The Saddest & Most Beautiful Love Song of All Time?
On Schubert's Serenade (Ständchen D957).
Today I happened to pass by the apartment in which Franz Schubert died on November 19, 1828, at the age of 31, located in Kettenbrückengasse 6, near the Vienna Naschmarkt.
Though the official cause of death was typhoid fever, the totality of documentary evidence indicates he died of syphilis that he contracted in late 1822. The disease and the extremely toxic treatments horribly impaired his mental and physical health.
As I noted in a previous post about why we should all be grateful for antibiotics, it’s crazy to think that all of Schubert’s suffering could have been relieved by a one-week course of penicillin, which annihilates the Treponema pallidum bacterium that causes syphilis.
I’ve often thought that Schubert was the ultimate artist in the sense that, instead of wallowing in despondency at his misfortune, he channeled it into composing hauntingly beautiful music that expresses life’s brevity, disappointments, and unfulfilled longing with amazing poignancy.
Thinking about his death reminded me of his Serenade (Ständchen D957) in D minor. He composed it exactly 200 years ago, in the summer of 1826, but it was published posthumously in 1829 as part of his famous collection Schwanengesang (Swan Song).
He composed it as a Lied (song) for piano and voice. The lyrics are from a poem titled “Ständchen” (Serenade) by the German poet Ludwig Rellstab, about a young man who tries to persuade a girl to sneak out of her family home and slip away with him to a nearby grove of trees. Those interested in the lyrics may see the original German and the English translation below.
Schubert was never lucky in love, and after he contracted syphilis, he knew he never could be. The young man delivering the serenade is full of longing that the girl will respond to his pleas, and the melancholy D minor modulates with the happier D major in brief moments of hope. However, the overall composition seems to express the young man’s lack of confidence that he will prevail. Despite his enormous, moving, and artful effort, he senses that he won’t be able to persuade the girl.
The following is is a video of the Croatian cellist Stepjan Hauser, performing the piece for cello and piano.
Ständchen
Leise flehen meine Lieder
Durch die Nacht zu Dir;
In den stillen Hain hernieder,
Liebchen, komm’ zu mir!
Flüsternd schlanke Wipfel rauschen
In des Mondes Licht;
Des Verräters feindlich Lauschen
Fürchte, Holde, nicht.
Hörst die Nachtigallen schlagen?
Ach! sie flehen Dich,
Mit der Töne süssen Klagen
Flehen sie für mich.
Sie verstehn des Busens Sehnen,
Kennen Liebesschmerz,
Rühren mit den Silbertönen
Jedes weiche Herz.
Lass auch Dir die Brust bewegen,
Liebchen, höre mich!
Bebend harr’ ich Dir entgegen!
Komm’, beglücke mich!
Serenade
Softly my songs plead
through the night to you;
down into the silent grove,
beloved, come to me!
Slender treetops whisper and rustle
in the moonlight;
my darling, do not fear
that the hostile betrayer will overhear us.
Do you not hear the nightingales call?
Ah, they are imploring you;
with their sweet, plaintive songs
they are imploring for me.
They understand the heart’s yearning,
they know the pain of love;
with their silvery notes
they touch every tender heart.
Let your heart, too, be moved,
beloved, hear me!
Trembling, I await you!
Come, make me happy!
Thank you for posting this beautiful piece of music and Schubert's sad story.
The ubiquitous nature of the beautiful sadness of love found and love lost, love kindled and love extinguished, makes me wonder if we are not trapped in a never-ending series of lifetimes in which our inclinations to love are the glue that keeps us mired in a forlorn state. Are we drawn to rebirth, over and over, in an endless attempt to perfect the movement of our heart toward that which is beautiful and endearing but never attainable. Do we suffer a lust that keeps us attached to the pursuit of perfect human union, even though it portends suffering and sadness? Is heaven merely the cessation of our foolhardy passions, a state where we know love without the chase, without the attachment, without the drama? Until we find such perfect love, are we lured over and over into the human drama, the beautiful sadness of romance.
Over a period of years I worked frequently with a French director who was, quite simply, a wild man. My calm control on a number of occasions moved us through choppy waters. We were never far from being at each other's throats, and on occasion the tension broke into screaming matches (his screaming and literally kicking) that were nonetheless celebrated by the french. A different demeanor was the norm. On our last outing at a location by the Pacific Ocean, after the shoot was completed, he walked out of the parking lot and then walked back, slowly, a profound look of Eureka in his eyes. "I've finally figured you out. You are a romantic!" Pleased with his new understanding he turned and walked away. I stood there, amused but a bit befuddled. I had just been called a romantic by a frenchman, and it was not entirely a compliment. I wonder if that is what St. Peter at the gates will say, "Ah, the romantic. That is what took you so long on getting here."