In the first part of this two-part series, we began our analysis of five songs, that give insight into the mind of a great musical genius of the beginning of the nineteenth century. An introduction, followed by discussions of two lieder, namely In der Ferne and der Zwerg, composed the contents of the first part. ( Reading Part 1 is strongly recommended before reading this essay.) We will now proceed with brief analyses of three additional lieder.
3. Der Doppelgänger, D. 957, Text by Heinrich Heine (1797-1856)
Still ist die Nacht, es ruhen die Gassen,
In diesem Hause wohnte mein Schatz;
Sie hat schon längst die Stadt verlassen,
Doch steht noch das Haus auf dem selben Platz.
Da steht ein Mensch und starrt in die Höhe,
Und ringt die Hände, vor Schmerzensgewalt;
Mir graut es, wenn ich sein Antlitz sehe--
Der Mond zeigt mir meine eigene Gestalt.
Du Doppelgânger! du bleicher Geselle!
Was äffst du nach mein Liebesleid,
Das mich gequält auf dieser Stelle,
So manche Nacht, in alter Zeit?
Prose translation:
The night is still, the streets are quiet,
My sweetheart lived in this house.
She left this city a long time ago,
But the house is still where it was.
Someone stands before it and looks above,
In the grip of great pain, he wrings his hands;
I'm filled with terror when I see his face:
The moon reveals my own form to me.
You Doppelgänger! You pale comrade!
Why are you aping the pain I felt
Which tortured me on this spot,
So many a night, in times gone by?
Heinrich Heine, one of the most famous German poets of the nineteenth century, needs little introduction. "Der Doppelgänger" is the only one of the five poems discussed in this essay that is remembered not solely because it provided a text for a lied; it is a fine poem in its own right, and is still widely read--that is, by the tiny minority that still reads poetry. Heine is most famous for his lyric verse; he wrote plays, essays and at least one novel as well. An ardent liberal, he was very politically active. The poet spent the last twenty-five years of his life in France, exiled from Germany because of his progressive views. He became an invalid for the last seven years of his life, which he spent on what he called his "mattress grave." He was still (mostly) in good spirits, however, and wrote much during his years of paralysis. He died in Paris with his uneducated wife by his side; he was 58 years old and succumbed either to syphilis, multiple sclerosis, lead poisoning, or to a combination of all three.
Although some of his work appears to be, at first read, a bit too even, Heine, in fact, had an exquisite ear and knew how to shape content as well. (Google my translation of "Death is Coming," which gives some idea of his great gift.) He was also very urbane, witty, ironic and possessed a good sense of humor as well, traits lacking in a good deal of German poetry. Now let's examine the poem.
The action of the poem might be interpreted as the tale of a man, older now, who visits the city where a former lover had lived. This poem, like der Zwerg, can be convincingly interpreted as a dream sequence. The narrator sees someone wringing his hands in great distress in front of his old girlfriend's house. Under the light of the moon, he recognizes that it is no other than himself--a younger, tyro version of himself.
The first three stanzas set the stage--it is a very theatrical piece. The narrator returns to a city and relives a painful event from his past. The last stanza gives us a resolution. With irony and a hint of condescension, the narrator calls his doppelgänger his 'pale comrade'--implying that the current version isn't pale at all. He gently scolds him, as if to say something like: "Why are you making yourself miserable? Get on with your life!" Yes, the old love had "tortured" him, but it tortures him no more. The young, desperate man is no more than a phantom and the narrator will have nothing to do with him. I imagine him disappearing in a puff as the narrator wakes up. This poem is a good example of Heine's healthy mindset.
We've all had flashbacks in which we see ourselves reliving a past trauma. "You have to move on," Heine seems to be telling us The poet is giving us very good advice. Here we have a poem that not only reads well, but, in an understated and surprising way, teaches us an important lesson in life without a trace of being didactic. This is indeed a fine poem.
It's time to listen to Schubert's version; the great Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau is the performer in this and in all the other lieder discussed in this article.
In postmodernism, the text is all important, not the author. If a critic convincingly can interpret the text in a new way, all the better--it doesn't really matter what the author meant. I would argue, therefore--tongue in cheek, of course--that Schubert was the first postmodernist. He misinterpreted Heine's poem, missing its irony and salutary message entirely. We can be glad he did, however; this is a masterful lied.
If there is ever a possibility of finding tragedy in a poem, Schubert will find it. (I can imagine him, pitying the little rodents for being blind, composing a tragic minor-key lied to the text of "Three Blind Mice.") I call the visual, almost cinematic imagery of the poem, namely, the mind's eye view of the city, then the house, then the stranger who turns out to be the narrator, the first horror film ever--again tongue in cheek, but with less lateral movement of the tongue than before. For Schubert, the moment the narrator discovers his doppelgänger is a moment of almost psychotic terror. "If that's me, who am I?" This sudden loss of identity is terrifying. We feel it.
This, like the previous two songs, builds up tension and reaches a climax--the Eb of "stalt" that is, "meine eigene Gestalt," "my own form", is the highest and loudest note of the piece, to which Schubert approaches with astonishing musical invention. This lied and other lieder proves that he had a great dramatic gift, the dramatic narrative of the text preventing the music from wandering about according to his fertile lyrical imagination, as was often the case--no criticism implied! If he had lived longer and had the right text, he might have composed a great opera.
Irony thy name isn't Schubert. Lyrical Intensity, thy first name is Franz.
4. A Lovely Song I Love To Hate: Im Abendroth, D.799, Text by Karl Gottlieb Lappe
Lappe (1787-1836) was a German poet from Pomerania, and, to my knowledge, never visited Vienna. Schubert must have read his poems in a literary magazine; he set this poem, and another one by the same author, Der Einsame, in 1824. Lappe was known as "a patriotic freedom singer" in his native Pomerania. He loved rural life and eschewed urban areas. He could be classified as a "Heimatsdichter"--a country, or folk poet. His poems deal with life in Pomerania; they are simple and, mostly, quite boring.
Im Abendroth
O wie schön ist deine Welt,
Vater, wenn sie golden strahlet;
Wenn sein Glanz herniederfällt
Und den Staub mit Schimmer mahlet;
Wenn das Rot, das in der Wolke blickt,
In mein stilles Frenster sinkt.
Könnt' ich klagen, könn't' ich zagen?
Irre sein an dir und mir?
Nein, ich werd' im Busen tragen
Deinen Himmel schon allhier;
Und dieses Herz eh' es zusammenbricht,
trinkt noch Glut and sclürft noch Licht.
Prose Translation
The Sunset
O how beautiful is your world,
Father, when it is beaming gold--
When its glow descends
And luminously paints the dust--
When the deep red comes from clouds
And travels through my quiet window.
Could I ever complain or lose courage?
Go astray from you and from myself?
No, I will keep your heaven here,
Deep within my breast,
And this heart, before it collapses,
Will drink fire yet and slurp up light.
Lappe had a very different sensibility from that of Schubert; the latter tended to see the cloud, the former the silver lining. The theme of the poem, namely, that witnessing the glory of nature is able to knock the nonsense out of one, was undoubtedly a sincerely held belief of Lappe's. As Wilde said, however, all bad poetry is sincere. The glory of nature is not reflected by the glory of language in this poem. Lord knows how many schoolgirls, moved by a sunset, wrote poems promising to be good little girls forever after. The poem isn't truly terrible until the last line, however. I think this is the worst line of verse Schubert ever set to music, and there are indeed many contenders. Schürfen means the same as "to slurp"--that is, to drink noisily. One can tolerate the image of a heart that intends to keep drinking fire, but the image of imbibing light as noisily as a toddler guzzling down tomato soup is ridiculous. Poor Lappe wanted to convey that he would continue to take in light with enthusiasm; it is, to put it mildly, not a good idea to finish a poem with a slurp; the effect, at least for me, is the direct opposite of the reverent one that the poet intended.
There is little dramatic movement in the poem, and, Schubert, as we have seen, loved to set poems that tell a story, He accompanies the opening words with broken chords, which bring to mind the image of a sweet little angel. The music remains dangerously close to being sentimentally pious throughout.
Others have found this lied to be beautiful and profound. It is for me, however, just about the only piece that makes me want to throw a pie in Schubert's face. Mit Schlag, of course.
5. An Utter Delight: Die Taubenpost, D. 957, Text by Johann Gabriel Seidl, (1804-1875)
Johann Gabriel Seidl's name is not a household word in anybody's house these days. (I wonder if he is related to Ulrich Seidl, the contemporary Austrian film director.) He is best known as the author of the Austrian (Imperial) national anthem; the music, by Haydn, later became the melody of Deutschland über Alles. He was as archaeologist, and wrote a good deal of verse as well. He was born in Vienna and also died there.
Die Taubenpost
Ich hab' eine Brieftaub' in meinem Sold,
Die ist mir ergeben und treu,
Sie nimmt mir nie das Ziel zu kurz
Und fliegt auch nie vorbei.
Ich sende sie viel tausendmal
Auf Kundschaft täglich hinaus,
Vorbei an manchen lieben Ort,
Bis zu der Liebsten Haus.
Dort schaut sie zu Fenster heimlich hinein,
Belauscht ihren Blick und Schritt,
Gibt meine Grüsse scherzend ab,
Und nimmt die ihren mit.
Kein Briefchen brauch' ich zu schrieben mehr,
Die Träne selbst geb' ich ihr,
Oh, sie verträgt sie sicher nicht,
Gar eifrig dient sie mir.
Bei Tag, bei Nacht, im Wachen, im Traum,
Ihr gilt das alles gleich,
Wenn sie nur wandern, wandern kann,
Dann ist sie überreich!
Sie wird nicht müd, sie wird nicht matt,
Der Weg ist stets ihr neu;
Sie braucht nicht Lockung, braucht nicht Lohn
Die Taub' ist so mir treu!
Drum heg' ich sie auch so treu an der Brust,
Versichert das schönsten Gewinns;
Sie heisst--die Sehnsucht! Kennt ihr sie?--
Die Botin treuen Sinns.
The Dove Post
I have a carrier dove working for me,
She is completely dedicated and faithful;
She never falls short of the target
And never flies beyond it either.
I send her thousands and thousands of times
Every day to make a delivery,
Past many a lovely place
Until she reaches my sweetheart's house.
I don't have to write any more letters,
I send her a tear along with her,
O, she is not able to endure it,
Such is her enthusiastic service.
By day, by night, awake or dreaming--
She doesn't care;
She just wants to wander and wander along,
Then she is more than happy.
She never gets tired, she never gets weary,
The path she takes is always like new:
She doesn't need to take a break, she doesn't need a salary,
This dove is thoroughly dedicated to me!
That's why I remain faithful and keep her close,
Assured as I am of the greatest gain--
Her name is--longing--do you know her?
The messenger of the faithful.
When my mentor in poetry, José Garcia Villa, discovered that Samuel Barber had composed an art song to a poem of his and subsequently invited Villa to a concert during which it would be premiered, he refused to go. He maintained that good poetry must have its own which would be drowned out by instruments if set to music. Villa was a curmudgeon indeed, but he had a point. Sometimes the content in the best poetry is not clear at first reading as well. Rilke's Duino Elegies or Hölderlin's Brot und Wein--or anything by Paul Celan, for that matter, with the possible exception of Todesfuge (Death Fugue), are far too complex to be set to music successfully. The best poems for lieder are not always the greatest poems. German lieder are somewhat an exception, since even great poets, like Goethe or Heine, often wrote stanzaic, rhyming, metered verse, the type of verse Schubert and other composers throughout the nineteenth century favored. (The First World War gave the coup de grace to this tradition, which was moribund even before the hostilities began.)
My point is this: "Dove Post" is not a great poem, but it is a very effective text for a lied. It is, in an old-fashioned, biedermeier way, even charming. I like the idea of the narrator sending out his inner dove, longing, and the fact that it never misses its mark. (The poet is, after all, relating an internal process--the dove seeks out the image of the beloved within the narrator's brain--unless we believe in mental telepathy!)
This is apparently the last song Schubert ever wrote. "The Shepherd on the Rock" came a few days later, but it is a concert aria, written to honor a request by a soprano; it is not a lied.
What a way to end his prolific, albeit very short career! The joy is infectious Although much of Schubert's music is sad, even melancholic, he was also perfectly capable of composing music that is as profoundly happy as other pieces are profoundly sad --Die Forelle, a lied, is an example of the former, while his quartet, Death and the Maiden, is an example of the latter.
Before we listen to the piece, I would like to discuss a few things about it first. Listen to the long and lovely introduction. It is indeed lovely, but long; if Schubert had utilized the same music to introduce each stanza, it would quickly get boring. Listen to the two subsequent bridges Schubert composed, each as a link between stanzas. These are brilliant innovations. Also pay attention to the syncopation found in many of the treble measures of the piano accompaniment. This gives the music a bouncing quality that increases, at least for me, the joy of the piece.
Something very interesting occurs at the end of the piece, when Schubert repeats, "Kennt ihr sie?', "Do you know her?" For Seidl this is a rhetorical question; for him the meaning is, "Of course you know her. You're human just like me. Isn't longing great?" Schubert agrees with Seidl the first time the phrase is sung: in this E flat version, the E flat is raised a half tone and becomes a dominant seventh chord which resolves in a descending scale to happy F major. But when Schubert repeats "Kennt ihr sie?" it is sung more loudly, rises to a D flat which is part of the F minor scale--F major becomes F minor in the next measure. This being a happy piece, the minor reverts to major quickly. This is a quintessential Schubertian moment. Instinctively, Schubert, who was familiar with the night, as it were, can't resist adding a hint of tragedy here. Schubert knew well that yearning often comes at a terrible cost. This joyous piece couldn't tolerate more than a hint of sadness--This understatement, possibly unnoticed at first--it passes by so fast--is, I think, one of the loveliest modulations from major to minor in the entire Schubertian canon. No one could make a simple change from major to minor, (broadly, from happy to sad), more effectively and more economically than Schubert. It's like a flashback to a hurricane; it lasts only a second, after which one realizes the sky is bluer and sunnier than ever. What a genius!
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