Schumann suffered a physical breakdown attributed to overwork in 1842 and a much more serious one in August 1844. The second time his condition was ominous: constant trembling, various phobias (especially the fear of heights and of sharp metallic objects), and worst of all, tinnitus, a constant noise or ringing in the ears, which made almost any musical exercise—playing or composing—impossible.

It was not the first time Schumann had been prey to depression so severe that he was unable to work. In fact, he had already suffered bouts of “melancholy” in 1828, October 1830, much of 1831, autumn 1833, September 1837, and at various times in 1838 and 1839; but this time the depression was accompanied unmistakably by serious medical indications. It was also doubly unwelcome because of the several extraordinarily good years, filled with prolific composition, that he had enjoyed following his marriage to Clara Wieck in 1840. He may even have thought that conjugal felicity had cured his emotional problems. But 1844 was the worst year yet; this time, even with his beloved Clara always at hand to help, he could not overcome his depression. Writing music was out of the question; it took weeks even to write a letter. His recuperation took over a year, during which time he composed virtually nothing. Then in 1845 he directed his energies toward a thorough study of Bach and composed some fugal essays. But the first completely new large composition after his breakdown was the Symphony in C, published as Opus 61 and labeled second in the series.

Much of Schumann’s music is intensely personal in ways more specific than simply reflecting the composer’s emotional state. Listening to many of his pieces is like reading a private letter or an intimate diary. He delighted in ciphers and codes, often (in his earlier years) encoding the name or home town of a sweetheart into his music. After he met Clara, the secret messages were directed to her. But with the exception of one passage in the last movement, the Second Symphony is remarkably classical in conception, devoid of any apparent literary program or inspiration. If anything, it is inspired by a purely musical source: the heroic symphonies of Beethoven, in which a subdued mood at the opening resolves through heroic struggle to triumph at the end.

More than any of his other symphonies, the Second reveals a progression of mental states reflecting the composer’s own life. Three years after its composition, he wrote to D. G. Otten, the music director in Hamburg, who had inquired about the work, to say:

I wrote my symphony in December 1845, and I sometimes fear my semi-invalid state can be divined from the music. I began to feel more myself when I wrote the last movement, and was certainly much better when I finished the whole work. All the same it reminds me of dark days.

The opening slow section does suggest “dark days” despite the presence of the brass fanfare in C major. Schumann purposely undercuts the brilliant effect of that opening motto with a chromatic, long-breathed phrase in the strings that contradicts one’s normal expectations of either joy or heroism. And in the Allegro, the sharply dotted principal theme affects a heroic air, but the chromatic secondary theme denies any feeling of conquest. The development provides an elaborate treatment of all the motivic material presented thus far and ends with an almost Beethovenian power in the recapitulation.

Perhaps it was the high emotional level of the first movement that caused Schumann to put the Scherzo second, thus allowing a further release of energy before settling down to the lavish lyricism of the Adagio. The Scherzo is officially in C major, like the opening movement, but the very opening, on a diminished seventh chord (which is brought back again and again), belies once more the qualities we normally expect of C major; this Scherzo is no joke. The basic ground plan is one of Schumann’s own invention, an elaboration of Beethoven’s Fourth and Seventh symphonies, in which the main scherzo section comes round and round again in double alternation with the trio. Schumann’s innovation is to employ two trios; the second of these has a brief fugato with the theme presented both upright and upside down—a reminder of his Bach studies earlier in 1845. The motto fanfare of the first movement recurs in the closing bars to recall the continuing and still abortive heroic search.

The Adagio, though delayed from its normal position as the second movement, is well worth the wait. Here the passion of the musical ideas, the delicacy of the scoring, and Schumann’s masterful control of tension and release create a high-voltage sense of yearning. The songlike theme is of an emotional richness not found elsewhere in the Symphony, a soaring upward of large intervals (sixth, octave) returning in a pair of sequential descending sevenths that suggest Elgar before the fact.

The last movement has always been the most controversial. Tovey called it incoherent, and partisans have both attacked and defended it. Schumann himself insisted that he felt much better while writing it and that his improved condition was reflected in the quality of the music. The movement certainly projects an affirmative character; the second theme, derived from the emotional melody of the third movement, briefly attempts to recall the past, but it is overwhelmed by the onrush of energy. The most unusual formal aspect of the movement is the fusion of development and recapitulation, ending in the minor key. An extended coda is therefore necessary to motivate a confident ending—and in this case the coda is almost half the length of the entire movement.

Now, for the first time in this Symphony, we may be intruding on one of Schumann’s private messages: we hear an elaborate coda-development of a totally new theme, one used earlier by Schumann in his piano Fantasie, Opus 17; it had been borrowed, in its turn, from Beethoven’s song cycle An die ferne Geliebte, where it was a setting of the words “Nimm sie hin denn, diese Lieder” (Take, then, these songs of mine). In the Fantasie, Schumann was unmistakably offering his music to Clara; here, too, it seems, he is offering the music to her, though now the void that separates him from his “distant beloved” is no longer physical but psychological.
The very ending brings back the fanfare motto from the first movement in an assertion of victory, but this victory, unlike Beethoven’s in the Fifth Symphony, is a triumph of will power, almost of self-hypnosis. Schumann could not foresee, when he finished Opus 61, that the truly “dark days” still lay ahead.

Almost since his symphonies were published, critics and conductors have complained about Schumann’s orchestration. Arguments have raged back and forth as to whether it reflected a real sound image that he wanted to capture or simply reflected a pianist’s lack of familiarity with the specific characteristics of the other instruments. Some elements of his orchestral style may have come from the fact that he was an uncertain conductor, one who often led ensembles of doubtful competence. When he could not be positive that a given instrument—say, a flute or oboe—was up to the task of a given solo passage, he would often “double” the musical line—that is, assign it to several instruments, often mixing winds and strings, to ensure that someone would play it. But in doing this, he lost many opportunities to let the unique colors of individual instruments or carefully considered combinations to shine forth on their own.

Time and time again, conductors have decided to take a hand in “improving” what Schumann left. Sometimes this simply consisted of telling a doubling instrument not to play at all in a given passage, or to play much more quietly than the context might otherwise suggest. When the conductor was also a distinguished composer—and, on top of that, one of the greatest orchestrators of his age—his suggestions are, at the very least, intriguing. Mahler was a great admirer of the music of Schumann. His earliest masterpiece, Das klagende Lied (The Song of Lament), was at least partially inspired by a now nearly forgotten choral ballad of Schumann’s, Des Sängers Fluch (The Minstrel’s Curse), and he frequently conducted Schumann’s orchestral works, though he always touched them up in his own way, to bring out the inherent color with greater clarity than usually appears in “straight” performances. Probably every one of his contemporaries did the same thing—but when it is Mahler who does, we are more interested in the results.
– © Stephen Ledbetter