,” Schoenberg explained in an accompanying letter. “Just a vivid, uninterrupted succession of colors, rhythms, and moods.” Strauss politely wrote back that such “daring experiments” would be too much for his audience. Outwardly, he maintained his support, sending his colleague one hundred marks in 1911. But his true opinion surfaced three years later, when he made the mistake of writing to Alma Mahler that Schoenberg “would be better off shoveling snow than scribbling on music paper.” Alma showed the letter to Schoenberg’s student Erwin Stein, who decided that his teacher should be apprised of its contents. Schoenberg snapped that whatever he had learned from the composer of Salome he had misunderstood.
In the middle of these setbacks came a massive success, which, in the end, only magnified the composer’s anger. This was the 1913 world premiere of Gurre-Lieder, which had been sketched ten years earlier and exhibited a late-Romantic style that Schoenberg had since abandoned. The setting was Vienna’s Musikverein—the legendary hall where symphonies of Brahms and Bruckner had first been heard. The conductor was Franz Schreker, another Austrian composer who was moving through liminal realms of post-Wagnerian harmony. Signs of a triumph were already evident at intermission, as admirers crowded around the composer. But he was in a foul mood, and declined to receive new converts. When the performance was over, even the anti-Schoenbergians, some of whom had brought along whistles and other noisemakers in anticipation of a scandal, rose to their feet along with the rest of the crowd, chanting, “Schoenberg! Schoenberg!” The brawlers were weeping, one witness said, and their cheers sounded like an apology.
