Robert Schumann is probably the most romantic of all German composers – his biography alone could stand as a perfect Romantic German novel. So when he says that his Liederkreis on poems by Joseph von Eichendorff, op. 39, is the most Romantic music he ever composed, we already know that we are going to hear about moonlight, castles, ghostly apparitions and, of course, the Rhine. Today we’re listening to one of these songs, Auf einer Burg (In a castle), which opens the second part of the cycle.
Auf einer Burg is a strange poem, the meaning of which no one could really explain. It presents two apparently disconnected images: first, an old knight turned into stone in his watch, forgotten in a corner of a castle for hundreds of years where the outside world only exists in the form of the rustle of the forest. If this were a movie, the camera would face the lattice and slowly travel to the forest outside. Birds sing undisturbed, the place is empty, for everyone has gone to the valley, where a wedding is taking place by the Rhine. There is music and animation – and (not “but”) the beautiful bride, she weeps.
We could joke that, if you fed a computer program to generate a German Romantic poem, the result would be something very close to Auf einer burg. But Eichendorff was no robot, and there is an almost non-verbal truth behind the verses in this poem. In a superior level, we have the remnant of an old world, a knight, whose memory is all but forgotten. But he still exists. In the real world below, everything is transitory – songbird, a party, a beautiful bride. And she weeps because she knows it. All colorful, happy things are meant to disappear. Eternity is grey and made of stone. It is a world entirely apart and there is nothing there for the young bride whose childhood is about to disappear forever.
I can think of few other composers who would have chosen this text for a Lied*. It is a song about non-communication, about concepts we will never grasp because they are older, larger, deeper than what we are in our daily lives with our daily problems. Schumann chooses a very particular point of view for this song – the bride who understands for the first time that nothing she knows is permanent. Schumann’s music depicts the insight. It is not a concept – it is a glimpse of something not fully understood. The only thing the young bride can understand is that there are two separated levels. And that is the musical cell of the song – all phrases in it involve up and down. The first two phrases have the same profile – we have a descending interval, then roughly the notes in between the lower and the upper note of the interval and finally we go down halfway. The next phrases ping-pong between registers: 5-1-1-1-1-1-6-6-6-2-2-2-2-2-7-7-7-3-3-3-3-3 (in a d major scale, where 1 is d), until we have a downward half-scale with repeated notes and a harmonically unresolved conclusion. The second stanza has the same structure, only the final bar has a slight alteration that makes it end in a half-cadence, what makes the listener believe that the song is not over yet (right where the bride weeps). Also, the song has the atmosphere of a church hymn with organ-like pedal, chorale-style in old-fashioned harmony, almost modal. The motive in the second and in the 23rd bars (what I called “roughly the notes in between”) reappears now and then in the piano part, as an echo. I feel tempted to call that the very image of the insight that made the bride perceive this other dimension, but that’s pushing it too hard. Anyway, it’s there and it propels the piece forward in a faintly Bachian way.
So here we are – Schumann concocted this fascinating structure that makes the listeners feel like they are hearing an echo of a forgotten world, but they cannot come to any conclusion: the first part of the song seems to go nowhere and the second basically stops midair. And the big question is – how would you build an interpretation as a singer for a Lied as mysterious and philosophical as this one? The answer is : you don’t. All singers who tried to sing it as something very profound fail. Most of them in this group are not native speakers. They start with a knowing attitude, as if they were going to let you know something important. But we can’t forget – the song does not tell you anything, there is no important message here. It just SHOWS you (it doesn’t EXPLAIN anything) that there is something out there you won’t fully understand. That is why the singers who just surrender to Schumann’s creation without trying to superimpose anything are those who come closer to the mark. This involves a very strong discipline – some singers feel that Schumann’s phrases here are too square and try to soften them by connecting the dots (with portamento) and that’s a no-no. Most sing it as precisely as possible and end up sounding as if they were reading the telephone book with a very intimate voice. If I had to be honest, in terms of technique, style, expression and vocal efficiency, Matthias Goerne (provided you can put up with the slightly nasal tone) doesn’t do anything wrong here, you could use his performance as a tutorial. He doesn’t even do the funny breathing pause after “oben” – which sounds awkward to my ears – or emphasizes too much low notes on the ping-pong leaps, what sounds abrupt. And yet it is not my favorite recording.
I am not a great enthusiast of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s DGG Lieder recordings, most of them made in the phase of his career where the voice had lost its baritonal warmth and his legato was largely gone. But his early EMI recordings are treasurable. Those days he joined the best of two worlds: textual intelligence with perfect cantabile, dark resonance with angelic clarity. It was indeed the stuff of legends. And, even with the bizarre pause after “oben”, the emphasis on low notes in the ping-pong intervals and almost too much crooning, DFD’s recording with Hertha Klust is the one that brings this song to its full potential. The idea of singing it from a trance-like perspective is the best interpretation strategy for a song that speaks of things we see but not fully understand. It is almost as if he were hypnotized and just sharing the images in his mind with the listener. And the voice is to die for, glowing in sensuous velvetiness. The absolute clarity of diction and the occasional highlighting of one word or another never interrupt the flow of melody. He sings it expressively, but without trying to express anything in particular – and that is why this is so special. The very sound of his voice in the last word of the song weinet (weeps) is hushed, almost airy, but it is so well supported on a steady vibrato that seems that could go on forever.
Hertha Kluster’s piano seems to be a part of Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau’s voice – one hardly feels that the piano is a percussion instrument here. She plays it as an organ, the attack almost imperceptible. As much as the singer, she does not try to add anything to the song – she operates in a sound palette of demi-tintes, entirely open in interpretation. But I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge that the recorded sound itself is part of the appeal. This track does not sound as something made by a recording engineer in a professional studio, but rather as an open reel tape made at home in an empty apartment. In my imagination, it feels like a memento of a special day of music making when these two people felt that they had to record their own insight about things that not words and maybe also not even music can explain.
*Schoek, for instance, did set Auf einer Burg to music. It has many similarities with the Schumann setting, although the atmosphere is very different.