“It’s probably time to tell the truth,” I said to Lady,
“which is that a surprising number of composers were seriously fucked-up. In
fact, none of the goings-on (or the going-ons, whichever it may be) of the
popular music crowd are very impressive. Jimmy Hendrix? Madonna? Virtually
every composer puts them to shame. Schumann, of course, is one the worst: he
threw himself into the Rhine, had to be rescued by fishermen, and died in the
madhouse. Oh, and they wouldn’t let him see his wife, Clara, until two days
before he died. And he had been languishing there for two years!”
“Horrors,” said Lady, “syphilis, I presume?”
“Probably,” I said, “but who knows? There’s also Schubert,
who almost definitely did have syphilis, and who may have been gay.
There’s Beethoven, who used to play in bawdy houses as an adolescent, to scrape
up money. Probably necessary, since Beethoven’s father was a drunk, as well as
abusive—and we all know what a toll that takes on disposable income! Bach, of
course, looks normal enough, but he must have had a hell of a life. Lost his
mother when he was nine, and then his father the next year. Then he gets sent
off to live with his oldest brother, and who knows how that went? Got into
duels, got thrown in jail for a month, lost his first wife and over half of his
kids. No, it must have been a hell of a life, and there he is, churning out one
masterpiece after another.”
“Well, surely there has to be some composer who isn’t
completely cracked,” said Lady.
“Well, if anybody can make the claim, it’s probably
Mendelssohn,” I told her. “He came from a privileged background, but that has
its own challenges. There was this whole thing about his religion: he was of
Jewish background, but his parents didn’t circumcise him, and in fact baptized
him as a Christian in the Reformed Church. So nobody quite knows what that’s
all about.”
“Reformed Church?” asked Lady.
“Oh, I used to know,” I told her. “It doesn’t much matter.
Anyway, he had success and was—supposedly—‘equable,’ as Wikipedia put it. But
then the article goes on to say that he once had a fit of furor, and had to be
spoken to sharply by his father. Oh, and then they put him to bed for 12
hours….”
“Well, well…”
“Anyway, Mendelssohn never made it into his 40’s,” I told
her. “And in some bizarre way, we still don’t quite know what to do with him. His
music—isn’t it just a bit too pleasing? A bit too conventional? And yet, when I
heard his last string quartet, I couldn’t believe it was Mendelssohn…”
“Hmm, so there was something more there?”
“Remember how I said that coming from privilege bears its
own challenges? Well, if it was bad for Mendelssohn, just imagine how bad it
was for Mendelssohn!”
“Ummmm…Marc?”
“Well, there was Felix, whom everybody knows, and then there
was Fanny, whom few people know. And the confusion wasn’t helped by the fact
when some of her songs were published, it was under the name of her brother.
She only performed once in public, even though knowledgeable listeners thought
she was as good a pianist as her brother. And the only thing she seems to have
published—without consulting her brother—was a collection of songs.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, until you realize that her brother was composing
oratorios. Massive works for full chorus and orchestra. So a collection of
songs—especially since they were published on different colored paper and
illustrated by her husband…. Well, it’s all just a bit too ladylike.”
“Well, I see your point….”
“It’s odd, when you think about it. Here’s what her father
wrote to her: Music
will perhaps become his [i.e. Felix's] profession, while for you it can
and must be only an ornament.”
“Thanks,
Dad!”
“I
know. But has anyone ever explored why there are so many fabulous female
pianists? And have been for centuries? Fanny’s mother, by the way, was a
student of a student of Johann Sebastian Bach. So all of this veneration of
Felix for having ‘championed’ Bach…well, we know where that came from!”
“Well,
it’s obvious, isn’t it? Every well-bred house had a piano, and ladies were
expected to be able to play. So inevitably, the piano became the instrument of
choice. Can you imagine a female French horn player in the 19th
century?”
“You’re
probably right,” I told her. “But there’s something infinitely sad about Fanny.
You know, Clara Schumann may have had, in some respects, a better life. They
two women were both great pianists, and also composers. But Clara was a child
prodigy, and actually was the breadwinner, especially when Robert was ill. Both
women were composers, as well. But here’s Wikipedia quoting Robert Schumann:
Clara has composed a series of small pieces, which
show a musical and tender ingenuity such as she has never attained before. But
to have children, and a husband who is always living in the realm of
imagination, does not go together with composing. She cannot work at it
regularly, and I am often disturbed to think how many profound ideas are lost
because she cannot work them out.
“Not
disturbed enough to get a job at Burger King, and let her get on with
composing?”
“Nope—poor
Clara had to take charge of the home and be the breadwinner. And her
career, by the way, spanned 61 years. And she died forty years after her
husband. Poor dear, she didn’t have much of a life. Hard to know which of the
ladies—who must have known each other—had a harder life…”
“Well,
who’s to say? But my vote, somehow, is with Fanny,” said Lady.
“It’s
ironic,” I told her. “You know, I listened today to the piano sonata that Fanny
wrote, and that everybody thought was really by Felix, because it was so
‘masculine.’ And I was able to post it onto Facebook, but somehow I can’t post
it on the blog. And nothing I could find of Clara Schumann would play on
YouTube. I kept on getting error messages. But then, the string quartet of
Felix Mendelssohn—which he wrote in honor of his sister—well, that plays just fine!
So I’m going to leave the space where the piano sonata should be blank. But you
can click on it here,
and for the next 28 days listen to it. It’s sort of melancholy, you know. Two
great women, two great composers, and still…well, still struggling to be
recognized.”
“It’s
not ‘sort of melancholy,’” said Lady. “Here’s what it is…
…tragic!”
