Ballad
(Poet's title: Ballade)
Set by Schubert:
D 134
[probably 1815]
Ein Fräulein schaut vom hohen Turm
Das weite Meer so bang,
Zum trauerschweren Zitherschlag
Hallt düster ihr Gesang:
“Mich halten Schloss und Riegel fest,
Mein Retter weilt so lang.”
Sei wohl getrost, du edle Maid,
Schau, hinterm Kreidenstein
Treibt in der Buchtung Dunkelheit
Ein Kriegesboot herein:
Der Aarenbusch, der Rosenschild,
Das ist der Retter dein!
Schon ruft des Hunen Horn zum Streit
Hinab zum Muschelrain.
“Willkommen schmucker Knabe mir,
Bist du zu Stelle kummen?
Gar bald vom schwarzen Schilde dir
Hau ich die goldnen Blumen.
Die achtzehn Blumen, blutbetaut,
Les deine königliche Braut
Auf aus dem Sand der Wogen,
Nur flink die Wehr gezogen!”
Zum Turm aufschallt das Schwertgeklirr!
Wie harrt die Braut so bang!
Der Kampf dröhnt laut durchs Waldrevier,
So heftig und so lang!
Und endlich, endlich däucht es ihr,
Erstirbt der Hiebe Klang.
Es kracht das Schloss, die Tür klafft auf,
Die Ihren sieht sie wieder,
Sie eilt im atemlosen Lauf
Zum Muschelplane nieder.
Da liegt der Peiniger zerschellt,
Doch weh, dicht neben nieder,
Ach! decken’s blutbespritzte Feld
Des Retters blasse Glieder.
Still sammelt sie die Rosen auf
In ihren keuschen Schoß
Und bettet ihren Lieben drauf,
Ein Tränchen stiehlt sich los;
Und taut die breiten Wunden an,
Und sagt: ich, ich hab das getan!
Da fraß es einen Schandgesell
Des Raubes im Gemüt,
Dass die, die seinen Herrn verdarb,
Frei nach der Heimat zieht.
Vom Busch, wo er verkrochen lag
In wilder Todeslust,
Pfeift schnell sein Bolzen durch die Luf
In ihre keusche Brust.
Da ward ihr wohl im Brautgemach,
Im Kiesgrund, still und klein;
Sie senkten sie dem Lieben nach
Dort unter einem Stein,
Den ihr, von Diesteln überweht,
Noch nächst des Turmes Trümmern seht.
A young woman looks out from the high tower
Across the wide sea. She is so anxious.
The mournfully heavy striking of the zither
Echoes her song sombrely.
“I am held tight here locked up and bolted in,
My deliverer is taking so long.”
Take comfort, noble maid!
Look behind the chalk cliff:
Making its way into the darkness of the bay
Here comes a battleship.
The eagle in the bush, the shield with roses,
That is your deliverer!
The hero’s horn is already calling people to a battle
Down on the shell-strewn beach.
“Welcome, smart lad. Is it for me
That you have come here?
I will very soon attack your black shield
And cut the golden flowers out of it.
Those 18 flowers will be covered in blood
And your royal bride will have to pick them
From the sand in the waves.
Now, get on with it, draw your weapon!”
Up in the tower the clash of swords resounds!
How anxiously the bride waits!
The battle roars loud throughout the woods of the hunting grounds,
So violent and for such a long time.
And finally, at last she realises
That the sound of clashing steel is dying off.
The lock is turned, the door is wide open,
She sees her people again;
In a breathless run she rushes
Down to the shell-strewn plain.
Her torturer lies there, dashed to pieces,
But, oh, just down from him,
Oh! covering the blood-spattered field of battle
Are the pale limbs of her deliverer.
Quietly she picks up the roses and puts them
In her chaste lap
And puts her love to bed on them;
A little tear escapes
And bedews the open wounds
And she says, “It was I: I did that!”
A shameful accomplice began to be eaten up
By the thought that
The woman, having been despoiled by his lord,
Would return home free.
Out of the bushes where he was hiding,
In a wild deadly frenzy,
He quickly fired his crossbow and the bolt flew through the air,
Into her chaste breast.
She was then placed in a bridal chamber,
Calm and small, made in the shingle.
They buried her lover with her,
There under a single stone.
Anyone noticing the thistles swaying there
Will also see the ruins of the tower next to them.
All translations into English that appear on this website, unless otherwise stated, are by Malcolm Wren. You are free to use them on condition that you acknowledge Malcolm Wren as the translator and schubertsong.uk as the source. Unless otherwise stated, the comments and essays that appear after the texts and translations are by Malcolm Wren and are © Copyright.
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Themes and images in this text:
Blood Boats Bows and arrows By water – beaches and general Castles and towers Chest / breast Fighting and wrestling Gold Graves and burials Lap, womb (Schoß) Prisons and dungeons Roses and pink The sea Songs (general) Thistles Waiting Waves – Woge
The story of this maiden in distress shares many characteristics with that of Matthisson’s Romanze (Schubert’s D 114). Both texts relate the most significant episode in the history of a ruined tower by the sea. In Matthisson’s story Rosalie of Montanvert is imprisoned by her uncle, who uses her to get hold of her property. Kenner’s version is less specific. The maiden is imprisoned by a generic captor and hopes to be rescued by a stereotypical knight in shining armour. Things end badly for both women, of course, but only Rosalie revisits the scene as a ghost. Kenner’s maiden is buried (with her knight) on a pebbly beach with thistles swaying above the grave (Kenner as a land-locked Austrian seems to have had some difficulties imagining the specific details of the scene, though a chalk cliff is not incompatible with a predominantly shingle or pebble beach).
The contrast with what she had hoped for is cruel: her bridal chamber is a narrow grave, marked by thistles not by the gold flowers of her knight’s coat of arms. Her deliverer did not deliver her. The fact that her captor has died (and the tower which imprisoned her has now fallen into ruin) does nothing to alleviate the bleakness.
We are not given enough information about the man who kept her locked up to know if he was a stranger (like Wolfgang Přiklopil, who abducted Natascha Kampush in 1998) or a relative (like Josef Fritzl, who imprisoned his daughter for 24 years, between 1984 and 2008). There are enough suggestions that the captive did not show symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome and she never accepted her situation. The captor’s associate (her eventual murderer) clearly believed that she had been his sex slave, but the poet twice refers to her chastity. She gathers the hacked out flowers into her ‘chaste lap’ before laying the body of her deliverer on them, and she is shot in her ‘chaste breast’. This is probably the poet’s way of saying that she had been raped (‘chaste’ indicating lack of consent).
She has been subject to phallic control. In a tower that is part of a castle (Schloß), locked and bolted in (‘Mich halten Schloß und Riegel fest’), she looks out to a more ‘female’ environment (the sea) and longs for her knight in armour. Her fantasies do not revolve around his offensive weapons (lance or sword) but his defensive shield, and the images of nature depicted on it. However, the phallic power of her captor (his horn and his sword) defeats her deliverer and even after the jailor is himself dead his thrusting aggression continues as his accomplice fires his crossbow and the arrow / bolt strikes the woman dead.
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Original Spelling Ballade Ein Fräulein schaut vom hohen Thurm Das weite Meer so bang; Zum trauerschweren Zitherschlag Hallt düster ihr Gesang; "Mich halten Schloß und Riegel fest, Mein Retter weilt so lang." Sei wohl getrost, du edle Maid! Schau, hinterm Kreidenstein Treibt in der Buchtung Dunkelheit Ein Kriegesboot herein: Der Aarenbusch, der Rosenschild, Das ist der Retter dein! Schon ruft des Hunen Horn zum Streit Hinab zum Muschelrain. "Willkommen, schmucker Knabe, mir, Bist du zu Stelle kummen? Gar bald vom schwarzen Schilde dir Hau' ich die gold'nen Blumen. Die achtzehn Blumen, blutbethaut, Les' deine königliche Braut Auf aus dem Sand der Wogen, Nur flink die Wehr gezogen!" Zum Thurm auf schallt das Schwerdtgeklirr! Wie harrt die Braut so bang! Der Kampf dröhnt laut durch's Waldrevier, So heftig und so lang! Und endlich, endlich däucht es ihr, Erstirbt der Hiebe Klang. Es kracht das Schloß, die Thür klafft auf, Die ihren sieht sie wieder, Sie eilt im athemlosen Lauf Zum Muschelplane nieder. Da liegt der Peiniger zerschellt, Doch weh! dicht neben nieder, Ach! decken's blutbespritzte Feld Des Retters blasse Glieder. Still sammelt sie die Rosen auf In ihren keuschen Schooß Und bettet ihren Lieben drauf, Ein Thränchen stiehlt sich los! Und thaut die breiten Wunden an, Und sagt: ich, ich hab' das gethan! Da fraß es einen Schandgesell Des Raubes im Gemüth, Daß die, die seinen Herrn verdarb, Frei nach der Heimath zieht. Vom Busch, wo er verkrochen lag In wilder Todeslust, Pfeift schnell sein Bolzen durch die Luft, In ihre keusche Brust. Da ward ihr wohl im Brautgemach, Im Kiesgrund, still und klein; Sie senkten sie dem Lieben nach, Dort unter einem Stein, Den ihr, von Diesteln überweht, Noch nächst des Turmes Trümmern seht.
Schubert’s source was a manuscript. The poem was never printed separately from the song.