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Of poetry and song approaches to the nineteenth-century Lied
 9781580460552, 1580460550

Table of contents :
On Schubert Reading Poetry: A Primer in the Rhythm of Poetry and Music - Rufus HallmarkThe Musical "Spirit" of Goethe's "Suleika": Schubert's Settings D. 720 and D. 717 - Harry E. SeeligText-Music Relations in Schumann's Eichendorff Song" Fruhlingsfahrt" - Jurgen ThymHugo Wolf's Ghazal Settings from "Das Schenkenbuch" of Goethe's West-oestlicher Divan - Harry E. SeeligKarl Weigl's Opus 1 in Its Nineteenth-Century Context: A Historic Literary-Musical Fusion of Goethe's "Wanderers Nachtlied" and "Ein Gleiches" - Harry E. Seelig"Hans Adam"-Goethe's Parodistic Creation Myth: A Parody Parodied by Hugo Wolf and Richard Strauss - Harry E. SeeligText and Music in Schubert's Settings of Pentameter Poetry - Rufus Hallmark and Ann C. FehnRepetition as Structure in the German Lied: The Ghazal - Ann C. Fehn and Jurgen ThymSonnet Structure and the German Lied: Shackles or Spurs? - Ann C. Fehn and Jurgen ThymSchubert's Strategies in Setting Free Verse - Jurgen Thym and Ann C. FehnHugo Wolf and Goethe's "Duodrama": Toward a "Better Understanding" of the Problematic Divan-Trinity of Life, Love, and Spirit - Harry E. SeeligText and Music in Mahler's Kindertotenlieder - Ann C. FehnThe Ruckert Lieder of Robert and Clara Schumann - Rufus HallmarkA Cycle in Flux: Schumann's Eichendorff Liederkreis - Jurgen ThymWhy Dichterliebe Twice? The Case of Schumann's Opus 24 and Opus 48 - Rufus HallmarkDiscovering "Musical Impressionism" by Way of Eichendorff and Schumann: Wolf and Pfitzner at the Threshold - Jurgen ThymIndex

Citation preview

Of Poetry and Song

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Eastman Studies in Music Ralph P. Locke, Senior Editor Eastman School of Music Additional Titles in History and Theory of Music since 1800 Beethoven’s Century: Essays on Composers and Themes Hugh Macdonald Berlioz: Past, Present, Future Edited by Peter Bloom Berlioz: Scenes from the Life and Work Edited by Peter Bloom French Music, Culture, and National Identity, 1870–1939 Edited by Barbara L. Kelly Irony and Sound: The Music of Maurice Ravel Stephen Zank Janáček beyond the Borders Derek Katz Mendelssohn, Goethe, and the Walpurgis Night: The Heathen Muse in European Culture, 1700–1850 John Michael Cooper Music Speaks: On the Language of Opera, Dance, and Song Daniel Albright The Musical Madhouse: An English Translation of Berlioz’s Les Grotesques de la musique Hector Berlioz Edited by Alastair Bruce Introduction by Hugh Macdonald

Musicking Shakespeare: A Conflict of Theatres Daniel Albright Opera and Ideology in Prague: Polemics and Practice at the National Theater, 1900–1938 Brian S. Locke Othmar Schoeck: Life and Works Chris Walton The Poetic Debussy: A Collection of His Song Texts and Selected Letters Edited by Margaret G. Cobb Translated by Richard Miller Schubert in the European Imagination, Volumes 1 and 2 Scott Messing Schumann’s Piano Cycles and the Novels of Jean Paul Erika Reiman The Substance of Things Heard: Writings about Music Paul Griffiths Variations on the Canon: Essays on Music from Bach to Boulez in Honor of Charles Rosen on His Eightieth Birthday Edited by Robert Curry, David Gable, and Robert L. Marshall Wagner and Venice John W. Barker

A complete list of titles in the Eastman Studies in Music Series, in order of publication, may be found on our website, www.urpress.com.

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Of Poetry and Song Approaches to the Nineteenth-Century Lied Essays by Ann C. Fehn, Rufus Hallmark, Harry E. Seelig, and Jürgen Thym Edited by Jürgen Thym

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Copyright © 2010 by the Editors and Contributors All rights reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation, no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded, or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. First published 2010 University of Rochester Press 668 Mt. Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA www.urpress.com and Boydell & Brewer Limited PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK www.boydellandbrewer.com ISBN-13: 978-1-58046-055-2 ISSN: 1071-9989 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Of poetry and song : approaches to the nineteenth-century lied / edited by Jürgen Thym. p. cm. — (Eastman studies in music, ISSN 1071-9989 ; v. 75) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-1-58046-055-2 (hardcover : alk. paper) 1. Songs, German—19th century—History and criticism. 2. Music and literature— History—19th century. I. Thym, Jürgen, 1943– ML2829.4.O3 2010 782.421680943—dc22 2009045643 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. This publication is printed on acid-free paper. Printed in the United States of America.

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To the memory of Ann Clark Fehn (1945–1989)

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Contents Preface

ix

Acknowledgments

xix Prelude

1

On Schubert Reading Poetry: A Primer in the Rhythm of Poetry and Music

3

Rufus Hallmark Part One: Close Readings and Comparative Studies 2

The Musical “Spirit” of Goethe’s “Suleika”: Schubert’s Settings D. 720 and D. 717

39

Harry E. Seelig 3

Text-Music Relations in Schumann’s Eichendorff Song “Frühlingsfahrt”

71

Jürgen Thym 4

Hugo Wolf’s Ghazal Settings from “Das Schenkenbuch” of Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan

89

Harry E. Seelig 5

Karl Weigl’s Opus 1 in Its Nineteenth-Century Context: A Historic Literary-Musical Fusion of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches”

111

Harry E. Seelig 6

“Hans Adam”—Goethe’s Parodistic Creation Myth: A Parody Parodied by Hugo Wolf and Richard Strauss

136

Harry E. Seelig Part Two: Poetic and Musical Structure 7

Text and Music in Schubert’s Settings of Pentameter Poetry

155

Rufus Hallmark and Ann C. Fehn 8

Repetition as Structure in the German Lied: The Ghazal

220

Ann C. Fehn and Jürgen Thym

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contents

Sonnet Structure and the German Lied: Shackles or Spurs?

240

Ann C. Fehn and Jürgen Thym 10 Schubert’s Strategies in Setting Free Verse

261

Jürgen Thym and Ann C. Fehn Part Three: In Search of Cycles 11 Hugo Wolf and Goethe’s “Duodrama”: Toward a “Better Understanding” of the Problematic Divan-Trinity of Life, Love, and Spirit

283

Harry E. Seelig 12 Text and Music in Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder

322

Ann C. Fehn 13 The Rückert Lieder of Robert and Clara Schumann

335

Rufus Hallmark 14 A Cycle in Flux: Schumann’s Eichendorff Liederkreis

375

Jürgen Thym 15 Why Dichterliebe Twice? The Case of Schumann’s Opus 24 and Opus 48

390

Rufus Hallmark Postlude 16 Discovering “Musical Impressionism” by Way of Eichendorff and Schumann: Wolf and Pfitzner at the Threshold

409

Jürgen Thym Index

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Preface I Of Poetry and Song: Approaches to the Nineteenth-Century Lied constitutes a kind of symposium, a (mostly virtual) get-together of scholars with a common interest and a similar approach to their subject matter. Their conversations extended over decades. Sometimes they met at conferences, sometimes they offered separate contributions at the same conference session, and sometimes two teamed up on a conference paper or article. In retrospect, it might even seem that the four humanist-musicians (or were they musician-humanists?) constituted a school. It was by no means foreordained that the quartet of scholars represented here through selected writings would recognize each other as like-minded and belonging together, as disciplinary boundaries and careers in very different institutions separated rather than united them. And yet, from very early in their academic careers, the four individuals pursued studies in the German Lied informed by the insight that the song is a compound genre whose aesthetic character is determined by the interaction of poetry and music and that such studies are most successful when expertise in musical and literary matters comes together in one individual or, alternately, when scholars of Germanistik and musicology (or music theory) collaborate. There were additional common underpinnings. The authors very early on were united by their dissatisfaction with the state of research on Lieder around 1970, which, with a few notable exceptions, may be characterized as a divide between music scholars, often analyzing the Lied with little or no regard for the poem that inspired the setting (as if a song were just a piece of chamber music), and specialists on Goethe or the German Romantic poets, insisting on the primacy of the literary text (or the interpretation of a particular critic) as determining the quality of a setting. When attention was paid to the Lied as the setting of a poem, authors commented almost exclusively on the images of the poetry or the emotional content of the words and how these aspects found their equivalents and analogues in the musical setting. While not denying or denigrating the importance of these dimensions in the setting of Lieder, the four authors in this book insist on treating the poem and its setting as a complex phenomenon in which different dimensions of language and music work together (and, at times, also conflict with each other) to establish a network of communicative meaning. Meter and rhythm, rhyme structure and sound values, verse structure and stanzaic organization, and the succession and connotation of images establish a complex

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organism that can be subjected to a variety of interpretations. And the composer, by responding to some or many (certainly not all) of these dimensions, establishes a correspondingly complex organism: the Lied. The quartet’s approach is thus unashamedly structuralist—perhaps no surprise in view of the dominant paradigm in academia during the years when they first formulated many of these chapters—but their approach is also open to meaning and expression. The authors believe it is futile to neatly separate structure and meaning; in fact, the latter comes into being through the former. And here is perhaps a lesson to be learned, or reaffirmed, at a time when paradigms have changed in the humanities—we indeed live now in a completely different, postmodernist era. The essays collected here, it is hoped, may suggest some ways in which close analysis and factual knowledge can help inform the search for meaning(s) and, vice versa, a search for meaning(s) can invigorate analytical and factual studies. The common convictions of the four authors may have been formed independently in reaction to the state of research around 1970. But at the time, an imaginative new voice was addressing text-music issues in Lieder: Thrasybulos Georgiades and his 1967 book on Schubert.1 While Georgiades received considerable attention in the late 1960s and 1970s in musicological circles in the German-speaking world, he remained largely unknown on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. (It was not until 1986 that an English translation of the first chapter of his book appeared in a collection of Schubert essays, edited by Walter Frisch.)2 To some extent, Of Poetry and Song can be considered a piece of Georgiades reception in the United States. His insistence that a close study of linguistic and musical structures and their relations might be an appropriate way of unlocking the secrets of the Lied certainly found repercussions in a number of the essays gathered here, although their authors stayed away from both the Heidegger-inspired metaphorical language in which Georgiades expressed himself and his far-ranging historical claims—namely that thousands of years of text-music relations came to a sudden end with Schubert and that later composers set to music the shadow rather than the body of the language. In fact, some chapters here aim to prove that Mendelssohn, Schumann, Brahms, Wolf, Pfitzner, and Weigl continued writing Lieder along the lines explored by Schubert—and quite successfully.

II Who are or were the individuals who at one time considered themselves a group of like-minded scholars, and what was their background? It is easy and methodologically questionable to attribute, in hindsight, purposeful logic and teleological inevitability to their biographies, as if things, by necessity, had to come this or that way—questionable because, when professional paths unfold,

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nothing is inevitable or certain, because in life several options are always available when there is a fork in the road. And yet, at least to some extent, logic prevails when decisions—especially career decisions—are made, when choices lead to opportunities that determine future activities. Our two representatives of the field of German studies are cases in point. Both received their undergraduate education at Oberlin College, albeit at different times (in other words, there was no overlap) and, because of the special nature of that academic institution, Harry E. Seelig and Ann Clark (her maiden name) capped their studies with a double degree in German and music (piano). Seelig benefited from Oberlin’s exchange program by spending a year abroad in Munich; Clark got there after her undergraduate studies by way of a grant from the Deutscher Akademischer Austauschdienst (DAAD), met her husband in Munich (and subsequently added Fehn to her name), and both Seelig and Fehn encountered at the university there the charismatic teachings of a musicologist of Greek descent (namely Georgiades), who had fascinating insights into the nature of language and music in general and of poetry and song in particular. Back in the United States, our two protagonists moved in different, or perhaps not so different, directions. Seelig earned a doctorate at the University of Kansas, one of the premier places for German studies in North America in the 1960s, with a dissertation on Hugo Wolf’s settings of Goethe’s “Buch Suleika” from the West-östlicher Divan—a “musical-literary study,” as specified in the subtitle (and this at a time when such interdisciplinary studies were rare).3 Fehn went for graduate studies to Stanford, another citadel of Germanistik at the time, and concluded her studies with a dissertation not on Lieder, to be sure, but on Hindemith’s oratorio Das Unaufhörliche (based on a text by Gottfried Benn).4 The dissertation, together with her edition of the Benn-Hindemith correspondence,5 published a few years later, garnered her respect among scholars of twentieth-century German literature as well as in musicological circles. By the mid-1970s both had launched academic careers: Seelig joined the faculty at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst in 1967 (where he just retired after forty years as a fixture of language and literature studies); Fehn received a nod from the German department at Harvard University, where she briefly became the colleague of Jack M. Stein (who in 1970 had published a book on German Lieder from the perspective of a literary scholar eager to see his interpretations of poetry confirmed in the settings of composers). The Lied figured prominently in the backgrounds of the other two members of the quartet as well, even before graduate studies in musicology led them both to Lieder dissertations: Hallmark on Schumann’s Dichterliebe6 and Thym on Schumann’s and Wolf’s Eichendorff songs.7 Hallmark is a musicologist as well as a singer; his musical and musicological studies at Davidson College and Boston University included voice, and in the last forty years he has frequently lent his accomplished tenor voice to the interpretation of early music, Bach cantatas, operatic characters, and, of course, Lieder. A background check

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unearthed recordings on the Nonesuch and Turnabout labels with the Boston Camerata in the 1970s, and in the Schubert year 1997 he presented several performances of Schubert’s Winterreise (with Charles Burkhart, his colleague at Queens College, at the piano). His dissertation at Princeton University falls into the category of source studies, a branch of musicology fashionable at the time, and may be considered somewhat removed from his incisive essays on text-music relations that sprang forth just a few years later. But a review of his, in the Journal of the American Musicological Society, of two books on German Lieder with an interdisciplinary bent that were published in 1971 reveals a certain sympathy with the method, despite the shortcomings he duly noted in both publications.8 It is a piece of criticism that might be considered a foreshadowing of things to come. When the undersigned arrived in the United States in 1969 with diplomas in Schulmusik and history from the Berlin Hochschule für Musik and the Freie Universität, respectively (and lots of books by Adorno), the plan was to stay a year and then return to Germany. But fascination with the American way of life, the hospitality he encountered, and the opportunities for growth offered on this side of the Atlantic Ocean made him stay and conclude his doctoral studies in Cleveland. Next to the Department of Music at Case Western Reserve University on Bellflower Road was a former residential building that housed the Department of German, and it seemed the obvious thing for a native speaker to drop in occasionally and, later, to benefit from some of the seminars the department offered. Academic interests, practical considerations, and rather nonacademic nostalgia for his homeland intermingled in deciding the future course of action. Perhaps he remembered the time when he accompanied singers in recitals of Lieder in the 1960s, perhaps he wanted to bring his practical experience to bear fruit in musicological studies, or perhaps he felt the knowledge and advice available in both houses on Bellflower would come in handy. In any case, when it was time to select a dissertation topic to sustain interest for several years, he chose a subject matter that required interdisciplinary expertise. (Subsequently, John Neubauer, then a faculty member in the German department at Case, became a co-adviser.)

III In 1970 there were few models to follow in studying text-music relations in the German Lied. While the nineteenth century was very much interested in the interaction and synthesis of different artistic media—with Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk perhaps this trend’s most ambitious formulation—and subsequently produced a rich body of literature by philosophers, poets, and composers devoted to the synaesthetic enterprise, the twentieth century, it seems, preferred to keep the arts as individual entities, even to separate and juxtapose them. This, in turn, may have had an impact on the kinds of studies favored in the humanities. There had been the magisterial study on music and literature by Calvin S.

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Brown, laying out the field in 1948,9 but for decades the work had remained unjustly neglected and at the fringes of musicological and literary discourse— one of the praiseworthy exceptions being Stephen Scher’s study on verbal music of the 1960s.10 Even more recently (from the perspective of 1970), there was the Schubert book by Georgiades and the monograph by Jack Stein, as pathbreaking as it was stubbornly wrongheaded. True, there were dissertations, hardly more than a handful, written years apart at widely different institutions—voices in an archipelago of islands that did not connect and rarely communicated. Two of them stand out in my mind: a Columbia dissertation on Mörike and music by Jessie H. Kneisel (whose colleague at the Eastman School of Music I became in 1973 and in whose honor and memory an annual lieder competition has been held at Eastman for more than a quarter century)11 and, perhaps more relevant in our present context, Harry E. Seelig’s University of Kansas dissertation on Wolf’s Suleika settings.12 Seelig’s close readings of poems and their musical settings provided firm ground when I started my work on the Eichendorff settings by Schumann and Wolf. In fact, a study of Schumann’s “Frühlingsfahrt,” which later became a chapter in my dissertation, was penned during spare time between semesters or in the summer, probably in 1971, after perusing Seelig’s work. It may have been the first encounter, albeit virtual rather than real, between two members of the quartet represented here. The chronicler is on firmer ground in determining the initial encounter between the other two members of the quartet because it was real rather than virtual. Ann Fehn and Rufus Hallmark met in the fall of 1974 during a series of informal symposia organized to follow up on Leonard Bernstein’s Norton lectures at Harvard University (she was teaching there, he was at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology), and they soon discovered their mutual interest in German Lieder. “Over the next several years,” Hallmark recalled in a tribute after Fehn’s death in 1989, I had the privilege of collaborating with Ann on a major study of text-settings in the songs of Schubert [the pentameter study presented in this volume as chapter 7, which condenses two articles the two had published on the subject around 1980]. . . . We had a database of some 900 lines of poetry, recorded on as many large index cards, and we labeled two distinct principles of rhythmic declamation with the penultimate and antepenultimate letters of the alphabet. I believe we nearly drove Udo [Ann Fehn’s husband] and my wife Anne crazy with our “conjuring” with the cards and our incessant chatter about X’s and Y’s.13

The hard work, undertaken at the risk of becoming nuisances to their respective families, paid off: the results of the collaboration were communicated at national conferences of two professional societies—the Modern Language Association (San Francisco 1979) and the American Musicological Society (Denver 1980)—and pub-

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lished in two separate but related articles in 1979 and 1983. In fairness—because the first-listed author would probably make it into the bibliographies—both agreed (and here is perhaps a lesson to all future collaborators) that one of them should be listed first as author in one publication and the other in the next. The FehnHallmark collaboration was interrupted because in the early 1980s both accepted academic, administrative, or combined administrative/academic positions elsewhere: Hallmark at CUNY and Queens College (where he later became head of the Aaron Copland School of Music) and Fehn at the University of Rochester (as associate dean of undergraduate programs with an attendant appointment in the Department of Foreign Languages, Literature, and Linguistics). The collaboration had a brief postlude: Fehn was asked by Nancy Reich, chair of the session, to be the respondent to Hallmark’s paper on Schumann’s Rückert songs at the AMS meeting in Baltimore in 1988. She challenged him on a number of points; he defended himself well and, in turn, dedicated the essay, when it was published in Nineteenth Century Music, to her memory. Ann and I began our respective administrative appointments the same year, 1982. Our administrative encounters, forging ways to give students at the University’s River Campus more meaningful encounters with music and bringing in the expertise and support of the University’s Eastman School of Music, also led to discussions about one of our common interests: German Lieder. “Would it not make sense to meet once a week or every other week,” she argued, “to talk about something non-administrative?” For a time Deborah Stein, now at the New England Conservatory, joined us in our “non-administrative” efforts, providing the necessary and welcome expertise of a music theorist. (She dropped out after a few encounters but later collaborated with the pianist Robert Spillman on a book on Lieder.)14 The collaboration, undertaken as an escape from administrative burdens, was, in a way, an extension of the work Fehn had begun with Hallmark. From investigating the declamation of a particular poetic meter (line structure, as it were), we moved to larger poetic forms: the ghazal (taking a cue from Seelig who had worked on Wolf’s settings of this poetic form), the sonnet (clearly an extension of the pentameter studies by Hallmark and Fehn), and free verse (arguably a follow-up to Seelig’s unpublished lecture on Goethe’s “Ganymed”). I remember a sizable database—time had moved on to a new technological age—on a computer hard drive, not on index cards as in the case of the pentameter study, of Schubert settings of five-line, six-line stanzas, and other non-quatrain verse groupings. These were materials for rather ambitious studies that, because of the onset of Ann Fehn’s serious health problems, never left the workshop. But there was one more joint project before illness closed in—perhaps a digression and for that reason not included here. At the Baltimore AMS meeting Ann had witnessed firsthand the revival of the “persona” debate in musicology, engineered by some devoted students of Edward T. Cone, whose 1974 book The Composer’s Voice was neglected by a discipline still devoted to rather positivis-

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tic enterprises.15 And so our study of Sarah Kirsch’s Papiersterne, a beautiful cycle of poetry, and Wolfgang von Schweinitz’s equally beautiful song cycle of the same name was born.16 We argued that the poet’s voice, in spite of its appropriation by the composer, remained vital and audible in the reception of musical settings. Ann rushed to the University of Houston, Texas, in early March 1989 to present our findings at the Seventh Symposium on Literature and the Arts: “German Literature and Music 1890–1989—An Aesthetic Fusion.” It was her last appearance at a professional conference. When our study was published, Cone, ever the gentleman, responded that our work made him rethink the problem. (It sounded like a compliment.)

IV This volume is organized in three parts: (1) Close Readings and Comparative Studies, (2) Poetic and Musical Structure, and (3) In Search of Cycles. Within each group the chapters are ordered chronologically by year of publication. (But chronology is a relative measure in that often considerable time passed from first inception, to writing and revising a study, to presenting it at conferences or on the college circuit, to reading publication proofs.) The two chapters that frame the three parts as prelude and postlude stand outside the chronological grid. They are indeed of a more recent vintage. Close readings of poems and their settings are the foundations of the craft of text-music studies, and five of them (all but one by Harry E. Seelig, who has developed considerable skills in closely reading poetry and music) constitute part I of the volume. Particularly instructive in this respect are close readings of multiple settings of the same poem (here included in the subtitle as “comparative studies”), as they allow comparisons between different composers, different stylistic means composers employ in setting the poem, and different emphases they give to different dimensions of the literary “pretext.” They show indeed— the study of sonnet settings included in part II of the volume is pertinent here as well—that when a composer sets a poem, he or she gives an interpretation of it, by dint of the musical rendition, comparable to a stage director presenting a play by Shakespeare or Goethe as his or her particular “reading.” (This insight, now generally accepted, may have been formulated first by Edward T. Cone.17 It was directly analogous to the principle in Joseph Kerman’s Opera as Drama that in operatic works, the composer is the dramatist. Clearly something was in the air in the 1950s, inching musicology toward criticism. The step became a leap in the 1990s.) The close readings may have been without “theory” and, at least initially, have followed a course that was intuitive rather than systematic, but things became less tentative when at least three authors of the quartet, aided from a distance by the fourth, began to focus on poetic structure, ranging from the minutiae

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of rhythm and meter in poetry and music to composers’ reaction to particular poetic forms. The four essays gathered in part II are collaborative efforts, with Ann C. Fehn involved in all of them. There is the comprehensive study on Schubert’s pentameter settings undertaken by Fehn and Hallmark—the first and perhaps still the last word on this subject. In comparison, the Fehn-Thym collaborations are less ambitious in scope; they shed light on selected settings of three types of poetry—the ghazal, the sonnet, and free verse—that are relatively rare in the Lied repertory and that, it is hoped, can lead others to pick up studies focusing on poetic and musical structure. Songs, of course, are musical miniatures, lasting just a few minutes. Composers were very much aware of such “shortcomings” and, very early in the history of the Lied, tried to overcome the miniature character of the genre by shaping groups of songs into larger structures, ranging from collections unified by a poet or a vague idea of unity (sometimes reinforced by key scheme and common motives) to song cycles with settings arranged by the composer as units or settings of poems already conceived by the poet as a lyric cycle. It was thus no surprise that all four authors, with the armory available to them as representatives of Germanistik and musicology or both of these disciplines, tackled song cycles or imaginative cycles or cycles that pose problems in one way or another. Such studies make up part III of the volume. Issues of cyclic structure—of hidden, or imagined, cycles—pop up also in some of the case studies in part I. (Seelig’s chapter on Schubert’s “Suleika” settings, his study of Wolf’s ghazal settings, and his account of Weigl’s setting of two Goethe poems clearly flirt with cyclical considerations. In other words, the organizational categories into which we have sorted the chapters are not mutually exclusive.) The core essays are framed by a prelude and a postlude. In the prelude, written specifically for Of Poetry and Song, Hallmark presents a primer of questions of prosody and poetic form in the nineteenth-century Lied—the chapter introduces some of the topics discussed in greater detail later in the book. (The more sophisticated reader may want to move straight to parts I through III.) The postlude considerably broadens the discussion to address issues of musical style and influence. Even though the analyses may be less “structuralist” than those offered in other essays written in the 1970s and 1980s, the chapter’s premise is still central to the book: the important role the poem plays in the nineteenth-century Lied and the many ways in which the poem affects the music. The close relationship between text and music has also informed editorial decisions in favor of user-friendliness: musical examples in the text as well as entire songs reprinted in appendixes help the reader follow our discussion of composers’ approaches to the nineteenth-century Lied, striving for a particularly intimate liaison between Poetry and Song.

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V I began my musings by invoking the idea of a symposium, and I would like to return to it in its meaning as a social gathering at which ideas are freely exchanged. Even though the authors invaded each others’ territory, their discourse remained civil; they even became and remained friends. In that respect, the book is a celebration of friendship, of mutual, often unselfish support, of collaboration in pursuit of knowledge, and of the conviviality that informed their encounters—qualities all too often missing in a profession whose discourse is guided by the mock-Darwinian principle of “publish or perish.” The infectious energy, gentle persuasiveness, and generosity of spirit of one member of the quartet in particular inspired the scholarly collaborations that, in due time, led to dialogues and lectures at professional conferences and, finally, to publications of an interdisciplinary nature. It is futile to speculate about the directions the four authors’ collaborative efforts might have taken if the life of Ann C. Fehn had not been cut short, at age forty-four, in November 1989 after a long illness. But so many of the essays collected here owe their existence to, or were inspired by, her intellectual curiosity, organizational skills, and, ultimately, her astute insights on issues pertaining to the German Lied that the symposium may be considered a record—a memorial as it were—of a collaboration of scholars that saw its heyday in the late 1970s and 1980s and whose echoes have continued in the work of the three surviving members up to today. For that reason, the book is dedicated to the memory of Ann C. Fehn. Jürgen Thym

Notes 1. Schubert: Musik und Lyrik (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1979 [1967]). 2. “Lyric as Musical Structure: Schubert’s Wanderers Nachtlied (‘Über allen Gipfeln,’ D. 718),” trans. Marieluise Göllner, in Schubert: Critical and Analytical Studies, ed. Walter Frisch (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 84–103. 3. Harry E. Seelig, “Goethe’s Buch ‘Suleika’ and Hugo Wolf: A Musical-Literary Study” (PhD dissertation, University of Kansas, 1969). 4. Change and Permanence: Gottfried Benn’s Text for Paul Hindemith’s Oratorio Das Unaufhörliche, Stanford Studies in Music, vol. 12 (Bern: Lang, 1977). 5. Gottfried Benn, Briefwechsel mit Paul Hindemith, ed. Ann C. Fehn (Frankfurt/ Main: Fischer, 1986). 6. The Genesis of Schumann’s Dichterliebe: A Source Study (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1979). 7. “The Solo Song Settings of Eichendorff’s Poems by Schumann and Wolf” (PhD dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1974). 8. Review of Jack M. Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971), and Elaine Brody and Robert A. Fowkes,

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The German Lied and Its Poetry (New York: New York University Press, 1971), in Journal of the American Musicological Society 27/2 (Summer 1974): 360–66. 9. Music and Literature: A Comparison of the Arts (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1948). 10. Verbal Music in German Literature (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968). 11. Beginning in the 1990s, the awards for collaborative pianists in that competition have been supported by a fellowship established by Margaret V. Clark in memory of her daughter, Ann C. Fehn. 12. Jessie H. Kneisel, “Mörike and Music” (PhD dissertation, Columbia University, 1948); for Seelig, see note 3. 13. In Memoriam Ann C. Fehn (1945–1989): Testimonials and Remembrances by Her Friends, collected by Ute Brandes and Ingeborg Hoelsterey (Private Publication, March 1990). 14. Poetry into Song: Performance and Analysis of Lieder (New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). 15. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974. 16. It was published as “Who Is Speaking? Edward T. Cone’s Concept of Persona and Wolfgang von Schweinitz’s Settings of Poems by Sarah Kirsch,” Journal of Musicological Research 11 (1991): 1–31. 17. “Words into Music,” in Sound and Poetry, ed. Northrop Frye (New York: Columbia University Press, 1957), 15: “Ultimately there can be only one justification for the serious composition of a song; it must be an attempt to increase our understanding of the poem.”

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Acknowledgments All books, including those for which a single author signs, come into existence with the help of others, and this rule of thumb is even more applicable to the collaborative enterprise at hand. First and foremost, I thank Rufus Hallmark and Harry E. Seelig for contributing to this volume in countless ways and over a long period of time. Both willingly interrupted their own projects, on short notice, by answering questions to help the editor make it to the finish line, and in the summer of 2008, Hallmark even rewrote an essay on Schubert’s pentameter settings, condensing two articles he and Fehn had written more than three decades earlier. Many years ago, Udo Fehn had passed on to me the research materials on Lieder his wife had collected until her death—documents that brought back memories of our collaboration two decades ago and came in handy to answer many questions in editing the book. I thank him for his support from the sidelines—proof, if proof were needed, that even geologists can contribute to musicological enterprises. (Whether musicologists can return the favor is much to be doubted.) Next in line for a grateful acknowledgment are Ralph Locke, senior editor of the Eastman Studies in Music series, as well as Timothy Madigan and Suzanne Guiod, former and current editorial directors of the University of Rochester Press, respectively. Their interest in the project, patience, and faith that the book would finally be completed (the proposal was initially submitted in 1998) sustained me for many years when a different project took precedence but especially in 2007, when a computer crash (albeit recoverable) distracted me from moving forward. The long wait has not been in vain, as new chapters, not yet written ten years ago, made it into the book. Patrick Macey, chair of musicology at the Eastman School of Music, provided administrative support. Getting the musical examples up to the standards of University of Rochester Press proved a considerable challenge. A number of individuals helped in setting, copying, and scanning (Briana Bailey, Hanita Blair, Kathy Buechel, Rowena Gibbons, Kayleigh Miller, Cheryl Hein Walters, and Deanna Phillips), but it was through the diligent and sustained efforts of Scott Perkins that examples, figures, and appendixes—at long last—took on the shape that allowed publication of the book in its present reader-friendly fashion. A heartfelt thank you to all who contributed through their efforts and time. Two anonymous prepublication reviewers made incisive comments that provided guidance in the final revisions of the book and for which I am immensely grateful. The help the four authors received on their individual or collaborative essays is noted in the individual chapters at appropriate places.

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acknowledgments

In the final production process it was a pleasure to work with the staff at University of Rochester Press. I thank Catherine Mayes, associate managing editor, who provided guidance in the initial stages of sorting things out; my copyeditor, Cheryl Carnahan, who from her perch in Denver, Colorado, kept an eagle’s eye on issues of consistency and standards (thereby improving the book by leaps and bounds), and Ryan Peterson and Tracey Engel in the final stages of the process. Several publishers gave me permission to reprint some of the articles gathered here. I gratefully acknowledge them: University Press of America, the Edwin Mellen Press, Praesens-Verlag (Vienna), the American Liszt Society, Rodopi (Amsterdam), University of California Press, University of Oregon Press, A-R Editions, and Bärenreiter-Verlag (Kassel). Full bibliographic citations are given at the beginning of each chapter. Last but not least, I would like to thank my wife, Peggy Dettwiler, for her interest in and support of the project, as well as our four feline companions—now down to two—who patiently (and sometimes not so patiently) waited until I was less preoccupied and ready to join them in their playful antics. November 2009 Jürgen Thym

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Prelude

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Chapter One

On Schubert Reading Poetry A Primer in the Rhythm of Poetry and Music Rufus Hallmark I have long wanted to write a ruminative essay with a traditional but evocative title beginning “On . . . ,” and this collection of articles has given me the opportunity to do so by converting an old lecture into written form. In it I explore some basic relations between words and music, taking for illustration the Lieder of Franz Schubert. But inasmuch as an essay often begins with an epigram chosen from a source other than its subject, such as an apt quotation from a classical author, I shall provide as a motto an excerpt form Mozart’s song “Abendempfindung an Laura,” K. 523 (example 1.1a).1 Just at the spot where our excerpt begins, the song, which is in F major, has moved to the dominant, C major (m. 23), and then turned to the parallel minor, where it cadences at the end of stanza 2 (m. 33). The music then modulates to G minor and cadences there at the end of stanza 3 (m. 46). But what is the music that seems to be “marking time” in measures 36–39, rocking back and forth melodically and harmonically between the V and flat VI of C minor? One could omit these measures without harm to the syntactical sense of the overall progression (example 1.1b). To understand why the music “hovers” at this point, we need only look closely at the text. There we see that the verse, too, could do without the words that are sung in measures 36–39, for they constitute an embedded but separate

_________________ This chapter originated as an illustrated lecture first presented at the Aston Magna Academy on “Schubert and His World” (1993) and subsequently at the University of Connecticut, Storrs (1996); the National Sun Yat-Sen University, Kaoshung, Taiwan (1999); the Mannes College of Music, New York (2001); and at Westminister Choir School at Rider College, Princeton, New Jersey (2003). I am grateful to Raymond Erickson (Queens College and Graduate Center, CUNY), Alain Frogley (Storrs), Tsai, Shun-Mei and Lee, Mei-Wen (Taiwan), Brian Zeger (Mannes), and Lindsay Christianson (Westminister) for their invitations and to the pianists who accompanied me in each presentation.

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Example 1.1a. Mozart, “Abendempfindung an Laura”—mm. 22–48

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Example 1.1b. Mozart, “Abendempfindung an Laura”—mm. 34–42 (recomposed)

thought—an independent, appositive clause inserted between dashes into the stanza’s primary clause: Bald vielleicht—mir weht, wie Westwind leise, Eine stille Ahnung zu— Schließ’ ich dieses Lebens Pilgerreise, Fliege in das Land der Ruh.

The main clause, the beginning of line 1 together with lines 3–4, reads, “Soon perhaps . . . I shall close this life’s pilgrimage, [and] fly into the land of peace.” The embedded, secondary clause says “a silent premonition wafts to me like a gentle westerly breeze.” The main clause expresses the speaker’s thought that his life may be near its end, and the appositive clause tells us how it felt when this presentiment came over him. In speech, one might render this embedded clause distinct with pitch inflection, with rhythmic change, or a combination: [FULL VOICE] “Soon perhaps–[SOFTLY, LOWER, QUICKER] a silent premonition wafts to me like a gentle westerly breeze,– [FULL VOICE] I shall complete this life’s pilgrimage.” This is exactly what Mozart has done. The main clause is outlined in longer notes on the higher pitches c”–d”– e-flat”–d,” and the embedded clause—almost an aside—is sung in shorter notes on the lower g’ and a-flat.’ I have noted that the melody and harmony of this secondary clause are “treading water.” Furthermore, the halt in the piano’s arpeggiated figuration in this passage suggests the possibility of performing the vocal line quasi-recitativo. Musically the passage is an analogue for the verbal text. The bonus is that although the secondary clause and its music are inessential, they nevertheless serve an expressive function. While the main thought makes sense without it, the poetic image of the silent premonition coming over the speaker like a physical sensation is very evocative. Similarly, Mozart’s half-step melodic and harmonic “rocking” adds a mildly ominous overlay to the words. Admittedly, this opening has hardly been epigrammatic. Yet it serves well to introduce the kind of text-music observations I shall make about Schubert. Mozart clearly read his poetry carefully and sensitively and set it to music accordingly; so did Schubert.

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prelude

I In relatively informal discussions of German Lieder (or of the art song in general), writers ordinarily pay attention to the most colorful, pathetic, or suggestive imagery in the poem and to what we might call the “prose content”—the story, message, or “meaning” of the poem—and the mood created or evoked. Then correspondences are sought between such features of the poem and the musical setting—how the composer has musically set the scene, found a musical counterpart for a central image or circumstance of the poem (like Gretchen’s spinning wheel, for example, or the rippling of the brook in the Müllerin songs), how he or she has characterized a speaker, changed the mode from major to minor to reflect an alteration of emotional tone, underlined the most significant words or phrases with striking harmonic effects. This is a fruitful vein of inquiry, for there is much to observe and appreciate in a song on this “naïve” level. Careful study of the relation of words and music is particularly rich, however, when done with greater methodological rigor, such as in the best Schenkerian analysis of Lieder, in which underlying tonal structures and their foreground elements can be related to analogous features of the poetry. Analyses based on such an approach have the feel of providing more profound insights into the material, of engaging both verbal and musical arts on a deeper level.2 In recent years, many discussions of song have asked that we step back and examine assumptions that underlie Lied analysis. Is the poem, as a pre-existent literary creation, the primary ingredient, and should a song therefore be judged on how clearly and faithfully it reflects the poem on which it is based?3 Or is a song primarily a musical composition, to which the words, though first in existence, are almost subordinate?4 To analyze a song, does one start with the words and look for musical counterparts to the poetic text and also for ways the music may have “failed,” corrupted, or even overwhelmed the poem? Or does one treat a song as pure music, to which the text merely supplies sounds with which the singer vocalizes the notes? Can a song be somewhere in between? Can it truly be an “amalgam” of words and music, an artistic creation that somehow transcends both poetry and music and is greater than the sum of its parts? If so, what does this mean, and how does one deal with it?5 Furthermore, is the appropriateness of any of these different analytical approaches perhaps dependent on the historical style period and its aesthetics? Does one era lean more to one kind of musical treatment of poetry than to another? For example, we certainly expect the eighteenth-century German Lied in general to respect the integrity of the poem, setting it strophically and aiming for simplicity and singability that do not get in the way of the literary text. It is important to recognize that one can approach the relation of words and music in many ways. One approach that will frequently come into play in this chapter is to look at the text the composer is reading and setting to music less as an artistic creation than as a linguistic structure—a series of syllables, words,

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7

accents, rhymes, lines, clauses, punctuations. The semantic content is also considered, of course, but the discussion will be primarily grounded in the grammatical and rhetorical structure of the poetic text. This means naming individual verbal elements and exploring how they relate to one another and to the whole, much in the way we analyze music. This approach, which puts the poem and the music on more nearly parallel footing, is indebted to the work of Thrasybulos Georgiades, specifically his book Schubert: Musik und Lyrik, in which he discusses lyric poetry as musical structure.6 It was Georgiades who first drew my attention to the close parallels that exist between music and poetry in purely structural terms. In this chapter, then, I would like mostly to talk about very concrete, even mundane details of poetic texts as linguistic artifacts and about how a composer deals with those details in the music. In most cases these details are rooted in a very basic but far-ranging relationship between poetry and song—that of rhythm. I shall start at a rudimentary level—the relation of syllables to notes, the level of linguistic and musical duration and accent. This level grows quickly into poetic and musical meter, poetic line length and syntactic structure and the corresponding musical phrase (melodic line and harmonic progression), word rhyme and musical cadence, poetic strophe and musical stanza. Indeed, as one can readily perceive, a study of rhythmic relations between text and music eventually and logically leads to a consideration of the overall form of both poem and musical composition. Many of the basic observations of this chapter are simple and obvious, but from these plain elements very artful, expressive, and significant effects are often created, and we are the poorer for ignoring them.

II Let us begin simply with the matching of poetic feet to musical durations. At the beginning of a song a “rate of declamation” is usually established; that is, a foot of the poetic line—a unit that contains an accented syllable and the unaccented syllables grouped with it—is matched to a given note value, such as a quarter or a half note. Consider the opening of “Der Winterabend” (D. 938), a lovely, littleknown late song (January 1827) on a poem by Karl Gottfried Ritter von Leitner (example 1.2).7 The poem is written in lines of four feet, with irregular numbers of unaccented syllables. Schubert’s setting begins at the declamation rate of one foot = half note, so one line occupies two measures in 44 time, and the opening, rhyming couplet is set at this rate. At line 3—“How fast now night comes on!”—Schubert quickens the declamation rate to a quarter note; that is, he compresses twice as many syllables into the musical space as in the preceding passage. At the same time the harmony, working in tandem with the rhythmic acceleration, effects a modulation from tonic to dominant (B-flat to F). At line 4 the song reverts to the original rate. The restoration of the more placid setting, a settling back down after a momentary

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Example 1.2. Schubert, “Der Winterabend”—mm. 1–15

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9

quickening, complements the sense of agreeableness. In fact the acceleration of line 3 adds a bit of tension and expectation: does this quickening mean the song is about to veer off at this new rate; will sequential modulations follow and take us farther away; will we be exploring the bewitching side of nightfall? And so the return to the original declamation, the settling of the music in the customary dominant, indeed has a calming effect. With so simple a thing, then, as a change in the rate of declamation, Schubert creates a very affecting and individuated reading of this poem’s opening stanza. One has only to imagine hearing the third line sung at the original declamation rate to appreciate the cleverness of this modest compositional decision. Let us look at the poem again and see how Schubert read it.8 We know, by the way, from abundant testimony by his friends and acquaintances, that Schubert read poetry aloud.9 Es ist so still, so heimlich um mich, Die Sonn’ ist unten, der Tag entwich. Wie schnell nun heran der Abend graut! Mir ist es recht, sonst ist mir’s zu laut. [It is so still, so secret around me, The sun’s gone down, the day has flown. How fast now the evening comes on! That’s fine with me, else to me it’s too loud.]

The first two lines proceed by fits and starts, each interrupted by a comma—line 1 split between a descriptive clause and an additional modifier and line 2 divided into two short, independent clauses. In comparison with these two halting lines, the third line, a single clause with no internal break, practically runs across the page to the exclamation point. The fourth line has the same rhythmic cast as the first, and the many sibilant phonemes place an additional drag on the reading. So we find that Schubert took his cue for faster declamation from much more than merely the adverb “schnell” in line 3. He read the poem aloud and heard the stops and starts of the opening lines, the quickening flow of the third, and the return to “tempo primo” in the fourth, and he translated them into music. It was not only the meaning of a word to which Schubert responded but also the sound of the words as verbal utterance, to their rhythm as poetry read aloud. We realize that Schubert, in his setting, has taught us something about the poetry; namely that the poet built the quickened pace of approaching darkness into the very matter of his text. We find a similar declamation acceleration in a passage of “Die Bürgschaft.” This is a long ballad by Schiller in twenty stanzas of seven lines each, penned during the first major song year 1815 (D. 246). It is one of Schubert’s Zumsteeg-inspired through-composed settings, alternating recitative, dramatic declamatory singing, and song-like sections. Indeed, a close study of the entire ballad would be an instruc-

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prelude

tive exercise in Schubert reading poetry, but here, in an effort to introduce as many different topics as possible, I will point out only a single “reading.” In the story (based on the Damon and Pythias legend), Möros has been sentenced to die for his attempted assassination of the tyrant Dionysius. He pleads for just enough time to see his sister married and leaves a faithful friend to die in his place if he has not returned in three days. The wedding accomplished, Möros begins his journey back to his execution on the morning of the third day, but he is delayed first by a storm and flood, then by robbers, and finally by scorching heat. On the brink of failure, he reaches the scene of execution in the nick of time to save his friend. Impressed by their devotion to each other, the king releases them both and asks to be admitted to their friendship. The passage I wish to discuss is stanza 13, the moment when Möros comes upon a spring that proves to be his salvation from the baking sun and thirst of his third ordeal. In great contrast to the pounding chords and tremolos in the piano, the minor keys and churning modulations, the recitative and dramatic declamation of the preceding stanzas, Schubert sets this stanza as the first extended major mode and purely lyrical passage in the ballad. The piano figuration ripples as the spring; the diatonic harmony is refreshing like the water on the traveler’s parched lips and limbs. The music explores many chords within the key but remains restful, for there is no true cadentially defined modulation but rather a static quality, a lull from the constant motion of the preceding stanzas. In this musical stanza the declamation rate is established as the half note in 4 time, but for one line of the seven it is altered and for the duration of that line 4 the piano figuration halts. Here is Schiller’s strophe. Perhaps the reader can spot the line that Schubert read differently and set apart from the rest. Und horch! Da sprudelt es silberhell Ganz nahe, wie rieselndes Rauschen, Und stille hält er zu lauschen; Und sieh, aus dem Felsen, geschwätzig, schnell, Springt murmelnd hervor ein lebendiger Quell, Und freudig bückt er sich nieder Und erfrischet die brennenden Glieder. [And hark! A silvery bubbling Quite nearby, like a rippling rustle, And he holds still to listen; And see, from the rocks, chattering, rapid, A lively spring leaps murmuring forth, And joyfully he bends down And refreshes his burning body.]

Here again, meaning and structure combine in Schiller’s poem and in Schubert’s song (example 1.3). Six of the lines of this stanza (1–2, 4–7) describe the sounds

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Example 1.3. Schubert, “Die Bürgschaft”—mm. 254–68

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prelude

and sights of the spring and of the traveler bathing in its waters. But line 3 speaks of Möros’s perception: “Und stille hält er, zu lauschen” (and he holds still to listen). Schubert read this line as a quick, whispered interjection, expectant with Möros’s hope that his ears do not deceive him. The piano, exchanging its sixteenth-note figuration for two arpeggiated half-note chords, “holds still” as Möros listens. Though the stanza is marked piano at the beginning, Schubert repeats the dynamic marking at this point so the performers will be sure to observe it here. Like the Mozart passage, this measure might be performed as a recitative. The rhythm of the poetry is also distinctive and not unlike the opening of “Der Winterabend.” Both lines 1 and 2 have a caesura (line 1, an exclamation point; line 2, a comma); both have nine syllables, the first in four feet, the second in three; the number of unaccented syllables increases, and these together with the caesuras tend toward the lilting flow of dactylic meter; the first line is enjambed with the second. But line 3 has only eight syllables, three feet (only one of which has two unaccented syllables) and is a simple, self-contained clause without a break. Following this, lines 4–7 return to the quality of the opening pair of lines: more syllables (lines 4 and 5 have 10 and 11 syllables, respectively), more lilt (line 5 is a fully dactylic line), and more enjambement (lines 4–5). Schubert did not miss any of this. The diminution of the declamation rate (together with the suspension of the piano figuration) is like a parenthesis (not unlike the Mozart instance). One might describe the effect in cinematic terms: for lines 1 and 2 the camera looks down the forest path in the direction of the rippling, burbling sound; for line 3 there is a close-up shot of Möros as he stops and listens; then for the remainder of the stanza the camera in a crane shot pans the entire scene from a height, discovering the spring cascading from the rocks as the hot and thirsty traveler plunges into the water.

III Let us turn our attention away from the declamation rate of individual feet to the setting of entire lines. In the songs we have examined, a four-foot line, each foot set to the same metric value, occupies what we hear as a “normal” or “natural” two- or four-bar musical phrase. Many lines of poetry, however, have only three feet, and yet we find that these, too, often occupy four metrical durations. Composers either leave a rest equal to a poetic foot at the end of the phrase or extend the setting of the last word or syllable into that fourth unit, especially when the line ends with an unaccented syllable. For example, notice how the last word in the second line of this couplet from “Heidenröslein” is extended (example 1.4).

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Example 1.4. Schubert, “Heidenröslein”—mm. 1–4

Sah ein Knab’ ein Röslein stehn, Röslein auf der Heiden. [A boy saw a meadow rose, A meadow rose on the heath]

In this instance a three-foot line follows a four-foot one, and one might think composers extend the second phrase in such situations merely to match the length of the first. Yet we encounter the same kind of setting when all lines contain three feet, as in “Der Neugierige” from Die schöne Müllerin (example 1.5). Ich frage keine Blume, Ich frage keinen Stern, Sie können mir alle nicht sagen Was ich erführ’ so gern. [I do not ask a flower, I do not ask a star. They cannot tell me What I would like to know.]

Example 1.5. Schubert, “Der Neugierige”—mm. 1–12

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prelude

Example 1.5. Schubert, “Der Neugierige”—mm. 1–12—(concluded)

Some might assume this phrasing to be the result of the “tyranny” of the norms of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century musical language, the Vierhebigkeit described by Hugo Riemann.10 Yet linguists and literary scholars note the same kind of compensating extensions in the oral recitation and reading of poetry.11 We are left with the inference that this extension of three-foot lines to four metrical units reflects a more deeply seated phenomenon that underlies both music and language. Whatever its roots, this convention comes into play in a notable way in Schubert’s “Schäfers Klagelied.” Here is Goethe’s opening stanza in Schubert’s setting (example 1.6a): Da droben auf jenem Berge Da steh’ ich tausendmal, An meinem Stabe gebogen Und schaue hinab in das Thal.

This example is, in fact, not really what Schubert composed but is instead a modified version to show how the song would have gone had Schubert read the poem differently. In this reading line 3 is taken as an inessential adjectival modifier of the subject “I.” Up above on yonder hill There I stand thousands of times, [pause] —Leaning on my staff,— And gaze down into the valley.

But instead, despite the comma at the end of line 2, Schubert understood line 3 as a run-on or enjambed line that provided an essential adverbial modifier of the verb “stehen,” and he read it as follows:

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Example 1.6a. Schubert, “Schäfers Klagelied”—mm. 1–12 (hypothetical setting) Up above on yonder hill There I stand thousands of times [no pause] Leaning on my staff— And gaze down into the valley.

To achieve this rhythmic reading, Schubert begins the third phrase (“An meinem Stabe . . .”) within the metric boundary of the second and inserts an extra, compensating syllable into line 3: Da droben auf jenem Berge Da steh’ ich tausendmal, An meinem Stabe hingebogen, Und sehe hinab in das Thal.

Here is his actual setting (example 1.6b). In this passage, Schubert sought to subvert the convention of taking four metrical units for a three-foot line in order to run these lines together. What happens when a composer needs to set a five-foot, or pentameter, line, a line that is not shorter but longer than the conventional musical phrase?12 Specifically, how did Schubert treat such lines? Lines or whole poems in pentameter verse occur relatively infrequently in the poetry Schubert set, but they are by no means rare. In setting pentameter lines Schubert followed two conventions: one is a straightforward application of even declamation rate to pentameter lines; that is, one metric unit per poetic foot, often with a blank measure or extended foot at the end creating an even number of metric units, as with three-foot lines. Typically, three-bar phrases result, as in “Die Schatten” (D. 50) and “Die erste Liebe” (D. 182) (examples 1.7a and 1.7b, respectively).

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Example 1.6b. Schubert, “Schäfers Klagelied”—mm. 1–12

Example 1.7a. Schubert, “Die Schatten”—mm. 1–12

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Example 1.7b. Schubert, “Die erste Liebe”—mm. 1–10

Schubert employs this method for pentameter lines in many cases. In fact, a famous song from Die schöne Müllerin is a pentameter poem accommodated in a unique application of this convention (example 1.8). The declamation rate is a quarter note per foot, and the meter is an up-tempo 43. The melody rises sequentially and moves in dotted rhythms. The refrain (line 6) is set very differently, and we shall consider it again presently. As in the preceding examples, we see here how a conventional declamation not only accommodates the lines but is also used to expressive ends. The extremely crowded setting of the lines in “Ungeduld” mimics the excited impatience of the young miller. By contrast, consider the expressive function of the even declamation setting in the song “Pause” from the same cycle. Here Schubert did not place the extra measure we anticipate in the even declamation of pentameter lines at the end of the line, where we expect it as a pause at the end of the phrase, but rather composed it into the beginning of the musical phrase. Thus the musical structure—the “empty measure” after the introduction when the figuration starts again but in which the voice does not immediately enter—creates a perceptible pause at the beginning of each phrase (example 1.9). Although this even declamation seems natural and straightforward, Schubert more frequently employs a convention for pentameter lines in which the five feet of the line are compressed into the four metrical units of a “normal” phrase by declaiming two of the feet in the time of one. One hears its prototypical form

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Example 1.8. Schubert, “Ungeduld”—mm. 5–12

Example 1.9. Schubert, “Pause”—mm. 6–16

in another famous song, of which the opening line is the single one in pentameter: “Der Tod und das Mädchen” (D. 531). The first, second, and fifth feet each occupy a measure’s time, while the third and fourth feet are compressed into a single bar (example 1.10). In our collaboration, Ann Fehn and I regarded this compressed rhythmic setting as a convention, a practice that has become customary usage, for these reasons: (1) given its frequency in Schubert’s songs, it is hardly an exceptional modification

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Example 1.10. Schubert, “Der Tod und das Mädchen”—mm. 22–25

of even declamation but clearly exists as a distinct option for setting pentameter lines; (2) it is found in pentameter settings from all periods and in many genres, from madrigals to Lutheran chorales to English hymns to eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Lied composers—predecessors, contemporaries, and successors of Schubert (think of the chorale “Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen?” or the English hymn “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide”); and finally, (3) in its prototypical form, in which the third and fourth feet are compressed (long, long, short-short, long), it is a rhythmic pattern heard in instrumental as well as vocal music, both in single phrases and in larger structures. Examples include music as old as the Notre Dame clausula tenor ordo consisting of longa, longa, brevis, brevis, longa, as well as works from the standard repertory, such as the instrumental theme that open Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet and the main theme of the Vivace in the first movement of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 7; and so on. More germane to this chapter is that Fehn and I established through statistical analysis13 that Schubert had a measurable tendency to base the location of the rhythmic compression on certain features of syntax and punctuation in pentameter lines. We concluded, for example, that a line divided on or after the second foot by punctuation or syntax shows an affinity for the prevalent convention of long, long, short-short, long, as in “Mignon” (D. 321) and “Wiegenlied” (D. 498) (examples 1.11a and 1.11b, respectively). The same prevalence can be observed in lines without such divisions when the subject occupies the first two feet followed by the predicate in the remainder of the line, as, for example, in “Todtenopfer” (D. 101) (example 1.12).

Example 1.11a. Schubert, “Mignon” (“Kennst du das Land”)—mm. 1–5

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Example 1.11b. Schubert, “Wiegenlied” (“Schlafe, schlafe, holder Knabe”)—mm. 1–7

Example 1.12. Schubert, “Todtenopfer”—mm. 1–8

In our articles, Fehn and I discuss at length not only what these pentameter conventions are but also how they are used to formal and expressive ends. The pervasive bass melody of “Der Zwerg” (The Dwarf, D. 771)—a poem in pentameter and terza rima—is emphatically an instance of the long-long-short-short-long gestalt (example 1.13).

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Example 1.13. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 4–12

The refrain of “Ungeduld” is this common compression pattern writ large (example 1.14). In both of these instances, one could well argue that the more general rhythmical shape is more significant than the similarity to a convention of declaiming pentameter, but it seems hardly a coincidence that both songs are settings of poems whose pentameter lines themselves engender or invoke this familiar pattern.

Example 1.14. Schubert, “Ungeduld”—refrain, or mm. 19–26 (27)

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Example 1.14. Schubert, “Ungeduld”—refrain, or mm. 19–26 (27)—(concluded)

IV We have covered the basics of how a composer translates poetic feet and lines into musical rhythm, and we have seen how Schubert in particular read some poetic lines and translated their details into song with great artistry. Now it is time to look more closely at how he read entire stanzas and whole poems. One of Schubert’s perennially adored songs is his setting of Goethe’s “Heidenröslein” (D. 257, 1815). Both Goethe’s poem and Schubert’s song are often cited for their folklike qualities: Goethe’s rustic subject matter, plain diction, strophic form, and refrain; Schubert’s straightforward melody and harmony and barebones piano accompaniment. Yet the poem’s volkstümlich (folksy) character is belied by the stanza structure with its irregular number of lines. We have noted the alternation of four- and three-foot lines in this poem, but that alternation and the rhyme do not continue unproblematically. Sah ein Knab ein Röslein stehn, Röslein auf der Heiden, War so jung und morgenschön, Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn, Sah’s mit vielen Freuden. [refrain] [A boy saw a meadow rose, A meadow rose on the heath. It was so young and beautiful in the morning That he ran to see it more closely, He gazed at it with great pleasure.]

After line 3 we expect to hear a line that corresponds to line 2, with three feet and a matching rhyme. The line we hear, in length and rhyme, is unexpected. We quickly assimilate this, however, as being like the preceding one (and like line 1), and our momentarily frustrated expectation is satisfied when we hear the fifth line, which finally brings a line length and rhyme to match line 2. In the end nothing is lastingly disconcerting about the stanza—in fact, the aural asymmetry is pleasing—but its structure definitely undercuts its Volkston; we perceive

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the fourth line as extra.14 The point can be made by imagining a popular nursery rhyme with an added line: Jack and Jill went up the hill To fetch a pail of water. Jack fell down and broke his crown, His mood was brown and he wore a frown, And Jill came tumbling after.

In his song, Schubert not only accommodates Goethe’s five lines, but he does the same thing in the music that Goethe does in the verse: he inserts an extra, unexpected phrase. Had Goethe’s strophe been the commoner quatrain—read the first strophe omitting line 4 (i.e., mm. 7–8)—then we can also imagine Schubert’s song in a simpler form (example 1.15). Just like Goethe’s poem with line 4 omitted, Schubert’s song works without this phrase. phrase 1: G: I–ii phrase 3: I–V/V

phrase 2: V–I phrase 5: V–vi–V/V–V (or D: I–ii–V–I)

It is not that Goethe’s fourth line itself is unexpected but rather that its length and rhyme are unexpected. Naturally, we anticipate that the poem will continue after line 3, but we expect a line like line 2. Similarly, Schubert’s fourth phrase segment begins unexceptionally, but it ends unexpectedly with a deceptive cadence. It is obviously no great achievement simply to compose a musical phrase to set the extra line, but to compose a musical phrase that itself functions in a way analogous to the poetic line is a noteworthy artistic accomplishment.

Example 1.15. Schubert, “Heidenröslein”—mm. 1–10

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It is also pleasing to notice the way Schubert is able to compose the syntactic structure of a poetic strophe into his music, as he does in “Der Musensohn” (D. 764), another popular Goethe setting. Schubert’s melody and piano accompaniment are so charming and full of verve that if the song did not also perfectly mirror the verse structure, we would hardly object. But Schubert manages both. Goethe’s poem is in five six-line strophes, outwardly the same. Each stanza divides into 3 + 3 lines, both syntactically and in rhyme. Each half is a complete clause with closure, and the six lines rhyme aab ccb. The first tercet of strophe 1 has two dependent infinitive clauses followed by an independent clause completing the thought. Durch Feld und Wald zu schweifen, Mein Liedchen weg zu pfeifen, So geht’s von Ort zu Ort. [To ramble through field and forest, To whistle my little song— So it goes from place to place]

The second tercet is different. The first two lines are also parallel and dependent, but they both end with incomplete predicates, reflexive verbs—“sich regen,” “sich bewegen,” both meaning to bestir oneself, to move—that require the continuation into the last line to the reflexive pronoun “sich” to make any sense. Und nach dem Takte reget, Und nach dem Maß beweget Sich alles an mir fort.15

The stanza’s bipartite structure and this syntactic difference between the two halves are both composed into Schubert’s music (example 1.16a). For the first three lines Schubert composed a straightforward antecedent phrase. The first two lines, the dependent clauses, are sung to a tune with many repeated notes over tonic and subdominant chords. The melody line 3 is more active, and, as he commonly does, Schubert here repeats the phrase, doubling the cadence and making the second one melodically more conclusive and at the same time producing an eight-bar antecedent phrase. The second half begins the same way, with lines 4 and 5 set identically to 1 and 2. But for the enjambement of line 5 to line 6—the verb “beweget” (and “reget” from line 4) connecting to the reflexive pronoun “sich”—Schubert composed music that does not let us stop but pulls us ahead. Instead of continuing to a C-natural as it did for line 3, the melody moves to C-sharp, supported in the piano chords with a secondary dominant—V of V. This melodic and

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Example 1.16a. Schubert, “Der Musensohn”—mm. 1–24

harmonic move effectively couples line 6 to line 5, making a musical enjambement. Then, reinforcing this, Schubert repeats both lines 5 and 6 together as he returns to the tonic. (He cannot repeat only a single line since the pair is a unit, in distinction to the final stand-alone lines—independent clauses that close the tercets in strophes 2 and 4.) This also extends the consequent phrase to ten bars. As we know, Schubert’s second musical stanza is different, and these two contrasting musical sections, in G major and B major, respectively, alternate in an ABABA pattern for the five stanzas of the poem. Since Goethe’s stanzas are all alike in outward form, why did Schubert not simply repeat the lovely music of the first stanza and make this a strophic setting? Further, having decided

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against simple strophic form, why did he choose a rondo-like form rather than a through-composed one? I shall not claim that the syntactic structure of Goethe’s verses was the only or even the primary formant of Schubert’s compositional decisions. There are arguably subtle distinctions of content among the alternating verses, distinctions that in themselves might suggest the ABABA form. Goethe’s odd-numbered stanzas emphasize the wandering musician’s travels and sense of physical place: (strophe 1:) “Durch Feld und Wald zu schweifen, / . . . / So geht’s von Ort zu Ort”; (strophe 3:) “Ich sing ihn [jenen Traum] in der Weite / Auf Eises Läng’ und Breite / . . . / . . . auf bebauten Höhn”; (strophe 5:) “Ihr [lieben, holden Musen] gebt den Sohlen Flügel / Und treibt durch Tal und Hügel / Den Liebling weit von Haus.” The even-numbered stanzas portray more his enjoyment, both of nature (strophe 2)—“Die erste Blum’ im Garten, . . . Die erste Blüt’ am Baum”—and of the people he meets (strophe 4)—“Das junge Völkchen, . . . Der stumpfe Bursche . . . Das steife Mädchen.” These distinctions are sufficient cause for Schubert to have composed different tunes for the five musical stanzas in different keys and in the alternating pattern ABABA. But the distinctions do not quite explain what Richard Capell calls the “delicately differentiated” shape of the melodies.16 Here Schubert’s reading of the syntactic structure may have played a role. First, what in strophes 3 and 5 led Schubert to return to the music he had conceived for the syntax of the first strophe? In stanza 3 again, just as in stanza 1, a reflexive verb is separated from its pronoun: “Und neue Freude findet / Sich auf bebauten Höhn.” In stanza 5 a verb is separated from its prefix (“aus-ruhen”) in the musician’s closing question: “Wann ruh’ ich ihr am Busen / Auch endlich wieder aus?” In both cases a strong enjambement is created for which Schubert’s opening stanza of music is well suited. A different syntactic structure is found in two tercets of the even-numbered strophes: a conditional clause in one or both of the first two lines and the independent clause following in the third. In stanza 2, lines 5–6: Und kommt der Winter wieder, Sing’ ich noch jenen Traum. [And when winter comes again, (Then) I’ll still sing of that dream.]

In stanza 4, lines 1–3: Denn wie ich bei der Linde Das junge Völkchen finde, Sogleich erreg’ ich sie. [For when I by the linden tree Find the young folk, (Then) At once I stir them up.]

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Both “when-then” constructions are well served by Schubert’s alternate melody for stanzas 2 and 4, which keeps the original declamation rate from stanza 1 for the first two lines of each tercet in stanzas 2 and 4 but presents the third line in augmentation (example 1.16b). Although two of the four tercets (stanza 2, lines 1–3, and stanza 4, lines 4–6) do not exhibit the conditional clause construction, the musical augmentation is not a poor fit, for it serves to underline the content of the tercet’s ending. This

Example 1.16b. Schubert, “Der Musensohn”—mm. 25–45

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is particularly felicitous in stanza 4, where the point is less that the boy and girl dance than that they do it to the musician’s melody; “nach meiner Melodie” as sung to Schubert’s tune. (Cf. stanza 1: “Und nach dem Takte reget / Und nach dem Maß beweget / Sich alles an mir fort.”) Our exploration of the way Schubert composed the stanzas of “Der Musensohn,” therefore, has also led to insight about the form of the entire song.

V The most common elementary analytical distinction made about whole poems set to music is whether the song is strophic or through-composed. This is the extent of the conceptual framework music appreciation textbooks generally offer their readers about form in song. The distinction is fundamental and significant, but to be a valid comparison one must be discussing songs setting poems that are themselves strophic in structure. Unfortunately, I have read many a time in careless commentaries that such and such a song is “through-composed” when the poem in question is not itself in strophic form and hence could not be set other than as a through-composed setting. For the distinction “throughcomposed” to be meaningful, the poem in question must be susceptible of a strophic setting. On the one hand, one need only think of Goethe’s “Erlkönig,” a ballad in eight quatrains of like structure, and compare Reichardt’s song with Schubert’s. It is meaningful and significant that Reichardt set this poem as a strophic song while Schubert through-composed his. On the other hand, to say that Schubert’s setting of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh’”) is through-composed is meaningless sophistry, for the poem—a single, irregular unit of eight lines and, with no repeating strophic structures—would not be susceptible of strophic musical treatment. One kind of poem that is not strophic is a sonnet, a relative rarity in German poetry and even more so in Lieder.17 In the sonnet form, two of our concerns come together: the setting of pentameter verse to music and the forming of lines into larger musical structures. “Die Liebende schreibt” (The Beloved Writes, D. 673) is Schubert’s setting of a sonnet by Goethe (fig. 1.1). It is a Petrarchan sonnet, formed of two quatrains, each rhyming abba, followed by two tercets, each rhyming cde. Our careless commentator, hearing distinct sections within the song that are not musically identical, would probably describe the song as “through-composed.” But since the sonnet is not a strophic poem to begin with but a unique fourteen-line form, this description would be at best unhelpful and at worst misleading. Schubert has in fact closely followed the Petrarchan form, setting the two quatrains as similar musical sections in 43 and then the two tercets as similar sections in 42. The sonnet’s gross rhythmic form is clear in Schubert’s song. What interests me most from the standpoint of declamation and phrase structure are the last lines of each of these sections and how Schubert treated them.

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Figure 1.1. Goethe, “Die Liebende schreibt” Ein Blick von deinen Augen in die meinen, Ein Kuss von deinem Mund auf meinem Munde, Wer davon hat, wie ich, gewisse Kunde, Mag dem was anders wohl erfreulich scheinen?

One glance of your eyes into mine, One kiss of your mouth on mine, Whoever has, as I, certainty of these, Can anything else seem joyful to him?

Entfernt von dir, entfremdet von den Meinen, Führ ich stets die Gedanken in die Runde, Und immer treffen sie auf jene Stunde, Die einzige; da fang’ ich an zu weinen.

Separated from you, alienated from my kin, I always direct my thoughts away, Yet always they come together on that hour, The one and only; then I begin to cry.

Die Träne trocknet wieder unversehens: Er liebt ja, denk’ ich, her in diese Stille, Und solltest du nicht in die Ferne reichen?

My tears suddenly dry up: His love, I think, extends into the quiet here, And should you not reach out into the distance?

Vernimm das Lispeln dieses Liebewehens; Mein einzig Glück auf Erden ist dein Wille, Dein freundlicher zu mir; gib mir ein Zeichen!

Hear these whispers of love’s sighs; My only fortune on earth is your will, Your friendly will to me, give me a sign!

Obviously these lines—4, 8, 11, and 14—carry the weight of closure, and arguably they are the most complicated lines, considering their syntactical context and their internal syntax and punctuation. In the first quatrain both lines 1 and 2 are noun phrases suspended without a predicate. Line 3 does not bring a predicate but rather a nominative clause turning the preceding noun phrases into the objects of a preposition (“von”) and anticipating a predicate to follow; but when line 4 comes it is a new clause, interrogative rather than declarative, and it renders the three preceding lines subordinate to it. The second quatrain is less complex, but its last line has a strong caesura. The portion preceding the semicolon is a modifier of the noun (“Stunde”) in the previous line, and the remainder of the line bluntly introduces unexpected sadness. The last line of the first tercet is in itself simple, but like the fourth line of the first quatrain it poses a question. Addressing herself as du, she asks whether she should not reach out to her beloved, as his love has reached her. The third line of the second tercet—the last line of the sonnet—like the end of the second quatrain, has a strong caesura and ends with a pleading command and an exclamation point. Schubert read each of these last lines as the crux of its section and gave each a strongly individualized rhythmic setting mirroring Goethe’s contorted lines. In each instance the regular rhythm of the preceding bars is interrupted by a

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Figure 1.2. Leitner, “Der Winterabend” 1 2 3 4 5 6

Es ist so still und heimlich um mich, Die Sonn’ ist unter, der Tag entwich, Wie schnell nun heran der Abend graut!— Mir ist es recht, sonst ist mir’s zu laut. Jetzt aber ist’s ruhig, es hämmert kein Schmied, Kein Klempner, das Volk verlief, und ist müd;

7 Und selbst, dass nicht rassle der Wagen Lauf, 8 Zog decken der Schnee durch die Gassen auf.

It is so still, so secret around me The sun’s gone down, the day has flown, How fast now the evening comes on!— That’s fine with me, else to me it’s too loud. But now it’s quiet, no smith is hammering, No plumber, people have gone their ways and are tired; And even, lest the rolling wagons rattle, The snow has drawn a blanket over the streets.

9 Wie thut mir so wohl der selige Frieden! 10 Da sitz’ ich im Dunkel, ganz abgeschieden, 11 So ganz für mich;—nur der Mondenschein 12 Kommt leise zu mir in’s Gemach herein. 13 [Brauche mich aber nicht zu geniren, 14 Nicht zu spielen, zu conversiren, 15 Oder mich sonst attent zu zeigen.]

How pleasing to me is blessed peace! Here I sit in darkness, entirely secluded, So wholly for myself;—only the moonlight Comes gently to me into the room. [I don’t need to feel embarrassed, Nor to play, to converse, Or otherwise to show myself attentive.]

16 17 18 19

He knows me well and lets me be silent, Only takes up his work, the spindle, the gold, And spins quietly, weaves, and smiles sweetly, And then hangs his shimmering veil

20 21 22 23

Er kennt mich schon und lässt mich schweigen, Nimmt nur seine Arbeit, die Spindel, das Gold, Und spinnet stille, webt und lächelt hold, Und hängt dann sein schimmerndes Schleyertuch Ringsum an Geräth und Wänden aus. Ist gar ein stiller, lieber Besuch, Macht mir gar keine Unruh’ im Haus’. Will er bleiben, so hat er Ort,

All around on the furniture and walls. It is indeed a quiet, dear visit, Makes no disturbance for me in the house. If he wants to stay, he has room,

24 Freut’s ihn nimmer, so geht er fort.

If it no longer pleases him, then he’ll go away.

25 26 27 28 29 30

I sit then, happily, mute by the window, And gaze up at the clouds and stars. I think back, ah, far, very far, To a lovely, bygone time. I think about her, about the good fortune of love, Sigh quietly, and muse and muse.—

Ich sitze dann stumm im Fenster gern’, Und schaue hinauf in Gewölk und Stern. Denke zurück, ach weit, gar weit, In eine schöne, verschwund’ne Zeit. Denk an sie, an das Glück der Minne, Seufze still, und sinne und sinne.—

variety of means—pauses (fermate) on words within the line, recitative-like declamation, suspension of the piano accompaniment, sudden modulation. The end of the last line is set off as a coda. Thus the composer’s musical structure marks the closure of each section of the sonnet as distinctly as the poet’s linguistic structure does. (Schubert’s setting is reprinted as appendix 9.3 on pp. 256–58.)

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I conclude by returning to “Der Winterabend,” the first Schubert song we examined. I have made a point of stressing that only a poem written in strophes can become a through-composed song. If a poem is not cast in regular strophes, then a composer does not have a choice to set it to a repeated stanza of music or, by contrast, in a continuous manner. But now I qualify that statement by providing an exception that proves the rule. Leitner’s poem (fig. 1.2) is not strophic, and yet Schubert’s song feels like a throughcomposed setting of a strophic poem. How can this be? How and why does Schubert manipulate Leitner’s words and construct his music to create this impression? “Der Winterabend” consists of thirty lines grouped as 8 + 16 + 6, all but four of the lines in rhyming couplets. Lines 19–22 have an alternating rhyme abab, acting like an embedded quatrain. Yet these four lines cannot stand as a quatrain because the first two are the continuation of a sentence begun two lines earlier, and the second two begin a new thought. All of this is to say that other than the couplets, very little in the rhythmical organization of the poem guides the outline of a composer’s setting. Because of this formally amorphous quality of the poem, I believe Schubert decided to divide the text and create musical segments in relation to the sense of the poem (fig.1.3). First, three sections of the poem stand out visually because of the spacing: (1) lines 1–8—the quiet winter evening, (2) lines 9–24—the poet’s solitude and the moonlight’s “visit,” and (3) lines 25–30— the poet’s reminiscence. The overall ternary design of Schubert’s song corresponds to these large sections; the last six lines are sung to a modified reprise of the opening musical material. But within these large sections, Schubert has further divided the poem into segments. The first two of these are groups of four lines, which establishes in Schubert’s reading—and in our ears—the impression of a strophically constructed poem. After this Schubert’s segmentation is irregular, but it does not matter. As we shall see, Schubert provides convincing signals of his “reading” of the poem as if it were in stanzas. lines 1–4 4 lines “quatrain”: quiet evening lines 5–8 4 lines “quatrain”: work is stopped, snow dampens sounds lines 9–11a 2.5 lines poet’s own peace and solitude lines 11b–12 1.5 lines alone except for moonlight lines 16–18* 3 lines moonlight spins its golden light lines 19–24 6 lines hangs its weaving about the room, then departs lines 25–26 2 lines solitary poet gazes at the sky lines 27–30 “quatrain” and reminiscences about bygone love (*Schubert omitted lines 13–15, perhaps because of the jarring concentration of French-based words: geniren, conversiren, attent.)

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Jetzt aber ist’s ruhig, es hämmert kein Schmied, Kein Klempner, das Volk verlief, und its müd’; Und selbst, dass nicht rass’le der Wagen Lauf, Zog Decken der Schnee durch die Gassen auf, Zog Decken der Schnee durch die Gassen auf.

5 6 7 8

18 19 20 21 22 23 24

Und spinnet stille, webt und lächelt hold. Und hängt dann sein schimmerndes Schleiertuch Ringsum an Geräth und Wänden aus. Ist gar ein stiller, ein lieber Besuch, Macht mir gar keine Unruh’ im Haus. Will er belieben, so hat er Ort, Freut’s ihn nimmer, so geht er fort, so geht er fort.

9 Wie thut mir so wohl der selige Frieden! 10 Da sitz’ ich im Dunkel, ganz abgeschieden, 11a So ganz für mich, So ganz für mich. 11b —Nur der Mondenschein 12 Kommt leise, kommt leise zu mir in’s Gemach. 16 Er kennt mich schon, und lässt sich schweigen, 17 Nimmt nur sein Arbeit, die Spindel, das Gold,

Es ist so still, so heimlich um mich, Die Sonn’ ist unten, der Tag entwich. Wie schnell nun heran der Abend graut! Mir ist es recht, sonst ist mir’s zu laut.

1 2 3 4

Text as modified by Schubert (melodic cadence figure x)

Figure 1.3. Schubert, “Der Winterabend”—form diagram

1–5 6–10

Prelude A

61–66

C'

45–51

E

57–60

40–44

D

F

27–31 32–39

Interl. C

52–56

21–26

A'

E'

15–20

B

11–15

Measure

Section

x x

x

x

x

x

x x

x

x

Cadence

G major

D major

F major

E-flat major

E-flat major

G major

B-flat major

F major

B-flat major B-flat major

Key

B

A

Ternary Form

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25 26 27 28 29 30

Ich sitze dann stumm im Fenster gern, Und schaue hinauf in Gewölk und Stern. Denke zurück, ach weit, gar weit, In eine schöne, verschwund’ne Zeit. Denk an sie, an das Glück der Minne, Seufze still und sinne, und sinne Seufze still und sinne. Denk an sie, an das Glück der Minne, Seufze still und sinne, und sinne, Seufze still und sinne, und sinne, und sinne.

66–67 67–72 73–77 78–84

85–93

94–96

Interl. A' B' A'

Coda

Postlude

x

x

x

B-flat major

A'

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prelude

In most through-composed settings of strophic poems, we are aware of the poetic stanzas because of the recurring metrical patterns, the regular number of lines, and the rhyme scheme. The last—rhyme—is perhaps the strongest or at least the most immediately confirming feature of stanza closure. But Schubert’s irregular divisions of the poem preclude such perceptions. The way he has sectioned the poem, omitted some lines, and broken up others—treating midline caesuras as endings—there is not always a rhyme to be heard. To compensate, Schubert gives each of his “stanzas” a musical rhyme, a cadential turn figure (see example 1.2, m. 9). This cadential figure occurs throughout the song, in the contrasting middle section as well as in the opening and closing ones. The upshot is that Schubert, approaching this rhythmically amorphous poem, reads it in strophe-like segments, which are marked with the musical rhyme so they stand out in his “through-composed” song. The entire song is too long to reproduce here, but I provide a diagram of its form in figure 1.3. In this diagram, Schubert’s repetitions of lines and words are written out, the words to which the “rhyming” cadence is set are underlined, and spaces separate his “stanzas.” At the risk of redundancy but in the interest of clarity, let me repeat myself. Given the non-strophic form of Leitner’s poem, it is meaningless to report merely that Schubert’s setting is through-composed. The situation is far more complex and interesting than that, as I hope I have shown. One might even argue that Schubert’s song implies a critique of the undemarcated structure of Leitner’s poem, for which the composer has sought to compensate. Consistent with that critique, Schubert also deleted three of the poet’s lines that he found pretentious or self-conscious because of their vocabulary or perhaps merely superfluous. * * * In his book Schubert: Musik und Lyrik, Georgiades does not merely use Schubert’s songs as an illustration of the relations between words and music he observes, but he also argues a specific, historical thesis—that Schubert’s Lieder are unique in the history of music in their precise presentation of the lyrical text as music: “Schubert’s song is the musical sounding of language, it is language as music.”18 In this chapter I make no attempt to support Georgiades’s claim that Schubert’s text setting is unique; indeed I believe the principles outlined here can be usefully applied to song repertory in general within the confines of the common practice period, from the late seventeenth to the late eighteenth centuries. Indeed it is because I believe these to be generally appropriate modes of thinking about song that I have delivered this lecture many times and now written this essay. Once we make ourselves more aware of these very basic ways in which words and music share similar or analogous structural traits, we can then move beyond the recognition of their rudimentary interrelatedness to understand the structural and expressive ends their conjunction can serve.

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Notes 1. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Neue Ausgabe Sämtlicher Werke (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1955–), series 3, vol. 8, 42. 2. Among a number of studies imaginatively employing Schenkerian linear analytical methods in the discussion of Lieder are Edward Laufer, “A Schenkerian Approach” [Brahms, “Wie Melodien zieht es mir,” op. 105, no. 1], in Readings in Schenkerian Analysis and Other Approaches,” ed. Maury Yeston (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1977), 254–72; Carl Schachter, “Motive and Text in Four Schubert Songs,” in Aspects of Schenkerian Theory, ed. David Beach (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1983), 61–76; Charles Burkhart, “Departures from the Norm in Two Songs from Schumann’s Liederkreis,” in Schenker Studies, ed. Hedi Siegel (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 146–64; Heather Platt, “Dramatic Turning Points in Brahms Lieder,” Indiana Theory Review 15 (1994): 69–104. 3. Cf. Jack Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1971). 4. Cf. Arthur Komar, “The Music of Dichterliebe: The Whole and Its Parts,” in Dichterliebe, Norton Critical Score (New York: W. W. Norton, 1971), 63–94. 5. Kofi Agawu, “Theory and Practice in the Analysis of the Nineteenth-Century Lied,” Music Analysis 11 (1992): 3–36. To avoid the influence of the poem on his interpretation of the music and vice versa, Agawu first examines the poem strictly by itself as literary creation, then likewise the music, and only then asks what features of one find a reflection in the other and what features are not reflected in the other. 6. Thrasybulos Georgiades, Schubert: Musik und Lyrik (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1967). See also English translation of the opening discussion of Wanderers Nachtlied (“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh’”) in Walter Frisch, ed., Schubert: Critical and Analytical Studies (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 84–103. See also Deborah Stein and Robert Spillman, Poetry into Song: Performance and Analysis of Lieder New York: Oxford University Press, 1996). 7. See David Hamilton’s fine essay for the general reader, “The Secret Life of a Song: Schubert’s Im Frühling,” High Fidelity (November 1978): 72–79. 8. All the songs discussed in this chapter are listed below. They can be found in the old and, in many cases, in the new complete edition of Schubert’s works. The locations are listed by volume/page (the absence of page numbers in the Neue Schubert Ausgabe indicates that the volume is yet unpublished): Title “Der Winterabend” “Die Bürgschaft” “Heidenröslein” “Der Neugierige” “Schäfers Klagelied” “Die Schatten” “Die erste Liebe” “Ungeduld” “Pause” “Der Tod und das Mädchen” “Wiegenlied” (“Schlafe”) “Der Zwerg” “Der Musensohn”

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Deutsch No. D. 938 D. 246 D. 257 D. 795/6 D. 121b D. 50 D. 182 D. 795/7 D. 795/12 D. 531 D. 498 D. 771 D. 764

Old GA IX/118 III/11 III/37 VII/149 I/200 I/58 II/94 VII/152 VII/162 V/35 IV/239 VII/95 VII/48

NSA XIV VIII I/24 II/42 I/20 VI/68 VIII II/46 II/63 I/66 V I/160 V

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“Erlkönig” “Wanderers Nachtlied” “Die Liebende schreibt”

D. 328 D. 768 D. 673

III/202 VII/70 VI/68

I/173 V XII

9. Maximilian and Lilly Schochow, eds., Franz Schubert: Die Texte seiner einstimmig komponierten Lieder (Hildesheim: Olms, 1974). This edition of the texts that Schubert set as solo songs is invaluable, for it reproduces the poems in their original published form, as Schubert would have found them, not as he amended them. One can therefore readily perceive the alterations and deletions the composer made. The texts used in this chapter are based on the Schochow edition. 10. The term is credited to Hugo Riemann (1849–1919), who argued that the divisibility of music into units of four (e.g., measures, beats, phrases), a common, though hardly pervasive, principle of Classical music, is a universal musical phenomenon. 11. See Paul C. Boomsliter, Warren Creel, and George S. Hastings Jr., “Perception and English Poetic Meter,” PMLA 88 (1973): 200–208. 12. The discussion of pentameter settings is abridged here because a combined version of the two articles on Schubert’s settings of pentameter poetry that Ann Fehn and I coauthored is printed in this volume (chapter 7). The first article is an exposition of our discovery of the even and compressed declamation principles; the second is a statistical study that suggests linguistic factors in the pentameter lines that may have led Schubert to choose one declamation convention over the other in individual instances. 13. See chapter 7. 14. Such five-line and seven-line strophes are in fact not unusual in German poetry and are found as far back as Minnesang of the Middle Ages; they occur with varying line lengths, endings, and rhymes. The point is not that such irregular stanzas are rare but rather that they are less common than the quatrain with alternating rhyme, which is the pattern the first three lines of such a five-line strophe evoke and that our ears are accordingly primed to expect. See Otto Paul and Ingeborg Glier, Deutsche Metrik, 8th ed. (Munich: Huebler, 1970), 116–17, for other examples of such strophes. 15. The word order and reflexive verbs cannot be rendered in an intelligible, idiomatic English translation. The meaning is “And everything moves to my beat, everything moves to my measure.” The closest one might come is “And to my beat, and to my measure, everything moves.” This at least catches the sense of dependency of the two prepositional phrases on the third line but does not render the reflexive verbs. 16. Richard Capell, Schubert’s Songs (London: Pan Books, 1973), 181. The book was first published in 1928 and revised in 1957. My source was a reprint of the revised edition. 17. See chapter 9 for the sonnet study by Fehn and Thym. 18. Georgiades, Schubert, 21.

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Part I

Close Readings and Comparative Studies

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Chapter Two

The Musical “Spirit” of Goethe’s “Suleika” Schubert’s Settings D. 720 and D. 717 Harry E. Seelig Schubert’s settings of Goethe’s lyric poems, but for some notable exceptions (e.g., “Gretchen am Spinnrad” and “Erlkönig”), have traditionally received only grudging and partial approval from literary critics and musicologists. Goethe scholars have been even more patronizing toward the composer’s two “Suleikalieder.” Schubert’s settings, it is said, are brilliant musical creations, but they do not reflect Goethe; the “Suleikalieder” in particular do not even represent Goethe, since the poems were written by Marianne von Willemer. Despite such caveats, I submit that Schubert’s settings D. 720 and D. 717 are not only superb in themselves but also provide intellectual and intuitive insights into Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan as a whole. The truth of my assertion can be seen in a detailed structural analysis of poem and music, with an interpretive synthesis of both. The Suleika poems as they stand are a moving statement of a basic emotion: a woman in love, separated from her lover but with hopes for a reunion, confesses that this mere hope constitutes her very life. Apart from the central metaphoric device—the East and West winds—and the Oriental motive (dust), there seems no obvious or compelling reason for Goethe’s inclusion of both poems in his Divan, the collection that presents the intellectual and aesthetic aspects of love on a cosmic and philosophical scale but treats them in colloquial, _________________ The chapter originated as a lecture-demonstration with the soprano Dorothy Ornest at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst in May 1971; it was published in German with the title “Schubert’s Beitrag ‘zu besserem Verständnis’ von Goethes Suleika-Gestalt: Eine literarisch-musikalische Studie der ‘Suleika-Lieder’, Opus 14 und 31,” Beiträge zur Musikwissenschaft 17, 4 (1975): 299–316.

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aphoristic terms. Yet on closer examination, one finds such key words of Goethe’s late period as “Liebe,” “Leben,” “Atem,” and “Liebeshauch” in the deceptively simple trochaic tetrameter stanzas. Indeed, within the confessional context of Suleika’s monologues, these Goethean concepts could even be said to be out of place. Schubert’s music, however, qualitatively transforms Suleika’s musings, fusing Goethe’s metalyrical philosophizing and Willemer’s emotional aspirations into a synthesis that is more than the sum of its parts. Goethe and Marianne von Willemer last saw one another in Heidelberg in late September 1815. “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” was written in a stagecoach en route from Frankfurt to Heidelberg and “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” during the return trip to Frankfurt. However, it was Willemer, not Goethe, who wrote these two poems, and she, not he, was the creator of what had been taken to be all but perfect examples of a male poet’s ability to express empathetically in poetry the soul of a woman in love.1 In these two poems we see one experience prompting responses from two perspectives—anticipation and recollection. Goethe separated this romantically expressive pair by placing the two classically austere poems “Hochbild” and “Nachklang” between them in the cyclic whole we know as the “Buch Suleika.” However, Schubert reacted only to the feminine half of this “Duodrama,”2 and, as we shall see, he set them in a manner reflecting their common biographical origin. We can see the relationship between the two poems by noting their structural similarities in the juxtaposition of the respective stanzas (fig. 2.1).3 Even a cursory glance reveals numerous similarities between the two poems, among the most obvious of which are nouns and verbs used in both: for example, “Bewegung,” “bringen,” “Kunde,” “kühlen,” “Wunde”/”wunden,” “sanft,” “Hügel,” “Betrübten”/”betrüben,” “Herz,” “Hauch,” “Liebe,” “Leben,” “werden,” “geben,” and the unavoidable “Ach.” Other similarities include the rigidly constant metrical form: each poem consists of four-line stanzas with four trochees in each line, a formal pattern as unproblematic and preeminently musical as any imaginable. Nevertheless, the differences are even more striking than the similarities: the most noticeable formal difference is the “extra” stanza in the first or the “missing” stanza in the second poem. The mood is also very different: whereas “des Herzens tiefe Wunde” and “Betrübten” are the only words of sorrowful, pained, or negative connotation in the entire first poem, the second contains “leide,” “stilles Sehnen,” “Tränen,” “die wunden Augenlider,” “Leid,” “betrüben,” and “Schmerzen” throughout the first four stanzas. Yet perhaps the most fascinating aspect of these two poems is the transformation of words, phrases, and images in a manner that embraces both similarities and differences. For example, the word “Atem” in the first poem becomes “Hauch” in the second; analogously, “Und so kannst du weiter ziehen!” becomes “Eile denn zu meinem Lieben”; and the couplet “Lindert sanft der Sonne Glühen, / Kühlt auch mir die heißen Wangen” becomes “Doch dein mildes sanftes

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Figure 2.1. Goethe, “Was bedeutet die Bewegung” and “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” D. 720

D. 717

(A)

(X)

Was bedeutet die Bewegung? Bringt der Ost mir frohe Kunde? Seiner Schwingen frische Regung Kühlt des Herzens tiefe Wunde.

Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen, West, wie sehr ich dich beneide: Denn du kannst ihm Kunde bringen, Was ich in der Trennung leide.

(B)

(Y)

Kosend spielt er mit dem Staube, Jagt ihn auf in leichten Wölkchen, Treibt zur sichern Rebenlaube Der Insekten frohes Völkchen.

Die Bewegung deiner Flügel Weckt im Busen stilles Sehnen; Blumen, Augen, Wald und Hügel Stehn bei deinem Hauch in Tränen.

(A1) Lindert sanft der Sonne Glühen, Kühlt auch mir die heißen Wangen, Küsst die Reben noch im Fliehen, Die auf Feld und Hügel prangen. (C)

(X1)

Und mir bringt sein leises Flüstern Von dem Freunde tausend Grüße; Eh noch diese Hügel düstern, Grüßen mich wohl tausend Küsse.

Doch dein mildes sanftes Wehen Kühlt die wunden Augenlider; Ach, für Leid müsst’ ich vergehen, Hofft’ ich nicht zu sehn ihn wieder.

(B1)

(Z)

Und so kannst du weiter ziehen! Diene Freunden und Betrübten. Dort, wo hohe Mauern glühen, Find ich bald den Viegeliebten.

Eile denn zu meinem Lieben, Spreche sanft zu seinem Herzen: Doch vermeid’ ihn zu betrüben Und verbirg ihm meine Schmerzen.

(“A2”)

(Z1)

Ach, die wahre Herzenskunde, Liebeshauch, erfrischtes Leben Wird mir nur aus seinem Munde, Kann mir nur sein Atem geben.

Sag’ ihm, aber sag’s bescheiden: Seine Liebe sei mein Leben, Freudiges Gefühl von beiden Wird mir seine Nähe geben.

(continued)

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Figure 2.1. Goethe, “Was bedeutet die Bewegung” and “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”—(concluded) [What does this breeze mean? Does the east wind bring a joyful message? The refreshing motion of its wings cools the deep wound of the heart. / The wind plays caressingly with the dust and chases it in light small clouds; it drives the joyful insect folk into the shelter of vines. / It gently lessens the sun’s heat and cools my glowing cheeks, and, even in flight, kisses the grapes that sparkle on field and hill. / Its soft whispering brings a thousand greetings from my friend; thousand kisses greet me before these hills darken. / And so you can go on your way! Go to serve friends and those in distress. I soon will find the much-beloved where lofty walls glow. / Alas, the true knowledge of the heart, whispers of love, refreshed life can only come from his mouth, can only come from his breath.] [Alas, how I envy you, west wind, for your moist wings, because you can bear witness of how I suffer in separation. / The movement of your wings awakens quiet longing in my bosom; tears well up in flowers, eyes, forest and hill when you touch them. / But your mild and gentle breezes cool sore eyelids. Alas, I would have to perish in suffering, could I not hope to see him again. / Hurry then to my beloved, speak gently to his heart, but try not to sadden him and conceal from him my pain. / Tell him, but tell him with humility: His love is my life, a joyful sense of both love and life will come only through his presence.]

Wehen / Kühlt die wunden Augenlider.” The difference in perspective between the two poems—anticipatory and reminiscing—is intensified by the contrasting syntax of each opening stanza: whereas Suleika precedes her monologue to the East Wind with two brief and forceful questions, her opening lament to the West Wind, although in declarative form, extends languidly over several lines. Moreover, the first poem is predominantly expressed in the third person (except for the restrained but insistent “Diene Freunden und Betrübten” following “Und so kannst du weiter ziehen” at the beginning of the fifth stanza), while the second poem exhibits some form of second-person reference—“du,” “dich,” “dein,” or the intimate verbal form—in every stanza. The marked difference in tone between the two poems might be characterized as the dichotomy between positive and negative emotions in transition; most commentators would agree that Suleika’s anticipatory first statement is the positive assertion, while her reminiscent second monologue is negative. Yet a simultaneity of positive and negative feelings pervades both poems: for instance, the phrase “Diene Freunden und Betrübten”4 of the otherwise positive first poem balances the words “Freudiges Gefühl” of the basically more negative second poem. Another example of paradox is what has been called Marianne’s “unreserved devotion and restrained humility and modesty.”5 Further details could be cited to support this simultaneity of meanings and emotions in conflict. But it is this

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very ambivalence, this ineffable similarity in difference, that is so ideally suited to the composer’s medium and calls for musical treatment of the most subtle kind. Schubert’s settings (given in appendixes 2.1 and 2.2)6 enhance our understanding of the ambivalence between both separation and union and anticipation and recollection in these poems. Hatem’s and Suleika’s “Liebesspiel” in the “Buch Suleika” as a whole, the intellectual and emotional game played by Goethe and Marianne von Willemer (which sacrificed actual experience to a poetic creation), is in Schubert’s presentation both simplified and elaborated. To the extent that he treats the poems of only one partner, Schubert simplifies; but to the extent that he richly embodies the various and subtle possibilities of Suleika’s poems and makes musically perceivable that which would otherwise be hidden between the lines of Suleika’s modest utterances, he elaborates and interprets.7 Through musical means alone, Schubert reverses the direction of emotional energy between these poems and opens our ears to poetic subtleties in them heretofore only vaguely sensed by Divan experts probing the mysteries of Goethe’s late-period lyricism. While it is known that Schubert composed “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” (D. 720) in March 1821 and that the song was published as op. 14, no. 1 by Diabelli in Vienna in December 1822, it can only be surmised that “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” (D. 717) was—as Otto Erich Deutsch suggests—also composed sometime in March 1821. The only known copy of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” was written in early 1825, and the song was published as op. 31 in August of that year.8 Thus both designations—D. 717 as well as op. 31—are misleading, particularly in the present context. Yet in spite of the clear differences in these settings, subtle motivic and other structural similarities in these compositions not only parallel many of the structural features in the poems but also emphasize less obvious cross-relationships between them. Since “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” has six stanzas, it should come as no surprise that Schubert devised three structurally discrete sections of musical continuity for the setting (appendix 2.1); these sections might be referred to as A (mm. 6–26), B (mm. 27–41), A1, (mm. 42–61), C (mm. 62–83), B1 (mm. 84–109), and “A2” (mm. 109–end). “A2” (stanza 6: “Ach, die wahre Herzenskunde”), on the surface, may be considered a contrasting coda in B major, but it also represents a significant transformation of the motivic and harmonic material of the two B minor sections, A and A1. Actually, the final transformation (stanza 6) is foreshadowed in the five measures of music underlying the textual repetition of the final couplet of the first and third stanzas in sections A and A1, particularly since the major mode (and its prominent F-sharp-major chord), used contrastingly in this early context, becomes ubiquitous in section “A2.” The 43 time signature is a constant throughout, in spite of the broadened transformation for the sixth stanza. The contrasting melodic material (all in the parallel major mode) of section B (stanza 2) is varied rather freely in section B (stanza 5). Schubert increases the general movement in the latter section by modulatory and other structural means that reflect the increased urgency of the

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word “weiterziehen,” yet at the same time he establishes the momentary sadness of “Betrüben” by returning to the B minor mode before sequencing upward a half step for a repetition of the entire first couplet (“Und so kannst du weiter ziehen! / Diene Freunden und Betrübten,” mm. 88–91). This sudden yet gentle modulation to the remote harmonic realm of the flatted supertonic (Neapolitan), one of Schubert’s favorite devices, establishes the perfect musical analogy for both “weiterziehen” and the crucial word “Dort,” which is twice repeated over a chromatically ascending bass line before reaching its climax in the composite line “Dort find ich bald den Vielgeliebten.” Although the extended embellishment of the second couplet of this stanza goes considerably beyond the original poetic design, the musical climax thus created is amply justified, both psychically and poetically, if only because Schubert has ingeniously and paradoxically combined the cumulative crescendo effect (throughout mm. 92–99) with a magical moment of open-endedness at the final syllable of “(Vielgelieb)ten”—precisely at the moment the stanza concludes with a V–I cadence in F-sharp. This remarkable “lack of resolution” not only aptly projects the yearning for that distant (“Dort . . . dort . . .”) rendezvous with Suleika’s lover, but, more important, it provides a first illustration—in musical terms—of the crucial “reversal” in the direction of emotional energy that represents Schubert’s major insight into these poems as a whole. The prominent F-sharp pedal point at the climax just mentioned (and continuing throughout the ensuing ten-measure piano interlude) “sounds” far more unresolved—in a tonal sense—as it underscores this continuous decrescendo in which all the expended energy of the previous emotional outburst is gathered and preserved (also by virtue of the drastic change in the range of the piano part as the sixteenth-note figuration descends), as it inexorably pulsates throughout section “A2,” where it functions clearly as a dominant pedal in almost every other measure (mm. 109–10 and following). In essence, then, this intervening transition transforms the outward energy of the first five stanzas (begun with the initial question of the first line) into the inward intensity needed for Suleika’s final, controlled statement in the sixth stanza. Schubert’s musical solution for this sixth stanza (section “A2”) was lavishly praised by one of the severest judges imaginable, Johannes Brahms, who said: “The last stanza of Schubert’s Suleika-Lied ‘Was bedeutet die Bewegung?’ is the only place where I feel that Goethe’s words have been ‘heightened’ [enhanced] by musical means. I can not say that about any other Goethean poem. They are all so complete in themselves that music can do nothing for them.”9 The five stanzas of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” have led Schubert to a contrasting setting (see appendix 2.2) that, until carefully examined, seems to have almost nothing in common with “Was bedeutet die Bewegung.” The somewhat brooding B minor quality of D. 720, for all its rushing forward motion and alternation to the major mode, seems massively somber compared to the breezy, spacious sweep of D. 717, which is less weighty in effect at least in part because of its key—Bflat major—and its pointedly brief excursions into the relative minor mode.

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Schubert sectionalized this setting in an extraordinary manner, choosing to treat the final two stanzas as a unit. They are set, moreover, in 43 time, in contrast to the 42 time of the first three stanzas. For purposes of analysis, I have designated these sections X (mm. 9–39), Y (mm. 40–83), X1 (mm. 84–128), Z (mm. 129–46), and Z1 (mm. 147–end), where sections Z and Z1, taken together but excluding the two introductory measures in the piano part, can be broken down into seven four-measure groups, one unit each of five and seven measures, and two final eight-measure segments according to an intricate but balanced pattern. Since our concern is not solely musicological, the minute subdivision of musical phrases and segments here is of somewhat less importance. What matters most is how Schubert singled out parts of stanzas and used their evocative repetitions to evolve a texture that is eminently successful not only as music but also as an interpretive statement on the meaning of the poem itself. For example, “Freudiges Gefühl von beiden” is repeated within the forward movement of the stanza, and “Sag’ ihm aber, sag’s bescheiden” is used in fragments. Regarding the first part of the setting, section X presents the first stanza intact, with the repetition of the last couplet set to an exact repetition of the eight measures of music underlying its first presentation. Section Y provides a contrasting melody and accompaniment in the dominant key area—F major—and, by virtue of its syncopated and more pronounced rhythm, underscores the “movement” of the second stanza perfectly: “Die Bewegung deiner Flügel weckt im Busen stilles Sehnen” (emphasis mine). A repetition of the last couplet of this stanza projects Schubert’s understanding of the role nature’s agents play in relation to the lovers. A piano interlude then leads to section X1, which initially presents the third stanza in an exact melodic repetition of section X (first stanza) but then repeats the last couplet—“Ach, für Leid müsst’ ich vergehen / Hofft’ ich nicht zu sehn ihn wieder”—twice in the major mode of the relative minor key area—that is, in G major instead of the expected G minor. Then another brief piano interlude leads back to the tonic key and the dramatic measure of silence before the final segments, Z and Z1, begin in the “etwas geschwinder” transformation to 43 time. This preliminary description of the overall structure of these settings, however, gives almost no account of the poetic-musical nuances in virtually every measure. In fact, the subtlety of Schubert’s achievement requires one to look beyond rigid metrical or musical forms. To be specific, the mood of the two poems could hardly be equated with their musical tempo markings of etwas lebhaft (somewhat animated) and mäßige Bewegung (moderate movement); structurally, almost every successive stanza in both poems is extended and embellished by repeating words, phrases, entire lines, and groups of lines until in both finales (i.e., the final stanza of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” and the final two stanzas of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”) the entire four-line stanza is repeated, parts of it more than once. I agree with Edward T. Cone, who has written, “it is too facile to claim that every such repetition and rearrangement is an arbitrary violation of the poetic design. . . . If in reading poetry our consciousness (or

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perhaps, better, our subconsciousness) hovers over certain words, and ranges both forward in anticipation and backward in memory, an actual phonographic recording of our thoughts would probably involve a great deal of repetition, not unlike that made explicit in certain songs.”10 Schubert’s settings provide just such an example. As for rhythm, or, more exactly, metrical structure, there is a basic change in each setting not indicated or justified by the unvaried metrical pattern throughout both poems: the etwas lebhaft ostinato pulsation consisting of a dotted quarter and three eighth notes in almost every measure of the first five stanzas of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” changes to the etwas langsamer (somewhat slower) steady eighth notes in the sixth stanza. And the 42 mäßige Bewegung of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” changes to a 43 meter—etwas geschwinder (somewhat faster)—for the fourth and fifth stanzas. Finally, the acoustic forms of the poems, such as assonance and rhyme, are not reflected consistently in the music. In the second stanza of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” the alternately rhymed verse endings “Staube”/”(Reben)laube” and “Wölkchen”/”Völkchen” are not given corresponding melodic motives to underscore the prosodic structure but rather are provided with melodic figurations to emphasize the semantic relationship of the poetic lines. Thus the melody of “der Insekten frohes Völkchen,” instead of alluding to “Wölkchen,” emphasizes the bond between living things in nature and the East Wind: “der Insekten frohes Völkchen” and the possessor of “des Herzens tiefe Wunde” (in the previous stanza) are melodically related in Schubert’s view (see mm. 15–17 and 33–35). Yet another feature of Schubert’s technique defies precise categorization: the frequent use of modal mixture, whether with reference to an interval, a chord, or a phrase. This hovering between the major and minor forms of the triad is particularly appropriate for portraying Suleika’s shimmering emotional ambivalence. Perhaps the clearest, boldest manifestation of this hovering effect occurs in the piano interlude following stanza 3 of D. 717 (see mm. 120–23), summing up the psychic conflict between sorrow and hope expressed in the couplet (“Ach, für Leid müsst’ ich vergehen, / Hofft’ ich nicht zu sehn ihn wieder”). In discussing Goethe’s musical interests, several scholars have noted the analogy between his conception of polarity and major-minor alternation in music generally. Surely Goethe’s basic dichotomy of systole and diastole in the Divan poem that begins Im Atemholen sind zweierlei Gnaden: Die Luft einziehen, sich ihrer entladen; Jenes bedrängt, dieses erfrischt; So wunderbar ist das Leben gemischt11

applies as much to the breathing process so vitally necessary for singing as it does—metaphorically—to the tantalizing effect of Schubert’s alternation

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between major and minor modes. Goethe was also much interested in the theory of alternation, whether in nature or in music. (He may not have been an authority on matters musical—relying for information by corresponding with third-tier composers such as Zelter—but occasionally his instincts may have led him into insightful analogues.) In pondering the significance of the two musical modes, for instance, he wrote: “Major . . . tends toward the objective, toward action, toward the remote and peripheral; Minor . . . tends toward the subjective and knows how to discover there the last refuge where cherished melancholy seeks enticingly to conceal itself.”12 But as if anticipating the perceptive ambivalence Schubert’s major-minor alternation would give to Suleika’s poems, Goethe modified his earlier dichotomy in an aphorism from Maximen und Reflexionen that synthesizes both extremes: “Yearning that strives outward and away from itself—seeking distance but yet remaining melodically constricted within itself— produces the minor mode.”13 These two statements, on the surface, appear to contradict one another. But Goethe’s definition of “Sehnsucht” involves both an outward motion (“in die Ferne streben”), which he has previously relegated to major, and a contracting motion (“in sich selbst beschränkt”), which in both statements is attributed to the minor mode in music. This combination or alternation of major and minor, implied by Goethe but perhaps not wholly realized by him, is precisely the means Schubert chose to represent “Sehnsucht.” Although “Sehnsucht” is implicit throughout both poems, it emerges explicitly in the second stanza of D. 717 (section Y). In a manner analogous to the emotional climax of the fifth stanza of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” section B1, on the line “Find ich bald den Vielgeliebten,” where we noticed the expansion of “Dort, dort . . . ,” Schubert has seized upon the personification of nature and the “Sehnsucht” image in the second stanza of D. 717 and provided an extended harmonic, melodic, and even rhythmic embellishment that emphasizes this section and makes the partially concealed poetic allusions in these four lines stand out in bold relief.14 In contrast to the B-flat major/G minor key area and buoyant melodic contour of the first stanza of D. 717, the second stanza is set in the dominant key area of F major. It has a more persistent off-beat rhythm in the accompaniment, perhaps to underscore “Die Bewegung deiner Flügel”; in comparison with the beginning of the first stanza, it reveals an intervallically reversed melodic shape, which anticipates the sighing inhalation of Suleika’s longing. While the first line of section X descends by a sixth, rises by a fifth, and then dips down and up again by a third and a fourth, respectively (mm. 9–12), in the first line of the second stanza, section Y, the melodic “wind” rises and swells by means of a third and a sixth before it drops a sixth and a fourth (mm. 40–43). But this activity on the part of the wind has been rhythmically expressed in the more rapid eighth notes underlying the word “deiner.” Such movement suggests another level of meaning: although Suleika is addressing the wind, she seems to be thinking of Hatem. This becomes even clearer in the analogous measure of the next line (mm. 44–49), where the earlier figure of four eighth notes is

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broadened into three quarter notes plus two eighths and expanded rhythmically into two measures on the word “stilles” to imitate musically Suleika’s quietly intense yearning. By the end of the second couplet, the melody of the phrase “Hauch in Tränen” has cadenced fully in the key of D-flat major. It is as if the original expansiveness (the melodic leap of a fifth upward) given to the crucial word “stilles” in the F major section underlying the phrase “weckt im Busen stilles Sehnen” (mm. 44–49) had here—by virtue of its “quiet yearning”—achieved a musical plateau: the distantly related key area of the flatted sixth scale step in the dominant. This D-flat realm is also the flatted mediant area of the tonic; Schubert’s use of this progression represents an excellent example of the “third-relations” often favored by Romantic composers to lend expressive and structural emphasis to an appropriate musical or, as in this case, musico-poetic context. The second couplet is then fully repeated and extended in D-flat, both major and minor, so that an impatient quickening (a repeated dotted eighth–and sixteenth-note figure—m. 71) on “deinem” and the coincidence of the D-flat-minor triad on “Hauch,” as well as the melodic climax on “Tränen,” all together seem to effect a merging of the “Sehnsucht” image (“stilles Sehnen”) with the natural personification of dew or rain or mist (whatever it is that makes the West Wind moist). But Schubert’s instinctive use of modal mixture here reveals more in this stanza in particular and the poem in general than even an unusually sensitive reading might yield. The identical major-minor harmony underlying “weckt im Busen” and “stehn bei deinem (Hauch)” forces us to sense the explicitly projected (not stated) connection between “einem Hauch” and the distant lover Hatem (mm. 44–45 and mm. 54–55). Moreover, this harmonic device points up the ambivalence of sorrow and joy in Suleika’s yearning, which is reversed as it is repeated: the previous coincidence of the minor triad just before the climax of the final “Tränen.” The subsequent minor triad on “Hauch” (m. 72) only intensifies the ultimate climax in the major mode on “Tränen” (mm. 74–76). We have now seen in some detail how Schubert has selectively projected a crucial aspect—the otherwise merely implied person of Hatem within the personification of the West Wind’s natural real—in the second stanza of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen.” The first four stanzas of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung,” on the other hand, reflect a different facet of Suleika’s personality—namely the transition of her questioning uncertainty and apprehensive anticipation at the start of the poem to the considerable calm of the fourth stanza, which in its turn foreshadows the mesmerizing tranquility of the sixth stanza. To see how this transition is accomplished, we must examine the rhythmic distribution of the voice line in comparison to the ongoing metric pulse of the accompaniment. In example 2.1 the asymmetrical declamation of the first stanza (section A) is contrasted with the symmetrical vocal melody declaimed in the fourth stanza (section C).15 Not only are the phrases in the first stanza of varying length, but as many as six and as few as two syllables are contained in a single measure.

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Example 2.1. Asymmetrical and symmetrical declamation in “Was bedeutet die Bewegung”

Contrastingly, there are just two syllables (one metric foot) in each measure of the equal eight-measure phrases of the fourth stanza, except at “eh noch diese (Hügel düstern),” where “noch” is delayed for one beat without, however, altering the overall effect. This structural feature underscores the change in Suleika’s thoughts from the wind’s activities in the external landscape to the internal realm: the greetings and kisses she longs for. Sections B and A1, underlying the second and third stanzas, respectively, have a contrasting function within this context. Section B, with its relatively disjunctive melodic motives for the first couplet (mm. 27–30), emphasizes the initial playfulness of the East Wind, while section A2, by repeating the initial asymmetrical melody underscoring Suleika’s two opening questions, suggests very strongly that the wind needs musical time to calm Suleika’s considerable passion (mm. 42–46). The fifth stanza of D. 720, in addition to leading up to the great climax of section B1 on “Dort find ich den Vielgeliebten,” as mentioned, also provides the motivic connection to D. 717. The very first line, “Und so kannst du weiter ziehen” (mm. 84–85), is set to a melody that resembles unmistakably two important statements in D. 717: “Eile denn zu meinem Lieben” (mm. 131–32) and “Sag’ ihm, aber sag’s bescheiden” (mm. 147–48). Further, these three phrases have a strong resemblance to the more disjunctive “Kosend spielt er mit dem Staube” (mm. 27– 28) at the beginning of section B of D. 720. These instances show how consistently Schubert clarifies poetic juxtapositions. It is in the final stanzas, however, that Schubert’s settings contribute the most to our understanding of Suleika’s monologues. Suleika’s profound acceptance, in D. 720, of the inescapable and ineffable truth implied in “Ach, die

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wahre Herzenskunde, / Liebeshauch, erfrischtes Leben” motivated Schubert to transform ingeniously the rhythmic and harmonic texture supporting this crucial sixth stanza. Our earlier comparison of an initial segment of piano accompaniment with the opening two measures of piano accompaniment of the sixth stanza in measures 6–7 and measures 109–10, respectively, indicated the scope of this extreme but organic transformation. The full effect of adding the melody of the sixth stanza to this “heightening” accompaniment, as Brahms termed it, particularly after the decrescendo-transition in the piano part, defies rational analysis, although the structure of what follows does not. The mesmerizing melody of “Ach, die wahre Herzenskunde, / Liebeshauch, erfrischtes Leben” (mm. 109–13) does have to encounter, in its terms, the final couplet and its extraordinary verbal constructions. Most striking is the enjambement “erfrischtes Leben / Wird mir nur aus seinem Munde,” enclosed within the separation of “Liebeshauch . . . / Kann mir nur sein Atem geben.” To be sure, the compound subject consists of all three elements (“Herzenskunde,” “Liebeshauch,” and “erfrischtes Leben”) and as a threefold unit partakes equally of both predicate clauses. Therefore the final stanza may be taken in its literal sense to refer to physical breath or communication of love or in its figurative sense to include, with its reminder of the divine creation of man, a celebration of the creative power of the poet’s spoken word. Schubert’s expanded melody—the fourmeasure phrase of the first couplet is followed by six measures underlying the second couplet—requires a repetition of the words “sein Atem geben.” Schubert lets the verb “werden” (wird) and the modal auxiliary “können” (kann) fall on diminished chords in the right hand of the piano part (which are embellishing harmonies between chords of a more stable nature), thereby emphasizing the verbal character. At the same time, the typically Schubertian modal mixture in the cadential rendering of the final verbal infinitive “geben” underscores the basic ambivalence of Suleika’s position with respect to the literal and figurative levels of meaning implicit in this stanza (mm. 117–20). Although Schubert simplifies by abridging the final statement of the setting to read “Ach, die wahre Herzenskunde, / Liebeshauch, erfrischtes Leben / Kann mir nur sein Atem geben” and deemphasizes the enjambement to that extent, his use of modal mixture recognizes the continuing existence of the abridged version as well as the omitted segment “wird mir nur aus seinem Munde,” which would have stressed the more personal realm. Concurrent with this range of meaning, however, is the confluence of Suleika’s mature resignation (as signified by the poignantly subdued low-range piano sonorities) and her mild impatience (as projected in the brief dominant-tonic progression underlying the final vocal phrase of two measures). Furthermore, this simultaneity of resignation and desire is concentrated within the fundamental harmonic structure of “A2”: the alternation of dominant seventh and tonic chords over the F-sharp pedal (mm. 109–10 and following) with its strong movement (V7) toward resolution and poignantly insistent avoidance (six-four chord)

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of true resolution, particularly as it coincides with crucial words of the text (“wahr” and “-hauch” on V7; “-kunde” and “Leben” on the six-four chord), seems to establish this basic interpretative conclusion. Thus the excited anticipation at the outset of the poem, the external activity of the East Wind as Suleika’s messenger, and the soothing quality of its presence have all been internalized in the transition to and during the final stanza. Schubert magically captures here in music the development from outer to inner life, which a perceptive literary critic—Ernst Beutler—sees as the essence of the last stanza: “The external landscape recedes here before the [internal] landscape of the soul.”16 If we are correct in suggesting that D. 720—when viewed as a whole and heard with a severely critical ear—explicitly embodies Suleika’s transformation from a youthfully passionate woman to a mature love partner who begins to comprehend, with an emerging tone of Goethean resignation still tempered by mild impatience reflecting a youthful spirit, that the true object of her love is the spoken word as creative art, issuing from her lover, then we are even more correct in asserting that D. 717 expresses the culmination of that evolution in Suleika. The two-stanza finale of D. 717 with its bright and airy 43 meter, forever light or lighthearted by virtue of the accompaniment figuration (mm. 151– 54), which literally tosses itself ceaselessly upward into the nothingness of a sixteenth-note rest in at least fifty of fifty-seven evanescent measures, projects unmistakably—if it does anything—that sovereign mode of existence heralded with such profound lightheartedness by the sixty-five-year-old Goethe throughout the Divan. It is Schubert’s achievement to have embodied this truly Divanesque element of playfulness and abandon in D. 717 and to have merged with this realm that dimension of Suleika’s implicit personality we observed at the conclusion of D. 720. In sections Z and Zl of D. 717, this fascinating synthesis can be structurally analyzed. Although almost every detail of this fleeting segment (Z and Zl) radiates the optimistic acceptance that enables Suleika now to recognize a higher value in the self-renunciation that began to emerge at the level of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung,” we will emphasize several principal features. First, the change from duple to triple meter highlights the pulsating force that transmits Suleika’s impatient but controlled command: the tempo is bright and lilting throughout, while the recurring piano figuration underlying this open-ended finale literally trails off into the wind (mm. 171–72). Then, Schubert gives the last stanza with its crucial subjunctive phrase “Seine Liebe sei mein Leben” particular attention. While admittedly the most apparent level of meaning expressed by the verb “sei” here is that of the subjunctive in indirect discourse, the deeper level is doubtless that of the optative mood. The love Suleika is joyfully wishing for is the creative-aesthetic-intellectual love her poet-lover embodies. Indicative of the change this commitment represents is the relationship of the melodic shapes underlying “Seine Liebe sei mein Leben” (mm. 148–50 in D. 717) and the first line of the last stanza of D. 720, “Ach, die

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wahre Herzenskunde” (mm. 110–12): intervallically they are “virtual” inversions of each other. Schubert emphasizes and embellishes the optimism pervading this optative statement (“Seine Liebe sei mein Leben”) containing the two crucial terms “Liebe” and “Leben” by setting the next line, “Freudiges Gefühl von beiden,” as a sequential melodic repetition that not only reiterates the poetic line but also heightens the elation through a sudden half-step shift upward in both melody and harmony (including, moreover, the inherent shift of minor to major tonic resolutions for the secondary dominant seventh chords in mm. 151–54). Perhaps the greatest achievement with which Schubert can be credited, however, is his extended musical commentary on Suleika’s hauntingly ambivalent final couplets following the initial statement of the full stanza, as just discussed. Her words, “Seine Liebe sei mein Leben,” have often been taken to be indicative of her complete submission, dependence, and devotion; her life is literally his love—that is, her life without his love would be worthless, even impossible. That is certainly the expected colloquial sense of this coy communication through an intermediary. But Schubert’s music cuts right through this layer of commonplace meaning and opens our ears to the buoyant wish, belief, and hope inherent in Suleika’s feeling (“Freudiges Gefühl”). His setting has captured the essence of Suleika’s cajoling and her hesitating, the intermingled caution and urgency of her “Sag’ ihm aber, sag’s bescheiden” in an inimitable five-measure interplay of piano and voice (mm. 159–63). After the octaves in the right hand of the piano part cautiously descend scalewise, the voice gently enters and insistently repeats one pitch seven times while the piano adds harmonic-melodic urgency to this almost coquettishly enticing musical texture (by repeatedly stressing the leading tone of G minor). As the voice line demurely trails off on the word “bescheiden” (m. 161), the piano line simultaneously resolves its previous tension and reiterates the descending octaves (from m. 159). An exact ostinato-like repetition of the first two measures of the piano part follows. This provides contrasting rhythmic support for an ingenious melodic variation in the voice: the expected repeated notes of “sag’ ihm aber, sag’s” are transformed into a jubilant, buoyant triplet figure embellishing both the noun “Liebe” and the optative aspect of the verb in “seine Liebe sei mein Leben.” Whereas only the verb was rendered as a triplet in its initial occurrence (in m. 155), now (m. 162) Suleika’s central concern—Hatem’s love—is directly involved in the increasing joyousness, all of which is given additional impetus through a more complex rhythmic juxtaposition of vocal triplets and accompanying duplets (sixteenths and eighths in the right and left hands, respectively). Schubert thus responds to the repetition of words (“sag’ . . . sag’s”) and sibilants (“Sag’ . . . sag’s . . . seine . . . sei”) in his unique lyrical way: in deceptively simple yet profoundly expressive flourishes. He perceives the deeper meaning of the lines and creates a musical projection

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of Suleika’s wistful joy that recognizes the intellectual reciprocity celebrated in the “Buch Suleika.” Expressing conceptually the meaning of music is admittedly the riskiest of undertakings, but if one were to attempt to articulate the central perception of Schubert’s musical solution at this point, it would be that very jubilation Goethe must have experienced when his own rejuvenated feelings were given precise lyrical form by Willemer in a statement transcending the literary ability of the younger love partner. For while Suleika expresses her total immediate experience within this couplet, she does not consciously express the ultimate experience celebrated in the Divan in all its facets. Yet this ultimate celebration of love and life is precisely what Schubert’s setting effects; it is an explicit vehicle for the poem’s indescribable serenity and implicit maturity. The composer’s interpretive contribution does not end here. In the vocal line of the last eight measures of D. 717 (mm. 179–86) the various literary aspects of these musical interpretations culminate in a true literary-musical synthesis. Schubert lets the voice, in the simplest melodic-harmonic configuration imaginable, gently descend, outlining the notes of the tonic (B-flat) major triad. In theoretical and practical terms, the major tonic triad represents the most consonant and stable harmony conceivable. Metaphorically, one would speak of equilibrium or complete rest. Melodically, there is nowhere else to go; yet the movement of the West Wind in the accompaniment continues beyond the human voice. In the light of what has gone before, this can only symbolize Suleika’s acceptance of her fate, her renunciation of the immediate and actual in favor of the eternal and ideal. By superimposing the two concepts “Liebe” and “Leben” on the three most basic sounds of musical harmony, Schubert seems to imply that a third concept is inevitable. Although it can be seen only in retrospect, this third concept is hinted at in D. 720 (mm. 124–25), where the composite noun “Liebeshauch” is melodically set to the tonic major triad in a descending eighth-note triplet figure that leads to the crucial word (“-hauch”) on A-sharp, enharmonically the same pitch as the tonic note (B-flat) of D. 717. Functionally, there is absolutely no harmonic connection between these passages. Yet the sameness of pitch and the similarity of motivic structure (the basic triad as a triplet in D. 720 is intervallically identical to the evanescent closing melody of D. 717) do give tangible emphasis to the semantic relationship between “Liebeshauch, erfrischtes Leben” and “Seine Liebe sei mein Leben.” Whereas the rich connotative ambiguity in the final stanza of “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” is comprehensible without musical embellishment, the higher sense in which Suleika’s “Leben” fruitfully partakes of her lover’s “Liebe” at the conclusion of “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” is never explicitly stated in the poem. It is Schubert’s music that clarifies this relationship: on a syntactic level it links the explicit fact of Suleika’s “Leben” in D. 717 to the implicit realm of aesthetic sublimation, the creative power of the poet’s word, in D. 720.

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Even more important is the fact that Schubert enables us, on the level of metaphor, to see the relationship between experience and art in the two poems, as his music transforms the image of the wind.17 This messenger between lovers undergoes a gradual metamorphosis: from the original state of the wind in nature to the physical breath necessary for life and ultimately to the metaphysical essence of spirit or “Geist,” that ever-present element of the Divan. This transformation is best sensed in the two settings as a whole, but it can also be seen in their fundamental musical aspects—meter and rhythm. D. 720 establishes the basic wind image as a continuous sixteenth-note accompaniment figuration in 43 time and develops its human significance in the rhythmic transformation of the climactic sixth stanza (“A2”). D. 717 reduces the physical weight of the relentless accompaniment figuration of D. 720 in two ways: the meter is 42 and each measure begins with a sixteenth-note rest. The full importance of this change becomes apparent only in sections Z and Zl of D. 717, where Schubert ingeniously returns to the 43 meter of D. 720 and effects a further reduction in the accompaniment figuration. The critical sixteenth-note rest now occurs on every beat of the 43 measures, but not until the last subdivision of each unit of four sixteenth notes instead of on the first beat of each measure. Such an integrated synthesis and transformation of metric and rhythmic elements common to both poems has profound implications. Not only does it indicate the basic unity of the two poems in the most fundamental categories—meter and rhythm—shared by poetry and music, it makes virtually inescapable and all but tactile the progression from wind to breath to spirit. This intensification or heightening of literary elements by musical means is analogous to Goethe’s elevation of Willemer’s well-organized and poignantly expressed but otherwise derivative stanzas into the Divanesque sphere and to his transformation of the emotion of life into the “ernste Scherze,”18 the serious gaiety, of art. Indeed, Schubert’s sovereign handling of these two poems reflects precisely that degree of intellectual lightheartedness and aesthetic playfulness so prevalent in Goethe’s Divan wherever the concepts “Liebe” and “Leben” are found. It is surely no coincidence that in another poem, possibly also from the pen of Marianne von Willemer, the concept Geist—“spirit” in the broadest intellectual and aesthetic sense—is virtually generated by the other two. At least one commentator has called that utterance the quintessence of the Divan.19 It is an appropriate final word on Schubert’s achievement: Denn das Leben ist die Liebe, Und des Lebens Leben Geist.20

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.1. Schubert, “Suleika I” (“Was bedeutet die Bewegung”)—(concluded)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(continued)

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Appendix 2.2. Schubert, “Suleika II” (“Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen”)—(concluded)

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Notes 1. In an article entitled “Goethe und Suleika,” Preußische Jahrbücher 24 (1869): 1–21, fifty years after the appearance of the Divan, Hermann Grimm revealed the true authorship of these poems. 2. Goethe coined this term in “Noten und Abhandlungen zu besserem Verständnis des West-östlichen Divans.” See Goethe, Gedichte und Epen II (“Hamburger Ausgabe”), ed. Erich Trunz (Hamburg: Christian Wegener Verlag, 1964), 126–270. 3. The text is quoted from Goethes Werke II, ed. Erich Trunz (Hamburg: Christian Wegener Verlag, 1949), 80, 82. The third stanza of the second poem relates—in terms of form and content—to the middle two stanzas of the first poem. The letters in parentheses correspond to my designations—for purposes of analysis only—of Schubert’s musical settings. The prose translation is by the editor. 4. Goethe revised several of Willemer’s original versions before including them in his Divan; ironically, in this case her original formulation—”Diene Frohen und Betrübten” (emphasis mine)—is more logical and poetically superior. 5. H. A. Korff, Die Liebesgedichte des west-östlichen Divans (Stuttgart: S. Hirzel Verlag, 1949), 113: “rückhaltlose Hingegebenheit und zurückhaltende Demut und Bescheidenheit.” 6. The scores reproduced as appendixes are taken from Schubert’s Songs to Texts by Goethe, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski (New York: Dover, 1979), 188–94, 195–201. 7. Schubert did not otherwise restrict himself to exclusively feminine Divan settings. In setting three other poems from “Buch der Liebe” and “Buch des Sängers,” he deals with the masculine perspective. “Geheimes,” “Versunken,” and “Im Gegenwärtigen Vergangnes” (the latter a setting for male voices and piano) can be seen as Schubert’s counterparts to Goethe’s choice of “Hochbild” and “Nachklang” as contrasting voices separating “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” from “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” in his cycle. 8. Cf. Otto Erich Deutsch, Schubert: Thematic Catalogue of All His Works in Chronological Order (London: J. M. Dent, 1951), 321–23, and his article “Goethe und Schubert,” Chronik des Wiener Goethe-Vereins 12 (1936): 13–19. 9. Translation mine. Max Kalbeck, Johannes Brahms III (Berlin: Deutsche BrahmsGesellschaft, 1912), 87: “Die letzte Strophe des Schubertschen Suleika-Liedes, ‘Was bedeutet die Bewegung?’ ist die einzige Stelle, wo ich mir sagen muss, dass Goethesche Worte durch die Musik wirklich noch gehoben worden sind. Sonst kann ich das von keinem andern Goetheschen Gedichte behaupten. Die sind alle so fertig, da kann man mit Musik nicht an.” See also the paraphrase of Wolfgang Leppmann, The German Image of Goethe (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 93. 10. Edward T. Cone, “Words into Music: The Composer’s Approach to the Text,” in Sound and Poetry, ed. Northrup Frye (New York: Columbia University Press, 1957), 14, 11. 11. Trunz, Goethes Werke II, 10. An approximate prose translation might be: In breathing there are two blessings: inhaling and exhaling air; the former constricts, the 1atter refreshes; so marvelously is life designed. 12. Goethe’s letter to Christian Heinrich Schlosser, May 5, 1815, cited in Hans Joachim Moser, Goethe und die Musik (Leipzig: C. F. Peters, 1949), 66: “Dur . . . treibt ins Objekt, zur Tätigkeit, in die Weite, nach der Peripherie; Moll . . . treibt ins Subjekt und weiß dort die letzten Schlupfwinkel aufzufinden, in welchen sich die allerliebste Wehmut zu verstecken sucht.” 13. Trunz, Goethes Werke XII, 474: “Die Sehnsucht, die nach außen, in die Ferne strebt, sich aber melodisch in sich selbst beschränkt, erzeugt den Minor” (emphasis mine).

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14. The poetic allusions in this stanza can be said to be partially concealed because although the third line, “Blumen, Augen, Wald und Hügel,” appears in this form in many of the editions of the Divan compared and scrutinized by Hans Albert Maier in his critical edition (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1965), it appears as “Blumen, Auen, Wald und Hügel” (i.e., “meadows” instead of “eyes”—emphasis mine) in earlier versions such as the 1867 Cotta edition, in Schubert’s setting, and in other musical settings published in the decade following the 1819 appearance of Goethe’s first edition. It is ironic that this philologically illegitimate variant of Goethe’s form is the more logical choice, making the obviously intended personification of the dew-covered landscape a consistent image. 15. Arnold Feil, Studien zu Schuberts Rhythmik (Munich: Wilhelm Fink Verlag, 1966), 63. 16. Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, ed. Ernst Beutler (Bremen: Carl Schünemann Verlag, 1956), 636: “Die äußere Landschaft tritt vor der der Seele zurück.” The translation is mine. 17. Cf. David B. Greene, “Schubert’s Winterreise: A Study in Aesthetics of Mixed Media,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 29 (1970): 181–93. Greene’s study examines the logic of musical metaphor (as it pertains to the phenomenon of art song) and demonstrates convincingly how Schubert’s musical metaphors enrich their corresponding poetic subjects, giving them texture and substance (182). 18. Goethe’s letter to Wilhelm von Humboldt, March 17, 1832, cited in Trunz, Goethes Werke III, 460. Goethe was referring specifically to the esoteric Faust II, but this expressive oxymoron applies equally to the Divan. 19. Trunz, Goethes Werke II, 571. 20. Ibid., 75. An utterly untranslatable couplet in which the exalted position of Goethe’s conception of “spirit” as the aesthetic-intellectual end product of the interaction of “life” and “love” becomes manifest.

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Chapter Three

Text-Music Relations in Schumann’s Eichendorff Song “Frühlingsfahrt” Jürgen Thym Past discussions of the German Lied have focused almost exclusively on the musical side of the genre; in their pursuit of exploring increasingly subtle refinements in the Lied’s musical structure, scholars have often left literary considerations at the periphery. The Lied, however, is a compound genre in which poetry and music interact: a preexistent text is usually the stimulus from which the composer derives ideas for his or her musical setting. To do justice to the genre’s particular character, it is necessary to incorporate both elements when analyzing a song; that is, it is necessary to synthesize literary and musical analysis. The present study of Schumann’s song “Frühlingsfahrt” attempts such a synthesis.2 I begin with a detailed investigation of text modeled closely after Oskar Seidlin’s excellent interpretation of the poem;3 then I discuss Schumann’s modifications of particular words and phrases. This literary analysis will be complemented by a close study of the music as it relates to the poem on various levels.

The Poem Eichendorff’s poem “Die zwei Gesellen” (see appendix 3.1 for the poem, Schumann’s version, and a prose translation) tells the story of two journeymen _________________ The study originated as a chapter in my dissertation (see note 1). It was published in the 1980s in English in Theory and Practice 5, 2 (1980): 7–25, and in German as “Wort-Ton-Beziehungen in Robert Schumanns Eichendorff-Lied‚ Frühlingsfahrt,” in Aurora: EichendorffJahrbuch 42, ed. Wolfgang Frühwald, Franz Heiduk, and Helmut Koopmann (Würzburg: Eichendorff-Gesellschaft, 1982), 216–32 (with facsimile of Schumann’s autograph). It also appeared in The Romantic Tradition: German Literature and Music in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Gerald Chapple, Frederick Hall, and Hans Schulte [vol. 4 in the series German Literature, Art, and Thought] (Lanham: University Press of America, 1992), 333–58. It is reprinted here by permission of Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Lanham, MD. In the 1982 and 1992 publications, the article was dedicated to the memory of Jerald C. Graue.

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who begin their travels in springtime, full of hope and with expectations of mastering life. Their departure from home is not merely temporary but can be considered a start into life itself. The first young man gets married, his mother-in-law provides a house for the young family, and soon he has a son. In short, the first journeyman settles for a complacent life; it is almost ironic that soon after his departure from home he returns to a domestic existence. The life of the second man is more complex. While the female appears to the first youth as a mother, to the second she is an aggressive seductress: he fails because sirens seduce him and draw him into the carnal depths of life. When the second journeyman becomes aware of his failure it is too late, for he is old and tired. Both stories represent tragedies of human existence. In comparison with the hopes and high expectations at the beginning of the journey, both lives are failures, since the promises of life are left unfulfilled. The first youth ends up as a Babbitt, a narrow-minded Philistine, while the other becomes exhausted and tired of life.4 The poem divides easily into four segments: (1) introduction: stanzas 1 and 2; (2) life of the first young man: stanza 3; (3) life of the second journeyman: stanzas 4 and 5; and (4) conclusion: the last stanza. 1. The first two stanzas portray the two young men’s departure from home, their intentions, and their expectations. A single sentence extends over the entire first strophe and thus imitates—through syntactic tension—the enthusiasm and high expectations with which the young men start their journey. The tension is provided by separating the components of the verb “hinaus-ziehen”; the verb itself appears at the beginning of the strophe (in the past tense), whereas the prefix concludes it. The wonders of life that spring promises to the journeymen are represented by onomatopoeia in the phrase “hellen / Klingenden, singenden Wellen / Des vollen Frühlings.” The density of sonorous euphony is increased here to the extreme. To the poem’s regular rhyme at the end of each verse, “hellen-Wellen,” is added an internal rhyme, “klingenden-singenden,” and some kind of assimilation of “vollen” to “Wellen” in the fourth and fifth lines. The euphonious quality of the sounds is also supported by the strictly dactylic meter of the fourth line, thus matching the image of the waves with a barcarole rhythm. The second strophe continues the account of the young men’s joint departure and introduces the observer of the events in the third person (“und wem sie vorübergingen, dem”), thus preparing the way for the lyric subject who becomes a commentator in the last strophe. The syntax, although not quite as generously sweeping as that of the preceding strophe, still involves phrases that go beyond the confines of individual lines. 2. The third stanza is concerned with the fate of the first journeyman. The syntax of the strophe suddenly becomes short-winded. The end-stopped lines

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reflect the narrow-minded world in which the young man is now living. Only the last two lines are connected with one another by means of an enjambement; this device appears ironically at the very moment when the first journeyman looks out from his cozy little room into the open country, realizing (or perhaps not realizing) that he has failed to live up to the high expectations described in the first strophe. This point of view is also supported by the diminutive forms “Liebchen-Bübchen-Stübchen,” which establish a somewhat ironic comparison with the high aspirations voiced in the first two stanzas. 3. The fourth and fifth stanzas tell what happens to the other journeyman. The syntax of the fourth strophe is somewhat adventuresome. “Verlockend’ Sirenen” is an apposition to “tausend Stimmen,” while the structure of the last two verses is complicated by insertions of a genitive and two present participles between “in” and “Schlund.” The phrase can be parsed as follows: in————————————————————Schlund \ farbig klingenden / \ der buhlenden Wogen / The resulting syntactic tension reflects the power of the sirens pulling the second man into the abyss. To a certain extent, the syntactic tension of the fourth stanza approaches that of the first. The resemblances between both strophes are extensive because much of the verbal material of the first strophe is repeated in the fourth. The verb “singen” reappears, but now in the past form “sangen” with a darker vowel sound; the verb “klingen” appears later as a participle connected with the adverb “farbig,” thus producing a strange synaesthesia (“farbig klingenden”). The verb “zogen” also reappears in the fourth stanza, thus recalling the very beginning of the poem. The waves of spring (“Wellen des Frühlings”) now appear as billows (“Wogen”) threatening to overwhelm the journeyman. The tragedy of the second traveler is that he pursues the promises of spring perhaps more seriously than his counterpart. While the first man gives up early in life, the second remains faithful to the wonders of youth and spring. The waves now grow into billows, which destroy and obliterate him. The grammatical structure of the fifth stanza reflects this destruction. The death of the second journeyman—like that of the first—is expressed in a shortwinded stanza in which each line contains a complete clause. The use of the present tense “weht’s kalt” is unexpected because all verbs thus far have appeared in the past tense. Another element of bewilderment is added through the incorrect accusative “so still war’s rings in die [sic] Runde” and the unusual “über die Wasser.” The last verses recall a mythical world of chaos. The Catholic Eichendorff certainly knew the words of the Bible, “Und der Geist Gottes schwebte über den Wassern” (And the spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters) from the first chapter of Genesis, whose imagery is recalled by his lines.

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4. The expression of despair and destruction cannot constitute a satisfactory conclusion for a Christian poet. The last strophe, therefore, implies the universal character of the journeymen’s experiences and draws conclusions from them with a gesture of religious supplication. The observer of the two young men, briefly suggested by the use of the third person in the second stanza, reappears now in the first person, and he turns to the religious sphere as an entirely different basis for a way out of his desperation. Once again the waves of spring are singing and sounding; again young men are marching; again they have the highest expectations about their future. Yet the lines are not a mere recapitulation of the first strophe. The things that have happened cannot be undone. This time it is not with joy and happiness that the observer reacts, as he had done in the second strophe—when tears well up in his eyes, we know why. Eichendorff concludes his poem about the failure of two young men with a prayer, in which he includes all readers of the poem through the plural form “uns”—“Ach Gott, führ’ uns liebreich zu dir” (alas, God, guide us kindly to thee)—thereby suggesting the general relevance of his parable.

Schumann’s Text Schumann’s “Frühlingsfahrt” (see the central column in appendix 3.1) reveals some textual variants when compared with the poem “Die zwei Gesellen.” The most obvious change is the different title, which Eric Sams mistakenly attributed to Schumann.5 The song’s title “Frühlingsfahrt” actually goes back to an earlier version of the poem. In other words, Schumann (or whoever furnished the text for his setting) must have used, or at least consulted, one of the editions prior to the 1837 edition of Eichendorff’s collected poems. All other textual variants, however, are not derived from an earlier version of Eichendorff’s poem but are the results of Schumann’s alterations. (An asterisk indicates lines containing Schumann’s modifications.) “Frühlingsfahrt” is not the only case in which Schumann changed the text of a poem while setting it. Schumann altered his song texts much more frequently than did other composers (for instance, Hugo Wolf). Carelessness may have been the reason in some cases; a few variants sound as if Schumann had incorrectly memorized the poem. But very often the textual changes seem to have something to do with the compositional process; they are the results of balancing tensions inherent in the relationship between text and music. Compositional considerations may have led Schumann into musical patterns that forced him to alter the poem’s original wording.6 Frequently, the reasons for alterations are simply practical. Since a song text, unlike a text that is read, leaves little time for reflection, it should be understood without difficulty. Schumann responded to this need by eliminating syntactical complications in the poem and arriving

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at a simpler version. Both compositional and practical considerations seem to account for the variants in the song “Frühlingsfahrt.” A case in point is the fourth strophe. In Eichendorff’s poem syntactical tension extends over the entire strophe, finding release only at the deepest point in its decline: the final word “Schlund” (abyss). In addition, the synaesthesia of visual and aural metaphors, “farbig klingenden Schlund” (colorfully sounding abyss), constitutes a barrier to immediate comprehension. Schumann omits the synaesthesia (thus also eliminating the word “klingenden” that provides a wonderful reminiscence of the first strophe) and simplifies the syntax of the whole. The waves are now the end of the decline, and the chasm adds further description. Thus the poem loses one of its most distinguishing characteristics: the fusion of formal devices and content. It is the contrast between the end-stopped lines in the third strophe and the syntactic tension in the fourth strophe that is diminished by Schumann’s alterations. But we shall see that the music provides a substitute for the abandoned literary qualities. Further modifications include the removal of the incorrect or at least unusual accusatives in the fifth stanza, probably to avoid grammatical complications. Instead of the original wording, Schumann used the plain “in der Runde” and “über den Wassern.” Surely the extra syllables in the fourth line of the first stanza and the last line of the fourth stanza were added because of rhythmic considerations; Schumann wanted each line to begin with an upbeat to maintain a certain regularity among phrases. Once again, however, poetic subtleties are suppressed in Schumann’s version. The remaining textual alterations cause fewer problems. In the last strophe, “klingen” and “singen” change places. Here Schumann likely wanted to avoid the juxtaposition of the hard and soft “s” (“es singen”) in the sung version for reasons of better diction: “es klingen und singen” is smoother. The last line (“ach Gott, führ’ uns liebreich zu dir”) is repeated not only to produce a more definite conclusion but also to give more emphasis to the religious consolation with which the poem ends and thus to prepare the expressive gesture of the postlude.

The Setting In the formal arrangement of “Frühlingsfahrt,” Schumann adheres to the stanzaic organization of Eichendorff’s poem. The first strophe of the song provides the structural framework as well as the motivic material for the following strophes, just as the first stanza of the poem furnishes the basic pattern of structure and imagery from which the other stanzas are derived. Larger groupings within the song also reflect to some extent Eichendorff’s disposition of his subject matter. As mentioned, three internal stanzas present the biographies of the journeymen: one tells the fate of the first, two tell that

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of the second. These three stanzas are framed by three others, two at the beginning in which the simultaneous departure of the two young men is reported and one at the end in which the lyric subject formulates the moral of their stories. Schumann’s song reflects this arrangement by differences in the musical settings of the internal and framing strophes. The first and second strophes are identical, and the sixth strophe is much like these two. The fourth and fifth strophes, which are concerned with the life of the second journeyman, resemble each other; however, they differ considerably from the rest and thus establish a contrasting middle section. The third strophe, which deals with the first man’s fate, is virtually identical to the first two strophes. Perhaps we can consider this lack of musical variety in the third strophe a weakness in the overall structure of the song.7 Schumann’s setting indeed highlights only the fate of the second journeyman, while the first is treated rather casually. As we shall see, however, the variants in this strophe are not insignificant and indicate that Schumann did not misunderstand Eichendorff. The following diagram shows the structural framework of both poem and song: Eichendorff: Schumann:

1+2 3 4+5 6 A A A1 B B A2

Many of Schumann’s songs are built almost entirely of four-measure phrases, grouped two by two into eight-measure periods—a structure inevitably suggested by the four-line stanzas with which he usually worked. The asymmetrical five-line strophes of Eichendorff’s poem, however, led the composer to use a different pattern. Each stanza comprises two phrases. The first phrase sets two lines of text in four measures; the second phrase, corresponding to three lines of poetry, is extended over six measures, reflecting not only the presence of an additional line of text but also the syntactical tension produced by enjambements in these lines. The first phrase ends in the tonic key, D major (m. 4), whereas the second cadences on the dominant, A major (m. 10). This open harmonic conclusion appears in the first three strophes (see examples 3.1 and 3.2 for the score of strophe 1 and a linear analysis of strophes 1–3).8 After the first two strophes, a piano interlude repeats the first phrase, transposed to A major, thus confirming the dominant key. Only in the sixth strophe, in which the lyric subject prays to be led toward God, is the final cadence on the tonic. In addition to its musical function, the tonal disposition of the strophes appears to have a symbolic function: it can be understood as an analogue of the journeymen’s departure from home into the promising world of a flourishing springtime. The melody of the first strophe, with its initial ascending fourth, diatonic vocabulary, and latent functional-harmonic background, suggests the style of folk or popular song—a Wanderlied, so to speak—that was popular in the early nineteenth century.9 The first phrase and the beginning of the second phrase can be understood as an unfolding of the D-major triad; the second phrase introduces

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Example 3.1. Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”—mm. 1–15

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Example 3.2. Linear analysis of “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophes 1–3

the modulation to the dominant, which symbolizes the movement from home into the world (from “Haus” to “hinaus”). At the beginning of the second phrase the melody skips to f-sharp”, the highest pitch not only of this strophe but of the whole song. This culmination point releases its energy, as it were, in a gradually descending melody, mainly in conjunct motion, reaching the lower boundary of the ambitus and finally settling on the pitch with which both phrases began. The skip of an ascending major sixth, which yields the open position of the D-major triad, is most certainly generated from the words “so jubelnd” (rejoicing); the jubilant character of the passage is also supported by slurring the notes a’ and f-sharp’’ in a dotted rhythm. The melody expresses here the untroubled enthusiasm with which the young men start their journey. Not only the strophe’s tonal disposition but also its textural disposition symbolizes the departure from home into the diversity of the flourishing world. The strophe starts in unison with the piano duplicating the vocal line in both hands. After one full measure the piano begins the “departure” from the voice. A horn-call motif, the favorite musical symbol for the outdoors, introduces the chordal accompaniment that prevails throughout the song (m. 3). By the end of the first phrase the texture has grown quite rich, but the vocal line continues to be duplicated in both hands until the final measures of the strophe. Schumann thus achieves a remarkable clarity within the chordal texture; the enthusiastic melody never gets lost in textural thickness but always shines through as the main idea. The cheerful and carefree Stimmung at the beginning of the journey is also depicted by rhythmic devices. Schumann establishes a bold march, with dotted rhythms and emphatic accents on the beat. Upbeats at the beginning of each phrase, as well as each subphrase, impart a strong directional character, reflecting the travelers’ determination.10 The rhythmic pattern of this march is perfectly suited to the metric patterns of the poem. The dactylic pattern is usually presented as a quarter note followed by two eighth notes or a dotted eighth note plus a sixteenth note, while the trochaic pattern receives a dotted quarter followed by an eighth note. Rhymed words are emphasized by matching their stressed syllables with longer durational values. In this way, corresponding verses are delineated through corresponding rhythmic figures at the ends of phrases.

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Although the third strophe follows the basic structural framework of the previous strophes, it brings a sudden change in character. This alteration is effected in part by extensive modifications in the musical devices that make the first two strophes vehicles that represent an enthusiastic and carefree mood. The bold forte is changed to the less forceful mezzoforte that pervades the third strophe. The march rhythm is softened, since the right hand of the piano has straight eighth notes instead of duplicating the dotted rhythms of the vocal line. Now the piano doubles the vocal line in one of the middle voices, thus covering the original melody rather than emphasizing it, as was the case in the preceding strophes. The march rhythm appears again in the second phrase, together with the doubling of the voice in the upper part of the piano. This phrase, however, is not merely a repetition of the preceding strophes. In the first and second strophes, as seen in example 3.3, the dotted eighth notes were followed by quarter notes, and this angularity gave the march its bold character. In the third strophe, eighth notes are used instead of quarter notes. This rhythmic diminution—or, rather, rhythmic ornamentation by means of smaller note values—can be considered the musical counterpart to the diminutives of the poem (“Liebchen,” “Bübchen,” and “Stübchen”) and adds to the march a somewhat petit-bourgeois ambience, reflecting the narrow world in which the first young man now lives. The march transformed into a polka, as it were, has lost its bold and elated character and reminds us in its domesticated form that the first journeyman has failed to live up to the high ideals of his youth.11 The fourth and fifth strophes differ considerably from the strophic pattern established at the beginning of the song (see examples 3.4 and 3.5 for the score of the fourth strophe and a linear analysis of strophes 4–5). They follow neither the tonal development from tonic to dominant, as was the case in the preceding strophes, nor the division into two phrases. Neither of the two strophes carries the complete melody; only the head motive of the melody appears in the left hand of the piano, thus providing an element of unity among the strophes. Register and density change suddenly for the fourth and fifth strophes. While the previous sections exploit a relatively high register, with chords and octaves widely spaced, the texture thickens considerably, limiting itself to a small range in a lower register. The greater density communicates the increase of affect in the stanzas dealing with the fate of the second journeyman, and it is clear that Eichendorff’s as well as Schumann’s sympathy is with the fate of the second journeyman rather than the first. The key center of the two strophes is D minor. However, the listener who has heard A major as a new tonic at the end of the third strophe (m. 36) is inclined to perceive the various turns to A major in this section as having a Phrygian or Neapolitan flavor (with the appoggiatura B-flat functioning as a descending “leading tone”) rather than as half cadences in the dominant of D minor. The difference in character is all the more striking since the dominant A major was reached in the preceding strophes by the ascending leading tone G-sharp but now is approached from the descending “leading tone” B-flat.

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Example 3.3. Rhythmic values in “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophes 1–3

Example 3.4. Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”—mm. 35–46

As mentioned earlier, Eichendorff’s and Schumann’s texts differ considerably in their fourth stanzas. Schumann’s changes admittedly diminish important literary qualities of the poem by eliminating the tremendous syntactic tension that pervades Eichendorff’s version. This loss is compensated for, however, by the musical qualities of Schumann’s setting.12 In other words, Schumann rewrites into the music what he has taken out by changing the text. As we have noticed, only the head motive of the melody, which dominates the scene in the

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Example 3.5. Linear analysis of “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophes 4 and 5

previous strophes, is used in the musical setting of the fourth and fifth stanzas. It appears in measure 36 in a middle voice of the piano part, is stated two more times on the same pitch level, and is then repeated in sequence—each time a few degrees lower—until it reaches an octave below the starting point. The lowest voice of the piano follows a similar melodic motion: it begins with a pedal point on A (mm. 36–41) and then moves downward by steps, interrupted by two upward leaps of a fourth, until it reaches A’ (again an octave lower) in measure 46. The vocal line, too, follows this sequential motion: the characteristic motives are repeated on the same pitch in the first four measures and then begin their descent to the octave below their starting point. The right-hand part of the piano is linked to the same sequential pattern. Harmonically, the strophe can be considered an elaboration of the dominant A major that unfolds in a linear progression through a fourth (see example 3.5). The neighboring tone B-flat clashes with the A in measures 37, 39, and 41 and, as a descending “leading tone,” resolves into A in measures 38 and 40. In the last instance, however, the B-flat wins out and forces the bass to move downward. In the succeeding measures the bass establishes a series of 10–7 progressions with the upper voice and a series of 7–3 progressions with the middle voice; this results in a chain of seventh chords that do not resolve until the word “Schlund” (chasm) in measure 46. Perhaps it is not too farfetched to consider the chain of suspensions an effective picturesque device symbolizing the struggle between the second journeyman and the sirens who finally overpower him and draw him into the abyss. The instruction “nach und nach langsamer” contributes to the building tension. The strict sequential pattern not only controls the succession and combination of pitches but also has an effect on the phrase structure of the strophes. The head motive that initiates the sequence consists of two measures beginning with an upbeat, and the vocal line is constructed of a motivic unit of two measures beginning with an upbeat. The two motives alternate, constantly overlapping in the course of the strophe and thus maintaining an uninterrupted rhythmic flow (see example 3.6).

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Example 3.6. Overlapping motives in “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophes 4 and 5

Example 3.7. Eichendorff’s meter and Schumann’s declamation in “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophe 4

Example 3.8. Hypothetical declamation in “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophe 4

The rigid sequential pattern with which Schumann compensates for the abandoned syntactic tension of the poem has an impact even on the declamation. In Eichendorff’s stanza, the last two lines begin with a downbeat. Schumann circumvents the possibility of a downbeat beginning at the fifth line by adding the words “in der” as an anacrusis. In the fourth line, however, he contradicts the rules of proper declamation by giving a stressed syllable to an upbeat and, conversely, an unstressed syllable to a downbeat (example 3.7). The false declamation could have been avoided by matching the stressed word “ihn” with the downbeat of the next full measure (example 3.8). But that would have altered the musical pattern and damaged the sequence. The rigid succession of twomeasure units always preceded by an upbeat is an essential part of the sequential motion, and here everything (even declamation) is controlled by, and subservient to, the sequential pattern as the musical analogue to the nightmarish strength of the sirens.13 The last strophe (see examples 3.10 and 3.11 for the score of the sixth strophe and a linear analysis) brings a modified recapitulation of the strophic pattern that governed the first three strophes. The march rhythm of the previous stanzas is abandoned; the only remaining traces are the dotted eighth notes at the beginning upbeat in the piano (m. 56) and at the words “kecke Gesellen” (m. 61), a faint reminiscence of the enthusiasm at the beginning of the song. This time the major sixth is not slurred in a dotted eighth note rhythm but is taken in simple quarter notes. The passage is thus considerably less exuberant than in the first two strophes. A continuous ritardando extended over the last

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Example 3.10. Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”—mm. 55–71

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Example 3.11. Linear analysis of “Frühlingsfahrt”—strophe 6

part of the strophe prepares the conclusion of the poem. In the fourth strophe, the end point of the ritardando was the abyss into which the second journeyman was drawn by the sirens. This time, however, the goal is a prayer to God for guidance. The last strophe does not move to the dominant (as was the case in the previous strophes) but remains in the home key instead. After the open position 3 is reached in measure 61, the upper voice and bass simply move in parallel tenths through the range of an octave (example 3.11) and then cadence in the tonic key. The pivotal notes in this process (i.e., the tones G-sharp and G-natural in m. 66) appear exactly at the words “zu dir” (to thee), giving musical expression to the poem’s consoling conclusion. The poem’s last line, “alas, God, guide us kindly to thee,” is repeated in the setting to intensify the sense of closure, and the piano postlude concludes the song with a gesture of pious submission, a gesture totally appropriate (perhaps too appropriate for my taste) to the prayer of the last line. The music here is worlds away from the original Wanderlied and approaches the style of improvised modulations practiced by organists in nineteenth-century church music. In this study I have presented a type of analysis that takes into account the particular nature of the Lied as a compound work of art, in which music and poetry interact; they often enhance each other but also produce tensions or conflicts between themselves. This type of analysis could be applied to all kinds of vocal music. However, it is especially suited to vocal genres in which a particularly intimate relationship exists between text and music, and this is certainly the case with the German Lied of the nineteenth century.

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Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt” (lines with an asterisk indicate changes) Es zogen zwei rüst’ge Gesellen zum erstenmal von Haus, so jubelnd recht in die hellen, *in die klingenden, singenden Wellen des vollen Frühlings hinaus. Die strebten nach hohen Dingen, die wollten trotz Lust und Schmerz, was Recht’s in der Welt vollbringen, und wem sie vorübergingen, dem lachten Sinnen und Herz. Der erste, der fand ein Liebchen, die Schwieger kauft Hof und Haus; der wiegte gar bald ein Bübchen, und sah aus heimlichem Stübchen behaglich ins Feld hinaus.

Dem zweiten sangen und logen die tausend Stimmen im Grund, verlockend Sirenen, und zogen *ihn in die buhlenden Wogen, *in der Wogen farbigen Schlund.

Eichendorff, “Die zwei Gesellen”

Es zogen zwei rüst’ge Gesellen Zum erstenmal von Haus, So jubelnd recht in die hellen, Klingenden, singenden Wellen Des vollen Frühlings hinaus.

Die strebten nach hohen Dingen, Die wollten trotz Lust und Schmerz, Was Recht’s in der Welt vollbringen, Und wem sie vorübergingen, Dem lachten Sinnen und Herz.

Der erste der fand ein Liebchen, Die Schwieger kauft Hof und Haus; Der wiegte gar bald ein Bübchen, Und sah aus heimlichem Stübchen Behaglich ins Feld hinaus.

Dem zweiten sangen und logen Die tausend Stimmen im Grund, Verlockend’ Sirenen, und zogen Ihn in der buhlenden Wogen Farbig klingenden Schlund.

Thousands of voices in the depths sang to the second journeyman and deceived him: seducing sirens drew him into the colorfully sounding abyss of wooing billows.

The first journeyman found a sweetheart; his mother-in-law bought them land and house. Soon he was rocking a little boy in the cradle and was gazing from a cozy little room complacently out into the open country.

They had high aspirations. In spite of pleasure and pain they were going to achieve something right in the world. And whoever met them was left with a happy heart and soul.

Two hale and hearty journeymen traveled for the first time away from home. Rejoicing, they went into the bright, sounding, and singing waves of the flourishing springtime.

Prose translation of the original version

Appendix 3.1. Eichendorff, “Die zwei Gesellen”; Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”; translation

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Und wie er auftaucht vom Schlunde, da war er müde und alt, sein Schifflein, das lag im Grunde, *so still war’s rings in der Runde, *und über den Wassern weht’s kalt. *Es klingen und singen die Wellen des Frühlings wohl über mir; und seh ich so kecke Gesellen, die Tränen im Auge mir schwellen— ach Gott führ uns liebreich zu dir, *ach Gott, führ uns liebreich zu dir!

Und wie er auftaucht vom Schlunde, Da war er müde und alt, Sein Schifflein, das lag im Grunde, So still war’s rings in die Runde, Und über die Wasser weht’s kalt.

Es singen und klingen die Wellen Des Frühlings wohl über mir; Und seh ich so kecke Gesellen, Die Tränen im Auge mir schwellen— Ach Gott, führ’ uns liebreich zu dir!

The waves of springtime are singing and sounding above me. And whenever I see such jaunty journeymen, tears well up in my eyes—alas, God, guide us kindly to thee.

And as he emerged from the abyss, he was old and tired. His small boat lay on the bottom. It was very quiet all around, and over the waters a chilly wind is blowing.

Appendix 3.1. Eichendorff, “Die zwei Gesellen”; Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”; translation—(concluded)

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Notes 1. Walter Wiora’s Das deutsche Lied: Zur Geschichte und Ästhetik einer musikalischen Gattung (Wolfenbüttel: Möseler, 1971), for example, still follows this tradition. Exceptions, combining literary and musical analysis, are the studies by Harry E. Seelig, “Goethe’s Buch ‘Suleika’ and Hugo Wolf: A Musical-Literary Study” (PhD dissertation, University of Kansas, 1969); Jack M. Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971); Austin Clarkson and Edward Laufer, “Analysis Symposium: Brahms op. 105, 1,” Journal of Music Theory 25 (1971): 2–57; Eckart Busse, Die Eichendorff-Rezeption im Kunstlied (Würzburg: Eichendorff-Gesellschaft, 1975); Herwig Knaus, Musiksprache und Werkstruktur in Robert Schumanns “Liederkreis” (Munich: Katzbichler, 1974); and my “The Solo Song Settings of Eichendorff’s Poems by Schumann and Wolf” (PhD dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1974). 2. The song was composed in November 1840 and first published in Romanzen und Balladen (I), op. 45 (Leipzig: Whistling, 1844). A readily accessible edition of the song is Robert Schumann, Sämtliche Lieder, vol. 1, ed. Max Friedländer (Leipzig: Peters, n.d.), 156–59. 3. Oskar Seidlin, “Die zwei Gesellen,” in Versuche über Eichendorff (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1965), 161–92; also in Interpretationen: Deutsche Lyrik von Weckherlin bis Benn, ed. Jost Schillemeit (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1965), 173–96. Another valuable discussion of the poem is found in Egon Schwarz, Joseph von Eichendorff (New York: Twayne, 1972), 80–88. 4. Jack Stein describes the first journeyman’s life as a “happy fate” (Poem and Music in the German Lied, 118). As will be shown in this analysis, Eichendorff and perhaps also Schumann have a different opinion on this matter. 5. Eric Sams, The Songs of Robert Schumann (London: Methuen, 1969), 163. According to the Eichendorff-Kommentar, vol. 1, ed. Ansgar Hillach and Klaus-Dieter Krabiel (Munich: Winkler, 1972), 55, the poem was first published under the title “Frühlingsfahrt” in Frauentaschenbuch (1818), ed. Friedrich de la Motte-Fouqué (Nuremberg: Schrag, 1818), and reprinted under the same title in the anthology of poems by Eichendorff published as an appendix to the 1826 edition of the novellas Aus dem Leben eines Taugenichts and Das Marmorbild (Berlin: Vereinsbuchhandlung, 1826). The new title, “Die zwei Gesellen,” which relates to the poem’s initial line, appears in the first edition of Eichendorff’s collected poems, Gedichte von Joseph Freiherrn von Eichendorff (Berlin: Duncker & Humblot, 1837). See also Hilde Schulhof, “Zur Textgeschichte von Eichendorff’s Gedichten,” Zeitschrift für deutsche Philologie 47 (1918): 33. 6. An instructive example of this kind of change can be seen, for instance, in “In der Fremde” (Liederkreis, op. 39, no. 1). The autograph shows clearly that Schumann first composed the exact text of the Eichendorff poem and later altered it to accommodate his improvements over the first musical draft. See the facsimile in the appendix of Knaus, Musiksprache und Werkstruktur. 7. Busse, Die Eichendorff-Rezeption im Kumstlied, 46. 8. I gratefully acknowledge the help of Professors John Rothgeb and David Beach with the linear analyses in examples 3.2, 3.5, and 3.11. 9. See Alexander Sydow, Das Lied: Ursprung, Wesen und Wandel (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1962), 388–89. 10. As mentioned earlier, Schumann even adds the words “in die” as an anacrusis at the beginning of the fourth line to maintain the upbeat pattern in all subphrases.

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11. I cannot agree with Eric Sam’s interpretation that the passage is “a rocking movement in both hands” depicting “the idea of nursing a small son” (The Songs of Robert Schumann, 162). 12. The autograph (Deutsche Staatsbibliotek, Berlin; mus. ms. autogr. Schumann Liederbuch 16, 3) shows that the composition of strophes 4 and 5, especially the descending sequential motion, caused Schumann considerable trouble. See also Viktor Ernst Wolff, Lieder Robert Schumann in ersten und späteren Fassungen (Berlin: Hermann, 1913), 121–25. 13. The singer has the possibility of carefully adjusting the conflicting forces of declamation and rhythm in this phrase by giving stresses to “ihn” as well as to “in”:

Example 3.9. Suggestion for performance Since the second (unstressed) syllable of “zogen” coincides with a part of the measure that carries at least a secondary stress, four more or less accented syllables follow one another. On the performance level, this accumulation of stresses adds another device for portraying the power of the sirens that draw the second journeyman down into the abyss (as in Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s interpretation on LP Angel S 36266, reissued in 2004 as CD EMI Classics 7243 5 62771 2 0).

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Chapter Four

Hugo Wolf’s Ghazal Settings from “Das Schenkenbuch” of Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan Harry E. Seelig Apart from notable exceptions such as the “Mignon” and “Harper” songs, Hugo Wolf’s Goethelieder have never achieved the widespread success, either among critics or the general public, of his Mörike or Eichendorff settings. Even less successful are his seventeen settings from Goethe’s rather esoteric amalgamation of oriental and occidental idioms in the more than two hundred poems of his West-östlicher Divan. The fact that this wide-ranging cycle is in fact the product of an aged poet’s rejuvenated inspiration rather than the irreverent jottings of indiscreet senility has become clear to the most recent generation of German scholars. Not nearly so clear is the musicological consensus; yet it can readily be shown that Wolf’s musical interpretation of selected Divan poems richly complements and, at best, even enhances Goethe’s deceptively simple verses. To show this, however, one must closely examine the structures of the text as poetry and the music as more than mere accompaniment or self-contained statement of mood. While all five of Wolf’s “Schenkenbuch” songs reveal fascinating correspondences between poetic and musical structure, the two settings in which the composer grappled with Goethe’s emulation of the Persian ghazal form provide the greatest novelty and clearest perspective on Wolf’s considerable accomplishment in synthesizing occidental and oriental textures and values. When Goethe “discovered” Persian poetry through Hafiz and in HammerPurgstall’s translation in 1814, it seemed to many contemporaries to be something _________________ This chapter was first published in The Romantic Tradition: German Literature and Music in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Gerald Chapple, Frederick Hall, and Hans Schulte [vol. 4 in the series German Literature, Art and Thought] (Lanham: University Press of America, 1992), 377–405. It is reprinted by permission of Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Lanham, MD.

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anachronistic, strange, and certainly irrelevant to the literary mainstream. But it is a striking fact that in 1889, when Hugo Wolf expressed a predilection for Persian motives in praise of wine, love, and song by setting Goethe’s “Schenkenbuch” poems—again seeming to indulge almost perverse and very private preferences or preoccupations—he was in fact doing precisely what his contemporaries in England, the Pre-Raphaelites, considered vital to their poetic existence: they were celebrating the identical Anacreontic themes of love, wine, and music as expressed in Persian poetry and doing so through translation. What Hammer-Purgstall had been to Goethe, to be sure, Edward Fitzgerald was to the Pre-Raphaelites; from 1859 through 1889 at least five published versions of Omar Khayyám’s Rubáiyát appeared in “transmogrification” (Fitzgerald’s jocular coinage); these inspired Ernest Dowson—among other Pre-Raphaelites—to indulge in a very “Divanesque” and decadent call “for madder music and for stronger wine.”1 But such parallels are hardly less significant than the realization that Hugo Wolf’s relatively obscure, seemingly epigonic, and neurotic existence composing art songs in fin-de-siècle Vienna was, as far as his Schenkenbuchlieder are concerned, germane to European arts and letters of the 1880s and 1890s.2 Implicit in late-nineteenth-century literary and artistic endeavors generally was a renewed sense of narcissistic playfulness and the virtuosity typical of l’art pour l’art. Clearly the ghazal, a form unique to Arabic and Persian poetry in which anywhere from six to thirty lines of tetrameter are “spun out” of the rhyme found in the first couplet while the intervening lines remain unrhymed, would seem fated to fascinate sensitive poets—not to mention a hypersensitive composer—looking for unfamiliar structural devices to give new shape to their craft.3 Goethe’s playful transmutation of the Persian ghazal embodies a pronounced structural tension between poetic energies: a more or less alien, or at least unusual, form of repeated rhyme, perceived by Western sensibilities to be rather static, is juxtaposed to the otherwise dynamic flow of the poem’s content. Such opposing tendencies in the text led Hugo Wolf to adopt an innovative musical response that seems on the surface quite improvisatory. Just why the pervasive and playful rhyme responsible for the unusual tension in “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” and “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit” should inspire such appropriate and far-reaching interpretations on Wolf’s part, however, can best be answered—if at all—in terms of the larger European context of turn-of-the-century art. Given this wider context, it will be easier to see why and to understand how (particularly in regard to several critics’ specific objections) Wolf’s seemingly formless and melodically problematic settings actually enhance the extreme virtuosity with which Goethe combined repetitive rhyme and spiritual intoxication. Further, against the backdrop of Dowson’s youthful desire to gather “Wine and woman and song”4—rendered even more timeless and relentless in the waltzing “Wein, Weib und Gesang” culture of post–(Johann)-Straussian Vienna— Wolf’s poetic-musical intensification of Goethe’s triadic apotheosis of “Liebes-, Liedes- und Weines Trunkenheit” achieves even fuller aesthetic expression.

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“Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” Surely the juxtaposition of “Koran und Becher” in Goethe’s original title for this ghazal-shaped mini-theology of intoxication suggests the basic tension between religion and drinking more sharply than either the poem itself or the underlying synthesis of Western and Eastern cultures in the West-östlicher Divan really intends; therefore, its omission from all published editions is understandable despite the general antagonism of Islam toward alcoholic beverages. But on another level the implicit dichotomy between these two kinds of “spirit” can be seen in the dogmatic strife that raged between two Islamic sects: the Turks maintained that the divine Koran, as an attribute of God, necessarily existed prior to any conceivable “creation,” while the Persians held that it was a full-fledged creation by God.5 Since Goethe ultimately suggests a radical departure from Islamic abstinence and in fact claims that partaking of the earth’s liquid “spirit” greatly enhances our perception of God’s otherwise invisible countenance, the earlier title fulfilled at least two functions: it set forth the issue in unmistakably provocative fashion, and it anticipated the bipolar structure of the twelve-line poem (fig. 4.1).6 Not only does the first half (lines 1–6) refer exclusively to matters of Mohammedan faith while the second half (lines 7–12) concentrates on the eternal nature of wine, but each of the six couplets consists of two distinct parts: either a general rhetorical question is followed by its particular personal response, or a broad assertion is followed by a qualification. The dialectical basis of this procedure is found in all religious catechisms, of course, and Goethe here delights in parodying both this venerable theological didactic device as well as the oriental ghazal. The ghazal can be of any length, and not merely the identical rhyme but the very same word is often repeated at the end of every even-numbered line. This repetitiveness of both rhyme and words gives the ghazal its profoundly oriental flavor, a kind of magical monotony (to the extent that meditation lacks all manner of Western dynamism) that weaves a spell of effortless expansiveness. While Goethe was obviously fascinated by this non-Western poetic form— because it challenges a poet to express an abundance of content within a very restrictive formal scheme that paradoxically requires a large supply of “similar” thoughts expressible in identical end rhymes7—he also relished the opportunity of dealing with these stylistic strictures in his idiosyncratic and inimitable way. So, although “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” might have been but a tranquil contemplation of a dogmatic dispute expressed in two central rhetorical questions (lines l and 3) that are answered so modestly by a noncommitted layman (lines 2 and 4), the very fact that he punctuates his unwillingness or inability to engage in religious polemics with two exclamation marks indicates that something more than personal meditation is intended here. The two “Ob” couplets (lines 1–4), as one would expect,

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Figure 4.1. Goethe, “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei? Darnach frag ich nicht! Ob der Koran geschaffen sei? Das weiß ich nicht! 5 Dass er das Buch der Bücher sei, Glaub’ ich aus Mosleminen-Pflicht. Dass aber der Wein von Ewigkeit sei, Daran zweifl’ ich nicht; Oder dass er vor den Engeln geschaffen sei, 10 Ist vielleicht auch kein Gedicht. Der Trinkende, wie es auch immer sei, Blickt Gott frischer ins Angesicht.

Can the Koran eternal be? That I question nought! Can the Koran created be? I was not taught! That it the Book of Books must be I swear as faithful Muslim ought. However, that wine eternal be, There my doubts are nought; Or that created by angels it be, Is no mere poet’s thought The drinker sure, however it be, Fresher the sight of God has caught.

logically lead into something far more active and assertive: the next two couplets (lines 5–8) begin with the declarative conjunction “dass” and end with the positive claims of duty and non-doubt (in direct contrast to “not asking” and “not knowing” in lines 1–4). This statement of “not doubting” refers resoundingly to the poem’s more or less “heretical” central assertion, namely that wine has existed eternally. Yet this provocation is only the beginning of the second half of Goethe’s catechism-in-reverse: as if in recognition of his blasphemous exaltation of wine and in pseudo-repentance for its seeming excessiveness, the next couplet is couched in more conciliatory language, even though—by clever juxtaposition—this milder tone gives the final declaration a more shattering impact. But this passing attempt at conciliation is only an illusion, for in logical terms the a priori status of wine (“vor den Engeln geschaffen”) is consistently maintained. Yet the mere fact that angels are cited, in conjunction with the less than dogmatic qualifier “vielleicht” (perhaps), does temper the extreme tone considerably: Goethe is clearly at pains to bridge the gap between the several “spirits” here addressed. This precarious synthesis of juxtaposed spheres, namely those of the vine and the divine, becomes truly explicit—and is tipped in favor of the vine—when it is claimed that the wine drinker can look God more boldly in the eye than, presumably, the abstinent mystic (or layman) can. Just how Goethe treated the strict form of the Oriental ghazal, even while transforming its usual static content so radically, is most noticeable in the ingenious formal compromise he made. To cope with the forbidding “Eastern” requirement that all odd lines be unrhymed and all even lines end with the same rhyme or the very same word, he responded with a typically “Western” solution: he simply overwhelmed—as if intoxicated with his own rhyming prowess—all potential pedants of poetics by sovereignly ignoring the former stipulation and

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then richly compensating for it in the doubly rewarding fulfillment of the latter rule. That is to say: the same word “sei” occurs at the end of each of the six odd lines while the six even lines are capped by three instances of “nicht” and again as many rhymes in “Pflicht,” “Gedicht,” and “Angesicht.” Not only has Goethe done his “duty” by the formal requirements of the ghazal, he has even more cleverly relegated the word “Pflicht” to the appropriately disciplined realm of the Koran (lines 1–6) while saving the more autonomous and individualistic terms “Gedicht” and “Angesicht” for the occidental “spirit” inherent in wine (lines 7– 12). Yet at the same time the basic dichotomy between the subjective “ich” and the objective dogma is reflected in the perfectly obvious alternation of both the third- and first-person references (as well as in the juxtaposition of subjunctive and indicative moods) in each couplet. A significant shift of this technique takes place in the final couplet: the expected subjective or first-person utterance (as in lines 2, 4, 6, and 8) is relegated to the concessive subjunctive—“wie es auch immer sei” (however it may be)—and the main clause (i.e., the climactic essence of the poem: “Der Trinkende . . . / Blickt Gott frischer ins Angesicht”) is couched in the thoroughly objective indicative mood. What is thereby achieved approaches a kind of synthesis between the transient world of the drinker and the eternal universe of God, “wie es auch immer sei”—whatever the status or truth of the preceding (unknowable) theological tenets might be. The final qualification, “wie es auch immer sei,” ending as it does for the sixth time with “sei,” rather tellingly “infects” the whole sequence of cleverly “quoted” dogmas with pervasive (subjunctive) uncertainty—an uncertainty or questionability rendered inescapable by the cumulative effect of the many repetitions of “sei.” Goethe has thus parodied the crucial structural feature of the ghazal and intensified its usual effect to give profound emphasis to his own heretical dogma. The rebellious, innovative spirit in which all this transpires—in the guise of a meditative oriental lyric, we remember—is further indicated in a metrical nuance: because the rigidly trochaic “frischer” follows the monosyllabic “Gott,” God is necessarily unstressed in a clause where “der Trinkende,” “frischer,” and “ins Angesicht” take emphatic precedence. While one could persuasively argue that the doubly stressed “Angesicht” is none other than God’s own and is therefore adequately emphasized, there is at least a suggestion of the Sturm und Drang disrespect with which Zeus was scorned by Goethe’s “Prometheus” (“Und dein nicht zu achten, / Wie ich”).8 The almost overconfident and boisterous tone of his Schenkenbuch musings owes much to Goethe’s turbulent youth. Since this tone is so crucial to the spirit of the entire Divan, it will come as no surprise that Hugo Wolf ingeniously used metrical devices, particularly syncopation, to express musically Goethe’s pleas for “spiritual” freshness (see appendix 4.1). The first musical couplet gives a condensed, paradigmatic overview of how Wolf realizes the basic dichotomy previously discussed (mm. 1–5).9 The ascending scale of piano octaves in “unison” with the voice expresses in unmistakable

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terms the rhetorical, interrogative, and pompous quality of the theological statement. The pomposity is cleverly and suitably—given Goethe’s easy mockery of such matters generally—enhanced by the twofold insertion of a fifth measure (mm. 3 and 8 for these analogous first two couplets) into what are really fourmeasure phrases for each pair of verses. These “extra” measures supply a pianissimo echo effect on “sei,” which provides distinct comic relief through mimicry of the characteristic melodic “turn” (a neighbor-note figure) on the bombastic theological term “Ewigkeit” (and “[ge-]schaffen”). The fact that Wolf’s original manuscript10 reduced the volume of the echo still further by omitting the bottom octave doubling in the piano part is a persuasive indication that this bit of musical spoofery was intended to be taken seriously. The implicit contrast between verses of the couplet, however, is given corresponding musical expression in the triadic harmony that underscores the piano phrase “darnach frag ich nicht!” The half cadence on the dominant of A minor emphasizes the subjective feelings of the non-questioning persona, in clear contrast to the austerely objective and fanfare-like upward sweep of the theological query. The fact that the setting ingeniously reflects the basic duality of the first couplet can be seen from the previous discussion, but the fact that Hugo Wolf has also found a startlingly appropriate musical equivalent for Goethe’s westernized ghazal form can only be seen from a careful comparison of the first phrase (mm. 1–5) with the second (mm. 6–10). First, the octave motive has been retained in a near repetition that deviates from the original statement only in crucial particulars: at exactly the place where, in the otherwise identical rhetorical question Goethe’s wording changes so “von Ewigkeit” can become “ge-schaf-fen,” Wolf’s melodic motive—while fully retaining its implicit shape—is minimally altered; that is, what was formerly only half-step movement (underlying “von Ewigkeit”) now becomes a mixture of whole and half steps (“ge-schaf-fen”). Second, the melodic movement of the voice line on “darnach frag ich nicht!” (mm. 4–5) is retained in the upper voice of the piano part underlying “das weiß ich nicht!” (mm. 9–10). Here the vocal declamation, emphasizing the word “ich” through a skip of a fifth upward and a seventh downward, provides an even more subjectively shaped profile of the unknowing Moslem, while the piano texture emphasizes the crucial change from “frag (ich)” to “weiß (ich)” by “deceptively” moving to a dominant seventh chord in F major (m. 10). In summary, then, while the voice faithfully reflects the verbal-semantic changes in verse (lines 2 and 4) through its melodic-declamatory variation, the piano part both refracts and retains the original melody. Goethe’s retention of “nicht” in final position in both instances—a radical poetic device both conforming to and transcending the original ghazal—is thus rendered musically. Hugo Wolf’s ingenious structural techniques, particularly in the next two phrases, continue to project that tension between dogmatic rigidity and poetic innovation in the two halves of the twelve-line poem noted earlier. Both couplets start with “Dass . . . sei” clauses that embody wildly contrary semantic realms (the Book of Books versus wine) and end with subjective assertions that are also

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opposed—one avows belief out of duty, the other states a certainty by negating doubt emphatically. Wolf’s subtle musical parallels and projections here are numerous (mm. 11–14): the third couplet reflects its subject matter, the Koran as the Book of Books, by retaining the earlier ascending eighth notes in the voice, while the piano seizes upon the relative certainty of this assertion—compared to the earlier rhetorical query—by underscoring it through chordal texture. The dominant seventh chord of G minor, which supports the better part of the couplet (mm. 12–13) and serves as a complementing foil to all the eighthnote movement of the voice, resolves deceptively and surprisingly to an E-flatmajor chord (m. 15) on “aber der Wein (von)” to dramatize the utter polarity of Koran and wine with monumental clarity (mm. 14–17). Similarly, the distinctive eighth-note motive (mm. 18–21) in the voice underlying the fifth couplet (“oder dass er vor den Engeln geschaffen sei”) takes on a slightly different shape but also recalls vividly the earlier “Dass er das Buch der Bücher sei” (in mm. 11–12): the melodic profile of “ist vielleicht auch kein Gedicht” (mm. 20–22) is derived from “glaub ich aus Mosleminen-Pflicht” (mm. 12–14), and all this vocal allusiveness is underscored by a piano accompaniment that combines the steady eighthnote movement of the earliest phrases in the setting with rich chordal textures. Finally, the brilliantly impudent concluding couplet (mm. 22–26) succeeds as a particularly ingenious variation of the musical structure projecting the fourth couplet. Whereas “daran zweifl’ ich nicht” (mm. 16–18) employed syncopation and chromatic passing harmony to express conviction as well as anticipation and impatience, the musical texture of “blickt Gott frischer ins Angesicht” (mm. 24–26) is rhythmically firmer and harmonically more direct, yet able to project the ecstatically “tipsy” quality of the alcoholically enhanced “spirit” through but one instance of rollicking syncopation: the hemiola on “frischer.” As a result, Wolf has improved upon Goethe’s metric emphasis—which renders “Gott” as a weak stress because of the following bisyllabic “frischer”—in that he has given both “Gott” and “frisch(er)” stresses, “Gott” being the first beat after the bar line, “frischer” receiving the inevitable stress of syncopation and the advantage of pitch elevation. This critical word, “frischer,” which expresses the drinker’s sharpened perception of God, leads the musical charge and embodies the divine energy or spirit of the transformation Goethe implies but does not explicitly state in his westernized ghazal, in which wine takes on the role of religious catalyst. Wolf’s piano epilogue (mm. 27–34) offers even further commentary on how wine and religion mix in this West-Eastern theology of intoxication; and no commentator can resist saying that the syncopated rhythm of the disjunctive octaves symbolizes our tipsy drinker trying to maintain his balance while walking under the influence of too much “spirit,” not to mention “while looking God boldly in the face.” But the epilogue’s general motivic dimension is to be considered as well; if we recall the ascending sweep of the song’s initial octave melody and observe that the entire phrase “spans” an interval of a fifth between “Ob” and “sei” in measures 1–2, then

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we will also see that this intervallic expanse encompasses a sixth in measures 6–7 and that, finally, during its upward sweep on “Dass er das Buch der Bücher sei” (mm. 11–12), the intervallic space traversed equals a seventh. In other words, this gradual progression from fifth to sixth to seventh underscores the persona’s increasingly futile attempts to reconcile dogmatic requirements and personal beliefs, attempts that can best be considered successful if wine is allowed its “theological” place in the total scheme of things and if the initial encounter with a kind of contrived catechism is seen as something more than merely rhetorical. In structural terms, Wolf’s left-hand octave melody provides precisely the balance needed to reverse the “rhetorical” tone of the initial questions: the expanding intervals (sixth and seventh) are first projected in open form (without passing tones) and emphasized by syncopation (mm. 27–28) and are then filled in with a stepwise motion using the pitches of the tonic major (mm. 29–30). The epilogue achieves explicitly what Goethe could only imply: theology and intoxication are synthesized in an aesthetic intensification of the “spirit” in which they are perceived. In other words, Wolf’s musical mini-catechism, as the confluence of two art forms and above all in this epilogue, elevates the drinking of wine—in the context of the epistemology of the Koran and the grape— to an article of true faith.

“Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit” In purely formal terms, none of Goethe’s Divan ghazals can match the poetic consistency11 of “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit” (fig. 4.2), where the threesyllable “Trunkenheit” (alone or in combination) terminates every odd-numbered line except the eleventh (“Tag”) and every couplet rhymes in “-agt,” four of which repeat “tagt” and “plagt” once each (lines 6 and 18, 10 and 20, respectively).12 As if this tenfold uniformity of repetition and rhyme extending through every other line were not enough, the twofold verbal form “tagt” (lines 6 and 18) is also related lexically to its origin in the noun “Tag” at the end of the central eleventh line. This apparent emphasis on daytime, by virtue of its final position in three lines of the twenty-line lyric structure, calls attention to two further features: first, the poetic weight of “Tag” is enhanced by its repetition within line 11 (“Von Tag zu Nacht, von Nacht zu Tag”), which cleverly provides this monosyllable with leverage for counterbalancing all the repetitions of “Trunkenheit”; and second, an additional—very logical—countervailing force for “Tag” or “tagt” exists in another fourfold multiple, namely “Nacht” thrice and “nachtet” once. These nocturnal designations, however, all occur well in the middle of each line (“Nacht” once in line 8, twice in line 11, and its verbal equivalent “nachtet” in line 18). In formal poetic terms, therefore, the light of day can be said to hold sway over the darkness of night. Another kind of contrast operates in the fifth and the tenth couplets, where the essentially negative formulation “Es ist die Liebestrunkenheit / Die mich

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Figure 4.2. Goethe, “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit” Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit Vielfältig uns verklagt Und haben von unsrer Trunkenheit Lange nicht genug gesagt. 5 Gewöhnlich der Betrunkenheit Erliegt man, bis es tagt; Doch hat mich meine Betrunkenheit In der Nacht umhergejagt. Es ist die Liebestrunkenheit, 10 Die mich erbärmlich plagt, Von Tag zu Nacht, von Nacht zu Tag In meinem Herzen zagt, Dem Herzen, das in Trunkenheit Der Lieder schwillt und ragt, 15 Dass keine nüchterne Trunkenheit Sich gleich zu heben wagt. Lieb-, Lied- und Weines Trunkenheit, Obs nachtet oder tagt, Die göttlichste Betrunkenheit, 20 Die mich entzückt und plagt!

They have because of drunkenness Arraigned us many ways, But no one about our drunkenness Ever sufficient says. For usually in drunkenness Till dawn the drinker’s out; But me all night my drunkenness Kept chasing round about. Of love it is the drunkenness, So terribly it flays, From day to night, from night to day Within my heart it frays, This heart, that in the drunkenness Of songs wells out and plays So no more sober drunkenness A murmur dares to raise. Of love, song, wine, this drunkenness Through nights and through all days, Divinest kind of drunkenness, Delights me while it flays.

erbärmlich plagt” becomes manifestly positive and negative at the same time as “Die göttlichste Betrunkenheit / Die mich entzückt und plagt.” Similarly subtle contrasts within each four-line segment add to the overall texture of ambiguity and ambivalence pervading all twenty lines. In the first segment (lines 1–4) the poet-persona clearly distinguishes between those initiated into the ways and byways of intoxication and the sizable contingent of critical outsiders apparently unaware of the diverse nature of drunkenness. The reader is left to puzzle out whether “Und haben von unserer Trunkenheit / Lange nicht genug gesagt” actually means that in general one can never describe intoxication adequately or that, more particularly, it is the critics who can never “get enough” of what they do best—namely to moralize ceaselessly about drunkenness in others. The second segment (lines 5–8) contains a relatively straightforward dichotomy between the “usual” kind of drunkenness that incapacitates a person until daybreak (at least) and the special kind of inebriety that causes the persona to roam about restlessly throughout the night. While the meaning of both couplets is perfectly obvious, their verbal constructions embody contrasts that subtly anticipate semantic differences yet to be explored by the poem: in lines 1–6 all three instances of “drunkenness” are grammatically connected to their respective verbs by means of dative or genitive case relationships (twice through prepositions); in lines 7–8 the persona’s particular drunkenness—the singularity of which both the contrastive conjunction “doch” and the possessive adjective “mein” underscore—asserts itself as the subject

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of the sentence. Here physical subjugation of man by alcohol, to which he passively succumbs, is syntactically contrasted with the overwhelming active role love-as-intoxication plays in the total development of this multiple ecstasy/inebriation. With the overt designation of love as a mode of intoxication in the third segment, a semantically new section of six lines has been delineated, which balances the earlier six lines devoted to alcoholic drunkenness. But this outer symmetry serves only to contain several far more essential syntactic and semantic features. The first is a kind of oxymoron of expectation and connotation: the usually positive cast of “Liebestrunkenheit” is predicated negatively by “erbärmlich plagt.” Second, the expected strong physical impact on the heart of all the overwhelming psychic pain caused by love is suddenly expressed as “hesitation” rather than, say, “hurt” or even a “wound.” Lastly, the “temporal” opposition of “Von Tag zu Nacht, von Nacht zu Tag,” while basically articulating the powerful effect on the lover’s psyche, also vividly contrasts the extensive duration of love’s intoxication with that of alcohol (cf. line 6 and line 11). While the final two four-line segments continue to make productive use of dichotomy and contrast within their own sectional contexts, the fact that “tagt” so clearly recalls line 6 while punctuating the end of line 18 also reinforces the sequence of lines 13–18 as a subdivision in which the third kind of intoxication not only joins the other two but supersedes them insofar as it suppresses their “sober” stirrings. Yet the two four-line segments still exhibit the more fundamental dichotomies and ambiguities as well. As if the oxymoron “nüchterne Trunkenheit” were not tantalizing enough as a designation for the form of intoxication that leads to anything but sobriety, the fact that the “gleich” of line 16 can, particularly because of its proximity to “schwillt und ragt” (line 14), mean either “immediately” or “equally high” raises doubt as to precisely how this third “Trunkenheit der Lieder” relates to the other two. But all of this semantic and syntactic ambivalence reaches its climax in the fifth segment (lines 17–20), in which there is also no verbal connective between the paratactically and elliptically juxtaposed couplets containing the threefold “Lieb-, Lied- und Weines Trunkenheit” and the culminating “göttlichste Betrunkenheit.” A look at this twenty-line progression from conjunctive syntax to disjunctive sententiousness as a whole makes it clear that Goethe’s clever sequencing of the states of human intoxication can also be seen as aspects of the phenomenon of transformation: the poem—especially by repeating the same essential concept within an ever-changing syntactic context—transforms its meaning not only before our mental eyes but within the parameters of our capacity for psychic empathy as well. Ours is the same “heart” as that of the poet-persona’s, which “wells and rises”—that is, “schwillt und ragt”—in the aesthetic intoxication created by such Lieder as this poem. The structural detail and poetic-semantic ambiguity analyzed so far make it easy to see why previous critics of Wolf’s settings have been both cautiously complimentary and defensively disapproving in their evaluations of the composer’s musical “transformation” of a lyric tour de force deemed sufficiently “musical”

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(in the metaphorical sense) and “ecstatic” in its own right. After singling out various “admirable” literary-musical details in Wolf’s effort, one critic was unable to resist wishing “that the song had been made more attractive melodically.”13 Another agreed that the vocal line is “remarkably unattractive” and went on to say that Goethe’s “extreme virtuosity” in using rhyme and humor “in free imitation of the elaborate ghazal form” is “not served by the music.”14 Moreover, although this critic admitted that “any musical setting would seem bound to distort” the “overly deliberate rhyme scheme” inherent in Goethe’s poem, he added that Wolf does so “without supplying an interesting substitute.”15 Only detailed analysis can provide insight into whether Wolf’s particular “substitutes” are uninteresting, merely interesting, or indeed—as this study asserts—truly fascinating and interpretive components in their own right (see appendix 4.2). The first several measures of music are a perfect case in point. Here mundane (alcoholic) drunkenness is the exclusive issue, and Wolf’s music projects its essentials with all the metaphoric suggestiveness this aesthetic discipline can possibly muster (mm. 1–3). Chromatically (m. 1) and diatonically (m. 2) descending eighth-note and quarter-note octaves in the piano part establish the gently slurred, sliding, slipping, and staggering movement (in 12 8 time) that so vividly expresses the persona’s inebriated state until daybreak. While the piano lines seem to search for firm footing and precarious vertical balance in their alternating meanderings amid uncertain harmonies, the voice line strives for horizontal certitude by clinging to the same two pitches exclusively. Yet the fact that these notes (C and F-sharp) form an inverted tritone not only reflects the provocative vagueness of this interval as a harmonic device16 but also projects the kind of awkward yodeling effect characteristic of a voice breaking under the influence of alcohol, particularly in its grace-noted guise on “verklagt.” It is already possible to see deliberate virtues in this supposedly “unattractive” vocal melody. Its appropriateness increases during the next couplet (mm. 3–5): not only does the repetition—one step lower—of the inverted tritone enhance the intoxicated melodic effect of “Trunkenheit,” but the grace note, which is repeated with this second occurrence of “drunkenness,” adds the connotation of “verklagt” to “unsrer Trunkenheit” as well. The setting of the third couplet (mm. 6–8) reveals Wolf’s mastery of melodic declamation in several respects. Most obvious is the right hand in the piano score, which portrays the persona’s stupor quite literally by consistently descending during eight long 12 8 beats. While the voice line both expresses and limits the actual hangover through its decisive upward leap of a major seventh on “es tagt” (after tracing the ups and downs of “usual drunkenness” in its corresponding melodic contour), the piano line charts out and revels in the full duration of the intoxicated state. A particularly expressive feature here is the contrary motion between voice and piano and the parallel unison motion on “Erliegt man, bis es (tagt),” where the vocal part melodically succumbs or yields to the descending piano line (expressing the stupefying impact of drunkenness) until daybreak,

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when the recuperated persona has the energy to leap an octave higher than anticipated by the piano on “tagt.” All of this movement is supported by two partial chords (on F and F-sharp) in the lower register of the piano, arresting the harmonic motion before taking over very spirited melodic responsibility in the setting of the concluding couplet of this second segment (mm. 8–10). The vast contrast between the two types of drunkenness conjured up by the third and fourth couplets (lines 5–8, mm. 6–8) is aptly reflected in the contrast and reversal of melodic and chordal textures in the piano part: the straightforward downward melodic progress of “customary drunkenness” is given to the right hand (in mm. 7–8), while the unpredictably sporadic and disjunctive surge of the persona’s particular love-infected drunkenness literally roams about in the nocturnal bass register of the pianist’s left hand (in mm. 9–10).17 The essential difference in intoxications depicted in the second four-line segment (lines 5–8, mm. 7–10) is given even clearer musical profile in measure 10, where the relatively passive rhythmic quality (alternating quarter and eighth notes) of alcoholic intoxication becomes fully active in the left-hand octaves (featuring consecutive eighth notes on “[ge-]jagt”), thus anticipating its transformation into “Liebestrunkenheit” (mm. 11–12). The several syntacticsemantic devices needed in the poetry to hint at a metamorphosis of alcoholic intoxication into love’s rapture have here been musically condensed into the seemingly effortless alternation of right-hand and left-hand piano octaves, moving in intermittent contrary eighth-note motion that exudes ecstasy even while it underscores the disjunctive and ambivalent quality of the vocal melody, with its wide interval on “(Liebes)-trunken-(heit)” and grace-noted arc on “erbärmlich plagt.” This expressive motive, which seems to well up and overflow or “spill over,” much as the emotion of love is often said or felt to do, gains additional sweep from the rising eighth-note bass line in the left hand immediately before each of its two occurrences. The arching shape of this musical rapture (last half of m. 12)—further enhanced by transferring the eighth-note motion from the right hand of the piano in measure 11 into the bass—is the point of departure for the elongated swells of passion delineated in the left-hand piano part throughout the remainder of the setting. The first such elongation in the piano part spans three full measures (mm. 13–15), during the first two of which the voice insistently (rising fourths in sequence) projects the extensive semantic duration (“Von Tag zu Nacht, von Nacht zu Tag”). By reaching its forte-climax on the fourth beat of measure 14, only after the voice has all but ceased sounding on “zagt,” the bass line gives eloquent musical evidence (m. 15) of the indefinite time “Liebestrunkenheit” can last. Yet the simultaneously established pattern of right-hand dotted quarter note chords followed consistently by the tied-over eighth notes in the left hand effectively combines both the steady beat of the rapture-laden heart and the dizzyingly intoxicated swagger of the persona who is equally driven by day and by night. The power of this heart-centered rapture can also be seen in the fact that its beat (in the dotted quarter note chords in the right hand) rises steadily

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in pitch throughout seven consecutive measures (mm. 13–19) at the precise time when the voice is declaiming how the aesthetically intoxicated (“Trunkenheit der Lieder”) heart surpasses every “nüchterne Trunkenheit”—paradoxically signifying the non-aesthetic or merely spiritual kinds of intoxication. It is the ultimate achievement of Wolf’s setting that his musical texture can combine and contain all three kinds of intoxication simultaneously and that it shapes these seemingly divergent energies into a culminating aesthetic experience that Goethe could only integrate paratactically, as it were, in his final couplet. This musical transformation of melodic and rhythmic details is clearly visible at the start of the last two four-line segments (lines 13–14) in measures 16–17: here the left hand descends scalewise in a manner recalling the very first chromatic descent of mundane drunkenness in the introductory piano part (m. 1), which also featured a swaggering rhythm of alternating quarter and eighth notes, but now in a syncopated rhythmic pattern that is dependent on the right-hand treble line for the downbeat in each measure. The regularly pulsating downbeat derives poetically from the rapturously beating heart; but seen together, these two motivic elements actually make up a continuous eighth-note sequence equivalent to the passionate love motive shared by voice and piano in measures 11–12. As if the regular right-hand chords of the piano part were not enough, the voice line stresses the regularity of the heart as well. In measure 17, however, the voice varies its pitch in emulation of the “swelling” and “rising” songs denoting aesthetic intoxication. Even the piano part shares in this increased lilting rhythm by deviating slightly from the previous pattern (m. 16). Wolf’s sensitive declamatory style reveals itself even more fully in the setting of the subsequent couplet (lines 15–16), where Goethe’s humorous oxymoron “sober drunkenness” is given particularly boisterous, but well-balanced, melodic and rhythmic shape. The high pitches on “nüchterne” and the octave skip downward on “zu heben” are at once ironic and indicative of Wolf’s penetrating grasp of Goethe’s playfulness in juxtaposing such antithetical concepts at this point of riotous victory over nonspiritual or non-aesthetic intoxication. The pervasive strength of Wolf’s musical intoxication is nevertheless indicated both by the crescendo from forte to fortissimo, reinforced by the specially accented bass octaves, and by the palpably eruptive sequence of fourths underscoring “zu heben.” In the final four lines of synthesis and transformation, where love, song, and wine together constitute the “divinest” intoxication, Wolf’s setting makes its richest contribution because it transcends the paratactic limitations of the poetry per se. Whereas earlier the hesitation demanded by “zagt” (line 12) was musically fulfilled by four beats of rest for the voice (m. 15), “ragt” and “wagt” (lines 14 and 16) move right along with only the barest minimum of musical “rest” so the transition to the final two couplets can occur directly, without any intermediate measures (cf. also m. 6 after “gesagt”), although it does so under circumstances of reduced dynamics. As was the case at the beginning of each of the four-line segments except “Es ist die Liebestrunkenheit” (m. 11), “Lieb-, Lied- und Weines

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Trunkenheit” begins softly and moderately in measure 20 before building gradually in the next measure. The dominant harmony, suggested by the C-natural/D in the right hand together with the pronounced F-sharp and A in the left hand, generates a hypotactic tension that moves toward an eventual resolution in the G-minor conclusion while recalling the suspended harmony of measures 11–12, where “Liebestrunkenheit” was first presented. Measure 20 can therefore be said to synthesize the harmonic flavor of “Liebestrunkenheit” (as well as its ongoing eighth-note rhythm) with the disjunctively swaggering bass-line melody of “Weines Trunkenheit” as presented in the first eight measures of the setting. As one would expect, the voice reaches its melodic peak in the climactic final couplet (m. 22). Not only does the highest level of ecstasy—“divinest intoxication”—thereby find suitably joyous melodic expression on an orgiastic fortissimo plane, but the decrescendo beginning with the last syllable of “Betrunkenheit” prepares the listener for Hugo Wolf’s unexpected conclusion: the final line, “Die mich entzückt und plagt,” is performed at a piano dynamic level and with a slight ritardando. This sudden change of mood gives poignant expression to the Goethean ambivalence underlying this seemingly triumphant dualism; the grace note also reminds us of the earlier adverb “erbärmlich” preceding a similarly grace-noted “plagt” (m. 12). Wolf has chosen to respect and emphasize the quiet, intimate, more personal aspect of this composite rapture, which is clearly consistent with his carefully low-key projection (the dynamic level is piano) of “Dem Herzen, das in Trunkenheit / Der Lieder schwillt und ragt” (lines 13–14, mm. 15–17). Wolf’s last “word” on the last line of the poem, however, must be extrapolated from the postlude (mm. 24–25), where the basic harmonic progression in the right hand and the leaping octave melody in the left hand—while microcosmically reviewing the whole—give eloquent utterance to the inexorable fluctuation and alternation that result from the truly spiritual synthesis envisioned by “Die göttlichste Betrunkenheit, / Die mich entzückt und plagt.” Both extremes—rapture and pain—are indigenous to the aesthetic ecstasy that results from “spirits” and the “spirit” becoming “spiritually” synthesized. Nowhere can this ideal simultaneity be more tellingly realized than in the harmonic-melodic dynamic symmetry that underlies Wolf’s postlude. The harmonic progression moves tentatively away from the brooding G-minor sonorities associated with “plagt” to the C-minor forte chord (m. 24) coinciding with the “enraptured” harmony of “göttlichste Betrunkenheit” (m. 22) while seemingly achieving a breakthrough to jubilant G major (first right-hand chord of m. 25); this is ultimately deceptive because major sonority here inevitably returns to minor. But even more indicative of the ever-present “pain” demanded by ecstasy is the simultaneous dissonance created by the bass notes D and E-flat as they clash—ever so briefly—with the inexorably pulsating right-hand chords stubbornly seeking the brighter musical contours of “göttlichste Betrunkenheit.”18

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Thus Hugo Wolf has created the precariously synthesized ecstasy Goethe’s poem so eloquently describes but does not ultimately evoke. The full poignancy of the creative process itself—its ecstasies as well as its agonies are epitomized here by the poems and songs of “Trunkenheit der Lieder” and characterized by the duality of “entzückt und plagt”—is surely more tersely and palpably projected in the elemental give and take of major and minor, of consonance and dissonance, of forte and piano, of music whose tonal essence has in fact assimilated the semantic substratum of the words, than in either music or words alone. But this radical condensation of Goethe’s triple intoxication, this distillation of spirits into purest spirit by the interaction with Wolf’s music, can only occur in a specific context, in the true synthesis of words and tones as ecstatic song. To the degree that this context of ecstatic song quite properly extends beyond that of fin-de-siècle Vienna to the pan-European décadence of France and Pre-Raphaelite England, Hugo Wolf’s synthesis of his idiosyncratic, post-Wagnerian, declamatory art-song style with Goethe’s eclectic, oriental-occidental “Schenkenbuch” idiom is part of a geo-cultural aesthetic movement shortly before the turn of the twentieth century that is far more extensive and multifaceted than has been apparent until now in the scholarly literature on the late Romantic Lied generally or from investigations of Wolf’s Goethelieder specifically.

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Appendix 4.1. Wolf, “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?”

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Appendix 4.1. Wolf, “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?”—(concluded)

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Appendix 4.2. Wolf, “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit”

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Appendix 4.2. Wolf, “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit”—(continued)

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Appendix 4.2. Wolf, “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit”—(concluded)

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Notes 1. The Poems of Ernest Dowson, ed. Mark Longaker (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962), 58. Strictly speaking, the “other Pre-Raphaelites” referred to are the so-called Decadent Pre-Raphaelites who were active in the “Aestheticism” of the 1890s in England (see James D. Merritt, Introduction, in The Pre-Raphaelite Poem [New York: Dutton, 1966], 13). To include—quite properly in this context—the decades of Fitzgerald’s seminal influence on later writers in particular, the second half of the nineteenth century is best seen as Pre-Raphaelite as well. 2. I am indebted to John K. Stendahl (Newton, Massachusetts), who, in a conversation, suggested some of the connections made here. 3. See chapter 8 for a study of the ghazal and selected settings. 4. Poems of Dowson, 110. 5. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, ed. Max Rychner (Zurich: Manesse, 1963), 533. Rychner cites Christian Wurm’s first Divan-Commentary (Nuremberg, 1834). 6. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, West-östlicher Divan, in Goethes Werke, vol. 2, ed. Erich Trunz (Hamburg: Christian Wegner, 1964), 89–90; hereafter cited as HA (Hamburger Ausgabe). Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, West-Eastern Divan, translated by J. Whaley (London: Oswald Wolff, 1974), 169. 7. J. P. Eckermann, Gespräche mit Goethe (Wiesbaden: Insel, 1955), 70. 8. Goethe, HA, vol. 1, 46. 9. Hugo Wolf, Goethelieder, Edition Peters, nr. 3159 (Frankfurt: C. F. Peters, 1926), vol. 4, 4–5. See appendix 4.1 for the entire setting with measure numbers added. 10. Hugo Wolf’s autograph of the Goethelieder is preserved as Mus. Hs. 19587 in the Musik-Sammlung of the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek. Wolf’s original piano texture, that is, the “non-doubled” bass octave figuration, is readily visible in measure 3 and measure 8 of the manuscript version of “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” Surprisingly, Hans Jancik’s long-awaited definitive edition of the Goethe settings (Hugo Wolf Gesamtausgabe: Gedichte von J. W. v. Goethe [Vienna: Musikwissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1978]) makes no mention of this important detail. 11. Among other such interesting experiments with the ghazal form are “Höchste Gunst” in Buch der Betrachtungen (HA, vol. 2, 41) and “In tausend Formen magst du dich verstecken” in Buch Suleika (HA, vol. 2, 88). 12. HA, vol. 2, 92; Whaley’s translation, West-Eastern Divan, 175. (For the music, see appendix 4.2 = Edition Peters, nr. 3159, vol. 4, 13–15.) 13. Eric Sams, The Songs of Hugo Wolf (London: Methuen, 1961), 149. 14. Jack M. Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), 186. 15. Ibid., 185–86. 16. In this context the inverted tritone seems particularly provocative because the F-sharp (leading tone of the tonic G minor) does not resolve melodically or harmonically, as this notorious diabolus in musica should. Furthermore, the Harvard Dictionary of Music, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969), 868, claims that this “dangerous” interval was rarely used before 1900; the Oxford Companion to Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1938), 952, points out that even today, in the melodic progressions of their counterpoint exercises, pupils are still urged to “shun the devil and all his works.” Surely Hugo Wolf has here gaily mocked any and all pedantic critics of his descriptive

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melodic-harmonic inventiveness, much as Goethe did with his moralizing contemporaries preaching abstinence. 17. The augmented triad at “Betrunkenheit” (m. 9) recalls other moments of “strong emotion” (cf. Sams, Song of Hugo Wolf, 18) in Wolf. Because the momentary harmonic context of D minor here is so similar to Wolf’s setting of “Prometheus,” the fact that the augmented triadic chord on F also occurs in the piano introduction of the composer’s evocation of Goethe’s Promethean disdain for Zeus reinforces this particular wine drinker’s disregard for his critics’ moralizing complaints. 18. The C-minor chord (m. 24, beat 4) has two notes in common with the vocal line of “göttlichste Betrunkenheit” (m. 22): E-flat and C. The G-major chord (m. 25, beat 1) shares the all-important fact of major modality with the A-flat Neapolitan harmony underlying “göttlichste Betrunkenheit.” As far as the price of ecstatic creativity is concerned, surely no one can better testify to the agony of extended sterility in between brief periods of white-hot creativity than Hugo Wolf himself.

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Chapter Five

Karl Weigl’s Opus 1 in Its Nineteenth-Century Context A Historic Literary-Musical Fusion of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches” Harry E. Seelig The compilation of Goethe settings published by Willi Schuh in the 1952 Artemis edition of Goethes Werke lists 115 composers who have set “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and 95 who have scored “Über allen Gipfeln.”1 Many others before and since have doubtless tried to join the also-rans already crowding Schuh’s catalog. But only 7 composers occur on both lists;2 none of those—to the best of my knowledge—has attempted to relate or juxtapose, not to mention link or connect, these two “Nachtlieder” in any recognizable way. Karl Weigl’s collection Seven Songs for Baritone, op. 1, however, includes an unmistakable cyclic merging of these settings, the poems of which had heretofore enjoyed only individual musical fame through the efforts of Schubert, Schumann, and Wolf—to name only the most celebrated Lieder composers in Schuh’s tantalizing compendium. Interdisciplinary Germanisten, and particularly Goethe scholars, would find Weigl’s cyclic solution additionally fascinating because of Goethe’s own penchant for ordering and juxtaposing crucial poems in cyclic sequences and contexts.3 Yet the fin-de-siècle Viennese culture surrounding Weigl thrived on just such innovative cyclic reshaping of previous materials, as the examples of Mahler’s Eighth Symphony (with its setting of the final scene of Faust II) and Schoenberg’s _________________ This chapter originated as a paper read at the International Interdisciplinary Conference on the Fine Arts in Laurinburg, North Carolina, in October 1990 and was first published in Yearbook of Interdisciplinary Studies in the Fine Arts, vol. 2 (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1990), 579–606. It is reprinted by permission of Edwin Mellen Press, Lewiston, NY.

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George-Lieder amply suggest. Why Karl Weigl—an avid Alpine mountain climber and conservative neo-Romantic composer who clearly rejected the musical revolution of his contemporaries Schoenberg, Berg, and Webern—would be drawn to Goethe’s supremely serene lyrics evoking the inexorable tension between tranquil nature and restless humanity, between universal timelessness and individual temporality, is not difficult to comprehend. Moreover, the descriptive orchestral tone poems and monumental symphonic structures of Richard Strauss, Anton Bruckner, and Gustav Mahler provided exemplary harmonic color and melodic texture in great abundance from which the traditionalist Weigl could distill new combinations—in the concentrated realm of “Kunstlied”—that effectively merge and reveal the overarching similarities and subtle differences found in “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh.” In fact, if one were to take traditional scholarship at face value, one might very well assume that the late-nineteenth-century programmatic realism of, say, the Strauss of Eine Alpensymphonie would adequately render “Über allen Gipfeln” as a mountainous solitude with vaguely human implications. (The two poems are reprinted with translations in fig. 5.1.)4 But happily for Weigl and for us, even “Der du von dem Himmel bist” qua poem can no longer be seen merely as “couched in language of unaffected simplicity and directness,”5 at least not since British Germanist Elizabeth Wilkinson pointed out that this brief rhymed prayer in regular stressed-unstressed trochaic tetrameter is not quite what it seems. Rather, an almost “unbearable tension”6 resides within the poet-persona praying for peace, and this is not truly expressed by the words in their double urgency: Den, der doppelt elend ist, Doppelt mit Erquickung füllest, [You fill those who are doubly miserable with double consolation.]

Rather, this tension is “transmuted”7 into the very syntactical core of these seemingly regular verses. As Wilkinson succinctly put it: By piling up adjectival clauses, three of them, one on another, by placing inside the last of them yet another adjectival clause, qualifying the object of the third of these, [“Den, der doppelt elend ist, / Doppelt mit Erquickung füllest,”] thus making the construction more tortuous than ever, Goethe has rendered an utter knottedness of feeling directly [original emphasis].8

One might say the tightly wound emotional constriction is here a function of the intricate labyrinth of German syntax itself. The percussive repetition of the initial “d” and final “t”—“Der du von dem Himmel bist” and “Den, der doppelt elend ist”—make the assault on the poet’s psyche almost a tactile reality.

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Certainly the clearly deliberate, repeated use of the word “doppelt” increases the tension to a point where only the abrupt exclamation Ach! ich bin des Treibens müde! Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust? [Alas, I am tired of all the striving! What is the purpose of all pain and joy?]

will suffice to ease the pressure, as an escape valve of sorts. Not until then, after the release of the pent-up emotion and the outburst that questions the meaning of all the pain and desire, is the elliptically addressed “du” (who has been described for fully half the poem only with relative or appositive adjectival clauses) finally called by name: Süßer Friede, Komm, ach komm in meine Brust! [Sweet peace, come, oh, come into my breast.]

The main clause toward which the first four lines have been so inexorably striving turns out to be a very brief imperative statement. But it nevertheless repeats the crucial verb and thereby fulfills two aesthetic and psychological needs: “Komm, ach komm” nicely balances the “Doppelt elend” . . . “doppelt mit Erquickung füllest” sequence, and it fills—like water seeking its own level—the expressive void following “süßer Friede” with urgent and rhythmic inevitability. The effect is simply masterful. The seeming awkwardness of German—namely that grammatical peculiarity that relegates verbs to the final position in subordinate clauses—has here been put to brilliant poetic use. Meaning has been achieved, to quote Wilkinson again, through sheer form. For grammatically speaking it is immaterial whether “süßer Friede” stands at the beginning of the poem, as it would do in normal prose order, or is withheld as here until the seventh line. Nothing is altered in the logical meaning either way. But by withholding it Goethe has communicated tension as surely as by syntactical tortuosity he has created clenched frustration.9

A further example of tension increased by formal means alone is found in the sixth line: “Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?” As Wilkinson sees it, “Schmerz” and “Lust” are nouns of different gender and would normally require an article each [namely “der Schmerz” and “die Lust”]. But here they are bound together by the single article der. The effect is to reveal pain and

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Figure 5.1. Goethe, “Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches” Wanderers Nachtlied Der du von dem Himmel bist, Alles Leid und Schmerzen stillest, Den, der doppelt elend ist, Doppelt mit Erquickung füllest, Ach, ich bin des Treibens müde! Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust? Süßer Friede, Komm, ach komm in meine Brust! [You who are from heaven, who calms all sorrow and pain and who fills those who are doubly miserable with double consolation. Alas, I am tired of the hustle and bustle! Why all this pain and pleasure? Sweet peace, come, oh come, into my breast.] Ein Gleiches Über allen Gipfeln Ist Ruh, In allen Wipfeln Spürest du Kaum einen Hauch: Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde, Warte nur, balde Ruhest du auch. [Over all the mountain tops is peace. In all the treetops you hardly can feel a breath. The little birds are silent in the woods. Just wait, soon you too will rest.]

pleasure for what they are, opposite poles of one and the same thing, the ambivalent manifestation of that restless “Treiben,” from which the poet implores release. Once we become aware of this detail, we realize, as plainly as if we had been told in psychological concepts, that the tension within him has reached that degree of intensity . . . at which the two states, pleasure and pain, are scarcely distinguishable.10

Yet this consummate intensity of feeling in the “double” sense of polar opposites being reconciled does not lessen the basic dichotomy between the thirdperson separateness of “Süßer Friede” in the first half of the poem, where the relative pronoun clauses set off peace from the person desiring it, and the first-person utterances “Ach! ich bin des Treibens müde” and “Komm, ach komm in meine Brust” in the second half, where the individual’s despondent cry is crucial and clearly unanswered, however restrained it seems within the regular trochaic verse structure. Beneath or within this controlled form, then,

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a double surge of tension actually exists: there is the simultaneity of pleasure and pain already within the poet’s psyche, and there is the tension between the as-yet-unachieved and therefore outer peace of mind (“Süßer Friede”) for which he is pleading and the inner restless drive (“Treiben”) of which he is so weary. The poem as a whole, therefore, is a precarious balance, a most deeply felt yearning for peace not yet achieved. It is this yearning for peace not yet achieved, this precarious balance between urgency and promise, that did not find a truly effective structural correlative and musical equivalent until Karl Weigl hit upon a cyclic solution. In his reading of the Wilhelm Meister songs of Schubert and Wolf,11 Lawrence Kramer rightly stated that “no composer is responsible to the poet’s sense of a text, much less to a commentator’s sense of that sense.” But in the case of commentator Wilkinson’s exceptionally astute “sense,” it is appropriate that her eminently sensible aesthetic insights be fully utilized to demonstrate wherein Weigl’s unique achievement lies. Since the cyclic structure of Weigl’s settings demands that both poems be experienced as a unified but unfolding whole, it is logical that we complete our literary analysis of its textual basis by considering “Über allen Gipfeln” in structural terms even before we examine the autonomous settings of Weigl’s illustrious predecessors Schubert, Schumann, and Wolf. If “Der du von dem Himmel bist,” written in February 1776, embodies a precarious balance between deeply felt yearning and peace not yet achieved, then “Über allen Gipfeln,” written more than four years later, in September 1780, can be said to fulfill that yearning and to achieve that peace. Compared with “Wanderers Nachtlied,” “Ein Gleiches” has a decidedly more irregular appearance. Verse length and metric form vary considerably here, but the rhyme scheme is consistent. The most startling irregularity is the longer sixth line with its double instance of two unstressed syllables giving spacious emphasis to the three stresses: “Die Vö-ge-lein schwei-gen im Wal-de.” The dactylic triple rhythm thus created gives an unmistakable folksong-like impetus to the line and thereby emphasizes its singing quality in contrast to the darkly contoured spoken quality of the other lines describing the tranquil night. Moreover, the presence of the birds and their inexplicable but unmistakable silence give the poem its aesthetic wholeness. It is as if the third stage of evolutionary development—first mineral, then vegetable, and now animal—is needed to prepare and establish man’s place in the natural order of things. Paradoxically, the song of the birds, denied by the verb “schweigen,” is heard in the dactylic and lilting folksong rhythm of the line itself. But even more hauntingly contradictory—a virtual oxymoron by default— is the fact that the audible silence of the birds, who although living are terribly still, anticipates the inevitable future state of man, whose plea for rest will be fulfilled in the inexorable coming of death. Wulf Segebrecht, in his consummate 1978 book-length commentary, expressed this ultimately human paradox in “Ein Gleiches”:

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The contradictory lot of mankind consists in being at once natural and unnatural—innately restless and just as innately possessed of the yearning for rest. This contradiction can only be resolved if the law of nature, which prescribes a compulsory movement toward stillness and rest, fulfills itself for mankind as well.12

Appropriately, Segebrecht’s profound paradox can be seen as the philosophic analogue to what Lawrence Kramer has perceived on the level of interdisciplinary aesthetics in the Wilhelm Meister songs of Schubert and Wolf, where he claims that both composers’ songs “are bound together dynamically, on both literary and musical planes of opposition” [emphasis mine], and cites the “expressive value” of these settings.13 The resultant “expressive opposition” inherent in both the Wilhelm Meister poems and the twofold development of their respective settings—analyzed tellingly by Kramer—is even more apparent in the fourfold connections among Schubert’s, Schumann’s, Wolf’s, and Weigl’s settings of the “Nachtlieder.” In fact, the ubiquitous interplay of “opposition” and “expressivity” will be operative throughout these six settings even as its implicit dichotomy will particularly enhance the relentless human anxiety toward God in “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and the serene tension between nature and man in “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh” in the cyclic conception of Weigl’s op. 1. Schubert’s setting (D. 224) of “Wanderers Nachtlied” (see appendix 5.1)14 was composed in 1815. While highly praised by both Mosco Carner and Eric Sams in comparison with the “overwrought” and “colourless” setting by Hugo Wolf, the song does not really express the profound content of the words, particularly since the overall mood of quiet lyricism can hardly be expected to embody simultaneously the contorted anguish contained and constrained within the complex syntax of the poem’s first four lines. While Schubert commentators are never at a loss to explain the considerable niceties of this “prayer for peace,” several nuances must suffice in this context: only the D-natural on “elend” (m. 3) provides particular melodic and harmonic interest, chiefly because the surprising appearance of a B-flat-major harmony (where B-flat minor might be expected) emphasizes “elend” as a positive rather than negative emotion, if the traditional assumptions about harmonic connotation are accepted. In measures 5–6, two seemingly inappropriate words are musically underlined: at “müde” the accompaniment breaks out in sixteenth-note movement, and the word “all” is given poignant emphasis by a chromatic ascent in the bass and chromatically descending middle voices. What is very appropriate about these nuances, however, is that both devices lend impetus and urgency to the seemingly resigned and hopeless question “Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?” and thereby prepare the listener for the “somewhat quicker” (“etwas geschwinder”) call for peace, which is to come from on high in measures 7–11. The almost exclusive use of tonic major harmony to the words “Süßer Friede” then provides lavish resolution for the dominant on

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“Lust” (with a passing A-natural providing particular urgency). But this concluding five-measure section projects the serenity of peace already attained, and the cajoling effect of the sixteenth-note embellishments on “Komm, ach (komm)” only enhances the effortlessness of it all. One is tempted to conclude with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau that anyone who pleads for peace in this manner “has already achieved it.”15 Schubert’s entirely peaceful lyricism, though it matches the deceptively calm surface of the poem, in fact contradicts the emotional tension implicit within it. For a poem whose syntactical complexity suggests a profound and unsatisfied yearning, this setting is simply too gentle, too even, and too calm. Schubert was more successful eight years later when, in 1823, he composed “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh” (see appendix 5.2).16 Here the two-measure piano introduction already anticipates the gradual progression from nature to man that logically begins long before the first word sounds. In fact, this hymn-like miniature progression is actually a radical distillation of the melodic, harmonic, and rhythmic movement toward and beyond tranquility epitomized by the entire song. The pavane-like stateliness—long, short, short, long, long, and so on—of the rhythm of the introduction as well as the first line of text gradually and inexorably evolves into the syncopated accompaniment underlying the magical formulation “spürest du kaum einen Hauch” (mm. 5–6). The difference in figuration is clear, but the actual change is almost imperceptible. Moreover, the setting of lines 1–2 is almost ideal in itself because the static verbal structure of the text—“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”—is supported musically by dominant harmony over a pedal point B-flat in the bass as well as an absolute minimum of melodic movement, by way of upper and lower neighboring tones only, in the voice. The sense of melodic equilibrium achieved here explicitly by the notes equals the semantic balance implicit in the words. It is therefore appropriate that lines 3–5, containing as they do an active verb, should be set to more movement in the accompaniment and to more poignant harmonies, progressing over a chromatically ascending bass to the half cadence on “Hauch.” The corresponding rhyme “auch” and the corresponding full cadence do not appear until the very end of the song. The delayed resolution conforms perfectly to the rhyme scheme of the poem, which analogously bridges lines 6 and 7 and thereby gives formal recognition to the literal meaning and the actual duration of time as “Warte nur, balde” is spoken or sung. The central position and contrasting texture of the folksong-like sixth line are underscored by three factors: (1) the deep bass line that everywhere else has a stabilizing character here rises an octave and reverses the direction of its eighthnote left-hand motion to provide more melodic interest, (2) the dominant and tonic harmony now alternates “primitively” as in a guitar or banjo accompaniment, and (3) “schweigen” is repeated in playful symmetry to emphasize the paradoxical but ominous nature of the birds’ silence. Finally, measures 9–13 project the bond between nature’s timelessness and man’s patience by means of

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the self-contained harmonic quality of the individual phrases (“war-te nur,” and so on), which almost manage to suppress the mere sixteenth-note passing tones sounding between weighty inversions of the basic chord as these phrases climb twice to the highest note of the setting. Fermatas at both of these culminating points radiate the eternity of nature that awaits man. In contrast to his setting of “Der du von dem Himmel bist,” which fails to convey musically the psychological tension everywhere present in the text, Schubert’s response to “Über allen Gipfeln” paradoxically represents universal peace through a form of elemental musical tension that simultaneously articulates absolute tranquility and the inexorable movement toward it. As such, the setting is Schubert’s finest contribution to Goethe’s view of man’s place in the chain of creation. The single and self-contained settings of Schumann and Wolf, composed in 1850 and 1883, respectively, must be viewed as independent of each other and yet also as having received much of their original impetus from the same source—Schubert. It is a benevolent quirk of fate that Wolf (rather than Schumann) should have set “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Der du vond em Himmel bist”) in which, according to Mosco Carner, “a disturbed soul [emphasis mine] prays for inner peace.” (Surely Schumann’s muse anticipated the future Wolfian competition when he opted for the far less tormented poem “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh.”) Carner continues his assessment: “It is torment rather than peace which Wolf projects in his markedly chromatic setting.”17 For all its idiosyncratic Wagnerian chromaticism, however, Wolf’s rendering (see appendix 5.4)18 has a more appealing and readily apparent structural integrity than does Schumann’s: the contorted dependent relative clauses of the first three lines ascend in small melodic increments, scalewise and with increasing chromaticism, until at line 4 the “double refreshment” completing the main clause conveys a sense of relief and release that is vividly projected by the large descending interval of a fifth at the midpoints of both measures 11 and 12, even while the piano part continues its gradual (and increasingly quiet) chromatically ascending progression. Line 5, “Ach, ich bin des Treibens müde,” is tenaciously underscored by what Eric Sams has called “tired drooping figures that typify weariness” but that might better be considered muffled outbursts of anguish repeatedly portraying the “toil of life” that is the explicit cause of the poet-persona’s fatigue. Yet as Sams also pointed out, these “weariness-figures” emerge “refreshed in a brighter tonality” during the first invocation at “komm in meine Brust” (mm. 25–26), while at the first “süßer Friede” the piano musingly repeats the melodies allotted to the voice for the opening description of the nature of peace.19 To his credit, Hugo Wolf does not fall into the Schubertian trap of peaceful lyricism denoting false (or at least premature) fulfillment; in fact, by repeating the vocal melody of lines 1–4 throughout the second half of the setting in the right hand of the piano part, Wolf ensures that the overriding anguish and unfulfilled yearning of “Wanderers Nachtlied” are retained even beyond the half-close

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of the chromatic and hardly conclusive piano coda. Not only does this setting clearly represent an espressive and structural advance over Schubert’s lyrical sectionalism, but the separate roles assumed by the declamatory vocal line at “Süßer Friede, süßer Friede” (mm. 20–23) and the right-hand piano melody underlying this gentle plea that clearly recalls the initial vocal melody of the convoluted first four lines of prayer truly enable the listener to perceive almost unwittingly a very fundamental theological insight: both anguish and tranquility, whether in doses single or double, potential or actual, are functions and aspects of the deity being addressed. As if to further emphasize this dual quality, the piano coda takes its melodic cue from the diatonically descending configuration of second–fifth–second (repeated sequentially one scale step lower; mm. 11–12) underlying “doppelt mit Erquickung füllest” and which—in the enharmonic subdominant key area—supported the rising vocal climax “komm in meine Brust!” (mm. 25–26) before it serves essentially as the vocal melody for an extended denouement-gesture underlying the repeat of “komm in meine Brust!” (mm. 28–29) and then dies away on its own after a final forte appoggiatura-outburst on “Brust” (m. 30). Kramer’s insight about “planes of opposition” dynamically binding together the Wihelm Meister settings of Schubert and Wolf applies equally well to these settings of “Der du von dem Himmel bist.” Schubert quietly explores ever lighter and more animated G-flat-major configurations that effortlessly project the lilting ambiance of a utopian serenity, while Wolf painstakingly probes the ambivalent duality of anguish and peace, a fluctuating dualism that ultimately transcends mankind’s power of volition. By enharmonically “modulating” to the subdominant key for almost half of the setting (mm. 19–32)—thus giving fewer than two lines of the eight-line poem the musical space earlier given to six lines—Wolf has also clearly increased the expressive dimension of this otherwise very integrated and concentrated literary-musical fusion. Schumann, on the other hand, confronting “Ein Gleiches” twenty-seven years after Schubert (and thirty-three years before Wolf set “Wanderers Nachtlied”), is in general pacing and accompaniment texture noticeably influenced by Schubert20 and yet able to give his own setting several unifying aspects unique to his style. Several features of Schumann’s op. 96, no. 1 (see appendix 5.3)21— and not merely its key of C major or its thirty-two measures of mainly half-note movement—will be seen to have had a significant effect on Weigl’s cyclic solution fifty-three years later, however. Stephen Walsh has pointed out that only in “Nachtlied” does Schumann “achieve anything like a Schubertian purity of vision akin to that of the verse” and that his music is “immediately alive” to the simplicity and nobility of this twenty-four–word lyric that distills so epigrammatically “the timeless peace of the universe and the smallness of human anxieties.”22 Eric Sams, however, claims that “Schumann renounces all pretensions to the cosmic and writes instead the music of ordinary human relaxation and placidity.” Sams then focuses exclusively on the fact that for Schumann the triplet thirds in contrary motion (m. 19 and m. 21) convey the ideas of calm and stillness;

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Schumannian motivic paradigms are said to exist for both concepts.23 Walsh emphasizes the structural congruence of lyric content and musical texture in the broad diatonic opening that projects the virtually motionless tranquility of the couplet “Über allen Gipfeln / Ist Ruh”), in the word “Hauch” (breath), and in the contrary-motion triplet chords framing the words “Warte nur” (just wait), which create a wonderful moment of expectancy.24 Gerald Moore sees the efficacy of Schumann’s setting of lines 3–5—“In allen Wipfeln / Spürest du / Kaum einen Hauch”—to reside in (1) the modulation that “melts” from the home key of C major into E minor “with ineffable smoothness”; (2) the “sudden emergence of the pianoforte in the high treble,” which answers “the allusion to the treetops”; and (3) the “whispered triplets that float on the air leading us so smoothly to ‘Warte nur’ and ‘balde,’ where in five bars of music the singer has three bars of silence (mm. 19–23).”25 Although Moore also comments on the “moment of radiance” that awaits us (mm. 24–25) on “Ruhest du auch,” when from C major “we are wafted into A major”—the “unexpectedness” of which explains, perhaps, why it is so deeply moving when the whole-note appoggiatura dissonance of the A-major triad in the right hand (mm. 26–27) is placed against the octave F-natural in the bass (virtually embodying the existential urgency of the repeated “ruhest du auch”)—neither he nor other commentators seem to grasp the significance of Schumann’s musical rendering of time and space as an “objective correlative” for Goethe’s deliberately short (and therefore expansively spaced) lyric phrase-line: except for the necessarily longer folksong-like sixth line (“Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde”), all lines are either only three or two words long. The fact that this extreme epigrammatic brevity is nevertheless projected onto a prosodic grid of panoramic expansiveness and timelessness is signaled clearly by the fact that that most colorless and semantically weak intransitive verb “to be” takes up fully half of the entire second line. Paradoxically, Schumann does not provide comparable separation and prosodic-musical “space” for “ist Ruh” at this point but composes lines 1 and 2 as one sentence. The next sentence is separated from the preceding with a “breathing” space of five beats. (This expansive musical “rest,” which seemingly disregards the lyric punctuation, together with the repeated last line “Ruhest du auch”—measures 26–28—constitute Schumann’s only deviations from Goethe’s poetic structure.) Schumann separates the two sentences that make up the first five lines of Goethe’s poem, emphasizing the rhyme words “Ruh” and “du” with a four-plus-four–measure phrase structure in the voice, and then extends the last phrase to include the fifth line with the crucial rhyme word “Hauch.” At the juncture between these two phrases, he repeats the chords from the beginning, artfully providing a six-plus-eight–measure phrase structure with cadences on C and E in the piano part. In spite of several, or perhaps because of most, of these features, then, Schumann’s “Nachtlied” (“Ein Gleiches”) as a whole represents a profound alternative to Schubert’s seminal achievement in its own right as well as a vital stage in later–nineteenth-century

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art-song development, from which Weigl’s twentieth-century cyclic synthesis of Wolf and Schumann could so fruitfully evolve.26 It is fair to say that the main difference between Schubert’s and Wolf’s “Der du von dem Himmel bist” has to do with a profound transformation in the nature of the poet-persona’s plea for peace, from a benign and trusting anticipation of tranquility on Schubert’s part to a tormented awareness and desperate acceptance on Wolf’s part of the psychological price to be paid for human dependence on divine grace. It is also accurate to conclude that Schumann’s setting of “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”—in comparison with Schubert’s sensitive yet animated version—embodies an even more measured projection that takes seriously the expansiveness and timelessness that are paradoxically present in Goethe’s concentrated lyric structure. It remained for Karl Weigl, however, to assimilate the best features of these earlier literary musical solutions and to reflect even more directly the brevity and simplicity of the poems. By linking them (see appendix 5.5), he was able to combine the psychic intensity of Wolf’s composition and the extended phrases of Schumann’s rendering into an integrated conception.27 Born in Vienna in 1881 (only twenty-one years after Hugo Wolf), Karl Weigl—a student of Alexander von Zemlinsky and a protégé of Gustav Mahler— was firmly anchored in the musical language of the nineteenth century.28 He believed the older Viennese tradition of Beethoven, Schubert, and Brahms— even well into the twentieth century—still provided limitless possibilities for expression. Ironically, both Arnold Schoenberg and Weigl were avidly writing music in the late Romantic tradition, achieving extreme expressiveness through rich, chromatic harmonies and colorful orchestration as late as 1905, when both composers were members—along with Zemlinsky and Mahler—of the Vereinigung Schaffender Künstler (Society of Creative Artists). This supercharged late Romantic harmonic-chromatic idiom, therefore, permeates Weigl’s op. 1 cyclic setting of Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches” in 1903–4, the years when the composer received his doctorate in musicology from the University of Vienna and was hired by Mahler as a vocal coach at the Vienna Opera. Like his mentor Mahler, Weigl expressed his religious feelings through a passion for nature, in the abstract as music and concretely in mountain climbing. The fact that both aspects would find an ideal aesthetic union in Goethe’s “Wanderers Nachtlieder” poems seems a foregone conclusion. But even granting Weigl’s qualifications for this task in fin-de-siècle Vienna, the fact that German art song’s most illustrious triumvirate had already set these poems and that literary commentators had elevated them to the pinnacle of poetic perfection makes any such attempt all the more daunting and the actual cyclic achievement that much more extraordinary. The briefest glance at these ninety-one measures reveals Weigl’s first innovation: in “Wanderers Nachtlied” he replaces his predecessors’ foursquare 44 time signature with the proto-Viennese 43 meter. Perhaps the second feature that strikes the observer about “Der du von dem Himmel bist” is

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the contrapuntal texture of the piano part: the right hand imitates the left at the distance of one measure, whereas the voice line clearly does not join in these canonic proceedings. Then, at measure 24 this procedure reaches a fortissimo climax at the rhetorical outburst “Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust?” (line 6), whereafter lines 7 and 8, “Süßer Friede, / Komm, ach komm in meine Brust,” continue in a reduced texture and at a subdued dynamic level. Finally, starting at measures 42–43 (“Brust”), where measures 2–3 have been exactly repeated, the piano part extends the motivic material in measures 44–47—particularly in the left hand—in an altered version of its opening bars, until a further transition passage in measures 48–52 is attained in which the left hand has all the melodic interest to itself while the right-hand chords gradually modulate to the major key. Surely our third observation concerns the magical linkup hereby achieved with “Über allen Gipfeln”: the time signature is now 22, a more accurate designation of the half-note pulse experienced in performance than the common time of Schumann’s setting. But the novel feature is Weigl’s transformation of the basic three quarter-note (neighboring-tone) melodic unit in the left hand of the accompaniment (m. 1 and elsewhere) in measures 52–55, where the meter changes from 43 to 22. Here the tie across the bar line both before and after the actual meter change creates a double hemiola effect: what was subtly yet perceivably syncopated before the meter change (mm. 52–53) as a traditional 23:43 hemiola becomes rhythmically ambiguous in measure 54 as a kind of superimposed 6:3 hemiola. The entrance of the voice in collaboration with the right hand of 42 the accompaniment in measure 55 reestablishes some sense of metric and rhythmic order. The off-beat bass octaves continue to sound intermittently throughout “Über allen Gipfeln” and thereby provide a nearly inaudible but relentless reminder of the interconnected triple-duple nature of these settings as well as an almost continuous pulsation for the forward progression of “Ein Gleiches.” In tandem with hymn-like triadic chords in the piano right hand, Weigl’s gently meandering triple pianissimo and calm (“Sehr leise und ruhig”) vocal line proceed both in the same C-major key and with a melodic line strikingly similar to Schumann’s setting, the fourth feature worth our attention. There are other structural features to point to if the aesthetic solutions of Weigl’s settings are to be readily apparent. Of fundamental significance, as we have seen, is the juxtaposition of C minor and C major to contrast the human anxiety toward God in “Wanderers Nachtlied” and the serene tension between nature and man in “Ein Gleiches.” As such, surely, the minor mode enhances the anguish of the plea for peace even as the triumphant E-major climax (m. 24) paradoxically reinforces the urgency of the persona’s plight at “Was soll all der Schmerz und Lust.” More specifically, the two-measure alternation of E major and A minor (with added sixth) harmony in measures 24 and 25 (and similarly in measures 26 and 27) underscores Goethe’s deliberate coupling of “Schmerz” and “Lust.”

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But perhaps Weigl’s greatest insight into Goethe’s own reasons for linking these originally unrelated poems in all of his subsequently published collections can be seen in a close comparison of measures 66–69 in the piano part at “Hauch” (“Ein Gleiches”) and of measures 2–4 in the piano part underlying “Der du von dem Himmel bist.” Here the intervallic structures of both melodies are identical, but the 43 urgency of “Der du von dem Himmel bist” has given way to the expansive and unexpected “Hauch”—with a deceptive cadence on the flatted-seventh scale step, B-flat, and an elongated triadic half-note motive in D major replacing the dotted quarter/eighth-note figure (m. 3). Whereas Schumann merely highlighted “Hauch” with a chromatically altered piano progression, Weigl has not only provided the poignant underscoring of unexpected harmony but has also signaled the psychological transformation of the persona. Metaphorically speaking, whereas the “wanderer” could be said to have been restricted earlier by his straitjacketed 43 motive, he is here and now able to project his earlier anguish into tranquil nature and to peacefully bide his time, as it were. It is difficult to exaggerate the scope of Weigl’s achievement: this structural transformation—motivic, harmonic, and rhythmic—not only links the poems and settings cyclically but simultaneously establishes the reciprocal relationship between “Ruh” (or “Ruhest du auch”) and “Süßer Friede,” which otherwise only “Der du von dem Himmel” might ultimately be able to supply—but then only in dogmatic terms. Put another way, Weigl’s contrapuntal piano accompaniment in support of a relatively independent declamatory vocal line in “Wanderers Nachtlied” illustrates the struggle between the human emotions of “Leid und Schmerz” and “süßer Friede”; his transformation of these 43 configurations into 22 equivalents symbolizes the assimilation of these qualities into the natural world beyond mankind. Thus, in metaphorical-musical terms, Weigl’s cyclic setting has “filled” the impatient persona with “double refreshment,” that is, the “double” reality of a musical “Ein Gleiches” that consists of its own new vocal melody of “nature” and the metamorphosed counterpoint of anxious and impatient mankind actually finding peace. If, in concluding, we refer back to Lawrence Kramer’s concepts of opposition and expressivity, we hardly need dwell on the “opposition” Hugo Wolf posed in both directions, as it were; it goes virtually without saying that his chromatically tormented setting of “Wanderers Nachtlied” is diametrically “opposed” to Schubert’s buoyantly confident version. Weigl, however, while employing a form of Wolfian dissonance and chromaticism, clearly eschewed his predecessors’ 44 rigidity and added contrapuntal devices to a 43 format that in its sheer consistency resembles the exuberant orchestral counterpoint of the youthful Richard Strauss. Schumann, on the other hand, was somewhat less oppositional toward Schubert and very strategically assimilated by Weigl. More revealing and significant for Weigl’s two interrelated settings, however, is Kramer’s concept of expressivity, especially if we equate it with that fin-de-siècle

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musical expressionism Weigl prized so highly and which is so clearly evident in Strauss’s Salome of 1905 and the symphonies (especially nos. 5–8) of Mahler’s so-called middle period (1901–7).29 While there are no apparent quotations or obvious borrowings of any consequence within these ninety-one measures, several examples will help illustrate the supercharged hyperchromaticism found in “Wanderers Nachtlied.” To begin with, the extremes of dissonance and range— an already low vocal (baritone) register is complemented and enhanced by a subterranean piano texture that is nevertheless contrapuntal and deliberately imitative—remind one of Mahler’s paradoxical orchestration techniques that so often forced naturally high instruments to play abnormally low and vice versa, for expressive purposes. By contrast, Weigl’s “Ein Gleiches”—with its effective transformation of the minor phrase fragment in measure 3 into a major triadic half-note expansion (mm. 68–69)—seems to share the diatonic glow Strauss used for Jochanaan’s similarly consonant music whenever he opposes the chromatic allure of Salome. The D-sharp / D-natural cross-relation in measure 19 is the most extreme case of chromatic dissonance in “Wanderers Nachtlied”; the augmented fourths in the sequentially ascending vocal melody and chordal progression underlying the gently intoned plea “Süßer Friede, komm, ach komm . . .” (mm. 32–38) make this important textual moment a clear midpoint in the literary-musical cycle as Weigl conceived it. The climax in measures 24–26, as the only instance of fortissimo intensity in the entire setting, nevertheless contains two structural features basic to the whole cycle: the triadic motive of a descending quarter note followed by eighth and quarter notes is combined with the ostinato-like half-step figure in the left hand, which propels the entire composition onward. This same ostinato figure is then brilliantly—but with consummate simplicity—altered through the addition of one simple tie (across mm. 52–53) to make the magical transition from the 43 time signature of “Wanderers Nachtlied” to the 22 meter of “Ein Gleiches,” as the double hemiola analysis of our earlier third observation demonstrated. Perhaps the most astonishing aspect of Weigl’s aesthetic economy and formal concentration is the fact that the piano part, for all its carefully crafted restraint and understatement, truly functions in lieu of the large orchestral forces typical of this harmonic-melodic idiom. Just as Hugo Wolf could not resist the temptation to orchestrate a number of his more successful piano-vocal settings—particularly Goethe’s “Prometheus,” “Ganymed,” and “Grenzen der Menschheit”—so too Weigl’s cyclic setting contains within its exquisitely distilled texture the implicit expressivity of, for instance, Mahler’s grandiose Eighth Symphony with its orchestral and choral rendering of the conclusion of Goethe’s Faust II. The last nine measures of Weigl’s setting make a further comparison irresistible: this is virtually a “piano reduction” of the sustained dissonances and expanding intervals found in the archetypal Adagio movements of Mahler’s symphonies. Weigl’s subtle inclusion of the plagal “Amen” cadence in his concluding measures celebrates the ultimate serenity between nature and man with as much

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(religious) faith in “eternal” human values as Goethe’s use of Christian imagery in the final scene of Faust II suggests. In fact, it is no exaggeration to claim that Weigl’s piano postlude radiates a transcendental promise very much like Mahler’s musical apotheosis at the conclusion of his “Symphony of a Thousand” setting of Goethe’s “Chorus Mysticus”: the motivic texture and major harmonies of Weigl’s coda are, after all, a most convincing and consistent aesthetic transformation of the literary-musical motives and minor harmony with which Goethe’s prayer for peace began. In this subtly integrated manner, then, Weigl fuses the hope and the promise of ultimate peace—so hauntingly absent in the first poem and so evocatively present in the second—into a cyclic whole that actively achieves within its structural development the musical actuality of its poetic promise. So, in terms of Lawrence Kramer’s perceptive terminology, it seems reasonable to conclude that Schumann’s and Wolf’s “opposition” toward Schubert’s autonomous settings ultimately prepared the way for Weigl’s “expressive” and cyclic achievement in literary-musical synthesis.

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Appendix 5.1. Schubert, “Der du von dem Himmel bist”

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Appendix 5.2. Schubert, “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”

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Appendix 5.3. Schumann, “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”

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Appendix 5.4. Wolf, “Der du von dem Himmel bist”

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Appendix 5.4. Wolf, “Der du von dem Himmel bist”—(concluded)

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Appendix 5.5. Weigl, “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”

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Appendix 5.5. Weigl, “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”—(continued)

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Appendix 5.5. Weigl, “Der du von dem Himmel bist” and “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”—(concluded)

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Notes 1. Willi Schuh, Goethe Vertonungen (Zürich: Artemis-Verlag, 1952). 2. The correct number is at least eight because Franz A. Stein, Verzeichnis deutscher Lieder seit Haydn (Bern: Franke Verlag, 1967), 65, lists both “Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches” in Ernst Pepping’s collection entitled Haus- und Trostbuch für eine Singstimme und Klavier, 1946. 3. Other examples of deliberate juxtapositioning on Goethe’s part are the celebrated pairing of “Ganymed” and “Prometheus” as well as his repeated effort to give the 250-odd poems in the West-östlicher Divan an ultimately valid cyclic progression that would reveal the inexhaustible interrelatedness of its constituent parts. 4. Goethe, Gedichte, ed. Erich Trunz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1981), 142. Translations provided by the editor. 5. Mosco Carner, Hugo Wolf Songs (London: BBC Music Guides, 1982), 20. 6. Elizabeth M. Wilkinson, “Goethe’s Poetry,” in Goethe: Poet and Thinker, ed. E. M. Wilkinson and L. A. Willoughby (London: Edward Arnold, 1962), 28. 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. Ibid., 29. 10. Ibid., 30. 11. Lawrence Kramer, “Decadence and Desire: The Wilhelm Meister Songs of Wolf and Schubert,” Nineteenth-Century Music 10, 3 (Spring 1987): 230. 12. Wulf Segebrecht, Johann Wolfgang Goethes Gedicht “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh” und seine Folgen. Zum Gebrauchswert klassischer Lyrik. Text, Materialien, Kommentar (Munich: Carl Hanser Verlag, 1978), 167. “Der Widerspruch des Menschen besteht darin, natürlich und unnatürlich zugleich zu sein, wesentlich unruhig und ebenso wesentlich von der Sehnsucht nach Ruhe erfasst. Die Lösung dieses Widerspruchs kann nur dadurch erfolgen, dass das Gesetz der Natur, das eine zwingende Bewegung zur Ruhe hin vorschreibt, sich auch am Menschen erfüllt” [translation by the author]. 13. Kramer, “Decadence and Desire,” 230. 14. The two Schubert settings reprinted in appendixes 5.1 and 5.2 are taken from Franz Schubert, Schubert’s Songs to Texts by Goethe, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski (New York: Dover, 1979), 52 and 224, respectively. 15. Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Auf den Spuren der Schubert-Lieder: Wesen-Werden-Wirkung (Wiesbaden: F. A. Brockhaus, 1972), 59. 16. The following discussion is indebted to Thrasybulos Georgiades, Schubert: Musik und Lyrik (Göttingen: Vandenhoek & Ruprecht, 1967), 17–31. The first chapter of the book has been published as “Lyric as Musical Structure: Schubert’s ‘Wanderers Nachtlied’ (‘Über allen Gipfeln’),” in Schubert: Critical and Analytical Studies, ed. Walter Frisch (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 84–103. 17. Carner, Hugo Wolf, 20. 18. Hugo Wolf, Gesamtausgabe, vol. 6: Lieder nach verschiedenen Dichtern, ed. Hans Jancik (Vienna: Musikwissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1981), 36–37. 19. Eric Sams, The Songs of Hugo Wolf (New York: Eulenburg, 1983), 56. 20. Eric Sams has a different opinion, denying any influence of Schubert on Schumann in this case. The Songs of Robert Schumann (London: Methuen, 1969), 242. 21. Robert Schumann, Lieder III, ed. Max Friedländer (Frankfurt/Main: Peters, n.d.), 66 (“Nachtlied”). 22. Stephen Walsh, The Lieder of Schumann (London: Cassell, 1971), 15.

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23. Sams, Robert Schumann, 242. 24. Walsh, Lieder of Schumann, 19. 25. Gerald Moore, Poet’s Love (New York: Taplinger, 1981), 214. 26. Georgiades’s idiosyncratic reading of Schumann’s “Nachtlied” in Schubert: Musik und Lyrik (see note 16) has been questioned by Dieter Conrad, “Schumanns Liedkomposition—von Schubert her gesehen,” Die Musikforschung 24 (1971): 135–63. 27. Karl Weigl, Lieder und Gesänge, op. 1 (Vienna: Universal Edition, n.d.), 20–22 (“Wanderers Nachtlied” and “Ein Gleiches” are the fifth and sixth songs of the collection). Weigl alters Goethe’s text only to the extent of omitting the medial “-e-” of “Vögelein,” as did Zelter (1814), Schubert (1823), and Schumann (1850). Carl Loewe (1817), Ferdinand Hiller (1827), and Franz Liszt (1848) included this lilting dactylic syllable in their settings of “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,” according to Max Friedlaender, Gedichte von Goethe in Kompositionen, vol. 2 (Weimar: Verlag der Goethe-Gesellschaft, 19176; reprint: Hildesheim: Olms, 1975), 111, 150, 164–65. 28. The Music of Karl Weigl (1881–1949): A Catalogue, ed. Stephen Davison (private publication of the Weigl family, 1987), 2. 29. Ulrich Michels, ed., dtv-Atlas zur Musik, vol. 2 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1985), 511.

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Chapter Six

“Hans Adam”—Goethe’s Parodistic Creation Myth A Parody Parodied by Hugo Wolf and Richard Strauss Harry E. Seelig In this study I develop further an argument I have begun elsewhere, namely that in his selection of seventeen poems from Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, all of which he set to music in the second half of January 1889, Hugo Wolf has created a microcosmic mini-cycle of the poet’s original macrocosmic collection of more than 220 individual poems.1 Here, however, my primary objective is to contrast Wolf’s half-serious parodistic Lied setting of “Hans Adam” with Richard Strauss’s rollicking self-parody of the same poem. But I focus as well on the intriguing fact that Wolf’s setting of “Erschaffen und Beleben,” more popularly known as “Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß,” also relates cyclically to two other poems in Goethe’s Divan: “Phänomen” and “So lang man nüchtern ist.” “Phänomen” is presented in figure 6.1 in the original German,2 set by Wolf, as well as in John Whaley’s 1974 translation.3 Although “Phänomen” follows “Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß” (fig. 6.2)4 in Goethe’s cyclic ordering, Wolf reverses this order and “connects” the two settings by deliberately using very similar melodic motives and harmonic progressions in both. It is as if Wolf has taken his cue from the identical adverb “So” that begins the last quatrain of each poem, as is apparent in the original German of “Erschaffen und Beleben” (but not in the English equivalents of Whaley’s translation). As I have suggested, Wolf’s setting of “Hans Adam” constitutes half of a cyclic pairing of two seemingly unrelated Divan poems drawn from “Buch des Sängers,” the first section in Goethe’s cycle. The first poem in this linked pair of poems _________________ The study originated as a paper read at the Internationales Hugo Wolf Symposium in Graz, Austria, and Slovenj Gradec, Slovenia, November 3–7, 2003, and the International Symposium “Vixen Muse: Hugo Wolf’s Musical World” in Ottawa, Ontario (Canada), November 23–26, 2003. It was published in Musica Austriaca 26 (2007): 137–52. It is reprinted by permission of Praesens-Verlag, Vienna.

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Figure 6.1. Goethe, “Phänomen” Wenn zu der Regenwand Phöbus sich gattet, Gleich steht ein Bogenrand Farbig beschattet.

Phoebus on high receives Rain cloud’s embraces, Rainbow enshadowed weaves Colourful traces.

Im Nebel gleichen Kreis Seh ich gezogen, Zwar ist der Bogen weiß, Doch Himmelsbogen.

Mist shows a circle white, Likewise compounded, Likewise with bow of light Heaven is rounded.

So sollst du, muntrer Greis, Dich nicht betrüben, Sind gleich die Haare weiß, Doch wirst du lieben.

Gloom need not cloud your sight Though age increases: What though your hair be white, Love never ceases.

Figure 6.2. Goethe, “Erschaffen und Beleben” Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß Den Gott zum Menschen machte, Doch bracht’ er aus der Mutter Schoß Noch vieles Ungeschlachte.

Jack Adam was a clot of earth God used to make a human, But from his mother’s womb at birth He brought stuff crude and common.

Die Elohim zur Nas’ hinein Den besten Geist ihm bliesen, Nun schien er schon was mehr zu sein, Denn er fing an zu niesen

Into his nose Elohim blew The spirit’s finest breezes, Immediately his stature grew For straight away he sneezes.

Doch mit Gebein und Glied und Kopf, Blieb er ein halber Klumpen, Bis endlich Noah für den Tropf Das Wahre fand, den Humpen.

With member, bones and head, yet still He was by dullness cankered, Till Noah found, his needs to fill, The proper thing, a tankard.

Der Klumpe fühlt sogleich den Schwung, Sobald er sich benetzet, So wie der Teig durch Säuerung Sich in Bewegung setzet.

The dolt at once begins to rise When wetted by the potion, Just as the dough before our eyes By yeast is set in motion.

So, Hafis, mag dein holder Sang, Dein heiliges Exempel, Uns führen bei der Gläser Klang Zu unsres Schöpfers Tempel.

Thus, Hafiz, shall your gracious song And your divine example With mirthful glass lead us along To our Creator’s temple.

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is his setting of “Phänomen,” or “Wenn zu der Regenwand.” This represents a notable musical achievement of “duodramatic” integration on Hugo Wolf’s part; his linked settings are aesthetically analogous to what Goethe explicitly called “duodramas” in the “Buch Suleika.” By this he meant a distinctively reciprocal poetic Liebesspiel between the Oriental protagonists Hatem and Suleika. These “duodramatically” paired poems are a kind of paradox: they are autonomous and interrelated; they can be understood and enjoyed for what each says in and of itself, but their lyric essences reveal themselves most fully in amorous reciprocity and cyclic proximity.5 When we look at both “Phänomen” and “Hans Adam,” the only obvious similarity that might suggest cyclic intent is the initial word “So” in the final strophes of both poems. In each case the word “So” initiates lines that suddenly address the lyric persona’s imagined listener or reader explicitly: “So sollst du, muntrer Greis” (“Phänomen,” line 9) and “So, Hafis, mag dein holder Sang” (“Hans Adam,” line 17). Wolf’s explicit recognition of this implicit cyclic connection is made clear in the almost identical melodic and harmonic features of two passages—its basic form in measures 11–12 of “Phänomen” compares uncannily with the fourfold augmentation of a chromatically descending motive in measures 48–51 of “Hans Adam” (examples 6.1 and 6.2).6 For his part, Goethe worked diligently to create a sequence of interrelated poems among the many varied verses and books of the entire Divan. In fact, it was in trying to find suitable Divan poems for his good friend and conservative musical mentor Friedrich Zelter to set to music for the Liedertafel (glee club) singers he regularly conducted in Berlin that Goethe first realized that almost every individual poem in his extensive poetic dialogue spanning the centuries and cultures of Orient and Occident was imbued with a sense of the whole and related in some way to one or more other poems in the cycle.7 Hugo Wolf’s uncanny intuitive grasp of Goethe’s cyclic project also accounts for the composer’s ingenious reversal of Goethe’s original placement of “Hans Adam” before “Phänomen.” By placing the poet-persona’s personal experience, namely the premonition of finding love again in spite of his white hair, deliberately before the parodied creation myth, Wolf provides a progression that begins with the meteorological metaphor for whiteness in the rain cloud, or “Nebel[wand],” in “Phänomen” and concludes with the mock-serious, cross-culturally inspired synthesis of Bible and Koran so humorously envisioned in the mundane mysticism of Hafis at the climax of “Erschaffen und Beleben.” Moreover, not only do such cyclic and duodramatic features bind Goethe and Wolf together in this bicultural literary-musical synthesis, but a creative kind of aesthetic dilettantism links them as well. Hugo Wolf’s musical dilettantism has often been cited in both negative and positive terms. It was characterized as “ein gewisses technisches Ungeschick” (a certain lack of technical skill) by Theodor W. Adorno in 1962,8 underscored rhetorically as “ein ewiger [eternal] Dilettant?” by Andreas Dorschel in 1985,7 and analyzed as an idiosyncratic but

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Example 6.1. Wolf, “Phänomen”—mm. 11–12

Example 6.2. Wolf, “Erschaffen und Beleben”—mm. 48–52

ingenious propensity toward autodidacticism in Hartmut Fladt’s 1992 study “Der geniale Dilettant.”9 Yet Wolf, as shown during his years as a caustic music critic in Vienna, could also be said to share Goethe’s preference for literary and scientific dilettantism, which, according to Hans Vaget,10 was a lifelong obsession for Goethe—especially during his years of meteorological, optical, and mineralogical study that coincided with, and complemented, his work on the Divan from 1814 to 1819 and beyond. Since Wolf completed very minimal schooling and did not last more than a year at the Vienna Conservatory, it is not surprising that his almost entirely autodidactic assimilation of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century central European musical tradition and culture would evoke charges of dilettantism and worse by the famously conservative Viennese musical establishment of the time. The thoroughly eclectic and often colloquial diction of the Divan’s multistyled West-East poems, proverbial sayings, and epigrams—many of which captivated and influenced Heinrich Heine and others in their search for not only a post-Classical but also a post-Romantic lyrical idiom that would become their voice—is surely an example of poetic dilettantism at its best. But even more fundamentally reciprocal in this multidisciplinary symbiosis is the phenomenon of parody itself. Goethe’s parodistic assimilation of oriental wisdom and culture—namely his discovery in 1814 of the fourteenth-century Persian poetry of Hafis, which he avidly read in the translation of Austrian Orientalist Joseph von

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Hammer-Purgstall—prefigures Wolf’s similarly parodistic appropriation of the poet’s responses to Hafis for his own Lied compositions. They are therefore literary-musical parodies of a rather unique and intercultural kind. I recently asked a composer-colleague what he, as a practicing composer of Lieder himself, thought of the compositional aspects of “Phänomen” and “Hans Adam.” The first thing he noticed was what he called the “perfectly hideous tunes.” He went on to say that “the harmonies drive the tunes rather than the reverse. The chords drive the piece. In Wolf’s songs the harmony is made up of relationships that make the notes in the tune sound ‘fresh’ without . . . making much melodic sense.”11 To help explain why this tuneful “freshness,” which may not make much melodic sense from a professional standpoint, is but one of the unorthodox poetic-musical characteristics in Wolf’s creation parody, recall that “Erschaffen und Beleben” was written on June 21, 1814. This makes it the very first Divan poem Goethe wrote and the focal point of much traditional Divan scholarship regarding the origins of the cycle. Mid–twentieth-century Divan scholars all regard the earliest poems—and certainly “Hans Adam”—as belonging to the category of “geselliges Lied” (sociable song) or “burschikos-heiteres Gesellschaftslied der Goethezeit” (boyish-humorous sociable song of the Goethe era).12 Most commentaries report that although God created Adam, it was wine that truly enlivened him, an idea that occurs several times in the poetry of Hafis. The scholarly epithets “burschikos” and “heiter” clearly suggest that there is humor to be found here, but it was not until David Lee’s very detailed analysis of “Erschaffen und Beleben” in 1968 that the wit and spirit with which Goethe imbued this comic creation myth could be said to have been critically analyzed and appreciated. Lee concluded “that the humor of the poem is an expression of the all-inclusive power of the creative forces which Goethe finds in the world” and that “religion” here is decidedly “not limited to pious expressions of the sublime” but “rather embraces all aspects of life, from the raucousness of the tavern to worship in the temple.”16 I see this all-inclusive yet humorous humanistic conclusion musically articulated in Hugo Wolf’s explicit projection of the aesthetic tension between the triumphantly augmented fifth stanza and the first four mundane strophes, which seem to develop in ever more chromatically altered progressions from a rather inauspicious melodic-harmonic beginning (example 6.3). By inviting the listener to reflect on this contrast while recognizing its organic musical continuity, Wolf musically projects the central Divan characteristic Goethe expressed in extensive commentary for the Divan where he stated that Oriental poets “have all things present in their minds and they are able to relate the most remotely conceived objects and ideas easily to one another.”14 By merely looking at the general intervallic nature of the broadened melody underlying the fifth stanza as a whole, one can see how ingeniously the basic shape of the comical Hans Adam motive in its angularity and disjunctive “clodhopping” quality has been retained in the intervals of the diminished fifth, the

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Example 6.3. Wolf, “Erschaffen und Beleben”—mm. 1–6

perfect fourth, the third, and the sixth in “hol-der Sang,” “hei-li-ges Ex-em-pel,” and “Glä-ser Klang.” The entire stanza, however, even while simultaneously emphasizing these crucial concepts, has been transformed into something suggesting transcendence: it is an aesthetic-divine realm characterized by sustained half notes and arpeggiated piano chords commensurate with the hymn-like and climactic celebration of Hafis and his exemplary role in ennobling both the spirit and the flesh. In effect, Hans Adam’s initial difficulty in rising above his earthen-clod status has hereby been completely conquered; his previous ineptness and awkwardness are gone. The music has accomplished a metamorphosis not detectible in the poetry alone. The half notes in the piano’s bass line of stanza 4, which indicate the “lowly” imperfection of Hans Adam’s newfound freedom because his ostensibly enlivening Schwung was at bottom alcoholically induced, are in the fifth stanza entirely “raised” to the ennobling and truly spiritual level of the ecstatically triumphant vocal line. As suggested, Wolf has not only rendered the mundane and intellectual humor of Hans Adam in analogous harmonic and melodic progressions, but his musical highlighting of Goethe’s basic Divan concepts—so often expressed in that casual sententiousness that troubled early literary scholars and commentators—is also apparent in “So lang man nüchtern ist” (fig. 6.3), a much more restrained conundrum that pointedly ponders the dialectical polarity of trinken and lieben. The musical setting of its first couplet demonstrates Hugo Wolf’s use of the same grace-note motive earlier underlying both “Ungeschlachte” and “niesen” to emphasize the cyclic significance of “das Schlechte” (with reference to “vieles Ungeschlachte”) in this poem as well (examples 6.4 and 6.5). What I see as Wolf’s creative merging of ingenious autodidacticism and dilettantism is similarly described by Susan Youens, who, in a chapter entitled “Of Wolf, Freud, and Humor in Music,” claims that the syllabic text setting and quarter-note octaves supporting Goethe’s bumptious rhythms—so suggestive of “beer tankards hitting a table”—are prototypically folk song-like but that the harmonic excursions they soon inspire are far removed from a folkish style.15 Boorishness is given a sophisticated array of musical indicators, from the ponderous open

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Figure 6.3. Goethe, “So lang man nüchtern ist” So lang man nüchtern ist, Gefällt das Schlechte; Wie man getrunken hat, Weiß man das Rechte; Nur ist das Übermaß Auch gleich zuhanden; Hafis, o lehre mich, Wie du’s verstanden!

When we think soberly In bad we delight; When we have drunk a bit We know what’s right; Yet we exceed the mark Soon as we do it; Hafiz, O tell it me How you did view it!

Denn meine Meinung ist Nicht übertrieben: Wenn man nicht trinken kann, Soll man nicht lieben; Doch sollt ihr Trinker euch Nicht besser dünken, Wenn man nicht lieben kann Soll man nicht trinken.

Not to exaggerate Here’s my own view: If you can’t drink a lot Love’s not for you; But you who are drinkers Don’t think you’re the best, If you can’t love a lot Give drink a rest.

Example 6.4. Wolf, “So lang man nüchtern ist”—mm. 1–7

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Example 6.5. Wolf, “Erschaffen und Beleben”—mm. 7–10

fifths at the start and the parallel fifths elsewhere to the tritone between the bass and the vocal line in measure 3, as well as the dissonant dyad D–E sharpened into a “cluster” by an appoggiatura C in the voice in measure 6 (see example

6.3). Yet the gradual and relentless chromatically changing harmony in measures 1–13 of the piano chords, “telescoped” in example 6.6 to make the enharmonically rising progression more apparent to the eye, is at the same time strikingly analogous to the almost Wagnerian rainbow-turned-”fogbow” effect near the beginning of “Phänomen.” The harmonic-melodic crescendo-decrescendo underlying “Gleich steht ein Bogenrand / Farbig beschattet” (example 6.7, mm. 3–4) is a doubly chromatic representation—both coloristically and musically—of the meteorological “mating” of rain and sun that Goethe sees as the metaphorical meaning of his sixty-four-yearold head of white hair. Wolf depicts this natural “phenomenon” as an inexorable upwardly arching musical metaphor, whereas in the comparable section of rising harmony in “Erschaffen und Beleben,” God labors unsuccessfully to create and enliven man. This difference is symbolized by much smaller melodic arcs, at least until Noah appears on the scene. The semitone slip downward from E to D-sharp for the words “heiliges Exempel” strikes Youens as a tongue-in-cheek invocation of sanctity,16 but I would add that Wolf further enhances this gesture of mock sanctity by “alienating” the final plagal “Amen” cadence at the end of the ecstatic piano prelude with an innovative melodic dissonance that superimposes a grinding Gsharp above a consonant A-major triadic harmony (example 6.8, m. 75). Wolf thereby transforms the traditional Christian hymn tune subdominant-to-tonic progression into an ironic and ambivalent transformation of the perhaps expected and certainly normal liturgical affirmation. Even the fact that the third degree of the final E-major chord, G-sharp—the same G-sharp that was just so briefly but jarringly dissonant within the plagal subdominant chord—is consistently placed in the upper voice of the chordal harmony and given added profile in the piano part’s one-octave leap upward for the final quarter-note chord projects a certain lack of finality within the otherwise bombastically expressed finality of this conclusion. While this concluding feature

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Example 6.6. Wolf, “Erschaffen und Beleben”—mm. 1–13 (piano chords “telescoped”)

Example 6.7. Wolf, “Phänomen”—mm. 1–5

Example 6.8. Wolf, “Erschaffen und Beleben”—mm. 73–78

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has implications for Wolf’s entire Divan cycle that cannot be pursued in this context, his emphatically folk-like and Lied-like setting of “Hans Adam” can now be seen and heard to have inspired—almost thirty-four years after Wolf’s rapturously manic composing spree in January 1889—a very different setting by Richard Strauss in December 1922.17 Strauss’s strangely disjunctive and oddly fragmented vocal and pianistic tour de force at first seems clearly derivative, inspired by Ludwig Fischer’s worldfamous “Männerchor” setting of Karl Müchler’s archetypal drinking song, “Im tiefen Keller sitz’ ich hier” (example 6.9). But Strauss cleverly turned the tables on my Wolfian expectations by giving to the basso-buffo voice a deliberate equivalent to the wide intervals and skips that were almost entirely the domain of the piano part in Wolf’s version. Moreover, where in Wolf’s conception chromatic harmonic movement supports and symbolizes man’s inexorable spiritual development, whether humorous or witty or both simultaneously, Strauss’s sense of man’s creation is couched in fits and starts of great effort and laborious leaps from top to bottom of the bass tessitura, alternating with luxuriously lyrical melismas of vibrantly vocal intoxication (example 6.10). Such seemingly disjunctive textures are found wherever Strauss triumphantly parodies and quotes himself; he does so on a truly epic scale in his 1899 tone poem Ein Heldenleben particularly, as well as in his ingenious operatic juxtapositioning, in Salome, of the female heroine’s decadent, disjunctive world of musical chromaticism with Jochanaan’s diatonic, lyrical realm of prophetic Christian otherworldliness. Quite consistently, then, in “Hans Adam” Strauss similarly contrasts Adam’s earthiness with the holy example of Hafis leading us to our creator’s temple by casually moving from the basic C major to F minor, to F major, and then to E major for Noah’s enlivening ploy. But finally the action moves to the flatted supertonic realm of D-flat major, where Hafis is transported to an exalted and pseudo-divine realm on high (example 6.11). In contrast to the “laborious leaps” Strauss equates with God’s comically futile efforts, the composer’s setting of the couplet “Der Klumpe fühlt sogleich den Schwung, / Sobald er sich benetzet,” demonstrates the even wider intervallic leaps and the boldly extended melismatic triplets that express the enlivening effect of alcoholic spirits running rampant (example 6.12). Strauss then varies the vocal part by interspersing slurred pairs of eighth notes among the quarter-note leaps. These eighth-note pairs can be seen as self-parodistic quotations from his 1898 setting of Richard Dehmel’s “Der Arbeitsmann,” op. 39, in which such pairs of eighth notes constitute what Norman Del Mar has called the “pathetic motive”18 representing the workman’s desire for freedom. Here in “Hans Adam,” by underscoring the words “mehr zu (sein)” (example 6.13, m. 16) with similar eighth-note figures, the composer emphasizes the “pathetic struggle” that God’s creation of a man who merely sneezes ironically represents. Strauss’s setting of “Nun schien er schon was mehr zu sein, / Denn er fing an zu niesen” (lines 7–8) demonstrates at least three clearly parodistic musical features (example 6.13): (1) the vastly extended grace-note embellishment of what was Wolf’s

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Example 6.9. Ludwig Fischer, “Im tiefen Keller”—mm. 1–4

Example 6.10. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 1–2

Example 6.11. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 35–39

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Example 6.12. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 27–31

comparatively discrete (but cyclically telling) humorous gesture underlying “niesen” (m. 18, analogous to example 6.5, m. 10) indicates the extent to which Strauss “borrows” and “extends” Wolf’s prior idea; (2) the off-beat grace notes in the bass of measures 15–16 give the words “schien er schon was mehr zu sein” the pompous attitude of Baron Ochs when he self-importantly prattles about in the Marschallin’s boudoir in the first act of Der Rosenkavalier; and (3) the distinctive staccato descending motive of measures 19–20, which follows the melismatic “sneeze” in measure 18 and cleverly underscores the words “Doch mit Gebein und Glied und Kopf” (line 9), is perhaps Strauss’s most blatant stroke of musical parody (example 6.14). These widening intervals sung in unison with staccato piano octaves are a literal quotation (a fifth lower) from the introduction to the opening of the climactic final scene in Verdi’s Falstaff, where the human comedy is celebrated in a fugal stetting of the Italian libretto’s “Tutto nel mondo è burla,” namely “Everything in the world’s a jest. / Man is born a jester, / buffeted this way and that / by his beliefs or by his reason.” Thus does Strauss offer an ironically (“All the world’s a joke!”) deferential if brief homage to Verdi’s much admired operatic embodiment of musical humor par excellence (example 6.15).19 Strauss’s transition to the fifth stanza and its “elevation” of exemplary Hafisian discipleship leads us upward to the lyrical and celestial heights of D-flat, where in measures 38–39 the musical movement to the supertonic is enhanced

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Example 6.13. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 15–18

Example 6.14. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 19–21

Example 6.15. Verdi, Falstaff—rehearsal letter 55, leading to final scene

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by the mildly dissonant dominant seventh harmony striving inexorably toward tonic resolution, which is deftly delayed until “Gläser Klang” (m. 43) and the final syllable of “Tempel” (m. 46). Perhaps roughly comparable to Wolf’s jarringly dissonant major seventh G-sharp superimposed onto the penultimate plagal subdominant chord of his setting’s postlude (see example 6.8, m. 75) is Strauss’s signature trait of unexpected and therefore all the more poignant harmonic emphasis, namely the use of altered 46 inversions on the raised second and seventh degrees of D-flat major to lend a tongue-in-cheek quality to the word “Schöpfer(s)”—all of which is further underscored by the enharmonic spelling of a G-sharp in the piano that supports the A-flat sung by the voice (example 6.16). Strauss chose to end his excursion into the Hafisian realm of holy song and the creator’s temple with a sudden chromatic shift into the key of F major, the same harmonic area the second stanza seemed to be heading toward with “Die Elohim zur Nas’ hinein / Den besten Geist ihm bliesen” and that produced only a sneeze in C major (example 6.13, m. 18). But here, this bombastic cadential close in F major is surely Strauss’s way of emphasizing his fundamental preference for the more earthbound, mundane ambience of Hans Adam’s labor-intensive and clodhopping existence (example 6.17). Strauss’s musical identification with Hans Adam’s station in life as a more folkish or common man can be seen by grouping together several passages in the setting (example 6.17, m. 48; example 6.11, m. 35; and example 6.13, mm. 15–18). The pianistic idiom of sequentially grace-noted chords, often sweeping upward in scale-like figurations, poignantly resembles the Gospel piano style of early-twentieth-century hymn singing that flourished in the Southern Baptist churches of rural and urban America then and continues to proliferate in many mainline—suburban—Christian churches today. Finally, having made so much of Hugo Wolf’s keen cyclic awareness of the Divan poems he set, it seems prudent to include the fact that Richard Strauss seems to have had further cyclic designs on other Divan poems previously set by Wolf as well, as the unfinished sketches unearthed by Barbara A. Petersen20 demonstrate (juxtaposed motivically or thematically to their corresponding “models”; examples 6.12 and 6.18, examples 6.19 and 6.20). Moreover, Strauss actually completed two additional settings of poems from other books in the Divan, one of which—“Zugemessene Rhythmen reizen freilich”—pointedly quotes, in the space of a mere seven lines of poetry and nineteen measures of music, familiar themes from four widely recognizable musical works: Brahms’s First Symphony and Wagner’s Meistersinger as well as his own tone poem Tod und Verklärung and his opera Arabella. In summary, the fact that Richard Strauss continued to quote his own works as well as the compositions of others in his settings and unfinished melodic sketches for familiar lines and poems from Goethe’s Divan invites a more expansive comparison of both composers’ respective parodistic composing techniques. Whereas Hugo Wolf’s organically evolving structural approach21 can be said to

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Example 6.16. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—m. 44

Example 6.17. Strauss, “Hans Adam”—mm. 48–50

Example 6.18. Strauss, unfinished sketch for “So lang man nüchtern ist”

Example 6.19. Wolf, “Trunken müssen wir alle sein”—mm. 1–4

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Example 6.20. Strauss, unfinished sketch for “Trunken müssen wir alle sein”

take its cue from Goethe’s own morphological insights (as developed in his quasievolutionary biological studies and expressed in his speculative concept of the “Urpflanze” as well as in his poem “Metamorphose der Pflanzen”), Strauss never tired of parodistically combining self-quotations and the themes of rival composers into a kind of collage or pastiche that departs from a deliberate spoof of early–nineteenth-century “folksong” and proceeds through repeated excursions into quasi-grand operatic parody before concluding with a sudden modulatory coda of formulaic Straussian bombast. A philosophic-literary analogy for both settings comes easily to mind: the “Urphänomen” in Goethe’s Farbenlehre could serve as a structural model for Wolf’s consistently developmental style, while the sectionalized “Stationendrama” structure in Georg Kaiser’s Expressionist plays might be said to foreshadow the sudden stylistic juxtapositions of Strauss’s musical potpourri. In either case, Goethe’s parodistic poetic merging of Adam, Noah, and Hafis in creating and enlivening that initially so earthbound Erdenkloß “Hans Adam” has been well served by the contrasting parodistic musical responses of at least two very different composers.22

Notes 1. Harry E. Seelig, “Hugo Wolf’s Seventeen Divan-Settings: An Undiscovered Goethe-Cycle?” in Word and Music Studies, vol. 3, ed. Walter Bernhart and Werner Wolf (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 183–209. 2. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Werke: Gedichte und Epen, vol. 2, ed. Erich Trunz (Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1960). Another reliable edition of Goethe’s poetry by the same editor is Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Gedichte, vol. 2 (Hamburger Ausgabe), ed. Erich Trunz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1981), 13. 3. John Whaley, trans., Goethe-Whaley: Poems of the West and East (Berne: Peter Lang, 1998), 26 (original), 27 (translation). 4. Ibid., 24 (original), 25 (translation). 5. See chapter 11. 6. Hugo Wolf, Sämtliche Werke, vol. 3, part 2: Gedichte von J. W. von Goethe, ed. Hans Jancik (Vienna: Musikwissenschaftlicher Verlag, 1978). The examples cited here are taken from the Peters Edition of Wolf’s Goethe songs: Hugo Wolf, Gedichte von Goethe für eine Singstimme und Klavier, vols. 3 and 4 (Frankfurt: Peters 3158 and 3159, [n. d.]). 7. Goethe expressed this crucial cyclic insight concerning the almost infinite number of potential cross-references inherent among and between individual poems to Zelter on May 17, 1815, in these words: “Jedes einzelne Glied ist nämlich . . . durchdrungen von dem Sinn des Ganzen . . . und muss von einem vorhergehenden Gedicht erst exponiert

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sein, wenn es auf Einbildungskraft oder Gefühl wirken soll” (quoted in Goethe, Gedichte, vol. 2, 1981, 559). The correspondence between Goethe and Zelter is published in Carl Friedrich Zelter, Briefwechsel zwischen Goethe und Zelter in den Jahren 1799 bis 1832, 3 vols., ed. Ludwig Geiger (Leipzig: Reclam, 1902). 8. Theodor W. Adorno, “Wien,” in Quasi una fantasia = Musikalische Schriften, vol. 2 (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1963), 284–85; also in Quasi Una Fantasia: Essays on Modern Music, trans. Rodney Livingstone (London: Verso, 1998), 209 (“a certain technical ineptitude that he never really overcame”). 9. Andreas Dorschel, “Ein ewiger Dilettant,” in Hugo Wolf (Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1985), 10. 10. Hartmut Fladt, “Der geniale Dilettant,” Musik-Konzepte 75 [edition text + kritik] (1992): 116–29. 11. Hans Vaget, Dilettantismus und Meisterschaft (Munich: Winkler, 1971), 9–22. 12. Conversation with Donald Wheelock, August 1, 2002. 13. Goethe, Gedichte, vol. 2, 1981, 577. 14. David E. Lee, “The Genesis of Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan: Hafis and the ‘Geselliges Lied’” (PhD dissertation, Stanford University, 1967), 46. 15. Goethe, Werke, 1981 vol. 2, 165: [Orientalische Dichter] “haben alle Gegenstände gegenwärtig und beziehen die entferntesten Dinge leicht aufeinander.” 16. Susan Youens, Hugo Wolf: The Vocal Music (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 112–14. 17. Ibid., 114. 18. Richard Strauss, Lieder: Gesamtausgabe, vol. 3, ed. Franz Trenner (London: Fürstner / Boosey & Hawkes, 1964). 19. Norman Del Mar, Richard Strauss: A Critical Commentary on His Life and Works, vol. 3 (London: Barrie & Jenkins, 1972), 315. 20. Giuseppe Verdi, Falstaff, piano-vocal score (New York: Schirmer, 1963), 420. 21. Barbara A. Petersen, Ton und Wort: The Lieder of Richard Strauss (Ann Arbor, MI: UMI Research Press, 1980), 52–53. 22. Mark Anson-Cartwright, “Chasing Rainbows: Wolf’s ‘Phänomen’ and Ideas of Coherence,” Journal of Music Theory 45, 2 (2001): 233–61, especially 259. 23. I express indebtedness to several colleagues for crucial help in this endeavor: Donald Wheelock, Amanda Glauert, Mark Anson-Cartwright, Jürgen Thym, Leopold Spitzer, and Hartmut Krones in regard to matters of Lied analysis but above all to pianist Rudolf Jansen for generously sending me a CD copy of his memorable performance of op. 87, no. 2 with Andreas Schmidt (on an out-of-print RCA boxed LP set of the complete Lieder of Richard Strauss), without which I might never have been able to take this exuberantly parodistic setting quite seriously.

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Part II

Poetic and Musical Structure

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Chapter Seven

Text and Music in Schubert’s Settings of Pentameter Poetry Rufus Hallmark and Ann C. Fehn Song composers since the Renaissance have tended to set texts according to the speech rhythms of the poetic lines. As analysts, we often take good declamation for granted, noting only occasional faux pas of accentuation or awkward phrasing. Investigations of the relation of text to music in song address other questions of textrelated expressivity and musical coherence but seldom examine this fundamental area of text-music coordination. Our purpose in this chapter is to call attention to Schubert’s mastery of declamation, specifically with regard to his settings of pentameter poetry. We hope to show that these settings, while responding to the rhythmic requirements of the texts, at the same time artfully integrate a handful of stock declamatory patterns into the musical whole and, furthermore, that these rhythms themselves may become prominent motivic and expressive features of the songs. _________________ This chapter is an amalgamated, condensed, and somewhat revised version of two jointly authored essays: “Text Declamation in Schubert’s Settings of Pentameter Poetry,” Zeitschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Linguistik 9 (1979), no. 34, “Das Lied,” 80–111; and “Text and Music in Schubert’s Pentameter Lieder: A Consideration of Declamation,” Studies in the History of Music, vol. 1: Music and Language (New York: Broude, 1983), 204–46. I wish to acknowledge that, while the initial suggestion to study the setting of pentameter verse was mine, the idea for pursuing a more systematic (and eventually statistical) study belonged to my late coauthor, Ann Clark Fehn; for that reason, our names were reversed in the second article, hers preceding mine. Portions of this work were presented in papers read at the national meetings of the Modern Language Association (San Francisco, December 1979) and the American Musicological Society (Denver, November 1980). I am grateful to the two anonymous prepublication reviewers of these essays for their stimulating and very helpful comments. The study is nearly thirty years old, and I am thankful for the opportunity to touch up the ideas and arguments. I am confident that Ann Fehn would share my satisfaction that another scholar has recently taken up the close study of declamation in German lieder and extended the study of text and rhythm systematically to a much broader array of verse. See Yonatan Malin, Songs in Motion: Rhythm and Meter in the German Lied (New York: Oxford University Press, forthcoming spring 2010).—RH

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For the Lied composer, pentameter verse offers a special challenge. The fivefoot lines are longer than those of most lyric poetry and are often metrically and syntactically more complex. Moreover, pentameter lines are less obviously compatible than are trimeter and tetrameter lines with the two-, three-, and four-bar phrase structure favored by the musical tradition.1 Franz Schubert frequently faced the task of setting such lines. Ninety-two of his more than six-hundred songs contain one or more pentameter lines, and twenty-seven of them are based on poems entirely in pentameter. The nearly nine-hundred pentameter lines in his Lieder therefore offer a rich source for an investigation of the musical treatment of such lines. For our study we initially identified all lines with five accents, and from Schubert’s settings of these lines we extracted two principles governing declamation as well as various recurring declamation patterns corresponding to those two principles. Next we studied the lines themselves more closely to discover what relation there might be between the declamation patterns and the internal structure of the lines. Finally, we examined a number of whole songs in detail to determine how these patterns might play out in entire compositions, giving particular attention to the formal and expressive functions of these patterns.

Conventions of Pentameter Declamation A simple convention exists for declaiming lines of three or four feet: alignment of the feet with the successive metric units of musical time. (In the case of trimeter lines, the final foot of the line is usually lengthened or followed by a rest.) The convention (which one can hear in “Heidenröslein,” for example) corresponds closely enough to the oral reading of poetry to appear “natural” and unstudied.2 With pentameter lines, the situation is more intricate. Because of the relative rarity of five-foot lines in lyric poetry and what might appear at first glance to be a great variety of rhythms with which they are declaimed, one might assume that composers dealt with them on a haphazard basis, setting the lines without any regularity of pattern. We have discovered, however, that this is not the case and that there are discernible conventions for the declamation of pentameter lines, just as there are for shorter units of verse. Either of two distinct principles may underlie the setting of a pentameter line: compressed declamation or even declamation. The five feet of the line may be compressed into four units of musical time, or they may be declaimed evenly, as with shorter lines. The most commonly encountered compression pattern can be heard in this familiar phrase from “Der Tod und das Mädchen” (example 7.1).3 Here the third and fourth feet of the line are accorded a single temporal unit. We have called the compression convention “X” and designated this common pattern X1 (represented symbolically as //. ./).4 The most frequently used even declamation pattern, Y1, is seen in this example from “Die Schatten” (example 7.2).

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Example 7.1. Schubert, “Der Tod und das Mädchen”—mm. 22–25

Example 7.2. Schubert, “Die Schatten”—mm. 1–5

The features of the Y1 pattern are (1) the straightforward alignment of the stressed syllables with five successive metrical units in the music and, often, (2) the extension of the last unit with a rest or an augmentation of the last foot (. . . . . or . . . . /). For purposes of analysis, we have classified all of Schubert’s pentameter lines into these and other related but subsidiary categories. We summarize the defining characteristics of each category next. All X patterns share the feature of compression. Patterns X1, X2, and X3 each compress two feet within the line; X4 compresses three but compensates for the extra compression. The patterns are listed in the order of their frequency as settings of pentameter lines in Schubert’s songs. X1: //. ./

The third and fourth feet of the line are compressed into one unit; for example, “An den Schlaf” (D. 447), measures 1–2, example 7.3a. X2: /. .//

The second and third feet of the line are declaimed in one unit; for example, “Nähe des Geliebten” (D. 162), measures 3–4, example 7.3b.

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Example 7.3a. Schubert, “An den Schlaf”—mm. 1–2

Example 7.3b. Schubert, “Nähe des Geliebten”—mm. 1–7 X3: . ./// or ///. .

The compression occurs either at the beginning (first and second feet) or at the end (fourth and fifth feet) of the line; for example, “Todtenopfer” (D. 101), measures 34–37, example 7.3c.

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Example 7.3c. Schubert, “Todtenopfer”—mm. 32–37 X4: / . . . /

Like the other X patterns, X4 occupies four units of musical time; however, three feet rather than two are compressed, and it is only by virtue of an extended feminine ending that the pattern fills four units; for example, “An Laura,” (D. 115), measures 1–4, example 7.3d. Whether this is a modification of X or a distinct pattern may be debatable. In any case, there are only twelve lines involved, and they are concentrated in a few songs: D. 7, 115, 286, 630, 726, 761, and 771.

Example 7.3d. Schubert, “An Laura”—mm. 1–4

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These patterns may be modified in various ways. Often X1, and occasionally X2, may be found in a form in which the declamation of the first foot is abbreviated (./. ./ or . . . // respectively). We call this modification “foreshortening.” The poetic line still occupies four metrical units because of rests preceding the shortened first foot; that is, one can imagine the line projected backward to occupy the entire initial unit of time. In foreshortening, prominence is given to the second foot, which is often the first substantive in the line; for example, “Die Erwartung” (D. 159), measures 148–150, example 7.3e.

Example 7.3e. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 148–50

Occasionally a line with a feminine ending set in the X1 or X2 pattern has an extended ending in which the accented penultimate syllable occupies the entire fourth metrical unit and the final weak syllable falls at the beginning of the following, fifth unit of time. Technically, such a pattern exceeds the four-unit definition of compression. The X pattern, however, remains intact and recognizable for the main body of the line; for example, “Der Zwerg” (D. 771), measures 7–11, example 7.3f.

Example 7.3f. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 4–11

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Example 7.3f. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 4–11—(concluded)

All Y patterns have in common the declamation of at least four feet, and sometimes all five, to even units of musical time. Commonly, the extension of one of the feet or a rest at the end of the line produces a phrase of six metrical units (see, however, Y3). Y1:. . . . . or. . . . /

The five feet are declaimed in five metrical units. The final foot of the line may be extended to occupy two units or may be followed by a rest; for example, “Die erste Liebe” (D. 182), measures 3–6, example 7.4a.

Example 7.4a. Schubert, “Die erste Liebe”—mm. 1–6

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Y2: . . . /. or . ./. . or ./ . . . or /. . . .

Either the fourth, third, second, or first foot is set to two metrical units, while the remaining four feet are declaimed evenly. The most common Y2 pattern extends the fourth foot in the line; for example, “Entzückung” (D. 413), measures 11–14, example 7.4b.

Example 7.4b. Schubert, “Entzückung”—mm. 11–14 Y3: /././

A few pentameter lines are declaimed in triple meter in such a way that accented syllables fall on the first and third beats of the measure. This pattern, strictly speaking, produces uneven declamation (on alternating half and quarter notes in 43, for example). Yet the line occupies, with a rest or an extension of one foot (as in Y1 and Y2), six of what are contextually established as the “available” declamatory units; for example, “Die Liebende schreibt” (D. 673), measures 5–7, example 7.4c. Admittedly this is a “stretch” for this category of even declamation, but it seems to belong there more than to the compression convention, and in any case very few lines are set to this pattern. There are twenty-nine lines in this category; of these, twenty-one employ one of the two patterns shown in example 7.4d. In many of Schubert’s pentameter songs, both declamation conventions are discernible, as in examples 7.5a and 7.5b, taken from “Adelaide” (D. 95) and “Heimliches Leben” (D. 922), respectively. In the first case, compression is followed by even declamation in diminution; in the second, even declamation is followed by foreshortened compression. Not all lines can be classified as X or Y. Some lines are not declaimed integrally but are broken up into more than one phrase or are run on with part of an adjacent line. In such settings, the lines are not perceived as pentameter units; we classify them as “non-integral.” See, for example, “Stimme der Liebe” (D. 412), measures 2–13, example 7.6a.5 A line’s integrity may also be obscured by internal repetition of words and phrases; for example, “Schatzgräbers Begehr”

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Example 7.4c. Schubert, “Die Liebende schreibt”—mm. 4–7

Example 7.4d. Patterns of pentameter set in triple meter

Example 7.5a. Schubert, “Adelaide”—mm. 6–14

(D. 761), measures 19–22, example 7.6b. (When only a single word or only a single foot is repeated at the beginning or the end of a line, we consider the main part of the line to be an integral unit and classify it accordingly.) Any declamation of a pentameter line that maintains the integrity of the line but does not fit into any of the X or Y categories is characterized as “irregular.” A few line settings exhibit characteristics of both X and Y patterns and are rendered “ambiguous” for the purposes of our analysis. We examined all of the pentameter lines in Schubert’s songs. After some lines were disqualified,6 a total of 884 lines were left. We classified these 884

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Example 7.5b. Schubert, “Heimliches Lieben”—mm. 4–11

pentameter line settings according to the categories we had established. First, the two predominant conventions, X1 and Y1, together account for 50 percent of the declamation of pentameter lines in Schubert’s songs. The other compressed and even patterns (X2, X3, X4, Y2, and Y3) occur in another 25 percent of the lines. An additional 10 percent of the lines employ rhythms that are irregular (i.e., do not correspond to any of the X or Y patterns) or ambiguous. Approximately 15 percent of the lines are not set as integral units and therefore do not exhibit whole-line patterns. If we eliminate the latter and consider only those lines Schubert set as integral units, then the distribution is even more striking: X1 and Y1 other X and Y irregular and ambiguous

59 percent 30 percent 11 percent

This means that nine out of ten pentameter lines set as integral units employ one of a small pool of rhythmic patterns based on the principles of compressed and even declamation. These figures strongly substantiate the description of these patterns as “conventional” in Schubert’s text setting. The X and Y declamation patterns are conventional not only in the sense of being customarily used by Schubert but also in the sense that they occur frequently in the literature before and after him. Instances can be found in the pentameter settings, for example, of Zumsteeg and Reichardt and of Schumann and Wolf.7 Further, the patterns are not confined to the German language or to the Classic-Romantic style. Hymns with ten- and eleven-syllable

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Example 7.6a. Schubert, “Stimme der Liebe”—mm. 1–13

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Example 7.6b. Schubert, “Schatzgräbers Begehr”—mm. 17–22

lines, in both German and English, abound with the most common compressed and even declamation patterns.8 Orlando Gibbons’s well-known madrigal “The Silver Swan” regularly alternates X1 (foreshortened: ./. ./) and Y1 patterns for its six pentameter lines (“The silver swan, who living had no note, / When death approached unlocked her silent throat”). The X1 pattern is also heard in many other contexts; examples include the popular standard “A Bicycle Built for Two” (“Daisy, Daisy, tell me your answer true”), the ballad “The Battle of New Orleans” (“In eighteen-fourteen we took a little trip. . . . We fired our guns, and the British kept a comin’ “), the English Yuletide song “Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat,” and Rodgers and Hammerstein’s “So Long, Farewell” from The Sound of Music (“So long, farewell, Auf Wiederseh’n, good night. / We hate to go and miss this pretty sight”). The X1 pattern, in fact, must be recognized as a strong and independent musical gestalt, for its presence can be detected in repertories as widely separated as thirteenth-century clausulae and motets (the common tenor ordo: long, long, breve, breve, long), marching cadences (“Left, left, left, right, left”), and chanted political slogans (“Hell no, we won’t go,” and “Ho, Ho, Ho Chi Minh”). One hears it as well in the instrumental music of the standard repertory; for example, Mozart, Clarinet Quintet, K. 581 (first movement, incipit of main theme); Beethoven, Piano Sonata, op. 13, “Pathétique” (second movement, incipit of main theme); Beethoven, Seventh Symphony

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(first movement, main allegro theme); Dvo÷ák, Symphony no. 9 “From the New World” (second movement, each phrase of the main theme); and Sibelius, Finlandia (the well-known hymn-like theme is made up of a series of foreshortened X1 patterns).9 The pattern may also appear at the level of multiple-phrase structure, as when four equal phrases occur, the third of which is subdivided into two shorter units; for example, Schubert’s “Wiegenlied” (D. 498, mm. 1–8), the opening of Haydn’s “Lark” Quartet (op. 64, no. 5 in D major, mm. 1–8), the already cited song “A Bicycle Built for Two” (the two shorter phrases of the bridge being “It won’t be a stylish marriage, We can’t afford a carriage”), and, on a somewhat larger scale, Jerome Kern’s “Ol’ Man River” (from Show Boat; each of the A sections is eight bars long, and the B section consists of two four-bar units—“You an’ me, / We sweat an’ strain” and “Tote dat barge, / Lif’ dat bale”).10 In considering the frequency of the compression convention, one is reminded of Northrup Frye’s contention that five-foot lines really have four primary stresses (e.g., “To be or not to be, that is the question”)11 and is led to wonder whether compressed declamation reveals a sensitivity to this phenomenon. There are problems with regard to German Lieder, however. Frye conceived his hypothesis in relation to English blank verse, and differences in phrase stress, metric form, and other factors prevent its ready transfer to German lyric poetry.12 As even a cursory glance at the settings indicates, the four stresses of the compressed declamation rhythm do not always (or even generally) coincide with what one might postulate to be the primary accents of the line (consider, for example, “An den Schlaf,” example 7.3a). Nevertheless, Frye’s assertion of the tendency of five feet to be read with four stresses bears analogy to compressed musical declamation, and the composer’s skillful location of compression within a line can indeed call attention to primary emphases. For example, Reichardt’s use of a foreshortened X1 in his setting of “Nähe des Geliebten” (example 7.7)13 suffers by comparison with Schubert’s X2 (D. 162; example 7.3b), since in Schubert’s song Goethe’s alliteration on the four primary stresses in the line stands out.

Example 7.7. Reichardt, “Nähe des Geliebten”—mm. 1–4

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Definitions of Line Structure Having established the existence of declamation patterns, we asked why Schubert might have chosen one declamation pattern in preference to another.14 The X1 pattern, for example, seemed so well fitted to the shape of the line “Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild” that we wanted to know if the line itself had somehow evoked Schubert’s setting. In addition, we wanted to know what this line might have in common with many other lines, seemingly dissimilar, that were also set to the X1 pattern. Accordingly, we set about defining the shapes of lines in terms compatible with the musical patterns we had identified and in a manner that would enable us to examine the lines statistically. Punctuation offered an efficient and economical means. For lines lacking internal punctuation, syntactic units—phrases as well as individual parts of speech—were useful for our purposes. We also took relative stress and enjambement into consideration. We summarize in this section the categories of punctuation, syntactic groupings, and stress patterns we devised for our statistical examination of Schubert’s lines. Although this is not the only possible description of the internal line structure, it is the most workable one we have discovered for approaching correlations of line structure and declamation rhythm such as we intuitively sensed. Something as elusive and subjective as the play between meter and semantic rhythm cannot be fully comprehended within categories as simple as those we propose, but we hope the consistency of the correlations presented here will persuade the reader, first, that we have indeed discovered links between the internal line structure of the poems and the declamation patterns of the music and, second, that we have found a rough but meaningful system for describing them. All lines that have internal punctuation are classified in one or more “p” categories. A line that contains punctuation on or after the first stress, but before the second, is categorized as p1. Lines similarly punctuated with regard to the second, third, and fourth stresses are categorized as p2, p3, and p4, respectively. Lines containing no internal punctuation are classified according to the location(s) of boundaries between syntactic units and are included in one of the “u” categories. A line with a syntactic boundary after the second stress, for example, is classified as 2u. These groups of words are classified as units: Noun phrases, that is, nouns with their articles, modifying adjectives, and any modifying prepositional or genitive constructions. Two nouns separated by a conjunction are not considered to be a unit.15 Prepositional phrases, if they do not constitute part of a noun phrase. Predicate adjectives and adverbs, together with any modifying adverbs.

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Infinitive phrases (“zu” plus verb). Conjunctions at the beginning of lines together with the unit immediately subsequent.16 All other parts of speech, such as conjugated verbs, define syntactic units. For the purposes of our analysis, we regarded all metric stresses as equal with the exception of syllables that in normal speech bear stress either not at all or only for unusual emphasis. Both of these we have classified as weak (w). This group includes: Syllables bearing secondary stress in compound words Definite and indefinite articles Prepositions, unless followed by a pronoun Accusative, dative, and reflexive pronouns, unless unusual sentence position gives them stress The infinitive preposition “zu.”

The Relation of Declamation Patterns to Line Structure We found significant correlations between syntactic groupings, as defined by punctuation or by phrases, and Schubert’s choices of declamation patterns. Of the 884 pentameter lines we studied, a small number (57) contain no internal punctuation and no phrase groupings can be discerned.17 Because of the small number of these lines and the absence of syntactic groupings within them, this class is not informative. Of much greater interest are the 827 lines that contain either internal punctuation (338 lines) or syntactical phrase groupings (489 lines). Our tabulations concerned each of the four positions in the pentameter lines where punctuation or a syntactic boundary can occur. We tallied the distribution of lines in each syntactic or punctuational classification among the various declamation patterns. It is from the variation of these line distributions above and below the overall distribution that we drew our conclusions concerning the relation of particular line structures to specific declamation patterns in Schubert’s Lieder. (Our tabulations are shown in fig. 7.1.) Our central observation concerns the most frequently used compressed pattern, X1. Overall, the X1 pattern is used for 23 percent of the lines examined, but among the lines punctuated on or after the second foot (p2) the percentage of X1 occurrences is significantly higher than in the overall distribution: 32 percent vs. 23 percent. Similarly, the percentage of lines with a syntactic boundary on or

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16% 5%

3%

non-int. 140 irreg. 40

ambig. 57

2

2 4

16 3 1

17 6 2 4

4%

4% 7%

28% 5% 2%

30% 11% 4% 7%

all u no u

884

180

4

42 8

36 7 7

57 15 4 —

338

2%

23% 4%

20% 4% 4%

32% 8% 2% —

p2

158

7

51 6

38 12 4

10 12 15 3

827

4%

32% 4%

24% 8% 3%

6% 8% 10% 2%

other p, not p2

322

10

27 11

84 15 14

98 45 15 3

489

3%

8% 3%

26% 5% 4%

30% 14% 5% 1%

2u

167

7

18 11

64 15 3

19 13 15 2

4%

11% 7%

38% 9% 2%

11% 8% 9% 1%

other u, not 2u

105

6

21 6

28 10 1

15 11 4 3

338

6%

20% 6%

27% 10% 1%

14% 10% 4% 3%

p1

233

5

72 8

46 9 10

52 16 15 —

827

2%

31% 3%

20% 4% 4%

22% 7% 6% —

other p, not p1

8

21 12

81 14 11

64 25 12 2

250

B

489

3%

8% 5%

32% 6% 4%

26% 10% 5% 1%

1u

239

9

4%

24 10% 10 4%

67 28% 16 7% 6 3%

53 22% 33 14% 18 8% 3 1%

other u, not 1u

Explanatory note: The first column lists the overall distribution of the lines among the various conventional patterns. The second column shows those lines that contain no internal punctuation and in which no phrase groupings can be discerned.1 The remaining sections of the figure deal with each of the four positions in the pentameter lines where punctuation or a syntactic boundary can occur.2 Each vertical column shows the number of lines in a specific syntactic or punctuational grouping and their distribution among the various declamation patterns. 1. In 35 of these lines, a syntactic boundary occurs on or after each metric stress (all u). Because these two groups are quite small (57 of 884), we have grouped them together. As the second column (all u and no u) shows, the distribution of all u/no u lines among the various declamation categories corresponds rather closely to the overall distribution of lines. The relatively small percentage of non-integral settings may be attributable to a tendency explained below for lines without internal punctuation to show fewer instances of non-integral declamation than is the case with p lines. In view of the small actual number of lines, the relatively higher percentage of X1 lines (30% vs. 23%) is not marked enough to be conclusively significant.

884

30

27% 6% 3%

238 52 29

Y1 Y2 Y3

23% 10% 6% 1%

201 91 51 12

X1 X2 X3 X4

total

A

Figure 7.1. Relation of declamation pattern to line structure

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15 6 3 27 4

5

Y1 Y2 Y3

non-int. irreg.

ambig.

338

6%

31% 5%

17% 7% 3%

8% 7% 17% —%

250

6

66 10

59 13 8

60 21 4 3

827

2%

26% 4%

24% 5% 3%

24% 8% 2% 1%

other p, not p3

199

6

18 11

55 11 9

49 17 19 4

489

3%

9% 6%

28% 6% 5%

25% 9% 10% 2%

3u

290

11

27 11

93 19 8

68 41 11 1

4%

9% 4%

32% 7% 3%

23% 14% 4% 0%

other u, not 3u

32



16 —

7 — 3

3 2 1 —

9% 6% 3% —%

338

—%

50% —%

22% —% 9%

p4

306

11

77 14

67 19 8

64 25 18 3

827

4%

25% 5%

22% 6% 3%

21% 8% 6% 1%

other p, not p4

177

7

17 8

53 16 7

42 21 5 1

D

489

4%

10% 5%

30% 9% 4%

24% 12% 3% 1%

4u

312

10

28 14

95 14 10

75 37 25 4

3%

9% 5%

30% 5% 3%

24% 12% 8% 1%

other u, not 4u

2. No line in a given section of the figure falls into more than one category in that section: (1) If a line contains internal punctuation, it is classified as a p line and is not analyzed with regard to syntactic groupings. ( Our assumption here is that internal punctuation influences line rhythm more markedly than do syntactic units.) (2) In each section of the figure, only one metric foot is taken into account for purposes of classification. Thus, in section A, if a line contains internal punctuation on or immediately following the second stress, it is categorized as p2 (and not as “other p”) whether or not it contains additional punctuation at other points in the line. Similarly, in section A, even if a line contains two ore more syntactic boundaries, if one of these falls on or immediately after the second stress, the line is classified as 2u.

88

7 6 15 —

X1 X2 X3 X4

p3

C

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after the second foot (2u) is also markedly above the percentage of X1 lines in the overall distribution: 30 percent vs. 23 percent. Correspondingly, the percentages of lines without punctuation or syntactic boundary on or after the second foot set to the X1 pattern drop remarkably, to 6 percent and 11 percent, respectively. Among the categories p1, p3, and p4, the percentage of X1 lines is markedly lower than average (p1: 14%; p3: 8%; p4: 9%). Among the 1u, 3u, and 4u lines, the percentage set as X1 is in each case slightly above the overall average (1u: 26%; 3u: 25%; 4u 24%), but in no instance is it as high as is the case for 2u lines. Of these p1/1u, p3/3u, and p4/4u lines declaimed with the X1 pattern, a high percentage in each category also contains punctuation or a syntactic boundary on or after the second foot. It therefore appears that lines with punctuation or a syntactic boundary after the first, third, or fourth stress are compatible with the X1 pattern if they also contain punctuation or a syntactic break after the second stress (p’s: 14 of 25 cases, or 56%; u’s: 132 of 155 cases, or 85%). We conclude that a line divided on or after the second foot by punctuation or syntax shows a strong affinity for the X1 declamation pattern, and we surmise that this compatibility is attributable in part to the 2 + 3 grouping of the pattern—a pattern well suited to the speech rhythms of the variety of lines subsumed under this category of line structure. In many cases, this grouping corresponds to a caesura after the second foot in the line, as in these examples (the lines are identified by Deutsch number, stanza, and line), all of which Schubert declaims as X1: “Schlafe, schlafe, holder, süßer Knabe” (“Wiegenlied,” D. 498—1,1) “Gib deine Hand, du schön und zart Gebild” (“Tod/Mädchen,” D. 531—2,1) “Seine Küsse—paradiesisch Fühlen” (“Amalia,” D. 195—2,1) “Du holde Kunst, in wieviel grauen Stunden” (“An die Musik,” D. 547—1,1) “Theures Weib, gebiete deinen Thränen” (“Hektors Abschied,” D. 312—2,1) “Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn” (“Mignon,” D. 321—1,1) Other syntactic patterns found to be frequently associated with the X1 declamation include lines with a finite verb in the third position (often preceded by a two-stress subject or prepositional phrase), lines with a repeated word at the beginning, and lines with noun or prepositional phrases occupying the final three units. Several of these elements can be seen in the caesura lines cited earlier; other examples include: “Kein Rosenschimmer leuchtet dem Tag zur Ruh” “Der Abendnebel schwillt am Gestad empor” (“Erinnerung,” D. 101—1,1–2)

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“In tiefster Erde ruht ein alt Gesetz” (“Schatzgräbers Begehr,” D. 761—1,1) “Nimmer, nimmer darf ich dir gestehen” (“Julius an Theone,” D. 419—1,1) “Wohl tönt auch mir der Klugheit seicht Geschwätz” (“Schatzgräbers Begehr,” D. 761—2,1) “Sie schaut empor zum hochgewölbten Bogen” (“Der Zwerg,” D. 771—2,1) We noted a further correspondence between line structure and declamation when we examined the syntax of lines set to the foreshortened X1 pattern (./. ./). More than half of the X1 foreshortened lines (29 of 54) have a substantive in the position of the second stress. In contrast, in the case of X1 lines without foreshortening, fewer than a third (48 of 147) show a substantive in the second stress position (commonly following a modifier or a preposition). The foreshortened pattern places the first main musical accent on the second stress of the line and is therefore appropriate for such lines, as noted earlier in passing of “Die Erwartung” (D. 159, mm. 148–50, example 7.3e).18 The percentage of lines set as Y1 in the various line-structure categories varies widely, ranging from a low of 17 percent for p3 lines to a high of 38 percent for lines that contain no punctuation and show a syntactic boundary at some point other than the second stress. In our opinion, this variation is not to be attributed to the compatibility of particular line structures with Y1. After all, what groupings or boundaries would favor even declamation? Instead, we believe one can account for the distributions by regarding the Y1 pattern as neutral or omnivalent, the “vanilla” pattern, and by assuming that in a given line-structure category, the number of lines set as Y1 will be relatively small if another declamation pattern is particularly suitable and will be larger if this is not the case. In the case of the p3 lines, for example, where only a small percentage of the lines is set as Y1, one sees two other declamation patterns with significantly larger-than-average percentages: non-integral settings and X3. The case of the p2 lines is similar: here it is the X1 category that, together with the non-integral category, “attracts” p2 lines. In contrast, in the case of those “u” lines that are not 2u, there are no other particularly compatible patterns; consequently, even declamation is the most likely choice. Also significant for non-integral settings is the presence of enjambement. As mentioned, 34 percent of the enjambed lines (83 of 242) are set non-integrally (in contrast with 16% of the lines overall). This factor is especially prominent in the case of the p4 lines. Over half (17 of 32) are enjambed with the line following, and 12 of these 17 (71%) show a non-integral setting. An excerpt from “Der Atlas” (D. 957, no. 8, example 7.8) illustrates this type of line: “Ich trage Unerträgliches, und brechen Will mir das Herz im Leibe.”

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Example 7.8. Schubert, “Der Atlas”—mm. 13–21

These are our strongest observations about the correlation of line structure and declamation patterns. A few other tentative observations are in order, however. The percentage of lines set as X2 (/. .//) in a given line-structure category in no case varies significantly from the average, suggesting that punctuation and syntactic phrase units might not affect the employment of this pattern. But an examination of relative stress in X1 and X2 lines proved useful. We found a strong correlation of the X2 pattern with lines containing a weak third stress, as in example 7.9. More than a quarter (27%) of the 156 lines with a relatively weak third stress are set as X2, even though the X2 category represents only 10 percent of the total number of lines. Furthermore, an X2 line is very likely to have a weak third stress and very unlikely to contain a weak fourth stress. Forty-two of the 91 X2

Example 7.9. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 27–31

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lines (46%) show the weak third stress, while only 3 lines (3%) contain a weak fourth stress. If, for comparison, lines set by the X1 pattern are examined, one sees a very different situation. There, only 23 of the 201 X1 lines (11%) show a weak third stress, while 53 (26%) contain a weak fourth stress. Although only 51 lines are set as X3 (39: . .///; 12: ///. .), the distribution of these lines is so marked as to suggest a distinct correlation of this pattern with the line structures p3 and 3u. Thirty-four of the 51 X3 lines come from one of these two categories. Furthermore, within the category p3, 17 percent are declaimed as X3. This figure represents a jump of eleven points from the 6 percent average and places this normally tiny category on a par with Y1. Among the 3u lines, 10 percent are set as X3. Although this percentage varies less significantly from the average than does that of the p3 lines set as X3, the group is the third largest within the 3u lines (after X1 and Y1). If one regards the two X3 patterns separately and also takes relative stress into consideration, a further correlation between line structure and declamation pattern becomes evident for the less frequently encountered of the two patterns (///. .). Of the twelve lines with this pattern, ten show a weak fifth stress. In nine of these cases, a compound noun with first-syllable stress ends the line. In other words, Schubert set the line with four main stresses, locating the compression characteristic of the X pattern on an appropriate word in the line, as in his “Todtenopfer” (see example 7.3c). In the other X3 class (. . ///), a slight correlation between stress and pattern can be observed, as nine of the thirty-nine lines have a weak second stress. Syntactic grouping, however, remains the better explanation. Twenty-eight of the thirty-nine lines (72%) are either p3 or 3u. In the case of the punctuated lines, we attribute the appropriateness of the correlation to the tendency of a comma after the third stress to divide the line into a 3 + 2 grouping. Because of the diversity of the “u” lines, the correlation is more difficult to explain; we observed, however, that many of these lines begin with a three-unit noun or prepositional phrase, so that the first main stress of the line falls on the third metric stress and the line again divides into a 3 + 2 grouping. Clearly, punctuation and word grouping within lines are not the sole or even the primary determinants of the declamation pattern Schubert chose. But they are the factors we chose to subject to close analysis in this study, and the statistical variances above the norm in each category (such as more p2 and 3u lines set as X1) demonstrate that they are significant factors. Readers who have been persuaded of the conventionality of the declamation patterns will surely not have been surprised to find that Schubert’s choice among these patterns depends to some extent on the phrase structure of those lines. We contend only that we have given tangible proof of what one intuitively assumes. Further, we know that myriad other factors not considered systematically or at all in our analysis likely also influenced Schubert. Relative stress (weak vs. strong) has been briefly touched upon. Another factor of lines was not “filtered” by our criteria.

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The illustration cited earlier (“Nähe des Geliebten”—example 7.3b) shows that Schubert responded to the alliteration in the line “Ich denke dein, wenn mir der Sonne Schlimmer” by using X2 instead of X1 for the p2 line, for example. Of the other factors we considered, such as the isolation of trochaic and iambic lines, odes, and the chronological distribution of songs, line structure remained the only compelling explanation. The statistics we have presented indicate a deep-lying correlation between line structure and declamation pattern. We do not suggest, however, that this correlation necessarily results from a conscious decision by the composer to choose a given pattern for a particular line. Just as native speakers of a language master linguistic conventions without conscious learning, so Schubert may have absorbed the patterns and the manners of employing them from the examples of other composers. It is possible, then, that as he read a poem, the shape of a line may as though automatically have activated acquired mental habits, influencing his choice of rhythm and thus making a significant contribution to the act of composition. We have made what is likely an intuitive procedure for a composer a more tangible one for us. We have brought a tiny part of the creative process under the microscope and revealed its logic. To the extent that this limited insight is dwarfed by the total set of relevant literary and musical factors, we glimpse the bewildering complexity of the act of composition and hence the marvel of a great song composer. Obviously, we have concentrated on the poetic line as a determinant and have not considered the many musical factors that influence or constrain the composer. Motivic design, for example, may intervene in text-setting decisions, taking precedence over declamation requirements. Reciprocally, the conventional patterns may exceed their service to declamation and become of themselves quasi-independent determinants in a song, playing expressive and structural roles. A pattern originally suited to a particular line may then lead a life of its own.

The Expressive Role of the Declamation Patterns Our statistical analyses delineate tendencies, not rules. Although some lines of poetry are most compatible with a single pattern, most fit well with more than one. As is the case with any statistical approach, our findings are informative with regard to probabilities, but they do not allow us to predict the declamation pattern of a given line. In particular, the statistical section of our investigation furnishes no information concerning the distribution of the patterns within individual songs or the relation of the patterns to the ideas of the text. For such information we need to move from a statistical to an interpretative study. In this concluding section, then, we examine several songs separately and in some detail. Our goal is to show that in Schubert’s songs the declamation not only accommodates speech rhythms but also serves formal and expressive purposes.

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“Ungeduld” and “Pause” (D. 795, nos. 7 and 12). Each of these songs from Die schöne Müllerin employs even declamation in a special way. The opening line of “Ungeduld” includes a syntactic boundary after the second foot, and Schubert could well have set the line in the X1 pattern, but he did not. This line and the next four are set to the neutral, even declamation pattern Y1—each foot is aligned with a metrical unit, and a rest rounds the phrase to six units. The key here is that the metrical unit in this case is a quarter note in 43 time. Only five other songs set the five feet of a pentameter line to quarter notes in this fashion.19 Of those, none uses this declamation from the outset; in only one does this declamation continue for more than two lines; none has the sequentially constructed melodies of “Ungeduld”; none repeats exactly the same rhythm for every line; and none has such a fast tempo. Much of the exuberance and “impatience” of this song lies, then, in Schubert’s imaginative and unique adaptation of the Y1 convention for declaiming the list of ardent wishes (see example 1.8). In “Pause,” even declamation again opens the song, but the extra, sixth unit of time—in this case a rest—comes not at the end of the line, where it is customary, but at the beginning. The pause in the voice while the piano begins its tune (e.g., m. 9 and m. 12) lends to this song part of its meditative air; the unusual variation of the Y convention constitutes a play on or incorporation of the poem’s title (see example 1.9).

“Hektors Abschied” (D. 312) In Schubert’s setting of Schiller’s dialogue “Hektors Abschied,” it is not a single pattern but rather the perceivable contrast between even and compressed declamation that is significant. The contrast constitutes part of the characterization of the two speakers. Andromache, who speaks in stanzas 1 and 3, sings all but one line to the X1 pattern. In stanzas 2 and 4, by contrast, Hektor declaims his lines in a mixture of X and Y patterns. Furthermore, Schubert marked many of Hektor’s lines as “recitative,” a designation that suggests even more rhythmic flexibility.

“Todtenopfer” (D. 101) In “Todtenopfer” the declamation plays a significant formal role, helping to identify the strophic construction of the poem in a through-composed musical setting. To discuss this role, we must consider the poem and the song in some detail. The song is based on a three-stanza alcaic ode by Matthisson (fig. 7.2). Although one immediately perceives an atmosphere of melancholy, only in the last two lines of the second stanza is the speaker revealed to be a bereaved

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Figure 7.2. Matthison/Schubert, “Todtenopfer” Todtenopfer

Line structure

Declamation pattern

Kein Rosenschimmer leuchtet den Tag zur Ruh’! Der Abendnebel schwillt am Gestad’ empor, Wo durch verdorrte Felsengräser Sterbender Lüfte Gesäusel wandelt.

2u, 3u, 4u 2u, 3u, 4u

X1 X1

Nicht schwermuthsvoller bebte des Herbstes Weh’n Durchs todte Gras am sinkenden Rasenmal, Wo meines Jugendlieblings Asche Unter der trauernden Weide schlummert.

2u, 3u 2u, 5w

X1 X3///..

Ihm Thränen opfern werd’ ich beim Blätterfall, Ihm, wenn das Mailaub wieder den Hain umrauscht, Bis mir, vom schönern Stern, die Erde Freundlich im Reigen der Welten schimmert.1

1u, 2u, 3u, 5w p1

X3///.. X2

[No rosy shimmer lights the day to rest! The evening fog swells up along the shore, Where through withered grasses on the crags The murmur of dying breezes moves. With no greater melancholy did the sighs of autumn Tremble through the dead grass on the sinking plot, Where the ashes of my young beloved Under the weeping willow slumber. To him I shall offer up tears when the leaves fall, To him, when May foliage again rustles through the grove, Until to me, on a lovelier star, the earth Shall graciously shimmer in the celestial dance.] 1. Schubert runs the last foot of the penultimate line together with the last line and sets the newly created pentameter line as Y1

woman mourning her beloved. With the same stroke by which the fact of the death is revealed, the knowledge is tempered by the verb “schlummert.” This euphemistic verb, seemingly out of place in the context of mourning of the first two stanzas, in fact serves as a first indication of an emotional transformation that takes place in the third. The transformation is carried by the poem’s images of motion. In the first two stanzas these images are associated with evening, autumn, death, and dying: “der Abendnebel schwillt,” “sterbender Lüfte Gesäusel wandelt,” “des Herbstes Wehn [bebte],” “am sinkenden Rasenmal.” In the third stanza, however, the falling leaves of autumn are balanced by the rustling foliage of May. The speaker gains a new perspective: from a “more beautiful star”

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the earth will appear friendly and joined in a “round dance” with other worlds. Death, it is implied, is not an end but a “sleep” and part of a larger process. Schubert’s setting reflects the internal movement of the poem rather than its outer, strophic form. The most obvious musical analogue is the turn from E minor to E major for stanza 3, or, more precisely, at the very end of stanza 2, on the key word “schlummert.” Just as important is Schubert’s treatment of the first two stanzas. The song opens in E minor with an almost static rhythm, regular phrase structure, and simple, standard harmonic progressions. The repetition of the X1 pattern for the first two lines supports their parallel syntactic structure and also contributes to the staid atmosphere. The piano breaks into a subdued sixteenth-note figuration for the “dying breezes”‘ that wander through the “withered grass.”‘ Then, suddenly, the static setting becomes dynamic. On the repetition of the third and fourth lines, a deceptive cadence to C major begins an extended harmonic digression away from the tonic key. It does not come to an end until the last line of the second stanza, where—in the music just as in the poem—the word “schlummert” brings clarification, resolution, and the startling shift to the major mode. There are many other correspondences between text and music, but we draw attention to one in particular, a detail of the piano figuration in the third stanza. After a tentative opening, it blossoms into sixteenth-note motion with a faster repercussion of low notes and a quicker harmonic rhythm than in the preceding two stanzas. The fluttering sixteenths on the word “umrauscht” and the pulsating low notes suggesting the “Reigen der Welten,” or “cosmic round dance”—these, like the turn to major as the poem’s subject brightens, are Schubert’s “knee-jerk” musical conventions, even as approaching night, withered grass, falling leaves, and the rustle of spring are Matthisson’s. But just as Matthisson’s images are shaken from their conventionality by their unexpected reinterpretation as motions of the cycle of life, so do Schubert’s conventions represent an economical and, in our opinion, eloquent rendering of the poem. Schubert uses a variety of X patterns to declaim the two pentameter lines of each stanza, and the distribution of the patterns corresponds to the syntactic and rhythmical properties of the lines (see fig. 7.2). One aspect of the declamation represents a special kind of text-music correspondence. As we have seen, Schubert’s song follows the inner logic of the poem, not its external strophic form; the division into three stanzas is in fact obscured. The beginning of the second stanza seems to lack definition, and the E major return occurs at the end of the second stanza rather than at the beginning of the third. Here is where the X pattern plays a structural role. Clearly established at the beginning of the song—in lines 1 and 2 of the first stanza—it is again employed for the first line of the second stanza, with a similar (although not identical) falling melodic contour. The first line of the third stanza employs a different X pattern (X3: ///. .).

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Nevertheless, its opening two feet are rhythmically identical to the corresponding feet of the first line of the preceding stanzas. In this otherwise throughcomposed song, then, this characteristic rhythm, based on the X declamation pattern, stands as a vestige of strophic form and gives the listener an indication of where each stanza begins.

Two Case Studies Our chapter concludes with two extended analyses of songs with pentameter lines—“Die Erwartung” (D. 159) and “Der Zwerg” (D. 771), a relatively early and relatively late song. In these more detailed and nuanced discussions, we hope to show how the rhythms of text declamation, on which we have narrowly focused up to now, can be relativized and drawn into a larger and more fruitful analytical agenda.

“Die Erwartung” (D. 159) Schubert’s setting of the forty pentameter lines of Schiller’s “Die Erwartung” provides ample illustration of the relation we have observed between line and pattern; there is a good correspondence of line structure with the statistically preferred declamation rhythms. More important, declamation plays a significant expressive role. As in “Hektors Abschied,” the effect depends largely on contrast between groupings of declamation patterns. In this song the shifts in the style of declamation correspond to the shifts in mood as the poem and song progress. In his poem (fig. 7.3), Schiller takes a subject familiar to the gallant tradition—the sweet agony of the lover awaiting his beloved—and deepens it.20 Under his pen, the theme yields a reflection on love poetry and, in addition, a suggestion that the experience of waiting subtly but significantly alters the lover’s perception of himself and of his relation to his beloved. The complex form of the poem (five stanzas of ottava rima framed and separated by six quatrains of dactylic trimeter and trochaic tetrameter) serves well as a means of delineating the various levels and stages of this experience. A first level is contained in the two lines of dactylic trimeter with which each of the quatrains begins. In the initial two lines of the poem and in the corresponding lines of each of the succeeding quatrains except the last, the lover’s desire finds expression in nervously anticipating questions; for example, “Hör ich das Pförtchen nicht gehen? Hat nicht der Riegel geklirrt?”(stanza 1, lines 1–2)

These questions, which reflect the lover’s expectations, sketch the standard outline of a Rococo tryst: a little door with a gate (stanza 1), someone slipping

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through a hedge (stanza 3) and hurrying down an arbored path (stanza 7), whispering voices (stanza 5), and a figure in a shimmering white gown (stanza 9). The latter pair of lines in each of the quatrains (again with the exception of the last) represents a second level of the poem. These lines of trochaic tetrameter, tied to the previous lines by the abab rhyme, disappoint the lover’s anticipation; for example, “Nein, es war des Windes Wehen, Der durch diese Pappeln schwirrt.” (1, 3–4)

In one sense they continue the language of gallant poetry by supplying additional details of the scene: poplar trees (stanza 1), birds in the hedge (stanza 3), a swan in a silver pond (stanza 5), fruit trees (stanza 7), and white columns against a row of yew trees (stanza 9). There is, however, a difference between these lines, with their heavier, falling rhythm, and the dactyls that precede them. Their images bring a new poetic dimension to the scene. Stanzas 1 and 3 show us nature alive and independent of the poet: a sighing wind and a bird taking flight at something unnamed. More significant, the images in the corresponding lines of the next three quatrains represent traditional symbols of natural mystery. The swan (stanza 5), which is not simply swimming but is describing circles on the silvery water, evokes the ancient concept of the Book of Nature, understood imperfectly, if at all, by mankind. The image of the fruit falling in the moment of its perfect ripeness (stanza 7) has often been the subject of meditation on the temporality of beauty and on the intermixture of death in the life process. Finally, the glimmering columns against a dark wall of trees—with their implicit opposition of light and dark, manmade and natural, inorganic and organic—contribute a resonance of allusion that is markedly absent in the scenic details of the dactylic lines. Although the “meanings” of these various images are not directly exploited in the poem, the contrast between their symbolic richness and the bounded conventionality of the lover’s questions suggests that a discrepancy may exist between his original expectations concerning the tryst and the actual significance of the experience. The fact that this is indeed the case and that the lover in the course of his wait comes to sense this can be read at the third level of the poem, the stanzas of ottava rima. These five stanzas record the lover’s gradually changing responses to his beloved’s absence. In stanzas 2 and 4 he assumes a dramatic, self-flattering stance, commanding nature to prepare a royal welcome for his beloved. Stanza 2 is characterized by Rococo preciosity, including an invocation of breezes to frolic at the beloved’s cheeks and a syntactically inverted description of a delicate foot carrying its “lovely burden” to the seat of love. Stanza 4 sends a new and grander set of imperatives to nature. The “torch of day” and its “immodest witnesses” are to yield to the discretion of night. Only Venus, the evening star, will be permitted to be the confidante of love’s delight.

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Figure 7.3. Schiller, “Die Erwartung”

Die Erwartung1 1

Hör ich das Pförtchen nicht gehen? Hat nicht der Riegel geklirrt? Nein, es war des Windes Wehen, Der durch diese Pappeln schwirrt.2

2

O schmücke dich, du grünbelaubtes Dach, Du sollst die Anmutstrahlende empfangen! Ihr Zweige, baut ein schattendes Gemach, Mit holder Nacht sie heimlich zu umfangen! Und all ihr Schmeichellüfte, werdet wach Und scherzt und spielt um ihre Rosenwangen, Wenn seine schöne Bürde, leicht bewegt, Der zarte Fuß zum Sitz der Liebe trägt.

3

Stille, was schlüpft durch die Hecken Raschelt mit eilendem Lauf? Nein, es scheuchte nur der Schrecken Aus dem Busch den Vogel auf.

4

O lösche deine Fackel, Tag! Hervor, Du geist’ge Nacht, mit deinem holden Schweigen! Breit um uns her den purpurrothen Flor,3 Umspinn’ uns mit geheimnisvollen Zweigen!4 Der Liebe Wonne flieht des Lauschers Ohr, Sie flieht des Strahles unbescheid’nen Zeugen; Nur Hesper, der verschwiegene, allein Darf, still herblickend, ihr Vertrauter seyn.

5

Rief es von ferne nicht leise, Flüsternden Stimmen gleich? Nein, der Schwan ist’s, der die Kreise Ziehet durch den Silberteich.5

6

Mein Ohr umtönt ein Harmonienfluss, Der Springquell fällt mit angenehmem Rauschen, Die Blume neigt sich bei des Westes Kuss, Und alle Wesen seh’ ich Wonne tauschen, Die Traube winkt, die Pfirsche zum Genuss, Der üppig schwellend hinter Blättern lauschen; Die Luft, getaucht in der Gewürze Flut, Trinkt von der heißen Wange mir die Glut.

7

Hör’ ich nicht Tritte erschallen? Rauscht’s nicht den Laubgang daher? Nein, die Frucht ist dort gefallen,6 Von der eignen Fülle schwer.

Line structure

p2 1u, 4u p1 2u, 3u p3 enjambed 1u, 2u p3 2u, 4u

p3, p4 enjamb p2 2u 1u, 2u 2u, 3u 1u p1, p4 enjamb p2

1u, 2u 1u, 2u 1u, 2u, 3w 2u, 3u, 4u p2 2u, 4u, 3w p1, 3w 3u

(continued)

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Declamation pattern Zumsteeg Schubert [1 Do I not hear the gate opening? Did not the bolt creak? No, it was the sighing wind Blowing through the poplars. Y1 Y1 2 ambiguous irregular Y1 Y1 X1f Y1 augmented irregular non-integral irregular non-integral Y1 Y1 X1f Y2 3

non-integral non-integral 4 non-integral non-integral — ambiguous — ambiguous Y2 Y1 irregular Y1 Y1 Y1 X2 Y2

X1f X1f X2f X2 augm. Y1 irregular Y2 irregular

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X1 X1 X2 X2 X1 X2 X2 X3 . .///

Adorn yourself, o green-leafed roof, You shall receive the charming, radiant one! You branches, build a shady chamber To enfold her secretly with lovely night! And all you fondling breezes, awaken, And laugh and play around her rosy cheeks, When its lovely burden, gently moving, The delicate foot bears to the seat of love. Hush! What slips through the hedges Rustling with hurried steps? No, it was only fright that Flushed a bird from the bush. Extinguish your torch, o Day! Come forth, Ethereal Night, with your sweet silence! Spread about us the purple veil, Weave around us branches of secrecy! Love’s ecstasy flees the listener’s ear, And also flees the light’s immodest witnesses; Only Hesperus, the discreet one, May, silently gazing down, be her confidante.

5

Did not a soft call come from afar, Like whispering voices? No, it was the swan, drawing circles On the silver pond.

6

A flood of harmony rings around my ear: The spring waters fall with a pleasant sound; The flower bends to receive the West Wind’s kiss; And I see all creatures sharing joy. The grape beckons, giving pleasure to the peaches, That listen behind leaves as they swell to ripeness; The air, bathed in aromatic fragrance, Drinks the glow from my burning cheeks.

7

Do I not hear the sound steps? Is there not a rustle on the arbored path? No, the fruit has fallen there, Heavy with its own ripeness.

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Figure 7.3. Schiller, “Die Erwartung”—(concluded)

Die Erwartung1

Line structure

8

Des Tages Flammenauge selber bricht In süßem Tod, und seine Farben blassen, Kühn öffnen sich im holden Dämmerlicht7 Die Kelche schon, die seine Gluten hassen, Still hebt der Mond sein Strahlend Angesicht, Die Welt zerschmilzt in ruhig große Massen; Der Gürtel ist von jedem Reiz gelöst, Und alles Schöne zeigt sich mir entblößt.

3u enjamb p2 1u, 2u enjamb p2 1u, 2u 1u, 2u 1u, 2u, 4u 2u, 3u, 4u

9

Seh ich nichts Weißes dort schimmern? Glänzt’s nicht wie seidnes Gewand? Nein, es ist der Säule Flimmern An der dunklen Taxuswand.

10 O sehnend Herz, ergötze dich nicht mehr, Mit süßen Bildern wesenlos zu spielen! Der Arm, der sie umfassen will, ist leer, Kein Schattenglück kann diesen Busen kühlen. O führe mir die Lebende daher, Lass ihre Hand, die zärtliche, mich fühlen, Den Schatten nur von ihres Mantels Saum— Und in das Leben tritt der holde Traum.

p2 2u, 4u p1, p4 2u, 4u 1u, 2u, 4u p2, p4 1u, 2u 2u, 3u

11 Und leis, wie aus himmlischen Höhen, Die Stunde des Glückes erscheint, So war sie genaht, ungesehen, Und weckte mit Küssen den Freund. 1. We print Schiller’s text from Schochow and give Schubert’s variants in the notes. 2. Schubert: Der durch die Pappeln schwirrt. 3. This and the next line do not appear in Zumsteeg. 4. Schubert: Umspinne uns mit geheimnisvollen Zweigen. With Schubert’s variant, the line becomes 2u. 5. Schubert: Zieht durch den Silberteich. 6. Schubert: Die Frucht ist dort gefallen. (Nein is omitted.) 7. Schubert runs this and the next enjambed line together into one phrase, but does not break the second line at the comma; i.e., each line remains integral.

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Declamation pattern Zumsteeg Schubert ambiguous X1 X1f Y1 X3 ///. . X1f X1f X2f

non-integral 8 non-integral Y1 Y1 X1 Y3 Y3 Y3 9

X1f X1f Y1 Y1 Y1 X1 Y1 irregular

X1f X1f Y1 X1 augm. X1f X1f X1f X1f

The flaming eye of day itself grows dim In sweet death, and its colors pale; The flower cups that loathe its glow Boldly open in the sweet dusk. The moon silently lifts its radiant countenance, The world melts into great, quiet masses. The girdle falls from every charming thing, And all beauty bares itself to me. Do I not see a shimmer of white over there? Is that not a gleam like that of silken garment? No, it is the glimmer of columns Against the dark wall of yew trees.

10 O yearning heart, amuse yourself no longer By insubstantial trifling with sweet images. The arm that longs to clasp her is empty; No shadow delights can cool this bossom. O lead the beloved to me, Let her hand, her gentle hand, but touch me, Even the shadow of her garment’s hem! And into life steps the hollow dream. 11 And softly, as if from heavenly heights The hour of joy arrives. So had she drawn near, unobserved, And wakened with kisses her friend.]

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In the two succeeding stanzas of ottava rima the imperatives cease, but the lover’s tongue remains facile. Nature provides him with a series of correlatives for his intense feelings. Stanza 6 appeals successively to the various senses (hearing, sight, touch, and smell), while stanza 8 limits itself to a single channel, that of nighttime vision. Both stanzas—the sixth with its images of ecstatic, harmonious delight and the eighth with its evocation of a lovely, receptive stillness—receive their poignancy from the lover’s projection of his desires into images of nature and from the painful contrast between the consummate joy and expectancy they depict and the lover’s empty hands. In the final ottava rima, the agony of waiting reaches its climax and explodes the lover’s previous responses. No longer does he strike a dramatic pose with Rococo fantasies; no longer does he seek representations of his emotion in nature. Again, he speaks in the imperative, but now it is to himself, a despairing expression of his frustration with tantalizing images (“süße Bilder”). In lines that comment on the language of the previous stanzas, he breaks through the illusory bliss, or Schattenglück, of his previous formulations and pleads for the simple touch of her hand and the real shadow of her garment. All traces of preciosity are gone; the beloved is the sole focus of the lover’s attention. When the long-awaited moment finally arrives, it does so quickly, quietly, and without benefit of the lover’s eloquent but faintly grandiloquent “shadows.” Unlike the earlier quatrains, the final one is not marked by disappointment and a switch to the falling rhythm. Instead, the lilting dactyls continue throughout. The variation helps to effect closure and also reflects the change that has occurred during the lover’s agony. Whereas the poem began with expectations of a conventional tryst, it ends with an hour of happiness the lover perceives as divine. Furthermore, the essentially self-aggrandizing gestures of welcome in stanzas 2 and 4 have yielded to a simpler mood. There is even a touch of humorous irony in the admission that after such anticipation the lover fails to notice his beloved’s arrival and is wakened only by her kiss. The experience of waiting, it is suggested, has been a chastening one. The lover’s appreciation of his beloved and of the significance of the meeting has been heightened, even as his own importance has been diminished. A frivolous and conventional subject has received a gracious and sympathetic interpretation. Schubert composed “Die Erwartung” (one of forty-two Schiller settings) in 1815 and revised it extensively for publication before his death.21 It is generally— and in our opinion correctly—assumed that he modeled his song on Zumsteeg’s setting of the same poem.22 Like Zumsteeg’s, Schubert’s song treats the first five quatrains as recitative, the ottava rima stanzas and closing quatrain as song. The composition has been likened to a solo cantata, but the resemblance, beyond the alternation of recitative and sung portions, is slight, so the accuracy and value of the comparison are questionable.23 Schubert’s musical soliloquy, while betraying diverse influences, is finally a song and must be considered as such.

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Along with many other early settings of long poems, “Die Erwartung” might be criticized for its sectionalization. Yet while the constant changing of the music for purposes of local illustration in ballads like “Der Taucher” and “Die Bürgschaft” (to cite other Schiller poems) can be faulted for interfering with the narrative thread, the sectional contrast befits “Die Erwartung,” which is a series of tableaux with no action until the end. Indeed, we argue that Schubert allows the stanzas to contrast with one another in a manner that goes to the very heart of the poem. Simultaneously, he introduces tonal and motivic features to guard against disintegration. One of these unifying features is the tonal structure of the song. In his revision of his earlier setting, Schubert adjusted the harmonic transition to the eighth stanza, transposed the rest of the song, and repeated the closing quatrain. The tonal plan of the revised version has a symmetry and unity of key lacking in the first. The original version, in fact, is more extreme in its tonal wandering than Zumsteeg’s song, which at least ends in the key in which it began (fig. 7.4).24 In addition to providing tonal symmetry in the revised version, Schubert in both versions draws numerous motivic and thematic connections between stanzas, many of which are directly related to Schiller’s text. The dotted rhythm of stanza 2, for example, is retained in stanza 4 but in triple meter and in C minor and E-flat major, where the speaker bids day to extinguish its torch and night to arrive. Subsequently, in stanza 8, when the invited night descends, the dotted rhythm of stanza 4 returns in the same meter and keys. The descending melody of the fourth stanza (“O lösche deine Fackel, Tag!” mm. 41–43) also returns in stanza 8 (“Des Tages Flammenauge selber bricht / In süßem Tod,” mm. 106–8), this time extended from an octave to an octave plus a fourth Figure 7.4. Tonal plans of Zumsteeg’s and Schubert’s settings of “Die Erwartung” Stanza

Zumsteeg

Schubert (1815)

Schubert (1828)

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

F F

B-flat B-flat

B-flat B-flat

E

c/E-flat

c/E-flat

E-flat

E

E

D

d-flat/E

c/E-flat

D-flat F

C G

B-flat B-flat

Note: The tonality of the recitatives in stanzas 3, 5, 7, and 9 is transitional between the keys of the surrounding stanzas.

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(examples 7.10a and 7.10b). Schubert’s exaggerated melodic sweep matches the tone of Schiller’s hyperbolic conceit.25 Another connection between stanzas 4 and 8 helps to link the two descriptions of the coming of night. The falling and rising vocal melody for the third and fourth lines of stanza 4 (“Breit um uns her den purpurroten Flor, / Umspinne uns mit geheimnisvollen Zweigen,” mm. 48–52) reappears in voice and piano in stanza 8, lines 6 and 7 (“Die Welt zerschmilzt in ruhig große Massen, / Der Gürtel ist von jedem Reiz gelöst,” mm. 120–27; examples 7.11a and 7.11b).

Example 7.10a. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 41–43

Example 7.10b. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 106–8

Example 7.11a. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 48–52

Example 7.11b. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 120–27

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Still another instance of thematic connections between stanzas is the recurrence of the introduction to stanza 5 (mm. 62–63) in the piano music of stanza 6 (mm. 75–76, 81–82; examples 7.12a, 7.12b, and 7.12c). Responding to the two measures of piano music before stanza 5, the singer at first believes he has heard whispering voices but then decides it was only the sound of the swan in the pond. In stanza 6, when the speaker sings of the pleasant sounds of the fountain, we hear the same music.

Example 7.12a. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 62–63

Example 7.12b. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 75–76

Example 7.12c. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 81–82

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Sectionalization, although it is the feature that most strongly indicates Zumsteeg’s influence on Schubert, is treated very differently by the two composers. Schubert accentuates the contrast between stanzas and enriches the quality of individuation. Zumsteeg’s piano figurations tend toward the conventional and lackluster—for example, chords or arpeggios in the right hand against sustained octaves in the left. Schubert characterizes each stanza with stronger and more inventive piano music. It has been noted, for example, that both composers begin stanza 2 with dotted rhythms.26 But while Zumsteeg accompanies the vocal line with triplet arpeggios that invite the voice’s sixteenth notes to be sung with the third eighth note of the triplets, thus relaxing the dotted rhythm, Schubert pointedly notates the piano in a way that ensures the crispness of a Baroque ceremonial rhythm (examples 7.13a and 7.13b), a mannered response entirely appropriate to the Rococo preciosity of Schiller’s text.

Example 7.13a. Zumsteeg, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 14–17

Example 7.13b. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 9–11

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Furthermore, Zumsteeg tends to set up a piano figuration and maintain it for most of a stanza, while Schubert departs from his initial idea—especially in stanzas 2, 4, and 8—to respond to each new image. A second means by which Schubert characterizes and contrasts the stanzas of the poem is through text declamation. The conventions we have described are clearly at work in the songs of both composers (see fig. 7.3). Statistically, both songs observe a significant degree of correlation between line structure and declamation pattern (fig. 7.5). They diverge greatly, however, in the specific choices Figure 7.5. Relation of line structure to declamation pattern in two settings of “Die Erwartung” A. Schubert (D. 159) total

other p, not p2

p2

other u, not 2u

2u

X1 X2 X3

11 4 1

28% 10% 3%

3 — —

38% —% —%

— 1 —

—% 14% —%

8 3 —

38% 14% —%

— — 1

— — 25%

Y1 Y2 Y3

10 2 3

25% 5% 8%

2 1 —

25% 13% —%

4 — —

57% —% —%

3 1 3

14% 5% 14%

1 — —

25% — —

non-int. irreg.

6 1

15% 3%

2 —

25% —%

2 —

29% —%

1 —

5% —%

1 1

25% 25%

ambig.

2

5%



—%



—%



—%





40

8

7

21

4

B. Zumsteeg total

other p, not p2

p2

other u, not 2u

2u

X1 X2 X3

11 4 1

29% 11% 3%

3 1 —

38% 13% —%

— — —

—% 14% —%

8 3 1

42% 16% 5%

— — —

— — —

Y1 Y2 Y3

10 2 —

26% 5% —%

3 — —

38% —% —%

4 1 —

57% 14% —%

3 1 —

16% 5% —%

— — —

— — —

non-int. irreg.

2 6

5% 16%

1 —

13% —%

1 1

14% 14%

— 3

—% 16%

2 2

50% 50%

ambig.

2

5%



—%



—%



—%





38

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8

7

19

4

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of patterns. In Zumsteeg’s song, each ottava rima stanza exhibits a variety of nonintegral and irregular patterns. His choice of patterns seems to have no particular plan. Schubert, by contrast, appears to have controlled the distribution of the patterns; he mixes Y’s with non-integral and irregular settings in stanzas 2, 4, and 8 and reserves X for stanzas 6 and 10. Zumsteeg’s sense for the rhythmic variation of the text is good, and Schubert does not disdain to adopt his declamation of phrases on occasion. But Schubert does more than sensitively render Schiller’s individual lines into musical rhythm. He has artfully manipulated the declamation, within the confines of the conventions, so that it becomes—in conjunction with piano figuration, harmony, melody, and particularly phrase structure—a distinct expressive element in the song. In stanzas 2, 4, and 8, Schubert uses fourteen Y, six non-integral, and two ambiguous settings and one each of irregular and X. Of the lines set integrally, then, most are Y. As we have perceived and defined Y, it is a flexible and adaptable principle. It does not suggest the alignment with bar lines, for example, that the strong X gestalt does. Schubert uses its protean quality to advantage, achieving through it a variety of musical accents and phrase lengths that portray the lover’s excited expectancy. In stanza 2, Schubert fashions his declamation after Zumsteeg’s but with subtle elision and syncopated harmonic rhythm exchanges his model’s two-measure phrases for an irregular succession (examples 7.13a and 7.14). The implicit triple meter returns at the very end of Schubert’s stanza as well (mm. 26–28, example 7.15). Stanza 4 is constructed basically of two-measure phrases, but within them the declamation rhythm changes with every line and shifts its placement with respect to the downbeat of the 43 bars. In stanza 8 Schubert capitalizes on the enjambed lines, creating a succession of long phrases of irregular length (5 bars + 4 + 3 + 4 + 3 + 3 + 3 + 3). In both stanzas the flux of declamation rhythm has a counterpart in the constant mutation of the piano figuration. In stanza 6, Schubert uses X patterns exclusively. The text speaks of a “Harmonienfluss,” and Schubert moves to the remote key of E major, composing his most colorful harmonic progressions (example 7.16)27 and providing a rich, string trio–like texture, over which the voice sings “majestically” in a succession of X patterns. The regular phrasing and consistency of the piano figuration (two different patterns but the same composite rhythm) “flood” our ears with a flow of sound not experienced heretofore in the song. In stanza 10 the piano assumes a plain, purely accompanimental role. The voice, too, drops all pretense. Further “play” is meaningless. Schubert declaims all the lines except the third and fourth with the foreshortened X1 patterns, creating regular phrasing and a simple song-like quality for the lover’s new humility. Line 3, the internal punctuation of which contributes to its affective quality, is set as Y, breaking the X rhythm at the same time the harmony moves to the flat VI (G-flat). This rhythmic and harmonic interruption underscores the note of despair in the text. Schubert closes the first quatrain with an augmented X1,

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Example 7.14. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 9–18

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Example 7.15. Schubert, “Die Erwartung”—mm. 26–28

Example 7.16. Harmonic outline of stanza 6 of Schubert’s “Die Erwartung”

ending with a half cadence that sets up the continuation. The last four lines flow in an unimpeded succession of foreshortened X1 patterns. Following the pause at the end of stanza 10, the piano begins a march, to which the voice joins its text after four bars. We realize that the march, played pianissimo (“leis wie aus himmlischen Höhen”), portrays the approach of the beloved, who steals upon her sleeping lover and wakens him with a kiss. In the revised version, the repetition of the quatrain balances the preceding eight lines of stanza 10, signals closure, and allows Schubert to round off the song tonally with a return to B-flat. The revision is not purely formal, however, for the repetition places an emphasis on the event for which the entire poem has been preparing. Schubert’s deployment of declamation patterns in “Die Erwartung,” then, increases the flexibility of rhythm and phrase structure in stanzas 2, 4, and 8; facilitates musical flow in stanza 6; and helps suggest unpretentiousness in stanza 10. Sensitive rhythmic declamation of the text is not an end in itself but also serves concrete expressive ends. Schubert uses the patterns, in conjunction with other musical elements, to reflect the changing moods of Schiller’s poem.

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“Der Zwerg” (D. 771) While some songs use one or the other convention (or both in alternation) fairly regularly throughout, few songs proceed in such a straightforward and uncomplicated manner. Schubert’s setting of Matthäus von Collin’s “Der Zwerg” (D. 771—the entire song is reproduced in appendix 7.1) is a particularly rich and complex instance, one that begins with the compression convention but employs it for the declamation of only eight of its twenty-seven lines. Although the X pattern is therefore infrequently heard in the voice, it nevertheless permeates the music of the whole song. As the discussion in this section will show, we are dealing with a declamational pattern that is also a basic organizing principle of the entire song and can be realized in various forms. As did Chamisso on occasion, Collin chose terza rima,28 the verse of Dante, not for an elevated subject but to tell a suspenseful story, here a tale of passion and retribution (fig. 7.6).29 In general, the form is a convenient one for Collin’s purposes. The three-line stanzas encourage condensed dialogue and narrative, and the poem moves swiftly, with quick changes of perspective and with surprises often reserved for the final lines of stanzas. Collin’s control of the form, however, is not complete. For the sake of meter and rhyme, he adds words, phrases, and even lines that are unnecessary or clichéd (e.g., 9,3: “voll Verlangen”; 4,3: “schnell”; 2,3: entire line). Similarly, his efforts to wrench his lines into iambic pentameter occasionally disrupt syntax and rhetorical emphasis, producing singsong lines (e.g., 3,1 and 5,3). On the positive side of the ledger, Collin has a nice sense not only for the dramatic potential of the three-line stanza but also for the effects that can be achieved by establishing metric-syntactic norms at the beginning of a poem and violating them as the poem progresses. The first two stanzas exhibit complete congruence of clause (or phrase) and line, and there is no internal punctuation. In the third and fourth stanzas Collin deviates from this pattern, in both cases presumably for expressive purposes. Internal commas and the inserted phrase “So ruft sie aus” interrupt the flow of lines in stanza 3, reflecting the queen’s agitation. The fourth stanza is marked by enjambement, which occurs here for the first and only time in the poem. The tension it produces is heightened by Collin’s placing the infinitive “binden” at the end of the first line and by the delay until the next line of the noun object that reveals, with a single stroke, the dwarf’s plans for vengeance. After these disruptions, congruence of line and clause returns until the climax of the poem in stanza 8. There, the queen’s dramatic and surprising final words (“Mögst du nicht Schmerz durch meinen Tod gewinnen!”) are set off from the rest of the stanza by an exclamation point, the only one in the poem and the single instance of a full stop within a stanza. Like Collin, Schubert uses the first stanza of “Der Zwerg” to establish patterns and norms for his song. Each of the three lines is clearly delineated, and the first

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The mountains vanish in the facing light; on the smooth waves of the sea glides the ship, carrying the queen and her dwarf. She looks up to the high-curved canopy of the sky, to the blue distance, interwoven with starlight And pierced by the Milky Way. Never have you lied to me, stars, she cries out, and now I shall vanish, you tell me. Yet, truly, I would happily die. The dwarf goes to the queen, and ties around her neck a red silken string, and weeps as if he will go blind from sorrow. He speaks: you are to blame for this pain, for you left me for the king, now only your death awakens joy in me. Of course, I will hate myself forever, for killing you with this hand, But you must now turn pale for an early grave. She places her hand on her heart so full of youthful life, and bitter tears flow from her eyes, which she lifts heavenward in prayer.

1. Im trüben Licht verschwinden schon die Berge, Es schwebt das Schiff auf glatten Meereswogen, Worauf die Königin mit ihrem Zwerge.

2. Sie schaut empor zum hochgewölbten Bogen Hinauf zur lichtdurchwirkten blauen Ferne, Die mit der Milch des Himmels blass durchzogen.

3. 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.

4. Da geht der Zwerg zur Königinn, mag binden Um ihren Hals die Schnur von rother Seide, Und weint, als wollt’ er schnell vor Gram erblinden.

5. 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.

6. Zwar werd’ ich ewiglich mich selber hassen, Der dir mit dieser Hand den Tod gegeben, Doch musst zum frühen Grab du nun erblassen.

7. Sie legt die Hand auf’s Herz voll jungem Leben, Und aus dem Aug’ die schweren Thränen rinnen, Das sie zum Himmel bethend will erheben.

Figure 7.6. Collin, “Der Zwerg”

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May you suffer no pain for my death! she says, and the dwarf kisses her pale cheeks and very soon she loses consciousness. The dwarf looks at the woman, captured by death, he lowers her into the sea with his own hands, his heart burns with desire for her, on no shore will he ever set foot again.

8. Möchtest du nicht Schmerz durch meinen Tod gewinnen! Sie sagt’s, da küsst der Zwerg die bleichen Wangen, D’rauf alsobald vergehen ihr die Sinnen.

9. Der Zwerg schaut an die Frau, vom Tod befangen, Er senkt sie tief in’s Meer mit eig’nen Händen, Ihm brennt nach ihr das Herz so voll Verlangen, An keiner Küste wird er je mehr landen.

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stanza is set off from the second by a piano interlude. The declamation of the first two lines follows the compression convention. It is evident that Schubert has not employed it here to produce four-bar phrases, since he elongates the feminine ending of line 1. The declamation pattern, it seems, is used as an end in itself (a generative musical idea, as we shall see), not as a means to an end.30 The song begins with piano alone, and it announces the main thematic material (mm. 1–6). The voice enters on an upbeat, and its first accented word falls on a non-tonic chord, plunging into the harmony in medias res and continuing over the same path as the introduction (mm. 6–11). The harmonic rhythm of these phrases matches the rhythm of the compressed declamation pattern— long, long, short, short, long—the short units emphasized by the chromatic descent in the bass (mm. 7–11, example 7.17).31 This bass line and harmonic rhythm have served as the piano prelude (prefaced with one measure of tonic harmony), so that a musical pattern corresponding to the declamation has been introduced before the voice enters. The third line of the first stanza (mm. 16–19) is not declaimed strictly in the compression convention. The phrase is abbreviated (notice, in fact, the successive shortenings of these three lines), and the melody closes the stanza with a strong stepwise descent from fifth to tonic (= cadence A). The characteristic rhythmic pattern of the compression convention is, however, present in the harmonic rhythm of this phrase (example 7.18). Since the declamation of this line begins like the convention and shares its harmonic rhythm, one might therefore regard it as a closely related substitute. It is not an isolated instance but a pattern Schubert used elsewhere for pentameter lines.32 In “Der Zwerg” it provides just enough contrast with the compression convention to articulate the stanza’s end. In the second stanza (mm. 23–35), the declamation of the first two lines conforms to the compression convention (although the pattern is not reinforced by the harmony). The third line yields to a completely different setting: a series of repeated notes in the melody followed by a strong cadence consisting of a long

Example 7.17. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 7–11

Example 7.18. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 16–19

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dominant falling to the tonic (= cadence B).33 The declamation is the first Y1 pattern. Again, the departure from the norm signals closure of the stanza.34 From this point, Schubert’s song begins to diverge from the music introduced heretofore (mm. 1–35). Tonally, the song moves away from A minor and, in the next four stanzas, travels through C minor, G minor, B minor, C minor and major, D-flat major, and B-flat minor before returning to A at the end of stanza 6. The vocal line reflects the internal punctuation, inserted phrases, and enjambement of these stanzas in its less regular declamation, reinforcing these qualities of the verse and together with them heightening the tension. In the first line of stanza 3 (mm. 37–40), Schubert repeats a word (“Nie”) and then speeds up the declamation to the rate we have heard before in the compressed portions of the lines and in the repeated notes leading to cadence B in stanza 2. (In fact, disregarding the first word, this line is set as Y1, with an extension on “Sterne.”) The second line (mm. 40–43) represents a foreshortened X1, but it is obscured by elision with the previous line. (Note in the foreshortened beginning of this line the first of many correspondences between the text declamation and the eighth notes in the piano bass, a prominent rhythmic motive throughout the song.) The third line is divided into two phrases (mm. 44–49), the second of which we recognize as cadence B, closing the stanza. The fourth through sixth stanzas (mm. 51–86) present the action of the dwarf and his speech to the queen. As befits their enjambement in the poem, the first two lines of stanza 4 are run together into a long phrase in which no conventional pattern is perceivable but that introduces the dotted eighth and sixteenthnote motive that pervades this section and ends with cadence B (mm. 56–57). Having used this cadential figure within the stanza, Schubert must achieve closure one line later with different means. This he does by repeating words and phrases to make the length of the third line alone equal that of the first and second together and by concluding the phrase with cadence A (mm. 60–63). Although we hear only the closing portion of this phrase, the characteristic harmonic rhythm of the whole is present (example 7.19). The first two lines of stanza 5 are run together into one long phrase (after the introductory “Er spricht”), as in stanza 4 (mm. 64–68). In the third line, the whole of the cadence A phrase returns (mm. 68–72). To emphasize the dwarf’s shocking remark (“Jetzt weckt dein Sterben einzig mir noch Freude”), Schubert repeats the second part of the line and chillingly turns from C minor to C major.

Example 7.19. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 60–63

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The harmonic excitement and declamatory speed of these stanzas continue into stanza 6. The first two lines (mm. 74–80) are set to foreshortened variants of the cadence A phrase rhythm, in D-flat major and B-flat minor, respectively. The third and closing line (mm. 81–86), the dwarf’s last utterance, is set as a rhythmically augmented and foreshortened Y1 ending with cadence B. With the return of the original tonic in stanza 7 (now A major), the opening thematic material also reappears. We recognize a variant of the vocal melody of stanza 1. The first line is set to the melody, however, not with compressed but in even declamation, a Y1 with foreshortened opening and extended penultimate syllables. Nevertheless, in the harmonic rhythm we hear an augmented version of the compression pattern (mm. 87–93). The repetition of the initial two measures (mm. 87–88 and 89–90) causes each group to sound as a single unit in the phrase in spite of the harmonic progression within it (example 7.20). The major key, even declamation, and rhythmic augmentation of the harmonic pattern portray a greatly altered consciousness in the queen. The second line (mm. 93–97) returns to the regular compressed declamation as the key turns back to the minor, and line 3 closes the stanza with the cadence A phrase (mm. 97–101). At the beginning of stanza 8 (mm. 102–5), Schubert suddenly shifts up a half step to B-flat minor, underscoring the churning emotion of the text, and declaims the first line as an altered sequence of the preceding cadence phrase A (cf. lines 1–2 of stanza 6). The beginning of the second line, “Sie sagt’s” (m. 105), surprises us not only with the upward leap of a minor sixth (B-flat to G-flat) but also with the abruptness of its unexpectedly early entrance, sforzando, key change (G-flat major), and silence in the piano bass. (Compare the introductory phrase “Er spricht” in stanza 5, mm. 63–64). Susan Youens has more than plausibly suggested that this startling setting of a supposedly insignificant pair of words, followed by a sudden hush and a gap before the line continues, implies that at this very moment the dwarf jerks the red silk ribbon tight around the queen’s neck.35 The soft dynamic, continuing for the completion of the stanza, portrays her loss of consciousness and death. The rest of the line, split from its beginning by punctuation, and the final line proceed in even declamation (mm. 106–16). As before, the use of cadence A early in the stanza demands stronger closure at the end, and we should by now not be surprised to hear cadence B used at the end of the third line (mm. 115–16). This now common closure, however, is strengthened by the bass line of the piano, which traces the rhythm of the

Example 7.20. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 87–93

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X1 pattern in augmentation (mm. 110–15, example 7.21), giving this cadence at the queen’s passing a sense of finality. The long-long-short-short-long pattern, writ large, has been so often employed that it is perceptible despite the brevity of this line’s penultimate note. If in the fourth and eighth stanzas the cadential formulas in mid-stanza called for extra emphasis at the end, this is doubly true in the poem’s ninth and concluding stanza. Terza rima conventionally achieves closure by adding an extra, fourth line to the last stanza, as Collin does here. Schubert declaims the first two lines of the ninth stanza with the compression pattern, and the second closes with cadence B. Schubert treats the third line as if it were the last. He sets it to the cadence A phrase, repeats it, and then follows this double cadence with the last three words repeated again and set to cadence B. One might therefore wonder how Schubert could possibly outdo himself to establish final closure for the “extra,” fourth line of stanza 9. Needless to say, he does so and manages it very effectively with one last, and this time perfect, augmentation of the original A minor introductory music. In this single gesture are united the key, the bass line, the harmonic rhythm, and the declamational pattern that have pervaded the entire song (mm. 140–48, example 7.22). To cinch it, this time the vocal melody doubles the bass line two octaves higher. In the end, we see not only how fundamental and pervasive but also how motivically, thematically, and structurally important the X1 declamation pattern is for this song. The pattern originates quite naturally as a response to the opening line, “Im trüben Licht verschwinden schon die Berge.” With its 2u boundary after the prepositional phrase, the line structure evokes the most common compressed pattern X1. That pattern, however, serves not only to set the text in the vocal line but also to generate the note durations of the bass line and the harmonic rhythm. The three-eighth-note upbeat figure that is part of the piano’s bass line, initially an independent motive, is eventually integrated into the voice as the beginnings of foreshortened declamation patterns (i.e., mm. 40, 51, 54, 59, 66, 74, 77, 81). The dotted eighth and sixteenth figure in the middle and closing sections of the song (mm. 51–86 and 128–39), in voice, piano, or both, is

Example 7.21. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 109–16

Example 7.22. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—mm. 140–48

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a diminution of the earlier dotted quarter and eighth rhythm that sets the compressed feet in many X1 lines (mm. 9, 14, 17, and so on). Moments of closure in the song are signaled by distinct variation of the standard pattern, such as idiosyncratic cadences (A and B) and the rhythmic augmentation of the X1 (109–16, 140–48). In addition, one of the most musically expressive moments, the setting of “Sie sagt’s” in stanza 8 (m. 105), is caused in part by the sudden and unlikely rupture in the smooth functioning of the declamation. As a conclusion to this discussion of pentameter declamation in Schubert’s Lieder, we offer a table listing the songs we studied (see appendix 7.2). The table contains all poems set by Schubert that contain any pentameter lines. The first three columns cite Deutsch number, title and location (GA & NSA), and poet and text source for each song. The fourth column describes the form of the poems and identifies the pentameter lines; if not otherwise noted, all lines are pentameter. The final column identifies what we have found to be the predominant declamation convention(s) in each song. (Detailed line-by-line description lies beyond the scope of the table.) There are many ways to approach the relation of text and music, which in Schubert’s songs is always close. We have shown a very concrete means in his settings of pentameter lines. It may not seem startling that Schubert accommodated punctuation and syntax in the rhythm of declamation, but we hope to have demonstrated, first, that he did so within the confines of a small pool of conventional patterns and, second, that despite these narrow limits he employed these patterns with great sensitivity for form and expression. Far from being a tangential part of the compositional procedure, then, Schubert’s conscious or unconscious decisions concerning declamation are central and far-reaching acts. One traditional measure of artistic quality is the success with which the various strands of a work are drawn into the texture of the whole. We hope to have brought attention to a seldom-noticed strand by describing text declamation and its organization in Schubert’s pentameter Lieder. In so doing, we also hope to have shown that the investigation of declamation can afford interpretative insights and can therefore serve as a useful tool for musical analysis.

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Appendix 7.1. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”

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Appendix 7.1. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—(continued)

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Appendix 7.1. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—(continued)

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Appendix 7.1. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—(continued)

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Appendix 7.1. Schubert, “Der Zwerg”—(concluded)

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines Deutsch number: Otto Erich Deutsch, Schubert: Thematic Catalogue of All His Works in Chronological Order, London 1951. Title, G.A. and N.S.A.: The poem’s title with Schubert’s (S) variants in parentheses, together with the location of each song in: Franz Schubert’s Werke: Erste kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, Series 20: Lieder und Gesänge, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski, 10 vols., Leipzig 1894-95 (abbreviated G.A.) and Franz Schubert: Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke, Series 4: Lieder, ed. Walther Dürr and Arnold Feil, Kassel 1968- (abbreviated N.S.A.) Poet and Schochow: Name of the poet and the page citation of the poem: Franz Schubert: Die Texte seiner einstimmig komponierten Lieder, ed. Maximilian and Lilly Schochow, 2 vols., Hildesheim and New York, 1974. Form and pentameter lines: The first part of the entry describes the number and kind of strophes (str) in the poem and tells whether the meter is iambic (i) or trochaic (t). Numbers in parentheses give the count of the feet per line in each strophe. Greek names—Sapphic, Alcaic, and Asclepiadic—identify classic ode forms. Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

7

Eine Leichenphantasie I 22, VI 22

50

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Schiller 506

9 irreg str; 43/80 pent (t)

free: mixed irreg, X, Y and recit

Die Schatten I 58, VI 68

Matthison 293

4 quat (t) (5552) Sapphic

str 1: Y; 2: X; 3-4: irreg

73

Thekla I 70

Schiller 510

6 quat (t)

recit, Y, irreg, X

83

Zur Namensfeier unknown 710 X 72, VII 140

1 quat (i) (5353)

X

95

Adelaide I 169, VII 3

Matthison 293

4 quat (t) (5552) Sapphic

X & Y mixed; irreg

97

Trost an Elisa I 154, VII 6

Matthison 294

3 quint (t) (55554)

recit

98

Erinnerungen I 166, VII 8

Matthison 295

7 quat (i) (5252)

str 1-3, 6-7: Y (strophic music); Str 4-5: recit & irreg

101

Todtenopfer I 151, VII 18

Matthison 297

3 quat (i) (5544) Alcaic

X

102

Die Betende I 156, VII 21

Matthison 298

4 quat (t) (5554)

Y, X, Y dim

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

115

An Laura I 183, VII 48

159

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Matthison 303

4 sest (t)

X mod, Y dim

Die Erwartung II 47, VII 141 w/5 oct (5)

Schiller 517

6 quat (t) (3344) alt

recit, Y mod, irreg, X (str 6), X mod f (str 10)

162

Nähe des Geliebten II 62, I 40

Goethe 109

4 quat (i) (5252)

X

174

Das war ich I 84

Körner 236

6 sest (i) (555552)

Y (3/4 variant)

177

Vergebliche Liebe II 88

Bernard 30

3 quat (t) (5454)

X (line 1), Y thereafter

182

Die erste Liebe II 94

Fellinger 87

sonnet (i)

Y, Y mod

193

An den Mond II 110

Hölty 170

4 quat (i) (5353)

X in all but 2 pent lines

195

Amalia II 113

Schiller 521

4 quat (t)

str 1: X; 2-3 recit, irreg; 4: X, Y

196

An die Nachtigall Hölty 172 II 116

2 oct (i) (52525252)

Y (lines 1, 3, 5); X (line 7)

197

An die Apfelbäume II 117

Hölty 173

4 quat (i) (5544) Alcaic

X in str 1, 2, 4; Y in 3

219

Die Laube II 159

Hölty 179

6 quat (t) (5454)

Y alt w/X

227

Agnes Nachtgesang (S: Idas Nachtgesang) II 173

Kosegarten 247

6 quat (i) (5564)

Y

264

Der Morgenkuss Baumberg 28 III 51

3 quat (i) (5554)

X mod f derivation, X

273

Lilla an die Morgenröte III 59

2 quat (i) (5353)

Y

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

285

Furcht der Geliebten III 70

286

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Klopstock 216

2 quat (t) (5553) Sapphic

Y, X mod, Y dim

Selma and Selmar III 74

Klopstock 216

2 quat (t) (5553) Sapphic

X, X mod by hemiola

288

An Sie III 78

Klopstock 218

4 quat (t) free & irreg (5533) Asclepiadic

301

Lambertine III 112

Stoll 684

4 quat (i) 5553 (except Str 1: 4553)

str 1: X; str 2: Y; 3-4: X, Y dim

304

Wiegenlied III 117

Körner 239

6 quat (t)

Y, X

305

Mein Gruß an den Mai III 118

Kumpf 275

9 quat (i) (6555)

Y

308

Die Macht der Liebe III 123

Kalchberg 206

sonnet (i)1

Y

312

Hektors Abschied III 130

Schiller 530

4 sest (t) (dialogue)

str 1, 3 (Andromache): X mod f & X; str 2, 4 (Hektor): recit, X, Y, irreg

321

Mignon (S: Mignons Gesang) II 155

Goethe 126

3 sept (i) (5555225)

X, Y, irreg

322

Hermann und Thusnelda III 159

Klopstock 220

7 quat (t) (5533) irreg Asclepiadic

recit, irreg, some Y in str 7

344

Der Frühling Claudius 61 (S: Am ersten Maimorgen) GA: —, NSA: X 8

3 quat (t)



388

Laura am Klavier Schiller 535 IV 41, X 46 & 52

6 irreg str (t) 12/40 pent

irreg, with scattered Y & X

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

390

Poet & Schochow

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Die Entzückung Schiller 536 an Laura IV 54, X 60 & 255

4 sest (t) (555554)

irreg (str 1, 3); X in str 2, 4

395

Lebensmelodien Schlegel, A. W. IV 72, X 72 566

7 quat (t pent) X mod f alt w/7 quat (tetr) followed by 3 oct (33332222)

399

Auf den Tod Hölty 181 einer Nachtigall IV 98 IV 98, X 90 & 264

4 oct (i) (52525252)

Y

402

Der Flüchtling IV 35, X 100

Schiller 541

6 irreg str (t/i) 8/43 pent

irreg, with some X&Y

403

Lied VI 66, X 108, 110, 112, 114

Salis 496

3 sept (i) (2355432)

lines 1-2 as 5 in X; 3-4: Y, Y aug

412

Stimme der Liebe IV 82, X 140 & 142

Stolberg 681

2 quat (t) (5552) Sapphic

irreg, X in str 2

413

Entzückung IV 84, X 144

Matthison 308

2 sest (t) (Schub repeats str 1)

irreg, some Y

419

Julius an Theone Matthison 311 IV 91, X 150

3 oct (t)

X; irreg: Y

447

An den Schlaf IV 120. X 175

unknown (Uz?) 714

quat (t)

X

449

Der gute Hirte IV 124, X 181

Uz 697

7 quat (i) (5443) (str 5, 6 omitted)

X in 3 pent lines;

4 quat (t) (5543)

irreg

sest (i/t)

X

496

Bey dem Grabe meines Vaters IV 234, X 28

497

An die Nachtigall Claudius 63 IV 238 (444533)

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Claudius 62

Y in 2

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

498

Wiegenlied IV 239



Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

unknown 715

3 quat (t) (4545)

X (Schub made line pent)

Impromptu (unpubl fragment)

Werner 703

sept (i) lines 3-7 pent



530

An eine Quelle IV 232, XI 86

Claudius 66

10 lines (44446564444)

Y

531

Der Tod und das Mädchen V 35, I 66

Claudius 67

2 quat (i), line 5 pent

X

541

Memnon V 59, I 46

Mayrhofer 334

4 quat (i)

mixed X, Y, irreg

545

Der Jüngling und der Tod V 80, XI 108 & 110

Spaun 672

Jüng: 2 quat (i) (5454); Tod: couplet (55)

irreg til Tod (X & Y mod)

547

An die Musik V 86

Schober 597

2 quat (i)

X mod f & Y alternate

548

Der landende Orest (S: Orest auf Tauris) VI 118, XI 113

Mayrhofer 336

2 oct (t)

irreg; X & Y mixed

551

Pax vobiscum V 88, XI 116

Schober 597

3 oct (i) (65555554)

Y

554

Uraniens Flucht V 99, XI 118

Mayrhofer 338

27 quat (i)

recit; then Y & X tend to alternate by str

577

Die Entzückung an Laura X 119 & 20 (c.f. D. 390), XI 60 & 255

Schiller 536

4 sest (t) (555554)

1st fragm: Y, X 2nd fragm: X, irreg

579

Der Knabe in der Wiege V 180, XI 162 & 234

Ottenwalt 444

10 quat (i) (5554)

X

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

582

Augenblicke im Elysium (lost)

583

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Schober 598

sonnet (i)



Gruppe aus dem Tartarus V 144

Schiller 542

3 irreg str (t) 9/14 pent lines

X

584

Elysium V 149, XI 174

Schiller 543

6 irreg str (i) X, some Y pent lines in str 5 (556555) & str 6 (554555)

594

Der Kampf V 171, XI 200

Schiller 546 13/24 pent

6 quat (i)

X, Y & irreg

595

Thekla Schiller 510 V 177 (cf. D. 73)

6 quat (t)

X

628

Sonett (I) V 225, XII 52

Petrarca (Schlegel, A. W. trans) 571

sonnet (i) scattered X & Y

irreg, some

629

Sonett (II) V 228, XII 49

Petrarca (Schlegel, A. W. trans) 572

sonnet (i)

X at begin, then irreg

630

Sonett (III) V 231, XII 56

Petrarca (Schlegel, A. W. trans) 574

sonnet (i)

Y, X, Y mod & irreg

645

Abend (unpubl)

Tieck 688

irreg (i)



660

Hymne (II) VI 49, XII 100

Novalis 415 (334435)

5 sest (t)

Y

673

Die Liebende schreibt VI 68, XII 116 & 120

Goethe 141

sonnet (i)

Y (3/4 variant)

677

Die Götter Griechenlands VI 76, XII 126 & 128

Schiller 547 Schubert set 1

16 oct (t)

irreg, then Y

693

Der Fluss VI 91, XII 162

Schlegel, Fr. 586

4 quint (i) (35335)

Y

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(continued) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

707

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

Der zürnenden Mayrhofer 353 Diana (S: Die zürnende Diana) VI 133

3 terc (i) (555, 555, 544) plus quat (4)

Y, irreg, X

713

Der Unglückliche Pichler 451 VI 168

8 quat (i) (Schub omitted str 8, abbreviated str 7)

str 1: X; 2-4: Y; 5: X mod f; 6: recit, Y, irreg, X; 7: X mod f

715

Versunken VI 178, XIII 8 & 15

Goethe 143

16 lines (i) pent 2-7

X mod, Y, irreg

726

Mignon VI 189

Goethe 146

3 quat (i) of X irreg lines (4454, 5556, 5555)

741

Sei mir gegrüßt VI 241, I 137

Rückert 482

5 sest (i) (522522)

str 1: dactyls, X; 2: irreg; 3: X, Y; 4, 5: X

749

Herrn Josef Spaun (S: Epistel) X 84, XIII 34

Collin, M 75

14 lines (i/t) (pent 3-14) followed by oct (4)

recit

758

Todesmusik VII 30

Schober 601

31 lines (t) pent: 29-31

X, X mod f

761

Schatzgräbers Begehr VII 35, II 10

Schober 602

sonnet (i)

X, X mod

771

Der Zwerg VII 95, I 160

Collin, M 76

9 str terza rima (i)

X, X mod, irreg

795/7

Ungeduld VII 152, II 46

Müller 381 (refrain)

4 sest (i)

Y (verse); irreg

795/12

Pause VII 162, II 63

Müller 385

10 plus 8 lines (t/i); 14 pent

Y, and some X

799

Im Abendroth VIII 30, XIII 132 & 134

Lappe 276

2 sest (t) (444454)

X

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Appendix 7.2. Schubert’s Settings of Poems with Pentameter Lines—(concluded) Deutsch Number

Title, G.A. & N.S.A.

Poet & Schochow

Form & pentameter lines

Setting of pentameter lines

822

Lied eines Kriegers VIII 32

unknown 718

2 sept (i): solo X mod f (55655) & chorus (55); str 2: lines 4, 6-7 are tetr

863

An Gott (lost)

Hohlfeld 195

3 sest (i) (555552)



877

Mignon (S: Lied Goethe 146 der Mignon) VIII 169

3 quat (i) of irreg lines (4454, 5556, 5555)

str 1: X; 2: irreg; 3: X, X mod f

922

An Myrtill (S: Heimliches Lieben) IX 92

Klenke 214

5 quat (i) (5552)

Y & X mod f

957/7

Abschied IX 160

Rellstab 476

6 sest (i) (544441)

line 1, in 3 short phrases, Resembles X

957/8

Der Atlas IX 167, XIV 142

Heine 160

2 quat (i) (5553) Schub repeats first

irreg, X mod f

989

Die Vollendung2 Matthison 315

4 quat (t)

X mod f (line 1)

(only incipit is published) 1. Schubert turned the iambic lines into trochaic ones. He also set the two quatrains as strophes and omitted the sestet. 2. Österreichische Musikzeitschrift 24 (1969), 321 (incipit only)

Notes 1. The problems posed by pentameter lines have received little attention in the critical literature. Heinrich Rietsch (Die deutsche Liedweise: Ein Stück positiver Aesthetik der Tonkunst Vienna: C. Fromme, 1904], 53–54) mentions the treatment of pentameter lines by Hugo Wolf in “Peregrina” (Mörike-Lieder, no. 33), and Arnold Schoenberg (“Brahms the Progressive,” in Style and Idea: Selected Writings of Arnold Schoenberg, ed. Leonard Stein [New York: St. Martin’s, 1975], 419–22) discusses the treatment of pentameter lines by Brahms in “Feldeinsamkeit” (op. 86, no. 2). Neither writer is interested in the setting of pentameter lines per se but only in these isolated instances. Friedrich Lippmann (“Der italienische Vers und der musikalische Rhythmus,” Analecta Musicologica 12 [1973]: 253– 369; 13 [1974]: 324–410; 15 [1975]: 298–333) comes closer to the goals of the present

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study in cataloging the recurring rhythmic patterns in Italian opera arias, including those for deca- and endecasyllabic lines; however, he does not seek either to identify principles underlying the patterns or to relate the choice of patterns to features of the poetic lines. 2. For an exposition of the basics of declamation, see chapter 1. 3. The examples, with the exception of “Die Erwartung,” are taken from the old Gesamtausgabe. For permission to quote passages from the new critical edition of “Die Erwartung,” we are grateful to Bärenreiter-Verlag, Kassel. 4. In the schematic representations of metrical patterns, a slash (/) represents a relatively longer metrical unit and a dot (.) a relatively shorter unit. These are relative durations only and imply no absolute temporal values. 5. Since the conventional patterns correspond to poetic lines set as phrase units, the integrity of lines is a significant determinant. Caesura and enjambement can prohibit, or at least complicate, these line-bound patterns. It has often been noted that in situations like these, musical settings tend to obscure the poetic meter. On the printed page, the meter remains visually intact; in musical settings, the composer usually favors the syntactic form and sense of the poem over the metrical line as a unit. 6. For purposes of statistical analysis, these lines were omitted from the count: (1) pentameter lines in stanzas after the first stanza of strophic songs, on the assumption that the lines of the first stanza determined the declamation of the others; (2) lines set to exact repetitions of melodic phrases, on the parallel assumption that the first line determined the declamation of the following one(s); and (3) repeated lines of the text, if their declamation was not significantly different from the first setting. 7. For example, Reichardt’s “Nähe des Geliebten” and “Kennst du das Land” (in Das Erbe deutscher Musik, ed. Walter Salmen, vol. 59 [Munich: Henle, 1970], 79, and vol. 58 [Munich: Henle, 1964], 104); Zumsteeg’s “Nachtgesang,” “An Cidli,” “Klagelied,” “Sehnsucht, an W.,” “Via Crucis, via Lucis,” “Die Welt ohne Sie,” and “An Elwina” (in Kleine Balladen und Lieder, facsimile reprint of original edition [Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1800–1805] by Gregg International Press, Farnborough, Eng., 1969, vol. 1, 22, 26, 36, 38; vol. 2, 26, 28; vol. 4, 34); Schumann’s “Ich grolle nicht” (Dichterliebe, op. 48, no.7), which uses the foreshortened X2; and Wolf’s “Auf eine Christblume I” (Mörike-Lieder, no. 20). Rietsch (Liedweise, 53–54) made an isolated observation about the compression of the fivefoot lines of Mörike’s “Peregrina” into two-bar phrases in Wolf’s setting. 8. It is when one examines hymn melodies of pentameter texts that one sees just how conventional compressed and declamation are. The examples of both conventions in Johannes Zahn’s Die Melodien der deutschen evangelischen Kirchenlieder (6 vols., Gütersloh: Bertelsmann, 1889–93) are far too numerous to be cited. One well-known instance of compression will suffice: Johann Crüger’s setting of “Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen?” (Zahn, no. 983). A familiar English pentameter hymn set in the compressed convention is “Abide with me; fast falls the eventide” (The Hymnal 1982 According to the Use of the Episcopal Church [New York: Church Hymnal Corporation, 1982], no. 662). 9. The six-phrase (a, a,’ b, c, b, c’), “pentameter-primed” tune (all phrases are foreshortened X3 patterns) sounds appropriate for an ode-like poem or a hymn. Sibelius included the “Finland Hymn” (as his theme came to be known) with words by an opera singer, Wäinö Sola, in his Masonic Ritual Music for male chorus (op. 113, 1927). Later a Finnish poet, V. A. Koskenniemi, furnished the theme with another text, which was in turn arranged for mixed choir by Sibelius (1948). These texts and English hymns on the tune (e.g., “Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side”) consist, unsurprisingly, of five-stress lines. 10. Many Tin Pan Alley AABA songs exhibit this phrase structure, the “bridge” or “release” being in two parts, often sequential. In some of these instances as well as in some

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of the X1 patterns in Lieder, the harmonic rhythm of the phrase matches the melodic rhythm of the X1 pattern and reinforces its shape. See the discussion of the harmonic rhythm of the X1 pattern in Schubert’s “Der Zwerg,” D. 771, later in this chapter. 11. Northrup Frye, “Introduction: Lexos and Melos,” in Sound and Poetry, ed. N. Frye (New York: Columbia University Press, 1957), ix–xxvii. 12. For a discussion of phrase stress and other differences between German and English pentameter verse, see Bjorklund, A Study in Comparative Prosody: English and German Iambic Pentameter [Stuttgarter Arbeiten zur Germanistik 35] (Stuttgart: Akademischer Verlag Heinz, 1978). 13. Das Erbe deutscher Musik, vol. 59, 79. See also his other setting of the poem in vol. 58, 22. 14. This section is greatly condensed from Fehn and Hallmark 1983, 211–23. Inquisitive readers are encouraged to study the original article. Only the most significant results are highlighted here, without the detailed statistical tabulations.—RH 15. Prepositional and genitive attributes are included with their nouns because such groups are usually spoken as a unit. See Der Grosse Duden in 10 Bänden, vol. 4: Grammatik der deutschen Gegenwartsprache, 17th ed. (Mannheim: Bibliographisches Institut, 1973), §1572: “Attribute bilden mit ihrem Kern . . . einen Wortblock, der in der Regel am Ende beschwert wird . . . so auch Präpositionalattribute.” Nouns joined by a conjunction tend to form a spoken unit only if they appear without modifiers; for reasons of consistency, then, the decision was made to consider them as separate units. 16. Most of these conjunctions are monosyllabic. In iambic lines they would precede the first stressed syllable and would perforce be considered with the next syllable and not as separate units (discussed later). In trochaic lines, however, they might be taken as separate units under the next rule. This present rule allows iambic and trochaic lines beginning with conjunctions to be considered together. (An examination has confirmed that iambic and troachaic lines are indeed treated similarly.) 17. The distribution of all u/no u lines (i.e., lines consisting of five syntactic units or a single unit) among the various declamation categories corresponds rather closely to the overall distribution of lines among those patterns. 18. Compare also the odd-numbered lines of Gibbons’s “The Silver Swan,” which are all set as X1 foreshortened and which all have a substantive in the second position. 19. “Die Erwartung” (D. 159), “Lambertine” (D 301), “Uraniens Flucht” (D. 554), “Die Liebende schreibt” (D. 673), and “Die Götter Griechenlands” (D. 677). 20. “Die Erwartung” has seldom been discussed extensively by literary critics. Detailed commentaries, but with little interpretation, appear in Schiller’s Gedichte, erläutert von Heinrich Düntzer, 4th ed., no. 1 (Erläuterungen zu den deutschen Klassikern. Dritte Abtheilung: Erläuterungen zu Schillers Werken, 11; 2nd ed. Leipzig, 1874), 16–24. Jonas Fritz discusses what appears to be an earlier version of the poem, set by Zelter, in his essay “Zu Schillers Gedichten” (Zeitschrift für vergleichende Literaturgeschichte, N.F. 12 [1898], 97–99). 21. See Walther Dürr, introduction to Franz Schubert, in Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke, Series 4, vol. 7 (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1979), 28–31. Both the original and revised versions are printed in the new Schubert edition (Franz Schubert: Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke, Series 4: Lieder, ed. Walther Dürr and Arnold Feil [Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1964–]). The old Gesamtausgabe (Franz Schubert’s Werke: Erste kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, Series 20: Lieder und Gesänge, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski, 10 vols. [Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1894–95]) and the familiar Peters edition (Franz Schubert. Gesänge, ed. Max Friedländer [Frankfurt/Main: Peters, 1885], 3, 84) print the later version only.

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22. Kleine Balladen und Lieder mit Klavierbegleitung von J. R. Zumsteeg, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1800; repr. Farnborough: Gregg, 1969), 6–15. Zumsteeg’s setting appears in the Anhang to volume 7 of the new Schubert edition (see note 21), 203–10. Schubert must have worked from both Schiller’s text and Zumsteeg’s setting, for the latter omits lines 3 and 4 of stanza 4, which are included in Schubert’s song. 23. For example, L. Scheibler, “Franz Schubert’s einstimmige Lieder mit Texten von Schiller,” Die Rheinlande 9 (1905), 167. The pentameter stanzas, the “arias,” are not rounded or interlaced with ritornelli, nor is the text treated in cantata fashion with freely repeated words and phrases and melismatic melody. 24. Paul Mies (Schubert: Der Meister des Liedes [Berlin: M. Hesse, 1928], 110–11) compares “die fast willkürliche Anordnung bei Zumsteeg” to “die schöne Steigerung zu dem E-Dur bei Schubert und die allmähliche Zurückwendung.” Mies is speaking of Schubert’s second version; he was unaware at the time of the earlier, less unified version and therefore mistakenly but understandably describes the tonal plan of “Die Erwartung” as “der einzige Plan der Frühzeit des Jahres (1815), der besondere Anordnung bei großer Zahl der Teile hat.” 25. Schubert used an almost identical melodic descent for the dramatic moment in “Der Taucher” at which the young squire throws off his garments and prepares to accept the king’s dare to plunge into the whirlpool after the golden goblet (“Und den Gürtel”; GA 1:76-12a, 105-12b; NSA 6:82-10a, 118-10b). 26. Moritz Bauer, Die Lieder Franz Schuberts (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1915), 175–76. 27. The authors are gratefuI to Professor Emeritus Carl Schachter, Queens College and Graduate Center, CUNY, for his suggestions about graphing the music of this stanza, although we accept full responsibility for this representation. 28. For a discussion of Chamisso’s terza rima poems, see Roger Bernheim, Die Terzine in der deutschen Dichtung von Goethe bis Hofmannsthal (Düsseldorf, 1954). 29. Collin’s poem, under the title “Treuebruch,” was printed in Selam: Ein Almanach für Freunde des Mannigfaltigen, ed. I. F. Castelli (Vienna, 1813), where Dietrich Herke discovered it (“Zu einigen anonymen Texten Schubertscher Lieder,” Die Musikforschung 22 [1969], 487–88). We are grateful to Professor Walther Dürr of the Neue Schubert-Ausgabe for providing us with a copy of the poem as it appeared in Selam. 30. In line with our close study of the relation of line structure to declamation patterns, we would like to point out how close that relation is in this song. The first line of this poem begins with a two-unit prepositional phrase, and the line is set to an X1 pattern with an extended feminine ending (see example 7.3f). Various X patterns are used for eleven other lines, and the song in general shows a high correlation between line structure and declamation pattern: “other p” lines are non-integral; 2u lines are X1 or Y1; “other u” lines are set as X2, X4, and Y1. In fact, only a few anomalies occur, and the reasons why these few lines are set to patterns other than those predicted by our statistical analysis are readily apparent. The apparent anomalies are lines 3,2 (p2 set as irregular), 3,3 (p2 set as Y1), 4,2 (2u set as non-integral), 5,2 (2u set as irregular), and 9,3 (2u set as irregular). Line 3,2 in fact follows the X1 foreshortened pattern but is technically not classified as such only because its first foot, because of the elision with the preceding phrase, cannot be extended backward. Line 3,3, although set in even declamation, is clearly based on the X1 pattern with the third foot (“sterb’ ich”) extended for rhetorical emphasis. Line 4,2, although in itself a 2u line, is enjambed from the preceding line and is therefore combined with line 4,1 in a run-on setting. Stanza 5, which continues to relate the climactic actions and utterances of the dwarf, repeats the musical patterns of stanza 4; this musical reason overrides syntax. Line 5,2, although 2u, is irregular, since it follows the rhythm of

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line 4,2. Line 9,3 is in effect declaimed well (to a modification of an X-based cadence pattern already used a number of times in the song), although our analytical methods imply that it is not. Had the line, which is technically 2u, been set to the unmodified cadence pattern, the pronoun “ihr” would have fallen on a downbeat and “Herz” on the weaker second half of the bar. By modifying a conventional pattern (which thus becomes technically irregular), Schubert has well declaimed a line the syntactic, semantic, and accentual rhythm of which evades our analytical classifications. 31. In our examples, where two chords are given for a measure and we postulate a single harmony, the first chord in each case is an appoggiatura chord, subordinate to the primary harmony. 32. For example, “An Laura” (D. 115) and the end of “Mignon” (D. 726). 33. The same declamation is used in other songs; for example, the opening line of “Die zürnende Diana” (D. 707) and the closing line of “Der Jüngling und der Tod” (D. 545). 34. Barbara Herrnstein Smith discusses variation as one of the basic means of achieving closure in poetry (Poetic Closure: A Study of How Poems End [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968], 56–63. As she emphasizes (8–9), many of the principles she describes apply equally well to music. 35. Susan Youens, “Of Dwarves, Perversion, and Patriotism: Schubert’s Der Zwerg, D. 771,” Nineteenth Century Music 21 (1997): 206.

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Chapter Eight

Repetition as Structure in the German Lied The Ghazal Ann C. Fehn and Jürgen Thym In contrast to most folk songs and popular songs, such as those discussed by Mark Booth in his monograph The Experience of Songs,1 art songs set preexisting poems. It is therefore understandable that when we examine text-music relationships in the German Lied, we often analyze the settings as responses to, or even imitations of, the poems that are their subjects and programs. Although we do not necessarily declare a setting aesthetically inferior if it does not follow the poem closely, establishing the extent of parallelism is a standard part of stylistic analysis. But what exactly are the elements of a text to which a composer may choose to respond? Customarily, analysts look at how a song interprets, expresses, or enacts a sense of its text—how, for example, it renders an expressed emotion or whether it responds to an ironic current of meaning. Much less systematic are investigations of the other levels of a poem to which a composer’s attention may turn, in particular its metric, rhythmic, and formal dimensions. Indeed, one might question whether a composer can respond to such dimensions or whether musical rhythm and structure do not simply overpower their more delicate textual counterparts.2 _________________ The chapter originated as a lecture given jointly by the authors at the Annual Conference of the German Studies Association in Denver, Colorado, on October 13, 1984, and at the National Meeting of the American Musicological Society in Vancouver, British Columbia, on November 7, 1985. It was published in Comparative Literature 41, 1 (Winter 1989): 33–52, and is reprinted by permission of the University of Oregon Press. The authors wish to thank Professors Ralph P. Locke (Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester) and John Rothgeb (SUNY Binghamton) for their generous and valuable suggestions at various stages during the genesis of this study.

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In addition, one might ask how one can isolate the formal features of a text decisively enough to assert that a setting corresponds to them rather than to the ideas or syntax of text or to some “purely musical” consideration. Our goal here is to find a means of approaching such questions. To focus attention on poetic form in Lied settings, we have chosen examples of an unusual and highly patterned structure: the Persian ghazal in its German realizations. By examining a variety of ghazals and comparing their settings, we hope to demonstrate that a poetic form can indeed reach through a poet’s text, exerting influence on the musical setting and presenting the composer with at least partially specifiable compositional choices. In so doing, we hope to contribute to a general expansion of the analysis of text-music relationships.3 The ghazal is not characterized by its length, which varies from about four to perhaps fifteen couplets, or by its meter, which is chosen freely by the poet and remains constant through the poem, but instead by the single rhyme that binds each poem. This rhyme appears twice in the first couplet and at the end of every couplet thereafter (that is, according to the rhyme scheme aaxaxaxa . . . ). In the Persian tradition each couplet tends to be complete in itself, with the second half balancing the first both in theme and rhythm. Best known among the masters of this form are the fourteenth-century poet Hafis of Shiraz and his fellow citizen Sa’di, who lived about a century earlier. Although their most common subject was love, either mystical or human, Reuben Levy has noted that “anything might be touched on that stirred the emotions—the caprices of fortune’s whirligig, the mystery of life in the world, the upsurging happiness of springtime, or the joys and sorrows of friendship or other earthly attachments.”4 The delights of wine, accordingly, were also a popular subject. The ghazal was introduced to European poetry in the early nineteenth century as part of a general discovery of Oriental literature. Encouraged by translations, essays, and university lectures in the rapidly developing field of Oriental scholarship, German writers, among others, looked to the East not just for fables and exotic decorations, as earlier generations had done, but also for new ideas and modes of expression, which they sought to understand and to incorporate into their own creative efforts. Friedrich Schlegel is credited for the first use of the ghazal in German poetry, in 1803, but a more decisive impetus to German Orientalism came from Joseph Hammer-Purgstall’s translation of Hafis, published in 1812, and from Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan, which appeared in 1819. Goethe’s interest in the East lay in the kinship he recognized between his own ideas and those of the poets he read, particularly Hafis, whom he called his “twin” and from whom his Divan borrows numerous images, motives, and even phrases. Because of his acute awareness of the intertwining of form and content in fine poetry, however, Goethe was less ready to appropriate Hafis’s forms. Just as in earlier days he had expressed skepticism toward the sonnet form, in his notes to the Divan he warned that the ghazal rhyme was likely to link a string of unrelated words, thereby diffusing the poetic idea and giving an

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impression of forced rhyme to the whole.5 Accordingly, he avoided the ghazal rather than attempting to join the handful of Persian masters of it. None of the poems in his Divan is a strict ghazal, and only a few approach it, among them “Höchste Gunst” and “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit.” Other German poets did not share Goethe’s reservations. Among them was the poet and scholar Friedrich Rückert, who traveled to Vienna in 1818 to study Arabic and Persian language and literature with Hammer-Purgstall and in 1822 published a collection of Östliche Rosen, many of which are ghazals. Rückert introduced his younger colleague August Graf von Platen to the ghazal, and Platen published collections of poetry entirely in that form in 1821 and again in 1823. Near the middle of the century Georg Friedrich Daumer published two volumes of freely translated Hafis poems, and as the century wore on several other poets, including Emanuel Geibel and Gottfried Keller, tried their hand at the form. In view of the richness of Lied production during the nineteenth century, it is not surprising that a number of these ghazals found their way into musical settings. Schubert, with his usual receptivity to new poetry, set ghazals by Platen and Rückert within a few years of the poems’ appearance. Brahms set texts in this form by Platen and Daumer. Other, lesser-known composers, such as Robert Kahn and Ferdinand Hiller, also set ghazals in the nineteenth century; in the twentieth century Richard Strauss based his choral composition Deutsche Motette on a ghazal, Othmar Schoeck composed ten by Gottfried Keller, and Schoenberg tried his hand at the form in one of the songs in op. 6. Despite the variable length of ghazals in their constituent lines, several features make them revealing for a study of the relation of poetic form to musical setting. One is the form’s couplet structure, which can easily present the composer with compositional choices such as whether to group short lines into quatrains or to break a long-lined couplet into four short phrases. Another is the ghazal’s asymmetric rhyme scheme. While both lines of the first couplet rhyme, encouraging close-range parallelism both in poem and setting, only every second line participates in the rhyme in subsequent couplets. Poets who exploit the parallelism of the two rhymed lines in the first couplet, then, have to deal with more infrequent rhymes in subsequent couplets. Composers, in turn, who set the first two lines as parallel phrases, or the first four lines as an aaba quatrain, will not be following the form of the poem if they continue as they have begun. They must either modify their approach or ignore this feature of the poem. Unsurprisingly, composers often take the latter route and pay little attention to poetic structures of such subtlety. Even where poets reinforce the structure with doublings at the level of syntax, exigencies of musical form frequently take precedence in the settings over a close imitation of the poem’s shape. An interesting, although partial, exception to this observation is Schubert’s “Greisengesang” of 1823. Rückert’s poem6 (fig. 8.1) is simple in structure and makes extensive use of antithesis to contrast the vocabulary shared by winter and age with similes commonly reserved for youth.

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Figure 8.1. Rückert, “Vom künftigen Alter” Der Frost hat mir bereifet des Hauses Dach; Doch warm ist mir’s geblieben im Wohngemach. Der Winter hat die Scheitel mir weiß gedeckt; Doch fließt das Blut, das rote, durchs Herzgemach. Der Jugendflor der Wangen, die Rosen sind Gegangen, all’ gegangen einander nach. Wo sind sie hin gegangen? Ins Herz hinab. Da blüh’n sie nach Verlangen, wie vor so nach. Sind alle Freudenströme der Welt versiegt? Noch fließt mir durch den Busen ein stiller Bach. Sind alle Nachtigallen der Flur verstummt? Noch ist bei mir im stillen hier eine wach; Sie singet: Herr des Hauses! Verschleuß dein Tor, Dass nicht die Welt, die kalte, dring’ ins Gemach. Schleuß aus den rauhen Odem der Wirklichkeit, Und nur dem Duft der Träume, gib Dach und Fach. Ich habe Wein und Rosen in jedem Lied Und habe solche Lieder noch tausenfach. Vom Abend bis zum Morgen und Nächte durch Will ich dir singen von Jugend und Liebesach. [Winter has frosted the roof of my house, but it has remained warm for me inside. Frost has covered my hair with white, but blood is still flowing red through the chambers of my heart. The youthful bloom of my cheeks, the roses are gone, one after another. Where have they gone? Deep into the heart. There they bloom whenever I wish, just as they once did. Have all the world’s joyful streams run dry? Through my bosom flows a tranquil brook. Have all nightingales in the fields ceased to sing? There is still one awake here in my solitude. It sings: Master of the house, close your gate so that the cold world will not come into your chamber. Shut out the harsh winds of reality and give shelter only to the fragrance of dreams. I have wine and roses in every song and thousands of songs to give. From dusk to dawn through many nights I will sing to you of youth and the pangs of love.]

Schubert finds easy correlates for these antitheses in the modal quality and unison accompaniment of the first phrase, which evokes old age, and the hearty major and richer harmonies of the second phrase, which describes youth. At the same time, he turns the first four lines of Rückert’s ghazal into a quatrain and slides the lines’ aaxa rhymes into an abab setting, thereby establishing the first A section (mm. 5–21). This structure leaves rhyme aside by allowing the setting of line 3 to repeat line 1, even though the text does not participate in the rhyme of the other three lines. Here the poem’s rhyme scheme does not exactly follow its semantic structure, and Schubert allows the parallel metaphors of the lines to take precedence over the rhyme.

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In his setting of lines 5 through 8, Schubert establishes contrasting B and C sections (mm. 21–29 and 30–48). The textural antithesis that characterized the A section—the opposition, that is, of bare melody for the lines of age and fuller, major harmonies for the evocation of youth—is projected now onto four lines rather than two. Lines 5 and 6 are set to monophonic accompaniment, lines 7 and 8 to a richer texture. Here, as earlier, the contrast corresponds to Rückert’s antithetical imagery. An additional contrast is evident between the squareness of Schubert’s treatment of lines 1 through 4 and the more adventurous phrase structure that characterizes his setting of lines 5 through 8. Eccentricities in Rückert’s meter—the recurring internal rhyme on “Wangen” and the enjambement between lines 5 and 6—may have been Schubert’s point of departure here. He disregards the line structure in favor of syntactic units as outlined by the internal rhyme in lines 5 and 6 and thereby is still able to retain a degree of “squareness” in the form of a symmetrical phrase structure consisting of units of two and four measures, respectively. By separating the components of line 7 (consisting of question and answer), however, and by emphasizing again the internal rhyme of line 8 (“Verlangen”) through extensive melismatic decorations of the peak note C-sharp in the setting, he arrives at an irregularity in the phrase structure that comes close to the character of musical prose. Like lines 1 through 4, lines 9 through 12 display antithesis, and Schubert responds by returning to the material of the A section (mm. 53–69)—with one significant difference. Instead of using a cadence and a melodic line identical for all four lines, as he did previously, he allows the melodies of lines 9 and 11 to ascend, leaving the original melody only for lines 10 and 12. His setting thereby provides an iconic correlate for the questions in the text and at the same time fits a set of four lines where only two rhyme. A final section follows, or, more precisely, a return of sections B and C (mm. 69–77 and 77–96). B is slightly modified in a manner consistent with the lack of internal rhyme and enjambement in the text. C undergoes more significant changes in that the entire penultimate line is now given to the music that earlier provided the vessel for only a part of line 7 (the question). This procedure “frees” the music, as it were, to reinforce the image of the last line “und nur dem Duft der Träume” by stating it first with the music used for the answer in line 7 and again with the melismas developed in section C for line 8. The melismas thereby furnish a picturesque musical correlate to the word “Träume.” By harkening back to an earlier part of the song, they, more than the words, communicate the central idea of the ghazal, namely that the images of youth that have descended into the old man’s heart now reverberate as a dream world shielding him from the harsh winds of reality. In other words, the melismas generated by a formal feature (the internal rhyme in line 8) translate into an appropriate shape for a later image, the dreams of line 16.

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Although in “Greisengesang” one sees clear signs of the composer’s responsiveness to both the shape and the sense of Rückert’s poem, the poetic structure of the ghazal is not particularly salient here even for a composer as sensitive to his texts as Schubert. The insistent rhyme, to be sure, reaches through the setting to the listener’s ear (in part because of the awkward repetition of the words “Gemach” and “nach”), but the only other distinctive ghazal feature is the asymmetric couplet structure of the first lines (aaxa), followed by the alternating appearance of the rhyme word in the later lines (xaxa). As our discussion of “Greisengesang” has shown, Schubert responds to a wide range of formal features—including antithesis, internal rhyme, syntax, and enjambement—as well as to the imagery of the poem; he even finds ways to relate settings of form to imagery. These responses are not related, however, to the ghazal form. The situation is different in a distinctive subgroup of ghazals. In these poems the rhyme, rather than confined to the final word, begins well back into the line and is followed by either a steadily recurring final word or a refrain. Here repetition gives the poems a highly prominent structure and presents configurations that help shape the setting regardless of whether the composer “doubles” them. Songs based on such poems offer fertile ground for an investigation of how poetic form can influence song settings, and we therefore turn now to an analysis of four of them—two by Schubert and two by Brahms. Three poets are represented: Rückert, Platen, and Daumer/Hafis. Rückert’s ghazal “Sei mir gegrüßt”7 (fig. 8.2) is a love poem in which a lyric subject greets his distant beloved and through a process of imagination seeks to overcome the distance between them. The lines are long, with nine stresses each. Each rhymed line splits into five feet of iambs leading to the rhyme, followed by a four-stress choriambic refrain: “Sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst!” In the unrhymed lines the choriambs usually yield to a constant iambic meter, which is lightened by a lilting pair of unaccented syllables between the fifth and sixth stresses. As is often the case with ghazals, the first two lines have special prominence and in a sense contain the poem in nuce. They quickly sketch the speaker’s situation in phrases that stand in antithetical relation to one another, centering respectively on the antithetical words “entrissen” and “erreichbar.” From here the poem moves to four pairs of lines in which the speaker describes in succession the agony of separation, his resolve to overcome the distance between himself and his beloved, a memory that brings his love vividly to mind, and the act of loving imagination that dissolves space and time to draw her into his arms. Each step of the process is marked by the refrain, which steadily reiterates the speaker’s wish and in itself mirrors the poem’s progression from greeting to embrace.

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Figure 8.2. Rückert, “Sei mir gegrüßt” O du Entrissene mir und meinem Kusse! Sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst! Erreichbar nur meinem Sehnsuchtsgruße! Sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst! Du von der Hand der Liebe diesem Herzen gegebene! Du von dieser Brust Genommne mir! Mit diesem Tränengusse sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst! Zum Trotz der Ferne, die sich feindlich trennend, hat zwischen mich und dich gestellt; Dem Neid der Schicksalsmächte zum Verdrusse sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst! Wie du mir je im schönsten Lenz der Liebe mit Gruß und Kuss entgegenkamst, Mit meiner Seele glühendstem Ergusse sei mir gegrüßt! Sei mir geküsst! Ein Hauch der Liebe tilget Räum’ und Zeiten, ich bin bei dir, du bist bei mir, Ich halte dich in dieses Arms Umschlusse. Sei mir gerüßt! Sei mir geküsst! [To you, beloved, now torn from my embraces, I send you greetings and kisses. To you who can be reached only by my yearning I send greeting and kisses. To you whom love entrusted to my heart and who has been pulled away from my bosom— with these tears I send you greetings and kisses. Defying the hostile distance which has separated us, spiting the envious powers of fate, to you I send greetings and kisses. Just as you came to me in the spring of love with greetings and kisses, so with the passion of my soul to you I send greetings and kisses. A breath of love overcomes space and time, I am with you, you are with me. Holding you in my arms, to you I send greetings and kisses.]

In its formal design, Schubert’s 1822 setting owes much to the repetitive elements of the poem. Indeed, the composer amplifies the refrain line of the ghazal by repeating its second phrase. He thereby gains additional verbal material for a six-measure ritornello that occurs six times in the setting and constitutes an important unifying device (fig. 8.3). Harmonically open-ended to what precedes it, the ritornello plays a stabilizing role by leading the listener—no matter what key previous measures have reached—from the submediant G minor to B-flat major, the song’s tonic. In the second, fourth, and sixth occurrences of the ritornello, Schubert heightens the effect of stability by adding one or more additional measures of tonic harmony. The balance between the ritornello and the rest of the song—the rondo form of the setting, so to speak—offers an appropriate match for the song’s text, where grief and pain are overcome by the warmth and tenderness expressed by the refrain lines “sei mir gegrüßt, sei mir geküsst!” Just as the poet calls attention to this utterance of an unalterable conviction by using it over and over in his poem, so Schubert calls attention to it by setting the lines to a ritornello that always moves back to the tonic key. The ritornello, that is, becomes a structural and emotional anchor for the song. Despite its “static” character, the ritornello does not generate a loose juxtaposition of contrasting sections. Instead, the song presents itself as a carefully meshed whole. The rhythmic, melodic, and accompanimental patterns that

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Figure 8.3. Schubert, “Sei mir gegrüßt”—overall structure Lines

1

Form Introduction

1–8

A

9–29

2 3

B

C

10

45–60 +Rit IV

B1

8 9

30–44 +Rit III

6 7

+Rit I +Rit II

4 5

Measures

61–77 +Rit V

A1

78–99 +Rit VI

govern the ritornello measures appear, although in modified form, in the nonritornello sections of the setting, and the ritornellos act as large-scale cadences to the sections that precede them. In his approaches to these ritornellos, Schubert displays the wealth of his harmonic language by finding ever new harmonic configurations to introduce the G-minor chord with which the refrain begins (fig. 8.4). As befits the parallelism of the ghazal’s opening lines, lines 1 and 2 of Rückert’s poem are set to the same music; both lines move into the refrain by means of a dominant seventh chord over F (V/B-flat). Lines 3–4 and 5–6, which contrast in their settings with lines 1 and 2 as well as with each other, approach the refrain by means of an inverted dominant seventh chord over D (V/G). Lines 7 and 8, closely resembling lines 3 and 4, “slide” into G minor by way of C minor (ii/Bflat); line 9 (closely resembling line 1) and line 10 reach G minor by means of yet another inversion of a dominant seventh chord over D (V/G). The stabilizing force of the ritornello allows Schubert to employ the centrifugal powers of his harmonic language for expressive purposes in the nonritornello sections. Section B, corresponding to lines 3 and 4 of the poem, consists of two phrases; the first is based on a dominant pedal B-flat and spans Rückert’s enjambement to conclude with a four-three suspension on the word “Gegebne,” while the second draws attention to the poet’s antithetical phrasing by beginning with the tonic minor and concluding with a four-three suspension over D-flat for the words “genommne mir.” Perhaps in reference to the text, the D-flat reached here is quite remote from the G minor of the ensuing

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C

B

A

Introduction

Section

(21)

(34)

(19)

(30–33)

i–

(V7)–

I–

(49)

(47–48)

(45/46) ♭VII7–

(50)

♭III–

i–

(36)

(24)

V7/♭III–

V–

(15)

(7/8) 6 ⁀5 V4 3

6 (ii4 )–

(51)

g♭ = f♯

6 ♭V42 –

(37)

(25)

(V/vi)– V–

(14)

♮IV♭7

(6)

(35)

(23)

vi

I–

(9)

(13)

I–

(V7)–

vi–

(V7)–

(11)

(5)

(3/4)

(1/2)

Measure numbers and harmonic progressions

Figure 8.4. Schubert, “Sei mir gegrüßt”—harmonic progressions

vii7/vi–

(52)

6 (V5 /vi)–

(38)

(26)

I–

(16)

6

(55) (V–vi)–

vi–

(V/vi)–

(40)

(54)

(V5 /vi)–

(53)

vi

(39)

(27–28/29)

(V–I)

(17–18)

V–

(56)

V–

(41)

I–

(57)

I–

(42)

(V–I)

(58–59/60)

(V–I)

(43–44)

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E♭ =

F=

B♭ =

V–

(83)

I7-♯6–

(68)

(ii–V7–

i)

(84)

6 (iii4 )–

(69)

(71)

I4–3–

(92)

(V/vi)— V—

vi—

(93)

6 (iv4 )—

(87–88)

V–

(74)

(91)

♭VI)

♭II ♭—

(86)

(V/vi)–

vi–

(85)

(73)

(72)

(V7/ii)– Ii

(70)

(“ich bin bei dir, du bist bei mir”)

(ii–V7– I4–3–

vi

(V7)–

I–

(82)

(80–81)

(78–79)

(67)

(V7/♭III)– ♭III–

(66)

I–

(65)

I–

(94)

♭VII♭7—

(89)

I–

(75)

7 4

(V–I)

(95–96/99)

(or V3 /vi)

III♯3

(90)

(V–I)

(76–77)

Explanatory note: The Arabic numerals in parentheses are measure numbers. The Roman numerals in parentheses indicate harmonies on a lower structural level than the Roman numerals without parentheses. The harmonic progressions and measure numbers of the ritornello sections are boxed.

A1

B1

(61–64)

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poetic and music al str ucture

ritornello. By means of an enharmonic change (G-flat–F-sharp) and an intervening diminished seventh chord, however, Schubert is able to mediate between them. A similarly adventurous harmonic progression can be found in the non-ritornello C section. Here line 5 is firmly grounded in the tonic minor but soon departs from it to conclude on the dominant seventh chord of D-flat major, the chord that figured so prominently in the previous non-ritornello section. Instead of fulfilling the listener’s expectation of repetition, however, Schubert reinterprets the dominant seventh chord as an augmented six-five chord (A-flat/ F-sharp instead of A-flat/G-flat), which resolves into a passing C-minor six-four chord and then, finally, enters familiar harmonic territory over a chromatically descending bass. The remaining two non-ritornello sections (B1 and A1) are essentially repetitions of sections heard previously; the setting of lines 7 and 8 begins very much like that of lines 3 and 4, and the setting of lines 9 and 10 resembles the beginning of the song and creates an effect of recapitulation for the final statement. The “repetitive” nature of these last two non-ritornello sections does not prevent Schubert, however, from inventing yet another set of harmonic progressions to underscore the intensity of these lines. The fact that he can respond to the poem this way without disproportionately emphasizing remote key areas is the gift of the solidly grounded, ghazal-derived refrain. In contrast to the earnestness of “Sei mir gegrüßt,” a hint of wry humor lies in Platen’s “Du liebst mich nicht”8 (fig. 8.5). As in Rückert’s poem, the first two lines give an immediate summary of the situation; here, however, the quickness of the rhythm and the brevity of the lines leave no room for contemplative thought. Instead, we sense the emphatic briskness of the beloved’s “all-too-certain” words to the wretched lover and the pounding repetitiveness with which all his efforts to change her mind return to the refrain: “du liebst mich nicht!” As in “Sei mir gegrüßt,” Schubert uses the repetitive elements of the ghazal to establish the musical structure of his song, but his approach here is quite different.9 Whereas in “Sei mir gegrüßt” the refrain line was translated into a musical ritornello that always occurred on the same tonal level, “Du liebst mich nicht” brings the refrain line throughout the song on different tonal planes. Here Schubert may be responding to the poetry; as Platen manages to make the refrain line appear in ever-different contexts and emerge from ever-new syntactical structures, so Schubert states the refrain line on ever-changing tonal levels. The repeated line is not a stabilizing ritornello but instead participates in the adventurous harmonic discourse. In view of the brevity of the setting, an elaborate ritornello structure, as we encountered in “Sei mir gegrüßt,” would probably have been compositionally inappropriate. “Du liebst mich nicht” is only half as long as the Rückert setting, and proportions between harmonically stable and unstable sections are not irrelevant for compositional decisions. The principal reason for the

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Figure 8.5. Platen, “Du liebst mich nicht” Mein Herz ist zerrissen, du liebst mich nicht! Du ließest mich’s wissen, du liebst mich nicht! Wiewohl ich dir flehend und werbend erschien, Und liebebeflissen, du liebst mich nicht! Du hast es gesprochen, mit Worten gesagt, Mit allzugewissen, du liebst mich nicht! So soll ich die Sterne, so soll ich den Mond, Die Sterne vermissen? Du liebst mich nicht! Was blüht mir die Rose, was blüht der Jasmin? Was blühn die Narzissen? Du liebst mich nicht! [My heart is broken, you do not love me! You let me know that you do not love me! Though I came to you pleading and wooing and eager to court you, you do not love me! You have said it in all-to-certain words that you do not love me! Am I deprived of stars, moon, and sun? You do not love me! Roses, jasmine, narcissus bloom, but why? You do not love me!]

difference in approach, however, may well be that Schubert faced two completely different psychological situations in the poems by Platen and Rückert. In “Sei mir gegrüßt” the lyric subject received strength and confidence from the image of his beloved—an image to which he could return at will; in “Du liebst mich nicht” the certainty of not being loved leads to an ironically tinged lament of ever-heightened intensity. Despite its tonal migrations, the refrain line does not quite lose its stabilizing quality. Even though it appears in changing harmonic situations, the phrase “Du liebst mich nicht” is declaimed to a descending melody and to a recurrent rhythmic pattern that takes two forms (example 8.1, a and b) so closely related that the one can be considered a diminution and intensification of the other. In addition, Schubert uses the refrain line for all but one of the song’s major cadences. While most of the non-refrain lines are sung over dominant pedals and diminished seventh chords (in other words, to unstable harmonic configurations), the refrain line “Du liebst mich nicht” marks the goal points of the music and provides moments of temporary repose—or perhaps one should speak of disillusioned certainty—in otherwise shifting harmonic progressions. Lines 1 and 2 (which contain the refrain) are solidly grounded in the tonic key of G-sharp minor. Lines 3 and 4 appear over dominant pedals on B (V/E) and C-sharp (V/F-sharp) before the refrain terminates the latter with a surprising move to G major (Neapolitan relation to F-sharp). Line 5 (which brings the crucial phrase “du hast es gesprochen, mit Worten gesagt” and appropriately is the only non-refrain line with a cadence) and line 6 appear over a pedal on A-sharp (V/D-sharp). While the cadence of the first of the lines occurs on F-sharp, the second advances to the remote

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key of F major (enharmonically related to A-sharp). The return to the tonic key G-sharp is accomplished through the traditional panacea of modulation, the diminished seventh chord: lines 7–8 and 9–10 move up by half step over diminished seventh chords and dominant pedals on D-sharp (V/G-sharp) and E (V/A), each pair of refrain lines concluding either with a half cadence or a full cadence in G-sharp minor. The remainder of the song (after m. 40) is a coda that reinforces the tonic key (in both its major and minor forms) by repeating lines 7 through 10. Once again, the refrain line fulfills a cadential role. Here, as elsewhere in the song, it provides a felicitous musical correlate for a poem that takes full advantage of the ghazal form. Brahms’s 1854 settings of two ghazals—“Der Strom,” to a text by Platen, and “Wie bist du meine Königin,” to a poem by Daumer (after Hafis)—show an altogether different approach to the repetitive elements in the poems. To a greater extent than Schubert’s, Brahms’s compositional style manifests principles of thematic-motivic elaboration (or “developing variation,” as Schoenberg would have called it),10 and these principles—even though mainly evident in his chamber music and symphonic works—have a place in his songs as well. In the two ghazal settings the “motives” take their point of departure from the refrain words and rhymes of the texts; it is here, in consequence, that we see the effect of the poem’s form on its musical setting. Elements in the poem are mirrored by analogous features in the settings, even though these features affect the musical structure on a level entirely different from the Schubert songs. “Der Strom” (fig. 8.6) sets a brief and melancholy poem that neatly exploits the possibilities of the ghazal forms.11 In only six lines Platen moves from two swiftly drawn images of transitory existence, wedged into the two opening lines, to a striking and extended expression of mourning for a vanquished love and a lost self. Each line serves seven stresses. The rhymes, which appear on the fifth stress and are followed by the recurrent question “wo ist er nun,” carry much of the lines’ meaning and encourage associative linking of the phrases. In particular, the similarities of the verbs “verrauschte” and “vertauschte” in lines 1 and 6 draw the beginning and the end of the poem together to evoke the Heraclitean flux in nature and in human life. Although Brahms does not respond to as many features of the ghazal as Schubert did, his response to the refrain phrase is strong, particularly in the piano accompaniment. Each vocal phrase begins in the traditional melody-plus-accompaniment texture, but at the end as well as in the interlude the piano assumes a more independent role. Rather than continuing the triplet patterns with which the accompaniment began, the left hand outlines eighth-note arpeggios that can easily be recognized as derived from the voice’s refrain line: “Wo ist er nun?” (example 8.2a). The poetic refrain line is thereby projected into the instrumental part and continues the openendedness of each vocal phrase—its question character, that is—even when

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Example 8.1. Schubert, “Du liebst mich nicht”—refrain lines

the voice is silent. We are accustomed to thinking of this procedure, where an instrumental accompaniment assumes a verbal quality, as peculiar to the operas of Wagner. Examples such as the “Rheingold” call in Der Ring des Nibelungen or the “Nie sollst du mich befragen” theme in Lohengrin spring to mind. Here, the two composers share a common approach, surprising as it may seem in view of their reputations as irreconcilable opposites in the late nineteenth century. A second motive of significance occurs within the vocal melody at the rhyme words “verrauschte,” “ich lauschte,” “berauschte,” and “vertauschte” (example 8.2b). At first it appears in an inversion of the first three pitches

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Figure 8.6. Platen, “Der Strom” Der Strom, der neben mir verrauschte, wo ist er nun? Der Vogel, dessen Lied ich lauschte, wo ist er nun? Wo ist die Rose, die die Freundin im Herzen trug, Und jener Kuss, der mich berauschte, wo ist er nun? Und jener Mensch, der ich gewesen, und den ich längst Mit einem andern Ich vertauschte, wo ist er nun? [The stream that rushed next to me, where is it now? The bird whose song I listened to, where is it now? Where is the rose which the beloved carried near her heart, and where is the kiss that intoxicated me, where is it now? And where is the self that I was and exchanged long ago for another, where is it now?]

of the refrain line, but it gradually reverses its contour (at “ich lauschte”) and accepts the refrain line’s direction in subsequent statements. After both its third and fourth occurrences, the motive is shortened—developed, so to speak—with only the upbeat figure remaining in the setting of the textual repetitions of the “wo ist, wo ist” (example 8.2c). By the end of the song the rhyme-word motive has been overcome by the question; the arpeggiated eighth-note motive reverberates in the piano part, continuing the gesture of a question, while the voice states the question itself one more time in an augmented and reduced version of the dominant motive, reinforced by an inversion of the augmentation in the left hand (example 8.2d). Here, in other words, Brahms uses the ghazal to establish a subtle process of motivic “disintegration.” The rhyme-word motive disappears completely under the impact of the refrainline arpeggios, and what remains at the end is the rhetorical question about things transitory. Because of both the verbal quality the arpeggiated phrase has assumed and the many repetitions in Platen’s ghazal, this transformation is possible without any loss of semantic meaning. In fact, it allows the piano, free of the voice’s other obligations to the text, to repeat the melancholy question more often and more plaintively than the singer ever could. Motivic elaboration manifests itself in a different way in the setting of Daumer’s “Wie bist du, meine Königin”12 (fig. 8.7). In this song Brahms deemphasizes some of the salient features of the ghazal form. Because the poem’s eight lines are so long, it is easy to perceive it as sixteen lines divided rather clumsily into four quatrains. Correspondingly, Brahms casts his song into four stanzas and an AABA’ form (fig. 8.8). He sets the first two lines to two contrasting phrases a and b, thereby downplaying the structural parallelism of the two rhyming lines. The refrain “wonnevoll” gets a rather perfunctory treatment at its first occurrence at the end of phrase a (mm. 10–11). At its next appearance, however, it stands at the end of Brahms’s stanza. Here and at the end of each stanza thereafter, the stanzaic organization is underscored by giving “wonnevoll” an elaborate setting through

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Example 8.2. Brahms, “Der Strom”—motives associated with rhyme and refrain

repetitions of verbal material and a dialogue between piano and voice. In addition, the strophic structure is set into relief by an instrumental ritornello that appears at the beginning of the song as well as between each of the sections. Although one cannot therefore maintain that Brahms responded in this song to the ghazal as a form, he nevertheless seems to have derived a major stimulus for his setting from the poem’s refrain word. Indeed, one might go so far as to maintain that his song is first and foremost a setting of the word “wonnevoll.” In all stanzas except the last, the refrain word is separated from

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Figure 8.7. Daumer, “Wie bist du, meine Königin” Wie bist du, meine Königin, durch sanfte Güte wonnevoll! Du lächle nur—Lenzdüfte weh’n durch mein Gemüte wonnevoll. Frisch aufgeblühter Rose Glanz, vergleich ich ihn dem deinigen? Ach, über alles, was da blüht, ist deine Blüte wonnevoll! Durch tote Wüsten wandle hin, und grüne Schatten breiten sich, Ob fürchterliche Schwüle dort ohn’ Ende brüte, wonnevoll. Lass mich vergeh’n in deinem Arm! Es ist in ihm ja selbst der Tod, Ob auch die herbste Todesqual die Brust durchwüte, wonnevoll. [How delightful you are, my queen, with your gentle goodness! If you smile, the sweet fragrances of spring waft delightfully. Shall I compare even the luster of fresh roses with yours? Your bloom is more delightful than anything that blossoms! Should you wander through barren deserts where sultry heat is ever-present, green trees would spread their shade delightfully. Let me die in your arms; there even the bitterest pangs of death, no matter how fearfully they rage, would be delightful.]

Figure 8.8. Brahms, “Wie bist du meine Königin”—overall structure “Quatrains”

Lines

Music Rit I (introduction)

I

1 2

a b

A Rit. II

II

3 4

a b

A Rit III

III

5 6

c d

B Rit IV

IV

7 8

a b

A1 Rit V (abbreviated)

its preceding phrase by a measure in which the voice is silent. During this measure the piano foreshadows the voice’s melodic line, so when the voice enters the motive has already been heard once. As the vocal part proceeds to its cadence on two repetitions of “wonnevoll, wonnevoll,” the piano diminishes and transforms the arpeggio motive into the three-note descending scale fragment with which the instrumental ritornello begins (example 8.3). This

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Example 8.3. Brahms, “Wie bist du meine Königin”—word-generated preparation of the instrumental ritornello

dialogue impresses on the ear the refrain word “wonnevoll” as the plausible verbal equivalent of the three-note figure. In other words, the refrain word of the ghazal is projected into the piano part by means of interweaving vocal and instrumental statements, and it initiates an instrumental ritornello in which the “wonnevoll” gesture is continued. The descending three-note figure not only dominates the instrumental ritornello but permeates in various transformations the other sections of the song, in both voice and piano, as well. Even the contrasting third section is based on material derived from the all-pervasive three-note figure. As the refrain word “wonnevoll” is ever-present in the poem—in fact, no thought expressed there is complete without it—so is the three-note motive constantly present in Brahms’s setting. The repetitive elements common to the ghazal form have here furnished

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the composer with a reason for transferring his compositional principles of thematic-motivic elaboration to the setting of poetry. Looking back at all five songs but especially the four with refrains, one sees that the insistent ghazal repetition provides a shaping impetus throughout, but in very different ways. In much more varied ways than Brahms, Schubert responds to the formal structure of the poems. Not only does he find musical correlates for many of the ideas, but he shows sensitivity as well to rhyme structure, internal rhyme, antithetical constructions, and other such features. In his hands, many of these become musical elements, which he manipulates both on a purely musical level and for text-music correspondence. Brahms’s approach is sharply divergent. For him, as for Schubert in “Sei mir gegrüßt” and “Du liebst mich nicht,” the ghazals’ repetitive lines constitute a major structuring element, but his response is more to the repeated word or phrase than to the poem’s other formal features. Just as “Wie bist du, meine Königin” condenses to an expression of “wonnevoll,” so is “Der Strom” an eloquent setting of a mood and a striking instrumental extension of the poem’s recurrent question. Although our examples are relatively few in number, they show clearly, first, how a poem’s form can extend through its texts to influence composers’ settings and, second, how two composers find characteristically different solutions to the problems a form presents. By choosing an unusual and easily recognizable form, we have endeavored to isolate poetic structure from the other features of a text to which a composer may respond and in so doing to lay a basis for more general investigations of formal elements of poetry as they influence song composition. In addition, by examining a range of ghazal settings and showing that Schubert and Brahms each responded in

his own way to the form, we have suggested the value of our approach as a tool for stylistic and comparative analysis. Our larger purpose is to extend the traditional analysis of relations between poetic imagery and musical form to a more differentiated investigation of poetic and musical structure as they relate to ideas and images. For the Lied, a genre marked by close correspondence between text and music, such analysis is particularly important.

Notes 1. Mark Booth, The Experience of Songs (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981). 2. As Jack Stein does in Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), especially 9–27 (“Problems of Combining Poem and Music”). 3. Because of the relatively easy accessibility of the settings discussed in this chapter, the scores of the songs are not included. Musical illustrations will instead be limited to a few salient text-music relations. The reader is advised, however, to follow the discussion with the help of a score. The songs are available in various performing and critical editions, among them Schubert, Kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski, Johannes Brahms, and others, Series 20: Lieder und Gesänge (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1884–97),

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vol. 8: 10–14, #456, “Greisengesang,” op. 60, no. 1 (D. 778); vol. 6: 214–17, #400, “Sei mir gegrüßt,” op. 20, no. 1 (D. 741); and vol. 7: 24–27, #409, “Du liebst mich nicht,” op. 59, no. 1 (D. 756); the Neue Schubert-Ausgabe, Series 4: Lieder, ed. Walther Dürr (Kassel: Bärenreiter, 1972–), vol. 3A: 106–9 and vol. 3B: 206–9, 210–13: “Greisengesang,” op. 60, no. 1; vol. 1A: 137–40; “Sei mir gegrüßt,” op. 20, no. 1; vol. 3A: 95–97 and vol. 3B: 202–5: “Du liebst mich nicht,” op. 59, no. 1; Brahms, Sämtliche Werke, ed. Hans Gal and Eusebius Mandyczewski, vol. 23: Lieder und Gesänge, vol. 23/1 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1926–27), vol. 23: 89–91: “Der Strom,” op. 32, no. 4; vol. 23: 103–6: “Wie bist du meine Königin,” op. 32, no. 9. 4. Reuben Levy, An Introduction to Persian Literature (New York: Columbia University Press, 1969), 34. 5. “Bedenken wir nun, dass poetische Technik den größten Einfluss auf jede Dichtungsweise notwendig ausübe, so finden wir auch hier, dass die zweizeilig gereimten Verse der Orientalen einen Parallelismus fordern, welcher aber, statt den Geist zu sammeln, selben zerstreut, indem der Reim auf ganz fremdartige Gegenstände hinweist. Dadurch erhalten ihre Gedichte einen Anstrich von Quodlibet oder vorgeschriebenen Endreimen.” See Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, “Noten und Abhandlungen zu besserem Verständnis des West-Östlichen Divans,” in Werke, 8th ed., ed. Erich Trunz, vol. 2 (Hamburg: Wegener, 1967), 182. 6. Friedrich Rückert, Gesammelte Werke in zwölf Bänden, vol. 5 (Frankfurt/Main: Sauerländischer Verlag, 1882), 274, #34. The translation is ours, as are the others throughout this chapter. When the poem was first published in the collection Östliche Rosen in 1822, it was untitled. Schubert provided his own title for his setting, which according to Deutsch and Schochow must have been composed before June 1823. When Rückert later included the poem in his Sämtliche Gedichte, he gave it the title “Vom künftigen Alter.” Schubert does not set the last four lines of the poem. 7. Rückert, Gesammelte Werke in zwölf Bänden, vol. 5, 283, #49. 8. August Graf von Platen, Sämtliche Werke in zwölf Bänden: Historisch-kritische Ausgabe, vol. 3, ed. Max Koch and Erich Petzet (Leipzig: Max Hesses Verlag, 1909), 35, #9 (10). The untitled poem is dated February 1821. 9. “Du liebst mich nicht” appears in the Schubert-Gesamtausgabe in two versions. The first, dated July 1822, is in G-sharp minor. The second, published in 1826 as the first song of op. 59, is virtually identical with the first but transposed to A minor. Our comments here refer to the G-sharp-minor version of the song. 10. Walter Frisch, Brahms and the Principle of Developing Variation (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983). 11. Platen, Sämtliche Werke in zwölf Bänden, 39, #20 (21). The untitled poem is dated January 1821. 12. Daumer, “Wie bist du meine Königin,” in The Ring of Words: An Anthology of Song Texts, ed. Philip L. Miller (New York: Norton, 1973), 30. We have cited the text as a ghazal rather than in the split-line version printed in the source.

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Chapter Nine

Sonnet Structure and the German Lied Shackles or Spurs? Ann C. Fehn and Jürgen Thym When scholars look at the relation of poetry to music in a song, they tend to concentrate on ideas and images and to examine how these are expressed or enacted by the setting. Less frequently do they ask whether and how it matters that poetry is set, not just vivid prose. Indeed, one might question whether poetic form really does matter or whether the delicate rhythms and patterns of a poem are simply overpowered by the more robust forces that shape a musical composition.1 This study explores these questions by looking at a poetic form—the sonnet—that is itself highly shaped, but not in a manner obviously and immediately compatible with the musical idiom of the nineteenth-century Lied. In the poetry available to Lied composers the sonnet plays a vigorous and visible role, although it does not enjoy the same centrality in German verse as in English or Italian. Virtually absent in German eighteenth-century poetry, it was introduced with a flourish near the end of that century by Gottfried August Bürger and then by August Wilhelm von Schlegel, whose Petrarch translations were widely read. Stimulated by Schlegel and by the sonnets of _________________ The chapter originated as a lecture given jointly by the authors at the Annual Conference of the German Studies Association in Albuquerque, New Mexico, on September 27, 1986. It was presented at various other occasions, including the Symposium of the International Musicological Society in Melbourne, Australia, on September 2, 1988, before it was published in the Journal of the American Liszt Society 32 (July–December 1992): 3–15. It is reprinted by permission of the American Liszt Society. The authors are indebted to Professors Ralph P. Locke, Marie Rolf (both from the Eastman School of Music, University of Rochester), and John Rothgeb (SUNY Binghamton) for valuable suggestions in the process of writing the study.

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Zacharias Werner, Goethe also turned to the form. Although his distaste for what he saw as “cut-and-paste” poetry is widely quoted, he quickly saw the relation of the sonnet to his belief that art reaches its highest freedom when it moves within constraints.2 Following these beginnings, the form was taken up by many of the finest German poets, including Platen, Eichendorff, Heine, Mörike, and many others. The great majority of these sonnets were written in the Petrarchan mold, with two quatrains followed by two tercets. Even though they relied heavily on poetry favoring strophic organization, quatrains, simple rhyme structure, and tetrameter and trimeter verse, nineteenth-century Lied composers by no means avoided more complicated poetic forms and meters. In fact, the genre is marked by a central and important paradox. In literature, the term traditionally evokes short, strophic, and singable (or sung) poetry free of elevated diction and primarily concerned with nature, love, and everyday life. Nineteenth-century Lied composers, however, set a startling variety of texts, many of which have little in common with this definition. Similarly, as a term for a musical genre, the word “Lied” connotes brevity, simplicity of expression, and strophic construction; yet the acknowledged masters of the genre are known both for through-composition and for the complexity of their creations.3 Despite composers’ willingness to set all kinds of poetic forms, the sonnet is not represented in the Lied in any proportion comparable to its frequency in literature. In fact, in an earlier study of a particular poetic form and its musical settings,4 we found nearly the same number of settings for poems written in the form of the Persian ghazal, a relatively recondite form, as we found for the sonnet—about two dozen (see fig. 9.1, based on a survey of the Lied output of the major nineteenthcentury composers). An examination of these sonnet settings resulted in several general observations. First, most of the settings were composed by Schubert and Pfitzner, that is, at nearly the beginning or the end of the nineteenth-century Lied tradition—in other words, during periods when experimentation is most likely to occur within a genre—or by composers known for their experimentation, such as Liszt and Cornelius.5 Second, the songs are all through-composed. Third, a considerable number show a high degree of sectionalism, often juxtaposing recitative and aria sections. In other words, the texts were not composed in the traditional idiom of the Lied but instead in that of a different vocal genre: the cantata. Fourth, with few exceptions, the quatrains and tercets of the poems define compositional units for the composers. These observations all reveal a curious ambivalence: to a limited degree, the sonnet form does exert an influence on the musical form, but its influence is constraint rather than facilitation, shackle rather than spur. Is the form perhaps an obstacle to the kinds of shapes favored by Lied composers? (Walther Dürr made a similar observation in his 1984 book on the German Lied: “Sonnets appear to resist being set as songs.”)6 The poetic form of the sonnet indeed poses several challenges. With its fourteen lines it is one of the few verse schemes that is fixed in length, and its sections do not break into symmetrical halves. The abba rhymes in the quatrain

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Figure 9.1. Sonnet settings Schubert (1797–1828) Fellinger: Die erste Liebe, D. 182 Goethe: Die Liebende schreibt, D. 673, op. 165, no. 1 Kalchberg: Die Macht der Liebe, D. 308—unfinished Petrarch (A. W. Schlegel): Sonett #1, D. 628 Petrarch (A. W. Schlegel): Sonett #2, D. 629 Petrach (Gries): Sonett #3, D. 630 Schober: Augenblicke im Elysium, D. 582—lost Schober: Schatzgräbers Begehr, D. 761, op. 23, no. 4 Mendelssohn (1809–1847) Goethe: Die Liebende schreibt, op. 86, no. 3 Schumann (1810–1856) Maria Stuart (?): An die Königin Elisabeth, op. 135, no. 3 Maria Stuart (?): Abschied von der Welt, op. 135, no. 4 Liszt (1811–1886) Drei Sonette von Petrarca (later version, 1883) (German translation by Peter Cornelius) Sonnet #39 (47): Benedetto Sonnet #90 (104): Pace non trovo Sonnet #105 (123): I’vidi in terra Cornelius (1824–1874) Drei Sonette von Bürger (op. posth.) Der Entfernten Liebe ohne Heimat Verlust (Auf Mollys Tod) Brahms (1833–1897) Anonymous (Herder): Ein Sonett (thirteenth century), op. 14, no. 4—anomalous form Goethe: Die Liebende schreibt, op. 47, no. 5 Wolf (1860–1903) Mörike: An die Geliebte Strauss (1864–1949) C. F. Meyer: Im Spätboot, op. 56, no. 3 Pfitzner (1869–1949) Bürger: Auf die Morgenröte, op. 41, no. 1 Bürger: Trauerstille, op. 26, no. 4 Eichendorff: Der verspätete Wanderer, op. 41, no. 2 Eichendorff: Das Alter, op. 41, no. 3 Petrarch (Foerster): 92. Sonett, op. 24, no. 3

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do not show the immediately perceptible parallels of the two couplets (aabb) or the equally simple pattern of alternating rhymes (abab). Instead, the quatrain rhymes force the listener to wait for closure until the fourth line. In the tercets (cde, cde) all three rhymes are delayed. Moreover, the pentameter lines can pose compositional problems for a musical idiom that often sounds “most natural” in four- and eight-measure units.7 In several other respects, the sonnet would seem to be more appropriately apprehended through reading than through song. Each sonnet is a link in a long literary chain, and it is not unusual to find allusions and literary references in them. (One of Schubert’s Petrarch settings, for example, is—curiously—printed with a footnote by Schlegel explaining the pun that links the poet’s beloved Laura to the laurel tree under which she is sitting.) Even where such allusions are not present, the sonnet is known for elegance, reflectiveness, urbanity, or wit rather than for the simplicity of content and diction that traditionally prevails in the Lied poetry. Syntactic complexities such as enjambements and unexpected prolongations are also common to the sonnet. Indeed, virtuosity in handling poetic language is a part of the art of the form and poses problems for composers attempting to do justice to it within the confines of the Lied tradition. Listed this way, the challenges sound almost insurmountable, but composers do not always accept such judgments. Throughout the nineteenth century and beyond, composers did find at least a few ways to set the sonnet effectively. Their finest settings, it seems, are not the cantata-like works or the through-composed compositions without any elements of repetition but rather those settings in which recurrences, large and small, underscore correspondences in the poetry or create correspondences in the music. Repetition used in this manner can indeed provide the settings with a network of relationships akin to the rich network of structural and conceptual correspondences that constitute the poetic form. These qualities can be found in several of the sonnet settings listed in figure 9.1. Especially instructive in this regard are the three settings by Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Schubert of the Goethe sonnet “Die Liebende schreibt” (“The Beloved Writes”). “Die Liebende schreibt” (fig. 9.2 presents the poem in its German original and an English prose translation that tries to preserve the syntax of the original)8 is the eighth in a cycle of seventeen sonnets written by Goethe around 1810 that are clearly autobiographical. The male persona is a public figure, prominent enough to be admired by his beloved both in the flesh and as a marble bust. The female persona, in whose voice several of the poems are written, has been linked by literary historians to several of the women Goethe knew at this period of his life. The quatrains sketch the situation of a woman separated from her lover. While the first quatrain evokes a special moment in their relationship, the second accelerates the emotional pace with a description of the woman’s distress over the separation and the tears her memories cause. The tercets establish a volta (turn of thought); the woman consoles herself by reaching out toward her lover in imagination and calling for a reciprocal sign from him.

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Figure 9.2. Goethe: Die Liebende schreibt 1 2 3 4

Ein Blick von deinen Augen in die meinen, Ein Kuss von deinem Mund auf meinem Munde, Wer davon hat, wie ich, gewisse Kunde, Mag dem was anders wohl erfreulich scheinen?

5 6 7 8

Entfernt von dir, entfremdet von den Meinen, Führ ich stets die Gedanken in die Runde, Und immer treffen sie auf jene Stunde, Die einzige; da fang ich an zu weinen,

9 10 11

Die Träne trocknet wieder unversehens: Er liebt ja, denk ich, her in diese Stille, Und solltest du nicht in die Ferne reichen?

12 13 14

Vernimm das Lispeln dieses Liebewehens; Mein einzig Glück auf Erden ist dein Wille, Dein freundlicher zu mir; gib mir ein Zeichen!

[1 2 3 4

A gaze from your eyes to mine, a kiss from your lips on mine— can anyone who has, as I do, knowledge of these matters, find pleasure in anything else?

5 6 7 8

Separated from you, estranged from my kin, I let my thoughts wander, and they always circle back to that hour, that unmatched one, and I begin to weep,

9 10 11

The tears dry unexpectedly: His love, I think, extends even into this solitude, and should I in turn not reach out into the distance?

12 13 14

Listen to the whispering winds of my love; my only joy on earth is your will, your goodwill toward me; give me a sign.]

Our poem has an unusually complex and dynamic syntax with few elements of repose. The first quatrain begins with two lines that parallel one another, with the kiss of the second intensifying the gaze of the first. The tension brought about by a rhyme scheme that takes four lines to reach closure is heightened by the syntax of the lines—the verb is first delayed by the two noun phrases and then avoided altogether. The third line, meanwhile, is broken up by an interpolated phrase, and it is not until the fourth line that the rhyme ends and the sentence makes sense. But the open-ended, dynamic quality of the syntax is maintained even here because the quatrain ends with a question, however

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rhetorical. The second quatrain, using the same rhymes in accordance with the Petrarchan mold, differs from the first in its syntactic organization. Not maintaining the parallels, it reaches closure by the end of the second line, only to be extended by the third and then once more prolonged through an enjambement-like device that gives emotional weight to the words “die einzige”; then follows a quick fall to the rhyme introducing the surprise element “weinen.” In the tercets the rhyme structure does not provide the elastic stretch of the quatrains. Here the corresponding lines are even further apart than in the previous sections. Line 9 picks up on the final phrase of the quatrains and explains the weeping indirectly by describing why it stops; line 11 concludes—like the corresponding verse in the first quatrain—with a question, before the final tercet provides a response to the question as well as the necessary rhymes. There is a certain syntactic parallelism between the first and second quatrains and their corresponding tercets. Not only do lines 4 and 11 end with a question, but lines 3 and 10 are broken up by an interpolated phrase. Lines 8 and 14 are characterized by a grammatical figure that brings the adjective in apposition to a noun in the preceding line, throwing into relief the key words “die einzige” and “dein freundlicher.” In addition, both lines conclude their respective sections with a short, concise statement. All of these elements present compositional challenges and possibilities for the composer, which he or she may or may not choose to take up. Mendelssohn’s setting9 (appendix 9.1), more than that by any other composer, has captured the dynamic quality of the poem. This dynamic quality is especially evident in the song’s harmonic disposition because Mendelssohn manages to avoid or delay cadences on the tonic E-flat until the very end. In other words, at no time is the tonic established as an anchor from which to judge the harmonic excursions. Instead, the listener is kept in suspenseful expectation by the harmonic progressions, just as the reader of the poem is kept in suspense by the adventurous syntax. The goal-directed, dynamic quality of the poem is also underscored through textural and rhythmic features. While the two quatrains are set to block-chords in eighth notes, a motion in sixteenth notes is introduced at the surprise word “weinen,” and this motion becomes the unifying feature for the setting after the volta. As an aural correlate to the “whispering breezes of love” of line 12, it initiates, so to speak, the last emotional stage of the sonnet, namely the hope that communication between lovers is also possible over distances. Simultaneously, the sixteenth-note motion parallels the accelerated syntactic pace that prevails in the later sections of the poem. How well Mendelssohn understood Goethe’s sonnet and how deeply he penetrated the internal structure of the poem can be seen from his use of the device of thematic recurrence for interpreting a text. The first two lines describe memories of the lover; disregarding the rhyme structure, Mendelssohn sets these parallel lines to the same music, with the second (more intense) line as a sequence of the first transposed up a fourth and thus more intense as well. Thus the lines are firmly established in the listener’s ear through a distinctive theme—a Love

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theme, so to speak (bracketed in appendix 9.1). It returns, again transposed and again heightened in intensity, at a crucial moment in the poem (“Und immer treffen sie auf jene Stunde”), at first in the vocal part but immediately thereafter in the piano part. This is an ingenious way (pointed out by Oswald Jonas as early as 1934)10 to handle the grammatical complication in these lines. While the voice highlights the words “die einzige” through a sustained G-flat in an upper register, the piano underscores through thematic recurrence the central idea. The Love theme is recalled once more in Mendelssohn’s setting of lines 12 and 13 (in a way a recapitulation of lines 1 and 2). The return of the theme is justified in these measures for various reasons. On the one hand, from a purely musical standpoint Mendelssohn needed an element of repetition to round off his song, more so since it is a through-composed setting with an unusual degree of forward momentum. On the other hand, textual reasons can be cited: the woman has overcome her fear of rejection and has arrived at an emotional level that makes her reach out to her lover with the theme the listener by now has learned to associate with their relationship. Mendelssohn concludes his setting by repeating the poem’s last sentence “gib mir ein Zeichen” several times, even shaping it with the help of the piano into the song’s climactic statement and giving it a particularly pleading quality. No less pleading is the instrumental motive that reverberates later in the piano postlude; it was heard earlier in the voice in connection with the words “dein freundlicher [Wille] zu mir” in measures 35–36 and immediately thereafter in the bass of the piano part. (The motive is boxed in appendix 9.1.) In other words, the composer leaves it open whether the speaker’s wish will be fulfilled: “Give me a sign”—and the piano, forced into prominence by the tonal closure of the vocal part, continues—“of your friendly will toward me.” Besides the key of E-flat major, Brahms’s setting (composed in 1858, published in 1868 as op. 47, no. 5) of the Goethe sonnet (appendix 9.2) has several things in common with Mendelssohn’s song. Like Mendelssohn, Brahms sets the second line as a sequence—that is, as an intensification of the first, thereby recognizing the parallel construction of the verses. He underscores the key words “Blick” and “Kuss” by leading into them with poignant dissonant chords. Again like Mendelssohn, he avoids confirming the tonic at the beginning of the setting, thus giving his song an immediacy that corresponds to the dynamic and fluent character of Goethe’s sonnet. Moreover, Brahms closes the first quatrain (which ends with a question) with a half cadence in measure 13—but in C minor rather than E-flat major. The second quatrain is generally a repetition of the first. In other words, Brahms treats the first two sections of the sonnet as if they were strophes. There is nothing wrong with such an approach, except that the quatrains have a vastly different syntactical organization. Brahms, however, is able to marshal a most felicitous device (again pointed out by Oswald Jonas)11 to preserve rhyme and stanzaic structure and yet account for the enjambment-like extension of the

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sentence. The passing note motion (E-flat–D-flat–C) of the voice in measure 10 (bracketed in appendix 9.2) is transferred in the corresponding passage in measure 22 into the bass part, where the D-flat becomes a descending leading tone to C. This enables the voice to overshoot its goal (E-flat) on the rhyme word “Stunde” and ascend to G on “die einzige.” The crucial adjective is further highlighted by a C-major chord. Brahms, like Mendelssohn, composes the first tercet as a transition, providing little if any harmonic stability. The goal of the transition, however, is not the second tercet, as was the case in Mendelssohn’s setting, but an instrumental interlude that prolongs the dominant seventh chord by an additional four measures. Programmatically, the interlude continues the gesture of “reaching out into the distance” (“in die Ferne reichen”) in that it picks up harmonic and melodic materials from the setting of line 11 and highlights them as the culminating point of the song. The dynamic level (forte), the interval of an ascending seventh in measure 35, the repeat of the highest pitch of the vocal line, as well as the contrapuntal interweaving of lines leave no doubt here that Brahms considered the gesture of longing expressed in the question in line 11 the core and essence of the poem. Mendelssohn and Brahms were probably unaware of Schubert’s 1819 setting of the sonnet, which was not published until 1862 (appendix 9.3). In some ways Schubert’s reading of the poem is psychologically less complex than both Mendelssohn’s and Brahms’s, but his song contains some remarkable solutions to problems encountered in this particular sonnet and a different approach to the question of repetition. The two quatrains of the poem are set as two strophes: A1 and A2, whereby the crucial last lines of both quatrains receive different music. The tercets are composed to music that contrasts with that of the quatrains, but again Schubert casts them in a strophic mold: B1 and B2. The turn of thought that accompanies this structural shift is underscored through a different meter (42 rather than 43), a slightly faster pace (etwas bewegter), and a different accompanimental pattern in triplets representative of the emotional state of longing. The only time the breathless triplet pattern is interrupted is in the last line of the first tercet, where Schubert switches to a recitative-like declamation of the question. The music of the first tercet is repeated for the second except for the recitative passage, but the chordal progression of the recitative (marked in appendix 9.3 with a rectangle) now generates a closing statement—Christiane Jacobsen speaks of this section as a tagged-on aria12—exactly at the words “dein freundlicher zu mir.” Through textual repetitions and transposition of verbal material, Schubert highlights the certainty of happiness the woman finds in her imagination. By repeating “dein Wille zu mir” to precisely the same music as “dein freundlicher zu mir,” Schubert is also able to provide a solution for the syntactical complication caused by the delayed appearance of the adjective “freundlicher” in this section. He cadences in the tonic of the song at the word “Glück” in measure 61,

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while the last sentence (“gib mir ein Zeichen”) that figured so prominently in the Mendelssohn setting is nothing but an afterthought for Schubert. Three settings of the same poem, and yet three entirely different readings. Mendelssohn emphasizes through musical repetitions the special moment in the love relationship and concludes his setting through musical, but also textual, repetition, with a pleading gesture: “gib mir ein Zeichen.” This pleading quality can also be found in Brahms’s setting, but here it is located in the text-less instrumental interlude that musically prolongs the gesture of “reaching out.” In other words, the question “und solltest du nicht in die Ferne reichen?” becomes the central line of Brahms’s setting. Schubert’s song, in contrast, is more assertive. His musical and textual repetitions underscore the woman’s certainty that her love is reciprocated by her partner and conclude the song with an expression of happiness. Crucial for the different musical interpretations, we feel, is the compositional device of repetition understood here in its widest sense: not just literal recurrence but repetition through intensification by means of transposition, variation, development. For composers in the nineteenth century, especially Lied composers, repetition in various guises was a most important principle of musical construction. To reconcile a poetic form that, in the words of Walther Dürr, “appears to resist being set as song” with the formal requirements of the Lied tradition, the composer of sonnet texts had to read very carefully to turn the words into a pretext for a musically successful setting. Differently put, because of musical exigencies, the search for textual correspondences in the poetic structure imposed considerable constraints on composers, but occasionally the shackles transmuted into spurs, leading in some sonnet settings to highly productive encounters between poetry and music.

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Appendix 9.1. Mendelssohn, “Die Liebende schreibt”

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Appendix 9.1. Mendelssohn, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(continued)

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Appendix 9.1. Mendelssohn, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(continued)

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Appendix 9.1. Mendelssohn, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(concluded)

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Appendix 9.2. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt”

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Appendix 9.2. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(continued)

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Appendix 9.2. Brahms, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(concluded)

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Appendix 9.3. Schubert, “Die Liebende schreibt”

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Appendix 9.3. Schubert, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(continued)

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Appendix 9.3. Schubert, “Die Liebende schreibt”—(concluded)

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Notes 1. Jack M. Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), 9–27. 2. Goethe confessed his uneasiness about the poetic form in this tercet:

Nur weiß ich hier mich nicht bequem zu betten. Ich schneide sonst so gern aus ganzem Holze, Und müsste nun doch auch mitunter leimen. [I do not know how to rest comfortably here. I usually prefer to cut from whole wood, And now occasionally would have to paste.] His endorsement of the form is expressed in these lines: Wer Großes will, muss sich zusammenraffen; In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister, Und das Gesetz nur kann uns Freiheit geben. [Whoever aspires to great things needs focus. Mastery is only shown in restraint, And only the law can give us freedom.] Goethe, “Das Sonett,” in Gedichte, ed. Erich Trunz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1994), 245; editor’s translation. 3. Heinrich Schwab, Sangbarkeit, Popularität und Kunstlied: Studien zu Lied und Liedästhetik der mittleren Goethezeit (Regensburg: Bosse, 1965); Walter Wiora, Das deutsche Lied: Zur Geschichte und Ästhetik einer musikalischen Gattung (Wolfenbüttel: Möseler, 1971). 4. See chapter 8. 5. The inclusion of Liszt in figure 9.1 needs to be qualified. His German sonnets are translations, by Cornelius, of Petrarch sonnets he composed many years earlier in the Italian original. Nevertheless, he made considerable adjustments for the later German versions and even engaged in an extensive recomposition of “Pace non trovo.” 6. Walther Dürr, Das deutsche Sololied im 19. Jahrhundert (Wilhelmshaven: Heinrichshofen, 1984), 148: “Sonette widersetzen sich offenbar der Komposition als Lied.” 7. See chapter 7. 8. Goethe, Gedichte, ed. Erich Trunz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1994), 298; editor’s translation. 9. Written in the summer of 1831 while Mendelssohn was traveling in Switzerland, the song was not published until after the composer’s death as op. 86, no. 3. See Wolf Kunold (Mendelssohn und seine Zeit [Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 1984], 251) on what may have been the reason for the delayed publication of this setting, generally regarded to be one of Mendelssohn’s finest. See also Lawrence Kramer, “The Lied as Cultural Practice: Tutelage, Gender,

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and Desire in Mendelssohn’s Goethe Songs,” in Classical Music and Postmodern Knowledge (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), esp. 157–64. 10. Oswald Jonas, Introduction to the Theory of Heinrich Schenker, trans. John Rothgeb (New York: Longman, 1982), 157–58. 11. Ibid., 157. 12. Christiane Jacobsen, Vertonungen von Sprache und Musik in ausgewählten Liedern von Johannes Brahms dargestellt an Parallelvertonungen (Hamburg: Wagner, 1975), 262, 268–69.

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Chapter Ten

Schubert’s Strategies in Setting Free Verse Jürgen Thym and Ann C. Fehn Free verse is a contradiction in terms. What makes this kind of poetry verse, and what makes it free? And if it is verse, why is it free? Anglo-American and German critics differ considerably in their handling of this question, defining free verse in different ways; even within both traditions a great deal of disagreement exists. This is not the place to explore the various approaches to free verse; let us simply say that for the purpose of this study we are working with a definition that might be termed visual or graphic. In its most provocative form—we are borrowing here from John Hollander1— the visual definition sees free verse as a narrow strip of print constrained only by the need not to exceed too far to the right-hand margin of the page. This definition plays into the hands of those who regard free verse as prose chopped pretentiously into lines to make it look like poetry. But despite its flippancy the definition has some merits. Phrased in a more dignified way, it means that the presence of line boundaries signals to the reader that the lines are to be read with the conventions our particular tradition has developed for reading poetry. Furthermore, the line boundaries offer the reader a basis for such a reading. The end/beginning of one line, for example, can be compared to the end/ beginning of another; the beginning of a line can be compared to its end; the relation of syntax to line structure can be observed, with the concomitant presence or absence of enjambements; the syntax can be compared to “normal” _________________ The chapter originated as a lecture given jointly by the authors at Cornell University in the fall of 1988. After Ann C. Fehn’s death, the study went through several transformations, especially when it was presented at the International Conference “Austria 996–1996” in Ottawa, Canada, in January 1996 and at the Meeting of the International Musicological Society in London, England, in August 1997. In its present form, it was first published in Word and Music Studies: Essays on Music and the Spoken Word and on Surveying the Field, vol. 7, ed. Suzanne M. Lodato and David Francis Urrows (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2005), 81–102. It is reprinted by permission of Rodopi, Amsterdam.

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syntax, and so on. John Hollander explores some of these possibilities in several chapters of Vision and Resonance,2 and Charles Hartman3 works with a version of this definition when he defines poetry inclusively as “language in lines” and free verse as lines organized by non-metrical patterns.4 Despite its virtues, this definition raises the real and important questions as to whether free verse can be set as free verse and whether settings of free verse can be distinguished from settings of prose. Nevertheless, we found this visually based definition of free verse most useful for approaching the question of how poetic form affects musical form in free verse settings. Figure 10.1 lists all of Schubert’s free verse settings. Not surprisingly, perhaps, they constitute only a small fraction of Schubert’s settings, hardly a dozen of a total of about 600 songs; moreover, several attempts at setting free verse did not reach completion. Obviously, free verse presented problems and difficulties for a musical idiom that relied very much on regular phrases and periods. The bulk of Schubert’s settings fall between 1815 and 1819; most of the poems are by Goethe, two by Klopstock, and one each by Schubert’s friend Mayrhofer as well as Kosegarten, Novalis, and Ossian in a German translation. Figure 10.1. Schubert’s settings of free verse Free verse is defined here as unrhymed verse with irregular line lengths and varied arrangements of stressed and unstressed syllables. The list includes poems that meet these criteria even if they are written in stanzas of equal lines. (In parenthesis, it also includes poems that are not irregular enough to be unequivocally considered free verse.) Title

Poet

Year

Deutsch

Coll. Works

“Szene aus Faust” (“Kolmas Klage”) “Dem Unendlichen” “An Schwager Kronos” “Das große Halleluja” (“Aeschylos-Fragment”) (“An die untergehende Sonne”) “Ganymed” “Hymne” “Prometheus” (“Grenzen der Menschheit”)

Goethe Ossian Klopstock Goethe Klopstock Mayrhofer Kosegarten

1811–14 1815 1815 1816 1816 1816 1816

D. 126 D. 217 D. 291 D. 369 D. 442 D. 450 D. 457

GA I 215/9 GA II 161 GA III 85 GA IV 204 GA IV 110 GA IV 128/31 GA IV 134

Goethe Novalis Goethe Goethe

1817 1819 1819 1821

D. 544 D. 659 D. 674 D. 716

GA V 75 GA VI 42 GA VI 71 GA VI 185

Goethe Goethe Goethe

1816 1817 1821

D. 484 D. 549 D. 721

GA X 106 GA X 110 GA X 125

Fragments: (“Gesang der Geister”) “Mahomets Gesang” “Mahomets Gesang”

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Even though some of the years during which Schubert set free verse, especially 1815 and 1816, show a clear preference for strophic settings in his overall output, it is not surprising that free verse poetry does not lend itself to the strophic variety. Instead, Schubert preferred to set free verse as well as prose in through-composed, sectional, cantata-like settings, often involving recitative. It is difficult and perhaps futile to construct a “development” of Schubert as a composer of free verse. The reasons are obvious: first, the time in which he set free verse is short; second, the settings are too few; and, finally, the poems vary greatly so as to make very different demands on the composer. For that reason, we thought it appropriate simply to describe Schubert’s main strategies for dealing with the compositional problems free verse presents for his idiom. Rather than attempt to describe these in the abstract, we start by looking at two songs, which we have chosen because of the very different kinds of free verse they present, because of the contrasting means for setting them, and also because we think they are some of Schubert’s most successful settings of free verse. Our samples are settings of Klopstock’s “Dem Unendlichen” and Goethe’s “Ganymed.” Klopstock’s poem “Dem Unendlichen” (fig. 10.2)5 consists of five stanzas of exalted speech, a sermon in the tradition of Milton’s Paradise Lost or Abraham a Santa Clara, singing praises to God’s majesty. The abundance of imagery and the exuberance of rhetorical devices are typical of Klopstock’s free verse poetry. Each of the stanzas has four lines that vary greatly in length. Particularly noticeable in “Dem Unendlichen” are the many enjambements; in only a very few lines does the end of a thought coincide with the end of the line. Enjambements in free verse are Augenpoesie, or poetry for the eye (in analogy to Augenmusik), since rhyme and regular meter—devices that signal to the listener line boundaries—are absent in this type of poetry. We can easily perceive enjambements in free verse when we see them on the page, but whether we can hear them (and whether the composer can make them audible) is a different matter and a difficult question, and we will return to this point later. This mechanism of perception has consequences for the musical setting of free verse, and we shall see that Schubert in general disregards the line structure unless it coincides with the syntactical units of the poem. Klopstock’s poem can clearly be divided into two sections: stanzas 1 and 2 address the Infinite, stanzas 3 through 5 address various manifestations of the Infinite in Nature. The difference is underscored through differences in the rhetorical style the poet uses. In the first two stanzas we find a juxtaposition of contrasts through which the poet creates space and distance between God and Man (“wie erhebt . . . wie sinkt”; “Unendlicher . . . Elend, Nacht, Tod”; “unten am Grab’ . . . oben am Thron”). The sentence structure is complicated by elisions and parenthetical remarks, resulting in syntactical tensions that often go beyond the confines of individual lines (lines 2–4 of stanza 2, for instance, express one lengthy exalted statement); the line structure is occasionally in conflict with the

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Figure 10.2. Klopstock, “Dem Unendlichen” Wie erhebt sich das Herz, wenn es dich, Unendlicher, denkt! Wie sinkt es, Wenns auf sich herunterschaut! Elend schauts wehklagend dann, und Nacht und Tod! Allein du rufst mich aus meiner Nacht, der im Elend, der im Tod hilft! Dann denk ich es ganz, dass du ewig mich schufst, Herrlicher! Den kein Preis, unten am Grab,’ oben am Thron, Herr Herr Gott! Den, dankend entflammt, kein Jubel genug besingt. Weht, Bäume des Lebens, ins Harfengetön! Rausche mit ihnen ins Harfengetön, kristallner Strom! Ihr lispelt, und rauscht, und Harfen, ihr tönt Nie es ganz! Gott ist es, den ihr preist! Donnert, Welten, in feierlichem Gang, in der Posaunen Chor! Du Orion, Waage, du auch! Tönt all’ ihr Sonnen auf der Straße voll Glanz, In der Posaunen Chor! Ihr Welten, donnert Und du, der Posaunen Chor, hallest Nie es ganz, Gott; nie es ganz, Gott, Gott, Gott ist es, den ihr preist! Textual changes in Schubert’s setting: 1/3 “wenn es auf sich herunterschaut”; 2/1 “Tode” instead of “Tod”; 2/4 “Herr” only once; 4/1 “Welten, donnert in feierlichem Gang, Welten, donnert in der Posaunenchor”; 4/2 omitted; 5/1 “ihr Welten, ihr donnert”; 5/2 “Und” omitted. [How my heart leaps when it thinks of Thee, o Infinite One! How it sinks when it looks down upon itself! Mourning it sees, then, misery and night and death! But Thou callest me out of my night, Thou who provides support in misery and in death! Then it comes over me that Thou createst me for eternity, Noble One! For whom no praise, below in the grave, above in the throne, Lord, Lord God! Glowing with thanks, no rejoicing is sufficient. Wave, trees of life, with the sound of the harp! Roar with them in the sound of the harp, o crystal stream! No matter how it murmurs and throbs, harps, your sound Is never enough! God is it whom ye praise! Thunder, worlds, in your solemn course; in the chorus of trumpets, thou Orion join in, thou Libra as well! Sound forth, all suns in your shining row, In the chorus of trumpets. Ye worlds, thunder, And you, chorus of trumpets, resound, Never enough, God, never enough, God, God, God is it whom ye praise!]

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syntax and obscures (or rather syncopates) the obvious parallelisms of syntactical units (e.g., “wie erhebt” at the beginning of line 1, “wie sinkt” at the end of line 2 in stanza 1). We encounter a different rhetorical style in the second section of the poem. By and large the syntax is less complex than in stanzas 1 and 2. Parallel constructions prevail (“Weht, Bäume des Lebens . . . Rausche mit ihnen, kristallner Strom”; “Donnert, Welten . . . Tönt all’ ihr Sonnen”); moreover, the parallelism of syntactical units is now enhanced rather than thwarted through the line structure. End-stopped lines rather than enjambements are characteristic of the second section’s smoother rhetorical style; only the last climactic stanza picks up the elated rhetoric and enjambements of the first section. Schubert composed the first two stanzas addressing the Infinite as recitative (example 10.1).6 The harmonic, rhythmic, and melodic flexibility of the recitative allows Schubert to follow the speech rhythm of the poem. He sets the syntactical units of the stanzas to vocal phrases of varying lengths, marking each of them with instrumental insertions reminiscent of the majestic slow section of a French overture or improvisatory figures one might encounter in a C.P.E. Bach or Beethoven fantasy. In other words, he composes this section of the poem as prose. The recitative style is not arbitrarily superimposed on the stanzas; on the contrary, the musical prose of the recitative corresponds well to the structural and rhetorical qualities of the text. Stanzas 3 through 5 are composed as song. This section’s smoother rhetorical style as well as the parallel constructions, at least at the beginning of the section, may have suggested the different vocal idiom (example 10.2). With the tetrameter line “Weht, Bäume des Lebens, ins Harfengetön,” Schubert establishes a clear-cut four-measure phrase (mm. 22–26), which is repeated with some rhythmic adjustments that speed up the declamation for the hexameter line “Rausche mit ihnen ins Harfengetön, kristallner Strom” (mm. 26–30). Having established the four-measure phrase structure as boundary or norm for his setting of stanza 3, Schubert now is even able to bring out the enjambement of lines 3 and 4 (or, to refer to our earlier formulation, to make it “audible”) by extending the next phrase to five measures and thereby emphasizing the prominently placed word “nie” at the beginning of line 4 (m. 34). In setting the stanza’s exalted conclusion (“Gott ist es, den ihr preist”), Schubert briefly returns to a form of recitative style (mm. 35ff). Stanza 4 is by and large a repeat of stanza 3 transposed down a fourth. Here Klopstock’s free verse is apparently too free for Schubert’s needs, and for that reason he regularizes the poem, drastically. To maintain the parallelisms that resulted in two four-measure phrases in the setting of stanza 3, Schubert omits “Du Orion, Waage, du auch!” altogether and rewrites the first two lines as pentameters: “Welten, donnert in feierlichem Gang / Welten, donnert in der Posaunen Chor.” Lacking the emphatic text he set to recitative at the end of stanza 3, Schubert here moves directly into stanza 5.

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Example 10.1. Schubert, “Dem Unendlichen”—mm. 1–12

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Example 10.2. Schubert, “Dem Unendlichen”—mm. 22–38

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Stanza 5 is a summary statement. All the verbal material presented has been introduced in earlier stanzas (“Donnert Welten . . . in der Posaunen Chor . . . nie es ganz . . . Gott ist es, den ihr preist”), but here it is rendered in an ecstatic syntax full of exclamation and almost stammering repetition. (It may be difficult to find another lyric poem that has the same word three times in a row.) Schubert marshals what we may want to consider a most felicitous musical device to balance the tension between line structure and syntax caused by the enjambements in this stanza (example 10.3). While the piano continues its accompaniment in triple meter (most clearly seen in the bass), the vocal part performs a hemiola pattern, pitting itself against the triple meter (mm. 57–63); this allows the singer to give declamatory emphasis to the exalted statements “hallest nie es ganz; Gott, nie es ganz, Gott, Gott, Gott ist es.” For the setting of “den ihr preist,” Schubert returns in the vocal line to the closing formula of stanza 3 but now in augmentation, thereby giving it climactic weight. “Ganymed” (fig. 10.3a) has been analyzed so often by literary scholars that we can confine ourselves here to a few remarks concerning the overall structure of Goethe’s famous paean.7 Goethe divides his poem into five stanzas, of which the second and fourth are only couplets. Because of their visual appearance the couplets function within the poem as punctuation marks, as it were, setting off the three larger sections as well as inviting comparisons between the couplets, on the one hand, and the larger sections, on the other. The couplets indeed mark important stages in the basic progression of the poem, beginning with Ganymede’s vague stirring to reach out for the Other—a yet undefined “Du” of the poem (“Dass ich dich fassen möcht”)— and his decision to reach out to the Other, although still fearful of the direction his longing will take him (“Ich komme” and “Ach, wohin”). Stanzas 1 and 3 go into detail on the origin of the longing. The first describes the experience in exalted rhetoric and convoluted syntax, identifying the object of desire in line 3 as masculine (“Frühling, Geliebter”) and in line 8 as feminine (“Unendliche Schöne”). The third stanza fleshes out the pantheistic feelings in more concrete images of Nature as “Blumen, Gras, Morgenwind, and Nachtigall” as well as through a more discursive syntax. Stanza 5 brings Ganymede’s ascent and final union with the Deity in a rhetorical style full of incomplete sentences and exclamation marks that capture the ultimate ecstasy he finds as his yearnings are fulfilled. As many critics have noted, this union draws androgynously on both male and female images of Nature and the Deity, and it projects the experience as both active and passive: “umfangend umfangen” are perhaps the poem’s key words. Schubert’s song exemplifies another approach to setting free verse: using musical structures as containers in which the vocal lines are embedded and letting the lines be shaped by the correspondences of these musical structures. His setting of the first three lines of “Ganymed” is a case in point (example 10.4).

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Example 10.3. Schubert, “Dem Unendlichen”—mm. 54–71

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Figure 10.3a. Goethe, “Ganymed” Wie im Morgenglanze Du rings mich anglühst, Frühling, Geliebter! Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne Sich an mein Herz drängt Deiner ewigen Wärme Heilig Gefühl, Unendliche Schöne! Dass ich dich fassen möcht’ In diesen Arm! Ach, an deinem Busen Lieg’ ich, schmachte, Und deine Blumen, dein Gras Drängen sich an mein Herz. Du kühlst den brennenden Durst meines Busens, Lieblicher Morgenwind! Ruft drein die Nachtigall Liebend nach mir aus dem Nebeltal. Ich komm,’ ich komme! Wohin? Ach, wohin? Hinauf! Hinauf strebt’s, Es schweben die Wolken Abwärts, die Wolken Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe. Mir! Mir! In eurem Schoße Aufwärts! Umfangend umfangen! Aufwärts an deinen Busen, All-liebender Vater! Textual changes in Schubert’s setting: 1/5 “Herze” instead of Herz; 3/2 “lieg’ ich und schmachte”; 4/2 “Ach, wohin? Wohin?” (change of word order); 5/1 “Hinauf strebt’s, hinauf!” (change of word order); textual repetitions of 5/1 and 5/3–10. [In the bright light of the morning, How you glow at me, Spring, beloved! With love’s thousand-fold joys My heart is filled By your eternal warmth’s Hallowed emotion, infinite beauty!

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Figure 10.3a. Goethe, “Ganymed”—(concluded) O that I might embrace you In my arms! Ah, on your bosom I lie, languishing, And your flowers, your grass, Press against my heart. You cool the burning Thirst of my bosom, delightful morning breeze. The nightingale calls Lovingly to me from the misty valley. I come, I’m coming! To where? Ah, to where? Upward, upward I strive! The clouds float Down, the clouds Bow down with yearning love To me! To me! Into their lap, Upwards! Embracing, embraced! Upwards to Thy bosom, All-loving father!]

Figure 10.3b. “Ganymed”—first stanza reorganized as prose Unendliche Schöne, Das heilig Gefühl Deiner ewigen Wärme Drängt sich an mein Herz Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne! [Endless beauty, the hallowed emotion of your eternal warmth presses on my heart with thousand-fold raptures of love!]

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Example 10.4. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 1–18

Schubert starts in the piano with an utterly conventional eight-measure prelude that can be broken down into two four-measure phrases establishing antecedent and consequent. This model immediately begins to repeat just before the voice enters; the last measure of the first period (m. 8) is also the first measure of the next. Rather than bring another antecedent-consequent pair, Schubert now doubles the antecedent phrase to produce identical “containers” for the first two very different lines of the poem. Because the second line has one syllable less than the first, the vocal line can be repeated literally only by giving two pitches to one of the syllables of the second line, and Schubert felicitously brings the melisma on the word “du,” thereby highlighting what must be considered the essence of the poem. (“Ganymed” is a poem about love and yearning for the Other, the “Du” that during the course of the poem is addressed in ever-changing ways.) Closure of the double antecedents is reached with an extension of three measures presenting the line “Frühling,

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Geliebter” over a dominant pedal and cadencing in A-flat major. It is noteworthy that Schubert relates both words that identify the “Du” to each other by means of a sequence, producing a kind of musical “rhyme.” It is equally noteworthy that the motive that is sequenced is a diminution of the melisma on the word “du.” In other words, developmental procedures borrowed from the tradition of instrumental music are used here as a means of shaping free verse, creating correspondences and underscoring the relations of the words “du,” “Frühling,” and “Geliebter.” The last five lines of the first stanza are a grammatical monster that at first reading hardly makes sense; only by reversing the order of the lines—by turning them into prose, so to speak—can we comprehend the meaning of the sentence (see fig. 10.3b). The unusual word order, the near-incomprehensibility of the lines, is a rhetorical strategy by the poet to bring out the stammering, ecstatic quality of the feelings conveyed by the poem’s persona. No setting would be able to enhance the comprehensibility of the lines, and Schubert does not even attempt this (example 10.5). Instead he groups the highly irregular lines into two pairs (mm. 19–23 and 23–27) and uses the last line to achieve closure in C-flat major, the key of the next section (mm. 27–31). The lines “mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne” and “sich an mein Herz(e) drängt” are set identically, and “deiner ewigen Wärme” and “heilig Gefühl” also receive similar settings. These four lines, that is, produce two similar but contrasting phrases (we can say that they “rhyme” musically), while “unendliche Schöne!” is set off by a different piano texture and a different vocal style that already foreshadows the conclusion of the song on “all-liebender Vater!” We may quarrel with Schubert about the declamatory problems caused by the way he shapes free verse here into two pairs of corresponding lines—the way he treats “Liebeswonne” is somewhat flippant, and the emphasis on “an” rather than on “Herz” appears to be an oddity—but his setting has the advantage of cutting through the syntactical complexities of the lines as if through a Gordian knot, and on a different level they reinforce, through musical “melodic rhymes,” the meaning of the lines, that is, the synonymity of the imagery. After all, “Liebe,” “Herz,” “Wärme,” “Gefühl,” and “Schöne” are metaphors that stand for the same emotional striving, the longing for a “Du.” Lawrence Kramer has commented on the overall form of the setting.8 In continuation of his lucid comments on the tonal disposition and its interpretive implications, we offer a few additional remarks. “Ganymed” is indeed highly sectional and, except for the climactic last section, without large-scale repetitions. Schubert’s division into four sections of varying length, centering around A-flat major, C-flat major, E major, and F major, however, contradicts Goethe’s design in a number of ways (see brackets in fig. 10.4). The two couplets that group Goethe’s lines visually into five separate sections and that provide important clues for the interpretation of the poem are appropriated in Schubert’s setting by the larger sections that follow them. The

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Example 10.5. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 18–31

music of the second couplet (example 10.6) initiates the perpetual eight-note motion that becomes the driving force and unifying factor of the finale, leads into the next section with an accelerando, and functions harmonically as a dominant preparation of the final key F major—which, as Kramer has pointed out, underscores the question-answer relation between the second couplet and the last stanza; it is indeed the turning point in the poem. While this is a highly felicitous device of musical interpretation, Schubert’s other structural junctures come in for questioning. The first couplet is a case in point (example 10.7). The couplet (“Dass ich dich fassen möcht’ / in diesen Arm!”) is joined with the first two lines of the next section (“Ach, an deinem Busen, / lieg ich, [und] schmachte”) by identical settings. Schubert’s solution can be questioned on several grounds. The “dich” and “deinem” in these lines refer to two different kinds of “Du” because the implicit gestures of the couplet reach out or up, whereas stanza 3 describes the gesture of embrace. Goethe’s poem, that is, is constructed as a puzzle that waits until the last stanza—in fact, the last line—to coalesce the contradicting personifications of the “Du,” whereas for Schubert, as is evident from his settings of the first three lines of stanza 1, the

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Example 10.6. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 68–75

identity of all the “Dus” is clear from the beginning. Schubert no doubt reduces here some of the richness of the poem. The beginning of the E-major section in Schubert’s setting likewise contradicts Goethe’s design (example 10.8). Schubert considers the lines “Du kühlst den brennenden Durst / meines Busens, / lieblicher Morgenwind” a turning point in the poem and highlights his interpretation, perhaps overemphasizing it, through what appears at first glance to be superficial word painting. The relation of the trills to the breezes of the morning wind and of the sixteenth-note figure to the beckoning calls of the nightingale is a little too obvious. And yet, it is the very concrete images of Nature that lead Ganymede to merge his pantheistic feeling with the desire for union with his all-loving father. This point of view is underscored by the fact that the perpetual eighth-note motion mentioned earlier as the unifying feature of the final section has its origins in the left hand of the piano exactly on the word “Morgenwind.” Changes in texture contribute greatly to the sectionalism of the setting as well as to offsetting key words and key lines in the poem. Schubert begins his song almost as an independent piano piece that becomes the carrier or container for the vocal part (see example 10.4), resulting in a peculiarly passive quality with which the persona of the setting introduces himself;9 when Ganymede’s stirrings become more active (“Dass ich dich fassen möcht’”), the texture changes to the typical voice-plus-accompaniment variety (see example 10.7), that is, leaving space for the vocalist to gain prominence; and finally, in the last section voice and piano join forces in presenting the same melody in the ultimate union of Ganymede with his Father (example

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Example 10.7. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 32–41

Example 10.8. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 47–57

10.9). In other words, the textural changes strongly support the emotional development described in the poem from a vague, inarticulate perception of longing to more active and concrete stirrings to the final fulfillment in the “umfangend umfangen” union with the Deity. The final arrival on the words “all-liebender Vater” is marked through extensive melismas and a chordal texture that harkens back to the setting of “unendliche Schöne” at the end of the first section (compare examples 10.5 and 10.9), thus underscoring the identical rhythm of both lines as well as creating musical correspondences between the female and male poles of Ganymede’s yearning.

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Figure 10.4. Goethe/Schubert “Ganymed”—conflict of poetic and musical structure Wie im Morgenglanze Du rings mich anglühst, Frühling, Geliebter! Mit tausendfacher Liebeswonne Sich an mein Herz drängt Deiner ewigen Wärme Heilig Gefühl, Unendliche Schöne!

A-flat major

Dass ich dich fassen möcht’ In diesen Arm! Ach, an deinem Busen Lieg’ ich, schmachte, Und deine Blumen, dein Gras Drängen sich an mein Herz. Du kühlst den brennenden Durst meines Busens, Lieblicher Morgenwind! Ruft drein die Nachtigall Liebend nach mir aus dem Nebeltal. Ich komm,’ ich komme! Wohin? Ach, wohin? Hinauf! Hinauf strebt’s, Abwärts, die Wolken Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe. Mir! Mir! In eurem Schoße Aufwärts! Umfangend umfangen! Aufwärts an deinen Busen, All-liebender Vater!

C-flat major

G-flat major

E major

V/F major

F major

In summary and conclusion, we would like to make a few comments on Schubert’s choices of vocal styles (of recitative and song) for his setting of free verse. For a composer of the early nineteenth century, although not necessarily for a Lied composer of the nineteenth century, recitative is an obvious strategy for setting free verse, and Schubert uses it fairly frequently. (His setting of Goethe’s “Prometheus,” for instance, alternates recitative and song-like sections in response to the different rhetorical strategies the poet uses for his verses of defiance.) To make this choice, we think, is in a way to

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Example 10.9. Schubert, “Ganymed”—mm. 105–21

set free verse as prose. Recitative is formulaic; it offers no obvious ways of translating into music the kinds of boundaries lines bring to free verse, and it does not encourage listeners to listen for formal and semantic meanings in melodic curves and harmonies. It just gets the text across. It does, however, preserve the syntactic and rhetorical emphases of sentences, much as prose does as well. (By admitting, then, that to choose recitative is in a sense to treat free verse as prose, we are not excluding the possibility that the recitative can heighten, modify, or otherwise contribute to the expressivity of the language set. But recitative signals to the listener a set of game rules very different from those the listener uses to approach other kinds of setting.) In most cases, however, Schubert sets free verse as song. When he does so, melody, rhythm, and harmony willy-nilly become forces that shape the text. (In addition to the beginning of “Ganymed,” Schubert’s setting of Goethe’s “An Schwager Kronos,” with the vocal part grafted on a perpetual motion in the piano, pursues a similar strategy.) Extending the metaphor of recitative as prose, and drawing on Hartman’s definition of verse as language in lines, we suggest that resources of song thereby create what can be seen as the functional equivalent of rhyme or meter or line. Sometimes Schubert uses these formal resources in ways that reinforce the poem, sometimes in ways that go beyond the original, contradict it, or set it aside in favor of purely musical considerations. At other times, Schubert takes a fairly Procrustean approach to free verse—lopping off phrases, adding repetitions and syllables, and ignoring line boundaries in ways that make the texts more regular or establish new formal schemes. Although this technique may make lovers of poetry squirm, it often allows him not only to fulfill formal needs but also to interpret the poem. In other cases, however,

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Schubert uses his resources in analogy to the formal features that contribute to the meaning of the original poem. In free verse, as laid out initially, line boundaries present a fundamental tool for the poet, making expressive enjambements possible as well as other parallels and contrasts between syntax rhythms and line structure. Although Schubert ignores many of these line boundaries, he often finds ways of translating those that make prominent contributions to the poems’ sense of expressivity. The kinds of tensions among syntax, line boundaries, and rhythms that justify the word “verse” in the term “free verse” find their analogy—but not their imitation—in the very different relations Schubert establishes between the words of the poems and the formal resources of music. To refer to our prose/poetry analogy one last time, Schubert’s non-recitative settings set his texts as poetry but not necessarily as the poet’s poetry.

Notes 1. John Hollander, Rhyme’s Reason (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 1. 2. John Hollander, Vision and Resonance (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1985). 3. Charles Hartman, Free Verse: An Essay in Prosody (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1980), 11, 24–25. 4. A more detailed account of free verse can be found in Donald Wesling, The New Poetries: Poetic Form since Coleridge and Wordsworth (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1985), esp. 145–71; Philip Hobsbaum, Metre, Rhythm and Verse Form (London: Routledge, 1996), esp. 89–120; Chris Beyers, A History of Free Verse (Fayetteville: University of Arkansas Press, 2001). 5. Maximilian and Lilly Schochow, eds., Franz Schubert: Die Texte seiner einstimmig komponierten Lieder und ihre Dichter, vol. 1 (Hildesheim: Olms, 1974), 219–20. The translation has been adapted from The Ring of Words: An Anthology of Song Texts, ed. Philip L. Miller (New York: Norton, 1973), 159. 6. The examples for “Dem Unendlichen” (Erste Fassung) are taken from Schubert’s Werke, kritisch durchgesehene Gesamtausgabe, vol. 3, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski, Johannes Brahms, and others (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1884–97), 85–89; for “Ganymed” from Franz Schubert, Schubert’s Songs to Texts by Goethe, ed. Eusebius Mandyczewski (New York: Dover, 1979), 159–63. 7. The poem has been cited according to Schochow and Schochow, Franz Schubert: Die Texte, vol. 1, 133–34. The translation has been adapted from The Ring of Words, 62–65. Good introductions to the poem can be found in Goethe, Gedichte kommentiert von Erich Trunz (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1994), 46–47, 485–87; Clemens Lugowski, “Goethe: Ganymed,” in Deutsche Lyrik von Weckherlin bis Benn, ed. Jost Schillemeit (Frankfurt/Main: Fischer, 1965), 47–64. The reader should also be alerted to the substantial writings on “Ganymed” (Goethe and the settings by Schubert and Wolf as well as their relation to tropes encoding issues of sexuality and desire) by Lawrence Kramer, “The Schubert Lied: Romantic Form and Romantic Consciousness,” in Schubert: Critical and Analytical Studies, ed. Walter Frisch (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 200–236; Music as Cultural Practice 1800–1900 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 165–75; Franz Schubert: Sexuality-Subjectivity-Song (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), 93–128.

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8. Kramer, “The Schubert Lied,” 224; Kramer, Franz Schubert, 122–27. 9. Harry E. Seelig, “Hugo Wolf’s ‘Ganymed’: An Emancipated Musical Androgyne for Our Time?” Unpublished lecture, Conference of German Studies Association, Albuquerque, NM, September 27, 1986.

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Part III

In Search of Cycles

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Chapter Eleven

Hugo Wolf and Goethe’s “Duodrama” Toward a “Better Understanding” of the Problematic Divan-Trinity of Life, Love, and Spirit Harry E. Seelig Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan contains within the vast range of its 250-odd poems numerous lyrics generally considered among the world’s great love poetry.1 The majority are monologues in which the persona-lover not only implies reciprocity of feeling but also presupposes its potential existence. Some of the poems— although neither dialogues nor miniature dramas—juxtapose two personae, each addressing the other in a related context yet paradoxically expressing his or her amorous interdependence in autonomous poems. Goethe’s term for this configuration, “duodrama,” occurs in the “Ankündigung im ‘Morgenblatt’ 1816,”2 and it is Hugo Wolf’s singular contribution to the world’s repertoire of Goethelieder to have set three such duodramas in a manner that takes their extraordinary duo-not-duet character into fullest consideration. Because Goethe sensed a general need among readers of the Divan for additional information and consequently provided considerable cultural and historical commentary in “Noten und Abhandlungen zu besserem Verständnis des Divans,”3 an integral part of the West-östlicher Divan since its first publication in 1819, it seems far from heretical to suggest that musical settings of certain poems from the Divan might lead listeners as well as readers to a “better understanding” of the complexities inherent both in the texts themselves _________________ This chapter is previously unpublished, but some of the thoughts developed here appear in Harry Seelig, “Hugo Wolf’s Seventeen Divan Settings: An Undiscovered Goethe Cycle?” in Word and Music Studies, vol. 3: Essays on the Song Cycle and on Defining the Field, ed. Walter Bernhart and Werner Wolf (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 183–209.

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and in their cyclic interaction with one another. Whereas there are but nine duodramas as such in the entire West-östlicher Divan,4 it is significant that six of the seventeen Divan poems Hugo Wolf set to music constitute three central duodramas in the “Buch Suleika,” the largest sub-cycle in Goethe’s collection of twelve such “books” of poems. Within the forty-eight5 poems of the “Buch Suleika,” to be sure, can be found a great diversity of style and content, a good deal of which would seem to lie well outside the range within which musical renderings can offer interpretive insight. It is thus all the more striking that within this body of heterogeneous love poetry Wolf should have focused his compositional attention on those poems that contain the key words or concepts of Goethe’s fascinating endeavor to capture—in poetry—the essence of “life,” “love,” and “spirit.” Although all three of these terms find combined and climactic expression in the final couplet of the third duodrama, “Denn das Leben ist die Liebe, / Und des Lebens Leben Geist,” two of them function explicitly or implicitly in the other duodramas as well. Yet the six poems, for all their similarity of theme, are very different in specific content and individual style: not only are the personae of “Hatem” and “Suleika” clearly contrasted, but their responses to each other’s playful challenges in this ultimately serious game of love vary enormously. Even the obvious external similarities of words and rhymes in the first duodrama do not alter the fact that each of these interrelated poems is remarkably unlike that of its duo-partner. This individual quality predominates in spite of such direct connections as the references to “Gelegenheit” in the first and the question-and-answer game concerning “Traum” in the second duodrama. In short, then, the paradox of autonomous interdependence that is at the heart of the duodrama genre is apparent in the disparate nature of both the individual and the related poems. But in fact this disjunctive bond between poems (and lovers) goes even deeper, to the basic polarity of feeling and thinking in the love process itself. It is in the aesthetic tension between conjunctive and disjunctive characteristics that Wolf’s music makes an interpretive contribution to Goethe’s poetic “Liebesspiel.” Since the paradoxical dichotomy between conjunction and disjunction, between interdependence and autonomy, is as valid an aesthetic category for evaluating poetry as it is for judging music, this study demonstrates that the widely diverging duodrama forms, the literary interrelatedness of which is merely implicit, coincidental, or tenuous at best, are given more substantial cohesion—however conjunctive or disjunctive particular poems or aspects thereof may be—in their musical settings and that the problematic union of opposites inherent in the final duodrama is made explicit in the correspondingly volatile but ingenious music. Moreover, this creative merging of text and music can be seen to function as a modern-day objective correlative for the historical phenomenon German literary scholarship terms Geselligkeit: these seemingly straightforward settings are

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in fact rather striking analogues of the sophisticated sociability practiced in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.6 It is no secret that Hugo Wolf lavished inordinate energy on the problem of how his musical settings could interpret poems without allowing even minimal traces of structural distortion to interfere with the extrinsic and intrinsic qualities of poetry as he perceived them; indeed, he succeeded extremely well in projecting the poem as a linguistic merging of form and content that is nevertheless ultimately assimilated by the musical form and in fact is “clothed” with an additional layer of musical “content.”7 Yet, especially in response to the twofold criticism that (1) Wolf failed to come up to the level of Goethe’s poetry (especially in the intellectual/emotional dualism of the Divan’s duodramas) and that (2) his musical conceptions over-emotionalize the rationally understated poetry, it has never been shown that it is the music, above all, that infuses the paradoxically playful and passionate poems with much of the metaphysical “duo” quality their many concrete images can only seek to evoke in metaphorical terms. Just as there had been—until fairly recently, when a deluge of Divan scholarship descended upon us8—considerable disparagement of Goethe’s late lyric style, with its sovereign disregard of poetic convention and the limits of genre, Wolf’s commentators have tended to see many of his Goethe settings as unsuccessful or inappropriate. In general, the critics eschew the “passionate” in favor of the “reflective” Goethelieder and lament what might have been with conclusions such as “if the emotion of the one and the invention of the other could have been combined, the world would be richer by a very great masterpiece.”9 This evaluation of the first duodrama contrasts markedly with the same critic’s characterization of the third, in which the “fiery and impassioned” quality of the music is seen as having “brushed aside the intellectual implications and overtones of the poem.”10 Another critic considers this particular duodrama to “burn and flame with a power and vehemence without parallel in song,”11 but because the emotional intensity of such songs strains to the utmost limit the resources of the medium for which they are written, he ultimately prefers the more reflective settings. Finally, a musico-literary critic with an avowed literary bias apodictically claims that these last two poems are not passionate at all but rather intellectualized and full of wit, so Wolf errs by giving them tempestuous musical textures.12 Wherever any final judgment might lie—and there is surely more than just a grain of truth in each of these ultimately pro-Wolfian views—it is crucial to see that the aforementioned contrasts, tensions, and polarities do not sufficiently characterize all three duodramas, each of which partakes of an aesthetic gestalt uniquely its own. Thus the juxtaposition of “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe” and “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe” in the first duodrama establishes a basic harmony between love and life that reveals itself most tellingly through superimposition on the opposition of wealth and poverty. Similarly, the second

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duodrama enables Geist (as imaginative and creative mental force) to express its role within the forever irreconcilable natures of dream and reality. Finally, the “Locken-Ätna-Asche-Kraft” imagery of the third duodrama, for all its seemingly excessive passion and intellectual daring, gains paradoxical stability because it is anchored in the invigorating polarity between age and youth. All of these realms of meaning in Goethe’s poems are clearly addressed, remarkably projected, and often profoundly interpreted in Wolf’s settings— however controversial the youthful composer’s spirited solutions to the aging poet’s serene enigmas may sometimes appear to be. A close look at the poems as well as the music will demonstrate that instead of being too passionate a misrepresentation of Goethe’s intellectual texts, these particular settings present a radical juxtaposition of passion and intellect, accomplished with extraordinarily terse but hauntingly problematic means. Of course, it would be foolish to argue that this juxtaposition is purely the achievement of the music: Goethe’s poetic personae are surpassingly eloquent in both respects. But the tension between these all-too-human extremes is less focused, less pronounced, and less uniformly shaped in the verses than in Wolf’s musical projection. In other words, the music makes explicit what the poetry only implies, namely that these polarized forces are most effective aesthetically when they are in dynamic juxtaposition. This enigma—hard to describe and even harder to define—is poignantly expressed in Suleika’s final couplet, “Denn das Leben ist die Liebe, / Und des Lebens Leben Geist,” where spirit is said to intensify through aesthetic means a life already enhanced by love. No less a Goethe scholar than Erich Trunz considers these lines the very quintessence of Goethe’s West-östlicher Divan.13 Yet out of context one might wonder whether this lyric couplet is truly profound or merely a sententious commonplace, however appealing its triadic structure may be. I suggest, however, that the very sententiousness of this formulation (a kind of literary exponential equation)—so thoroughly unexpected in the context of Suleika’s passion—acquires an entirely new, more appropriate, and even more meaningful quality in the context of Wolf’s setting. Moreover, when viewed from the vantage point of Beethoven’s late works, Wolf’s seemingly laconic and fragmented style takes on a cast even more pertinent to mid–twentieth-century aesthetic consciousness and taste. Furthermore, in looking back by around seventy years to the mature Beethoven as the appropriate musical idiom for Goethe’s Divan lyrics, Wolf has anticipated and outmaneuvered recent literary critics and Germanists as well—by another seventy years at least.

I Hugo Wolf’s uncanny insight into Goethe’s juxtaposition of passion and intellect is best followed point by point, from duodrama to duodrama.14 (The six Wolf songs—taken here from the Peters edition—appear as appendixes 11.1–11.6.)

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The unorthodox spacing of the first duodrama, where Hatem’s three stanzas are intentionally juxtaposed to Suleika’s four, is intended to highlight the similarities of rhyme words and assonances between Hatem’s second and Suleika’s third strophes, without in any way suggesting that one poem is “lacking” what has been “added” to the other (fig. 11.1). With a cleverly transformed proverb,15 Hatem buoyantly and confidently but also cautiously and subtly challenges Suleika to respond to his playful taunt: instead of “occasion” playing the thief who steals her lover’s heart, this particular “Gelegenheit” becomes the personification of thievery itself and, worse yet, has stolen the persona’s remaining capacity for love. This extreme state of affairs renders Hatem—in his impoverished condition—wholly dependent on his beloved’s generosity, even while her glances and arms in fact promise compassion and anticipate new joys. Poetically speaking, a double tension results, since not only does the persona carefully control and distance himself from his confession of love by moving very deliberately from the impersonal third-person sphere through the more personal second-person stance of direct address to the most personal realm of first-person reference, strophe by strophe, but the implicit pretense of chivalric tradition with its gallant homage to a sovereign lady is maintained while the invitation to respond intimately is tantalizingly but tactfully communicated.16 Wolf’s vamping accompaniment figuration provides a suggestive ambience within and against which the vocal melody easily projects the motivic features that underscore the directional shifts animating the love-theft imagery. This strumming or serenading effect is anything but banal, as an exacting critic has asserted, because it sustains perfectly both the poem’s continuous surge of impersonally sublimated emotional energy and in embryo all the harmonic, melodic, and intervallic elements of the entire song-complex (e.g., the intervals of a sixth and a fourth, the descending chromatic lines in the inner voices). The voice line moves downward chromatically in mock emulation of the loss implied by the theft-of-love image, but equally important, this descent is capable of being reversed or altered later, when Suleika tranforms the denotation of Hatem’s “theft” into “rape” and further changes the peculiarly German connotation of “Raub” (as abduction) into grateful submission on her part. Wolf expressively captures this transformation in the musically reversed, upward chromatic direction of “Gib dich mir aus freier Wahl” (and “Macht uns nicht die Liebe reich?”) following the clever rhetorical question “Und wozu denn auch berauben?” after Suleika has turned the tables on Hatem’s theft-conceit with her crucial substitution of “Raub” in “Wie mich solch ein Raub erfreut!” Such attention to structural detail, ubiquitous in Wolf’s songs, would not be of particular interest here except that, startlingly, Suleika has appropriated all but one of Hatem’s eight feminine rhyme words and transformed their originally controlled game-motivated connotation into an intimate confession of boundless love that is poetically powerful precisely because it has transcended such

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Figure 11.1. Goethe, “Nicht Gelegenheit” and “Hochbeglückt” (Duodrama 1) Hatem

Suleika

Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe, Sie ist selbst der größte Dieb; Denn sie stahl den Rest der Liebe, Die mir noch im Herzen blieb.

Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe Schelt ich nicht Gelegenheit; Ward sie auch an dir zum Diebe, Wie mich solch ein Raub erfreut! Und wozu denn auch berauben? Gib dich mir aus freier Wahl; Gar zu gerne möcht’ ich glauben— Ja, ich bin’s, die dich bestahl.

Dir hat sie ihn übergeben, Meines Lebens Vollgewinn Dass ich nun, verarmt, mein Leben Nur von dir gewärtig bin.

Was so willig du gegeben, Bringt dir herrlichen Gewinn, Meine Ruh,’ mein reiches Leben— Geb’ ich freudig, nimm es hin!

Doch ich fühle schon Erbarmen Im Karfunkel deines Blicks Und erfreu’ in deinen Armen Mich erneuerten Geschicks.

Scherze nicht! Nichts von Verarmen! Macht uns nicht die Liebe reich? Halt’ ich dich in meinen Armen, Jedem Glück ist meines gleich.

[Not opportunity generates thieves, it is itself the greatest thief, for it stole the last trace of love that remained in my heart. / And why consider it a robbery? Give yourself voluntarily. I rather want to believe that it was me who robbed you. / It transferred my life’s bounty to you, my life, so that I, impoverished, exist only in your presence. / But I already feel mercy in the splendor of your eye and enjoy a new existence in your arms. Utterly happy in your love, I do not blame opportunity: it may have become a thief for you, but such robbery is a delight for me. / What you gave so willingly brings wonderful rewards for you. My peace and my rich life—with pleasure I give it to you. Take it. / Do not speak in jest! There is no impoverishment! Does love not enrich us? When I hold you in my arms, my happiness measures up to any happiness.]

severe lexical and prosodic limitations. The subtleties of Suleika’s lyric accomplishment17 are legion, but since Wolf seems to match each one with musical parallels of his own, several such instances deserve to be singled out. Hatem’s consistent ie-assonance for all the rhyme words in stanza 1 expresses deliberateness and distance; by contrast, Suleika’s interspersing of the bright ei/eu-assonance within the ie-context anticipates her confident tone in stanza 4 even as she reverses the order of Hatem’s “Diebe-Liebe” sequence to reflect her exuberance and accentuate her celebration of “Liebe” well before she reinterprets the supposed “Diebstahl” (theft) as “Raub” in the second stanza, which opens up the tighter and more controlled three-stanza form used by Hatem. But even as

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“Hochbeglückt” spans—in the three stanzas (1, 3, and 4) paralleling Hatem’s rhyme scheme—several exclamatory outbursts of joy (“erfreut” and “freudig”) before climaxing on the final quasi-superlative assertion “Jedem Glück ist meines gleich” (italics mine), the rhyme words of the second stanza highlight the irresolvable tension between seduction and submission inherent in love-play and profiled in the juxtapositions of “berauben/glauben” and “freie(r) Wahl/dich bestahl.” The precarious reciprocity underlying love is expressed structurally and lexically in this ingenious sequence of interlocking rhymes. Hugo Wolf’s juxtaposition of left-hand and right-hand piano figures both on the beat (two eighth notes followed by a quarter note) and off (eighth-note rest followed by three eighth notes) during this assertive second stanza of “Hochbeglückt” cleverly reapplies the more rudimentary syncopation used throughout the “strumming” accompaniment of “Nicht Gelegenheit.” In addition, the basic melodies of both settings are related but different to an uncanny extent. Even a cursory glance at the vocal lines of each first stanza reveals Wolf’s ingenious consistency—the descending chromatic line followed by the skips upward of a sixth and downward by a fifth—within the first four measures and his imaginative inconsistency during the remaining measures, where in “Nicht Gelegenheit” there is a reversal of the initial sequence (as diatonic skips now precede the chromatic steps downward) and in “Hochbeglückt” an entirely new combination of chromatic and diatonic elements (as steps alternate with skips) seems to develop and vary the melodic possibilities of the first four-measure phrase. It is hard to imagine a more explicit musical means for contrasting the personalities of Hatem, who carefully controls and calculates his clever challenge, and Suleika, who excitedly repeats the initial proverb-phrase and passionately transforms its contrived and punning quality into heartfelt acceptance of “Raub.” On a more general level, the key relationship (between “Nicht Gelegenheit” and “Hochbeglückt”) of dominant (F) to tonic (B-flat) enables but does not force Suleika to respond with clearly different connotations that result from her application of the same melodic motives Hatem originally used; and the (ABA’B’) binary form effectively underscores Suleika’s additional (second) strophe while uniting its denotative transformation of Hatem’s ternary (ABA) statement with her culminating alteration and assimilation of his cautious “Erbarmen” into her confident expletive “Nichts von Verarmen!” But all these literary-musical correspondences pale next to Wolf’s achievement in the postlude of “Hochbeglückt,” where the motivic material of both settings is combined, transformed, fragmented, and—through techniques of thematic-motivic elaboration not unlike those encountered in a Beethovenian development section—shaped into a culminating coda in which the exuberance merely implied by the literary reciprocity of the two poems is given musical consummation. The postlude begins (m. 62) with a two-measure motive that is a condensation of Suleika’s initial four-measure statement (mm. 11–14)—itself derived from the melody with which Hatem begins “Nicht

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Gelegenheit.” The condensed melody is repeated once and then condensed even further into a one-measure statement. The eighth-note tail of the onemeasure statement becomes the point of departure for an ecstatic stretta that leads through repetition, sequencing, and foreshortening to the conclusion of the song—where nothing but percussive energy is left of the melodies with which both Hatem and Suleika began their respective songs. Whereas literary analysis of two autonomous poems can only suggest and anticipate the lovers’ union, Wolf’s postlude18—when understood as the musical distillation of all the salient features of the preceding two settings—stands as a musically explicit embodiment of this nascent duodrama relationship.

II In the second duodrama (fig. 11.2) the challenge comes from Suleika. She has had a dream that ominously seems to prophesy future separation or loss; she flatteringly asks Hatem—whom she calls poet and prophet—for his interpretation, which he is happy to provide. Although these two poems are not as closely related structurally as those of the first duodrama, there are more than superficial connections in the double occurrence of the verb “streifen,” the reference to water in each, and the clearly nonrhetorical question inviting an appropriate answer. Once again a consciously controlled yet playful quality prevails; it is enhanced by the explicit contrast between dream and wakefulness in Suleika’s two strophes. Exuberance and enthusiasm, however, are this time Hatem’s domain: his shaping—by clever reference to Venetian legend—of Suleika’s dream into a symbol of their union inspires him to confess his spiritual love hardly less fervently than Suleika did in “Hochbeglückt,” where she admitted her total emotional submission. Moreover, if the highly unusual reflexive-verb construction (“sich streifen”) in which the ring slides (“fingerab”) off Suleika’s finger into the water does signify a foreboding of lovers parting, then the unambiguous, unifying connotation of “Morgenröte” in Goethe’s other Divan poem “Wiederfinden”19 applied here would anticipate a future reunion. In any case, Hatem makes a totally different (nonreflexive) use of the verb “streifen” to characterize his own nomadic movements in a very real geographic world; and the redness of Suleika’s dawn is here only remotely echoed or recalled in Hatem’s reference to the Red Sea. Each of Suleika’s stanzas offers a darling poetic feature intended to fascinate the poet-lover; indeed, the tantalizing preparation of her question deeply influences his response. In the first stanza the normal prose syntax—in which a relative clause would be followed by an adverbial phrase, namely “der goldne Ring, den ich jüngst von dir empfing, streifte sich fingerab in Wasserklüfte”—is transformed into the alternating rhyme and poetic syntax of “Streifte sich der goldne Ring /

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Figure 11.2. Goethe, “Als ich auf dem Euphrat” and “Dies zu deuten” (Duodrama 2) Suleika

Hatem

Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte Streifte sich der goldne Ring Fingerab in Wasserklüfte, Den ich jüngst von dir empfing.

Dies zu deuten, bin erbötig! Hab’ ich dir nicht oft erzählt, Wie der Doge von Venedig Mit dem Meere sich vermählt?

Also träumt’ ich. Morgenröte Blitzt’ ins Auge durch den Baum, Sag,’ Poete, sag’ Prophete! Was bedeutet dieser Traum?

So von deinen Fingergliedern Fiel der Ring dem Euphrat zu. Ach, zu tausend Himmelsliedern, Süßer Traum, begeisterst du! Mich, der von den Indostanen Streifte bis Damaskus hin, Um mit neuen Karawanen Bis ans Rote Meer zu ziehn, Mich vermähltst du deinem Flusse, Der Terrasse, diesem Hain, Hier soll bis zum letzten Kusse Dir mein Geist gewidmet sein.

[When I went boating on the Euphrates River, the golden ring you gave me recently slipped down my finger into the watery chasm. / Thus I dreamt. Morning dawn sparkles through the tree. Tell me, poet, tell me, prophet: What does this dream mean? I am eager to interpret this dream! Have I not often told you how the doge of Venice got married to the sea? / Thus the ring fell into the Euphrates from your finger. Alas, your dream inspires me to thousands of heavenly songs! / Me it is who journeyed from Hindustan to Damascus and then traveled with new caravans to the Red Sea, / Me you are marrying to your river, to the terrace, to this grove: here shall my spirit be dedicated to you until the last kiss.]

Fingerab in Wasserklüfte, / Den ich jüngst von dir empfing.” The effect of this maximum separation of the two verbs “streifte” and “empfing” is a poetic embodiment of the extended movement implicit in the verb (“sich abstreifen”) as the ring slides from Suleika’s finger into the “Wasserklüfte” and downward to the bottom of the river. Furthermore, the movement of the ring seems to be brought about by the strong attraction of the word “empfing” at the end of the stanza. This word, placed in final position, greatly emphasizes the reciprocity of giving and receiving, and this implied interdependence paves the way for Hatem’s subsequent interpretation of the dream as a symbol of marriage.

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The second stanza displays poetic tension of another kind: instead of separation there is juxtaposition. Twice within the confines of single lines the realms of dream and reality are evoked—“Also träumt’ ich. Morgenröte” and “Was bedeutet dieser Traum?” The word “Morgenröte,” in addition, is only the subject of a longer line, necessarily an emjambement, stretching into the second line of the stanza. This enjambement suggests the difficulty of dividing the realms clearly, just as the poem’s final question represents a paradoxical merging of the rational (“Was bedeutet”) and the irrational (“dieser Traum”). Into this dichotomy of realms, then, Hatem plunges headlong, projecting a warmth and sincerity lacking in his initial poem “Nicht Gelegenheit.” Although the exclamatory first line contains a self-sufficient exuberance, there is a clear progression of increasing enthusiasm from the intimate verb “erzählen” by way of “begeistern” and “vermählen” to the ultimate dedication of spirit in the union pledged until the last kiss. After the initial explanation in the first and second stanzas, necessary to describe both the original Venetian custom and its relevance to the present lovers, the fictitious embellishment in the third stanza, in which Hatem clarifies and expands his identity with oriental details, creates a tension to balance the climactic emphasis of the fourth stanza on the spiritualized world of Hatem’s marriage to Suleika. The first two lines of this final stanza evoke a landscape that symbolizes the union of Goethe’s Eastern and Western Divan realms. On the one hand, Suleika’s Euphrates represents the poet’s fascination with the free-flowing form of oriental poetry in general. On the other hand, this amorphous river is necessarily contained and caressed by solid ground underneath and beside it. In this particular image, therefore, Goethe is both projecting Hatem and Suleika as partners in a marriage of water to land and alluding to their combined efforts at synthesizing oriental and occidental idioms in the “Buch Suleika.” Suleika’s dream and Hatem’s response, taken together, signify in effect that another of Goethe’s Divan formulations—“Schöpft des Dichters reine Hand, / Wasser wird sich ballen”20— has been modified: the image of the poet’s hand enclosing spherically formed water is here considered to be Hatem as the shore embracing Suleika as the river. This suggests, and Wolf’s music bears out,21 that the poetry of the “Buch Suleika” is born of fluidity and solidity in concert. But there is also a purely formal dimension to Hatem’s reply to Suleika’s question that helps explain his readiness to interpret her dream. As was the case in Suleika’s poem, radical syntactic separation has been used here to stress the central concepts of “begeistern” and “vermählen.” However, whereas Suleika operated within the boundaries of a single stanza at any one time, Hatem spreads syntactic tension across three stanzas. Furthermore, there is a fascinating ambiguity concerning the two antecedents of the “du” of the poem, which refers both to Suleika and her dream, and the syntactic function of “mich,” which is in effect the direct object of both “begeistern” and “vermählen.” Within the context of Hatem’s poem, however, Suleika and her

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dream are ultimately synonymous. In structural terms, therefore, Hatem’s enthusiastic interpretation has syntactically traversed the poetic-geographic distance between the Venetian marriage ceremony depicted in the dream and the oriental locale that gave him his worldly character as well as the aesthetic-psychic continuum containing the thousand hymnlike songs Suleika’s dream inspired in him and the spiritual bond asserted by one of these “Himmelslieder”—his final amalgamation of river, terrace, and grove. Hugo Wolf’s use of a distinctively meandering, primarily descending but sometimes ascending quarter-eighth-triplet motive in the left hand of the piano parts of both settings must be seen as a basic unifying device, but of even more fundamental importance is the great difference in mood and temperament created by the right-hand piano parts: the gently rolling 12 8 barcarole movement of Suleika’s dream contrasts markedly with the urgently persuasive and percussive eighth-note 44 chordal texture underscoring Hatem’s spirited response. Whereas Suleika evokes a floating and shimmering trance-like state à la Debussy in which the realms of dream and reality are nebulously intermingled, Hatem seizes on a Schubert-like rhythmic exuberance to convey the verve and fire of the rejuvenated poet’s creative imagination, now inspired to compose a thousand “Himmelslieder.” The seemingly absolute contrast between “fluid” and “shaped” textures, expressed to perfection in Goethe’s poetic juxtaposition of oriental and occidental cultures cited earlier, is musically realized even while the tension between both textures is partially resolved or assimilated in the distribution of these components within the piano part. More than that, Wolf has projected the two crucial enjambements in Suleika’s vision, “Streifte sich der goldne Ring / Fingerab in Wasserklüfte, . . . / Morgenröte / Blitzt’ ins Auge durch den Baum,” as imperceptible modulations from A to A-flat and back again. If these two keys—so close in pitch and harmonically so remote—are seen to symbolize (in this context, at least) the real and the dream worlds, then the burden of Wolf’s musical interpretation is nothing less than an attempt to show the inextricable bond between the conscious and subconscious modes of the artistic mind during the creative moment. While the drifting sensation of the eight-line Euphrates excursion is musically captured in the delicate barcarole movement of the right-hand figuration throughout all seventeen measures of “Als ich,” the left-hand piano part “gently and expressively” (zart und ausdrucksvoll) murmurs a meandering melodic motive that perfectly embodies the dream-like quality of Suleika’s meditative narration. This motive glides along in the tonic key of A for four measures, progresses downward an octave, and is restated in A-flat during the next four measures, so that in the concise first eight measures Wolf has created a musical analogue for the movement described in the first stanza: the sliding off—“abstreifen”—of the ring into poetic “gaps” between the wavelets is musically represented in measures 3–6 by the pivotal modulation, the melodic drop of a fifth on “Fingerab,” and the quarter-note rest between “ab” and “in Wasserklüfte.”

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It is in the perceived simultaneity of these features that one is able to see through the metaphorical water of Wolf’s conception. In fact, we could say that the composer has done for the river image what the poet’s enjambement— “Morgenröte / Blitzt’ ins Auge durch den Baum”—seeks to do for the dream: shed rational light on it. But in shedding light on the poem as a whole—that is, in rendering the water more transparent and hence the poetic structure more comprehensible—the composer very carefully does not overstep the boundaries of what is given. For instance, he does not answer prematurely the pensive question with which Suleika’s second stanza ends. Instead, he throws this closing question (mm. 15–16) into bolder relief by relating it unmistakably to the first line, which delineates the dream-situation (mm. 1–2). The characteristic melodic shape E–A–B–C-sharp is clearly used in both instances; the listener’s attention is thereby focused on the connection between the meaning of the dream and the excursion on the Euphrates. The fact that both statements of this motive (mm. 1–2 and 15–16) are in A major gives the half-step shift in tonality between the middle and outside segments of this three-part setting particular emphasis. In moving from A major to A-flat major at the critical point “Fingerab” and back to A major at “Auge,” Hugo Wolf has provided a parallel in musical terms for the movement of the poem from dream to reality. This subtle movement is not simply a matter of the alternation of two different and usually antithetical states; rather it is the perception of one mode of existence through its opposite. Ecstatic vision usually precludes rational interpretation; the two states are rarely possible to the same individual and certainly not simultaneously. In the poem the proximity of both states is indicated in two ways: the movement from dream back to reality is accomplished within a single line—the first line of the couplet “Also träumt’ ich. Morgenröte / Blitzt’ ins Auge durch den Baum”—and the connection between the rational (articulated meaning) and the irrational (dream) is signified in Suleika’s paradoxically laconic query “Was bedeutet dieser Traum?” But it is the unique achievement of Wolf’s setting that, to the extent that the musical technique of modulation actually obliterates the point of transition between one key and the other, the representation of dream and reality is reciprocally comprehensible and virtually simultaneous. Only upon analyzing the harmonic structure of the setting at “Fingerab” and “Auge” can the listener “know” what indeed took place. Put another way, the musical effect is very much like that indescribable transition between waking and sleeping when one’s awareness of the direction of the process is rationally suspended. If the magical, unexpected, but infinitely serene major harmonization of Suleika’s final word “Traum” seems to suggest that the blissful never-never land of dreamy meditation, once entered, will hardly encourage timely departure, Wolf’s decisive though gently animated return to A-major “reality” in “Dies zu deuten” sets the stage for further musical insights into Goethe’s implicit poetic meaning, particularly as Hatem’s interpretive response and imaginative (ficti-

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tious) travelogue reinforce—in the music—the aesthetic necessity for interaction between conscious and subconscious creativity to achieve the higher union of true art. The various modulations to, and cadences in, ever-changing key areas project and unify Hatem’s rich array of geographic images. But while the bond between dream and reality is musically delineated by the one central half-step shift from A to A-flat (and back again) for Suleika’s daringly subtle enjambement, Wolf acknowledges both the very different structure—with its straightforward, large-scale enjambements (lines 2–4, 5–6, 7–8, 9–16)—and content of Hatem’s ingenious (topographic) fantasy by continually traversing new harmonic territories and altering vocal and left-hand piano melodic material to reflect syntactic changes as well. Schematically, the various key areas of “Dies zu deuten” and the corresponding realms of Hatem’s literary fabrication might be juxtaposed as in figure 11.3. The rapidly changing key areas give eloquent expression to Hatem’s everchanging inventiveness; for example, the key areas descend by half steps—A, Aflat, G, G-flat, F—until the ring has reached the bottom of the Euphrates as the piano cadences twice in a very low register (mm. 16–17). The “1,000 heavenly songs” inspired by Suleika’s dream (lines 7–8) are harmonized in the same key as Suleika’s significant last word “Traum” in “Als ich,” but here it is in the minor mode with the dominant prevailing, suggesting vividly the creative process that would transform her passive dream into an active “Himmelslied.” This palpably active response to a tantalizingly passive request is ubiquitously expressed in Wolf’s transformation of Suleika’s meandering bass motive (mm. 1–2 of “Als ich”) into Hatem’s assertive ostinato-like quarter-note and (triple and duple) eighth-note flourish (mm. 1–2, mm. 5–10, and so on). But even while the continuous eighth-note chords of the right-hand piano part, which steadily delineate the ongoing harmonic progression, symbolize the ever-changing Oriental topography of the nomad-poet’s imagination, the voice and bass lines amplify the implicit nuances of the poetry: the left-hand melody of sections B and B,’ which—at least by comparison with the assertive ostinatolike version of sections A and A’—is a very lyrical 44 version of Suleika’s 12 8 dream motive (cf. mm. 1–2 of “Als ich”), is clearly not the same in both instances. Whereas it provides the sole melodic interest beneath the deliberately unmelodic vocal declamation of “So von deinen Fingergliedern / Fiel der Ring dem Euphrat zu” (mm. 13–16), at “Mich vermählst du deinem Flusse” (mm. 36–37) the left-hand melody—here a scale step lower than before—parallels the now melodious movement of the voice, which is a sixth higher, to symbolize the aesthetic consummation of Hatem’s “marriage” to Suleika’s personal landscape. Furthermore, in contrast to its earlier guise underlying “Himmelslieder” (mm. 15–23), the bass line here continues on a very extensive descent until the first syllable of “Kusse,” by which purely musical means Wolf seems to be suggesting that Hatem’s kiss could signify for Suleika what the ring meant for the Venetian Doge.

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Figure 11.3. Wolf, “Dies zu deuten”—structural diagram Section

Measures

Key Area(s)

Poetic “Locale”

A

1–4

A major

5–8

A-flat major

9–12

G major (tinged with E minor)

Hatem’s interpretive intention Venice: Doge’s marriage ritual (interlude: legend applied to dream)

13–15 16–17

F-sharp/G-flat major F major

18–23

V/C-sharp minor

A’

24–27 28–31 32–35

A A-flat G (E)

Hatem’s Damascus journey Hatem’s Red Sea caravan (interlude: Orient to Occident)

B’

36–40

B minor modulating

41–44

D major /A major

45–50

A major

Hatem’s symbolic marriage to Suleika’s river, terrace, grove Hatem dedicates his spirit until the last kiss (postlude: “spirit” transcended)

B

Suleika’s ring slides off . . . . . . to the bottom of the Euphrates Suleika’s dream inspires a thousand “heavenly songs”

Following this fortissimo climax on “Kusse,” where the voice line rises to its highest pitch, an unexpected diminuendo and a ritardando underscore Wolf’s profound understanding of Goethe, for whom this “last kiss” is by no means the last word. Hatem’s pianissimo six-measure postlude (quoting Suleika’s dreammotive from “Als ich,” now in A major, as in the original, but here in 44 rather than 12 8 time) does not effect a culmination but rather a suddenly introspective lament, which recognizes that ever-new dreams and their aesthetic embodiments are required to give life spiritual reality beyond the last kiss. The interpretive, transformational, and clarifying functions of creative art are all underscored by the ultimately unsynthesized tension between these two settings. Whereas the poetry alone restricts “mein Geist” to Hatem’s soul or spirit, the music generalizes and transcends the almost pejorative usage of Geist here, as if in anticipation of Suleika’s climactic statement in the next and final duodrama, even as the limits of personal interdependence are elegiacally acknowledged.

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III If the first and second duodrama settings—in spite of the subtle word-tone parallels analyzed and interpreted earlier—seem largely conventional and modestly conservative in terms of the musical vocabulary available to Hugo Wolf in 1889, then the climactic concluding duodrama (fig. 11.4)—which in Wolf’s setting has been soundly criticized even by pro-Wolfian commentators,22 possibly because the radically idiosyncratic qualities of both the poetry and the music could not be readily understood as part of the Goethean or the Wolfian idiom before— must strike perceptive ears and minds as innovative, problematic, and stubbornly fascinating even as its ubiquitous passion seems to rush toward an unfulfillable goal. Here Wolf grapples with the discrepancies and felicities of Goethe’s late style at its most challenging and, by interpreting these characteristics musically, harnesses and enhances the relatively unchanneled energy released by Hatem’s eruption of images and Suleika’s buoyant sententiousness. Wolf’s radical insight into the juxtaposition of passion and intellect in this final duodrama is best followed closely in the poetry and the music, almost simultaneously, from the very outset. In Hatem’s sensuous outburst “Locken, haltet mich gefangen,” all nouns—except for “Dauer”—are concrete and specific, and Wolf’s music is similarly direct and unambiguous in expressing the single-minded passion with which Hatem directs his ingenious periphrastic address toward Suleika: he cleverly beseeches her curls to hold him captive within the circle of her face. Not only does the oxymoronic tension between “Locken” and “gefangen” as well as between “geliebt” and “Schlangen” receive appropriate polarity in the repeated rhythmic juxtaposition of triplets and dotted eighths plus sixteenths in the opening piano part, but the concept of capturing is substantiated by the contrary piano motion with its descending chromaticism in the right hand balanced convergingly by ascending off-beat octaves in the left. Ferocious and exuberant though it sounds, the piano accompaniment everywhere projects nothing more tellingly than the circularity and inevitability of its “being caught” within the “circumference” of the given motivic compass. Hatem’s incredible outpouring of concrete nouns and epithets—“Locken,” “Kreis,” “Gesicht,” “Schlangen,” “Herz,” “Flor,” “Schnee,” and so on—is balanced by the entirely different sequence of abstractions Suleika summons up in response: “Liebe,” “Kraft,” “Jugend,” “Leidenschaft,” “Trieb,” “Leben,” and “Geist”; only “Dichter” is concrete, as well it might be. An overall view of Hatem’s four strophes reveals a dizzying array of images. While each strophe contains a unified image, the exaggerated contrast of diction and tone—however typical of Goethe’s late style—seems at first glance self-defeating. Coming after the supremely sensuous circle of curls metaphor, the comparison of the poet’s heart with a fully active volcano—violently erupting while nevertheless blending with the simile of “Morgenröte” and with its concomitant seasonal nature imagery signifying further rejuvenated passion after the initial blush of dawn—is all

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Figure 11.4. Goethe, “Locken, haltet mich” and “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren” (Duodrama 3) Hatem

Suleika

Locken, haltet mich gefangen In dem Kreise des Gesichts! Euch geliebten, braunen Schlangen Zu erwidern hab’ ich nichts.

Nimmer will ich dich verlieren! Liebe gibt der Liebe Kraft. Magst du meine Jugend zieren Mit gewaltg’ger Leidenschaft.

Nur dies Herz, es ist von Dauer, Schwillt in jugendlichstem Flor; Unter Schnee und Nebelschauer Rast ein Ätna dir hervor.

Ach! Wie schmeichelt’s meinem Triebe, Wenn man meinen Dichter preist: Denn das Leben ist die Liebe, Und des Lebens Leben Geist.

Du beschämst wie Morgenröte Jener Gipfel ernste Wand, Und noch einmal fühlet Hatem Frühlingshauch und Sommerbrand. Schenke her! Noch eine Flasche! Diesen Becher bring ich ihr! Findet sie ein Häufchen Asche, Sagt sie: “Der verbrannte mir.” [Tresses, hold me hostage in your encircled face! I have nothing to answer to those dear brown snakes. / Only this heart remains and blossoms in the most youthful fashion. An Etna breaks forth under snow and through foggy showers. / You put to shame, like morning dawn, the barrier of those peaks. One more time Hatem experiences the ardor of spring and the heat of summer. / Sommelier, bring another bottle. To her I bring this goblet. If she finds a little pile of ashes, she’ll say: “He burned away for me.” Never will I lose you! Love strengthens love. You may adorn my youth with powerful passion. / Alas, how it flatters my desire, when my poet is praised. For life is love, and the essence of life is spirit.]

but overpowering. Yet the sudden, seemingly discrepant mockery of the fourth strophe has its own inexorability: Hatem’s final state of passion reduced to ashes is, after all, but a logical result of his unprecendented volcanic eruption and rejuvenation. This total break in poetic style, in which an exclamatory request of a third person seems to shatter the moving climax of a supremely passionate but obviously private confession from one lover to another, is acknowledged and condoned by a response from Suleika that has no metaphors at all. Her sententious formulations, so close on the heels of Hatem’s array of images, are covert admission that his abrupt representation of himself as a heap of ashes signified more to her than just a humorous interjection. It made the expected response

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with similar or even more intensified imagery impossible. Suleika no longer projects passion; she simply describes it in abstract Goethean terms. But reply she does, nonetheless, and the description inevitably deals with the essential content of the poet’s tirade, however transformed. Suleika’s response is therefore both a reaction to Hatem’s humorous exaggeration and a continuation of his passion, but in another poetic-linguistic mode. Wolf ingeniously reflects this typological and temperamental dichotomy by transforming the ascending eighth-note triplets into even more energetic rising sixteenths and the originally descending dotted eighths plus sixteenths into quarter-note hammer blows, the first of which is tied across the bar in jarring syncopation that anticipates the respective entrance of the voice with each of the first three lines (cf. mm. 1–6 of “Locken” with mm. 1–6 of “Nimmer”). These emphatic accented chords drive home the sententiousness of Suleika’s rejoinder even while they underscore its passion; they reconcile Hatem’s profligate squandering of specific images with her abstract transformation of their love game into the aesthetic consummation and celebration of Geist that it is. The music projects the intellectual dimensions of Goethe’s life-love-spirit trinity in numerous elusive yet tangible details, among the most notable of which are the melodic similarities and differences of “Locken” and “Nimmer.” The ubiquitous and reciprocal interaction of emotional and mental components throughout this aesthetic “Liebesspiel” seems to emanate above all from the different configurations Wolf is able to produce with the same intervals and melodic devices: thus Suleika does not begin “Nimmer” on the same pitch as “Locken,” but she does use a very large interval (a seventh against Hatem’s octave) and skips down to the same pitch class (F-sharp) he had leaped down to before she concludes her first line on the identical descending sixth (from C-sharp to E) he had previously used. The melody of Suleika’s second, third, and fourth lines (mm. 4–11) seems very unlike Hatem’s (mm. 3–9) at first glance, yet it shares with his vocal melody many identical pitches and such features as the double eighth-note melisma and the deliberate stepwise movement within the compass of a third or a fourth. Most startling for its conscious “intellectual” quality is the way Suleika’s musical phrase “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren” relates melodically to Hatem’s mockingly climactic “Der verbrannte mir,” to which she pointedly responds with the opposite sentiment: she emphatically opposes the loss-by-burning intimated by Hatem’s hyperbole. Thus the contours of the melodic lines are reversed: the high F-natural of the former is pitched an octave lower here. But Hatem’s final interval of a descending sixth on “(ge)-fangen” is deliberately reiterated in Suleika’s emphatic “(ver)-lieren” to accentuate the direct connection between Hatem’s initial desire to be captured within Suleika’s curls and her determination to captivate him, the resoluteness of which is further enhanced by Suleika’s insistent lower F-natural eighth-note repetition of “will ich dich” after Hatem found he could not sustain the same high pitch for the latter syllables of “haltet

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mich.” Hatem’s incipient outcry, with its jagged angularity and unmelodic leap (octave and diminished octave) as well as its chromatic descent on “haltet mich gefan(gen),” are all indications of the persona’s predicament, his psychic stress, even while the music’s buoyancy projects the poem’s lighthearted irony. In essence, then, Wolf has transformed this seemingly exaggerated circumlocution into a modern, almost Expressionistic cry for stability, for a supporting force in Suleika to counteract the chaotic tendency in Hatem’s life. Another means by which Wolf projects intellectual process in musical structure is the graduated melodic transition from diatonic steps to larger intervallic skips in Suleika’s vocal line during the second strophe. Only for the first line, “Ach! Wie schmeichelt’s meinem Triebe,” does the vocal melody descend in scale steps (mm. 16–19); thereafter it rises in larger, chordally determined steps on “Wenn man meinen Dichter preist,” which outline a diminished triad (mm. 20–23). The first half of the final couplet, “Denn das Leben ist die Liebe,” profiles the subdominant major triad (mm. 25–28), and the second half continues to soar at this melodic level for “Und des Lebens Leben Geist,” (mm. 29–31) except at the crucial second instance of “Leben,” where the expected F-sharp, suggested by “des Le(bens)” immediately preceding, is altered to F-natural and the underlying harmony plunges momentarily into the irresistibly expressive flatted supertonic region, B-flat major, before concluding in the basic A-major tonality on the climactic high A of “Geist” (mm. 32–33). These various melodic and harmonic details, taken together and seen in the larger context of all three duodramas, radically transform Suleika’s initial emotional grasp of the love relationship per se: she here reinterprets her understanding of the relationship between the sensous and the intellectual by experiencing physical satisfaction—“Ach! Wie schmeichelt’s meinem Triebe” (mm. 16–19)—in the very act of comprehending the subtle interaction of spiritual, intellectual, and poetic nuances as they pertain to the Divan-trinity as a whole. But Suleika’s transformation—on the level of real life—can never achieve the final goal heralded by Goethe’s consummate formulation. Wolf’s analogous refusal to disavow life for abstract contemplation resides in the final melodic phrase—“und des Lebens Leben Geist” (mm. 29–33)—of the voice part and pervades the piano accompaniment underlying this strophe. For one thing, the melodic predominance of F-natural (with its concomitant effect on the harmonic progression)23 at the beginning and ending of both settings underscores the physical and emotional aspects of life; for another, the seemingly unrelated, lyrical, and ostinato-like motive (mm. 16–17) of the right-hand piano accompaniment to the crucial second strophe of Suleika’s transformation is actually a derivative of the basic raw sexual energy projected by the piano part during most of “Locken, haltet mich gefangen.” But here it is gentle, flowing, and sublimely expressive of the composer’s simultaneous accord with Suleika’s passionate first strophe and with the poet’s elevation of the spiritual realm to preeminence over mere emotion.

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Both of these structural characteristics emphatically project “life” even as the context stresses “spirit,” but Wolf’s subtly disjunctive ten-measure coda, with its juxtaposition of a two-measure restatement of the initial motive with four syncopated subdominant chords percussively recalling and emphasizing the climactic sound accompanying “Geist,” convincingly projects the inherently problematic quality of Goethe’s profoundly casual amalgamation of life, love, and spirit. The synthesis of form and content, just as that of words and music, has here reached the breaking point. To explain this synthesis on the verge of dissociation, Theodor W. Adorno’s theory concerning the structure of Beethoven’s late piano sonatas is helpful; in the essay “Spätstil Beethovens”24 he argues that objective and subjective structural aspects can exist side by side in the same work of art without coalescing. The subjective inspiration (or melodic invention) and the objective form (that in music consists of such devices as cadential formulas, ornaments, trills, tremolos, and similar figurations) can no longer be synthesized in a clearly unified whole; that whole will instead embody the original polarity, enabling the objective conventional devices to stand beside the subjective motives in an aesthetically compatible but analytically unresolvable ambivalence. In fact, the composer’s achievement consists precisely in permitting the objective devices of convention (which still evoke the affective qualities of traditional classicism) to stand in their sovereign fragmentary autonomy relatively untouched and untransformed by a subjective will no longer able to “harmonize” the discrepancies. As far as the concluding couplet of “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren” is concerned, the piano coda fully expresses comparable factors in the poetry. Goethe’s laconic mixture of discrepant images and ideas is reflected and intensified in Wolf’s startling juxtaposition of conventional coda material (mm. 32–35), thematic reminiscences (mm. 36–37), and typical closing bombast (mm. 38–41). In other words, Wolf has done for this duodrama what Thomas Mann claims—in Doctor Faustus—Beethoven did for the sonata form in the conclusion of his op. 111: “[T]he sonata had come . . . to an end, an end without any return; . . . it had fulfilled its destiny, reached its goal, beyond which there was no going.”25 Mann’s description of the final bars of Beethoven’s op. 111 applies perfectly to Hugo Wolf’s piano coda following Suleika’s final line: “Then it breaks off. Quick, hard triplets [cf. mm. 32–35] hasten to a conclusion [cf. mm. 38–41] with which any other piece might have ended.”26 It is this arbitrary closing, immediately following a last passionate outburst (mm. 37–38) of subjective invention, that reinforces the synthesis-in-dissociation by which Goethe’s poem in Wolf’s setting projects Adorno’s insight. In this final juxtaposition of subjective and objective musical components, Hugo Wolf not only symbolizes the aesthetic permanence-in-opposition of the emotional and intellectual processes underlying all artistic endeavor, but he also gives poignant if precarious expression to Goethe’s deceptively casual triad, with its profound insight into love as mediating between life and spirit for the

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sake of human creativity. What love does for life and spirit, Wolf’s music does for the emotional intellectual dualism of Goethe’s duodrama in particular and of “Geselligkeit” in general. Just as this elegantly civilized mode of intercourse enabled lovers of a bygone era to express and sublimate emotions in a scintillating, intellectual context, so Wolf’s music gives readers, listeners, and critics of a most recent era access to the ongoing, dynamic juxtaposition of feeling and idea at the very core of art as human interaction and aesthetic process. The composer’s perceptiveness, therefore, could be said to supply the interdisciplinary dimension of yet another trinity: in this complex duodrama Wolf’s music explicitly mediates between intuition and intellect at the apex of their tenuous and volatile poetic synthesis. It is the perfect analogue for the process by which “love” poetry, as the distilled essence of “life,” is transformed to the ultimate height of “spirit.”

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Appendix 11.1. Wolf, “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe”

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Appendix 11.1. Wolf, “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe”—(concluded)

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Appendix 11.2. Wolf, “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe”

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Appendix 11.2. Wolf, “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe”—(continued)

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Appendix 11.2. Wolf, “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe”—(continued)

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Appendix 11.2. Wolf, “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe”—(concluded)

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Appendix 11.3. Wolf, “Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte”

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Appendix 11.3. Wolf, “Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte”—(concluded)

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Appendix 11.4. Wolf, “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig”

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Appendix 11.4. Wolf, “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig”—(continued)

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Appendix 11.4. Wolf, “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig”—(concluded)

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Appendix 11.5. Wolf, “Locken, haltet mich gefangen”

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Appendix 11.5. Wolf, “Locken, haltet mich gefangen”—(continued)

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Appendix 11.5. Wolf, “Locken, haltet mich gefangen”—(continued)

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Appendix 11.5. Wolf, “Locken, haltet mich gefangen”—(concluded)

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Appendix 11.6. Wolf, “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren”

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Appendix 11.6. Wolf, “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren”—(concluded)

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Notes 1. Recent scholarly editions of the Divan vary widely in the presentation (i.e., in the division and subdivision) of its diverse poetry: countless epigrams and proverb-like sayings, numerous fragmentary aperçus, not to mention posthumous material, make the precise number of discrete “poems” a controversial matter. For example, H. A. Maier’s Divan edition (Kritische Ausgabe der Gedichte mit textgeschichtlichem Kommentar; Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1965) allots numbers to only 188 of the 238 individual poems in the table of contents; the “Hamburger Ausgabe” of Goethe’s works (Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1949 [1964, 2nd ed.]) presents 255 subdivisions; and the Swiss Artemis edition (Zurich: Artemis, 1948) includes 31 “Nachlass” entries for a total of 290 Divan poems. 2. Goethe, Gedichte und Epen II, “Hamburger Ausgabe,” ed. E. Trunz (Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1964), 269. 3. Ibid., 126–270. 4. Since Goethe only used the term “duodrama” with reference to the sub-cycle “Buch Suleika,” it is not quite proper to apply the term to other parts of the Divan. For the sake of completeness, however, ten other “duodramas” occur elsewhere: one in “Buch Hafis,” five in “Das Schenkenbuch,” and four in “Buch des Paradieses.” 5. Curiously, H. A. Maier (see note 1) reduces this relatively standard number of “Buch Suleika” poems (as borne out by both the “Hamburger Ausgabe” and the Artemis edition) to forty-seven. 6. Cf. Gisela Henckmann, Gespräch und Geselligkeit in Goethes West-östlicher Divan (Stuttgart: Verlag W. Kohlhammer, 1975). 7. Max Hecker, ed., Der Briefwechsel zwischen Goethe und Zelter, vol. 2 (Leipzig: InselVerlag, 1913), letter dated January 30, 1820. 8. Symptomatic of this activity, much of which was inspired by Edgar Lohner at Stanford, are the two volumes of studies and interpretations (vols. 287 and 288) he published in 1971 and 1973, respectively (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft). 9. Eric Sams, The Songs of Hugo Wolf (London: Methuen, 1961), 151. 10. Ibid., 155. 11. Frank Walker, Hugo Wolf (London: Dent, 1968), 251–52. 12. Jack M. Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied from Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), 187. 13. Goethe, Gedichte und Epen II, “Hamburger Ausgabe,” 571. 14. Since for the purposes of this study we must consider very closely both the structure of the original poem and that of the ensuing setting, but not simultaneously, and since I will necessarily refer primarily to the poetic text, the original German version (as edited by Erich Trunz in the “Hamburger Ausgabe” of Goethes Werke, vol. 2, hereafter cited as HA, see note 2) and prose translations supplied by the editor will be cited in figures at the beginning of each section. (The reader interested in Goethe’s poetry may consult, in addition, J. Whaley’s wonderful translation of the Divan poems: J. Whaley, Goethe’s WestEastern Divan [London: Oswald Wolff, 1974]). The six poems and settings are usually cited by their abbreviated first lines: “Nicht Gelegenheit,” “Hochbeglückt,” “Als ich,” “Dies zu deuten,” “Locken,” and “Nimmer.” 15. See Henckmann, Gespräch, 51–52, for additional versifications of this proverb in contexts that point up Goethe’s paradoxical achievement here: his clever playfulness seems more passionate and intimate than his controlled ploy in fact permits, and his cooly impersonal guise—in blaming opportunity exclusively for his “loss”—only emphasizes his personal involvement.

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16. Ibid., 48–51. 17. This poem, as well as “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren,” and three other responses by Suleika in the Divan are actually the work of Marianne von Willemer. She was thirty years old when the seventy-four-year old poet fell in love with her. 18. It is ironic that Wolf (who in his fanatically polemic music journalism was severely critical of Brahms) should in this pinnacle of pianistic climaxes seem to be “responding”—as Suleika responds to Hatem—to one of Brahms’s greatest piano compositions, the Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Händel, op. 24, the last fourteen measures of which constitute the stretto-like coda of the fugue-finale and consist of a descending line of chords in the right hand and an ascending succession of motivic fragments based on the fugue. This texture, particularly in its climactic development and unified context, bids fair as the “model” to which Wolf responded when he reversed the functions of the melodic lines in the last eight measures of his postlude. 19. The reuniting function of dawn in this cosmic poem, one of the most celebrated in the “Buch Suleika,” is depicted in the fourth stanza (of six): “Stumm war alles, still und öde, / Einsam Gott zum erstenmal! / Da erschuf er Morgenröte, / Die erbarmte sich der Qual; / . . . Und nun konnte wieder lieben / Was erst auseinander fiel.” HA, vol. 2, 83. 20. From “Lied und Gebilde” (“Buch des Sängers”), ibid., 16. 21. The merging of Suleika’s meanderingly “fluid” (fließend) 12 8 melody in “Als ich” with Hatem’s percussively assertive 44 eighth-note right-hand chordal accompaniment in “Dies zu deuten” is perhaps the best example. 22. See notes 9–12. 23. As the A / A-flat shift represents the proximate polarity of reality and dream in “Als ich” and “Dies zu deuten,” so the F-sharp / F alternation (with its flatted sixth, flatted supertonic or Neapolitan harmonic implications) ultimately emphasizes—especially where the “elevated” B-flat-major triad in measure 31 of “Nimmer” underscores the intensified or spiritualized quality of “life” in the second syllable of “Leben”—the elusive third element of Goethe’s Divan trinity, which is always but a “product” of the other two. 24. Theodor W. Adorno, “Spätstil Beethovens,” in Moments musicaux (Frankfurt/ Main: Suhrkamp, 1964), 13–17. 25. Thomas Mann, Doctor Faustus (New York: Knopf, 1948), 55. 26. Ibid.

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Chapter Twelve

Text and Music in Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder Ann C. Fehn Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder pose questions for the analyst of text-music relations, not because correspondences between Rückert’s poems and the composer’s settings are so difficult to find but because they are so obvious. When analyzing Lieder, most of us take a middle position on the aesthetic question of how fully a setting can or should be analyzed as an imitation of its text. As a genre, the nineteenth-century Lied stands apart from the folk and popular songs examined by Mark Booth in his monograph The Experience of Songs in that it consists of settings of preexisting poems, which constitute their programs.1 On a general level, we usually have little difficulty with the idea that a setting can illustrate or express an event or a mood in a text. In fact, if a composer fails to observe a wellestablished convention of text setting, as for example by setting a witty text to a ponderous theme in a minor key, we tend to assume that he or she has either misunderstood the text or is being ironic. On more specific levels of analysis, however, we become uneasy. Unlike some of our nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century counterparts, we tend to be hesitant to attribute denotative “meanings” to individual motives, harmonies, or themes. Just as the literary critic knows that the sound of the word “vermin” seems to match its subject only until one compares it to the word “ermine,” so does the analyst of song know that the familiar minor-second “sigh” or “pain” motive may truly seem to embody this meaning—until one encounters it in a jig. Furthermore, although we may draw attention to an obviously imitative element in a setting, we not only realize that identification of such motives does not constitute song analysis, but we recognize as well that when indeed such _________________ This chapter was first published in The Romantic Tradition: German Literature and Music in the Nineteenth Century, ed. Gerald Chapple, Frederick Hall, and Hans Schulte, vol. 4 in the series German Literature, Art and Thought (Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1992), 359–76. It is reprinted by permission of Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group, Lanham, MD.

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motives are evident, their presence may constitute a fault rather than a virtue of the setting. As James Winn remarked with respect to eighteenth-century settings in his book Unsuspected Eloquence, overly literal programmatic elements tend to be “local effects” that draw attention to themselves and in so doing prevent the listener from attending to the structure of the piece as a whole.2 Rather than focusing on such denotative aspects, then, we tend to direct our analytic efforts to other levels of musical and poetic structure. Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder test the limits of these attitudes, for imitative elements pervade them to an extent that cannot be ignored. Perhaps the most obvious example occurs at the end of the fifth and final song, where Mahler draws on the celeste and lullaby music to underscore the voice’s declaration that the dead children have gone to another, better home. But in the other songs as well, many of the programmatic devices can be seen that Constantin Floros, in his 1977 study of Mahler, traced in the music of Mahler, Berlioz, Wagner, and other nineteenth-century composers.3 These programmatic elements are particularly evident in the orchestration of the Kindertotenlieder. What Floros termed the “macabre and funereal” tam-tam, for example, is heard during the fifth song as the father remembers watching his dead children being carried out into the storm. In the fourth song pastoral horns accompany the evocation of a walk outdoors on a sunny day. Throughout, the harp plays arpeggios when beauty or light is mentioned, and English horns, oboes, and violoncelli render moods of melancholy. Less obvious in the Kindertotenlieder than in some of Mahler’s other compositions is his tendency to use themes and motives so clearly related to those of other composers that some critics have accused him of plagiarism or a lack of originality, while others speak of a quotational technique and treat it—much as one would a similar technique in literature—by looking for sources and for contextual reasons for their use. Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht, who regards this controversy over borrowed material as an implicit recognition of the central principle of Mahler’s work, has observed that the composer draws on preexistent material in a way that often appears to be a quotation but is actually simply a fragment of another style. Mahler’s music, he has argued, is characteristically quotational in its extensive and frankly programmatic incorporation of discrete musical and extra-musical motives. Whether identifiable or only seemingly identifiable, the prevalence of these “foreign bodies” is in his view the feature that makes Mahler’s music most remarkable.4 Eggebrecht devotes one chapter of his Mahler monograph to an analysis of the fourth song from the Kindertotenlieder. Here, in his openness to extramusical signification, he goes so far as to divide the theme of the song’s instrumental introduction into four basic elements and to attribute an expressive connotation to each (“ruhige Bewegtheit,” “Leid,” “bohrendes Wollen,” “schmerzliche Vergeblichkeit”; example 12.1a–d). These motives, he asserts, have meanings that antedate their use in this song, just as words carry meanings that are independent

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of a given context.5 The support he finds for these assignations is uneven. To bolster the name “ruhige Bewegtheit” for the first motive (a), he cites concomitant compositional elements (tempo and dynamic markings: ruhig bewegt, espressivo, and “warm”). For the “Leid” motive (b) he draws on historical tradition, citing the “sigh” motive of Baroque pathopoeia. Both examples seek the kinds of corroboration analysts usually agree is necessary if one is to argue that a musical motive has assignable “meaning” either in a public sense or as part of a composer’s hermetic vocabulary. Where Eggebrecht is less thoroughgoing, however, his assertions remain in a realm of personal experience inaccessible to scholarly discourse, and he becomes vulnerable to the fallacy of attributing affective meaning to an element that in a different context would show itself to be neutral. More arresting is Eggebrecht’s demonstration of the structural role of the four “denotational” motives in Mahler’s song. With an unfailing ear for critical detail, he persuasively argues that the opening measures quoted in example 12.1 contain the entire piece in nuce and that even seemingly unrelated motives can be traced to the order established by the first five bars. In so doing, he offers a basis for an investigation of the relation of programmaticism to aesthetic unity in the cycle. Building on Eggebrecht’s analysis, one can argue that Mahler finds compensation for what Winn observed to be the centrifugal energies of programmatic elements and that unusually prominent programmaticism in the Kindertotenlieder is balanced by equally powerful unifying forces. The result is a union of text and music quite different from the classic Lied but very effective in its own way. A first source of unity in the Kindertotenlieder is the group of poems that forms their text. This unity is particularly evident when one compares the five poems of the cycle to Friedrich Rückert’s full collection. During his lifetime Rückert did not publish the poems he wrote after his two youngest children died of scarlet fever. Although occasional poems written later in his life found their way into print, the main body, which according to Rückert’s editor was composed between January and June 1834, remained in his desk and were shown only to friends.6 When they finally appeared in 1872, six years after Rückert’s death, they numbered 423 poems, loosely arranged by the editor into three “chronological” categories (“Krankheit und Tod,” “Winter und Frühling,” “Trost und Erhebung”) preceded by a group of poems about poetry (“Lied und Leid”). Especially in this first group of poems, one sees the concerns that probably kept Rückert from publishing them. Although some betray the expectation of an eventual reader, are addressed to a public “Ihr,” and hold out the prospect of immortalizing the children through song,7 others speak uneasily of a father who publicizes the intimacies of his family’s lives and draws consolation for his children’s death from writing poems: Freilich bist du selber krank, Wenn du singst, wo Kinder sterben; Doch der Krankheit sage Dank, Die dir bricht des Todes Herben.8

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Example 12.1. Mahler, “Oft denk’ ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen”—mm. 1–5

Some of the poems are written in simple quatrains, while others use the elaborately artificial forms to which the Orientalist Rückert was attracted. Many draw on the high poetic tradition of religious imagery, while others have aggressively “unpoetic” subjects such as the leeches applied to the children in the name of medicine (“Ärzte wissen nach den Regeln / Aus der Welt kein Kind zu schaffen, / Ohne mit abscheul’chen Egeln / Die Naturkraft hinzuraffen”).9 Throughout, the poems ring changes on familiar motives associated with death and loss and on the rhyme words commonly associated with these motives. Whether Mahler himself selected and ordered the poems for his cycle or simply set a selection someone else had made is uncertain. His widow, in the volume of reminiscences published in English, recalled that in 1901 Mahler “heard” Rückert’s poems.10 Her choice of words hints that Mahler encountered a selection of poems, perhaps in a public reading, but because the phrase is neither elaborated here nor taken up in her other memoirs, one can just as easily suppose that Mahler was “hearing” poems as he read them. If Mahler did indeed take the five he set from the full collection, his literary and editorial sense was more extraordinary than is generally assumed. The poems occur at widely scattered intervals throughout the volume and in a completely different order.11 In addition, they display recurrent, mystical imagery of light and dark that is not uncommon in other poems of the collection but is by no means as frequent as other images (e.g., garden and flower metaphors). Moreover, the third poem Mahler set was even rewritten (see appendix 12.1). It combines two Rückert poems in a manner that not only supports the musical structure of the piece, by facilitating Mahler’s return to the main theme, but also conveniently omits a pun on the word “Schatten” that would have brought a distracting set of meanings to the lightdark imagery of the other poems in the cycle. Several additional features bring the poems of the cycle together. In the first and fifth poems (and indirectly in the fourth) analogies are drawn between weather imagery and the speaker’s mood—in the first as a dissonance between personal anguish and an impersonal sun and in the fifth as an agonizing reminder of parental responsibility that can no longer be exercised. Throughout, a distinction is maintained between the small images of light—lamps or candles—that describe the children and the universal source of light and joy of which the children are, and presumably always were, a part. On a different level, the third, fourth, and fifth of these poems of domesticity form a pattern of

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anguish by evoking everyday parental habits rendered useless by the children’s deaths. Where in the third poem the father’s gaze falls on empty space in which he once watched for his little daughter’s face in the doorway, in the fourth he tries by force of will to transform his habit of not worrying about his children’s short absences to a similar lack of worry about this new, long absence. Similarly, in the fifth poem, parental clichés about catching one’s death of cold echo in his ears as he struggles with the realization that he no longer has the duty, power, or need to shield them. The prominent coherence of subject, mood, and image in the poems is matched by an equally assertive unity of setting. Since the cycle seems to have been composed over a period of more than four years (approximately 1901 to 1904), we can assume that this unity is not the product of a single compositional surge; still, it is not the less strong for that.12 Within the individual songs, compensation for the programmatic elements that might otherwise distract the listener’s musical attention is provided by the songs’ transparent, easily perceptible forms. Four of them—the first, third, and fourth, as well as the fifth up to the lullaby—are clearly strophic. Even in the second song, the only one that is through-composed, much of the beginning material is clearly recapitulated in the final section.13 Throughout, the returns are marked by easily identifiable instrumental passages. Furthermore, the voice is never heard in more than two-thirds of the measures and is present in the first and fifth songs for fewer than half. As a result, it does not shape the musical lines to itself and its text but instead punctuates and marks the shape of a musical form at least partially defined before it enters. Through the entire cycle, even the most obviously programmatic elements draw attention not just to themselves and their “meanings” but simultaneously to the developing structures of the songs. This is particularly true for Mahler’s use of instruments. Although their extra-musical significance is often very evident, they are never brought in simply to “illustrate” something the voice has just uttered. Instead, they often aid the listener in hearing the shape of the piece. In the first song, for instance, the oboes are associated with mourning (with a dynamic marking of klagend, lamentoso), and the harp accompanies references to beauty and light. In addition, however, the oboes’ recurring passages define the stanzas of the song, announce the return of the voice, and, through variations of previously heard material, prepare the voice’s burst of emotion in the third stanza and its return in the fourth to the mood and tempo of the song’s beginning. Similarly, the harp’s swelling arpeggios in the third stanza help set that section off from the rest of this AABA song. In the third and fourth songs, the elegiac English horn and the pastoral horns, respectively, perform comparable functions. Another element with extra-musical significance is Mahler’s choice of mode. In the Kindertotenlieder he makes frequent use of the vacillation between

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major and minor that is characteristic of his style in general and particularly appropriate for these songs of lost joy. Some of these shifts have a structural as well as a programmatic function. In the first song, for example, most of the first lines of the four couplets describe sadness, while the second lines speak of light and joy. By tending toward the minor in the first lines and moving toward a more prominent use of the major at the end of the stanzas, the setting sets up the rhythmic change of mood that underlies both the structure of the song and its text. Similarly, in the fourth song the mode is major while the pastoral horns play and whenever the voice speaks of the realm of beauty to which the children have gone. The minor key, in turn, accompanies the voice’s recurrent realization that the children are not just out for a walk but are gone for a lifetime. Again, the regular alternation of mode helps shape the piece even as it contributes to its emotion. In the cycle as a whole, additional features help give the composition the compelling musical structure that supports its programmatic elements. One of these is Mahler’s choice of key. The cycle begins and ends in D minor. Within this closed ring the second and third songs are located one tone lower, in C minor, while the fourth song is set on the lowered supertonic of D (E-flat major/ E-flat minor). The neighbor-tone relationships thereby established between the tonics of the first and second songs and those of the fourth and fifth provide a good correspondence of structural level between the keys of the songs and a recurrent motivic interval (example 12.2).14 Motivic recurrence is another unifying feature. Eggebrecht’s identification of a few basic motives on which the fourth song is built works well for the other songs as well, and although each song contains its own specific set of motives, the themes tend to be built on ascending or descending minor seconds and on four- or five-note diatonic or chromatic scales. In the third song angular leaps of a fourth combine with running seconds to produce the song’s characteristic texture, and in the storm section of the fifth song the solo instruments as well as the voice make jagged leaps. Otherwise, most of the themes are marked by stepwise motion, which yields to wider intervals only as tension rises and is well suited to the composer’s frequent shifting between major and minor. In the first song, for example, an ascending minor second and a brief descending scale, supplemented by a sporadic rocking motive, are the primary building blocks. After appearing virtually separated in the oboe’s and horn’s introductory measures, the two basic motives are combined in the voice’s first phrase (example 12.3a). The first three notes of this theme are closely related to the “b” motive in the fourth song (see example 12.1) and, like it, evoke baroque pathopoeia. Here, as well as in the measures preceding, the minor second usually begins on an upbeat. This rhythm is disturbed in measure 11, as the voice stretches the word “Unglück” into a poignant series of minor seconds beginning on the downbeat (example 12.3b). As the second stanza begins, the word

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Example 12.2. Sequence of keys in Kindertotenlieder

“Unglück” carries its original setting into an expressive transformation of the basic theme (example 12.3c). The descending B-flat/E scale, in turn, serves as the basis for the last part of the voice line in the first, second, and fourth stanzas (example 12.3b) and, reversed, as the voice’s opening phrase in the third stanza (example 12.3d). This economy of motivic material contributes to the tightly woven fabric of the whole. A final unifying feature of the cycle is the progression evident in Mahler’s settings of the three texts that seem to offer consolation for the children’s deaths— the first, fourth, and fifth. The texts themselves appear static. In contrast to the 1872 collection, ordered by Rückert’s editor so the poems of consolation follow the bitter ones describing sickness and death, in Mahler’s cycle the first song and the final two declare acquiescence in the purposes of a higher nature. Mahler’s settings, however, do not conform to this static pattern. In the fourth song, as Eggebrecht demonstrates, Mahler rises to an ecstatic climax that seems to accept that the children have gone to a better home but then robs the song of its certainty through a sudden pianissimo. Even more unambiguously, in the first song the voice declares its willingness to be touched by the joyful light of the sun, but in a final transformation of a line first sung in major it trails off to an uneasy close on the minor third. Not until the final song does the setting finally support the acceptance of loss declared at the beginning by the text; it does so by taking the strings off the storm music, setting them to a lullaby, and bringing in a celeste to paint the sound of heavenly music. To many ears, this programmaticism may sound exaggerated and its meaning facilely sentimental. As a conclusion to a cycle that has built itself to a high degree of tension and cannot easily descend to a close, however, this sudden transference to a completely different plane offers a dramatic solution to a difficult problem of cadence. Here, as throughout the cycle, the programmaticism illustrates what the voice is saying and extends the text into the instrumental passages. It does not do so, however, in a manner that would distract the listener from the musical structure. Instead, it combines elements heard earlier in the cycle—the rocking accompaniment from songs 1 and 3, for example, as well as the prominent D-major chord outline from the first song (see example 12.3b, m.14, and example 12.4)—and draws them into a conclusion that brings the cycle to rest even as it allows extra-musical debate about the meaning and appropriateness of the sudden peace.

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Example 12.3a. Mahler, “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgehn”—mm. 1–8

Example 12.3b. Mahler, “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgehn”—mm. 9–15

Example 12.3c. Mahler, “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgehn”—mm. 25–28

Example 12.3d. Mahler, “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgehn”—mm. 48–51

Example 12.4. Mahler, “In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus”—mm. 118–22

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in search of cycles Appendix 12.1 Poems from Friedrich Rückert’s Kindertotenlieder Chosen by Mahler for His Cycle15

I. Nun will die Sonne so hell aufgehn, Als sei kein Unglück die Nacht geschehn. Das Unglück geschah auch16 mir allein, Die Sonne, sie scheinet allgemein. Du musst die Nacht nicht in dir verschrenken,17 Musst sie ins ewige Licht versenken. Ein Lämpchen18 verlosch in meinem Zelt, Heil sei dem Freudenlichte der Welt! (KTL, 369) [Now the sun prepares to shine as brightly, as if no misfortune occurred during the night. / The misfortune happened to me alone, the sun shines for everyone. / You must not be overcome by night, but must immerse it in eternal light. / A little lamp went out in my life. Hail to the joyous light of the world!]19 II. Nun seh’ ich wohl, warum so dunkle Flammen Ihr sprühtet mir in manchem Augenblicke, O Augen, gleichsam um in einem Blicke20 Zu drängen eure ganze Macht zusammen. Dort ahnt’ ich nicht, weil Nebel mich umschwammen, Gewoben vom verblendenden Geschicke, Dass sich der Strahl bereits zur Heimkehr schicke Dorthin, von wannen alle Strahlen stammen. Ihr wolltet mir mit eurem Leuchten sagen: Wir möchten nah dir immer bleiben gerne,21 Doch ist uns das vom Schicksal abgeschlagen. Sieh’ recht uns an!22 denn bald sind wir dir ferne. Was dir noch Augen sind in diesen Tagen,23 In künft’gen Nächten sind es dir nur Sterne. (KTL, 70) [I indeed see now why you sometimes flashed such dark flames at me. O eyes! As if you wanted to concentrate all your power in one single glance. / But, enveloped by fog and beguiled by destiny, I did not suspect that the beam was

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already on its way home, returning to the place from where all beams originate. / With your radiance you wanted to tell me: We would love to stay near you always, but that is denied us by fate. / Look at us now, for soon we will be far away from you! What in these days you still think are eyes will seem to you in nights to come but only stars.] III. 1. Wenn zur Thür herein Tritt dein Mütterlein Mit der Kerze Schimmer, Ist es mir als immer, Kämst du mit herein, Huschtest hinterdrein Als wie sonst in’s Zimmer. Träum ich, bin ich wach. Oder seh’ ich schwach Bei dem Licht, dem matten? Du nicht, nur ein Schatten Folgt der Mutter nach. Immer bist du, ach, Noch der Mutter Schatten. 2. Wenn dein Mütterlein Tritt zur Thür herein, Und den Kopf ich drehe, Ihr entgegensehe, Fällt auf ihr Gesicht Erst der Blick mir nicht, Sondern auf die Stelle Näher nach der Schwelle, Dort wo würde dein Lieb Gesichtchen sein, Wenn du freudenhelle Trätest mit herein Wie sonst, mein Töchterlein, O du, der Vaterzelle Zu schnelle Erlosch’ner Freudenschein! (KTL, 59–60)24 IV. Oft denk’ ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen, Bald werden sie wieder nach Haus gelangen, Der Tag ist schön, o sei nicht bang, Sie machen nur einen weitern Gang.

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Ja wohl, sie sind nur ausgegangen, Und werden jetzt nach Haus gelangen, O sei nicht bang, der Tag ist schön, Sie machen den Gang zu jenen Höhn.25 Sie sind uns nur voraus gegangen, Und werden nicht hier nach Haus verlangen,26 Wir holen sie ein auf jenen Höhn Im Sonnenschein, der Tag ist schön.27 (KTL, 311) [I often think they have only gone out and will soon be back home again. The day is beautiful, do not worry. They are only taking a long walk. / Yes, they have only gone out and now will come back home. Do not worry, the day is beautiful. They only have taken a walk to the hills up there. / They have only gone ahead of us and will not be coming home again. We shall catch up with them on the hills up there in the sunshine. The day is beautiful up there on the hills.] V. In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus, Nie hätt’ ich gesendet die Kinder hinaus: Man hat sie hinaus getragen,28 Ich durfte dazu nichts sagen.29 In diesem Wetter, in diesem Saus, Nie hätt’ ich gelassen die Kinder hinaus; Ich fürchtete, sie erkranken, Das sind nun eitle Gedanken. In diesem Wetter, in diesem Graus, Hätt’ ich gelassen die Kinder hinaus,30 Ich sorgte, sie stürben morgen, Das ist nun nicht zu besorgen.31 In diesem Wetter, in diesem Braus, Sie ruhn als wie in der Mutter Haus,32 Von keinem Sturme erschrecket, Von Gottes Hand bedecket.33 (KTL, 341) [In this weather, in this turmoil, I would never have sent the children outside. Someone carried them out; I could do nothing about it. / In this weather, in this storm, I would never have let the children outside. I was afraid they might get sick—these are idle thoughts now. / In this weather, in this horror, I would never have let the children outside. I was worried that they might die tomorrow. No need to worry about this now. / In this weather, in this turmoil, they rest as if in their mother’s house. No storm can frighten them; God’s hand protects them.]

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Notes 1. Mark W. Booth, The Experience of Songs (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981). 2. James A. Winn, Unsuspected Eloquence: A History of the Relations between Poetry and Music (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1981), 196. 3. Constantin Floros, Gustav Mahler, 2 vols. (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1977). 4. Hans Heinrich Eggebrecht, Die Musik Gustav Mahlers (Munich: Piper, 1981), 36– 38. Eggebrecht’s approach builds on that of Theodor W. Adorno (Mahler: Eine musikalische Physiognomik [Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1960]). Whereas Adorno asserts that the programmatic and quotational elements in Mahler’s music give it a “broken” quality appropriate to the fragmentation of Mahler’s late bourgeois world, Eggebrecht maintains that Adorno’s concept of “brokenness” assumes an opposite idea of purely musical “wholeness” that is itself challenged by Mahler’s music. 5. Eggebrecht, Die Musik Gustav Mahlers, 238. 6. Friedrich Rückert, Kindertotenlieder aus seinem Nachlasse (Frankfurt: J. D. Sauerlanders Verlag, 1872), iv. Luise, Rückert’s youngest child and only daughter, died on December 31, 1833, at age three. His next youngest child, Ernst, died on January 18, 1834, shortly after turning five. 7. Ibid., 3, 8, 10, 13, 14, 21, and so on. 8. Ibid., 14. See also 9–10. “Of course yourself are sick, when you sing where children die, but thank the illness for breaking the bitterness of death” (editor’s translation). 9. Ibid., 36–37. “Doctors, following medical rules, do not know how to remove a child from the world except by snatching away life’s energy through repulsive leeches” (editor’s translation). 10. Alma Mahler Werfel, And the Bridge Is Love (New York: Harcourt and Brace, 1958), 31: “Mahler heard them in 1901 and was so moved that he intoned them as in a dream.” 11. The first poem in the cycle appears in the section of Rückert’s volume called “Trost und Erhebung,” 369. The second and third poems can be found in “Krankheit und Tod,” 70 and 59, respectively, while the fourth and fifth are from “Trost und Erhebung,” 311 and 341, respectively. 12. Although the chronology of composition of the songs must be deduced from circumstantial evidence, Donald Mitchell (Gustav Mahler: The Wunderhorn Years [London: Faber & Faber, 1975], 34–43, 439) and Edward Kravitt (“Mahler’s Dirges for His Death,” The Musical Quarterly 64 [1978]: 329–53) make persuasive arguments for the composition of the first two songs in 1901 and the third and fourth in 1904. Mitchell favors 1904 as the date of the fifth song but entertains the possibility, which Kravitt vigorously supports, that the fifth song was begun or even finished in 1901. 13. The second poem in the cycle is a sonnet. As Jürgen Thym and I discuss in “Shackles or Spurs? Sonnet Settings in the German Lied,” sonnets presented a surprising variety of problems to nineteenth-century Lied composers. The relatively few examples of such settings tend to be through-composed. [The study, published after Fehn’s death in Journal of the American Liszt Society 32 (July-December 1993): 3–15, is reprinted as chapter 9 in this volume.] 14. For this and many other observations I am grateful to Professors Jürgen Thym and Deborah Stein of the Eastman School of Music. 15. Friedrich Rückert’s Kindertotenlieder aus seinem Nachlasse (Frankfurt: J. D. Sauerländers Verlag, 1872). 16. Mahler, Kindertotenlieder (New York: International Music Company, n.d.): Das Unglück geschah nur mir allein.

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334 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24.



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Mahler: Du musst nicht die Nacht in dir verschränken. Mahler: Lämplein The translations of each poem in appendix 12.1 are the editor’s. Mahler: Um voll in einem Blicke. Mahler: Wir möchten nah dir bleiben gerne. Mahler: Sieh’ uns nur an. Mahler: Was dir nur Augen sind in diesen Tagen. In Mahler’s song Rückert’s text is rewritten as follows:

Wenn dein Mütterlein tritt zur Tür herein, Und den Kopf ich drehe, ihr entgegen sehe, Fällt auf ihr Gesicht erst der Blick mir nicht, Sondern auf die Stelle, näher, näher nach der Schwelle. Dort, wo würde dein lieb’ Gesichtchen sein, Wenn du freudenhelle trätest mit herein, Wie sonst, mein Töchterlein! Wenn dein Mütterlein tritt zur Tür herein, Mit der Kerze Schimmer, ist es mir, als immer Kämst du mit herein, huschtest hinterdrein, Als wie sonst ins Zimmer! O du, o du, des Vaters Zelle, Ach, zu schnelle, Zu schnell erlosch’ner Freudenschein!

[When your mother enters through the door and I turn around to look at her, I have trouble seeing her face; instead my eyes focus on the place, near the threshold, where your dear little face would be, when you, bright-eyed, would enter the room with her as usual, my little daughter. / When your mother enters through the door holding a flickering candle, I always think of you slipping into the room with her as usual. Refuge of your father: light of joy, alas, extinguished too soon!] 25. Mahler: Sie machen nur den Gang zu jenen Höh’n! 26. Mahler: und werden nicht wieder nach Haus verlangen! 27. Mahler: Wir holen sie ein auf jenen Höh’n im Sonnenschein! Der Tag ist schön auf jenen Höh’n! 28. Mahler: Man hat sie getragen, getragen hinaus! 29. Mahler: Ich durfte nichts dazu sagen! 30. Mahler: nie hätt’ ich gelassen die Kinder hinaus. 31. After this third stanza Mahler inserts a repetition of the first, using “Graus” instead of “Braus.” 32. Mahler: In diesem Wetter, in diesem Saus, in diesem Braus. 33. Mahler: von Gottes Hand bedecket, sie ruh’n, sie ruh’n wie in der Mutter Haus, wie in der Mutter Haus!

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Chapter Thirteen

The Rückert Lieder of Robert and Clara Schumann Rufus Hallmark On December 24, 1850, Robert and Clara Schumann received a sole visitor at their home in Düsseldorf—their friend Josef Wasielewski, the violinist, concertmaster, and later Robert’s first biographer.1 Wasielewski was evidently the recipient on that occasion of a copy of their Rückert songs, Zwölf Lieder aus F. Rückerts Liebesfrühling, for the music is inscribed: “In commemoration of Christmas Eve, 1850, from Robert and Clara Schumann.”2 It was Clara’s personal copy of the songs, on which Robert had written “for my Clara” when he had presented it to her on her birthday, September 13, 1841. For the three friends, the songs would have been a memento of their Leipzig days. Perhaps, too, the Schumanns spoke of the cycle’s great personal significance and proudly showed their guest the verse letter Rückert had written to them; Wasielewski included it in an explanatory footnote to his list of Lieder composed in 1841.3 The Zwölf Lieder—nine by Robert and three by Clara—constitute the only true compositional collaboration between the famous pair (discounting compositions by one of them based on a theme borrowed from the other). The songs bear a unique double opus number—op. 37/12—the first Robert’s, the second Clara’s. Based on poems by Friedrich Rückert (the poems and their translations appear in appendix 13.1), arguably Robert’s favorite poet, the songs range from plain and luxurious strophic settings to simple and complex through-composed forms and consist of solos and duets. Clara’s songs share the characteristics of Robert’s style. The original edition was issued without identifying the composer _________________ This chapter was originally published in Nineteenth Century Music 14, 1 (Summer 1990): 3–30, and dedicated to the memory of Ann Clark Fehn (1945–89), with whom Hallmark had collaborated numerous times (see the two essays on Schubert’s pentameter settings reprinted in this volume as chapters 7 and 8). Fehn was the respondent when Hallmark introduced his ideas as a lecture at the Baltimore meeting of the American Musicological Society in 1988. For more details on the genesis of the article, see the asterisked footnote in the issue of Nineteenth Century Music mentioned earlier. It is reprinted by permission of the University of California Press.

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of the individual songs. Contemporaries could not distinguish the composers, and even today listeners can be confounded. All in all, the songs are fine specimens that are inappropriately neglected. Hearing them is like walking through a gallery of unfamiliar paintings by famous artists. Despite the unique circumstances of the group’s origin and the attendant interest one would expect, these songs are seldom performed as a unit by the requisite two singers.4 The songs are treated unsympathetically by commentators, in part, I think, because the nature of the group is inadequately appreciated.5 Because Robert and Clara’s collaboration is poorly understood, unwarranted and erroneous speculation about the compositional process has arisen. A scrutiny of all available documentary evidence means to set this matter straight.6 An investigation of the musical relations among the songs will address the question of whether they constitute a “cycle” and whether there is internal evidence of the collaboration.7 Finally, this study will argue for the kind of performance the composers might have envisaged.

I Robert had long wanted Clara to compose with him. The letters and diaries include passages looking forward to this feature of their life together. On June 13, 1839, he wrote to Clara of his anticipation that “we shall publish a good deal under both our names; posterity shall regard us as one heart and one soul and not find out what is yours and what is mine. How happy I am.”8 In a letter to Clara dated May 4, 1840, Robert specifically suggested song, a genre with which he was fruitfully occupied during much of 1840.9 (He was working on the Heine songs that eventually became Dichterliebe.) Clara responded. In their Ehetagebuch, or marriage diary, in mid-December 1840, she referred self-deprecatingly to her first efforts as a “weak attempt.” There were three songs she meant to give Robert for Christmas (Tb 2, 134). (The first three items in Clara’s autograph song manuscript, one on a poem by Robert Burns and two on Heine texts, are inscribed “componirt Weihnachten 1840.”10) Pleased with Clara’s songs, Robert noted in his diary her ability to project herself into the texts (“sie wie als Mädchen noch schwärmt”); he called her, not resisting the pun, “[eine] viel klarere Musikerin.” He also mentioned that he and Clara had hit upon the idea of “interweaving” these songs with some of his and publishing them together, a revival of the plan he had described in the 1839 letter (Tb 2, 134). One week later, seized with creative zeal, Robert set to music a number of poems from the popular Liebesfrühling of Friedrich Rückert. The Haushaltbuch contains brief notations about composing Rückert Lieder from January 4 to 16 (Tb 3, 171–72; fig. 13.1), and the marriage diary records Robert’s enthusiasm. He wrote that in these songs he thought he had “again found a special tone” (Tb 2, 139).

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Figure 13.1. Schumann’s Haushaltbuch notes compared with his draft manuscript Haushaltbuch

Autograph Liederalbum

January 4: 3 Lieder v. Rückert

66 “Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint” [dated January 4, 1841] 67 “Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden” 68 “Flügel! Flügel!”

January 5: Canon v. Rückert

—[“Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes” (?)] —[“So wahr die Sonne scheinet” (?)]

January 7: 2 v. Rückert

72 “Rose, Meer und Sonne” 76 “O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose”

January 10: 1 v. Rückert

78 “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen”

January 11: 1 Canon v. R.

—[?]

January 16: 1 kleines v. Rückert

80 “O ihr Herren”

Rückert was a poet who strongly and consistently interested Robert. Schumann set over fifty of his poems, arrayed in twenty published opera.11 Robert had acquired a copy of the first volume of Rückert’s collected poetry and given it to Clara. It bears the inscription “Clara Schumann hat dies Buch geschenkt bekommen im J[ahre] 1837 von ihrem damaligen Liebsten Robert.”12 With its myriad love poems, the collection was a natural gift for Robert to present to his beloved Clara. Central are the approximately 400 lyrics that constitute Liebesfrühling, which Rückert wrote the year he met and fell in love with Luise Wiethaus, who became his wife. Before the compositional spurt in January 1841, Robert had already set seven poems to music, including the five in Myrthen (among them “Du meine Seele, du mein Herz”). The composition of nine songs by one poet in a short period of time is reminiscent of Robert’s bursts of creativity when he wrote the celebrated cycles of 1840,13 and their similar origin provides the first reason to think of these Rückert songs as a cycle. The full drafts appear in Schumann’s compilation of his Lied manuscripts, now in Berlin.14 If the sequence of the songs in the Berlin album represents the compositional order, then one can, with limited success, match up the Lieder found there with the Haushaltbuch notes (see fig. 13.1). Nothing is certain about this alignment, but the closely related pair of poems/songs “Rose, Meer und Sonne” and “O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose” make sense as the only grouping of

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two songs Robert composed on a single day (January 7), and the twenty-measure “O ihr Herren” is a likely candidate for “1 kleines” (January 16). (The poems, together with English translations, are provided in appendix 13.1.) Unfortunately, Robert kept only solo songs in the Liederalbum, so “Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes” (op. 37, no. 7), a canonic duet, and “So wahr die Sonne scheinet” (op. 37, no. 12) are not included. (They are listed in fig. 13.2 with the fair copy and Stichvorlage in Paris, discussed further later.) The drafts in the Berlin manuscript are probably not the first writing down of these songs, for, if Robert’s procedure was like that for other songs in the “Liederjahr,” he first notated sketches for the vocal melodies before proceeding to make full drafts with piano.15 What did Robert mean when he said he thought he had rediscovered “a special tone” with these songs? Perhaps he sensed a new vigor in his song composing, which had slacked off tremendously in the fall and early winter of 1840. In the sixmonth period February through July 1840, Schumann composed approximately a hundred songs, including—in gusts of activity—the twenty-six songs of Myrthen (op. 25) and the nine songs of the Heine Liederkreis (op. 24) in February, the twenty Heine Lieder (sixteen of which became Dichterliebe, op. 48) and the twelve songs of the Eichendorff Liederkreis (op. 39) in concentrated periods in May, and the eight songs of the Chamisso cycle Frauenliebe und–Leben (op. 42) in two days in July. From August through December, Schumann completed only thirty-one songs, including the twelve Kerner Lieder (op. 35)—the only cycle—in November and December. Thus the sudden absorption in the Rückert songs could have given Schumann the impression that the wellspring of Lieder was flowing again. The intense involvement with and enthusiasm over Rückert’s poetry changed Robert’s idea about the collaborative project with Clara. Instead of simply interleaving Clara’s initial three with some of his (previously composed?) songs to make a “recht liebewarmes Heft” (Tb 2, 134), Robert now wanted Clara, too, to set some poems from Rückert’s Liebesfrühling: “Oh, do it, Clärchen!” he enjoined her (Tb 2, 139). The poetry itself could have suggested such an idea, for many of the individual lyrics are “spoken” by the female beloved. Robert had no hesitation about setting such texts himself (witness the Frauenliebe poems and the “Lieder der Braut” by Rückert in the Myrthen), but with the collaborative notion in his mind, this division of labor by gender might naturally have followed.16 On January 16, Clara wrote in the Ehetagebuch that she had made several attempts to set the Rückert poems Robert had written out for her (Tb 2, 141). Here it would be appropriate to consider some collateral evidence from the notebook of poetry Robert and Clara together kept for compositional ideas, designated by them as their “Abschriften von verschiedenen Gedichten zur Composition” and further described as “Gesammelt von Robert und Clara Schumann von 1839 an.”17 The Abschriftenbuch (as I shall refer to this source) contains a number of Rückert poems in scattered locations. One distinct group, copied by Robert, consists of five poems from Liebesfrühling: “Die gute Nacht,” “Er ist gekommen,” “Warum willst du and’re fragen,” “Liebst du um Schönheit,” and

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“O Freund, mein Schirm, mein Schutz.”18 Some individual lines and groups of lines in these poems are underlined.19 Here the hard evidence of the Abschriftenbuch ends and speculation about its significance for the collaboration begins. It seems safe to conclude that these are the “vom Robert aufgezeichneten Gedichte” Clara mentions in the diary and possibly the “einige” in Robert’s injunction “Klara soll nun auch aus dem Liebesfrühling einige komponieren” (Tb 2, 139). Whether the underlinings, which correspond closely to musical emphases in Clara’s settings, were made by Robert as suggestions for composition or by Clara as records of interpretive decisions she had made cannot be unequivocally answered.20 Frustratingly, there is no word about the collaboration for over three months.21 Robert was busy with other compositional projects, such as the B-flat major and D minor symphonies, and Clara was preparing for a big concert in March.22 Then on April 22, Robert wrote to Friedrich Kistner to propose the publication, as a single opus, of Clara’s three songs (from December) together with the Rückert settings of his that they had inspired; Robert requested that the songs be printed by September and that Kistner help him keep it a secret from Clara, whom he wanted to surprise.23 (Kistner had conspired in the preparation of the Myrthen songs as a surprise wedding gift for Clara the previous year. Apparently, Robert had given up on the idea that Clara would set some Rückert poems.) But then, in May and June, the Ehetagebuch records a series of entries concerning Clara’s composing. “But as for composition there just isn’t any more— all poetry has left me,” she wrote in early May (Tb 2, 162). A month later, full of slightly resentful envy of Robert’s prolific composing, she castigated herself: “With composition nothing at all is happening—sometimes I’d like to knock myself on my dumb head!” The frustration was momentary, for within the week she recorded that she had finished four Rückert songs for her beloved Robert (Tb 2, 166–67). They were “Warum willst du and’re fragen,” “Er ist gekommen,” “Liebst du um Schönheit,” and “Die gute Nacht”; Clara did not set the fifth, “O Freund! Mein Schirm, mein Schutz.”24 Clara presented the songs to Robert as a birthday gift (they are dated June 8), just as she had made a Christmas present of the three songs from the previous December.25 According to Clara’s description of her husband’s reaction, Robert was much pleased and “even wants to publish them with some of his own” (Tb 2, 168). (Only three of Clara’s songs were ultimately included; “Die gute Nacht” was laid aside.) Robert’s Haushaltbuch entry of June 10—“the Rückert Lieder notated”—may refer to the making of a fair copy of the songs (Tb 3, 184). Indeed, a fair copy survives in the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris; Clara wrote it, and it served as the Stichvorlage for the first edition.26 That edition was published not by Kistner, who had apparently replied negatively to Robert’s proposal, but by Breitkopf & Härtel, to whom Robert offered the Rückert songs on June 23.27 More on the Stichvorlage and this letter presently.

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Despite the approaching publication deadline he set for himself—Clara’s birthday, September 13—Robert apparently did not immediately send the songs to the publisher. Further work on them is noted in the Haushaltbuch on July 20 (Tb 3, 188), and the completion of the “Rückertiana” is recorded there on August 19 (Tb 3, 191). Since Robert’s and Clara’s songs as they appear in their respective Berlin manuscripts are in very close to final form, the work that engaged Robert, or Robert and Clara together, during this period was probably not further compositional work on individual songs. Rather, the final steps in preparing the Rückert Lieder for publication were likely the decisions about their order. The Paris manuscript reveals indecision about the sequence of the twelve songs and offers glimpses of two preliminary orderings. In the Paris Stichvorlage, each song is headed with a Roman numeral in red pencil; a note instructs the engraver to follow this indicated order rather than the physical sequence of the manuscript.28 In most cases, one or even two earlier Roman numerals in black pencil have been partially erased and written over in red. While the earlier numerals are not absolutely clear, they appear, after close and repeated inspection, to be the ones reproduced in the two right-hand columns of figure 13.2. With Clara’s three songs missing from the Paris manuscript, one can only guess at their distribution in the group. Even so, some conclusions can be drawn. Since none of Robert’s songs in the Paris source bears the numeral “I” in black pencil, one of Clara’s songs must have been first in the two earlier orderings. Although one cannot know for sure which one, the nature of the poetic text and musical considerations together lead one to believe it must have been “Er ist gekommen.” The poem describes the beginning of a romance metaphorically as the outbreak of a storm, whereas Clara’s other two songs speak of an established relationship. The song’s virtuosic piano music would serve well as a dramatic opening number. Further, the key progression from F minor to A-flat major emulates the initial progressions from minor to relative major in Dichterliebe and in the Eichendorff Liederkreis. The other numerals missing from the early orderings are “VII” and “IX” in the first and “V” and “VI” in the second sequence. Assuming the first song is “Er ist gekommen” in both earlier groupings, taking key relations into consideration, and finding no strong sequential implication in either of the other texts, one can integrate Clara’s other two songs and posit as the two early versions of Zwölf Lieder the ones given in figure 13.3. Features of the earlier orderings stand out. Robert’s “Der Himmel” and Clara’s “Er ist gekommen” always occupy the first two positions, regardless of which is first—an introductory song for the male and female voices. “O ihr Herren” always holds third place, perhaps as the poet’s (composer’s) aside to his audience, and the duet “So wahr die Sonne scheinet” is always last. Two sets of songs are consistently paired, although they are moved about. “Rose, Meer und Sonne” and “O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose” (not surprising, given their textual

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Figure 13.2. The published order of the Rückert songs and their earlier orderings in the Paris BN Manuscript 341 Published Order

Earlier Orderings

(red numerals in Paris ms.)

(black numerals in Paris ms.) First

Second

I.

“Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint”

II

II

[II.

“Er ist gekommen”]

(missing)



III.

“O ihr Herren”

III

III

[IV.

“Liebst du um Schönheit”]

(missing)



V.

“Ich hab’ in mich gesogen”

X

X

VI.

“Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden”

XI

XI

VII.

“Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes”

VII

VIII

VIII.

“Flügel! Flügel!”

IV

IV

IX.

“Rose, Meer und Sonne”

VIII

V

X.

“O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose”

IX

VI

[XI.

“Warum willst du and’re fragen”]

(missing)



XII.

“So wahr die Sonne scheinet”

XII

XII

pairing, shared key, and motivic relatedness) are V and VI in the first, VIII and IX in the second, and IX and X in the final order. “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen” and “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden” are X and XI in the first two orderings, then IV and V in the final sequence. In the first and final orderings, both these pairs are preceded by the same songs: the two B-major songs are prefaced by “Flügel,” which ends in F-sharp minor; and “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen” and “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden,” in F and A-flat, respectively, follow “Liebst du um Schönheit,” in D-flat. “O Sonn’” (the second of the B-major pair) is also followed in both orderings by “Warum willst du and’re fragen.” In every ordering, the cycle opens in A-flat (or F minor/A-flat) and ends in E-flat (“So wahr die Sonne scheinet”). The penultimate song, although it changes, is in each case in the key of A-flat (Robert’s “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden” or Clara’s “Warum willst du and’re fragen”). Similarly, the seventh song is again always in A-flat (Clara’s “Warum willst du and’re fragen” or the duet “Schön ist das Fest”). “Flügel!” always follows a song in Aflat, and since it opens on an ambiguous diminished seventh chord above B

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Figure 13.3. Posited earlier orderings of the song First

Second

(I.

“Er ist gekommen”)

f–A-flat

(I.

“Er ist gekommen”)

f–A-flat

II.

“Der Himmel”

A-flat

II.

“Der Himmel”

A-flat

III.

“O ihr Herren”

A-flat

III.

“O ihr Herren”

A-flat

IV.

“Flügel! Flügel!”

B?–f-sharp

IV.

“Flügel! Flügel!”

B?–f-sharp

V.

“Rose, Meer”

B

(V.

“Liebst du”)

D-flat (C-sharp)

VI.

“O Sonn,’ o Meer”

B

(VI. “Warum willst du”)

A-flat

(VII. “Warum willst du”)

A-flat (G-sharp)

VII.

A-flat

VIII.

“Schön ist das Fest”

A-flat

VIII. “Rose, Meer”

B

(IX.

“Liebst du”)

D-flat

IX.

“O Sonn,’ o Meer”

B

X.

“Ich hab’ in mich”

F

X.

“Ich hab’ in mich”

F

XI.

“Liebste, was kann” A-flat

XI.

“Liebste, was kann” A-flat

XII.

“So wahr die Sonne”

XII. “So wahr die Sonne”

E-flat

“Schön ist das Fest”

E-flat

(that turns out to be vii7/V in B), with g-sharp’ in the top voice, there is an enharmonic common tone between the songs. In the first and third orderings, the pair of B-major songs is followed by a song in A-flat (“Warum”), the enharmonic submediant key; the b–d-sharp’ third in the right hand at the final cadence of “O Sonn’” is followed by the c’–e-flat’ third in the same register at the beginning of “Warum” (fig. 13.4). It is clear from all this that the first ordering has groupings closer to the final order than to the intervening one. The F-sharp–B–B–A-flat sequence and the D-flat–F–A-flat sequence are each intact in the initial and final orderings and simply reverse positions in the halves of the cycle. Clearly, a good deal of experimentation was required before the composers achieved a satisfactory sequence. The effort to find a right order is itself evidence that the Schumanns had a bone fide cycle in mind. On September 6, Robert sent off the corrected proofs for the Rückert songs (Tb 3, 193), and his Haushaltbuch entry of September 13—“Lieder von Rückert”—presumably refers to receipt of an advance copy of the Zwölf Lieder (Tb 3, 194). Robert’s and Clara’s respective entries in the Ehetagebuch the subsequent week tell of Robert’s surprising her on her birthday with these

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Figure 13.4. Key sequences and groupings in the successive orderings of the cycle First Order

Second Order

Third Order

1.

“Er ist gekommen” f/A-flat

“Er ist gekommen” f/A-flat

“Der Himmel” A-flat

2.

“Der Himmel” A-flat

“Der Himmel” A-flat

“Er ist gekommen” f/A-flat

3.

“O ihr Herren” A-flat

“O ihr Herren” A-flat

“O ihr Herren” A-flat

4.

“Flügel!” (B?)/f-sharp

“Flügel!” (B?)/f-sharp

“Liebst du” D-flat

5.

“Rose, Meer” B

“Liebst du” D-flat

“Ich hab’ in mich” F

6.

“O Sonn,’ o Meer” B

“Warum willst du” A-flat

“Liebste, was kann” A-flat

7.

“Warum willst du” A-flat

“Schön ist das Fest” A-flat

“Schön ist das Fest” A-flat

8.

“Schön ist das Fest” A-flat

“Rose, Meer” B

“Flügel!” (B?)/f-sharp

9.

“Liebst du” D-flat

“O Sonn,’ o Meer” B

“Rose, Meer” B

10. “Ich hab’ in mich” F

“Ich hab’ in mich” F

“O Sonn,’ o Meer” B

11. “Liebste, was kann” A-flat

“Liebste, was kann” A-flat

“Warum willst du” A-flat

A-flat ↓

12. “So wahr die Sonne” E-flat

“So wahr die Sonne” E-flat

“So wahr die Sonne” E-flat

E-flat

A-flat/f

A-flat

songs. Clara said she was taken by complete surprise, perhaps implying that she had known little of the final arrangements for publication (Tb 2, 185–86). Robert’s complete inscription on the back of the title page includes two stanzas from another Liebesfrühling poem29 and the dating and dedication “Am 13ten September 1841 / für meine Klara. / Robert.”30 The Zwölf Gedichte aus F. Rückerts Liebesfrühling were printed in two Hefte (nos. 1–7 and 8–12), each ending with a duet. The lithographic title page had a decorative border of flowers printed in reddish-brown ink. Breitkopf & Härtel issued its first Titelauflage the following year, and at least three other editions followed.31

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The publication was announced in the Intelligenzblatt of the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik (no. 17, October 1841).32 The happy conclusion to the story of the collaboration is the exchange with Friedrich Rückert. Robert’s Briefbuch records that on May 24, 1842, he sent a copy of the Zwölf Lieder to the poet at his country home in Neusess near Coburg.33 Only three weeks later (June 15), the Schumann’s received a reply from Rückert (Tb 3, 217). It was not just a polite note of acknowledgment but a poem written in gratitude. Lang ist’s, lang, Seit ich meinen Liebesfrühling sang; Aus Herzensdrang, Wie er entsprang. Verklang in Einsamkeit der Klang. Zwanzig Jahr Wurdens; da hört’ ich hier und da Der Vogelschaar Einen, der klar Pfiff einen Ton, der dorther war. Und nun gar Kommt im einundzwanzigsten Jahr Ein Vogelpaar, Macht erst mir klar, Dass nicht ein Ton verloren war. Meine Lieder Singt ihr wieder. Mein Empfinden Klingt ihr wieder, Mein Gefühl Beschwingt ihr wieder, Meinen Frühling Bringt ihr wieder, Mich, wie schön Verjüngt ihr wieder. Nehmt meinen Dank, wenn euch die Welt, Wie mir einst, ihren vorenthält! (Und werdet ihr den Dank erlangen, So hab’ ich meinen mitempfangen.)34 [It is long since I sang my Liebesfrühling; as it sprang up from my heart’s desire, so it faded away in solitude. For twenty years, here and there, I heard a bird from the throng clearly whistling a tune from it. And now, twenty-one years later, a pair of birds makes it plain that not one tone has been lost. You sing my songs again, intone my sentiments, brandish my feelings, you bring back my springtime and rejuvenate me. Take my thanks, even if the world withholds it from you—as it once did from me! (And when you do receive thanks, I receive mine along with yours.) Translation by the author.]

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It is evident that Robert was deeply moved by Rückert’s gesture and proud of the praise the poet accorded him. He referred to the receipt of the poem as “a great joy,” described Rückert’s creation as a Meistergedicht (the hyperbole of which reflects his excitement more than his literary judgment), and asked Clara to copy it into the diary and place the original letter in their album (Tb 2, 229).35 In two subsequent letters to friends, Robert mentioned Rückert’s poem with pride.36 Perhaps one or both of them later sent a copy of the verse to the press, for Rückert’s poem was published in the Berliner Taschenbuch für 1843 and in the Signale für die musikalische Welt (October 1843).37 Judging from his enthusiasm, one imagines that the composer found many other opportunities to tell of the poet’s reaction and to show the letter to visitors; he and Clara may have shared it with Wasielewski when they gave him Clara’s copy of the Zwölf Lieder on Christmas Eve 1850. In addition, as we shall see, Robert showed Rückert’s letter to Brahms.38 The extent of Robert’s and Clara’s collaboration appears to have been their agreement in principle on a joint publication of songs and Clara’s amenability to Robert’s request to set poems by Rückert. Beyond that, they seem to have worked independently on their respective songs. Robert composed his nine songs in a burst of activity in January 1841; Clara finally wrote hers in June and surprised Robert with the finished songs on his birthday. Nothing in the documents implies that they worked together on each other’s songs. Given Clara’s self-deprecatory tone in the diaries as she struggled to compose her songs and given her eagerness to please Robert, it would seem natural for her to have acknowledged in the Ehetagebuch his direct help or advice had he given any. If there was more give and take during the process, there is no mention of it, and any assertions about collaboration between Robert and Clara on individual songs are speculative.39 And yet, although no documentation exists, there must have been further communication between the composers. To take the most obvious example, it cannot have been by sheer coincidence that Clara composed her songs in keys appropriate to those of Robert’s songs. Indeed, it would appear that Robert shared his songs with Clara. Here we must turn to the music itself.

II The Rückert songs are nowhere called a “cycle.” Still, cyclic characteristics emerge. The poems do not constitute a narrative, but they are all taken from a single poetic collection (Liebesfrühling) and share the theme of conjugal love. Furthermore, the songs are closely related by keys; half of them are in A-flat, and the rest are related by a fifth above or below (E-flat, D-flat) and by a minor third above and below (B, F/f).40

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There are also thematic and motivic connections among some of the songs. Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau and Eric Sams have observed that the opening melody of the first song is the same as the beginning of the closing duet (examples 13.1a, 13.b).41 The original incipit of the first song was slightly different—identical, in fact, to its melodic reprise in measures 15–16, with a descent to G. Schumann’s emendation (Berlin Liederalbum), which tightens the relationship between the first and last songs, suggests that the original, imperfect parallelism between these songs sprang up unconsciously. However this may be, the parallelisms between song 9, “Rose, Meer, und Sonne,” and song 10, “O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose,” were consciously drawn. The triadic melody, with which they both begin, and the postlude common to both have been often noted. But the shared musical material goes beyond this common “frame” to other, internal passages. In song 10 this other recurring music has been transposed and varied beyond instant recognition, but the identity is betrayed by the shared bass line and harmonic progression (examples 13.2a, 13.2b). As it turns out, then, not just the opening and close but much of the music in between are common to both songs. Here Schumann’s manipulation of the music is somewhat akin to Rückert’s treatment of the words. Rückert’s two poems occur together in the third Strauß of Liebesfrühling, and the one is a verbal variation of the other. The poet wrote two poems with the same thematic elements—the beloved compared to rose, sea, and sun—but he played with these elements. The order of the three images is reversed, and Rückert made adjustments in the details and the wording of the similes, while the underlying ideas remain. He also varied the form, presenting the three ideas first in ten simple quatrains (organized as Refrain + 2, R + 2, R + 2, + closing R) and then in three complex ten-line stanzas. Although not directly analogous, Schumann’s recasting of the same music, varied and combined, for very different musical strophes is similar to Rückert’s procedures of creative play.42 Some of this musical material also occurs, in different form, in “Flügel! Flügel!” There prominent passages accounting for a quarter of the song share harmonic progression and bass line with songs 9 and 10. In several of the passages, the vocal melody even leaps or outlines a minor seventh over dominant harmony, as, for instance, in measures 7–8 of song 10. The passages in question in song 8 are measures 11–18, 28–36, and 73–80 of the fast 6/8 sections and measures 57–64 of the slow middle section in common time (examples 13.3a–d). In light of the extensive interrelations of songs 9 and 10, it was natural to deal with them first; but if the order of composition inferred earlier is correct, then these musical ideas first occurred in “Flügel! Flügel!” and the derivation of musical material is the reverse of the way I have discussed it. The three poems succeed one another in this order in Liebesfrühling (see appendix 13.1), and these three songs are almost always together in this order in

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Example 13.1a. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 1, mm. 2–3

Example 13.1b. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 12, mm. 1–2

Example 13.2a. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 9, mm. 3–4, 11–14, 19–22, coda

Example 13.2b. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 10, mm. 1–2, 7–14, coda

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Example 13.3a. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 8, mm. 11–18

Example 13.3b. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 8, mm. 29–36

Example 13.3c. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 8, mm. 57–64

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Example 13.3d. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 8, mm. 73–80

the manuscript sources. “Flügel,” which ends in F-sharp minor, immediately precedes the paired B-major songs in the Berlin draft and in the first and final orderings of the Paris fair copy. One cannot help but wonder if Schumann’s reuse in songs 9 and 10 of music from song 8 is connected with recurring images or ideas in the poetic texts. No obvious textual linking is present, but one might argue that “Flügel!” is concerned with unfulfilled longing, whereas songs 9 and 10 carry texts of fulfillment. Analogously, while the melodic-harmonic progression in song 8 is often open-ended, reaching tonicized dominants (mm. 32, 76, 80) or diverted from its implied goal (mm. 18, 36), the related progression in songs 9 and 10 is closed, making full cadences.43 These musical fragments may even have reached beyond Robert’s songs to Clara’s. Is one straining to hear musical resemblances between the motive in Robert’s songs 8, 9, and 10 and the closing passages in Clara’s songs 2 and 11, “Er ist gekommen” and “Warum willst du and’re fragen” (examples 13.4a, 13.4b, 13.4c)? Clara appears to have built the invertible counterpoint in the outer voices of her songs from the bass line of Robert’s. (Robert’s melodies also contain the fa–mi–ti–do outline.) Clearly, this is a musical link between Clara’s two songs, and the shared music sounds like the idea we have heard in Robert’s. A less tentative relation exists between Clara’s “Liebst du um Schönheit” and Robert’s “Rose, Meer und Sonne.” Both songs begin with two identical measures of introductory arpeggiation, followed by vocal melodies that include a leap from the fifth degree up to the tonic and back, and conclude with a stepwise descent from that tonic down to the fifth. Then, in measures 7–10 in Clara’s song and in measures 15–18 (and mm. 23–26) in Robert’s comes a phrase made of descending fifths in the outer voices, its diatonic circle of fifths progression broken at its cadence when the mediant chord is altered to a major third, momentarily the dominant of the submediant (V of

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Example 13.4a. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 2, mm. 29–33

Example 13.4b. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 11, mm. 33–36

Example 13.4c. Outer voices in Clara’s songs (cf. mm. 11–14, 19–22 of song 9 and mm. 7–14 of song 10 in examples 13.2a and 13.2b)

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VI). In both songs, however, the ensuing phrase returns to the original tonic. (For the second stanza, Clara starts the descending thirds higher and allows the progression to reach the tonic [examples 13.5a, 13.5b, 13.5c, 13.5d].) This extended parallelism, surely too much for coincidence, suggests that Clara had Robert’s songs in mind as she composed hers. The two poems on which these songs are built have features in common. Both have refrain-like structures (the recurring quatrain in song 9, the couplet in song 4), and both deal with a series of similar images related to or compared with the beloved (rose/spring, sea/mermaid, sun). These poetic parallels may have suggested to Clara that she model her song on elements of Robert’s. The rather rhetorical figure at the beginning is certainly an appropriate musical gesture in both songs for enumerating the central images, and the passage in descending thirds with its chromatically altered ending serves well for the follow-through and preparation or continuation into the succeeding stanza.

III An unsigned review of Zwölf Gesänge aus Rückerts Liebesfrühling appeared in the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung, vol. 44, January 19, 1842.44 The writer noted that the title page says the songs are not only by Robert Schumann, “sondern auch von seiner Gattin.” He continued: “Since nothing further is stated as to how much each of them contributed, we cannot take this into consideration, but only discuss the collection in general, silencing our speculation.” The reviewer’s offended curiosity probably disappointed Robert, who had naively hoped the world would not care who had written what but would regard the collaboration as evidence that he and Clara were “one heart and one soul.” The body of the review is well considered; some of its criticism still speaks to us today. Perhaps more important, it offers insight into contemporary reception of song in general and of this cycle in particular. For the reviewer, the first Lied is full of profound and ingenious melody. But the ending displeases him: “A throng of chords pile up under one note of the voice, which leads to a weak cadence.” He refers to the perception of a listener who, attuned to the rate of declamation and harmonic rhythm of most of the song, is surprised by the length of the b-flat’ on “Trop[fen],” twice as long as one expects (and on a short vowel), and by the simultaneous acceleration of the chord changes, from half to quarter note. But surely this unexpected augmentation and harmonic intensification contribute to, rather than weaken, the sense of closure. The reviewer decries what he believes to be the incorrect conception of song 2. We can dismiss his first criticism—“no maiden’s breast beats so in its delightful anguish; this is more an anxious cry for help”—as an unsympathetic

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Example 13.5a. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 9, mm. 1–6, 15–18 (23–26)

Example 13.5b. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 4, mm. 1–10, 15–18

or even a sexist stereotyped response, but his second opinion—“we find the accompaniment bombastic and difficult, dwelling more on the painting of a storm than on the portrayal of the maiden’s feelings”—must be more carefully considered. Did Clara fail in this regard? On closer inspection, we realize that the storm is not merely an atmospheric circumstance of the poem but a metaphor of the young woman’s agitated emotions. It is the essence of the poem, and Clara has hit upon an apt conception. As the “maiden” warms to the “Spring’s blessing,” the tempestuous F minor subsides into calmer A-flat major.

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Example 13.5c. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 9 (reduction)

Example 13.5d. Schumann, Liebesfrühling, song 4 (reduction)

With his remarks on the next song, the reviewer reveals his preference (already discernible) for simple songs. He regrets that song 3, “with its naturalness, its earnest melody, its accompaniment so closely matched to the voice,” is so short. He advises that it be sung twice and often, apparently suggesting that it be excerpted from the cycle and sung frequently and even repeated when sung in performance. It comes as no surprise that a contemporary reviewer has so little regard for the integrity of the cycle; indeed, this remains a perplexing insensitivity today. “Especially lovely to us is the following song: ‘Liebst du um Schönheit,’ “ continues the review. If one can register the complaint that the accompaniment becomes more important than the simple melody, even so the whole is so pure, so truthfully felt, in every way so smooth and flowing, its form so consummate, that we place it among the better songs. The charm of the accompaniment embodies the perception of a sympathetic soul who is moved by the thoughts the voice expresses.

In these remarks is the germ of an important insight. The piano, no mere accompaniment, evokes a separate persona, “eine schöne Seele,” reacting to the words sung by the voice: the male beloved, who is addressed by the female in the vocal melody.45 Indeed in each song whose text is addressed by one lover to the other, the piano may insinuate itself as the “other.” In the preliminary measures, the piano “waits and listens.” Her first phrase, a simple question with an obvious

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answer, elicits no reaction, for the piano continues as before. But when she sings “O nicht mich liebe,” the piano registers a clear reaction with the F-flat. Song 5 was not well-liked by the reviewer. “As clear and pure as the song just discussed seemed to us, the following one seems confused and unintelligible.” He proceeds to detail his dislike of “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen” in the longest criticism of the review. We confess that though we are in agreement with the idea from which the rich, abundant accompaniment seems to have sprung, we cannot nevertheless declare it beautiful. If at first we are bothered by the constantly identical rhythm of the melody (which taken by itself seems a bit like a penny ballad [bänkelsängerisch]), we find, especially from the words “und hier am Busen lehnet,” the piling up of harmonies so irksome and so little supported that they remind us of weeds, which appear quickly enough with the beginning of spring. If the melody, for reasons mentioned above, has something ordinary about it, notwithstanding the unprecedented accompaniment, then the ending reminds us of a time that is now bygone, along with Himmel and others.46

As the review implies, the accompaniment—with its three-voice counterpoint—is a musical analogy to the fecundity of spring. Just as surely on target, the reviewer has hit upon the things about this song that make it difficult to bring to musical life; the rhythms and sequentially constructed phrases can grow monotonous. But the piano’s phrases are out of kilter with the voice’s melody, and Schumann carefully phrased and accented the music to bring this out. This intentional misalignment, together with the modulation of registers in both piano and voice, the varied dynamics, and the waves of harmonic intensification, should—in a sensitive performance—prevent the song from sounding humdrum. What the reviewer dislikes, apparently, in the passage in measures 13–15 is that the “weeds” are not “rooted”; the chord roots (D–G–E–A–F–B-flat) are not in the bass but in an inner voice over a C pedal. The reviewer is equally unimpressed with the next two songs but does not explain his disdain for them. The second Heft of the edition begins with song 8, “Flügel! Flügel!” The reviewer characterizes it as “long” and “passionate” but finds its conclusion “rash” and “unsatisfying,” for which “the long postlude offers no substitute.” It is true that after the twenty-four-measure middle section, which at its sehr langsam tempo could last twice as long as the opening forty-eight bars (a bar of 86 approximating a quarter note of the 44), the conclusion of the sung text in a mere sixteen measures has an abrupt quality that is hardly compensated for by the remaining sixteen measures of the piano coda. The reviewer seems unwilling or unable to consider this lack of Vollkommenheit in the music a desirable counterpart to the crashing disillusionment of the poem; the poet’s romantic yearning beyond the militations of time and space are frustrated, and, the wax in his feathered wings melted by the sun of reality, Icarus “plunges into the

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sea.” (He also does not notice that when the songs are performed as a cycle, the luxuriant leisure of the next song compensates for the abruptness of the ending of song 8.) Of the two B-major songs, the reviewer notes their interrelatedness “that the composer happily came upon. We deem these two songs the choicest of this Heft; and if the first one is a bit monotonous in its melody as in its accompaniment, this is partially made up for by the climax, which reaches its peak in the excellent ending.” The reviewer also prefers song 11 over many others “on account of its simple, appropriate melody, [and] its interesting, not overdone accompaniment.” The review concludes with disapproval of the final duet: “It oversteps the bounds of simplicity, even of the popular, so much that it sinks down to the somewhat ordinary, as other songs do by striving for individuality.” The closing duet is utterly plain, to be sure: the rhythm is unremarkable, and the two voices and the piano are all in rhythmic unison nearly throughout, the top and bottom lines of the piano often doubling the singers; the melody and harmony are simple and predominantly diatonic; the dynamic level hovers at piano. But against such a plain backdrop, the subtlest musical coloration stands out. Thus the slight chromaticism and crescendo and—almost breathtakingly—the registral leap of male voice and piano at “Du liebst mich wie ich dich” create an undeniable climax in proportion to the song. The second stanza has new music, but for the dual pledge of the couplet refrain Schumann brings back the same “climax,” this time extended by the repetition. In that repetition the first phrase is “sung” by the piano alone, and when the two voices join on the closing phrase, Schumann has set the text so they simultaneously sing the two different lines of the couplet—one sings, “du liebst mich wie ich dich,” the other “dich lieb’ ich wie du mich.”47 Two things about this reviewer seem evident. First, his taste in songs is quite distinct. He is drawn to smooth and pretty melodies, piano accompaniments of definite but not distracting character, harmonies with flavor but without eccentricity, and strophic or modified strophic forms. Second, he assesses each song by itself and has no feeling for the integrity of the cycle. In his view, each song must stand or fall on its own merits; its place in the sequence—in terms of character and tonality, of continuity and contrast, of proportion and balance, of potential narrative, dramatic, logical, psychological, or mood development—has no relevance for him. He is oblivious to the possibility that these twelve songs might be understood as a single entity.

IV How should the cycle be performed? (Fig. 13.5 suggests a solution for performance by two singers.) This is not a trivial question, for while the presence of

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Figure 13.5. Suggested alternation of singers Song

Voice

Gender of Text

No. 1

tenor

precedes female song; implicit male? or gender-neutral?

No. 2

soprano

explicit female

No. 3

tenor

implicit male (Dichter)

No. 4

soprano

implicit female

No. 5

tenor

explicit male (Dichter)

No. 6

tenor/soprano

explicit male and accompanying voice

No. 7

soprano/tenor

duet

No. 8

tenor

implicit male (Dichter)

No. 9

soprano

explicit male, but regular alternation calls for female; see discussion

No. 10

tenor

explicit male

No. 11

soprano

implicit female? or gender-neutral?

No. 12

soprano/tenor

duet

duets requires two voices, they are explicitly designated only for the duets. No singer is specified for any of the solo songs. For assistance we must consider the gender of the speakers in the poems together with Robert’s description of the songs to his publisher. The Liebesfrühling poems are written in such a way that many are spoken by the poet’s voice and by his Geliebte. Many poems are also neutral with regard to gender. Robert’s lyrics are either gender-neutral or are spoken by a man, whose identity is implied through imagery and attitude. Several are explicitly addressed by the poet to his Liebste (songs 6, 9, 10) and in one, “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen” (song 5), “die Liebste . . . hört . . . die Frühlingströme rauschen in ihres Dichters Brust” (the beloved hears the spring’s rivers murmuring in her poet’s breast). The poems Robert chose for Clara are mostly in the voice of the female persona. Obviously, “Er ist gekommen” is spoken by a woman, and the tone and imagery of “Liebst du um Schönheit” strongly suggest a woman’s voice, while “Warum willst du and’re fragen” is relatively neutral.48 In his June 23, 1841, letter to Breitkopf & Härtel, offering the songs for publication, Robert wrote, “Together we have composed a number of Rückert Lieder that are related to one another as question and answer.”49 The cycle, then, is to

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be understood as a dialogue. Besides the duets and the chiming in of the second voice in number 6, the letter implies that the other songs should be sung by the male and female singers in alternation. Such an alternation can be worked out, even though the performer is not designated in the music, for if the soprano is to sing the songs with a female persona (nos. 2, 4, and 11), the “questions and answers” fall pretty much into place. In addition to this alternation of singers from one song to the next, it might be suggested that the singers alternate singing the strophes of song 6, creating a dialogue within the larger dialogue and enhancing it with the change of vocal colors and registers (especially felicitous in the duet sections).50 One spot is troublesome for regular alternation, and that is the pair of B-major songs, numbers 9 and 10. Since an alternation of male and female singers and of duets combining the two has been established, and since the poem and music of the second are a response to the first (as discussed earlier), it would seem appropriate for each of the singers to be assigned one of these songs; and it would be logical for the female singer to perform song 9, since song 8 has been performed by the male. But both poems are addressed to “Liebste,” the female beloved. Thus there are several, separate issues. Can a woman sing this text as it is? Or can the gender in the text be changed? Can the imagery of the poem support either a female or a male persona? If Robert and Clara intended this alternation, why did they not alter the text? (Why, indeed, did they not designate the singers throughout the cycle in the first place?) In answer to the first question, female singers can certainly sing a song addressed to “Liebste.” Such license is common in performance, where the sex of the performer can be irrelevant. We know that the Schumanns highly esteemed the performance of Robert’s songs by women, celebrated concert singers among them, including songs set to poems with distinct male personae.51 But in the present instance, the dialoguing creates a quasi-dramatic situation in which the gender of the singers does in fact play a role. In the later Rückertbased Minnespiel (op. 101) for four solo singers, for example, Schumann aligned the gender of the singer with that of the lyrical persona. Given the implicit dialogue of lovers, then, it would seem appropriate to adjust the gendered references in song 9, if these songs are performed as a cycle as the composers arguably intended. The alterations, which affect the refrain only, would be: “Rose, Meer und Sonne / Sind ein Bild des Liebsten mein, / Der mit seiner Wonne / Fasst mein ganzes Leben ein.” But is such an audacious suggestion not outrageously frivolous? We would be tampering in turn with the authorial intention of three artists. If they had meant this poem/song to be addressed to a male beloved, they would have so written it. Let us break this charge into two questions, both of which deal in possibilities and probabilities rather than in certainties. First, could Rückert have placed the sentiments of “Rose, Meer und Sonne” in the mouth of a female persona? Second, could Robert and Clara not have altered the text themselves?

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In Rückert’s Liebesfrühling the rose does not represent the female beloved exclusively. When it is a metaphor for the woman, it is seldom merely for its attributes of color and beauty. One poem in which the rose does exemplify beauty also speaks of the rose’s thorns (“Sie lächle oder erbose, / Mein Lieb ist immer Rose: / Wenn sie lächelt voll Zier, / Die hunderblättrige mir; / Wenn sie grollet, die Zornige, / Ist sie die hundertdornige”).52 In “rose” poems the flower is seldom simply a term of address; rather, as in “Rose, Meer und Sonne,” it is a symbol of preeminence. Other poems bear this out (e.g., “Du bist die Rose meiner Liebe, / Die Ros’ auf meines Herzens Flur. / Es waren andre Blumentriebe / Vorahnung meiner Rose nur,” Lf 4, XXIX, 409). The flower can be a symbol of love itself, offered to the beloved (“Nur die Rose noch erwarten / Sollst du, Freund, in meinem Garten, / Und dann gehn von hier. / Denn es müsste mich verdrießen, / Wenn die Rose wollte sprießen, / Ungepflückt von dir,” Lf 5, XLII, 457). In at least one instance, a gender-neutral speaker (in most cases inferable as the Dichter) implicitly identifies himself with a rose by simile: “Dich lieb’ ich, wie die Rose ihren Strauch” (Lf 3, XLIII, 363). The images of sea and sun conventionally serve as metaphors for the beloved of either sex. Two examples from Liebesfrühling come to mind. In one, Rückert’s latent sexual imagery is also apparent: “Mein Liebster ist ein sprudelnder Quell, / Ich bin die sinnige Blum’ am Rande” (Lf 3, Zwischenspiel 28, 287). In the other, the Dichter (or at least a gender-neutral persona) says, “Ich bin deine Erde, / Und bin auch deine Sonne; / Ich strahle dich an, und werde / Von dir bestrahlt mit Wonne” (Lf 3, Zwischenspiel 62, 313). Clearly, therefore, it would not be inappropriate for a female to address the sentiments of “Rose, Meer und Sonne” to a male. Why then did the composers not emend the poem to fit the female speaker?53 Robert, after all, hardly balked at text alteration.54 Here we must recall the unusual composition of this cycle. Robert was suddenly inspired by the idea of a joint opus and by poems from Liebesfrühling. He composed nine songs and then asked Clara to contribute others. His nine included three songs requiring two singers for performance. Only after he received her songs did the two recognize that a dramatic dialogue lay implicit in the texts. This was the conception to which Robert gave expression in his letter to Breitkopf & Härtel. Still, there was time to consider textual alteration; the Schumanns worked on and off at the “Rückertiana” for another two months before submitting it to the publisher. So many conclusions could follow from this insufficient evidence that I shall voice only one thought here: that Robert had composed his songs with Clara in mind and wanted to leave the female beloved as the addressee in the B-major songs, notwithstanding the subsequent conception of the dialogue. The voices are explicitly labeled in the two full-fledged duets, songs 7 and 12, as “Sopran” and “Tenor” (the latter augmented with “od[er] Bariton” in song 12).55 These labels are the essential key in the male-female performance,

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since without them the two duets, notated on otherwise undifferentiated G clefs, could be sung by two women’s voices. These specific designations identify the two-gender “question-and-answer” performance the composers envisaged while leaving the specific choices of who sings the solo songs up to the singers.56 In thinking about a “correct” performance of this cycle, we are probably bound too much by modern ideas of authenticity and fidelity to the composer’s intention. It probably never crossed Robert’s or Clara’s mind that their Liebesfrühling cycle might receive a complete, formal performance. Concert renditions of excerpted numbers and informal singing of the songs at home was likely all they would have anticipated. Thus when we ask today exactly how these songs should be performed, we are framing a question that would have met with incomprehension on the part of the composers, who probably imagined a freely alternating, impromptu performance that could vary from one time to another. Yet when a formal recital is prepared today, all these questions need to be asked and precise decisions made for a particular performance. Precise alternation of male and female singers aside, the inferred dialoguing performance, which is warranted by the evidence of the songs themselves taken together with Robert’s letter to Breitkopf & Härtel, gives this group a new identity, stronger than merely another of the “lesser” cycles of the Liederjahr. It sets op. 37/12 beside Robert’s later cycles for more than one solo singer: the Spanisches Liederspiel (op. 74), the Minnespiel (op. 101), and the Spanische Liebeslieder (op. 138). In point of fact, it shifts the “invention” of the multi-voice cycle from 1849 back to 1841. Even if this group of songs may not have been consciously begun as a cycle, even though it only gradually took the form of a quasidramatic dialogue, and despite the fact that the singers of this dialogue are only imperfectly suggested, it is here that the cycle for more than one singer was born. Certainly, it was to these songs that Robert returned in spirit when he once again took up Rückert’s Liebesfrühling as the poetic source for the Minnespiel, which even reused the two duet texts (“Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes” and “So wahr die Sonne scheinet”) in quartet settings. The latter cycle, its title notwithstanding, is less successful on a purely dramatic level, since what in op. 37/12 was the intimate dialogue of lovers became a set of “gesellige Lieder” among four singers in op. 101.57 How does this inference of a quasi-dramatic performance square with the poetic texts? What are the “questions and answers”? Despite the disjointed collaboration that produced the cycle, the finished sequence makes surprisingly good and coherent sense. The two characters, a poet and his beloved, speak to and of each other. The poet sometimes steps outside the dialogue as narrator and for one grand soliloquy. Here, then, is the reading: Song 1. The poet offers a recherché metaphor of his beloved as a teardrop from heaven carried protectively by a mussel; the tear in the mussel’s breast (its Schmerz and Lust) is love itself.

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Song 2. Agitated by her awakening love, by the risk of commitment, the woman seeks confidence that her lover will be faithful. Song 3. Love prompts the poet as nightingale to sing. Song 4. She sets ephemeral qualities—beauty, youth, wealth—against her pure, reciprocal love. Song 5. The poet has absorbed the experiences of life, but only the beloved inspires his creativity. Song 6. The poet and the beloved declare that nothing—separation, physical distance, joy or sorrow, hate or envy—can dissolve the bond between them. Song 7. They celebrate their love. Song 8. This poem is difficult to interpret, not the least because it is distinctly a soliloquy without reference to the beloved. Perhaps it can be summarized as the poet’s giving voice to his romantic yearning, his unattainable desires— tinged with veiled sexual metaphors—and can be understood in context not as ignoring his beloved but as sharing with her his noblest, if unrealizable, personal and artistic aspirations. Songs 9 and 10. The two find in each other much more than mere consolation for the inevitable personal and artistic disappointment before the unattainable. Song 11. The beloved reminds the poet of the truth he can read in her eyes, regardless of opinions, appearances, and actions. Song 12. They pledge eternal love, in defiance of the waning of sun, rain, fire, and spring. As elaborated earlier, songs 1–7 are in A-flat major or closely related keys (F minor, D-flat major, F major). Song 8, moving abruptly and ambiguously through B major and eventually F-sharp minor, interrupts the idyll. The B major of songs 9 and 10 locally resolves the F-sharp minor of song 8 as the poems offer consolation and fulfillment of love. Songs 11 and 12, with their E-flat-major keys, come close to the tonal orbit of the first half of the cycle. The fact that the male beloved, the speaker, is a poet is a major theme in Rückert’s Liebesfrühling, and Robert set several poems in which this identity is explicit or suggested. In the case of Robert and Clara, not just the male but the female too is an artist. The poems and songs were doubly appropriate for both

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Schumanns, as a celebration of the love they had finally consummated in marriage and as an announcement of their individual and joint artistic goals. The more one reads from Liebesfrühling, the more one sees how ideally these poems are suited to Robert and Clara and to this collaborative enterprise. As I mentioned at the outset, these Rückert Lieder are almost never performed as a unit. The reasons are not hard to find. First, the cycle is not available in a performance edition. Only the original edition and the Gesamtausgabe (and miniature score reprints from the latter) print all twelve songs together. The standard practical edition of Schumann’s songs58 omits Clara’s songs and the duets. Second, joint recitals are rare; performances by two singers occur infrequently, and when they do happen, the repertory is usually the tried and true. Finally, there is the aesthetic judgment, more received than tested, that these Rückert Lieder are inferior. Without entering here into the general discussion of style and taste that Rückert’s poetry and its musical settings deserve, it seems plausible to argue in this particular instance that it is neither possible nor commendable to judge these songs until we come to know them as a whole, from full, sympathetic, and artistic performances. Surely one can appeal to the maxim that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. If one or two songs in op. 37/12 do not stand on their own very well (and surely one could point to similar individual songs in other Schumann cycles), the group needs to be heard and evaluated as a whole. In 1854, after Robert had been committed to the asylum in Endenich, Clara sent him, among other things, Rückert’s 1842 letter of thanks. We know this because of a remark Robert made in a letter to Brahms on December 15, 1854. It is clear from the context that Brahms had been shown or at least told about the prized letter from the poet. “Clara also sent me the poem by Rückert for us, the original; I am sorry about that, though it gladdens me, because she removed it from the album.”59 Indeed, Robert’s anxiety was justified, for the original letter never found its way back to the album and is unaccounted for today.60 One must silently wonder why Clara sent the poem to Robert and how he must have felt to receive it. Surely Rückert’s little poem would have symbolized for them Robert’s successful compositional career and the world’s admiration, but more personally it would have evoked their early happiness in their marriage and their musical life together: in short, their own Liebesfrühling.

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in search of cycles Appendix 13.1. The Rückert Poems

The texts are taken from the first edition of Rückert’s collected poetry (Friedrich Rückert, Gesammelte Gedichte, vol. 1 [Erlangen: Carl Heyder, 1836]). In this appendix, the poems are numbered and printed in the order of the songs; the bracketed annotation cites the Strauß of Liebesfrühling in which the poem occurs, its sequential number there, and the page on which it appears. Spelling is modernized. The translations are partly my own and partly adapted from those of Eric Sams (The Songs of Robert Schumann [London: Methuen, 1969], 179–85). The tenth poem was translated by Lisa Feurzeig, a former student of Ann Clark Fehn.

I Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint, Die hat sich in’s Meer zu verlieren gemeint. Die Muschel kam und schloss sie ein: Du sollst nun meine Perle sein. Du sollst nicht vor den Wogen zagen, Ich will hindurch dich ruhig tragen. O du mein Schmerz, du meine Lust, Du Himmelsträn’ in meiner Brust! Gib, Himmel, dass ich in reinem Gemüte Den reinsten deiner Tropfen hüte! (1. Str., XXV, 226)

Heaven wept a tear That thought to lose itself in the sea. The mussel came and enclosed it: You will now be my pearl. You need not fear the waves; I will carry you calmly through them. O you my pain, you my joy, You heaven’s tear within my breast! Grant, Heaven, that I with a pure heart May protect the purest of your drops. (Sams-Hallmark)

Er ist gekommen In Sturm und Regen, Ihm schlug beklommen Mein Herz entgegen. Wie konnt’ ich ahnen, Dass seine Bahnen Sich einen sollten meinen Wegen? Er ist gekommen In Sturm und Regen, Er hat genommen Mein Herz verwegen. Nahm er das meine? Nahm ich das seine? Die beiden kamen sich entgegen. Er ist gekommen In Sturm und Regen. Nun ist entglommen*

II He came In storm and rain, Anxiously my heart Ran into him. How could I have known That his paths Would unite with mine? He came In storm and rain, Boldly he took My heart. Did he take mine? Or did I take his? They both came to meet each other. He came In storm and rain. Now the blessing of spring

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the rückert lieder of robert and clara schumann Des Frühlings Segen. Der Freund zieht weiter, Ich seh’ es heiter, Denn er bleibt mein auf allen Wegen. (* gekommen in the song) (1. Str. XXXV, 230)



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Has been lit.* My friend travels on; I observe it cheerfully For he remains mine wherever I go. (* has come in the song) (Hallmark)

O ihr Herren, o ihr werten Großen reichen Herren all! Braucht in euren schönen Gärten Ihr denn keine Nachtigall? Hier ist eine, die ein stilles Plätzchen sucht die Welt entlang. Räumt mir eines ein, ich will es Euch bezahlen mit Gesang. (2. Str., XI, 243)

III O ye Lords, o ye worthy Great, rich Lords all! Have you then no need in your lovely gardens For a nightingale? Here is one, who seeks the world over A quiet little place. If one of you will take me in, I will repay you with song. (Sams-Hallmark)

Liebst du um Schönheit, O nicht mich liebe! Liebe die Sonne, Sie trägt ein goldnes Haar. Liebst du um Jugend, O nicht mich liebe! Liebe den Frühling, Der jung ist jedes Jahr. Liebst du um Schätze, O nicht mich liebe! Liebe die Meerfrau, Die hat viel Perlen klar. Liebst du um Liebe, O ja mich liebe! Liebe mich immer, Dich lieb’ ich immerdar. (4. Str., XXXXVII, “Sicilianisches,” 418–19)

IV If you love for Beauty, O love not me! Love the sun, It has golden hair. If you love for Youth, O love not me! Love the spring, That’s young every year. If you love for Treasure, O love not me! Love the mermaid, Who has many pearls. If you love for Love, O yes, love me! Love me always, I love you forever. (Hallmark)

Ich hab’ in mich gesogen Den Frühling treu und lieb, Dass er, der Welt entflogen, Hier in der Brust mir blieb. Hier sind die blauen Lüfte Hier sind die grünen Aun, Die Blumen hier, die Düfte, Der blühnde Rosenzaun.

V I drew into myself The spring, true and dear, So that it, flown from the world, Remains for me here in my breast. Here are the blue skies, Here are the green meadows, Here the flowers, the fragrances, The blooming bank of roses.

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Und hier am Busen lehnet Mit süßem Liebesach Die Liebste, die sich sehnet Den Frühlingswonnen nach. Sie lehnt sich an, zu lauschen, Und hört in stiller Lust Die Frühlingströme rauschen In ihres Dichters Brust. Da quellen auf die Lieder Und strömen über sie Den vollen Frühling nieder, Den mir der Gott verlieh. Und wie sie, davon trunken, Umblicket rings im Raum, Blüht auch von ihren Funken Die Welt, ein Frühlingstraum. (1. Str., II, 211)

And here on my bosom With sweet love Reclines my beloved, who longs For springtime bliss. She leans against me to listen, And hears in hushed joy Springtime’s streams flowing In her poet’s breast. There gush forth the songs And pour down over her The full springtime That God granted me And as she, drunk with it, Peers around her, There also blooms from her eyes The world, a dream of spring. (Sams-Hallmark) VI

Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden? Kann’s das Meiden? Kann uns Meiden scheiden? Nein. Ob wir uns zu sehn vermieden, Ungeschieden Wollen wir im Herzen sein. Mein und dein, Dein und mein, Wollen wir, o Liebste, sein. Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden? Wald und Heiden? Kann die Fern’ uns scheiden? Nein. Unsre Lieb’ ist nicht hienieden; Ungeschieden Wollen wir im Himmel sein. Mein und dein, Dein und mein, Wollen wir, o Liebste, sein. Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden? Glück und Leiden? Kann uns beides scheiden? Nein. Sei mir Glück, sei Weh beschieden, Ungeschieden Soll mein Los von deinem sein. Mein und dein, Dein und mein, Wollen wir, o Liebste, sein.

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Dearest, what then can separate us? Can parting? Can parting separate us? No. If we do not see each other, Unseparated Will we remain in our hearts. Mine and thine, Thine and mine, Will we, o dearest, be. Dearest, what then can separate us? Forest and heath? Can distance separate us? No. Our love is not earthly; Unseparated Will we be in Heaven Mine and thine, Thine and mine, Will we, o dearest, be. Dearest, what then can separate us? Fortune and suffering? Can both separate us? No. Whether fortune or sorrow is allotted, Unseparated Shall my fate be from yours. Mine and thine, Thine and mine, Will we, o dearest, be.

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the rückert lieder of robert and clara schumann Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden? Hass und Neiden? Kann die Welt uns scheiden? Nein. Niemand störe deinen Frieden! Ungeschieden Wollen wir auf ewig sein. Mein und dein, Dein und mein, Wollen wir, o Liebste, sein. (1. Str., XXXVII, 231–32)



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Dearest, what then can separate us? Hatred and envy? Can the world separate us? No. Let no one disturb your peace! Unseparated Will we be eternally. Mine and thine, Thine and mine, Will we, o dearest, be. (Sams-Hallmark) VII

Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes, Doch währt es nur der Tage drei. Hast du ein Lieb, bekränz es Mit Rosen, eh sie gehn vorbei! Hast du ein Glas, kredenz es, O Schenk, und singe mir dabei: Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes, Doch währt es nur der Tage drei. (3. Str., V, 271)

The festival of spring is lovely, But it lasts only three days. If you have a love, crown it With roses before they fade away. If you have a glass, fill it, O host, and sing with me: The festival of spring is lovely, But it lasts only three days. (Hallmark)

Flügel! Flügel! Um zu fliegen Über Berg und Tal. Flügel! Um mein Herz zu wiegen Auf des Morgens Strahl. Flügel übers Meer zu schweben, Mit dem Morgenrot, Flügel, Flügel übers Leben Über Grab und Tod. Flügel, wie die Jugend hatte, Da sie mir entflog, Flügel, wie des Glückes Schatte, Der mein Herz betrog. Flügel, nachzufliehn den Tagen, Die vorüber sind, Flügel, Freuden einzujagen, Die entflohn im Wind. Flügel, gleich den Nachtigallen, Wann die Rosen fliehn, Aus dem Land, wo Nebel wallen, Ihnen nachzuziehn. Ach von dem Verbannungstrande, Wo kein Nachen winkt, Flügel nach dem Heimatlande, Wo die Krone blinkt.

VIII Wings! Wings! To fly Over mountain and valley. Wings to rock my heart On the beams of the morning. Wings, to float over the sea, With the sunrise, Wings, wings over life, Over grave and death. Wings, as youth had When it left me, Wings, as fortune’s shadow That tricked my heart. Wings, to fly after the days That are gone, Wings, to hunt down the joy That is gone with the wind. Wings, like the nightingales, To follow them Out of the land where fog surges, When the roses flee. Ah, from the shore of exile Where no boat appears, Wings to my homeland, Where a crown shines.

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Freiheit, wie zum Schmetterlinge Raupenleben reift, Wenn sich dehnt des Geistes Schwinge Und die Hüll’ entstreift. Oft in stillen Mitternächten Fühl’ ich mich empor, Flügel von des Traumes Mächten, Zu dem Sternentor. Doch gewachsenes Gefieder In der Nächte Duft, Mir entträufeln seh’ ichs wieder An des Morgens Luft. Sonnenbrand der Fittich schmelzet, Ikar stürzt ins Meer, Und der Sinne Brausen wälzet Übern Geist sich her. (3. Str., Zwischenspiel no. 63, 313–14)

Freedom, as into a butterfly The caterpillar ripens, When the wings of the spirit stretch And burst the cocoon. Often in the stillness of midnight I feel myself winging upward Borne by the power of dreaming To the gateway of the stars. Yet plumage full grown In the fragrance of night I see again undone In the morning’s breeze. The sun’s heat melts the wax, Icarus falls into the sea, And the roar of the senses rolls Over the spirit. (Sams-Hallmark) IX

Rose, Meer und Sonne Sind ein Bild der Liebsten mein, Die mit ihrer Wonne Fasst mein ganzes Leben ein. Aller Glanz, ergossen, Aller Tau der Frühlingsflur, Liegt vereint beschlossen In dem Kelch der Rose nur. Alle Farben ringen, Alle Düft’ im Lenzgefild, Um hervorzubringen Im verein der Rose Bild. Rose, Meer und Sonne Sind ein Bild der Liebsten mein, Die mit ihrer Wonne Fasst mein ganzes Leben ein. Alle Ströme haben Ihren Lauf auf Erden bloß, Um Sich zu begraben Sehnend in des Meeres Schoß. Alle Quellen fließen In den unerschöpften Grund, Einen Kreis zu schließen Um der Erde blühndes Rund. Rose, Meer und Sonne Sind ein Bild der Liebsten mein, Die mit ihrer Wonne Fasst mein ganzes Leben ein.

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Rose, sea, and sun Are an image of my beloved, Who with her delight Encompasses my whole life. Every ray of light, poured down, Every drop of dew on the spring meadow Lies united in the end In the bloom of the rose alone. All colors struggle, All fragrances of spring’s array, To create together The rose’s image. Rose, sea, and sun Are an image of my beloved, Who with her delight Encompasses my whole life. . . . All streams have Their course on earth merely To bury themselves Longingly in the sea’s lap. All sources flow Into the inexhaustible space, To complete the cycle Around the earth’s blooming girth. Rose, sea, and sun Are an image of my beloved, Who with her delight Encompasses my whole life. . . .

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the rückert lieder of robert and clara schumann Alle Stern’ in Lüften Sind ein Liebesblick der Nacht, In des Morgens Düften Sterbend, wann der Tag erwacht. Alle Weltenflammen, Der zerstreute Himmelsglanz, Fließen hell zusammen In der Sonne Strahlenkranz. Rose, Meer und Sonne Sind ein Bild der Liebsten mein, Die mit ihrer Wonne Fasst mein ganzes Leben ein. (3. Str., Zwischenspiel no. 64, 314–15)



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All the stars in the heavens Are a loving glance of the night, In the blush of morning Dying, as the day awakes. All the flames of the world All the scattered radiance of heaven Flow dazzlingly together In the sun’s wreath of shining. Rose, sea, and sun Are an image of my beloved, Who with her delight Encompasses my whole life. (Hallmark-Sams)

X O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose! O sun, o sea, o rose! Wie wenn die Sonne triumphierend sich As when the sun triumphant Hebt über Sterne, die am Himmel stunden, Over stars that stood in the sky, Ein Schimmer nach dem andern leis’ erblich, One by one the shimmer grew faint, Bis alle sind in Einen Glanz geschwunden; Until all in One Radiance disappeared; So hab’ ich, Liebste, dich So, dearest, I Gefunden: Found you. Du kamst, da war, was je mein Herz empfunden, You came, and all my heart had ever felt Geschwunden Was drowned In dich. In you. O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose! O sun, o sea, o rose! Wie wenn des Meeres Arme auftun sich As when the sea’s arms open Den Strömen, die nach ihnen sich gewunden: To the streams which have wound themselves thence Hinein sich diese stürzen brünstiglich, And throw themselves passionately in, Bis sie die Ruh im tiefen Schoß gefunden; Until they find rest in the deep lap; So, Liebste, hab’ ich dich So, dearest, I Empfunden: Felt you: Sich hat mein Herz mit allen Sehnsuchtswunden My heart with all its wounds of longing Entbunden Was unbound In dich. In you. O Sonn,’ o Meer, o Rose! O sun, o sea, or rose! Wie wenn im Frühling tausendfältig sich As when thousandfold in springtime Ein buntes Grün hat ringend losgewunden, A bright green unrolled, wrestling, Ein hadernd Volk, bis Rose, königlich A quarrelsome folk, till Rose, kingly Eintretend, es zum Kranz um sich verbunden; Entering, bound all as a garland around itself; So, Liebste, hab’ ich dich So, dearest, have I Umwunden: Entwined you: Der Kranz des Daseins muss sich blühend runden, The blooming garland of Being Gebunden Must surround and be. In dich. Bound in you. (3. Str., Zwischenspiel no. 65, 316) (Feurzeig)

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in search of cycles XI

Warum willst du And’re fragen, Die’s nicht meinen treu mit dir? Glaube nichts als was dir sagen Diese beiden Augen hier. Glaube nicht den fremden Leuten, Glaube nicht den eignen Wahn; Nicht mein Tun auch sollst du deuten, Sondern sieh die Augen an. Schweigt die Lippe deinen Fragen, Oder zeugt sie gegen mich? Was auch meine Lippen sagen, Sieh mein Aug’—ich liebe dich. (4. Str., XXXXVI, “Altitalienisches,” 418)

So wahr die Sonne scheinet, So wahr die Wolke weinet, So wahr die Flamme sprüht, So wahr der Frühling blüht; So wahr hab’ ich empfunden, Wie ich dich halt’ umwunden: Du liebst mich wie ich dich, Dich lieb’ ich, wie du mich. Die Sonne mag verscheinen, Die Wolke nicht mehr weinen, Die Flamme mag versprühn, Der Frühling nicht mehr blühn! Wir wollen uns umwinden Und immer so empfinden: Du liebst mich, wie ich dich, Dich lieb ich, wie du mich. (1. Str., XVIII, 222)

Why do you want to ask others, Who aren’t truthful with you? Believe nothing except what These two eyes tell you. Don’t believe strangers, Don’t believe your own delusions; Don’t interpret my actions either, But just look into my eyes. Are lips silent to your questions, Or do they testify against me? Whatever my lips may say, Just look into my eyes—I love you. (Hallmark)

XII As surely as the sun shines, As surely as the clouds weep, As surely as the flames sparkle, As surely as spring blooms, So surely have I found you: As I hold you embraced, You love me, as I love you, I love you, as you love me. The sun may cease to shine, The clouds no longer weep, The flame may stop sparkling, The spring no more bloom; We will embrace each other And always feel: You love me, as I love you, I love you, as you love me. (Hallmark)

Notes 1. Robert Schumann. Tagebücher, vol. 3, ed. Gerd Nauhaus (Leipzig: Deutscher Verlag für Musik, 1982), 548. Henceforth identified as Tb. 2. “Erinnerung an den Weihnachtsabend 1850 von Robert and Clara Schumann,” from the description of op. 37/12, Heft 1, in the Liepmannssohn Versteigerungskatalog, no. 38 (Berlin, May 21–22, 1909), 96–97. 3. Wilhelm Josef von Wasielewski, Robert Schumann. Eine Biographie (Dresden: Kunze, 1858), 202.

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4. An exception is the performance in Boston of a series of concerts of Schumann’s complete Lieder (Emmanuel Episcopal Church, February–May 1990, under the direction of conductor and pianist Craig Smith). 5. See, for example, Eric Sams, The Songs of Robert Schumann (New York: Norton, 1969), 178–85 (e.g., “[Schumann] was as blissfully happy in marriage as in courtship. . . . But bliss is not inspiration. . . . Something has gone sadly wrong” (179); Stephen Walsh, The Lieder of Robert Schumann (New York: Praeger, 1971), 72–74 (e.g., “Schumann was now increasingly interested in writing symphonies, and the few songs composed in the New Year are trivial and uncharacteristic” (72). 6. This was greatly facilitated by the completion of the publication of the Schumann diaries, edited by Gerd Nauhaus (see note 1); I am indebted to Dr. Nauhaus for rechecking some particular documents at the Schumann-Haus in Zwickau, Germany. I also gratefully acknowledge the generous assistance of Nancy Reich, who made her own transcriptions of the Ehetagebuch available to me before its publication and helped me in many other ways as I prepared this study, serving often as a sounding board for my ideas about the collaboration. 7. Two studies of related interest should be mentioned: Beatrix Borchard, Robert Schumann und Clara Wieck: Bedingungen künstlerischer Arbeit in der ersten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts (Weinheim: Beltz, 1985); and Anna Burton, “Robert Schumann and Clara Wieck: A Creative Partnership,” Music and Letters 69 (1988): 211–28. Borchard’s study cites the diary evidence about this collaboration but does not explore the manuscript evidence or examine the music in detail. Burton’s article is a psycho-biographical study of Robert and Clara’s relationship up to their marriage in 1840. 8. Clara und Robert Schumann. Briefwechsel. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, vol. 2, ed. Eva Weissweiler (Frankfurt/Main: Stroemfeld, 1987), 571. 9. Robert Schumann in seinen Schriften und Briefen, ed. Wolfgang Boetticher (Berlin: Hahnefeld, 1942), 338: “Versuch’ es doch mit dem Gesang. Du wirst sehen, es wird Dir glücken” (Just try it with vocal music, and you will succeed). 10. Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin. Clara Schumann, autogr. 5, “Lieder mit Begleitung d. Pianofortes von Klara Schumann. 1842.” 11. Besides texted vocal works of all kinds, there are also the four-hand piano pieces, Bilder aus Osten (op. 66), inspired by Rückert’s Makamen von Hariri. See the author’s “Schumann and Rückert,” in Schumann Forschungen, vol. 3, ed. Bernhard Appel (Mainz: Schott, 1993), 91–118. (Report of the Third International Schumann Symposium, Düsseldorf, June 15–16, 1988.) 12. Robert-Schumann-Haus, Gesammelte Gedichte v. F. Rückert, 2nd ed. (Erlangen: Heyder, 1836). 13. “20 Lieder aus Heines Lyrischem Intermezzo im Buch der Lieder” (later trimmed to the sixteen songs of Dichterliebe, op. 48), May 24–June 1; Liederkreis, op. 39 (Eichendorff), May 1–22; Frauenliebe und–Leben (Chamisso), op. 42, July 11–12. 14. Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin. Robert Schumann mus. Ms. Autogr. 16, 2, 66–80. 15. See the author’s The Genesis of Schumann’s Dichterliebe (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1979), 21–23, and “Die handschriftlichen Quellen der Lieder Robert Schumanns,” in Robert Schumann—Ein romantisches Erbe in neuer Forschung, ed. RobertSchumann-Gessellschaft Düsseldorf (Mainz: Schott, 1984), 106. No set of vocal sketches for these Rückert songs is known. The isolated “sketch” of “Flügel! Flügel!” (op. 37, no. 8) contained on a single sheet in Paris (Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. 342) is an anomaly.

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For discussion of this manuscript, which contains on the reverse the only known sketches for the D-minor Symphony, see the author’s “A Sketch Leaf for Schumann’s D Minor Symphony,” in Mendelssohn and Schumann: Essays on Their Music and Its Context, ed. Jon Finson and R. Larry Todd (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1984), 39–51. 16. It could be argued from the Berlin manuscript alone that Robert, when his burst of song composing overtook him, might have conceived of a cycle of his seven solo Rückert settings alone. The first two songs in the Berlin source begin and cement a relationship; then follow “Flügel” and the two B-major songs celebrating the beloved’s qualities; next “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen,” a slightly retrospective song; and finally “O ihr Herren” as a kind of envoi by the poet/composer to his listeners. Such speculation, however, seems pointless, since Robert so quickly turned to Clara with the idea of her contributing Rückert settings to a joint project. 17. Robert-Schumann-Haus, 4871, viii, 4 = 5977A3. This fascinating manuscript merits a close and thorough study of its own. The poems were copied in both Robert’s and Clara’s hands, and Robert in many cases annotated those poems that were set to music with dates of composition. The manuscript may have comprised loose sheets and fascicles only later bound into a book. Many of the poems in the notebook have no corresponding published literary source in the Schumann-Haus. Conversely, some poets are not represented in the Abschriftenbuch, such as Heine, whose published works Schumann owned (and whose copy of the Buch der Lieder is now in the Heinrich-Heine-Institut in Düsseldorf). This suggests that it was a repository only for poems copied from sources not readily available. The presence of Rückert poems in the manuscript, however, belies this tidy hypothesis, since the Schumanns, as we have seen, owned a book of his poetry. [The Abschriftenbuch has been the subject of a study since Hallmark penned his recommendation in the late 1980s: Helma Kaldewey, “Die Gedichtabschriften Robert and Clara Schumanns,” in Robert Schumann und die Dichter: Ein Musiker als Leser, ed. Bernhard Appel and Inge Hermestrüwer (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1991), 88–99.] 18. Abschriftenbuch, 82–84, item nos. 31–35. 19. These lines are underlined in the Abschriftenbuch: in “Er ist gekommen,” stanza 3, lines 3–4, 6–7; in “Warum willst du and’re fragen,” stanza 2, line 4, and stanza 3, line 4; in “Liebst du um Schönheit,” stanza 4, lines 1–4. Each of the three poems has the marginal note “von Clara componirt.” 20. Borchard, Schumann und Wieck, 287–90, interprets Robert’s behavior as coercive. While it is clear that Robert urgently encouraged Clara to compose songs for the joint venture, the evidence, it seems to me, does not support the idea that his suggestions and urgings were overbearing and resented by Clara. While she sometimes despaired of her own abilities and also clearly wanted to please Robert, Clara did not appear to be a reluctant contributor to this enterprise and sounded genuinely happy when she completed her songs and presented them to Robert. It is nevertheless true, as Borchard points out, that Clara had to rob time from her own practicing for this composition. 21. Something may turn up in the correspondence between Robert and Clara Schumann from 1841 that as of this writing has not yet appeared in the edition by Eva Weissweiler (see note 8). It seems unlikely that any letters will surface, however, since Robert and Clara were together in Leipzig during the spring and summer of 1841. 22. The concert on March 31 at the Gewandhaus marked Clara’s first performance as Schumann’s wife and the first in a long time in Leipzig. See Nancy B. Reich, Clara Schumann: The Artist and the Woman (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1985), 18, 109.

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23. Robert Schumanns Briefe. Neue Folge, ed. Gustav Jansen (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1904), 430–31. 24. The presentation copy of the songs is in the Robert-Schumann-Haus, Zwickau, ms. A1–5985: “Vier Gedichte von Rückert / meinem geliebten Mann/zum 8ten Juni 841/ componirt/von seiner Clara.” These four Rückert songs are also in the Berlin manuscript of Clara’s songs mentioned in note 10. Robert set “O Freund, mein Schirm, mein Schutz” as no. 6 of his Minnespiel, op. 101, in 1849. 25. The Berlin manuscript of Clara’s Lieder also includes two more songs dated June 8, 1841, “Liebeszauber” of Emanuel Geibel and “Sie liebten sich beide” of Heine. This could be interpreted to mean that Clara was composing not only settings of Rückert but also of her own accord, following her own creative impulse. 26. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. 341. The first page of “Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes” from this manuscript is reproduced in Yvette Tienot, Robert Schumann (Paris, 1959). Clara’s characteristic handwriting is apparent in the musical notation and poetic text; Robert’s is recognizable in the tempo marking, voice designations (duets only), and dynamics. Clara’s songs were originally part of this manuscript, as evidence presented later will make clear, but she must have withdrawn them later. There are some discrepancies between Clara’s manuscripts. See Clara Schumann, Sämtliche Lieder, vol. 1, ed. Joachim Draheim (Wiesbaden: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1990), Revisionsbericht, 48–49. 27. Schumanns Briefe. Neue Folge, 431. 28. “Diese Lieder folgen sich in der mit Zahlen angegebnen Ordnung.” Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale, ms. 341, cover. The manuscript sequence follows that of the Berlin Liederalbum, with the inclusion of the two duets between “Liebste, was kann denn uns scheiden” and “Flügel! Flügel,” implying that Clara was copying directly from the latter source. 29. “Ich war am indischen Ozean,” no. 48 of Gesammelte Gedichte von Friedrich Rückert, 3rd ed., vol. 1 (Erlangen: Carl Heyder, 1836), 366–67, Liebesfrühling, Dritter Strauß. The rather sensual poem is a set of metaphors describing a pair of lovers; viz., “I was once a palm tree sprung up by the Indian Ocean; you were the growing vine slung around by [the] trunk”—“I was once a blooming branch in Eden’s most lovely bower; you chose to take your rest on me as a cooing dove”—“I was a light drop of dew, and as I sprinkled down, you were a flower cup of the meadow, and received me with feeling.” Robert quoted the last two stanzas: “I was once a moonbeam; you, the twinkling of the evening star; you saw me many thousand times winking in the distance. / You were in flight before me, and disappeared from my sight. At that time I sought for you, now I have found you.” The metaphors of distance and separation in these two stanzas speak eloquently to Robert’s and Clara’s earlier unhappiness. 30. Liepmannssohn catalog (see note 2). 31. Kurt Hofmann, Die Erstdrucke der Werke von Robert Schumann (Tutzing: Schneider, 1979), 86–87. 32. Tb 3, 713, n. 267. 33. Robert Schumann Briefverzeichnis, Robert-Schumann-Haus, Zwickau, 4871 viic, 10A3, entry no. 854: “An Rückert in Neusess bei Coburg. Mit Lieder v. Clara u. mir.” 34. The poem appears in these secondary sources, given in order of publication: Wasielewski, Robert Schumann, 284; Berthold Litzmann, Clara Schumann: Ein Künstlerleben, vol. 2 (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1905), 22; Friedrich Rückert. Briefe, ed. Rüdiger Rückert (Schweinfurt: Revista, 1977), 863; Tb 2, 230. The entry in the edition of Rückert’s letters includes the poet’s heading: “Friedrich Rückert an Robert und Clara Schumann in Leipzig dankend für ihre Tonsetzungen zu meinem Liebesfrühling. Neusess bei Coburg, im Juni 1842.”

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35. Clara copied the poem into the Ehetagebuch in July (Tb 2, 230) and placed the original letter in the family album (Tb 3, 720, n. 319). 36. To Dr. E. Krüger, June 25, 1842: “Auch die Lieder aus Rückerts Liebesfrühling von mir und meiner Frau wünschte ich von Ihnen gekannt. Rückert hat uns darauf vor einigen Tagen mit einem Gedicht geantwortet, das uns sehr gefreut.” Jansen, Briefe, 216. To Robert Hirsch, late 1842? “Auf die Rückertschen hat nun Rückert mit einem lieben Gedicht geantwortet, das ich Ihnen wohl gelegentlich mittheile.” Briefe und Notizen Robert und Clara Schumanns, ed. and annotated Siegfried Kross (Bonn: Bouvier, 1978), 338. 37. Tb 3, 720, n. 319. Wasielewski said that Rückert himself had the poem published in the Taschenbuch (Wasielewski, Robert Schumann, 202). Robert kept a clipping of the poem as printed in Signale. 38. We can perhaps better appreciate Robert’s jubilation when we recall that he had sent a copy of his early Heine songs (op. 24 Liederkreis) to that poet but never received a reply. Now, a more venerated poet had not only acknowledged receipt but sent a gracious, versified word of thanks. See the author’s Genesis of Schumann’s Dichterliebe, 8. 39. Both Sams and Walsh assume that Clara and Robert literally composed individual songs together; interestingly, they reach contradictory conclusions about who did what. In the first song (“Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint”), for example, Sams speculates that Clara wrote measures 1–5 and 15–18 and Robert the intervening music; Walsh reaches the opposite conclusion, attributing the opening and the reprise (mm. 1–5 and 15–18) to Robert and the middle section to Clara. Sams, Songs of Robert Schumann, 179–80; Walsh, Lieder of Schumann, 72–73. Sams proceeds to speculate that the openings of others of Robert’s songs may be by Clara. He also states that the closing duet, “So wahr die Sonne scheinet,” is acknowledged to be by Clara, but I know of no evidence for this assertion. 40. These are, incidentally, the tonal relations favored in the modulation theory of Gottfried Weber, whose book Schumann owned. In Weber’s scheme, some mediating keys are absent from this cycle: F minor mediates between A-flat major and F major; the key of B, enharmonically C-flat, is mediated in Weber’s scheme by A-flat minor; and F-sharp minor is, of course, the minor dominant of B. See Daniel Werts, “A Theory of Scale References” (PhD dissertation, Princeton University, 1983); and Bodo Bischoff’s analysis of the G-minor piano trio in terms of Weber’s theories in the proceedings of the Third International Schumann Symposium, Düsseldorf, June 1988: “Robert Schumanns Klaviertrio g-moll, Op. 110. Entstehung-Rezeption-Analyse,” in Schumann Forschungen, vol. 3, ed. Bernhard Appel (Mainz: Schott, 1993), 221–48. Barbara Turchin also discusses Weber’s theories in “The Nineteenth-Century Wanderlieder Cycle,” Journal of Musicology 5 (1987): 505–9. 41. Sams, Songs of Robert Schumann, 180; Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, Robert Schumann: Words and Music. The Vocal Compositions, trans. Reinhard G. Pauly (Portland, OR: Amadeus, 1988), 114–15. 42. Rückert’s different structures prevented Schumann from a straightforward reuse of the identical music (as in the last two songs of the Kerner Liederreihe, op. 35, where Schumann used “Dieselbe Weise” for the same stanza form), and Schumann could have responded to the parallelism with no more than a common head motive. 43. The open-endedness of this progression is only a symptom of the generally restless tonality of song 8 as a whole. Although it carries a key signature of five sharps and takes off in B major, the music detours to another key as early as measure 6. While the closing vocal phrase is securely in F-sharp minor, the piano coda recasts that vocal phrase in B minor (iv) before cadencing to F-sharp. Although retrospectively one can analyze the song’s shifts as parts of a large pattern in F-sharp minor, the experience

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of the song as it unfolds is of constant flux. Even at the end, while the cadence is harmonically unambiguous, the rhythmic proportion—the abruptness of the ending—casts doubt on the conclusiveness and stability of the key, an effect that bothered an early reviewer, as we shall see. 44. Columns 61–62. The review of op. 37 appears within a general assessment of “Robert Schumanns Gesangskompositionen” (cols. 58–66), in which ops. 24, 25, 29, 30, 34, 35, and 37 are discussed. 45. See Edward T. Cone, The Composer’s Voice (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), particularly chapter 1, “Some Thoughts on ‘Erlkönig,’ “ and chapter 2, “Persona, Protagonist, and Characters,” 1–40. 46. Friedrich Heinrich Himmel (1765–1814) was a popular composer of stage works and songs. 47. This text underlay appears in Clara’s copy of the duet that is part of the Paris manuscript, and it is reproduced faithfully in the first edition. The Gesamtausgabe, however, “corrects” this passage so that both voices sing the first line of the closing couplet, “Du liebst mich wie ich dich.” It seems clear that the composer’s special original intention should be reinstated in modern editions and in performances. 48. Of the other two poems designated by Robert, “Die gute Nacht” is neutral (although the text’s reference to Lieder suggests the speaker is the male poet figure), and “O Freund, mein Schirm, mein Schutz” suggests a woman’s voice (and was set for alto or soprano in Robert’s op. 101). 49. Briefe: Neue Folge, 431: “Wir haben zusammen eine Anzahl Rückertscher Lieder componirt, die sich wie Fragen und Antworten aufeinander beziehen . . . Ich denke mir, die Lieder müssen Interesse erregen; auch sind sie fast durchgängig leicht und einfach gehalten, und recht mit Lust und Liebe geschrieben.” 50. Inasmuch as this creates a quasi-dramatic dialogue in this song (within the larger dialogue of the cycle), the performers may wish to emend Liebste to Liebster when the woman is singing, by analogy with the suggested alterations in song 9 (see page 357). 51. General practice today and in the nineteenth century accepts the performance of male personae songs by women, and we know that female singers were among Robert and Clara’s favorite performers of his songs. Clara once remarked pointedly about how beautifully, expressively, and intelligently Jenny Lind sang some of her husband’s songs, including “Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint”; op. 37/12, no. 1. See Fischer-Dieskau, Robert Schumann, 176. 52. Rückert, no. 15 of Liebesfrühling, Dritter Strauß, 282. All subsequent page citations refer to this edition, which is the one the Schumanns owned. Henceforth quotations from this source are cited in the text as Lf. 53. When Fanny Mendelssohn Hensel set Heine’s poem “Und wüssten’s die Blumen,” she meant her song to be performed by a woman and accordingly changed the last stanza to read: Die alle können’s nicht wissen Nur Einer kennt meinen Schmerz; Er hat ja selbst zerrissen, Zerrisen mir das Herz [italics mine]. This song is printed as “Verlust,” op. 9, no. 10, in Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy’s Werke, ed. Julius Rietz, Lieder und Gesänge (Leipzig: Peters, n.d.), 38–39. I am indebted to Jürgen Thym for calling this to my attention.

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54. See the author’s “Schumanns Behandlung seiner Texte,” in Schumanns Werke— Text und Interpretation, ed. Akio Mayeda and Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller (Mainz: Schott, 1987), 29–42. 55. The duets are so designated in the first edition. Curiously, the Gesamtausgabe reproduces the voice designation only for the closing duet, leaving song 7 undesignated. 56. Alternations other than the one proposed in figure 13.5 would be possible. For example, the male could sing two songs in a row, songs 8 and 9; the female could sing song 10 (having only to change the single Liebste to Liebster in each stanza), and the male could sing song 1. “Warum willst du and’re fragen” has a gender-neutral persona; its text, chastening the beloved’s doubts, is equally suited to either sex. This alternation would still keep the near balance of five male and four female solos. 57. Conceivably the Schumanns were aware of an earlier collaboration: Felix and Fanny Mendelssohn’s Lieder, op. 8 (1828), a group of twelve songs of which Fanny (whose authorship is not noted in the publication) composed three. I am grateful to Janina Klassen for bringing these songs to my attention. 58. Schumann. Sämtliche Lieder, vol. 2, ed. Max Friedländer (no. 2384a) (rpt. New York: C. F. Peters, ca. 1965), 93–109. Breitkopf & Härtel did better in its late-nineteenthcentury Volksausgaben. VA 306 offers all twelve songs, but dispersed in three different sections without opus numbers. In VA 592 the ten solo songs are printed together (as op. 37, 1–10), but the duets are excluded. 59. Briefe: Neue Folge, 403. 60. Tb 2, 257, n. 548: “Rückerts Handschrift des Gedichtes ist . . . verschollen, vgl. Album S. 13.”

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Chapter Fourteen

A Cycle in Flux Schumann’s Eichendorff Liederkreis Jürgen Thym Schumann’s Liederkreis, op. 39, is generally considered one of the great song cycles in the history of the German Lied. But what makes it a cycle is less than clear. In fact, some of the principal defining characteristics of song cycles such as Beethoven’s An die ferne Geliebte, Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin, and even Schumann’s Dichterliebe do not apply here. The poems of op. 39 do not form a lyric cycle, they do not outline a story in the conventional sense, and even if we assume some kind of teleological narrative in the sequence of emotional states displayed in the songs, Schumann complicated or thwarted that pat assumption by replacing, in the second edition of the Liederkreis, the opening song of the cycle with a different one—which, in turn, projects a vastly different emotional trajectory. The ambivalence about how to begin the cycle opens up questions about motivic-thematic recall and key sequence, two aspects various authors— including myself in an earlier study—have identified as contributing to the cyclic coherence on the musical side. Questions upon questions, and no easy answers.

Stage 1: Selecting the Poems A review of the compositional genesis of the songs later gathered to become the Liederkreis may be of some help in our quest for answers. In the case of text settings, such a review begins appropriately with the selection of the poetry to be set. In 1839 Robert Schumann and Clara Wieck started collecting poems _________________ This chapter originated as a presentation at the Second Conference of the International World Music Association in Ann Arbor, Michigan, in the summer of 1999. It was first published in Word and Music Studies: Essays on the Song Cycle and on Defining the Field, vol. 3, ed. Walter Bernhart and Werner Wolf (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 165–81. It is reprinted by permission of Rodopi, Amsterdam.

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by mostly contemporary poets and entering them into a book titled (in Robert Schumann’s handwriting) “Abschriften von Gedichten zur Composition.” Many of these poems, including more than a dozen Eichendorff poems (fig. 14.1),1 would at some later stage serve as texts to be set to music. Even though both Schumanns added poems to the book well into the early 1850s, the collection was begun as a joint project of two artists who, during their courtship, wanted to be linked by artistic and spiritual bonds when they were physically separated. Schumann set to music the lion’s share of the poems gathered in the collection, but Clara contributed a number of Rückert songs, which, together with others by Robert, were published as Liebesfrühling, op. 37, a few years after the couple married.2 Figure 14.1. Excerpt from the table of contents of “Abschriften von Gedichten zur Composition” Eichendorff: No. 10 “Der frohe Wandersmann” (Wem Gott will rechte Gunst erweisen) [op. 39, no. 1; op. 77, no. 1] No. 11 “Im Walde” (Es zog eine Hochzeit den Berg entlang) [op. 39, no. 11] No. 12 “Zwielicht” (Dämmrung will die Flügel spreiten) [op. 39, no. 10] No. 13 “Auf einer Burg” (Eingeschlafen auf der Lauer) [op. 39, no. 7] No. 14 “In der Fremde” [II] (Ich hört ein Bächlein rauschen) [op. 39, no. 8] No. 15 “Schöne Fremde” (Es rauschen die Wipfel und schauern) [op. 39, no. 6] No. 16 “Wehmut” (Ich kann wohl manchmal singen) [op. 39, no. 9] No. 17 “Intermezzo” (Dein Bildnis wunderselig) [op. 39, no. 2] No. 18 “Liebesmut” (Was Lorbeerkranz und Lobesstand) No. 19 “Die Stille” (Es weiß und rät es doch keiner) [op. 39, no. 4] No. 20 “Frühlingsnacht” (Über’n Garten durch die Lüfte) [op. 39, no. 12] No. 21 “In der Fremde” [I] (Aus der Heimat hinter den Blitzen rot) [op. 39, no. 1] No. 22 “Mondnacht” (Es war, als hätt’ der Himmel) [op. 39, no. 5] No. 23 “Waldesgespräch” (Es ist schon spät) [op. 39, no. 3] No. 24 “Der traurige Jäger” (Zur ew’gen Ruh sie sangen) [op. 75, no. 3] Note: The poems appear exactly in the order in which they appear in the 1837 edition of Eichendorff’s collected poems; fourteen of the fifteen poems were set by Schumann either as piano-accompanied solo songs or, in one instance, as a choral setting.

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The early months of 1840 were ones of emotional turmoil because Clara Wieck’s father stubbornly refused to give his consent to the marriage. The upheaval caused by suits and countersuits, legal delaying tactics, and just plain procrastination turned the two lovers’ courtship into a court battle. We do not know exactly when the poems eventually used in Robert’s op. 39 were entered into the collection in Clara’s handwriting, but their selection clearly has something to do with the biographical circumstances in which the couple found themselves. Nearly all the poems incorporate in some form the image of wedding, of the togetherness and separation of lovers—yes, we can even go so far as to identify the relation between man and woman as one of the topics that runs like a red thread through almost all the songs gathered later as Liederkreis.3 In addition, most poems (nine out of twelve) feature a forest as backdrop for the lyrics, and many (seven out of twelve) are set at nighttime or dusk. I do not want to make too much of these coincidences. Cyrus Hamlin and others have called attention to the conventions and clichés that mark the surface of Eichendorff’s poetic language.4 Indeed, in many of Eichendorff’s poems, springs or brooks are murmuring, idyllic lakes are located in mysterious forests, treetops and leaves are rustling, horn calls can be heard echoing in the woods, and nightingales sing of love. These images recur in Eichendorff’s poetry with an almost mannered frequency in ever-new constellations, and anyone who selects a group of his poems is bound to generate correspondences because of the formulaic nature of the poet’s language. In any case, for Schumann and his bride, the Eichendorff poems were of one cloth. The poems belonged together and formed, on a very personal level, a poetic unit the two lovers created together as part of their courtship in emotionally charged times.

Stage 2: Composing the Songs In the second half of April 1840, Robert Schumann spent two weeks in Berlin with his bride (who was living with her mother), reaffirming his determination and receiving Clara’s promise to go through with the marriage plans no matter what. Upon his return to Leipzig, Schumann began immediately to work on text settings and, within a little more than three weeks, had composed most of the Eichendorff poems Clara entered in the collection. The four songs “Waldesgespräch,” “In der Fremde” [I], “Die Stille,” and “Mondnacht” were composed on three days: May 1, 4, and 9. “Intermezzo” was probably set before May 16; “Schöne Fremde,” “Wehmut,” “In der Fremde” [II], “Frühlingsnacht,” “Zwielicht,” and “Im Walde” were written between May 16 and 20. “Auf einer Burg” may have originated on May 20 or 22. “Der frohe Wandersmann,” the opening song in the 1842 edition of the cycle, stands apart from the rest; it carries a date of June 22. This distinctive date of composition—a full month later than the rest—prefigures the problematic role of the song in the cycle, as we shall see (fig. 14.2).5

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It is clear from figure 14.2 that the order in which the songs were composed and the order in which they occur as fair copies in the Berlin autograph have little to do with the orderings in which the songs were published in the 1842 and 1849 editions. Patrick McCreless has argued that Schumann at one time may have contemplated ordering the individual settings for a cycle exactly as he had composed them.6 (He makes his case mainly by hypothesizing a succession of keys departing from and returning, several times, to the key of E in both major and minor.) He disregards, however, the fact that Eichendorff was not the only poet Schumann set in May of that year and that the Eichendorff songs are interspersed in the autograph with settings of non-Eichendorff texts.7 There is little evidence for such an ordering; a more likely explanation is that Schumann at this stage of the compositional process was mainly concerned with setting the individual poems and that putting the songs into a sequence for publication, perhaps as a cycle, was a task to be taken up later. Schumann was aware of the cyclic potential of the songs he was setting during those weeks. (A few months earlier he had composed nine Heine poems, which we know as the Heine Liederkreis, op. 24, and the publication of that group of songs with Breitkopf & Härtel proceeded quickly during the weeks he was working on his Eichendorff settings.)8 Figure 14.2. Schumann’s Eichendorff songs in the Berlin autograph (with dates of composition) No. 43

“Waldesgespräch” (May 1, 1840)

No. 44

“In der Fremde” [I] (May 4, 1840)

No. 45

“Mondnacht” (May 9, 1840)

No. 48

“Intermezzo” (before May 16, 1840)

No. 52

“Schöne Fremde” (May 16–17, 1840)

No. 54

“In der Fremde” [II] (May 18, 1840)

No. 55

“Wehmut” (May 17–18, 1840)

No. 56

“Frühlingsnacht” (May 18, 1840)

No. 57

“Die Stille” (May 4, 1840)

No. 58

“Zwielicht” (May 19, 1840)

No. 59

“Im Walde” (May 20, 1840)

No. 60

“Auf einer Burg” (May 20–22, 1840)

No. ??

“Der frohe Wandersmann” (June 22, 1840)

Note that the Eichendorff songs are interspersed with settings of poems by other poets. “Der Nussbaum” and “Widmung”—by Mosen and Rückert, respectively—stand between “Mondnacht” and “Intermezzo”; “Intermezzo” is followed by four non-Eichendorff settings including Heine’s “Die beiden Grenadiere,” and “Rotes Röslein” stands between “Schöne Fremde” and “In der Fremde” [II].

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Three letters from Robert to Clara are instructive for defining the stages of the emerging cyclic project. The first was written on May 2, shortly after his return from Berlin: Like me, your head probably is still spinning from all the great happiness we experienced together. . . . I still have not calmed down. . . . And I have music inside me that I would like to sing the whole day. But first of all I want to write down the songs.9

The second is from May 22: The Eichendorff cycle is perhaps my most Romantic work and it contains much of you in it. . . . Your book is now already composed and you would have to bring new poems. . . . Today the weather was ghastly and I sat in my study the whole day. Are there any words for the beastly audacity [of Wieck]; it does not fit into my Eichendorff cycle. I had already forgotten the scandal for a while, but sometimes it still grabs me and gets me down.10

And on May 25: I have composed so much that it seems to me uncanny at times. I cannot help it and would like to sing myself to death like a nightingale. There are twelve Eichendorff songs, but I have already forgotten those and begun something new.11

A few things are obvious from these statements. (1) What may have begun just as a setting of individual songs of texts by Eichendorff and other poets had in the last third of May—certainly by May 22—turned into a project on a different scale that would gather the brief vocal miniatures into something larger, namely a song cycle featuring twelve Eichendorff songs. As noted, Schumann had not composed “Der frohe Wandersmann,” the opening song of the 1842 edition, at that time. We can surmise, therefore, that by mentioning the number twelve in the third letter, he meant the dozen Eichendorff songs that had been completed by that time.12 (These are the songs that correspond to those included in the 1849 edition.) (2) Schumann’s biographical circumstances continue to be close to the surface of the composition of the songs, in both a positive and a negative way—with Clara, his beloved in the distance, on the one hand, representing a muse spurring him on to creative activity and Friedrich Wieck, his soon-to-be father-in-law, on the other hand, acting as a foil and an ogre from whom the composer found refuge in the Romantic world of Eichendorff’s poetry. We may not want to subscribe wholesale to the interpretation of a musical cryptographer such as Eric Sams13 who sees Clara, in the form of musical codes based on the letter names of melodic pitches, literally pervading much of Schumann’s work during this time. Still, he may be on to something

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here:14 the textual change in “Mondnacht” (“nur” or “only,” an expression of exclusiveness appropriate for people on the verge of getting married, instead of the filler “nun” or “now”) is perhaps a Freudian slip of the pen and a reverberation of the loving couple’s biographical circumstances. The same song contains one possible case of encoding—the musical notes E, B, and E in the bass spell in German the words E–H–E (marriage).

Stages 3 and 4: Common Ground Almost without exception, writers on Schumann’s op. 39 have used as the basis for their comments the order of the songs as published in the second (1849) edition, in which the first song “Der frohe Wandersmann” is replaced by the somber “In der Fremde” [I]. The earlier version did not remain completely unnoticed, but the fact that it begins with a lighthearted song of wandering has caused it to be viewed as less authentic. “Der frohe Wandersmann” has been dismissed, for the most part, as inferior;15 unrelated to the cycle, and a concession to a Viennese publisher catering to popular taste;16 as disturbing the cycle’s tight tonal unity;17 or as an afterthought that came to the composer much later.18 In addition, Kurt Hofmann, perhaps inadvertently, confused the matter by erroneously listing the first edition as containing both of the “first” songs, for a total of thirteen, not twelve.19 The bias toward the later edition may be attributed to the forces of inertia bred by habit or to the ideology surrounding the “Fassung letzter Hand” as definitive of an artwork’s shape. Schumann’s adage that first ideas are almost always preferable (even though he was quite a reviser and tinkerer) should have given pause to, or slowed down, an overly enthusiastic embrace of the 1849 edition. It was not until a few years ago that Jon Finson rattled our complacency by making a case for the 1842 version as a plausible alternative and for taking the possibility of beginning the cycle with “Der frohe Wandersmann” much more seriously.20 Even though I have problems with Finson’s interpretation of Schumann’s revision as a sign of the composer’s growing conservatism, I would like to accept the premise, for the time being, and treat both versions as equally valid. There is no doubt that the differences between the 1842 and 1849 versions are acute because of the very different songs with which the cycles commence. But we should not overlook the fact that eleven of the twelve songs stay in the later version exactly where they were in the earlier one. Both versions indeed have a lot in common, and the common features give us clues about Schumann’s ordering principles when he prepared the Eichendorff songs for publication not as individual songs with some vague notion of group identity but as a cycle (fig. 14.3). The cycle, most writers agree, falls into two halves: songs 1–6, containing mostly songs of an upbeat nature, and songs 7–12, containing settings with largely darker hues. The concluding songs of each half, “Schöne Fremde” and “Frühlingsnacht,” clearly are articulated as climactic statements providing closure

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Figure 14.3. Op. 39 in its 1842 and 1849 versions 1842

1849

“Der frohe Wandersmann”

“In der Fremde” [I]

“Intermezzo”

“Intermezzo”

“Waldesgespräch”

“Waldesgespräch”

“Die Stille”

“Die Stille”

“Mondnacht”

“Mondnacht”

“Schöne Fremde”

“Schöne Fremde”

“Auf einer Burg”

“Auf einer Burg”

“In der Fremde” [II]

“In der Fremde” [II]

“Wehmut”

“Wehmut”

“Zwielicht”

“Zwielicht”

“Im Walde”

“Im Walde”

“Frühlingsnacht”

“Frühlingsnacht”

to their respective sections and, in both poetry and music, they are shaped as corresponding or related units. “Schöne Fremde” speaks ecstatically of some “great happiness to come” (“wie von künftigem großen Glück”), a prophecy fulfilled in the last song’s jubilation “she is yours, is yours!” (“sie ist deine, sie ist dein”). As if to underscore this relation, Schumann provides both climactic statements with similar music (examples 14.1 and 14.2). Promise and fulfillment, a glimpse of utopia and final happiness are highlighted through musical means. Both songs are also set into a relationship through the keys of B major and F-sharp major (with five and six sharps, respectively), keys that in Schumann’s perspective were appropriate for capturing the intensity and ecstasy expressed in the poetry. “Simple feelings,” he felt, “demand simple keys; the more complicated ones require those which are less frequently heard.”21 Another ordering principle for the cycle is that of pairing adjacent songs: numbers 7 and 8 are linked by commencing with the same vocal line, albeit transposed and given a completely different character in the latter song by means of thematic transformation (examples 14.3 and 14.4). Moreover, the same two songs are linked tonally. For one thing, both are arguably in A minor (the key signature of the first speaks for A minor, although it seems to begin in E minor). For another, “Auf einer Burg” ends its archaic melodic and harmonic path with the dominant of A minor, which finds its resolution in song number 8, “In der Fremde” [II]. Similarly, in songs 5 and 6, the

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Example 14.1. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “Schöne Fremde”—mm. 18–26

Example 14.2. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “Frühlingsnacht”—mm. 24–26

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Example 14.3. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “Auf einer Burg”—mm. 1–4

Example 14.4. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “In der Fremde” [II]—mm. 1–4

incipits of the vocal part outline an ascending fourth and a falling fifth; while the initial interval is stated in skeletal form in “Schöne Fremde,” it is filled in through a stepwise motion in “Mondnacht” (examples 14.5 and 14.6). Songs 2, 3, and 4 establish a special unit in the cycle because of the “dialogue” character of the poems. “Intermezzo” is a love song addressed by a man to a woman, “Die Stille” a Rollengedicht spoken in the persona of a woman in love, and both songs frame “Waldesgespräch,” a dialogue between a male rider in the forest pursuing a beautiful female appearance and the Lorelei—also on horseback—trapping her stalker. (Some singers, e.g., Christa Ludwig and Walter Berry, have utilized the different personae of these poems as a point of departure for rendering the entire cycle as a dialogue between a male and a female singer—a solution not to be dismissed outright in view of the collaborative nature of the work and Robert and Clara Schumann’s biographical circumstances during the genesis of the cycle.) A factor contributing to the cyclic nature of op. 39, no doubt, is the rather uncomplicated key sequence in the succession of songs. Keys with sharps prevail in the first half, and the number of sharps in the key signatures increases as we

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Example 14.5. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “Mondnacht”—mm. 1–13

Example 14.6. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 39, “Schöne Fremde”—mm. 1–5

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Example 14.7. Key sequence in op. 39

progress. Darker hues and subsequently minor keys prevail in the second half,

until the last song tops the key sequence pursued in the first half with an ecstatic F-sharp major (example 14.7).22

Stages 3 and 4: Differences Despite a significant number of features common to both versions, including the various internal connections just listed, the differences are profound. The songs with which the two versions begin could not be more contrasting. In the 1842 version, a happy-go-lucky song of wandering recalls, as Finson has pointed out, the beginning of Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin, with its evocation of Volkston and marching patterns; and the carefree optimism and confidence with which the wanderer starts his journey—perhaps in typical song cycle fashion in search of a beloved—casts a light on subsequent songs.23 While most of the songs of the first half as well as the ecstatic conclusion bear out our traveler’s optimism, he also encounters situations of a more disturbing nature, especially in the cycle’s second half. In the words of Finson, the initial song “provides a point of reference against which we can view other songs. . . . Many take on a more ironic air [in light of “Der frohe Wandersmann”], for the disparity between its cheerful confidence and the unhappy confusion in other parts of the cycle is acute.”24 The 1849 version also commences with the song of a wanderer, but he is a wanderer who has seen considerably more of the world than our chap of the 1842 version. If the wanderer in the 1842 version “begets history,” the wanderer in the 1849 version “re-enacts history” (to invoke a conceptual framework with which Werner Wolf approaches Schubert’s Winterreise).25 He has returned to his homeland after many years on the road, only to find out that he has become a stranger. The feelings of alienation and estrangement cause in him a longing for being united with Nature—in short, for death. “In der Fremde” [I] casts a completely different light on the songs that immediately follow: they almost appear as retrospectives, flashbacks, as it were, displaying a trajectory from melancholy nostalgia and alienation to jubilant exultation and ecstatic union with the beloved. “In der Fremde” [I] prepares us for the more disturbing part of the journey in the second half of the cycle (better perhaps than does “Der frohe Wandersmann”), but the ecstatic finale following nearly half a dozen songs that

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evoke disturbing encounters comes out of the blue—a veritable deus ex machina solution, at most hinted at in the anticipation of future happiness in “Schöne Fremde,” the last song in the cycle’s first half.26 The differences between the 1842 and 1849 versions pose problems for commentators and analysts who have usually made a case for the cycle’s musical coherence on the basis of the second edition. “Der frohe Wandersmann” disturbs the tonal closure of the cycle; the D major beginning indeed does away with the F-sharp minor (of “In der Fremde” [I]) that, in the later version, corresponds so well with the F-sharp major at the end of the cycle. But it has the advantage of setting up more clearly the cycle’s overall motion from relatively “plain” keys to ones with increasingly more sharps. Perhaps more a fly in the ointment is that “Der frohe Wandersmann” does not feature the motive of the ascending and descending fourths and fifths that subtly emerges in the middle section of “In der Fremde” [I] and which analysts such as Turchin, McCreless, Daverio, and Thym have identified as the germ for other occurrences in subsequent songs.27 We do not have to deny that Schumann indeed imbues some of his songs in Liederkreis with motivic and thematic correspondences (and we even can admit that the fourth/fifth motive takes on considerable significance in this context), but its absence in the first song of the 1842 version casts at least some doubt on the often unspoken teleological and organicist theories that seem to underlie the claims of motivic coherence.

Epilogue “I was again delighted with your remarks about my piano works,” Schumann wrote on June 11, 1840, to W. H. Rieffel, “if I only could find more people who understood my meaning! I hope I shall succeed more easily with vocal compositions.”28 In this letter Schumann draws an explicit connection between the writing of keyboard works in the 1830s and his vocal music of the 1840 Liederjahr, suggesting that his compositional and aesthetic principles had not changed as much as the trope of the completely new Schumann emerging in the year of song implies. He was aware of the difficulties of comprehension his keyboard cycles cause for audiences because of the often bizarre juxtaposition of contrasting miniatures in the music. (The series of short, almost fragmentary movements in a work such as Carnaval is a case in point.) He hoped to do better in terms of comprehensibility (and perhaps also in terms of financial rewards) with vocal compositions, in which a poetic text provides a key for aiding comprehension. The surface discontinuities and apparent non sequiturs we discovered in the Liederkreis as we traversed the compositional and publication history of this cycle in flux are perhaps not different in quality from those encountered in the keyboard works of the 1830s. Indeed, the existence of two different first songs reminds us of Schumann’s willingness in other works to remove entire pieces at

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a late stage (Dichterliebe comes to mind, but also Symphonische Etüden for piano). If no other Schumann work goes so far as to propose two alternative pieces for a single movement, perhaps this simply shows how radical an instance op. 39 is of a more general tendency in his oeuvre. The recognition of Schumann as a master of the piano character piece and of vocal miniatures has often been coupled, in the reception of his work, with a verdict of a different and less flattering kind—namely that he was just a miniaturist who had problems creating large-scale musical structures, especially of the organicist Beethovenian kind. Since the mid-1980s a number of authors—especially Anthony Newcomb, John Daverio, Erika Reiman, and David Ferris—have questioned this interpretation by showing that Schumann’s small-scale cycles are indeed large-scale works, albeit inspired by Romantic conceptions of narrative that harken back to Jean Paul and Friedrich Schlegel. Newcomb pointed out in a seminal article in 1987 that “Schumann, like Jean Paul, avoids clear linear narrative through a stress on interruption, embedding, digression, and willful reinterpretation of the apparent function of an event.”29 About the same time, Daverio began looking at Schumann’s instrumental works with the tools provided by aesthetic categories (“Arabeske” and “Fragment”) developed by German Romantics such as Schlegel—a project that has led him to view many (and perhaps the most significant) works of the nineteenth century as works that are generic and structural hybrids, engaging in discontinuous, open-ended, and self-reflective constructs—in short, as works resisting rather than measuring up to the classical yardstick.30 More recently, Reiman and Ferris followed up on the studies of Newcomb and Daverio by proposing new conceptions of the Romantic cycle in Schumann’s keyboard suites and song cycles, respectively.31 Romantic approaches to narrative indeed may help us in our quest to understand the nature of Schumann’s song cycles, explain or account for the features that puzzle us in the Liederkreis. In his letter to Rieffel, written shortly after he had composed most (or even all) of the Eichendorff settings of what later became his op. 39, Schumann himself seems to have sanctioned such an approach to a work whose conception, genesis, and publication history reveal an unusual degree of uncertainty and flux. These features can be considered signatures of Romanticism in its most emphatic sense.

Notes 1. The source for figure 14.1 is Helma Kaldewey, “Die Gedichtabschriften Robert und Clara Schumanns,” in Robert Schumann und die Dichter: Ein Musiker als Leser, ed. Bernhard Appel and Inge Hermestrüwer (Düsseldorf: Droste, 1991), 88–99. 2. Rufus Hallmark, “The Rückert Lieder of Robert and Clara Schumann,” Nineteenth-Century Music 14 (Summer 1990): 3–30; chapter 13 in this volume. 3. The exception seems to be “Wehmut”—op. 39, no. 9—a poet persona’s confession of a more general nature.

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4. For instance, in a lecture given at the Second International Conference on Word and Music Studies held at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor in August 1999. 5. The source for figure 14.2 is Herwig Knaus, Musiksprache und Werkstruktur in Robert Schumanns Liederkreis, Opus 39 (Munich: Katzbichler, 1974). 6. Patrick McCreless, “Song Order in the Song Cycle: Schumann’s Liederkreis, Op. 39,” Music Analysis 5, 1 (1986): 5–18, esp. 17–22. 7. See facsimile in Knaus, Musiksprache und Werkstruktur, appendix. 8. See chapter 15 in this volume. 9. In Wolfgang Boetticher, Robert Schumann in seinen Schriften und Briefen (Berlin: Hahnefeld, 1942), 338: “Dir ist wohl ganz wie mir, der Kopf ordentlich schwer von alle dem großen Glück, das wir zusammen genossen haben . . . ich bin noch nicht ruhig. . . . Und Musik habe ich in mir, dass ich den ganzen Tag nur singen möchte. Vor allem aber will ich Lieder aufschreiben.” Also in Clara und Robert Schumann: Briefwechsel. Kritische Gesamtausgabe, vol. 3, ed. Eva Weissweiler (Basel: Stroemfeld/Roter Stern, 2001), 1013. See also The Complete Correspondence of Clara and Robert Schumann, vol. 3, ed. Eva Weissweiler, trans. Hildegard Fritsch, Ronald L. Crawford, and Harold P. Fry (New York: Peter Lang, 2001), 171–72. 10. In Boetticher, Robert Schumann in seinen Schriften und Briefen, 340: “Der Eichendorffsche Zyklus ist wohl mein aller Romantischstes und steht viel von Dir darin. . . . Dein Buch ist nun schon auskomponiert und Du müsstest duchaus neue Gedichte mitbringen. . . . Heute . . . war das Wetter abscheulich und ich sitze den ganzen Tag in meiner Klause. . . . Gibt es denn noch Worte für die bestialische Frechheit [Wiecks]: In meinen Eichendorffschen Zyklus passt das schlecht. Ich hatte den Skandal auch eine Weile vergessen, manchmal packt es mich aber auch zum Niederwerfen.” Also in Schumann Briefwechsel, vol. 3, ed. Weissweiler, 1043. In English: The Complete Correspondence, vol. 3, ed. Weissweiler, 201. 11. In Jugendbriefe, ed. Clara Schumann (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1886), 314: “Ich habe wieder so viel komponiert, dass mir’s manchmal ganz unheimlich vorkömmt. Ach, ich kann nicht anders, ich möchte mich totsingen wie eine Nachtigall. Eichendorffsche [Lieder] sind es zwölf. Die hab’ ich aber schon vergessen und etwas Neues angefangen.” Also in Schumann Briefwechsel, vol. 3, ed. Weissweiler, 1048. In English: The Complete Correspondence, vol. 3, ed. Weissweiler, 206. 12. See figure 14.2 for the dates of composition. 13. Eric Sams, The Songs of Robert Schumann (New York: W. W. Norton, 1969), 22–26. 14. Ibid., 97–99. 15. Ibid., 93. 16. Knaus, Musiksprache und Werkstruktur, 17. 17. Stephen Walsh, The Lieder of Robert Schumann (New York: Praeger, 1971), 35. 18. Barbara Turchin, “Schumann’s Song Cycles: The Cycle within the Song,” Nineteenth-Century Music 8 (Spring 1985): 231–44, esp. 238. 19. Kurt Hofmann, Die Erstdrucke der Werke Robert Schumanns (Tutzing: Schneider, 1979), 90–93. 20. Jon Finson, “The Intentional Tourist: Romantic Irony in the Eichendorff Liederkreis of Robert Schumann,” in Schumann and His World, ed. R. Larry Todd (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 156–69. 21. Robert Schumann, On Music and Musicians, trans. Paul Rosenfeld (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1946), 60–61. Original: “Einfachere Empfindungen haben einfachere Tonarten; zusammengesetzte bewegen sich lieber in fremden, welche das Ohr

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seltener hört.” Robert Schumann, “Charakteristik der Tonarten,” in Gesammelte Schriften über Musik und Musiker, vol. 1, ed. Martin Kreisig (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1914), 106. 22. Keys for the songs of happiness, jubilation, ecstasy, and so on, are listed in the upper stave, keys for songs displaying darker emotional hues in the lower stave; a plus sign indicates major keys, a minus sign keys in minor. 23. Finson, “Intentional Tourist,” 160. 24. Ibid., 167. 25. Werner Wolf, “Willst zu meinen Liedern deine Leier drehn?: Intermedial Metatextuality in Schubert’s ‘Der Leiermann’ as a Motivation for Song and Accompaniment and a Contribution to the Unity of Die Winterreise,” in Word and Music Studies, vol. 3, ed. Walter Bernhart and Werner Wolf (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2001), 121–40. 26. Finson’s proposal (168) to record both first songs on a CD to enable audiences to choose between the 1842 and 1849 versions requires a neutral rendition of the songs that follow. That, however, is not an option for the responsible artist. A performer selecting “In der Fremde” [I] as the initial song may well feel the need to cast a different spell on subsequent numbers than the one who opts for “Der frohe Wandersmann.” 27. Turchin, “Schumann’s Song Cycles,” 240–41; McCreless, “Song Order in the Song Cycle,” 14–17; John Daverio, Robert Schumann: Herald of a “New Poetic Age” (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), 215–16; Jürgen Thym, “The Piano-Accompanied Solo Song Settings of Eichendorff’s Poems by Schumann and Wolf” (PhD dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1974), 215–16. 28. F. Gustav Jensen, ed., Robert Schumanns Briefe: Neue Folge (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1904), 164: “Ihre Worte über meine Claviercompositionen haben mich wieder erfreut. Fände ich nur mehr, die mich verständen, wie ich Alles meine. Mit Gesangscompositionen hoffe ich soll es mir leichter fallen.” 29. Anthony Newcomb, “Schumann and Late Eighteenth-Century Narrative Strategies,” Nineteenth-Century Music 11 (Fall 1987): 164–74, esp. 169. 30. John Daverio, “Schumann’s Im Legendenton and Friedrich Schlegel’s Arabeske,” Nineteenth-Century Music 11 (Fall 1987): 150–63; the study became the point of departure for John Daverio, Nineteenth-Century Music and German Romantic Ideology (New York: Schirmer Books, 1993). 31. Erika Reiman, Schumann’s Piano Cycles and the Novels of Jean Paul (Rochester: University of Rochester Press, 2004); David Ferris, Schumann’s Eichendorff Liederkreis and the Genre of the Romantic Cycle (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000).

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Chapter Fifteen

Why Dichterliebe Twice? The Case of Schumann’s Opus 24 and Opus 48 Rufus Hallmark Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und Leben! (Too fragmentary is world and life!) Heine, Die Heimkehr 63

So begins a poem in Heine’s Die Heimkehr, one of the constituent collections within his Buch der Lieder (1827). When one reads the whole poem from which this opening line is taken, one realizes that the poet is hardly raising this cry sympathetically but rather that he is making fun of those who believe the world and life could be experienced as anything other than fragmentary.1 He aims his satire at the academic, “der weiß das Leben zusammenzusetzen” and “macht ein verständlich System daraus” (who knows how to construe life as an understandable system). Why I have nevertheless chosen to use this verse as a motto for this academic essay will gradually become clear. The premise of this chapter is that Schumann’s two song cycles on poems of Heine—Liederkreis, op. 24, and Dichterliebe, op. 48—are very similar in their general tenor; that both begin with unhappy love, continue with disillusionment, sadness, and anger, and then end in withdrawal and consolation. One sometimes even hears Liederkreis, op. 24, referred to as “die kleine Dichterliebe.” I have _________________ This chapter was first presented as a paper at the conference “Übergänge zwischen den Künsten und Kulturen. Kongress zum 150. Todestag von Heinrich Heine und Robert Schumann,” Düsseldorf, May 7–10, 2006; it appeared in German as “Warum zweimal ‘Dichterliebe’? Opus 24 und Opus 48,” in Übergänge zwischen Künsten und Kulturen: Kongress zum 150. Todestag von Heinrich Heine und Robert Schumann, ed. Henriette Herwig, Volker Kalisch, Bern Kortländer, Joseph A. Kruse, and Bernd Witte (Stuttgart: Metzler, 2007), 229–47. It is published here in English for the first time. The German version is dedicated to Gerd Nauhaus with sincere admiration and gratitude.

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why

DICHTERLIEBE

twice?



391

wondered what led Schumann to compose two such similar song cycles on works of the same poet within three months of each other (February and May 1840). This is clearly not a question one can answer with source studies or musical analysis or for which one expects to find a certain or precise explanation. It is more an occasion for reflection. Stated with more chronological accuracy, the question should actually be: why did Schumann compose the Heine Liederkreis two times, since it was composed first and then was followed by Dichterliebe? My reply is that Schumann did not compose the same song cycle twice. In spite of the common themes and moods of these two cycles, they are really two quite different compositions. This may sound as though I have set up a convenient “straw man” to demolish, but the answer I propose is less important in itself than the reasons behind it. My chapter is in part a response to one of the ideas put forward by Beate Perrey in her recent book on Dichterliebe, namely that contrary to her assertion, there is in Dichterliebe a narrative course that is missing in Liederkreis.2 Figures 15.1 and 15.2 give an overview of the two song cycles. Here I briefly remind the reader that the cycle we know as Dichterliebe with sixteen songs was originally entitled “Gedichte von Heinrich Heine / 20 Lieder und Gesänge aus dem lyrischen Intermezzo im Buch der Lieder.”3 Since Schumann originally conceived this as a cycle of twenty songs in 1840 and held to that conception until shortly before its publication four years later (September 1844; discussed further later), I refer to this cycle here as “20 Lieder” and number the individual songs 1–20 (fig. 15.2).

Similarities between the Cycles Before discussing the differences between the two cycles, one needs to understand the similarities, indeed to recognize the grounds on which one might refer to Liedrkreis as “the little Dichterliebe.” These similarities, found in both literary and musical elements, are numerous. In this discussion these similarities will be enumerated and briefly commented upon. The general course of moods in the two cycles, as stated earlier, is very similar. 1. The first four songs of Liederkreis (op. 24, nos. 1–4) correspond to the first eight songs of 20 Lieder (20 Lieder, nos. 1–8). In these poems/songs the lyrical speaker or persona expresses the strong feelings he has for his beloved. At the same time we can tell that not all is well; his love goes unrequited. 2. Op. 24, nos. 5–6 ≈ 20 Lieder, nos. 9–12. The persona reacts to the loss of his beloved with hurt, anger, and sadness. 3. Op. 24, nos. 7–9 ≈ 20 Lieder, nos. 13–20. The cycles conclude with withdrawal or distancing and with some form of consolation.

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Figure 15.1. Schumann, Liederkreis, op. 24 Composed February 1840; published May 1840 Heine “Junge Leiden”1 “Lieder”

Schumann Liederkreis Opus 24 1840

Key

1

1

D

Morgens steh’ ich auf und frage

2

2

b

Es treibt mich hin, es treibt mich her!

3

3

B

Ich wandelte unter den Bäumen

4

4

e

Lieb’ Liebchen, leg’s Hände auf’s Herze mein

5

5

E

Schöne Wiege meiner Leiden

6

6

E

Warte, warte, wilder Schiffmann

7

7

A

Berg’ und Burgen schau’n herunter

8

8

d

Anfangs wollt’ ich fast verzagen

9

9

D

Mit Myrthen und Rosen, lieblich und hold

1

First line of text

(“Traumbilder,” “Lieder,” “Romanzen,” “Sonette”)

The two cycles are full of textual and thematic parallels, the strongest and most essential of which are the voice of Nature and burial. 1. The voice of Nature. In op. 24, no. 3, a little bird speaks to the unhappy persona; in 20 Lieder, no. 14, it is flowers whose voices are heard by the lyrical self. In the first instance the message of the bird does not bring the consolation intended; the persona mistrusts the love—“das gold’ne Wort”—of which the bird speaks. In the second case the flowers bring well-meant advice to the persona (“Sei uns’rer Schwester nicht böse”) and also their sympathy (“Du trauriger, blasser Mann”). Both images belong to folk traditions and superstition, where they can be understood as modern oracles.4 2. Burial images. The poetic persona speaks of burying his love, first in a book of poetry (op. 24, no. 9) and then in a coffin that is sunk in the sea (20 Lieder, no. 20). In the first case the love he expresses in the poems will come alive again when read by the beloved (or by any sympathetic reader?); in the second, the poet appears to renounce love, but, in Schumann’s song, he lets go of his anger (piano postlude).

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Figure 15.2. Dichterliebe, Opus 48 Composed May 1840 as “Gedichte von Heinrich Heine, 20 Lieder und Gesänge aus dem lyrischen Intermezzo im Buch der Lieder”; the songs remain “20 Lieder” until at least to the end of 1843; 16 songs were published as Dichterliebe in September 1844. Heine “Lyr Int” 18271

Schumann “20 Lieder” 1840

Key

First line of text

Schumann Dichterliebe, Opus 48 1844

1

1

f-sharp, A?

Im wunderschönen Monat Mai

1

2

2

A

Aus meinen Tränen sprießen

2

3

3

D

Die Rose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne

3

4

4

G

5

5

E-flat

Dein Angesicht, so lieb’ und schön

publ. as Opus 127/2 (1854)

6

6

g

Lehn’ deine Wang’ an meine Wang’

publ. as Opus 142/2 (1858)

7

7

b

Ich will meine Seele tauchen

5

11

8

e

Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome

6

Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’

4

18

9

C

Ich grolle nicht

7

22*

10

a

Und wüssten’s die Blumen, die kleinen

8

20*

11

d

Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen

9

41*

12

g

Hör’ ich das Liedchen klingen

10

40*

13

E-flat

Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen

11

46

14

B-flat

Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen

12

47

15

g

55

16

56

Es leuchtet meine Liebe

publ. as Opus 127/3

B-flat

Mein Wagen rollet langsam

publ. as Opus 142/4

17

e-flat

Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet

13

57

18

B

Allnächtlich im Traume

14

44*

19

E

Aus alten Märchen winkt es

15

66

20

c-sharp/-flat Die alten, bösen Lieder

16

1 “Lyrisches Intermezzo” (66 Poems), in Buch der Lieder (“Junge Leiden,” “Lyrisches Intermezzo,” “Die Heimkehr,” “Aus der Harzreise,” “Die Nordsee”), first edition 1827 (Schumann’s copy is located at the Heine-Institut in Düsseldorf, Germany, Inventory Number: 83.5037) * denotes changes of order in Schumann’s composition

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3. Heartsickness. In op. 24, no. 5, the persona says “Mein Herz ist krank und wund” after the “bitt’ren Worte” are spoken by the beloved. In 20 Lieder, no. 10, the persona complains “Wie tief verwundet mein Herz” and “Wie ich so traurig und krank” since the beloved has “zerissen mir das Herz.” 4. Images of the River Rhein. In each cycle the Rhein makes an appearance as the occasion to consider an image of the beloved. In op. 24, no. 7, we hear “Berg und Burgen schau’n herunter / In den spiegelhellen Rhein.” In this poem the river itself is “der liebsten Bild,” for while it is “freundlich grüßend” and attractive, it is at the same time dangerous; in both river and beloved lurk “Tod und Nacht.” In 20 Lieder, no. 8, “Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome, / Da spiegelt sich in den Well’n, / Mit seinem großen Dome, / Das große, heilige Köln.” Here the Rhein, as well as Cologne Cathedral, has the roll of majestic background for the discovery of the beloved’s face in a devotional painting of the Virgin Mary. 5. Images of a serpent. In op. 24, no. 6, the persona asks, “Kennst du noch das alte Liedchen / Von der Schlang’ im Paradies, / Die durch schlimme Apfelgabe / Unsern Ahn’ in’s Elend stieß.” In 20 Lieder, no. 9: “Ich sah dich ja im Traume, / Und sah die Nacht in deines Herzens Raume, / Und sah die Schlang,’ die dir am Herzen frisst, / Ich sah mein Lieb wie sehr du elend bist.” Although the first image comes from the biblical Garden of Eden story and the second is a generalized symbol for guilt or anxiety, they both characterize the beloved very negatively, giving vent to the persona’s anger. 6. Mistrust of the word “love.” In op. 24, no. 3, and in 20 Lieder, no. 4, the persona mistrusts the bird and the beloved, respectively, when each speaks of love. In Heine’s Gedichte (1822) we find sixteen “Minnelieder” instead of nine “Lieder,” and in that earlier version of the poetic sequence this poem is entitled “Das Wörtlein Liebe.”5 Although Heine later deleted the title, it is easy to infer from the context what word the bird is imparting. The persona hears the little word, but it wounds him for he trusts no one. In 20 Lieder, no. 4, when the persona hears the beloved’s profession of love, he weeps bitterly. 7. Death images. In both cycles there are premonitions of death, of his own death in op. 24, no. 4, and that of the beloved in 20 Lieder, no. 5. In the first case he appears to be so miserable that he longs for his own death. In the second instance the persona foresees the inevitable death of the beloved. The latter poem resembles other meditations on the mortality of a young woman (e.g., Ronsard’s “Mignonne”), except perhaps for its sensuality (“Und nur die Lippen, die sind rot, / Bald aber küsst sie bleich der Tod”). A number of noteworthy musical parallels exist between the two cycles. One can contend that such parallels result merely from the operation of the single composer’s style; but although this may to some extent be true, I believe some of the

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parallels described here are individual responses to Heine’s poems. In either case, they support the assertion of the strong similarity of these two song cycles, regardless of whether some elements can be found elsewhere. 1. One notes in both cycles a tightly integrated and logically related sequence of keys (see the second column of figs. 15.1 and 15.2). The tonal plan of Dichterliebe has been extensively discussed,6 and Berthold Hoeckner has written on the key sequence of both cycles, earlier on op. 247 and, more recently, on op. 48.8 The general cohesiveness of keys is readily apparent and will be briefly discussed further when we consider the differences between the cycles. 2. The individual songs of the two cycles exhibit a wide variety of forms: (a) strophic (op. 24, nos. 4 and 7; 20 Lieder, nos. 1, 10, 11, 17, and 18), (b) ternary or ABA (op. 24, no. 3; 20 Lieder, nos. 5 and 15?), (c) rondo-like (op. 24, nos. 5 and 9; 20 Lieder, no. 19), and (d) unique through-composed forms (op. 24, nos. 1, 2, 6, and 8; 20 Lieder, nos. 3, 4, 6, 8, 12, 13, 14, and 20). All these varying and particular manifestations of the general formal procedures correspond closely to the structural, semantic, and expressive forms of the poems. There is not space here to discuss examples of each formal type, but we will look at two strophic songs. Op. 24, no. 7, is a poem that has Heine’s typical Stimmungsbruch in its closing stanza. The first three strophes describe the Rhein, on its surface smooth and attractive but underneath dangerous and dark; its depths bring death and night. The last strophe compares the river to the beloved: “Oben Lust, im Busen Tücken, / Strom du bist der Liebsten Bild!” Schumann composed a strophic song, and although he could have supplied it with a modified concluding strophe, as he did in the case of 20 Lieder, no. 10, “Und wüssten’s die Blumen, die kleinen,” he did not do so. But the germ of a modification is present; the music for the closing strophe is not identical to the previous three. In the melody of the third phrase he inserted a subtle alteration (m. 38): a chromatic lower neighbor tone (f’-double sharp) embellishes the descending sixth leap (e” to g’-sharp) and gives the melody a kind of knowing wink. 3. There are motivic connections among the songs of each cycle. Hoeckner adduces persuasive reasons for the recurrence of a motive from the first song of op. 24 in nearly every other song in the cycle. The motive, an ascending leap at the words “Träumend, wie im halben Schlummer” in song 1, returns as a recollection or reminder of the dream image in other songs.9 One also finds motivic connections and thematic reprise in 20 Lieder. As a single example, compare the opening measures of “Aus meinen Tränen sprießen” and “Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet.” Both incipits consist of a repeated pitch and a semitonal upper neighbor. It is as if with this cross-reference Schumann intends us to connect, ironically,

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4.

5.

6.

7.

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the happy tears of 20 Lieder, no. 2, with the sad tears of 20 Lieder, no. 17. The reprise of the postlude of 20 Lieder, no. 14, in that of the last song will be discussed later. There are also comparably significant harmonic progressions in both cycles. Consider the similarity of the rising melodic/harmonic sequences in “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann” (op. 24, no. 6) and “Ich grolle nicht” (20 Lieder, no. 9). In both cases the sequence occurs in the second half of the respective songs, consists of three sequentially higher phrases, and reaches its highest note on a.” In both songs the text is dealing with a serpent—on the one hand, the serpent in Paradise and, on the other, the serpent that gnaws at the beloved’s heart. Both sequences lead the songs to their climaxes, after which follow descent and cadencing. One finds unexpected and expressive text-related key changes in both cycles. In op. 24, no. 3, when the little bird speaks, the key turns from B major via a chromatic deceptive cadence from the dominant seventh chord on F-sharp to G major. An imprecise reminiscence of this key change occurs in 20 Lieder, no. 14, when the key turns from B-flat major to G major to introduce the songs of the flowers. In both cases, Schumann makes use of a chromatic change of tonic that involves a cross-relation. Characteristically for Schumann, these songs include much substantive piano music, such as extended preludes and postludes. Of special interest are two songs that seem to have sprung directly from piano music: “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann” (op. 24, no. 6) and “Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen” (20 Lieder, no. 11). It is highly indicative that the manuscript sources for both songs include sketches of pure piano music.10 In the case of 20 Lieder, no. 11, Schumann labored to compose a satisfactory vocal line to fit the piano music he had already composed. In the case of op. 24, no. 6, the song seems to work like an instrumental composition, for its tonal form somewhat resembles sonatina or parallel form and essential thematic portions of the music are recapitulated without words (see the diagram in fig. 15.3). Well-known and much criticized is Schumann’s predilection for text alterations. Both cycles contain numerous examples, especially of simple word changes and repetitions. More remarkable are interruptions of poetic strophes, as in op. 24, no. 2. There Schumann set only the first three lines of the poem’s first four-line strophe as the first musical strophe of the song and then joined the orphaned line to the next poetic strophe to make a five-line second musical strophe (fig. 15.4.) To my knowledge, such strophe interruptions are relatively rare in Schumann’s songs.11 But a well-known example occurs in 20 Lieder, no. 9, “Ich grolle nicht,” in which Schumann combines the opening words of the poem’s second strophe with the first musical strophe (“Das weiß ich längst”) and therewith closes the first half of the song. Of course, the composer repeats the poem’s opening words at the beginning and ending of the second musical strophe.

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Figure 15.3. Parallel (or Sonatina) Form of “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffmann” (Opus 24, no.6) Exposition Strophe 1 (“Warte”)

Strophe 2 (“Blutquell”)

Strophe 3 (“Ei, mein Lieb”)

“Oh!”

Principal Theme (phrases 1 and 2)

Secondary Themes*

Intermediate Section**

Retransition

E, g-sharp

E; G, C

V/E, V/G-sharp

V7/E

mm.1-12a, 12b-16

17-36

37-51

52-54

Piano solo

Strophe 4 (“Kennst du”) (Lines 1-2)

Strophe 4 (“Die durch”) (Lines 3-4)

Principal Theme

Principal Theme

Secondary Themes

E (phrase 1)

g-sharp (phrase 2)

Recapitulation +

Strophe 5 (“Alles Unheil”)

f-sharp, g-sharp, B, d-sharp, B, V7/E 55-66a

66b-71

72-98

Conclusion (Coda) Piano solo Principal and Secondary Themes return E 99-121 * The exposition ends with an echo of the principal theme. ** The principal theme is developed harmonically, the voice carries rhythmic figurations of the secondary themes.

On the basis of the similarities presented here, one must concede that Schumann’s two Heine song cycles at this point do indeed seem like siblings. We must not stop, however, with the cataloging of the common characteristics but proceed to find the distinctions.

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Figure 15.4. Interruption of poetic strophes in “Es treibt mich hin” (op. 24, no. 2) and “Ich grolle nicht” (20 Lieder, no. 9) “Es treibt mich hin” Stanza 1

Stanza 2

Stanza 3

Es treibt mich hin, es treibt mich her! Noch wenige Stunden, dann soll ich sie schauen, Sie selber, die schönen Jungfrauen; Du armes Herz, was pochst du schwer? Die Stunden sind aber ein faules Volk! Schleppen sich behagliche träge, Schleppen gähnend ihre Wege; Tummle dich, du faules Volk!

Mus. Str. 1

Mus. Str. 2

no interruption

“Ich grolle nicht” Stanza 1

Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht, Ewig verlor’nes Lieb! (Ewig verlor’nes Lieb!) Ich grolle nicht. Wie du auch strahlst in Diamantenpracht, Mus. Str. 1 Es fällt kein Strahl in deines Herzens Nacht

Stanza 2

Das weiß ich längst. (Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht.) Ich sah dich ja im Traume, Und sah die Nacht in deines Herzens Raume, Und sah die Schlang’, die dir am Herzen frisst, — Ich sah mein Lieb, wie sehr du Elend bist. (Ich grolle nicht, ich grolle nicht.)

Mus. Str. 2

Differences between the Cycles Although the two cycles are undeniably very similar, did Schumann really compose the same song cycle twice? Before anything else, we need to consider the distinct literary sources for these two cycles, then note the differing relationship of each song cycle to its source, and finally explore the dissimilar compositional histories of the two cycles (see figs. 15.1 and 15.2). Schumann based Liederkreis, op. 24, on a group of nine poems from the Junge Leiden portion of the Buch der Lieder. The series of nine Lieder is the work of the poet, which Schumann took over as an integral whole, and this is the single song cycle in his entire song oeuvre in which Schumann took over an extant group of poems as a whole; in all other cases he picked a bouquet of poems from a larger collection or omitted parts of an otherwise integral poetic

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cycle.12 (In this regard it is interesting that no other composer set all nine poems of Heine’s Lieder).13 Schumann set these poems to music in February 1840; they are found in the first of the three big Liederbücher the composer assembled from his song manuscripts.14 This cycle belongs to the earliest compositions of his Liederjahr and constitutes Schumann’s first song cycle and first song publication. In the case of Dichterliebe the situation is quite different. Here he was dealing with the sixty-six poems of the “Lyrisches Intermezzo” as they appeared in the first edition of the Buch der Lieder, from which the composer chose a number of individual poems.15 Schumann composed the first seven poems without skipping any, and then he chose thirteen more from the fifty-nine remaining poems.16 In May 1840, when it was finished, he called this cycle simply “20 Lieder und Gesänge aus dem lyrischen Intermezzo,” and judging from the correspondence with publishers until the fall of 1843, he held to his original intention of publishing these twenty songs as a whole.17 In September 1844 the cycle finally appeared, but with the title Dichterliebe and with sixteen instead of twenty songs.18 Thus in this case Schumann played the role of both a poet and a composer. This is an essential distinction between Liederkreis, op. 24, and 20 Lieder/ Dichterliebe, and it brings significant implications for our evaluation of the two cycles. We come back now to Beate Perrey and the issue of narrative form. Perrey has read extensively in Friedrich Schlegel and Novalis to understand their theories about fragments and Romantic irony. Perrey has also investigated Heine’s intentions for his poetry, and she further clarifies Schumann’s statements about song composition. On the basis of these philosophical and aesthetic ideas, Perrey then reasons that neither Schumann in his songs nor Heine in his poems aimed at creating classical art objects complete in themselves but rather Romantic fragments that point beyond themselves to a larger reality.19 Perrey begins with Heine and literary questions. She writes, “[T]he Early Romantic text, consisting of fragments, is not characterized by a logical narrative where each incident connects with and leads to all following incidents.”20 This is surely the case with Heine’s “Lyrisches Intermezzo.” Although with its prolog and the opening and closing poems the poet implies a beginning and an end, the individual lyrical movements in between hardly follow each other in a logical, narrative order. Perrey describes the sequence of poems as “kaleidoscopic” and “circular”: “[N]ot external events but an inner state of mind . . . permeates the poetic cycle.”21 Many scholars have discussed Heine’s ordering of the poems in his cycles,22 and Perrey rightly agrees with those who find no “continuous story” in “Lyrisches Intermezzo.” Furthermore, like many Heine scholars, Perrey rejects an autobiographical basis for Heine’s early love poetry as too simplistic an explanation. In place of an actual beloved (like his cousin Amalie), Perrey sets a female imago, an abstract idea of woman, as the recipient of the poems.23

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On the basis of the foregoing, Perrey then proceeds to Schumann’s songs. Since Heine’s poems have been established to be fragments and his cycle neither autobiographical nor narrative, Perrey asserts that therefore Schumann’s cycle cannot have narrative form. I question this reasoning. I accept with Perrey the fragmentary aspect of Schumann’s individual songs and hold this to be a rich, fruitful perspective, just as, for example, John Daverio has found it to be for certain of Schumann’s piano works and David Ferris for the Eichendorff Liederkreis.24 But I also maintain that fragments, on the one hand, and narrative form, on the other, are not mutually exclusive categories. Let us examine the term “narrative.” A persona speaks as a lyrical voice in the first-person singular, as Perrey points out. No other “role” has direct expression in the poems, and there is no omniscient narrator speaking in the third person. Thus, concludes Perrey, 20 Lieder is not a narrative. So far I agree. Neither Heine’s “Lyrisches Intermezzo” nor Schumann’s song cycle is a narrative or a story in this narrow sense. But this distinction ignores certain other features of Schumann’s songs. When one speaks of Dichterliebe as a narrative, we understand that what is meant is that the utterances of the lyrical “I” imply a narrative course or correspond to a narrative background, not that this voice itself tells the story. We can further clarify this distinction with help from the philosophical reflections of Karol Berger. In his book A Theory of Art, Berger has argued that the essential difference between epic or narrative poetry and lyrical (or may we say fragmentary?) poetry consists in the relationship of the parts. In epic/narrative poetry the parts line up as cause and effect; their relation is causal and their temporal ordering is irreversible, or asymmetrical. In lyrical poetry the parts may follow one another in any order whatsoever; their relation to one another is reversible, symmetrical.25 We can therefore understand Heine’s ordering of his poems in “Lyrisches Intermezzo” as symmetrical. Although a general transformation from love’s awakening to the renunciation of love is discernible, there is no straight-line progress; the individual poems do not follow one another in a causal ordering. As in a spiral, Heine explores his feelings forward and backward throughout the sixty-six poems. Schumann, however, preserved neither the magnitude nor the ordering of Heine’s cycle. As already pointed out, Schumann did not set all sixty-six poems of “Lyrisches Intermezzo” to music. He did not necessarily seek to recreate Heine’s fragmentary form.26 Initially Schumann composed twenty songs, among which are the first and last songs of Heine’s cycle. Heine’s opening poem is in the past tense, and all the other poems Schumann set are in the present tense. The first song speaks of a past experience of love, and the other songs present, in fragments, the steps of this experience as if they were in the present; that is, after the first song, the others follow like a flashback in a film. In a film the flashback is often set up by a fadeout after the opening scene in the present. For his “fadeout”

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Schumann uses the famously ambiguous cadence of the first song, and then the other songs follow as present-tense utterances.27 Further, Schumann did not always maintain Heine’s ordering of the poems he had selected. Figure 15.2 allows us to compare Schumann’s sequence with Heine’s. In two cases Schumann reversed pairs of Heine’s poems: number 22 precedes number 20 and number 40 follows number 41. Additionally, he placed Heine’s number 44 as the penultimate song directly before number 66. Why did Schumann disturb Heine’s order? What is the result of the altered ordering? In his cycle the lyrical persona now speaks of several things in a new sequence: No. 22 No. 20 No. 41 No. 40

the beloved has broken his heart the beloved has married another man he releases his extraordinary sorrow in tears he recites an old story of the experience of unhappy love

If Schumann’s songs, like Heine’s poems, are supposed to be independent fragments, the sequence of the songs should make no difference; everything is reversible. But Schumann’s new ordering of poems 20 and 22 corresponds to a familiar narrative technique: foreshadowing. In “Und wüssten’s die Blumen” (Heine’s 22) the persona speaks of a great sorrow, and in the final strophe he says that his beloved has “mein Herz zerrißen,” but he leaves his bitter hurt unexplained. Then in the next song (Heine’s 20) comes the explanation: she has married another man, knowledge withheld in Schumann’s cycle for dramatic impact. In the “Lyrisches Intermezzo” we would not necessarily conclude that the marriage is the only or even the chief ground for the lyrical persona’s unhappiness. But in 20 Lieder everything develops to this moment, and thereafter everything begins to recede. As is well-known, Schumann created a thematic linking between these two reordered songs: the piano postlude of 20 Lieder/10 foreshadows the main theme of 20 Lieder/11, thus propelling the one song into the next in an almost causal linking. Schumann’s alteration of the sequence of poems 40 and 41 corresponds to a psychological experience, in which the persona first expresses his great sadness but afterward regards his predicament with humor and thus manages to distance himself from his suffering, a process that continues in the ensuing dream songs. In Heine’s cycle the positions of the two moods of sadness and humor are interchangeable; both are ongoing states of mind, and neither displaces the other. The third reordering concerns “Aus alten Märchen winkt es.” Although this poem is number 44 in Heine’s cycle, Schumann placed it as the penultimate song of his cycle, thus coming after the higher-numbered poems 46, 47, 55, and 57 and right before number 66. This means that Schumann deliberately withheld this poem, perhaps as commentary on the four preceding dream songs. The voice sings:

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Ach jenes Land der Wonne, Das seh’ ich oft im Traum [emphasis mine]; Doch kommt die Morgensonne, Zerfließt’s wie eitel Schaum.

Thus Schumann effects a further distancing of the lyrical self. He simultaneously achieves a strengthened impression of the lapse of time: some events follow others; time is a straight line, not a circle or a spiral. Since I have mentioned the thematic connection between 20 Lieder/10 and 11, I shall also draw attention to the well-known reprise of the piano postlude of 20 Lieder/14 “Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen” in the postlude of 20 “Die alten, bösen Lieder.” To my way of thinking, this return is no abstract musical linking. It recalls to the lyric persona as well as to the listener the words of the flowers “Sei uns’rer Schwester nicht böse” and has a narrative effect: that is, the persona is reminded about the voice of Nature’s message at the very moment he is trying to bury his love. In all these cases Schumann has given a causal order to the individual lyrical moments. In the original form of the cycle, 20 Lieder, one still finds traces of Heine’s symmetrical arrangement. For example, “Lehn deine Wang” (20 Lieder, no. 6), one of the songs that was later removed, portrays pure passionate love, which does not follow causally after the misgiving about the beloved expressed in the previous song “Wenn ich in deine Augen seh.’” Also, “Mein Wagen rollet langsam” (20 Lieder, no. 16) does not stand in an irreversible, asymmetrical relation with either the preceding or the subsequent song. It is pure mood painting and has outwardly almost nothing to do with the other poems (except for the neutral mention of the beloved in the carriage). Perhaps such anomalies provided the reason for Schumann’s decision (or the publisher’s suggestion) to abridge the 20 Lieder and publish the cycle as Dichterliebe. I trust it is now clear how I understand the term “narrative” and how I employ it differently from Perrey. There is historical justification for construing “narrative” in this way. A cycle of individual lyrical expressions, which together contribute to an implied story line, is a recognized form of poetry and music in this era. Surely this is what Adelbert von Chamisso intended when he designated such cycles in his collected works as “lyrisch episch Gedichte,” which would otherwise be a contradiction in terms.28 Despite their many similarities, then, these two cycles are very different. If we approach Liederkreis, op. 24, with 20 Lieder or Dichterliebe in mind, then we shall probably furnish the earlier cycle with a story line, just as one mentally supplies the missing pieces of a puzzle. But if we resist the influence of the later cycle, then op. 24 is perceived as a collection of poems about unhappy love, but not one readily construed as a series that implies or depends on a logical, narrative course. But 20 Lieder/Dichterliebe can indeed be interpreted as implying a narrative background, which reaches its climax with the single actual event that is

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mentioned: the wedding of the beloved to another man. The implicit narrative is itself encapsulated in “Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen” (20 Lieder, no. 13) where it is related as “eine alte Geschichte [emphasis added]” (an old story). Just a quick word about the key sequences (see column 3 in figs. 5.1 and 15.2). The keys in op. 24 are indeed closely related, but the dominant-to-tonic progressions that permeate and propel 20 Lieder/Dichterliebe forward do not operate with the same force in Liederkreis. Adjacent songs that share the same tonic and achieve tonal contrast merely by change of mode (2–3: b–B, 4–5: e–E, 8–9: d–D) are just as frequent as songs related by descending fifth (3–4: B–e, 6–7: E–A, 7–8: A–d). There is even a series of three songs that have the same tonic (4, 5, 6: e–e–E). One might almost argue that a certain degree of tonal stasis inhabits this cycle or that the cycle is not a straight-line tonal progression from start to finish but rather a series of constellations in tonal space—D–b–B, e–E–E, A–d–D, for example—but this is just one possible way of construing the groupings. Elaboration of this line of thought must await another time or a different spokesperson, but it should be evident that however one characterizes the tonal plans of these two cycles, they are quite distinct. If we do not observe Liederkreis, op. 24, through the lens of 20 Lieder/Dichterliebe, we shall find that a narrative interpretation of the earlier cycle does not work. In fact, op. 24 stands much closer to Perrey’s model of a sequence of fragments.

Conclusion Although I do not concur with some of Perrey’s conclusions about Dichterliebe, I nevertheless thank her for her discussion of the Romantic aesthetic of the fragment and how we might construe it with regard to Lieder. I also applaud her rediscovery and republication of some almost forgotten correspondence between Schumann and his publishers about this second Heine song cycle. This correspondence proves that Schumann held to his plan to publish all of the 20 Lieder until very late in the game, at least until the fall of 1843 and perhaps even later, when he at last decided to shorten the cycle and bring it out as Dichterliebe. Perrey is right to emphasize this freshly reinstated knowledge for it raises important, if unanswerable, questions. Why did Schumann in the end give up his original plan, to which he had tenaciously held for between three and four years? Was it his idea, or did the publisher want to engrave fewer plates and give the cycle a programmatic title? Should the cycle be performed with all twenty songs? How should it be published in the new critical edition?29 I believe my essay itself is a kind of a fragment. It comes to no certain conclusions and cannot provide an unambiguous answer to my initial question as to why Schumann composed these two similar Heine song cycles. Like a fragment, this chapter can only point beyond itself to possibilities. I believe, but cannot prove, that Schumann truly did not set out to compose the same song cycle again, only

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larger, but was aiming at something entirely other. In his handwritten draft of the title page, he subtitled these songs “2ter Liederkreis aus dem Buch der Lieder,” perhaps inviting the reader/musician to note how this second cycle differs from the first. After he had set Heine’s cycle of nine Lieder, Schumann wanted to make his own selection and ordering of poems from “Lyrisches Intermezzo” and thereby to create a very different and this time “lyrisch-episch” cycle.

Notes 1. “Zu fragmentarisch ist Welt und Leben! / Ich will mich zum deutschen Professor begeben. / Der weiß das Leben zusammenzusetzen, / Und er macht ein verständlich System daraus; / Mit seinen Nachtmützen und Schlafrockfetzen / Stopft er die Lücken des Weltenbaus.” (Too fragmentary is world and life! I will approach a German professor, who knows how to put life together; he fills the gaps in the construction of the universe with his night caps and pajama scraps.) Heinrich Heine: Historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe der Werke, ed. M. Windfuhr (Hamburg: Hoffmann & Campe, 1973–96) [hereafter cited as GA (= Gesamtausgabe], vol. 1 (1975), ed. Pierre Grappin, 271. 2. Beate Julia Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe and Early Romantic Poetics: Fragmentation of Desire (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002). 3. Deutsche Staatsbibliothek, Berlin, Mus. ms. autogr. R. Schumann 16/2, Titelentwurf, before page 62. Cf. Robert Schumann, Dichterliebe. Opus 48. Faksimile nach dem Autograph in der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Preussischer Kulturbesitz (Laaber: Laaber-Verlag, 2006). See also, among others, Viktor Ernst Wolff, Lieder Robert Schumanns in ersten und späteren Fassungen (Berlin: Hermann, 1914), 15–16; Rufus Hallmark, The Genesis of Schumann’s Dichterliebe: A Source Study (Ann Arbor: UMI Research Press, 1979), 110–28; Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe, 124–30. 4. Christiane Westphal, Robert Schumann. Liederkreis von H. Heine op. 24 (Munich: Katzbichler, 1996), 15–16. 5. See Heine, GA, vol. 1/I, 56; vol. 1/II, 679–80. See also ibid., 16. 6. Of the many who have written about the tonal plan of op. 48, only a few are mentioned here: Arthur Komar, “The Music of ‘Dichterliebe’: The Whole and Its Parts,” in Schumann, Dichterliebe (Norton Critical Score), ed. A. Komar (New York: Norton, 1971), 63–94; Hallmark, Genesis, 135–45; David Neumeyer, “Organic Structure and the Song Cycle: Another Look at Schumann’s ‘Dichterliebe,’ “ Music Theory Spectrum 4 (1982): 92– 105; Fred Lerdahl, Tonal Pitch Space (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001), 138–39. 7. Berthold Hoeckner, “Spricht der Dichter oder der Tondichter?—Die multiple persona und Robert Schumanns ‘Liederkreis’ Op. 24,” in Schumann-Forschungen, vol. 4: Schumann und seine Dichter, ed. Matthias Wendt (Mainz: Schott, 1993), 18–32 (English version: “Poet’s Love and Composer’s Love,” Music Theory Online 7, 5 (2001). 8. Hoeckner, “Schumanns ‘Dichterliebe’ und Heines Liebe zur Dichtung,” in Übergänge zwischen Künsten und Kulturen; expanded version in English: “Paths through ‘Dichterliebe,’ Nineteenth Century Music 30, 1 (2006): 65–80. 9. Hoeckner, “Spricht,” 22–23. 10. Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Ms. Mus. autogr. 16/1; see Hallmark, Genesis, 17 and 33 (sketch), and the description of the autographs for both songs in Margit McCorkle, Robert Schumann. Thematisch-Bibliographisches Werkverzeichnis. Neue Ausgabe sämtlicher Werke, Series 8: Supplement, vol. 6 (Mainz: Schott, 2003), 208 (op. 48, no. 9) and 100 (op. 24, no. 6).

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DICHTERLIEBE

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11. Jürgen Thym has pointed out that a similar strophic adjustment occurs in “Das verlassene Mägdlein” (op. 62, no. 2, 1847). 12. Jon Finson called my attention to an exception that perhaps confirms the rule: Vier Husarenlieder (Lenau), op. 117 (1851). 13. Westphal, Robert Schumann, 9, 30. Westphal got her statistical data from Günter Metzner, Heine in der Musik: Bibliographie der Heine Vertonungen in 12 Bänden (Tutzing: Schneider, 1989). 14. Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Ms. Mus. 16/1; see McCorkle, Werkverzeichnis, 789–92. 15. See Hallmark, Genesis, 15–18, 110–23. From this and other studies it is clear for several reasons that Schumann used the first edition of Buch der Lieder, in which “Lyrisches Intermezzo” consists of sixty-six poems. In the second and all subsequent editions of the Buch der Lieder Heine eliminated one poem (no. 37 in the original, “Ich kann es nicht vergessen”), so in all later editions the “Lyrisches Intermezzo” has sixty-five rather than sixty-six poems. Still, one frequently reads in the Schumann literature even today about the “65 Gedichte” of the “Lyrisches Intermezzo.” But that is no trivial matter. 16. There is also an intermediate stage in which Schumann, during the process of sketching, jotted down a list of numbers of other poems he wanted to compose (see Hallmark, Genesis, 110–12. This list contains the number 37 as well as several subsequent numbers. 17. See, among others, Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe, 116–20. 18. With Peters (Leipzig), September 1844. See McCorkle, Werkverzeichnis, 208. Unfortunately, there is no evidence documenting when and why Schumann abandoned his original plan. 19. Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe, xii (preface), 26–33 (on the Romantic fragment), 64–66 (on Schumann), 71–73 (on Heine and Schumann). Perrey does not explain whether, in her opinion, only individual poems or also entire series of poems can be considered fragments. 20. Ibid., 27. 21. Ibid., 73. 22. See, among others, S. S. Prawer, Heine: Buch der Lieder [Studies in German Literature 1] (London: Arnold, 1960); Norbert Altenhofer, “Ästhetik und Arrangements: Zu Heines ‘Buch der Lieder,’ “ in Heinrich Heine, 4th ed., ed. Heinz Ludwig Arnold (Munich, 1982) [=Text und Kritik, 18/19], 16–32. 23. Perrey, Schumann’s Dichterliebe, 83–89. See also William Rose, The Early Love Poetry of Heinrich Heine: An Inquiry into Poetic Inspiration (Oxford: Clarendon, 1962). 24. John Daverio, Nineteenth-Century Music and the German Romantic Ideology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993), chapter 2: “Schumann’s Opus 17 Fantasie and the Arabeske,” 19–47, chapter 3: “Schumann’s Systems of Musical Fragments and Witz,” 49– 88; David Ferris, Schumann’s Eichendorff “Liederkreis” and the Genre of the Romantic Cycle (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000). 25. Karol Berger, A Theory of Art (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000), 189–96. 26. For such a daunting undertaking we need to look at Johann Hoven’s 88 Lieder aus Heines Die Heimkehr—a monumental song cycle performed during the Schumann Festival 2006 by Markus Schäfer (tenor) and Christian de Bruyn (piano). 27. After I had completed this study (and indeed well after the German original had appeared in print), I came across Nicholas Marston’s excellent essay on music and memory, “ ‘Wie aus der Ferne’: Pastness and Presentness in the Lieder of Beethoven, Schubert, and Schumann,” Schubert durch die Brille 21 (1998): 126–42. Marston argues that the first song of Dichterliebe occurs in the present, followed by fifteen songs he characterizes as a

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“flashback.” He says the text marks the first song as a “curtain-raiser, a ‘once-upon-a-time’ opening,” and the change from the tonal ambiguity of the first song to the clarity in the following songs marks a change from speaking as narrator in the first poem to speaking from within the experiencing persona in the rest (138). Marston’s analysis continues with a discussion of the return of the present when the persona speaks to the audience in the closing stanza of song 16. 28. This is the title of the first part of Chamisso’s collected poems, which begin with Frauenliebe und–Leben and contain other comparable cycles such as Thränen and Lebenslieder und–Bilder. Adalbert von Chamisso, Werke in zwei Bänden, vol. 1, ed. Werner Feudel (Leipzig: Insel, 1981), 40. 29. Arthur Komar’s edition of Dichterliebe (see note 6) is, as far as I know, the first to insert the four omitted songs into the cycle. They appear as songs 4a, 4b, 12a, and 12b. Kazuko Ozawa’s Urtext edition for Henle (2005) contains the four songs in an appendix. Thomas Hampson has performed all twenty songs of the expanded cycle and also recorded them on CD (EMI Classics 5 55598 2, 1997).

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Postlude

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Chapter Sixteen

Discovering “Musical Impressionism” by Way of Eichendorff and Schumann Wolf and Pfitzner at the Threshold Jürgen Thym When Hugo Wolf decided in the late summer of 1888 to compose a volume of Eichendorff settings (interrupting the composition of the Moerike songs for a month), he knew his work would be compared to Schumann’s Eichendorff songs, especially the Liederkreis, op. 39. Determined to set out on a course different from that of his predecessor (who had focused on Eichendorff’s nature mysticism and symbolism nearly fifty years earlier in a handful of exquisite settings), Wolf, by and large, stayed away from the poems (or the type of poem) Schumann had used. He selected for his settings mainly Rollengedichte, poems of a dramatic nature in which the protagonists characterize themselves through what they say, and he drew from these poems inspiration for an entire gallery of finely chiseled musico-dramatic miniatures—often humorous, sometimes demonic. He thereby sharpened his skills as a portrait composer, which a few years later found another outlet in the composition of the Italian Songbook (fig. 16.1). _________________ This chapter originated as a paper read at the International Symposium “Vixen Muse: Hugo Wolf’s Musical World” in Ottawa, Ontario (Canada), November 23–26, 2003. It was read subsequently in various academic settings and conferences, including the Lyrica session at the Meeting of the American Musicological Society in Washington, DC, October 27, 2005, and the Meeting of the International Musicological Society in Zurich, Switzerland, July 13, 2007. I gratefully acknowledge the help of Ralph P. Locke in shaping the text. The article—dedicated to Reinhold Brinkmann “in gratitude and admiration”—has been published, in abbreviated form, in Musica Austriaca 26 (2007): 153–74. The full version (identical with this chapter) has been published in Ars Lyrica: Journal of the Lyrica Society for Word-Music Relations 16 (2007), 57–85.

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Figure 16.1. Hugo Wolf, Gedichte von Joseph von Eichendorff für eine Singstimme und Klavier (Vienna: Lacom, 1889). 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20

“Der Freund” “Der Musikant” “Verschwiegene Liebe” “Das Ständchen” “Der Soldat I” (1887) “Der Soldat II” (1886) “Die Zigeunerin” (1887) “Nachtzauber” (1887) “Der Schreckenberger” “Der Glücksritter” “Lieber alles” “Heimweh” “Der Scholar” “Der verzweifelte Liebhaber” “Unfall” “Liebesglück” “Seemanns Abschied” “Erwartung” (1880) “Die Nacht” (1880) “Waldmädchen” (1887)

The songs were composed in 1888 unless indicated otherwise. The last three songs were withdrawn by Wolf in the second edition of 1898, but they were reprinted as an appendix in posthumous editions.

Looking back a few years later to his Eichendorff settings, Wolf stated—not without pride—in a letter to Engelbert Humperdinck in 1891 that in composing the Gedichte von Eichendorff, he discovered a rather unknown side of the poet (Wolf speaks of himself here in the third person, camouflaging the praise he bestows on himself):1 In accordance with the more realistic movement in the arts [that arose in the second half of the nineteenth century], the Romantic element in the Eichendorff songs recedes almost completely in the background. The composer, on the contrary, has preferred the pointedly humorous and robustly sensuous side of the poet which is rather unknown, and he has drawn some successful features from it. [Wolf then names some of the songs.]

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Wolf’s remarks, once published, have sent several generations of interpreters and critics to explicate his approach to the Lied as that of a musical dramatist, someone who was a miniature Wagner (writing three-minute music dramas) and who perhaps could even be considered a representative of verismo in the genre of the Lied. When in this chapter I focus on a different Eichendorff reception of the composer, it is not to undermine the excellent studies by Frank Walker, Edward Kravitt, Susan Youens, and others2 (or to take potshots at my own work of thirty-five years ago)3 but to call attention to a handful of settings—neglected by scholars but not by performers—that provide a more nuanced view of Wolf the Lieder composer. (The settings in question are “Verschwiegene Liebe,” “Das Ständchen,” “Nachtzauber,” “Heimweh,” and “Die Nacht.”) A case can be made, I believe, that in a creative response to Eichendorff’s imagery and figurations as well as to Schumann’s harmonic and pianistic textures, Wolf, and later Pfitzner, arrived at sonic worlds bordering on musical impressionism. We begin to traverse more than fifty years of Eichendorff reception with three Schumann settings, quite diverse in the stylistic means with which they interpret the poems but similar (or at least comparable) in their response to the poet’s strategies of building tension and gradually shaping that builtup tension into statements that invoke epiphanies for closure. The first is Schumann’s “Frühlingsfahrt” (based on Eichendorff’s “Die zwei Gesellen”— text and translation can be found in appendix 3.1 on pages 90–91).4 On the surface the poem appears simple, with two stanzas at the beginning narrating the common departure of two journeymen, followed by three internal stanzas accounting for the individual fates of our travelers—the first one gets married and settles for a complacent life (not quite up to the high expectations voiced in the first two stanzas), while the second one fails more obviously. The latter’s biography is captured in two stanzas rather than just one; it seems that he is the more interesting case, not only for Eichendorff but also, as we shall see shortly, for Schumann. The final stanza is a recapitulation: again the waves of spring are singing and sounding, again young men are marching into life, again they have the highest expectations for their future. Yet the lines are somewhat subdued despite the repetition of verbal materials from earlier stanzas. This time the observer does not react with joy and happiness. Now the observer, the lyric subject, finally identifies himself in the first person: “Whenever I see such cocky journeymen, tears well up in my eyes,” and Eichendorff concludes his poem about the failure of two young men with a prayer using the plural form “us” (Alas God, kindly direct us to Thee), thereby suggesting the general relevance of the parable. It is not until the last line of the poem, perhaps even the last word, with its sudden turn to the religious field, that the biographies of the two journeymen find their resolution.

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Example 16.1. Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”—mm. 35–46

Schumann’s (and Eichendorff’s) sympathy obviously lies with the fate of the second fellow. His stanzas are set as a contrasting middle section in the overall scheme of the song (example 16.1), while the first journeyman receives only a slightly varied repetition of the strophic pattern established earlier. In response to the expressive content of stanzas 4 and 5, the melody becomes fragmented (using only the incipit of the song’s melody as a motive for repetition and sequencing), the texture thickens, and the move from D major to D minor casts a darker hue over the music. But D minor is never quite stated; the various turns to A major (by way of the descending leading tone B-flat) have an almost Phrygian flavor and arrest the harmonic motion on the dominant for a substantial segment of the song. Despite a strict sequential pattern and a veritable chain of suspensions—perhaps depicting the power of the sirens drawing the second journeyman into the abyss—the music does not get anywhere harmonically: destruction, stasis, death. The setting of the last stanza (example 16.2) is a

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Example 16.2. Schumann, “Frühlingsfahrt”—mm. 55–71

modified recapitulation of the earlier strophic pattern—in other words, a return to the beginning. The tension Schumann built up in the contrasting middle section is resolved by a return to D major, but the conclusion is considerably less exuberant than the beginning. It is almost as if the former enthusiasm is subdued or “immersed”5 in the eighth-note accompaniment that characterized the setting of stanzas 4 and 5 (and, to a certain extent, also of stanza 3). Eichendorff’s prayer line is stated twice in Schumann’s setting, not only to have additional

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verbal material to reach closure but also to prepare for the consoling gesture of the postlude. The music is now worlds away from the original song of wandering and, in its expression of pious submission, approaches the style of improvised modulations practiced by organists in nineteenth-century church music. “Auf einer Burg” is a peculiar poem in Eichendorff’s output, and it is rendered even more peculiar in Schumann’s interpretation (fig. 16.2). Eichendorff evokes a world past by using familiar images in a strange context.6 Familiar in the poem are the castle in ruins, the knight high up on the hill, the allusion to the Barbarossa legend as props of a bygone medieval past, to which the Romantics looked back as a golden age; even more broadly familiar are the rustling of the forest and the singing of forest birds as evidence of the Romantic nature cult. But the juxtaposition of these images does not generate an idyllic landscape; on the contrary, it suggests ambivalence and melancholy. The prevailing effect of silence, emptiness, rigidity, petrification, and death is hardly dispelled in the last two stanzas. We cannot hear the musicians down in the Rhine valley, we can only see them in the distance. Indeed a wide space is generated in the poem (with words such as “oben,” “drüber,” “draußen,” “Tal,” and “unten”), but the geographical polarities remain unconnected. In the last two stanzas Eichendorff even gives up end rhymes (perhaps underscoring subtly the jarring juxtaposition of images). It is a strange world indeed, and at the end our puzzlement is not resolved but rather heightened by the ambiguous statement that the beautiful bride in the wedding party is weeping. Schumann set the text entirely from the perspective of the petrified knight. His musical means of capturing the archaic world of the medieval knight are the monotonously static rhythm (derived from the rigid trochaic tetrameter of Eichendorff’s verse), the diatonic counterpoint initiated by the interval of a descending fifth that passes ostinato-like through all the voices, the modal qualities of the harmonic and melodic language, and the harsh dissonances resulting from rigid sequencing. The metric displacement—the song is barred “against the grain” so the dominants appear on downbeats while tonics fall on upbeats— further contributes to the atmosphere of suspension, motionlessness, rigidity, petrification. In short: the world stands still, is frozen in eternity in Schumann’s setting. Schumann’s decision to set the last two stanzas (beginning in m. 22) to the same music as the first two (for which he was castigated by Jack Stein)7 results in a peculiar tension between poetry and music—an “expressive dissonance,” as it were, that intensifies as the music of petrification becomes increasingly more at odds with the images of life, as the poet’s perspective focuses on the activities down in the valley. The expressive dissonance is not resolved until the last line, indeed the last word, of the poem: “weinet” is sung as a melisma (the only one in the entire song) that finally gives vent to human expression—melody, voice breaks free of the word—thereby shattering the spell that has hovered over the song. However, the resolution is ambivalent because the closure is an openended half cadence on the dominant of A minor (example 16.3).

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Figure 16.2. “Auf einer Burg” Eingeschlafen auf der Lauer Oben ist der alte Ritter; Drüben gehen Regenschauer, Und der Wald rauscht durch das Gitter. Eingewachsen Bart und Haare, Und versteinert Brust und Krause, Sitzt er viele hundert Jahre Oben in der stillen Klause. Draußen ist es still und friedlich, Alle sind ins Tal gezogen, Waldesvögel einsam singen In den leeren Fensterbogen. Eine Hochzeit fährt da unten Auf dem Rhein im Sonnenscheine, Musikanten spielen munter, Und die schöne Braut, die weinet. [The old knight has fallen asleep in his watchtower, rainstorms shower around it, and the forest rustles through the portcullis. / Beard and hair matted together, breast and ruff turned to stone, there he has sat for hundreds of years in his quiet cell. / Outside all is quiet and peaceful, everyone has gone down in the valley, lonely forest birds sing in the empty window arches. / Down on the sunlit Rhine River a wedding party sails by, musicians are playing merrily, the beautiful bride is in tears.]

Schumann’s song “Mondnacht” illustrates in a different way the strategies of arresting harmonic motion and finding resolution in a completely different world that grows out of Eichendorff’s imagery and poetic configurations (fig. 16.3). It is difficult to talk about it because both Eichendorff’s poem and Schumann’s setting have such a subtle, even fragile quality that any discussion may come across as an utterly prosaic intrusion. We begin by listing some external features. The poem is organized in three stanzas, each consisting of four lines that rhyme abab. But even here we hesitate because in the framing outer stanzas the words “Himmel” and “Schimmer” as well as “spannte” and “Lande” constitute impure rhymes, creating a shimmering, iridescent sonorous texture that defies a simple correspondence with the rhyme scheme. The same two stanzas feature sentences that go beyond the confines of individual lines by means of enjambements; indeed, one single sentence extends over each of these units. (This is quite a contrast to the second stanza, in which each line corresponds with a sentence.) The syntactical tension of some of its stanzas imparts to the poem a peculiar state of suspension, charging its lines with electric energy amid the appearance of calmness. An iambic trimeter is

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Example 16.3. Schumann, “Auf einer Burg”—mm. 18–39

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417

Figure 16.3. “Mondnacht” Es war als hätt der Himmel Die Erde still geküsst, Dass sie im Blütenschimmer Von ihm nun träumen müsst. Die Luft ging durch die Felder, Die Ähren wogten sacht, Es rauschten leis die Wälder, So sternklar war die Nacht. Und meine Seele spannte Weit ihre Flügel aus, Flog durch die stillen Lande, Als flöge sie nach Haus. [It was as if heaven had gently kissed the silent earth, so that she in her bright haze of blossoms would have to dream now of that kiss. / The air moved through the fields, the ears of grain moved gently, the woods murmured softly, the night was so starry-clear. / And my soul spread wide its wings, flew over the silent countryside, as if it were flying home.]

maintained throughout the poem, exuding a mesmerizing quality through repetition and sameness. But there are two exceptions, most significantly in the last stanza. “Weit” and “flog,” two words denoting spatial projections and movement, are highlighted by being placed on previously unaccented parts of the meter and, as syncopations, break away from the mesmerizing sameness established in the earlier stanzas. After delineating a vertical space with the image of heaven kissing the earth in the first stanza and a horizontal space (gently animated by the images of ears of grain swaying and the rustling of treetops) in the second stanza, the poet prepares us for something extraordinary in the third. Now things are happening: the last stanza is connected to the preceding one with the conjunction “und,” almost as if the energy stored up earlier can no longer be properly contained. Indeed, it is spilling forth. For the first time in the poem a lyric subject appears; the hypothetical observer of the mystical landscape steps forward and says “I” (“And my soul spread wide its wings”), bringing motion into the still life and thereby connecting the polar opposites of heaven and earth. But the event does not seem real. True, for a brief moment (namely in the second stanza) the landscape was rendered in concrete down-to-earth end-stopped lines with all verbs in the past tense. In the last stanza the poet returns to the subjunctive mode of the first stanza (with its magic introductory sentence “it was as if heaven had kissed the earth”) and concludes the poem with a similar touch of unreality (“my soul flew . . .

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Example 16.4. Schumann, “Mondnacht”

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Example 16.4. Schumann, “Mondnacht”—(continued)

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Example 16.4. Schumann, “Mondnacht”—(concluded)

as if it were flying home”). The landscape and events captured in the poem are truly of a transcendental nature. Key to Schumann’s interpretation of Eichendorff’s poem (example 16.4) is the harmonic disposition of his setting because the entire song is a prolongation of a dominant chord (in its V7, even V9, manifestations) that is not resolved until the song’s very end.8 “Mondnacht” begins in the piano with a B and a c-sharp’’,’ two pitches spatially separated by more than four octaves (Schumann is creating space), but only in the next few measures is the seemingly nonsensical constellation of pitches clarified by filling in the space with tones that allow us to perceive the beginning as a dominant ninth chord. Even when we hear the implied tonic E major later in the left hand of the piano (outlining what Eric Sams has proposed as E–H–E or the marriage cipher: E, B natural, E),9 we do not get a sense of closure because whenever the E-major triad sounds, it is given as a cadential six-four chord; in other words, it functions as a dominant. When the voice finally closes on the tonic (its cadence prepared through a hemiola rhythm appropriate for coming

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to closure in triple meter) at the words “as if it were flying home,” the pianist does not follow suit, sounding on the word “Haus” (home) instead of the expected tonic a deceptive cadence leading the musical discourse into the subdominant region of A major. When the “tonic” E major is finally given in the piano, it appears “as if” it were not the home key at all, since by that time its harmonic meaning is that of a dominant or a tonic reached through a weak plagal cadence. Even though in the postlude the tonic is confirmed through V–I cadences, Schumann’s “resolution” preserves the poem’s conditional qualities. Wolf’s earliest essays in setting poetry are largely in the Schumannian vein. In fact, one of the finest of the youthful compositions is the Eichendorff song “Die Nacht” of 1880 (fig. 16.1, no. 19), which seems to have been inspired by Schumann’s “In der Fremde” (the first song of the Eichendorff Liederkreis, op. 39). But Wolf was attracted to Eichendorff’s nature mysticism not only at the beginning of his career but also in his later years. Several settings of what we may call Stimmungslyrik found their way into the Eichendorff volume proper (i.e., disregarding the three songs that were omitted and later found their way back into the volume as an appendix). Two of these settings, “Nachtzauber” and “Verschwiegene Liebe,” are based on poems Eichendorff published in 1853 and 1855, respectively, when Schumann’s creativity was in its decline. (We can imagine, however, that Schumann would have been attracted to them in his Liederjahr of 1840.) “Verschwiegene Liebe” (fig. 16.4) is one of the most beautiful and sensuous of Eichendorff’s lyrics. The poet evokes once again his favorite phantasmagoria, the nocturnal landscape; again the forest is rustling, treetops and fields are swaying back and forth. The gently flowing movement of trees, fields, and clouds is the scenic backdrop for the thoughts of the lyric subject, imagining that his thoughts float tenderly through the night toward his beloved. The mysteriousness and delicacy of the poem are achieved through a particular grammatical figure that appears in both stanzas. Eichendorff has set his verses in such a way that in both stanzas a noun necessary for understanding the sentence comes not at the beginning of the strophe but much later. In the first stanza, the subject of the sentence is “Gedanken” (thoughts) in the fifth line; in the preceding two lines (grammatically organized as a parenthesis), this noun is twice referred to as an accusative object and replaced by the personal pronoun “sie” (them). The poet aims deliberately at a certain syntactical instability to evoke the emotional state of erotic expectancy and mysteriousness; the reader is held in suspense by the adventurous sentence structure until given a resolution in the latter half of the stanza. The second stanza is built around a similar grammatical figure. Eichendorff brings the subject “mein Lieb” (my beloved) in the penultimate line but refers to it in the preceding lines mysteriously as “nur eine” (only one) and “an sie” (of her). Wolf finds musical correlates in his setting for the expressive gesture and grammatical figure of the poem (see example 16.5, which reproduces the entire first strophe of the song). There is the typical cradling figure in the right hand of the piano, in which pitches are grouped in two to conflict with the prevailing 12 8 of the

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Figure 16.4. “Verschwiegene Liebe” Über Wipfel und Saaten In den Glanz hinein— Wer mag sie erraten, Wer holte sie ein? Gedanken sich wiegen, Die Nacht ist verschwiegen, Gedanken sind frei. Errät’ es nur eine, Wer an sie gedacht, Beim Rauschen der Haine, Wenn niemand mehr wacht, Als die Wolken, die fliegen— Mein Lieb ist verschwiegen Und schön wie die Nacht. [Over the treetops and fields of grain, in the moonlight—who could guess them, who could catch up with them? Thoughts are in motion, the night is silent, thoughts are unconfined. / May only one guess who is thinking of her in the rustling of the grove, when no one is awake but the clouds that soar. My love is silent and beautiful as the night.]

song, generating a feeling of suspension. More important in this respect perhaps is the harmonic disposition of the setting. Each strophe (“Verschwiegene Liebe” is a rare occurrence of a strophic song in Wolf’s output—perhaps another Schumann link) goes through several measures of tonal ambiguity and instability before cadencing in D major. The first key signature is already puzzling: the two flats suggest G minor as the initial key area. However, this key is only represented in the first five measures by its subdominant and dominant and is never established as such. (The beautiful appoggiatura in the left hand in measure 2 is reminiscent of a similarly poignant moment in Schumann’s “Mondnacht.”) The music seems to focus on D rather than G; considering the key signature of two flats, we may even hear the initial phrase as being in the Phrygian mode. The Phrygian flavor and several chords without thirds in measures 4 and 5 add a mysterious and archaic flavor to the beginning of each strophe. The next three measures obscure the tonal focus completely; the juxtaposition of unresolved seventh chords adds further to the tonal instability. Only after the measure in 86 meter does the music achieve more definite tonal contours. The entry of F-sharp major in measure 9 clarifies in retrospect the C-sharp seventh chord in measure 8 as a dominant and the G-sharp sonorities in measures 6–7 as a secondary dominant. The harmonic clarification coincides exactly with the grammatical stabilization of the first stanza in the line “Gedanken sich wiegen” (thoughts are cradling). The development from tonal ambiguity to stabilization can be considered the

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Example 16.5. Wolf, “Verschwiegene Liebe”—mm. 1–12

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musical equivalent of Eichendorff’s uncertainty-generating grammatical figure. Using the same music for the second stanza throws the weight of the musical cadence onto a line that does not function as grammatical resolution, namely “Wolken” (clouds) instead of “mein Lieb” (my love). But Wolf knew what he was doing by not disturbing the delicacy of the harmonic discourse with different music. Eichendorff’s poem was of one cloth, and he wanted his setting to reflect the unity of expression. We can argue that the cadence in F-sharp that so neatly captures the structure of the first stanza is not the real tonic anyway and that the final closure is in D major, which is reached on the key word of the second stanza (“mein Lieb”), albeit by way of a first-inversion chord. Wolf’s setting of Eichendorff’s “Nachtzauber” in 1887—composed a year before “Verschwiegene Liebe”—is remarkable because, for the first time, the composer explores sonic worlds that decades later would receive the label “musical impressionism.” From the start, the instrumental prelude is extraordinary—a beginning extraordinarily appropriate for introducing Eichendorff’s poem (example 16.6). The meter given is 43, but everything in the first few measures seems to contradict it. The right hand of the piano plays sixteenth notes beamed in groups of 3 times 4, but the pitches are grouped in threes, suggesting a 12 16 meter. Among the three pitches, two stand out because they mark the lower and upper boundaries of the figure, B and G-sharp, competing for the ear’s attention; G-sharp seems to win out because it is emphasized by being approached through the lower neighbor (a leading tone perhaps) F-double sharp. The left hand shows similar metric and harmonic ambiguity: in the first two measures the part can be understood as 43, but it is a 43 meter with an upbeat on two and a downbeat on three (emphasizing the pitch D-natural), and, beginning with the third measure (when the emphasis changes to C-sharp), a contraction to 42 meter takes place. Nothing is certain metrically or harmonically in the mesmerizing beginning that lulls our senses: “Don’t you hear the springs moving?” As if in response to the question, which we have not yet heard, we can consider the left hand of the piano as a sighing motive: D–E–D, repeated and then sequenced a half step lower, C-sharp–D-sharp–C-sharp, which is also repeated and then metrically contracted in what follows. An extraordinary beginning indeed—fashioned in response to Eichendorff’s imagery and Schumann’s pianistic textures, a sonic world resembling that of musical impressionism. (We are reminded of the ostinati in Debussy’s “Des pas sur la neige” [Steps in the Snow]—see example 16.7— from the first volume of Préludes, where the motive D–E, E–F is also embedded in metric uncertainty.) Introductions are, of course, sections in the musical discourse where improvisatory and rhapsodic gestures are appropriate, where tentativeness and looseness of design are part of composers’ stock in trade and tools for articulating their structural vision. Wolf’s song is no exception. When the voice enters we are in F-sharp major, the song’s tonic, but its arrival is weakened by the voice outlining the triad in an inverted form and the fact that the F-sharp pedal does not

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Example 16.6. Wolf, “Nachtzauber”—mm. 1–9

enter the texture until the third beat of measure 6. Yes, a case could be made that the goal of the voice in measures 7–9 is really C-sharp, approached several times through the ascending leading tone B-sharp and the upper neighbors D and D-sharp (which, in retrospect, impart harmonic meaning to the pitches in the introductory measures). Still, Wolf adamantly holds on to his initial configuration; the murmuring springs and the sighing motive continue through much of the setting, mesmerizing the listener with a hypnotic effect and a sense of unreality, mysteriousness, concealed eroticism. It is not until the second half of

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Example 16.7. Debussy, Préludes I, “Des pas sur la neige”—mm. 1–11

the first stanza (example 16.8) that the sighing motive is replaced by a syncopated chromatic ascent in the left hand and the sixteenth notes in the right hand appear in a less “confusing” form (with metric and pitch groupings now synchronized). Important in this development is the line “steigt die wunderbare Nacht” (descends the beautiful night), the goal of the chromatic ascent and also the beginning of the regularization of the sixteenth notes: the voice clarifies the goal tonally by descending through an F-sharp-major triad that, in a way, anticipates the cadence at the end of the first stanza. “Nachtzauber” (fig. 16.5) is one of the last lyric utterances from Eichendorff’s pen, published just a few years before his death; perhaps for the last time he evokes his favorite symbolic landscape: springs are murmuring, nightingales sing of love, voices speak of times past, marble sculptures are located in the solitude, and the moon illuminates mysterious forest lakes. In both stanzas these images are related to an imaginary addressee, a “Du” that appears in the first and last lines of both stanzas (in the last line of the last stanza it is implied by the imperative “komm”) and thereby frames the sections. Both stanzas begin with a question: “Hörst du nicht die Quellen gehen?” (Do you hear the springs moving?) and “Kennst die Blume du?” (Do you know the flower?), and both end with a suggestive or imperative line: “Wie du’s oft im Traum gedacht” (as you often imagined it in your dreams) and “Komm, o komm zum stillen Grund”

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Example 16.8. Wolf, “Nachtzauber”—mm. 16–24

(come, oh come to the quiet field). The images of the second stanza become more intense and openly erotic. Wolf’s setting is largely strophic. As in “Verschwiegene Liebe” Wolf interprets the poem as of one cloth. The impressionistic configuration returns for the first half of the second stanza, and the metric and harmonic discourse gradually gains clarity in the second half. But he makes adjustments for the declamation of the voice, and he rewrites the ending. After closing in F-sharp major on “Grund,” the impressionistic configuration reappears one last time as accompaniment to the words “komm, komm”; but because of the preceding cadence it can now be understood as a closing gesture, with the D and C-sharp (as representatives of B-minor and F-sharp-major triads, respectively) outlining a plagal cadence,

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Figure 16.5. “Nachtzauber” Hörst du nicht die Quellen gehen Zwischen Stein und Blumen weit Nach den stillen Waldesseen, Wo die Marmorbilder stehen In der schönen Einsamkeit? Von den Bergen sacht hernieder, Weckend die uralten Lieder, Steigt die wunderbare Nacht, Und die Gründe glänzen wieder, Wie du’s oft im Traum gedacht. Kennst die Blume du, entsprossen In dem mondbeglänzten Grund? Aus der Knospe, halb erschlossen, Junge Glieder blühend sprossen, Weiße Arme, roter Mund, Und die Nachtigallen schlagen, Und schon fängt es an zu klagen, Ach, vor Liebe todeswund, Von versunknen schönen Tagen— Komm, o komm zum stillen Grund! [Don’t you hear the springs moving between stones and flowers toward the quiet forest lakes where marble sculptures stand in the beautiful solitude? The wonderful night gently descends from the mountains and awakens ancient songs, and the fields gleam again as you often imagined it in your dreams. / Do you know the flower that sprang up from the field illuminated by the moon? Young limbs sprout flourishing from the half-closed bud, white arms and red mouth. And the nightingales sing and mourn all around, mortally wounded by love, recalling beautiful days long past—come, oh come to the quiet field.]

in which the beckoning calls of seduction reverberate several times (example 16.9). Wolf’s brief flirtation with musical impressionism and musical modernism is solidly grounded in tradition. Now, in retrospect, the meaning of the sighing motive becomes clear—it is indeed the answer to the inarticulate murmuring of the springs; it is the lure, the voice of seduction. In the same year Wolf forged ahead in composing his Eichendorff songs, another composer—Hans Pfitzner—was ready to join him together with Schumann in a musical triumvirate of Eichendorff reception. (Later in the twentieth century the Swiss composer Othmar Schoeck was added to that group to make it a foursome.) Pfitzner, even more than Wolf, pursued a Schumannian vein in his approach to the Lied in general and to Eichendorff in particular. Nearly all his early songs have their models in Schumann’s oeuvre, including the Eichendorff songs “Nachtwanderer” and “Lockung”

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Example 16.9. Wolf, “Nachtzauber”—mm. 59–67

(op. 7, nos. 2 and 4) and “Abschied” (op. 9, no. 3), all written around 1888–89. While these are important artistic statements, going beyond plain imitation of Schumannian models and worthy of study in their own right, a later Eichendorff song of his is pertinent to our discussion: “In Danzig” (op. 22, no. 1—composed in 1907). In a creative continuation of Schumann’s Eichendorff reception, Pfitzner arrives here stylistically and topically at a sonic world comparable to Debussy’s “La cathédrale engloutie” (The Engulfed Cathedral) from the first book of Préludes (see example 16.13). First, however, the poem (fig. 16.6). The old Hanseatic port city of Danzig (now Gdánsk in Poland) on the Baltic Sea serves as the geographic locus for a

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disquieting symbolic landscape. Fog shrouds the urban landscape in mystery and uncertainty, indeed transforms it into something sinister, foreboding, and frightening—a ghost town, a city of the dead, because life appears to have vanished from the streets. Stanzas 2 and 3 reinforce this impression, even though the scenery is described here with a less “ghoulish” spin: the moon illuminates a fairy-tale landscape turned into stone; the only sound that is heard is the “white noise” of the surf in the distance. The images capture a world of mesmerizing sameness as in “Mondnacht” and “Nachtzauber” but also of stillness, petrification, and death, as in the Eichendorff poem “Die zwei Gesellen” (“Frühlingsfahrt”) and especially “Auf einer Burg.” In the last two poems just mentioned the spell is broken in the last stanza, and this is also the case in “In Danzig.” At the end the night guard emerges out of the fog—a deus ex machina, as it were—and gives voice to human expression in the form of a prayer. We are reminded of similar endings in poems we encountered earlier: the concluding prayer in “Die zwei Gesellen,” the weeping bride in “Auf einer Burg,” and the appearance of a lyric subject spreading wings and flying home—that is, to heaven—in “Mondnacht.” Figure 16.6. “In Danzig” Dunkle Giebel, hohe Fenster, Türme tief aus Nebeln sehn, Bleiche Statuen wie Gespenster Lautlos an den Türen stehn. Träumerisch der Mond drauf scheinet, Dem die Stadt gar wohl gefällt, Als läg zauberhaft versteinet Drunten eine Märchenwelt. Ringsher durch das tiefe Lauschen, Über alle Häuser weit, Nur des Meeres fernes Rauschen— Wunderbare Einsamkeit! Und der Türmer wie vor Jahren Singet ein uraltes Lied: Wolle Gott den Schiffer wahren, Der bei Nacht vorüberzieht! [Dark roofs, high windows, towers emerge from the depth of the fog. Pale statues stand silently like phantoms at the doors. / Well pleased by the town, the moon shines dreamily on it as if down there lay a fairytale world magically turned to stone. / All around the deep silence above all houses: only the distant murmur of the sea—wonderful solitude! / And the watchman as for many years sings an ageold song: May God protect the sailor who passes by at night!]

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Pfitzner’s setting captures the contrast between mesmerizing sameness (stanzas 1–3) and human expression (stanza 4). In that respect it is similar to, but also goes beyond emulating, Schumann’s “Frühlingsfahrt” and “Auf einer Burg.” Much of the music for stanzas 1 through 3 is based on an ostinato motive—in a way, the song can be described as a free passacaglia, in which occasionally the “Dies Irae” motive is mixed in as a quotation (example 16.10). In stanzas 2 and 3 the harmonic motion is arrested on E and E-flat, respectively, and it is especially here that fingerprints of musical impressionism can be found.10 Several impressionistic features pervade the entire setting: the parallel motion of six-four chords in the right hand (an instance of “chordal planing,” which can also be found elsewhere in the song), the appearance of an almost arabesque handling of voice leading (even though the parts can be justified motivically), and the extreme low register where the human ear can no longer distinguish sounds clearly (obviously a musical pictorialism of the “sea’s distant roaring or rustling”). The sonic world of musical impressionism is cited here to cast a magic spell (examples 16.11 and 16.12). The spell is broken by returning to the music of the beginning (in a way, a recapitulation); at the same time the repetitiveness of the ostinato motive is loosened to allow space for something new—the human utterance. It is an intrusion similar in function to the brief melismatic sobbing of Schumann’s bride in “Auf einer Burg” yet more extended, emphatic, and reassuring. But even as the voice—we are almost inclined to say “finally”—gains prominence over the instrumental presentation of the passacaglia, the ostinato reverberates in the textures up to the end.

Example 16.10. Pfitzner, “In Danzig”—mm. 1–8

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Example 16.11. Pfitzner, “In Danzig”—mm. 13–21

Example 16.12. Pfitzner, “In Danzig”—mm. 34–41

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Example 16.13. Debussy, Préludes I, “La cathédrale engloutie”—mm. 16–35

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Example 16.13. Debussy, Préludes I, “La cathédrale engloutie”—mm. 16–35—(concluded)

It may be surprising to find, in the songs of Wolf and Pfitzner, phenomena that parallel stylistic aspects of musical impressionism but here in an almost exclusively German realm, a kind of separate thread. (Wolf, I believe, knew next to nothing of “avant-garde” French music of his day, and French composers knew next to nothing of Wolf or, later, of Pfitzner.) Both composers may have found a common source in the long passages of static harmony in Liszt’s water pieces, in Wagner’s “Forest Murmurs” from Siegfried, and, before them, in certain nature passages in Schubert and Schumann songs, Weber’s Freischütz, and Beethoven’s Sixth—all of which were well known in German- and French-speaking lands. In the process, the late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century Lied— often treated as a kind of “genre apart”—becomes a more active participant in the stylistic adventures of its day, and in that sense it is not just a mini-opera (as some described Wolf’s song) but a close relative of the descriptive piano piece or symphonic poem—those purely instrumental genres so deeply imbued with the powers of extramusical depiction. The German art song, we can conclude, seems, despite its modest performing forces and sometimes almost hermetic tendency to obsess about a poetic text, to be also a terrain upon which the larger questions of musical style and coherence could be and were explored.

Notes 1. Quoted in Ernst Decsey, Hugo Wolf: Das Leben und das Lied II (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlagsgesellschaft, 1919), 92–93: “übereinstimmend mit der mehr realistischen Kunstrichtung

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435

das romantische Element in den Eichendorffliedern fast ganz zurücktritt, hingegen der Komponist mit Vorliebe der keck humoristischen, derb-sinnlichen Seite des Dichters, als welche so ziemlich unbekannt, sich zuwendet und ihr einige gelungene Züge ablauscht. Beispiel: Schreckenberger, Glücksritter, Unfall, Scholar, Soldat I, Seemanns Abschied.” 2. Frank Walker, Hugo Wolf: A Biography (New York: Knopf, 1950; 2nd ed., 1968); Edward Kravitt, “The Late Romantic Lied: Performance, the Literary Approach, and the Naturalistic Movement” (PhD dissertation, New York University, 1961); Kravitt, The Lied: Mirror of Late Romanticism (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996); Susan Youens, Hugo Wolf: The Vocal Music (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1992). 3. Jürgen Thym, “The Solo Song Settings of Eichendorff’s Poems by Schumann and Wolf” (PhD dissertation, Case Western Reserve University, 1974). 4. The Eichendorff poems cited here are taken from Joseph von Eichendorff, Sämtliche Gedichte, ed. Wolfdietrich Rasch (Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuchverlag, 1975); author’s translations. The musical examples are based on these editions: Robert Schumann, Sämtliche Lieder, vol. 1 (edition for soprano or tenor), ed. Max Friedländer (New York: Peters, n.d.); Hugo Wolf, Gedichte von J. von Eichendorff (Mannheim: Hekkel, n.d.); Claude Debussy, Préludes: Premier Livre (Paris: Durand, 1910). The source of Pfitzner’s “In Danzig” is One Hundred Years of Eichendorff Songs, ed. Jürgen Thym, Recent Researches in the Music of the Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Centuries, vol. 5 (Madison, WI: AR-Editions, 1983), 57–60; musical examples are used with permission. 5. I am grateful to Professor Thomas Pfau of Duke University for this insight, which he generously shared with me when I gave a talk on Schumann’s “Frühlingsfahrt” in Durham, NC, on November 20, 2001. 6. Karlheinz Schlager, “Erstarrte Idylle: Schumanns Eichendorff-Verständnis im Lied op. 39/VII (Auf einer Burg),” Archiv für Musikwissenschaft 33, 2 (1976): 119–32. 7. Jack Stein, Poem and Music in the German Lied: From Gluck to Hugo Wolf (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971), 115. 8. The peculiar harmonic disposition has been widely recognized by Schenkerians (and non-Schenkerians). Barbara Turchin, for instance, speaks of “an ever-present dominant pedal and the evasion of a decisively stated tonic E major triad at structural points that keep the song suspended in midair.” (“Robert Schumann’s Song Cycles: The Cycle within the Song,” Nineteenth Century Music 8, 3 [1985]: 241.) Charles Rosen (The Romantic Generation [Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995], 698) and David Ferris (Schumann’s Eichendorff Liederkreis and the Genre of the Romantic Cycle [New York: Oxford University Press, 2000], 148–57) formulate this analytical insight in similar ways in their respective discussions of the song. 9. Eric Sams, The Songs of Robert Schumann (New York: Norton, 1969), 22–26. 10. Volker Freund, Hans Pfitzners Eichendorff-Lieder [Hamburger Beiträge zur Musikwissenschaft, vol. 30] (Hamburg: Wagner, 1986), 164–75, esp. 172–75. Another discussion of the song can be found in John Williamson, The Music of Hans Pfitzner (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992), 241–46.

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Index “Abendempfindung an Laura” (Campe, Mozart), 3–5 “Abide with me, fast falls the even tide” (Lyte, Monk), 19, 216n8 Abraham a Santa Clara, 263 “Abschied” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 429 “Abschied von der Welt” (Maria Stuart [?], R. Schumann), 242 “Abschriften von Gedichten zur Composition” or Abschriftenbuch (Robert and Clara Schumann), 338–39, 370n17, 376 “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen” (Goethe, Schubert), 39, 41, 51–70 “Adelaide” (Matthison, Schubert), 162–63 Adorno, Theodor W., xii, 138, 333n4, 301 Agawu, Kofi, 35n5 Alcaic ode, 208–9 Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung Allmers, Hermann, “Feldeinsamkeit,” 215n1 “Allnächtlich im Traume” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte” (Goethe, Wolf), 284, 290–96, 309–10 “Amalia” (Schiller, Schubert), 172 “Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 402 “An Cidli” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 “An den Schlaf” (anonymous, Schubert), 157–58, 167 An die ferne Geliebte (Jeitteles, Beethoven), 375 “An die Geliebte” (Mörike, Wolf), 242 “An die Königin Elisabeth” (Maria Stuart [?], R. Schumann), 242 “An die Musik” (Schober, Schubert), 172

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“An Elwina” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 “An Laura” (Matthison, Schubert), 159, 219n32 “An Schwager Kronos” (Goethe, Schubert), 278 “Anfangs wollt’ ich fast verzagen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 Asclepiadic ode, 208 “Auf die Morgenröte” (Bürger, Pfitzner), 242 “Auf eine Christblume I” (Mörike, Wolf), 216n7 “Auf einer Burg” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 381, 383, 414– 16, 430–31, 435 “Augenblicke im Elysium” (Schober, Schubert), 242 Augenpoesie, 263 “Aus alten Märchen winkt es” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 401 “Aus meinen Tränen sprießen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 395 Bach, C. P. E., 265 “Battle of New Orleans, The,” 166 Beach, David, 87n8 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 19, 121, 166, 265, 375, 301, 434 Benn, Gottfried, xi Berg, Alban, 112 “Berg und Burgen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392, 394 Berger, Karol, 400 Berlioz, Hector, 323 Berliner Taschenbuch für, 1843, 345 Bernstein, Leonard, xiii Berry, Walter, 383 Beutler, Ernst, 51 “Bicycle Built for Two, A,” 166–67

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index

Bischoff, Bodo, 372n40 Booth, Mark, 220, 322 Borchard, Beatrix, 369n7, 370n20 Brahms, Johannes, x, 44, 49, 69n9, 121, 149, 222, 242, 321n18 Brahms, Johannes, works of: “Der Strom,” 232–34; “Die Liebende schreibt,” 246–47, 253–55; “Ein Sonett,” 242; “Feldeinsamkeit,” 215n1; Variations and Fugue on a Theme by Händel, op. 24, 321n18; “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” 234–38 Breitkopf & Härtel, 339, 343, 356, 358– 59, 374, 378 Brinkmann, Reinhold, 409n Brown, Calvin S., xiii Bruckner, Anton, 112 “Buch der Betrachtungen.” See Goethe, West-östlicher Divan Buch der Lieder (Heine), 369n13, 370n17, 390–91, 393, 398–99, 404, 405n15 “Buch des Paradieses.” See Goethe, Westöstlicher Divan “Buch Hafis.” See Goethe, West-östlicher Divan “Buch Suleika” (Goethe), 39–70, 109n11, 138, 283–321, 321n19 Bürger, Gottfried August, 240, 242; “Auf die Morgenröte,” 242; “Trauerstille,” 242 Burkhart, Charles, xii Burns, Robert, 336 Burton, Anna, 369n7 Campe, J. H., “Abendempfindung an Laura,” 3–5 Capell, Richard, 26, 36 Carner, Mosco, 118 Chamisso, Adalbert von, 195, 218n28, 338, 406n28 choriamb, 225 “Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat,” 166 Clark, Margaret V., xviii n11 Claudius, Matthias, “Der Tod und das Mädchen,” 18, 156–57, 168, 172

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Collin, Matthäus von, “Treuebruch” = “Der Zwerg,” 20–21, 160–61, 173–74, 195–207 Cone, Edward T., xiv, xv, 45, 373n45 Cornelius, Peter, 241–42, 254n5; Drei Sonette von Bürger (op. posth.) (“Der Entfernten,” “Liebe ohne Heimat,” “Verlust” [Auf Mollys Tod]), 242 Crüger, Johann, “Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen?” 19, 216n8 dactyl (or dactylic), 12, 72, 78, 115, 135, 180–81, 186, 214 Dante Aligheri, 195 “Das Alter” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 242 “Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 396 “Das Schenkenbuch” (Goethe), 89–110, 320n4 “Das Ständchen” (Eichendorff, Wolf), 411 Daumer, Georg Friedrich, 222; “Wie bist du, meine Königin,” 234–38 Daverio, John, 386–87, 400 Debussy, Claude, 424, 426, 429, 433–34 declamation, 7–10, 12, 15, 17, 19, 27, 28, 30, 36, 48, 50, 82, 88n13, 94, 99, 155–219, 247, 265, 295, 351, 427 Dehmel, Richard, 145 “Dein Angesicht so lieb und schön” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 Del Mar, Norman, 145 “Dem Unendlichen” (Klopstock, Schubert), 263–68 “Der Atlas” (Heine, Schubert), 173–74 “Der du von dem Himmel bist” (Goethe, Schubert, Weigl, Wolf), 111–35 “Der frohe Wandersmann” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–80, 383, 385–86 “Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337, 340, 347, 359, 362 “Der Jüngling und der Tod” (Spaun, Schubert), 219n33 “Der Musensohn” (Goethe, Schubert), 24–28

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index “Der Neugierige” (Müller, Schubert), 13–14 “Der Nussbaum” (Mosen, R. Schumann), 378 “Der Strom” (Platen, Brahms), 232–34 “Der Taucher” (Schiller), 187, 218n25 “Der Tod und das Mädchen” (Claudius, Schubert), 18, 156–57, 168, 172 “Der traurige Jäger” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376 “Der verspätete Wanderer” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 242 “Der Winterabend” (Leitner, Schubert), 7–9, 12, 30–34 “Der Zwerg” (Collin, Schubert), 20–21, 160–61, 173–74, 195–207 “Der zürnenden Diana” (Mayrhofer, Schubert: “Die zürnende Diana”), 219n33 Deutsch, Otto Erich, 43 developing variation, 232, 236–38 Dichterliebe, op. 48 (Heine, R. Schumann), 336, 338, 340, 375, 387, 390–406 “Die alten, bösen Lieder” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Die beiden Grenadiere” (Heine, R. Schumann), 378 “Die Bürgschaft” (Schiller, Schubert), 9–12, 187 “Die erste Liebe” (Fellinger, Schubert), 15, 17, 161 “Die Erwartung” (Schiller, Schubert, Zumsteeg), 160, 180–94, 217n19, 217n20, 218n24 “Die Götter Griechenlands” (Schiller, Schubert), 217n19 “Die gute Nacht” (Rückert, C. Schumann), 338–39, 373n48 “Die Heimkehr.” See Heine, Buch der Lieder “Die Liebende schreibt” (Brahms, Goethe, Mendelssohn, Schubert), 28–30, 162–63, 240–60 “Die Macht der Liebe” (Kalchberg, Schubert), 242 “Die Nacht” (Eichendorff, Wolf), 411, 421

Thym.indd Sec1:439



439

“Die Rose, die Lilie” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Die Schatten” (Matthison, Schubert), 156–57 Die schöne Müllerin (Müller, Schubert), 6, 13, 17, 177, 375, 385 “Die Stille” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 383 “Die Welt ohne Sie” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 “Die zürnende Diana” (Mayrhofer: “Der zürnenden Diana,” Schubert), 219n33 “Die zwei Gesellen” (Eichendorff), 411, 430 “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig” (Goethe, Wolf), 284, 290–96, 311–13 diminutive, 73, 79 Dorschel, Andreas, 138 Dowson, Ernest, 90 “Du liebst mich nicht” (Platen, Schubert), 230–33 “Du meine Seele, du mein Herz” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337 duodrama, 40, 138, 283–321, 320n4 Dürr, Walther, 218n29, 241, 248 Dvo÷ák, Antonín, 167 Eggebrecht, Hans Heinrich, 323–24, 327 Ehetagebuch (Robert and Clara Schumann), 336, 338–39, 342, 345, 369n6, 372n35 Eichendorff, Joseph Freiherr von, xi, 71–88, 241–42, 338, 375–89, 409–35 Eichendorff, works of: “Abschied,” 429; “Auf einer Burg,” 376–78, 381, 383, 414–16, 430–31, 435; “Das Alter”; “Der frohe Wandersmann,” 376–77, 380; “Der traurige Jäger,” 376; “Der verspätete Wanderer, 242”; “Die Nacht,” 411, 421; “Die Stille,” 376–78, 383; “Die zwei Gesellen,” 71–88; “Frühlingsnacht,” 376–77; “Heimweh,” 411; “Im Walde,” 376–77; “In Danzig,” 429–33; “In der Fremde” (“Aus der Heimat hinter den Blitzen rot”),

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index

Eichendorff, works of—(cont’d) 376–78, 380, 385–86, 421; “In der Fremde” (“Es zog eine Hochzeit den Berg entlang”), 376–78, 381, 383; “Intermezzo,” 376–77, 383; “Liebesmut,” 376; “Lockung,” 428; “Mondnacht,” 376–78, 380, 383–84, 415, 417–21, 422, 430; “Nachtwanderer,” 428; “Nachtzauber,” 411, 424–30; “Schöne Fremde,” 376–78, 380–82, 383–84, 386; “Verschwiegene Liebe,” 411, 421–24; “Waldesgespräch,” 376–78, 383; “Wehmut,” 376–77; “Zwielicht,” 376–78 Eichendorff-Lieder (Wolf), 410 “Ein Gleiches” (Goethe). See “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln”) “Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 403 “Ein Sonett” (anonymous/Herder, Brahms), 242 elision, 192, 199, 218n30, 263 end-stopped lines, 71–72, 75, 265, 417 enjambement, 12, 24–26, 49–50, 73, 76, 168, 173, 195, 199, 216n5, 224–25, 227, 243, 245, 261, 263, 265, 268, 279, 292–95, 415 “Entzückung” (Matthison, Schubert), 162 “Er ist gekommen” (Rückert, C. Schumann), 338–40, 349–50, 356, 360, 362–63, 370n19 “Erinnerung” (Matthison, Schubert), 172 “Erlkönig” (Goethe, Schubert), 27, 36, 39, 373n45 “Erschaffen und Beleben” (Goethe, R. Strauss, Wolf), 136–52 “Es leuchtet meine Liebe” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Es treibt mich hin” (Heine, R. Schuamnn), 392 expressionism, 124 Farbenlehre (Goethe), 151

Thym.indd Sec1:440

Fehn, Ann Clark, xi, xiii, xiv, xvii, 335n, 362 Fehn, Udo, xi, xiii “Feldeinsamkeit” (Allmers, Brahms), 215n1 Fellinger, Johann Georg, “Die erste Liebe,” 15, 17, 161, 242 feminine ending, 159, 160, 198, 218n30 Ferris, David, 387, 400, 435n8 Feurzeig, Lisa, 362 Finson, Jon, 380, 385, 389n26, 405n12 Fischer, Ludwig, “Im tiefen Keller sitz’ ich hier,” 145 Fischer-Dieskau, Dietrich, 88n13, 117, 346 Fitzgerald, Edward, 90 Fladt, Hartmut, 139 Floros, Constantin, 323 “Flügel! Flügel!” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337, 344, 346, 348–49, 354, 360, 365–66, 370n15, 370n16, 371n28 folksong, 115, 117, 120, 151 Frauenliebe und -leben, (Chamisso, R. Schumann), 338 free verse, xiv, 261–80 Frisch, Walter, x Fritz, Jonas, 217n20 “Frühlingsfahrt” (Eichendorff: “Die zwei Gesellen,” R. Schumann), 71–88, 411–13, 430–31, 435n5 “Frühlingsnacht” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 380–82 Frye, Northrup, 167 “Ganymed” (Goethe, Schubert, Wolf), 124, 134n5, 268–78 Geibel, Emanuel, 222, 371n25 Georgiades, Thrasybulos, x-xi, xiii, 7, 34 Gesamkunstwerk (Wagner), xii Geselligkeit, 140, 284 Ghazal, xiv, 89–92, 94, 96, 220–39, 241 Gibbons, Orlando, 166, 217n18 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 39–70, 47 (on major and minor modes), 69n12, 69n13, 89–110, 136–52, 239n5

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index (on ghazal), 240–60, 259n2 (on sonnet), 283–321 Goethe, works of: “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen,” 39, 41, 51–70; “Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte,” 284, 290–96, 309–10; “An Schwager Kronos,” 278; “Ankündigung im ‘Morgenblatt’ 1816,” 283; “Buch Suleika,” 39–70, 109n11, 138, 283–321, 321n19; “Der du von dem Himmel bist,” 111–35; “Der Musensohn,” 24–28; “Die Liebende schreibt,” 28–30, 162–63, 240–60; “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig,” 284, 290–96, 311–13; “Ein Gleiches” (see “Wanderers Nachtlied” (Über allen Gipfeln”)); “Erlkönig,” 27, 36, 39, 373n45; “Erschaffen und Beleben,” 136–52; Farbenlehre, 151; “Ganymed,” 124, 134n3, 268–78; “Grenzen der Menschheit,” 124; “Gretchen am Spinnrad(e),” 6, 39; “Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß,” 136–52; “Heidenröslein,” 12–13, 22–23, 156; “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe,” 284–90, 305–08, 321n17; “Höchste Gunst,” 109n11, 222; “Locken, haltet mich gefangen,” 297–303, 314–17; Maximen und Reflexionen, 47; “Metamorphose der Pflanzen,” 151; “Mignon” (“Kennst du das Land?”), 19, 172, 219n32; “Nähe des Geliebten,” 157–58, 167, 176; “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe,” 285, 288–89, 292, 303–4, 320n14; “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren,” 298–99, 301, 318–19, 321; “Noten und Abhandlungen zu besserem Verständnis des Divans,” 69n2, 283; “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” 91–96, 104–5; “Phänomen,” 136–40, 143–44; “Prometheus,” 93, 124, 134n3, 277; “Schäfers

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441

Klagelied,” 14–15; “Schenkenbuch,” 89–110, 320n4; “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit,” 90, 96–103, 106–8, 222; “So lang man nüchtern ist,” 136, 141–43, 149–50; “Über allen Gipfeln,” 28, 111–35; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Der du von dem Himmel bist”), 28, 111–35; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”), 111–35; “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” 39–51; “Wenn zu der Regenwand,” 138; West-östlicher Divan, xi, 39–70, 89–110, 109n11, 134n3, 136, 138, 139–41, 149, 221, 283–321, 320n4, 321n19 Goethelieder (Wolf), 89, 103, 109, 283, 285 gospel style, 149 Graue, Jerald C., 71 Greene, David B., 70n17 “Greisengesang” (Rückert: “Vom künftigen Alter,” Schubert), 222–25, 239n6 “Grenzen der Menschheit” (Goethe, Wolf), 124 “Gretchen am Spinnrad(e)” (Goethe, Schubert), 6, 39 Grimm, Hermann, 69n1 Hafis, 89, 139–40, 145, 147, 149, 151, 221–22, 234–38 Hallmark, Anne, xiii Hallmark, Rufus, xi, xiii, xiv Hamlin, Cyrus, 377 Hammer-Purgstall, Joseph von, 89–90, 139–40, 221–22 Hampson, Thomas, 406n29 “Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß” (Goethe, R. Strauss, Wolf), 136–52 “Harper” songs (Wolf), 89 Hartmann, Charles, 262 Haushaltbuch (R. Schumann), 336–40, 342 Haydn, Franz Joseph, 167 “Heidenröslein” (Goethe, Schubert), 12–13, 22–23, 156 “Heimliches Lieben” (Klenke, Schubert), 162–64

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442



index

“Heimweh” (Eichendorff, Wolf), 411 Heine, Heinrich, 139, 241, 336, 338, 372n38, 377, 390–406 Heine, works of: “Allnächtlich im Traume,” 393; “Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen,” 393, 402; “Anfangs wollt ich fast verzagen,” 392; “Aus alten Märchen winkt es,” 393, 401; “Aus meinen Tränen sprießen,” 393, 395; “Berg und Burgen,” 392, 394; Buch der Lieder, 369n13, 370n17, 390–91, 393, 398–99, 404, 405n15; “Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen,” 393, 396; “Dein Angesicht, so lieb und schön,” 393; “Der Atlas,” 173–74; “Die alten, bösen Lieder,” 393; “Die beiden Grenadiere,” 378; “Die Heimkehr” (see Buch der Lieder); “Die Rose, die Lilie,” 393; “Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen,” 393, 403; “Es leuchtet meine Liebe,” 393; “Es treibt mich hin,” 392; “Hör ich das Liedchen klingen,” 393; “Ich grolle nicht,” 393, 396, 398; “Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet,” 393, 395; “Ich wandelte unter den Bäumen,” 392; “Ich will meine Seele tauchen,” 393; “Im Rhein, im heilgen Strome,” 393–94; “Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,” 393; “Junge Leiden,” (see Buch der Lieder); “Lehn’ deine Wang,” 393, 402; “Lieb’ Liebchen,” 392; “Lyrisches Intermezzo” (see Buch der Lieder); “Mein Wagen rollet langsam,” 393; “Mit Myrten und Rosen,” 392; “Morgens steh’ ich auf,” 392; “Schöne Wiege meiner Leiden,” 392; “Sie liebten sich beide,” 371n25; “Und wüssten’s die Blumen,” 374n53, 393, 395, 401; “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann,” 392, 396–97; “Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’,” 393

Thym.indd Sec1:442

“Hektors Abschied” (Schiller, Schubert), 172, 177, 180 Hensel, Fanny Mendelssohn, 374n53, 374n57 “Herzliebster Jesu, was hast du verbrochen?” (Heermann, Crüger), 19, 216n8 hexameter, 265 Hiller, Ferdinand, 135n27, 222 Himmel, Friedrich Heinrich, 376n46 Hindemith, Paul, Das Unaufhörliche, xi Hirsch, Robert, 372n36 “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe” (Goethe, Wolf), 284–90, 305–8, 321n17 “Höchste Gunst” (Goethe), 109n11, 222 Hoeckner, Berthold, 395 “Ho-Ho-Ho-Chi-Minh,” 166 Hofmann, Kurt, 380 Hollander, John, 261–62 “Hör’ ich das Liedchen klingen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 Hoven, Johann, 405n26 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 70n18 Humperdinck, Engelbert, 410 iamb (or iambic), 176, 195, 208, 215, 217, 225, 225, 415 “Ich grolle nicht” (Heine, R. Schumann), 216n7, 393, 396, 398 “Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 395 “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337, 341, 354, 356, 360, 363–64, 370n16 “Ich wandelte unter den Bäumen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 “Ich will meine Seele tauchen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393–94 “Im Spätboot,” (C. F. Meyer, R. Strauss), 242 “Im tiefen Keller sitz’ ich hier” (Fischer), 145–46 “Im Walde” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78

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index “Im wunderschönen Monat Mai” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 impressionism, musical, 409–35 “In Danzig” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 429–33 “In der Fremde” (“Aus der Heimat hinter den Blitzen rot”—Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 87n6, 376–78, 380, 385–86, 421 “In der Fremde” (“Es zog eine Hochzeit den Berg entlang”—Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 381, 383 “In diesem Wetter” (Rückert, Mahler), 332 “Intermezzo” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 383 internal rhyme, 72, 224, 225, 238 Islam, attitudes toward alcohol, 91 Italienisches Liederbuch or Italian Songbook (Wolf), 409 “Jack and Jill went up the hill,” 23 Jacobsen, Christiane, 247 Jean Paul, 387 Jonas, Oswald, 246–47 “Julius an Theone” (Matthison, Schubert), 173 “Junge Leiden.” See Heine, Buch der Lieder Kahn, Robert, 222 Kaiser, Georg, 151 Kalchberg, Johann Nepomuk, “Die Macht der Liebe,” 242 Keller, Gottfried, 222 “Kennst du das Land” (Goethe, Reichardt, Schubert), 19, 172 Kerman, Joseph, xv Kern, Jerome, “Ol’ Man River” (from Showboat), 166 Kerner, Justinus, 338, 373n42 Khayyám, Omar, 90 Kindertotenlieder (Mahler, Rückert), 322–34 Kirsch, Sarah, xv Kistner, Friedrich, 339

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443

“Klagelied” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 Klassen, Janina, 374n57 Klopstock, Friedrich Gottlieb, 262; “Dem Unendlichen,” 263–68 Kneisel, Jessie H., xiii Komar, Arthur, 406n29 Koran, 91, 93, 95, 96, 138 Kosegarten, Ludwig Theobul, 262 Koskenniemi, V. A., 216n9 Kramer, Lawrence, 115–16, 119, 123–25, 259n9, 273, 279n7 Kravitt, Edward, 333n12, 411 Krüger, Eduard, 372n36 Kunold, Wolf, 259n9 “Lambertine” (Stoll, Schubert), 217n19 Lee, David, 140 “Lehn deine Wang” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393, 402 Leitner, Karl Gottfried Ritter von, “Der Winterabend,” 7–9, 12, 30–34 Levy, Reuben, 221 “Lieb’ Liebchen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 Liebesfrühling (Rückert, R. Schumann), 335–71, 376 “Liebesmut” (Eichendorff), 376 “Liebeszauber” (Rückert, C. Schumann), 371n25 “Liebst du um Schönheit” (Rückert, C. Schumann), 338–39, 349, 351–53, 356, 360, 363, 370n19 “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337, 341, 360, 364–65, 371n28 “Lieder der Braut” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 338 Liederkreis, op. 24 (Heine, R. Schumann), 338, 372n38, 378, 390–406 Liederkreis, op. 39 (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 338, 340, 375–89, 409, 421 Liederreihe, op. 35 (Kerner, R. Schumann), 338, 373n42 Liedertafel, 138

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index

Lind, Jenny, 373n51 Lippmann, Friedrich, 215n1 Liszt, Franz, 135n27, 241–42, 259n5 “Locken, haltet mich gefangen” (Goethe, Wolf), 297–302, 314–17 “Lockung” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 428 Loewe, Carl, 135n27 Lohner, Edgar, 320n8 Ludwig, Christa, 383 “Lyrisches Intermezzo.” See Heine, Buch der Lieder Mahler, Alma, 325 Mahler, Gustav, 111–12, 121, 124–25, 322–34; Kindertotenlieder, 322–34 Maier, Hans Albert, 320n1, 320n5 Malin, Yonathan, 155 Mann, Thomas, 301 Marston, Nicholas, 405n27 Matthisson, Friedrich von: “Adelaide,” 162–63; “An Laura,” 159; “Die Schatten,” 15–16, 156–57; “Entzückung,” 162; “Erinnerung,” 172; “Julius an Theone,” 173; “Stimme der Liebe,” 162, 165; “Todtenopfer,” 19–20, 158– 59, 175, 177–80 Mayrhofer, Johann, 262; “Der zürnenden Diana,” 219n33; “Uraniens Flucht,” 217n19 McCreless, Patrick, 378, 386 “Mein Wagen rollet langsam” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 Mendelssohn, Felix, 242, 374n57; “Die Liebende schreibt,” 245–46, 248, 249–52 “Metamorphose der Pflanzen” (Goethe), 151 Meyer, Carl Ferdinand, “Im Spätboot,” 242 Mies, Paul, 218n24 “Mignon” (Goethe, Schubert), 19, 172, 219n32 “Mignon” songs (Wolf), 89 “Mignonne” (Ronsard), 394 Milton, John, 263 Minnesang, 36n14

Thym.indd Sec1:444

Minnespiel (Rückert, R. Schumann), 357, 359, 371n24 “Mit Myrten und Rosen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 Mitchell, Donald, 333n12 “Mondnacht” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 380, 383–84, 415, 417–21, 422, 430 Moore, Gerald, 120 “Morgens steh’ ich auf und frage” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 Mörike, Eduard, xiii, 241–42; “An die Geliebte,” 242; “Auf eine Christblume I,” 216n7; “Peregrina,” 216n7 Mosen, Julius, “Der Nussbaum,” 378 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus: “Abendempfindung an Laura,” 3–5; Clarinet Quintet, K. 581, 19, 166 Müchler, Karl, 145 Müller, Wilhelm: “Der Neugierige,” 13–14; Die schöne Müllerin, 6, 375; “Pause,” 17–18, 177; “Ungeduld,” 17–18, 21–22, 177; Winterreise, 385 Myrthen (Various poets, R. Schumann), 337–39 “Nachtgesang” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 “Nachtwanderer” (Eichendorff, Pfitzner), 428 “Nachtzauber” (Eichendorff, Wolf), 411, 424–30 “Nähe des Geliebten” (Goethe, Reichardt, Schubert), 157–58, 167, 176 Nauhaus, Gerd, 369n6, 390 Neapolitan, 44, 79, 110n18, 231, 321n23 Neubauer, John, xii Neue Zeitschrift für Musik, 344 Newcomb, Anthony, 387 “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe” (Goethe, Wolf), 285, 288–89, 292, 303–4, 320n14 “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren” (Goethe, Wolf), 298–99, 301, 318–19, 321 Notre Dame clausula, 19 Novalis, 262, 399

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index “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgeh’n” (Rückert, Mahler), 329–30 “O Freund, mein Schirm, mein Schutz” (Rückert), 338–39, 371n24, 373n48 “O ihr Herren” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337–38, 340, 360, 363, 370n16 “O Sonn’, o Meer, o Rose” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337–38, 340–42, 346–47, 355, 360, 367–68 “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” (Goethe, Wolf), 91–96, 104–05 “Oft denk’ ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen” (Mahler, Rückert), 323–25, 331–32 “Ol’ Man River” (Kern) 167 onomatopoeia, 71 Ossian, 262 Ostinato, 46, 52, 124, 295, 300, 414, 431 Östliche Rosen (Rückert) ottava rima, 180–86 Ozawa, Kazuko, 406n29 passacaglia, 431 pathopoeia, 323, 327 “Pause” (Müller, Schubert), 17–18, 177 pentameter, xiv, 15, 17–22, 27, 36n12, 155–219, 240–60, 265 Pepping, Ernst, 134n2 “Peregrina” (Mörike, Wolf), 216n7 Perrey, Beate, 391, 399–403 Petersen, Barbara A., 149 Petrarch, 240–43, 259n5 Pfau, Thomas, 485n5 Pfitzner, Hans, x, 241–42, 411, 428–34; “Abschied,” 429; “Auf die Morgenröte,” 242; “Das Alter,” 242; “Der verspätete Wanderer,” 242; “In Danzig,” 429–33; “Lockung”; “Nachtwanderer”; “Sonett no. 92,” 242; “Trauerstille,” 242 “Phänomen” (Goethe, Wolf), 136–40, 143–44 Phrygian (mode), 79, 412, 422

Thym.indd Sec1:445



445

Platen, August Graf von, 222, 241; “Der Strom,” 232–34; “Du liebst mich nicht,” 230–33 Préludes for piano (Debussy), 424, 426, 429, 433–34 Pre-Raphaelite, 90, 103, 109n1 “Prometheus” (Goethe, Schubert, Wolf), 93, 110, 124, 134n3, 262, 277 recapitulation, 74, 82, 230, 246, 397, 411, 413, 431 recitative, 5, 12, 263, 277–78 Reich, Nancy, xiv, 369n6 Reichardt, Johann Friedrich, 164; “Erlkönig,” 27; “Kennst du das Land,” 216n7; “Nähe des Geliebten,” 167, 216n7 Reiman, Erika, 387 Rieffel, W. H., 386–87 Riemann, Hugo, 14 36n10 Ritornello, 226–30, 235–37 Rodgers and Hammerstein, 166 Rollengedicht, 383, 409 Ronsard, Pierre de, 394 “Rose, Meer und Sonne” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337–38, 340–41, 346–47, 349–51, 355, 357–58, 360, 366–67 Rothgeb, John, 87n8 “Rotes Röslein” (Burns/Gerhard, R. Schumann), 378 Rückert, Friedrich, 222–34, 335–74, 376 Rückert, works of: “Die gute Nacht,” 338–39, 373n48; “Du meine Seele, du mein Herz,” 337; “Er ist gekommen,” 338–40, 349–50, 356, 360, 362–63, 370n19; “Flügel! Flügel!” 337, 344, 346, 348–49, 354, 360, 365–66, 370n15, 370n16, 371n28; “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen,” 337, 341, 354, 356, 360, 363–64, 370n16; “Ich war am indischen Ozean,” 371n29; “In diesem Wetter,” 332; Kindertotenlieder, 222–34; Liebesfrühling, 335–74; “Liebst du um Schönheit,” 338– 39, 349, 351–53,

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446



index

Rückert, works of—(cont’d) 356, 360, 363, 370n19; “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden,” 337, 341, 360, 364–65, 371n28; “Lieder der Braut,” 338; Makamen von Hariri, 369n11; Minnespiel, 357, 359, 371n24; “Nun seh’ ich wohl,” 330; “Nun will die Sonn’ so hell aufgeh’n,” 329–30; “O Freund, mein Schirm, mein Schutz,” 338–39, 371n24, 373n48; “O ihr Herren,” 337–38, 340, 360, 363, 370n16; “O Sonn’, o Meer, o Rose,” 337–38, 340, 360, 363, 370n16; “Oft denk’ ich, sie sind nur ausgegangen,” 323–25, 331–32; Östliche Rosen, 222; “Rose, Meer und Sonne,” 337–38, 340– 41, 346–47, 349–51, 355, 357–58, 360, 366–67; “Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes,” 337–38, 341, 359–60, 365, 371n26; “Sei mir gegrüsst,” 225–30; “So wahr die Sonne scheinet,” 337–38, 340–41, 347, 355, 359–60, 368; “Vom künftigen Alter,” 222–24, 239n6; “Warum willst du and’re fragen,” “Wenn dein Mütterlein,” 331, 334; “Wenn zur Thür herein,” 331, 334; “Widmung,” 378 Rückert Lieder (R. Schumann and C. Schumann), xiv, 335–74 Sa’di, 221 Sams, Eric, 74, 88n11, 118–20, 346, 362, 372n39, 379, 420 Sapphic ode, 208, 210–11 Schachter, Carl, 218n27 “Schäfers Klagelied” (Goethe, Schubert), 14–15 “Schatzgräbers Begehr” (Schober, Schubert), 162, 166, 173 “Schenkenbuch” songs (Wolf), 89–110, 320n4 Schenkerian analysis, 6, 35n2, 78, 81, 84, 435n8 Scher, Stephen, xiii

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Schiller, Friedrich von: “Amalia,” 172; “Der Taucher,” 187, 218n25; “Die Bürgschaft,” 9–12, 187, 218n22; “Die Erwartung,” 160, 180–94, 217n19, 217n20, 218n24; “Hektors Abschied,” 172, 177, 180 Schlegel, August Wilhelm von, 240 Schlegel, Friedrich, 221, 387, 399 Schober, Franz von, 242; “An die Musik,” 172; “Augenblicke im Elysium,” 242; “Schatzgräbers Begehr,” 162, 166, 173, 242 Schochow, Lily and Maximilian, 36n9 Schoeck, Othmar, 222, 428 Schoenberg, Arnold, 112, 121, 215n1, 222, 232 “Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337–38, 341, 359–60, 365, 371n26 “Schöne Fremde” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 380–84, 386 “Schöne Wiege meiner Leiden” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392 Schubert, Franz, x, 3–36, 39–70, 69n7, 121, 155–219, 222, 241–43, 261–80 Schubert, works of: “Ach, um deine feuchten Schwingen,” 39, 41, 51–70; “Adelaide,” 162–63; “Amalia,” 172; “An den Schlaf,” 157–58, 167; “An die Musik,” 172; “An Laura,” 159, 219n32; “An Schwager Kronos,” 268; “Augenblicke im Elysium,” 242; “Dem Unendlichen,” 263–68; “Der Atlas,” 173–74; “Der du von dem Himmel bist,” 116–17, 121, 126; “Der Jüngling und der Tod,” 219n33; “Der Musensohn,” 24–28; “Der Neugierige,” 13–14; “Der Taucher,” 218n25; “Der Tod und das Mädchen,” 18, 156–57, 167, 172; “Der Winterabend,” 7–9, 12, 30–34; “Der Zwerg,” 20–21, 160– 61, 173–74, 195–207, 217n10; “Die Bürgschaft,” 9–12, 187; “Die erste Liebe,” 161; “Die Erwartung,” 160, 180–94, 217n19, 217n20,

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index 218n24; “Die Götter Griechenlands,” 217n19; “Die Liebende schreibt,” 28–30, 162–63, 217n19, 247–48, 256–58; “Die Macht der Liebe,” 242; “Die Schatten,” 156–57; Die schöne Müllerin, 6, 375, 385; “Die zürnende Diana,” 219n33; “Du liebst mich nicht,” 230–33; “Entzückung,” 162; “Erinnerung,” 172; “Erlkönig,” 27, 36, 39, 373n45; “Ganymed,” 124, 134n3, 268–78; “Greisengesang”; “Gretchen am Spinnrad(e),” 6, 39; “Heidenröslein,” 12–13, 22–23, 156; “Heimliches Lieben,” 162–64; “Hektors Abschied,” 172, 177, 180; “Julius an Theone,” 173; “Kennst du das Land,” 19, 172; “Lambertine,” 217n19; “Mignon,” 19; “Nähe des Geliebten,” 157–58, 167, 176; “Pause,” 17–18, 177; “Prometheus,” 262, 277; “Schäfers Klagelied,” 14–15; “Schatzgräbers Begehr,” 162, 166, 173; “Sei mir gegrüsst,” 214, 225–30; “Stimme der Liebe,” 162, 165; “Suleikalieder,” 39–70; “Todtenopfer,” 19–20, 158–59, 175, 177–80; “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,” 28, 117–18, 127, 135n27; “Ungeduld,” 17–18, 21–22, 177; “Uraniens Flucht,” 217n19; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Der du von dem Himmel bist”), 116–17, 121, 126; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”), 28, 117–18, 127, 135n27; “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” 39–51; “Wiegenlied,” 19–20, 167, 172; Wilhelm Meister songs, 115; Winterreise, 385 Schuh, Willi, 111 Schumann, Clara Wieck, 375–77, 377–80, 383, 335–74, 375–80, 383; “Die gute Nacht,” 338–39; “Er ist gekommen,” 338–40, 349–59, 356, 360, 362–63, 370n19; “Liebst du um Schönheit,” 338–39, 349, 351–53,

Thym.indd Sec1:447



447

356, 360, 363, 370n19; “Sie liebten sich beide,” 371n25; “Warum willst du and’re fragen,” 338–39, 341–42, 349–50, 355–56, 360, 368, 370n19 Schumann, Robert, x, 164, 242 Schumann, Robert, works of: “Abschied von der Welt,” 242; “Allnächtlich im Traume,” 393; “Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen,” 393, 402; “An die Königin Elisabeth,” 242; “Auf einer Burg,” 376–78, 381, 383, 414–16, 430–31, 435; “Aus alten Märchen winkt es,” 393, 401; “Aus meinen Tränen sprießen,” 393, 395; Bilder aus Osten, 369n11; Carnaval, 386; “Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen,” 393, 396; “Der frohe Wandersmann,” 376–80, 383, 385–86; “Der Himmel hat eine Träne geweint,” 337, 340, 347, 359, 362; “Der Nussbaum,” 378; “Der traurige Jäger,” 376–79; Dichterliebe, xi, 336, 338, 340, 375, 390–406; “Die alten, bösen Lieder,” 393; “Die beiden Grenadiere,” 378; “Die Rose, die Lilie,” 393; “Die Stille,” 376–78, 383; “Du meine Seele, du mein Herz,” 337; “Ein Jüngling liebt ein Mädchen,” 393, 403; “Flügel! Flügel!” 337, 344, 346, 348–49, 354, 360, 365–66, 370n15, 370n16, 371n28; Frauenliebe und -leben, 338; “Frühlingsfahrt,” 71–88, 411–13, 430–31, 435n5; “Frühlingsnacht,” 376–78, 380–82; “Ich grolle nicht,” 216n7, 393, 396, 398; “Ich hab’ im Traum geweinet,” 393, 395; “Ich hab’ in mich gesogen,” 337, 341, 354, 356, 360, 363–64, 370n16; “Ich wandelte unter Bäumen,” 392; “Ich will meine Seele tauchen,” 393; “Im Rhein, im heiligen Strome,” 393–94; “Im Walde,” 376–78; “Im wunderschönen Monat Mai,” 393; “In der Fremde” (“Aus der Heimat hinter

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448



index

Schumann, Robert, works of—(cont’d) den Blitzen rot”), 87n6, 376–78, 380, 385–86, 421; “In der Fremde” (“Es zog eine Hochzeit den Berg entlang”), 376–78, 381, 383; “Intermezzo,” 376–78, 383; “Lehn deine Wang,” 393, 402; Liebesfrühling, xiv, 335–74, 376; “Liebste, was kann uns denn scheiden,” 337, 341, 360, 364–65, 371n28; “Lieder der Braut,” 338; Liederkreis, op. 24, 338, 372n38, 378, 390–406; Liederkreis, op. 39, 338, 340, 375–89, 409, 421; Liederreihe, op. 35 (Kerner), 338, 373n42; “Mein Wagen rollet langsam,” 393; Minnespiel, 357, 359, 371n24; “Mondnacht,” 376–78, 380, 383–84, 415, 417–21, 422, 430; Myrthen, 337–39; “O ihr Herren,” 337–38, 340, 360, 363, 370n16; “O Sonn’, o Meer, o Rose,” 337–38, 340–42, 346–47, 355, 360, 367–68; “Rose, Meer und Sonne,” 337–38, 340–41, 346–47, 349–51, 355, 357–58, 360, 366–67; “Rotes Röslein,” 378; “Schön ist das Fest des Lenzes,” 337–38, 341, 359–60, 365, 371n26; “Schöne Fremde,” 376–78, 380– 84, 386; “So wahr die Sonne scheinet,” 337–38, 340–41, 347, 355, 359–60, 368; Spanische Liebeslieder, 359; Spanisches Liederspiel, 359; Symphonische Etüden, 387; Symphony no. 4 in D Minor, 370n15; “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh,” 118–21, 128, 135n27; “Und wüssten’s die Blumen,” 374n53, 393, 395, 401; “Waldesgespräch,” 376–78, 383; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh”), 118–21, 128, 135n27; “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann,” 392, 396–97; “Wehmut,” 376–78, 387n3; “Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’,” 393; “Widmung,” 378; “Zwielicht,” 376–78

Thym.indd Sec1:448

Schweinitz, Wolfgang von, xv Seelig, Harry, xi, xiii, xv, 280n9 Segebrecht, Wulf, 115–16 “Sehnsucht, an W.” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 “Sei mir gegrüsst” (Rückert, Schubert), 225–30 Seidlin, Oskar, 71 Sibelius, Jean, 167, 216n9 “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit” (Goethe, Wolf), 90, 96–103, 106–8, 222 “Sie liebten sich beide” (Heine, C. Schumann), 371n25 Signale für die musikalische Welt, 345 “Silver Swan, The” (Gibbons), 166, 217n18 Smith, Barbara Herrnstein, 219n34 Smith, Craig, 369n4 “So lang man nüchtern ist” (Goethe, R. Strauss, Wolf), 136, 141–43, 149–50 “So long, farewell” from The Sound of Music (Rodgers and Hammerstein) 166 “So wahr die Sonne scheinet” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 337–38, 340–41, 347, 355, 359–60, 368 song cycle, xvi, 283–321, 322–34, 335– 74, 375–89, 390–406 “Sonett no. 92” (Petrarch/Foerster, Pfitzner), 242 sonnet, xiv, 27–30, 209–10, 213, 240–60 Spanische Liebeslieder (R. Schumann), 359 Spanisches Liederspiel (R. Schumann), 359 Spann, Joseph Freiherr von, “Der Jüngling und der Tod,” 219n33 Spillman, Robert, xiv Stein, Deborah, xiv, 333n14 Stein, Jack M., xi, xiii, 87n4, 414 Stendahl, John K., 109n2 “Stimme der Liebe” (Matthison, Schubert), 162, 165 Stimmung, 78 Stimmungsbruch, 395 Stimmungslyrik, 421 Stoll, Joseph Ludwig, “Lambertine,” 219n33 Strauss, Johann, 90

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index Strauss, Richard, 112, 123–24, 242 Strauss, works of: Arabella, 149; Der Rosenkavalier, 147; Deutsche Motette, 222; Eine Alpensymphonie, 112; Ein Heldenleben, 145; “Hans Adam war ein Erdenkloß,” 145–51; “Im Spätboot”; Salome, 124; “So lang man nüchtern ist,” 149–50; Tod und Verklärung, 149; “Trunken müssen wir alle sein,” 149–51 structuralism, x, xvi Stuart, Maria, 242 Sturm und Drang, 93 Suleika poems. See “Buch Suleika” “Suleikalieder” (Schubert), 39–70 syntactic tension, 72 tercet, 24–29, 241, 243, 245, 247, 259n1 terza rima, 20, 195–97, 201 218n28 tetrameter, 40, 90, 112, 156, 180–81, 241, 265, 414 third-relations, 48 through-composed, 9, 26–27, 31, 34, 177, 241, 243, 246, 263, 326, 333n13, 335, 395 Thym, Jürgen, xi, 333n14, 374n53, 386, 405n11 Tin Pan Alley, 216n10 “Todtenopfer” (Matthison, Schubert), 19–20, 158–59, 175, 177–80 “Trauerstille” (Bürger, Pfitzner), 242 “Treuebruch” (Collin). See Schubert, “Der Zwerg” trimeter, 156, 180, 241, 415 trochee (or trochaic), 40, 78, 93, 112, 114, 176, 180–81, 208, 215n1, 217n16, 414 “Trunken müssen wir alle sein” (Goethe, Strauss, Wolf), 149–51 Trunz, Erich, 286, 320n14 Turchin, Barbara, 372n40, 386, 435n8 “Über allen Gipfeln ist Ruh” (Goethe, Schubert, R. Schumann, Weigl), 111–35 “Und wüssten’s die Blumen” (Heine, R. Schumann), 374n53, 393, 395, 401

Thym.indd Sec1:449



449

“Ungeduld” (Müller, Schubert), 17–18, 21–22 “Uraniens Flucht” (Mayrhofer, Schubert), 217n19 Vaget, Hans, 139 Verdi, Giuseppe, 147 verismo, 411 “Verschwiegene Liebe” (Eichendorff, Wolf), 411, 421–24 “Via Crucis, via Lucis” (Zumsteeg), 216n7 Vienna Conservatory, 139 Vierhebigkeit, 14 Volkston, 385 volta (or turn of thought), 243, 247 “Vom künftigen Alter” (Rückert, Schubert: “Greisengesang”), 222–25, 239n6 Wagner, Richard, 149, 233, 323, 434 “Waldesgespräch” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 383 Walker, Frank, 411 Walsh, Stephen, 119–20, 372n39 “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Der du von dem Himmel”) (Goethe, Schubert, Weigl, Wolf), 111–35 “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Über allen Gipfeln”) (Goethe, Schubert, R. Schumann, Weigl), 111–35 Wanderlied, 76, 84, 372n40 “Warte, warte, wilder Schiffsmann” (Heine, R. Schumann), 392, 396–97 “Warum willst du and’re fragen” (Rückert, C. Schumann), 338–39, 341–42, 349–50, 355–56, 360, 368, 370n19 “Was bedeutet die Bewegung?” (Goethe, Schubert), 39–51 Wasielewski, Josef, 335, 345, 372n37 Weber, Carl Maria von, 434 Weber, Gottfried, 372n40 Webern, Anton von, 112 “Wehmut” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78, 387n3 Weigl, Karl, x, 111, 115, 121–25, 131–33 Weissweiler, Eva, 371n21

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450



index

“Wenn dein Mütterlein” (Rückert, Mahler), 331, 334 “Wenn ich in deine Augen seh’” (Heine, R. Schumann), 393 “Wenn zu der Regenwand” (Goethe, Wolf), 138 “Wenn zur Thür herein” (Rückert, Mahler), 331, 334 Werner, Zacharias, 241 Werts, David, 372n40 Whaley, John, 109n6, 109n12, 136, 320n14 “Widmung” (Rückert, R. Schumann), 378 “Wie bist du, meine Königin” (Brahms, Daumer), 234–38 Wieck, Friedrich, 377, 379, 388n10 “Wiegenlied” (anonymous, Schubert), 19–20, 167, 172 Wiethaus, Luise, 337 Wilhelm Meister songs (Schubert, Wolf), 115 Wilkinson, Elizabeth, 112–14 Willemer, Marianne von, 39–40, 43, 53–54, 69n4, 321n17 Winn, James, 323 Winterreise (Müller, Schubert), 385 Wolf, Hugo, 89–110, 118–19, 136–45, 164, 242, 283–321, 409–35 Wolf, works of “Als ich auf dem Euphrat schiffte,” 284, 290–96, 309–10; “An die Geliebte,” 242; “Auf eine Christblume I,” 216n7; “Das Ständchen,” 411; “Der du von dem Himmel bist,” 118–19, 129–30; “Die Nacht,” 411, 421; “Dies zu deuten bin erbötig,” 284, 290–96, 311–13; EichendorffLieder, 410; “Erschaffen und Beleben,” 136–45; “Ganymed,” 124, 134n3, 280n9; Goethelieder, 89, 103, 109, 283, 285; “Grenzen der Menschheit,” 124; “Hans Adam

Thym.indd Sec1:450

war ein Erdenkloß,” 136–45; “Harper” songs, 89; “Heimweh,” 411; “Hochbeglückt in deiner Liebe,” 284–90, 305–08, 321n17; “Locken, haltet mich gefangen,” 297–302, 314–17; “Mignon” songs, 89; Mörike-Lieder, 215n1, 216n7; “Nachtzauber,” 411, 424–30; “Nicht Gelegenheit macht Diebe,” 285, 288–89, 292, 303–04, 320n14; “Nimmer will ich dich verlieren,” 298–99, 301, 318–19, 321; “Ob der Koran von Ewigkeit sei?” 91–96, 104–05; “Peregrina,” 216n7; “Phänomen,” 136–38, 143–44; “Prometheus,” 110n17, 124; “Schenkenbuch” songs, 89–110, 321n4; “Sie haben wegen der Trunkenheit,” 90, 96–103, 106–8, 222; “So lang man nüchtern ist,” 136 141–43; “Trunken müssen wir alle sein,” 149–51; “Verschwiegene Liebe,” 411, 421–24; “Wanderers Nachtlied” (“Der du von dem Himmel bist”), 118–19, 121, 129– 30; Wilhelm Meister songs, 115 Wolf, Werner, 385 word painting, 275 Youens, Susan, 141, 200, 411 Zelter, Friedrich, 47, 135n27, 138, 151n7, 217n20 Zemlinsky, Alexander von, 121 Zumsteeg, Johann Rudolf, 9, 164, 216n7, 218n22, 218n24; “An Cidli,” 216n7; “An Elwina,” 216n7; “Die Erwartung,” 180–94; “Die Welt ohne Sie,” 216n7; “Nachtgesang,” 216n7; “Sehnsucht, an W.,” 216n7; “Via Crucis, via Lucis,” 216n7 “Zwielicht” (Eichendorff, R. Schumann), 376–78

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