The writer and thinker Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was a god to nearly all the great Austro-German songwriters of the 19th century. No one worshiped him more than Robert Schumann, whose Scenes from Goethe’s Faust was one of his most impressive orchestral works. The year 1849 was the centennial of Goethe’s birth, and in commemoration, the composer turned to his novel Wilhelm Meisters Lehrjahre (Wilhelm Meister’s Apprenticeship) for a series of nine lieder based on song texts found within the story.
Usually, we hear one of the melancholy songs for Mignon, the forlorn heroine abducted from her home as a child, or for the Harper, a mysterious, half-mad wanderer who may be her father. Ms. Damrau, however, has chosen a song—“Singet nicht in Trauertönen” (“Do not sing in mournful tones”)—for the secondary character Philine, a promiscuously flirtatious actress in Meister’s theater troupe with whom he is casually involved. In this quicksilver piece, Philine sings lustily of the joys of night, painted by so many Romantics as a time of loneliness and despair. She affirms that, instead, night is the time of pleasure, while day is absorbed by duty and drudgery. Schumann rarely showed such a lightness of touch in his songs as here.
The year 1840 was the happiest of Schumann’s life, for it was then that he finally was able to wed Clara Wieck despite her father’s years-long opposition. His joy expressed itself in the myriad songs of his “Liederjahr” (“song year”), among them his wedding gift to Clara, the cycle Myrthen (Mirtles). Its opening song is “Widmung” (“Dedication”), perhaps the most beautiful of all Schumann’s songs, with its ecstatic melody proclaiming the composer’s joyous love for Clara. The poem is by Friedrich Rückert, and its references to the pain of living, even within the solace of an enduring love, add to its strength.
For more than 60 years, Clara Schumann reigned as the “Queen of the Piano” of 19th-century music. No less an expert than Franz Liszt considered she had “complete technical mastery, depth, and sincerity of feeling.” Though her performing repertoire was vast, she devoted much of her energy to being the foremost interpreter of her husband, Robert’s, music and later to that of her very close friend Johannes Brahms. And though she was ambivalent about her abilities, she was also a composer of considerable talent.
Unlike Gustav Mahler, who notoriously suppressed his wife’s talents as a composer, Robert Schumann thoroughly supported his spouse’s creative work. They began exchanging information about suitable poetry to set, and when Robert began his manic songwriting in the early 1840s, Clara did so, too. When she gave him four of her song settings of Rückert texts for his birthday in 1841, he was so impressed that he included three of them in his 12 Poems from Rückerts Liebesfrühling, clearly indicating they were hers.
It’s unfortunate that Clara, who (despite her performing career) generally accepted a 19th-century woman’s traditional role, had so little faith in her gifts as a composer. As she confided in her diary: “I once believed I had creative talent, but I have given up this idea: A woman must not wish to compose—there never was one able to do it. Am I intended to be the one? It would be arrogant to believe that.” And after Robert’s death in 1856, without his prodding, she ceased composing.
We will hear two songs from Clara Schumann’s Opus 12, part of the Rückert set she co-composed with her husband. Rückert’s Liebesfrühling poems are inspired by conjugal love; the Schumanns were then in their first year of marriage. In “Liebst du um Schönheit” (“If you love for beauty”), a poem also set by Mahler, she uses the same questioning melodic phrase for the parallel statements that structure the verse. “Er ist gekommen” (“He came”) is one of her most passionate songs, carried by a spectacular, surging piano part.
In “Sie liebten sich beide” (“They loved one another”), Heinrich Heine—the darkest of the German Romantic poets—tells a bitter tale of a pair who could never admit their love. Clara captures the bleakness of their fate with stinging harmonies and a forlorn vocal melody. Another setting of Heine opens this set: “Loreley” (1843), the tale of the beautiful woman who dwells on a lofty crag hovering over the Rhine (well-known to cruisers on the river) and, with her song, lures unwary sailors to their deaths on the rocks below. Showing off her own virtuosity, Clara makes the piano the driver of the song with its rapid, relentless triplets. Tension and a sense of impending doom grow throughout the song, reaching a frenzy as the Loreley claims her next victim.
In the summer of 1840, Robert Schumann turned to Adelbert von Chamisso for the cycle Frauenliebe und -leben (A Woman’s Love and Life). Born into the French nobility as Louis Charles Adélaïde de Chamissot, Chamisso lived a rather fascinating life. Fleeing the French Revolution, his family took him to the Prussian court in Berlin, where he eventually became an officer in the Prussian army fighting against Napoleon. Chamisso was also a respected botanist for whom several plants are named. His Frauenliebe und -leben poems were written in 1830, a decade before Schumann made them songs. Schumann chose not to set Chamisso’s final poem, in which the woman, now an old widow, looks back on her happier years, but he paid tribute to it in the cycle’s piano postlude.
The rocking piano motive that fills “Seit ich ihn gesehen” (“Since first seeing him”) has a brief rest between the two-note repetitions that captures the young woman’s hesitant wonder at the emotions she is suddenly feeling. This is not the only time we will hear this rapt music. This reticence vanishes in “Er, der Herrlichste von allen,” an uninhibited declaration of her passion for “he, the most wonderful of all.” The singer’s opening phrase is like a trumpet call above the excited throb of the piano.
“Ich kann’s nicht fassen, nicht glauben” (“I cannot grasp it, believe it”) uses the rapid delivery of repeated notes to express the woman’s happy amazement that this man has actually chosen her. Schumann once wrote that an effective song should strive for naturalness, and this is a fine example of that principle. “Du Ring an meinem Finger” (“You, ring on my finger”) operates like a rondo, with the lovely opening melody returning as a refrain. Though brief, the piano postlude here is wonderfully expressive. In “Helft mir, ihr Schwestern” (“Help me, my sisters”), the bride excitedly urges her sisters to adorn her for the wedding.
In “Süsser Freund, du blickest” (“Sweet friend, you look”), the woman reveals to her husband that she is expecting their child. Notice how the expressively dissonant appoggiaturas are used throughout, especially for the words “dein Bildnis” (“your likeness”).
After the joyful cradle song “An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust” (“On my heart, at my breast”), the stark D-minor chord that opens the last song, “Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan” (“Now you have caused me my first pain”), strikes like a knife to the heart. In this extraordinary dirge, the singer is restricted to a very low range, sometimes nearly a monotone, to express her anguish. Then Schumann returns to the music of the opening song for one of his greatest and most heartbreaking piano postludes.
Joaquín Rodrigo, whose life spanned the 20th century, died in 1999 at the age of 97. Blind since the age of three, as a young man, Rodrigo became a pupil of the Frenchman Paul Dukas (creator of The Sorcerer’s Apprentice), and French refinement and sensitivity to color mingle with the prominent Spanish influences in his music. He lived in exile in Paris during the Spanish Civil War, but soon returned to become the dean of Spanish composers. His great mastery of melody and atmosphere made him popular well beyond the borders of his native land.
Rodrigo is most famous today for his concertos, but his daughter Cecilia said that “the true essence of his music is found in his vocal music.” A devoted student of Spanish literature and poetry, he wrote some 87 vocal works over his long lifetime; they have been performed by many of Spain’s greatest singers, often to his own piano accompaniment. Written in 1947, his elegant cycle Cuatro madrigales amatorios, subtitled “inspired by Spanish music of the 16th century,” uses anonymous Spanish texts found in a collection published in 1560. They are all love songs that vividly capture various emotional states, from living bereft of love to the exhilaration of young infatuation.
The stately gravity of the melody for “Con qué la lavaré” (“With what shall I wash”) captures the style of 16th-century Spanish song as the woman—widowed or cast aside—sadly muses about how she should wash her face. Unlike married women, she cannot use scented lemon water, but only pain and sorrow. With “Vos me matásteis” (“You killed me”), we switch to the masculine side and a man who declares he has been slain by the view of a beautiful girl with her long hair hanging loose. The sorrowing melody suggests he has no hope of winning her love.
With the final two songs, the mood becomes more animated. Teasing staccato notes in “De dónde venís, amore” (“Where hast thou been, my love?”) describe the eager interrogation of a friend—or lover—who may have been up to amorous mischief. The questioner obviously knows the answer; is there jealousy behind her increasingly aggressive repetitions? The last song, “De los álamos vengo, madre” (“I come from the poplars, mother”), may be the answer to that question. To a dashing Spanish dance accompaniment that mimics a guitar, the young man expresses his joy for his visit to Seville to see the poplars blowing in the wind—and, incidentally, his pretty girlfriend. His ecstasy finds expression in soaring Spanish melismas high in the soprano range.
A native of Barcelona, Enrique Granados once said of himself: “I am not a musician, but an artist.” Indeed, he possessed many artistic gifts: He pursued a dual career as one of the finest concert pianists at the turn of the 20th century and a composer who brought the idioms of Spanish and Catalan music to a worldwide audience. Simultaneously, he was an influential music pedagogue and a talented painter, whose favorite artist was Goya. It’s not surprising, then, that his most famous work was the piano suite Goyescas of 1911, which he transformed into an opera of the same name that premiered at the Metropolitan Opera in January 1916. It was that opera, followed by a recital at the White House, that caused him to miss his boat back to Spain; he then died tragically on a ship torpedoed by a German U-boat while sailing on the English Channel.
Like Rodrigo, Granados was fascinated by music from the Spanish Renaissance. His 1913 collection Canciones amatorias sets verse by 16th-century poets, and the words for “No lloréis ojuelos” (“Don’t cry little eyes”) may have been written by the great Spanish poet and dramatist Lope de Vega. This affectionately teasing song is decorated with Spanish-style melismas and charming leaps into the high register; the strumming piano accompaniment imitates a lute or Spanish vihuela.
One of the most prominent Spanish composers of the early 20th century, Joaquín Turina was born and raised in Seville, and though he left that city at age 20, he carried the sounds of Sevillian music with him for the rest of his career. Desiring better musical training, he moved to Madrid, where he met Manuel de Falla, who became a lifelong friend. Like Falla, he moved to Paris in 1905 and there, studying composition with Vincent d’Indy, fell for a time into the circle of César Franck’s disciples. He also dabbled in the impressionist styles of Debussy. But Turina stayed close to the other Spanish composers living in Paris, and when Isaac Albéniz urged him to reconnect with his Spanish folk roots, he eagerly returned home.
Composed in 1933, Turina’s Très Poemas sets three poems by the Spanish Romantic poet Gustavo Adolfo Bécquer. The second of them is “Tu pupila es azul” (“Your eyes are blue”), which was originally titled “Imitación de Byron” because it was inspired by Byron’s poem “I saw thee weep.” Propelled by Spanish rhythms in the piano, this is a passionate ode to the woman with the blue eyes and closes with a cadenza-like, wordless melisma that glorifies the soprano voice.
Considering that he created many of the finest concert songs in the Spanish language, astonishingly little is known about the career of the Catalan composer Fernando Obradors, who was born and died in Barcelona. He seems to have been a self-taught composer without conservatory training; nevertheless, he eventually became a teacher himself at Las Palmas Conservatory in the Canary Islands. He also became the conductor of the Gran Canaria Philharmonic Orchestra.
Obradors is best known for the four volumes of Canciones clásicas españolas he compiled and arranged from Spanish folk melodies between 1921 and 1941. Ms. Damrau has selected five of these songs: pieces that are distinguished by the subtlety of their vocal lines and the effervescence of their piano accompaniments. The latter is certainly the case in “El vito,” in which the singer is driven on by a frenzied piano part of hammering repeated notes in 3/8 time. This eponymous traditional Andalusian folk song draws its name from St. Vitus, the patron saint of dancers. The risqué lyrics use “el vito” as a refrain throughout, excusing everything. A bit tamer, “Al amor” (“To Love”) is a joyous little dance in three beats with a playful punchline.
The gently rocking accompaniment for “Con amores, la mi madre” (“Due to your love, mother”) tells us this is a lullaby, but for an adult rather than a baby. The singer drifts off to sleep beautifully on a floating, long-sustained high A. “Del cabello más sutil” (“Of the softest hair”) is perhaps Obradors’s most famous song and surely his most beautiful. Over rhapsodic arpeggios in the piano, the singer voices a haunting melody of mesmerizing ardor and sensuality. Lavish Moorish melismas adorn the flamenco-influenced “Chiquitita la novia” (“A Tiny Bride”), which also mixes in a sentimental waltz for the piano.
Though Richard Strauss is better known for his operas and tone poems, throughout his career he was a prolific songwriter, creating some 200 lieder. His most productive song period came in his early career, especially between 1884 and 1906. Much of this activity was stimulated by his love for the soprano Pauline de Ahna, who became his wife in 1894; the two concertized together regularly for many years. Though critics complained that her voice had technical limitations, Strauss considered her the finest interpreter of his songs. And certainly, she strengthened his already marked preference for the soprano voice.
Having written more than 40 songs as a child and adolescent, Strauss waited until 1885, when he was 21, to create his first for publication: the nine songs of Opus 10. The poet was Hermann von Gilm zu Rosenegg, an Austrian civil servant who wrote verse of a sensitively lyrical and often melancholy nature. Strauss cannily chose the beautiful “Zueignung” (“Dedication”) to lead off his official lieder debut: a song that, because of its fervent lyricism and noble ascending melodic line, underpinned by a piano part that builds gradually to a passionate outpouring, was to become one of his most popular. There is a strong connection here both musically and texturally with Robert Schumann’s “Widmung,” which we heard earlier. Opus 10 closes with another of Strauss’s best-loved songs, “Allerseelen.” November 2 is “All Souls’ Day”: the day in the Catholic calendar for honoring those who have died. This magnificent song paints a scene of mature love gazing nostalgically backward, and is astonishing for so young a composer.
The song “Ständchen” (“Serenade”) is another early song from 1887 that is a treasure for very high voice. With its shimmering piano accompaniment and sensuous vocal lines constantly vaulting to high notes, this is a nocturnal serenade summoning the lover to a moonlit meeting. Written in 1897 shortly after the premiere of his tone poem Don Quixote, “Das Rosenband” (“The Rose Garland”) sets 18th-century verse by Friedrich Gottlieb Klopstock, one of the fathers of early Romanticism. Strauss’s lush treatment, with its extensive harmonic wanderings and ecstatic climaxes, was originally amplified by an orchestral accompaniment; the piano version came later. The song closes magically with a gorgeous melisma on the word “Elysium.”
From Op. 48 of 1900, the gentle idyll “Freundliche Vision” (“A Pleasant Vision”) sets words by Strauss’s contemporary Otto Julius Bierbaum, a Munich-based creator of popular light verse. Strauss expertly turns what could be merely sentimental verse into one of his loveliest, most entranced songs. Particularly moving is its setting of the repeated phrase “And I walk with one who loves me”—Strauss was, by now, married to de Ahna. Written in 1899, two years after their only son was born, “Wiegenlied” (“Cradle Song”) is part of a three-song set Strauss called Mutterlieder (Mother Songs) that he and de Ahna often performed together. This ravishingly lovely song seems to focus more on the mother and her feelings than on the child. The poet is Strauss’s contemporary Richard Dehmel, famous as the author of the poems that inspired Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht.
—Janet E. Bedell