The hunter in the Alps
(Poet's title: Der Alpenjäger)
Set by Schubert:
D 588
[October 1817]
Willst du nicht das Lämmlein hüten?
Lämmlein ist so fromm und sanft,
Nährt sich von des Grases Blüten
Spielend an des Baches Ranft.
»Mutter, Mutter, lass mich gehen,
Jagen nach des Berges Höhen.«
Willst du nicht die Herde locken
Mit des Hornes munterm Klang?
Lieblich tönt der Schall der Glocken
In des Waldes Lustgesang.
»Mutter, Mutter, lass mich gehen,
Schweifen auf den wilden Höhen.”«
Willst du nicht der Blümlein warten,
Die im Beete freundlich stehn?
Draußen ladet dich kein Garten,
Wild ist’s auf den wilden Höhn.
»Lass die Blümlein, lass sie blühen,
Mutter, Mutter, lass mich ziehen.«
Und der Knabe ging zu jagen,
Und es treibt und reißt ihn fort,
Rastlos fort mit blindem Wagen
An des Berges finstern Ort.
Vor ihm her mit Windesschnelle
Flieht die zitternde Gazelle.
Auf der Felsen nackte Rippen
Klettert sie mich leichtem Schwung,
Durch den Riss geborstner Klippen
Trägt sie der gewagte Sprung.
Aber hinter ihr verwogen
Folgt er mit dem Todesbogen.
Jetzo auf den schroffen Zinken
Hängt sie, auf dem höchsten Grat,
Wo die Felsen jäh versinken,
Und verschwunden ist der Pfad.
Unter sich die steile Höhe,
Hinter sich des Feindes Nähe.
Mit des Jammers stummen Blicken
Fleht sie zu dem harten Mann;
Fleht umsonst, denn loszudrücken
Legt er schon den Bogen an.
Plötzlich aus der Felsenspalte
Tritt der Geist, der Bergesalte.
Und mit seinen Götterhänden
Schützt er das gequälte Tier.
»Musst du Tod und Jammer senden,«
Ruft er, »bis herauf zu mir.
Raum für alle hat die Erde,
Was verfolgst du meine Herde?«
Don’t you want to look after the baby lamb?
The baby lamb is so trusting and gentle,
It is feeding on the flowers in the grass,
Playing at the edge of the brook.
“Mother, mother, let me go
Hunting high up in the mountains!”
Don’t you want to summon the herd
With the cheerful sound of the horn?
The bells ring out in such a lovely way
Creating a happy song in the woods.
“Mother, mother, let me go
Roaming up on the wild heights!”
Don’t you want to keep an eye on the little flowers
Standing there so friendly in their beds?
Outside there are no gardens on offer,
It is wild up there on the wild heights!
“Enough about the little flowers, let them blossom,
Mother, mother, let me be off!”
And the lad went to hunt,
And an urge drives him onwards,
Restlessly onwards with blind daring,
Towards the dark place on the mountain,
Ahead of him, with the speed of wind,
The trembling gazelle tries to escape.
On a naked spur of the cliff
She climbs up with an easy movement
Through the cracks where the rocks have burst apart
She takes her daring leaps,
But behind her, recklessly
Following her, he held the deadly bow.
Now on those precipitous peaks
She is hanging on, on the highest ridge,
Where the cliffs fall sheer away,
And the path has vanished.
Underneath her – the steep drop,
Behind her – the approaching enemy.
With a mute look of distress
She pleads with the inflexible man,
She pleads in vain, because in order to shoot
He has already raised the bow.
Suddenly out of a crevice in the cliff
Steps the spirit, the Old Man of the Mountain.
And with his divine hands
He protects the shaking beast.
“Do you have to bring death and distress,”
He asks, “even up here to me?
The earth has enough room for all,
Why are you persecuting my herd?”
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:
Abysses, clefts and crevasses Begging and pleading Bells Bows and arrows Cattle Climbing Cows Deer Flowers Gardens Ghosts and spirits Grass Hands Here and there High, low and deep Hills and mountains Horns Hunters and hunting Leaping and jumping Longing and yearning Mother and child Mountains and cliffs Moving around (schweifen) Paths Rivers (Bach) Sheep and lambs Shepherds Woods – large woods and forests (Wald)
British English distinguishes between hunting (using animals to kill other animals) and shooting (using guns to kill the animals), but the German verb ‘jagen’ refers to both activities. Ein Jäger is therefore a huntsman or a marksman. Old-fashioned British aristocrats are fond of ‘huntin’, shootin’ and fishin”, so ‘ein Jäger’ is probably involved in killing fish too (Schubert must have seen this connection when he was setting Mayrhofer texts in January 1817 – D 524 is Der Alpenjäger and D525 is Wie Ulfru fischt – How Ulfru fishes).
The main characters in Weber`s Der Freischütz, the quintessential German Romantic opera, are the same character type as the anti-hero of the quintessential Romantic song cycle, Die Schöne Müllerin. The hunter is much much older than romanticism, of course. He plays a crucial role in the Grimm stories (he deals with the wolf who has eaten Little Red Riding`s grandmother, for example). He presumably saw himself as an important character in the cave art that he left behind in Lascaux and elsewhere. Many cultural commentators might argue that he is the essence of masculinity: he is always on the chase; he wields clubs, arrows, swords, guns, fishing rods etc.; when he finds what he is after he shoots his load and brags about it; then he is off again.
Whether his prey satisfies the primitive urges of food, sex or power, the energy which drives him forward is probably more significant than the object that he is chasing. Poets have been able to explore different aspects of this tension between the process and the object. On the most superficial level the love object is what it is all about, but it does not take much experience of life to realise that ‘love’ is more usually about the process than the object. The imagery of ‘aims’ and ‘goals’, which we now apply to education and to business, presumably derives from channelling our libido from the objects of immediate gratification. In some sports (‘good shot!’, ‘he got it in’ etc.) the gratification may not be deferred very much at all, but the thrill of the chase will always be much more satisfying than a too-easy victory.
Schiller’s ballad Der Alpenjäger is quite explicitly about deflecting a young man’s libido from the object. The lad has grown up in the valley and cannot wait to leave home and go hunting in the mountains. He begs his mother to let him go, to let him show the world that he is a man. Looking after little lambs and cows and watering the flowers is not what he wants from life. He bursts out and up into the hills with all the pent up energy of puberty. He follows the first gazelle[1] that catches his eye and the chase begins. Although she is in her own environment she is eventually cornered and finds herself at bay as the boy get his bow ready and prepares to shoot. He is interrupted, though, by a spirit, the elderly man of the mountains, who intervenes to demand that no violence or violation take place in his domain. Gratification has to be deferred, desire has to be sublimated. The voice of God / a god / the father / the Superego / civilisation has spoken.
[1] Although Schiller wrote the poem while doing research on Swiss folklore in preparation for ‘Wilhelm Tell’, he clearly did not do enough research on the local fauna. Gazelles are not native to the Alps but to Africa.
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Original Spelling Der Alpenjäger Willst du nicht das Lämmlein hüten? Lämmlein ist so fromm und sanft, Nährt sich von des Grases Blüthen, Spielend an des Baches Ranft? »Mutter, Mutter, laß mich gehen, Jagen nach des Berges Höhen!« Willst du nicht die Heerde locken Mit des Hornes munterm Klang? Lieblich tönt der Schall der Glocken In des Waldes Lustgesang. »Mutter, Mutter, laß mich gehen, Schweifen auf den wilden Höhen!"« Willst du nicht der Blümlein warten, Die im Beete freundlich stehn? Draußen ladet dich kein Garten, Wild ist's auf den wilden Höh'n! »Laß die Blümlein, laß sie blühen, Mutter, Mutter, laß mich ziehen!« Und der Knabe ging zu jagen, Und es treibt und reißt ihn fort, Rastlos fort mit blindem Wagen An des Berges finstern Ort, Vor ihm her mit Windesschnelle Flieht die zitternde Gazelle. Auf der Felsen nackte Rippen Klettert sie mich leichtem Schwung, Durch den Riß geborst'ner Klippen Trägt sie der gewagte Sprung, Aber hinter ihr verwogen Folgt er mit dem Todesbogen. Jetzo auf den schroffen Zinken Hängt sie, auf dem höchsten Grat, Wo die Felsen jäh versinken, Und verschwunden ist der Pfad. Unter sich die steile Höhe, Hinter sich des Feindes Nähe. Mit des Jammers stummen Blicken Fleht sie zu dem harten Mann, Fleht umsonst, denn loszudrücken, Legt er schon den Bogen an. Plötzlich aus der Felsenspalte Tritt der Geist, der Bergesalte. Und mit seinen Götterhänden Schützt er das gequälte Thier. »Mußt du Tod und Jammer senden,« Ruft er, »bis herauf zu mir? Raum für alle hat die Erde, Was verfolgst du meine Heerde?«
Confirmed with Gedichte von Friederich Schiller, Zweiter Theil, Zweite, verbesserte und vermehrte Auflage, Leipzig, 1805, bei Siegfried Lebrecht Crusius, pages 335-337.
First published in a slightly different version in Becker’s Taschenbuch zum geselligen Vergnügen 1805
To see an early edition of the text, go to page 35 [43 von 422] here: http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ157692806