Papillons, Op.2

There is no ready definition of romanticism, in terms of either style or period. Robert Schumann, who was in the thick of it, believed that the “whole of the so-called romantic school” has its “origin mainly in Bach” – a notion which fundamentally contradicts present-day accepted opinion. Even so, there is little precedent in J.S. Bach for the literary inspration or the autobiographical confessions which are such prominent features of the music of Schumann and his contemporaries. Most of the 12 short pieces of Papillons derive from waltzes and polonaises Schumann had written in imitation of Schubert a year or two before he completed the work. In the meantime he had read Jean-Paul Richter’s Flegeljahre, the closing chapter of which, set at a masked ball, inspired the last movement. Based on the “Grandfather Dance,” a traditional last dance, it appends a memory of the opening waltz in neatly accomplished counterpoint. As activity recedes, six notes struck clock-like in the right hand indicate that the ball is over.

“Isn’t Papillons clear to you in itself?” Schumann asked his friend Henriette Voigt in 1834. It was a good question. The score having been in print for two years by then, he knew that for most people Papillons was actually far from clear in itself. Clara Wieck had been the first to play the work and, according to the composer’s diary, the guests in her father’s house on that occasion “looked at each other in surprise and couldn’t grasp the rapid contrasts.” So he was in a dilemma. He could shed some light by explaining that Papillons had poetic parallels in the last chapter of Jean Paul’s novel Flegeljahre. But at the same time he was reluctant to lay himself open to the charge of writing descriptive music when he had done nothing of the kind, or not much anyway.

Most of the twelve short pieces in Papillons derive from waltzes and polonaises he had written in imitation of Schubert a year or two before he completed the work in 1831. Flegeljahre inspired not so much the music itself – “Only the last piece was inspired by Jean Paul,” he told Henriette Voigt – as the idea of articulating them as a succession of tiny scenes at a masked ball. Hence the title, which has more to do with the masks worn by the dancers than with butterflies.

If Schumann’s contemporaries had problems with Papillons it was presumably because they had never before met pieces of such brevity apparently jumbled together at random but presented as a continuity. The six-bar Introduzione is in D major. The first waltz (later quoted in Carnaval) is also in D major. But the Prestissimo No.2 that follows begins in E flat and ends in A flat. The piece after that, unmistakably recognisable as the pianist’s heavy-handed equivalent to the heavy-footed “giant boot” that crosses Jean Paul’s ballroom at one point, is in F sharp minor.

The only other piece before the Finale that can be related with any certainty to any of the ten passages Schumann underlined in his copy of Flegeljahre is No.6 in D minor. With its displaced rhythmic accents in the first section and its curiously muted dance tune in A major in the second section it can apply only to the episode where “by making a wrong turn … he entered the punch room which he mistook for the ballroom and into which beautifully muted music was wafting from a considerable distance…”

The erratic sequnce of tonalities prevails until the end of the comparatively long and dangerously capricious polonaise of No.11, where D major resurfaces almost as if by chance. The Finale, however, takes no harmonic risks. Based on the Grossvatertanz, the traditional last dance (which appears also towards the end of Carnaval), it appends a memory of the opening waltz in neatly accomplished counterpoint. As activity recedes over a long held D low in the left hand, six As struck clock-like in the right hand indicate that the ball is over. The last sound gradually dies away as each note of a ppp dominant seventh chord is released in turn from the bass upwards.

“Isn’t Papillons clear to you in itself?” Schumann asked his friend Henriette Voigt in 1834. It was a good question. The score having been in print for two years by then, he knew that for most people Papillons was actually far from clear in itself. Clara Wieck had been the first to play the work and, according to the composer’s diary, the guests in her father’s house on that occasion “looked at each other in surprise and couldn’t grasp the rapid contrasts.” So he was in a dilemma. He could shed some light by explaining that Papillons had poetic parallels in the last chapter of Jean Paul’s novel Flegeljahre. But at the same time he was reluctant to lay himself open to the charge of writing descriptive music when he had done nothing of the kind, or very little anyway.

Most of the twelve short pieces in Papillons derive from waltzes and polonaises he had written in imitation of Schubert a year or two before he completed the work in 1831. Flegeljahre inspired not so much the music itself - “Only the last piece was inspired by Jean Paul,” he told Henriette Voigt - as the idea of articulating them as a succession of tiny scenes at a masked ball. Hence the title, which has more to do with the masks worn by the dancers than with butterflies, although the idea of flight in haphazard directions is not irrelevant to the piece.

If Schumann’s contemporaries had problems with Papillons it was presumably because they had never before met pieces of such brevity apparently jumbled together at random but presented as a continuity. Beethoven’s Bagatelles, Op.126, daring as they are, follow a rational harmonic progression. Schumann’s six-bar Introduzione is in D major. The first waltz (later quoted in Carnaval) is also in D major. But the Prestissimo No.2 that follows begins in E flat and ends in A flat. The piece after that, unmistakably recognisable as the pianist’s heavy-handed equivalent to the heavy-footed “giant boot” that crosses Jean Paul’s ballroom at one point, is in F sharp minor. The next waltz stays with F sharp minor but the following polonaise flies off on a tangential B flat.

The only piece other than the boot-like No.3 in F sharp minor that can be related with any certainty to any of the ten passages Schumann underlined in his copy of Flegeljahre - before, that is, he so confusingly changed the order of the corresponding pieces in Papillons and added two to the original ten - is No.6 in D minor. With its displaced rhythmic accents in the first section and its curiously muted dance tune in A major in the second section it can apply only to the episode where “by making a wrong turn … he entered the punch room which he mistook for the ballroom and into which beautifully muted music was wafting from a considerable distance…” The same tune is taken up in the fortissimo natural to it in the Vivo No.10 in C major, which has a kind of recapitulatory function in that it also recalls the repeated notes in dotted rhythms that motivate the Presto No.4 in F sharp minor.

Otherwise, until the Finale, thematic relationships are no more purposefully pursued than harmonic continuity. Indeed, Schumann splits even the individual pieces. The Semplice No.7 in F minor and - after a single-mindedly Schubertian waltz in C sharp minor - the Prestissimo No.9 in B flat minor both begin with one kind of material and end with another. The comparatively long and dangerously capricious polonaise of No.11 restores the tonality to D major almost as if by chance. The Finale, however, takes no harmonic risks. Based on the Grossvatertanz, the traditional last dance (which appears also towards the end of Carnaval), it appends a memory of the opening waltz in neatly accomplished counterpoint. As activity recedes over a long held D low in the left hand, six As struck clock-like in the right hand indicate that the ball is over. The last sound gradually dies away as each note of a ppp dominant seventh chord is released in turn from the bass upwards.

“Isn’t Papillons clear to you in itself?” Schumann asked his friend Henriette Voigt in 1834. It was a good question. The score having been in print for two years by then, he knew that for most people Papillons was actually far from clear in itself. Clara Wieck had been the first to play the work and, according to the composer’s diary, the guests in her father’s house on that occasion “looked at each other in surprise and couldn’t grasp the rapid contrasts.” So he was in a dilemma. He could shed some light by explaining that Papillons had poetic parallels in the last chapter of Jean Paul’s novel Flegeljahre. But at the same time he was reluctant to lay himself open to the charge of writing descriptive music when he had done nothing of the kind, or very little anyway.

Most of the twelve short pieces in Papillons derive from waltzes and polonaises he had written in imitation of Schubert a year or two before he completed the work in 1831. Flegeljahre inspired not so much the music itself - “Only the last piece was inspired by Jean Paul,” he told Henriette Voigt - as the the idea of articulating them as a succession of tiny scenes at a masked ball. It might also have had something to do with determining the title of the work: the German word “Larve” means not only “larva” but also “mask” as in “Larvenball” or “masked ball;” it was after passing through the larval stage by association with Jean Paul’s masked ball that Schumann’s little waltzes and polonaises developed into “papillons” or “butterflies.”

If Schumann’s contemporaries couldn’t accept his Papillons as a fully developed organism, it was surely not because they were unclear about its relationship to Flegeljahre. It was because they had never before met pieces of such brevity apparently jumbled together at random but presented as a continuity. Beethoven’s Bagatelles, Op.126, daring as they are, follow a rational harmonic progression. Schumann’s six-bar Introduzione is in D major. The first waltz (later quoted in Carnaval) is also in D major. But the Prestissimo No.2 that follows begins in E flat and ends in A flat. The piece after that, unmistakably recognisable as the pianist’s heavy-handed equivalent to the heavy-footed “giant boot” that crosses Jean Paul’s ballroom at one point, is in F sharp minor. The next waltz stays with F sharp minor but the following polonaise flies off to a tangential B flat.

The only piece other than the boot-like No.3 in F sharp minor that can be related with any certainty to any of the ten passages Schumann underlined in his copy of Flegeljahre - before, that is, he so confusingly changed the order of the corresponding pieces in Papillons and added two to the original ten - is No.6 in D minor. With its displaced rhythmic accents in the first section and its curiously muted dance tune in A major in the second section it can apply only to the episode where “by making a wrong turn … he entered the punch room which he mistook for the ballroom and into which beautifully muted music was wafting from a considerable distance…” The same tune is taken up in the fortissimo natural to it in the Vivo No.10 in C major, which has a kind of recapitulatory function in that it also recalls the repeated notes in dotted rhythms that motivate the Presto No.4 in F sharp minor.

Otherwise, until the Finale, thematic relationships are no more purposefully pursued than harmonic continuity. Indeed, Schumann splits even the individual pieces. The Semplice No.7 in F minor and - after a single-mindedly Schubertian waltz in C sharp minor - the Prestissimo No.9 in B flat minor both begin with one kind of material and end with another. The comparatively long and dangerously capricious polonaise of No.11 restores the tonality to D major almost as if by chance. The Finale, however, takes no harmonic risks. Based on the Grossvatertanz, the traditional last dance (which appears also towards the end of Carnaval), it appends a memory of the opening waltz in neatly accomplished counterpoint. As activity recedes over a long held D low in the left hand, six As struck clock-like in the right hand indicate that the ball is over. The last sound gradually dies away as each note of a ppp dominant seventh chord is released in turn from the bass upwards.