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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A major composer who lived to be barely more than thirty? Schubert. The composer who, arguably, had the greatest gift for melody of all? Schubert. Which genius(es) created masterworks in various musical genres? Many; certainly Schubert as well. Who was the first composer to favor the minor key, composing works that fearlessly explore darker emotions? Again, Schubert. Which composer was able to express both deep joy and deep sorrow in his compositions? Several; Schubert very much to be counted among them. Who did this with the greatest intensity? A few, among them, which genius was short, stocky, syphilitic, frequently sad and utterly sensational? Schubert, Schubert, Schubert!
For me, Schubert's art songs or lieder compose the heart of the great body of works that bear his name. (I think he would have agreed; after all, he wrote over 600 art songs, many of them masterworks.) Five of them will be presented here, with comments which, I hope, will provide some insight into the mind and--especially--into the heart of this master composer. Oh, and don't worry, I won't always be as reverent as this introduction might lead one to believe. Even Homer nods! 1. Sometimes It's Best Not to Know German In der Ferne D. 957: text by Ludwig Rellstab
Ludwig Rellstab (1799-1860) was 29 when Schubert composed lieder to several of his poems in 1828, Rellstab originally presented them to Beethoven, who apparently had no interest in setting them to music. (Goethe, by the way, thought he lacked talent.) Beethoven's assistant, Anton Schindler, passed them on to Schubert and the rest is musical history. Rellstab became an enormously influential music critic later in his life. An interesting fact is that he was briefly jailed in 1837 for allegedly libeling Gaspare Spontini, who who then the Generalmudikdirektor of Berlin.
In der Ferne Wehe dem Fliehenden, Welt hinaus ziehenden! Fremde durchmessenden, Heimat vergessenden, Mutterhaus hassenden, Freunde verlassenden Folget kein Segen, ach! auf ihren Wegen nach! Herze, das sehnende, Auge, das tränende, Sehnsucht, nie endende, Heimwärts sich wendende! Busen, der wallende, Klage, verhallende, Abendstern, blinkender, Hoffnunslos sinkender! Lüfte, ihr säuselnden, Wellen sanft kräuselnden, Sonnenstrahl, eilender, Nirgens verweilender: Die mir mit Schmerze, ach! Dies treue Herze brach-- Grüsst von dem Fliehenden, Welt hinaus ziehenden! This is my translation: (Note: I am only providing prose summaries of the poems in this essay.) Far Away Woe to him who is fleeing, Going into the wide world. To those who forget where they came from, To those who hate their parental home, To those who leave friends behind: No blessing comes to them, Alas! upon their journeys! Heart full of yearning, Eyes full of tears, Never-ending yearning In the direction of home! Breast, undulating one, Reproaches, dying away, Evening star, twinkling, Hopelessly sinking! Breezes, you rustling ones, Waves, gently rippling ones, Sun rays, you rushing ones Who never stay still-- Greet the one who alas! Broke this true heart, Send greetings from the fleeing one Going into the wide world! This is an awful poem. When a friend of mine, who doesn't know German, and I listened to a recording of Schubert's last songs, he was mesmerized by the lyric intensity of Schubert's music set to the text of this poem. He envied me for knowing German. "Understanding the words as they are sung must increase one's appreciation," he opined. "In this case," I replied, "it is better not to know German." It's bad enough that the content is a humdrum rendering of a Romantic cliché, namely, the tale of a man, desperate over a failed romance, who subsequently--in this case "with an undulating breast"--takes his stupid Weltschmerz abroad. The worst aspect, however, is the writer's egregious attempt at word play. This is not evident in the English translation, so I will explain its occurrence in the original version. In German, the gerund form of a verb can indicate an individual, who thereby becomes part of the verb, by ending the suffix er, or e. Thus gehend, "going." becomes "the one (male) who is going" or "Gehender." Rellstab uses this device six times in each eight-line stanza, where they come at the end of the line---that is, eighteen times! The gerunds come in pairs and rhyme. A cardinal rule of poetry--and of all art--is not to bore the reader. Variations, including unexpected turns, of all sorts are essential. The effect of the overused gerunds is ludicrous. Listening to the words, I feel like laughing; listening to Schubert's sublime music, however, other emotions arise. The poem, with its boring repetitions, easy rhymes, and overblown language, invites parody. Here is mine: . Nase, du fliessende, Nudelschleim giessende, Rotzengrün schiessende, In C dur piepsende! (Der Du dies Nasenloch öffnen kannst, hilf' mir doch!) Wehe dem niesenden, Welt hinaus schneuzenden. (Sorry; I can't translate this one.) Now let's turn to Schubert's lied.
Schubert created a masterwork, no doubt about it. The very effective short introduction sets the stage: we are musically informed that the mood of this piece will be a very serious one. And so it is--a haunting, very sad, very Schubertian melody follows. We are in a minor key, of course; in this version G# minor. What I want to stress here is Schubert's exquisite harmonic changes of the melodic line: unlike the tiresome poem, nothing is boring here. The song is full of surprises, such as the half tone modulation emphasizing the "hate" part of the phrase, "Mutterhaus hassenden." The song is full of such variations to astonishingly beautiful effect. The first stanza remains in the lower register with little melodic movement. The melodic line of the second stanza gradually rises in pitch and with greater intervals between notes. The intensity is increasing; we are gradually heading toward a climax. And how lovely and how sad is the long note (two and a half measures) at the end of each of the first two stanzas. Then, unexpectedly, one of those miraculous Schubertian shifts from minor to major occurs. One can even anticipate a happy ending, the music is so serene at this point. But no, Schubert modulates back to the minor key for the climax of the piece, the final and loudest note the singer has: a molto forte E flat. It is important to note that the melody ends on the same note as it began, except that it occurs one octave higher. (D# is the same note as Eb.) Despite a sunny interval, what a harrowing journey that one octave contains! Schubert's harmonic and melodic achievements here are nothing short of breathtaking. How could such a musical genius like Schubert choose such a mediocre text? We will attempt to answer this in our discussion of the next lied. 2. It Helps to Know German with This One Der Zwerg, D. 771, text by Mathäus Casimir von Collin (1779-1824)
Der Zwerg Im trüben Licht verschwinden schon die Berge, Es schwebt das Schiff auf glatten Meereswogen, worauf die Königen mit ihrem Zwerge.
Sie schaut empor zum hochgewölbten Bogen, Hinauf zur lichtdurchwirkten blauen Ferne, Die mit der Milch des Himmels blass durchzogen. "Nie, nie habt ihr mir gelogen noch, ihr Sterne," So ruft sie aus, "bald werd' ich nun entschwinden, Ihr sagt es mir, doch sterb' ich wahrlich gerne." Da tritt der Zwerg zur Königen, mag binden Um ihren Hals die Schnur von roter Seide, Und weint, als wollt' er schnell vor Gram erblinden. Er spricht: "Du selbst bist schuld an diesem Leide Weil um den König du mich hast verlassen, Jetzt weckt dein Sterben einzig mir noch Freude. "Zwar werd' ich ewig mich selber hassen, Der dir mit dieser Hand den Tod gegeben, Doch musst zum frühen Grab du nun erblassen." Sie legt die Hand aufs Herz voll jungem Leben, Und aus dem Aug' die schweren Tränen rinnen, Das sie zum Himmel betend will erheben. "Mögst du nicht Schmerz durch meinen Tod gewinnen!" Sie sagt's; da küsst der Zwerg die bleichen Wangen, D'rauf alsoblad vergehen ihr die Sinnen. Der Zwerg schaut an die Frau, von Tod befangen, Er senkt sie tief ins Meer mit eig'nen Hânden, Ihm brennt nach ihr das Herz so voll verlangen, An keiner Küste wird er je mehr landen. The Dwarf (Prose Translation) The hills are disappearing in the bleak light, The ship is floating on the smooth sea, On which are the queen and her dwarf. She looks above to the vault of the sky Up to the blue distance streaked with light, Which is faintly patterned with starry milk. "Never, never have you stars lied to me," She cries out, "Soon I will depart this life--, You tell me so, but I am indeed happy to die." The dwarf then approaches the queen, and Wraps the cord of red silk around her neck, And weeps, and weeps, overcome with grief. He says,"You're to blame for what is happening, Because you have abandoned me for the king, Your death is the only thing that can bring me joy now. "Although I will hate myself forever Because these hands brought death to you, Yet you must be sent to an early grave." Full of youth, she puts her hand on her heart, From her eyes heavy tears fall, She lifts up her eyes to heaven. "I hope my death will never cause you any grief," She exclaims; thereupon the dwarf kisses her on her pale cheeks, And she swiftly falls into unconsciousness. The dwarf looks at her, overcome by death, He sinks her body deep into the sea; His heart is burning, consumed by desire, He will never land on any shore again. Matthäus Casimir von Collin was very erudite; at one time he was a professor of Aesthetics and History at the University of Cracow. He was much admired by Schubert and his friends not only for his conversation but also for his kindliness. He was also much involved with literature, and edited an important magazine. Schubert composed music to several of Collin's poems, "Der Zwerg," enjoys a prominent position among them. It is, of course, a ballad. In the late eighteenth century and through Schubert's time, ballads, inspired by the great English and Scottish ballads of previous centuries, were very much in fashion. The rage started around the time of the publication of the Ossian epics, the first installation of which appeared in 1760. They were purportedly translations from the ancient Gaelic, but turned out to be "the most successful literary falsehoods in modern history," (Curley.) Von Collin, in fact, wrote a libretto to an opera called, "Ossian." The epic helped bring about the Romantic movement. Most of the derivative ballads written during the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries are eminently forgettable--which would have been the fate of this one as well, if Schubert hadn't set it to music. The great exception is Goethe's superb ballad, "der Erlkönig," which also provided the text to one of Schubert's most memorable lieder. The poem reads well; knowing German enables one to follow the content, which is of great importance here. Critical judgement, however, needs to be suspended. It is difficult to fathom how this poem could ever have been taken seriously--Schubert, however, took it very seriously. Let us examine the conceit of the poem. The queen has a dwarf; the poem takes place many centuries ago when dwarfs and jesters provided royal entertainment. Can you imagine a queen being alone on a ship with her dwarf? Think of the class difference. Think of the impossibility of a queen ever being left alone in public without attendants. It gets worse. The dwarf and the queen have been having an affair! Duty apparently calls, and the queen decides to return to her husband. The jealous dwarf strangles her and casts her body into the sea. The poor girl is willing to die--she apparently still loves him but it is, alas! a love that cannot be--and offers no resistance as she is strangled by the dwarf. The little fellow, whose heart is breaking, will never be seen nor heard of again. It is ridiculous. The most egregious lines of all occur in the fifth stanza, which I roughly translate as follows: "You are to blame for this mess, because you have abandoned me for the king." Can you imagine a Quasimodo reproaching a Guinevere for having dumped him for her King Arthur? Much credit must be given to all those artists who sing these lines without cracking up. The music is, however, superb. Perhaps there a way to save the poem as well. What if the whole poem is interpreted as a dream of an inadequate man, fantasizing about a beautiful woman? He views himself as a dwarf. That the dwarf and the queen could be found alone on a ship is easily accomplished in a dream. He imagines that they have a relationship and kills her in a fit of jealously. Every night, he realm of Rapid Eye Movement sets the stage all over the world for imagination to direct scenes such as this one In a dream a queen could be strangled without so much as a squawk. Although this was certainly not von Collins's intention, the poem does indeed work as a sexual nightmare. Now let's turn our attention to the recording:
Schubert has, once again, written a superb composition. At this point we can perhaps explain why Schubert often chose texts of poor quality. His desire to please his friends is part of the answer, but only part; Schubert's willingness to put this and other poems by the poetasters in his circle goes deeper. Schubert always sought texts to which he could respond with emotional intensity. The content was what was important for him, not how the content was expressed. (Yes, even Schubert nods--It would have been better if he had been more discriminating in his choice of texts. Yet his ability not only to change spring water but even bilge water into fine wine provides further evidence of his extraordinary talent.) He was especially fond of texts that deal with an unhappy, alienated narrator, who is thrown into a state of passionate despair after being rejected by the girl of his dreams. (Winterreise is the prime example, but there are many others.) A poem expressing the resultant misery, however miserably versified, is all that Schubert needed. Once he responded emotionally to a text, even to one lacking literary merit, he was able to set it to music of great subtlety and with the imagination of a master dramatist. "Der Zwerg" is a prime example of this Schubertian mastery. The minor-key broken chords of the bass immediately establish the eerie mood of this piece. As usual, Schubert is able to modulate the harmonies so that the music is never boring and is always effective. He loves to drive the direction of an art song to an emotional high point, which he accomplishes here with great artistry. Listen to how he repeats, "vor Gram erblinden" a phrase that obviously touched a nerve. It is an indication of what is to come, a "mini-high point," as it were. The climax is reached with the line, "Ihm brennt nach ihr das Herz so voll Verlangen." The music is at its loudest; the pitch is raised. Here and only here Schubert repeats not only the entire line but also repeats the last three words, 'so voll Verlangen' for the third time. Schubert was perhaps the greatest classical master of sexual frustration ever. (Gretchen am Spinnrade is another fine example.) The music is so sexually intense and so unfulfilled. It is an example of what I call the "negative Schubertian orgasm." It is minor-key sad. It is masturbatory, since the object of desire is not present. It is full of incredibly passionate intensity. It is also rather adolescent, and, arguably, somewhat pathological. (Other examples of the "negative Schubertian orgasm": when Gretchen swoons and breaks off from spinning the wheel and, in the development section of the Unfinished Symphony, when the orchestra--in a minor key, of course--plays a loud, intense climax and then falls off.) Schubert was a very versatile composer, and the turmoil in this lied is countered by the major-key exuberance of others. But emotional turmoil is a Schubertian specialty. It is difficult to criticize a genius; praise comes much easier. Sometimes, however, the gloom of some of his music, for me at least, gets to be a bit too much. Goethe comes to mind, who stated that classicism is that which is healthy, while Romanticism is that which is pathological. Not totally true, but I certainly get the point. This is the end of Part 1; in Part 11, we will discuss the last three songs of this five-song analysis.
