Liedesend, D 473

End of the singing

(Poet's title: Liedesend)

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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In Act IV of Berlioz’s Les Troyens Queen Dido invites her court singer to perform, but soon interrupts him with the words:

Pardonne, Iopas, ta voix même,
En mon inquiétude extrême,
Ne peut ce soir me captiver…

I am sorry, Iopas, even your voice,
In my extreme anxiety,
Cannot captivate me this evening . . .

She recognises that her lack of response is about her, not him. In Mayrhofer’s poem about a similar situation, the king attempts to reassure the singer that he has done nothing wrong, it is just that he is not in a position to respond to poetry or music. Although he is sitting on a golden throne, he is ‘grey’. He is watching the sun set in the West but he is not contemplating the beauty of the red sky, he is preoccupied with his own imminent demise.

The singer seems insensitive to the king’s concern. This is no time to sing pompous songs of victory. When he realises his mistake he tries to strike a more gentle note, but it is too late. The king’s face now shows the features of changing weather and the bard fears that the storm that is affecting his patron is a result of anger over his inept performance, and in his frustration with his own inability to strike the right note he smashes his instrument. He is wrong again. The disturbance has much deeper causes: the king is now preoccupied with death.

The king graciously explains that, far from being angry with the singer, he retains a fond memory of his performances long ago. His cold heart is preventing a full response to the bard’s art, he says. Yet these very words show that he is not cold-hearted at all. He demonstrates deep humanity and concern to those around him even as he faces death. His words must be a polite fiction intended to mollify the frustrated poet.

Johann Mayrhofer was just such a frustrated poet. Like the minstrel in his story, he felt that his art was not touching his audience. He too tended to smash his lyre (he was depressive and sometimes suicidal). Like the king in his story, he contemplated mortality and the grave, yet he struggled to find a tone in his art that would communicate effectively.

It did not help that he worked in a Royal and Imperial Court where his job seemed to be inimical to true communication or authentic artistic expression: he was a censor. He disapproved of censorship. He was a liberal servant of autocracy. Of course he got frustrated and smashed his instrument.

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Walter de la Mare's poem King David (set by, amongst others, Herbert Howells) is an interesting contrast to Mayrhofer's text. Where Mayrhofer worries about the failure of song to touch someone in absolute distress and the inadequacies of the artist, de la Mare concentrates on the consoling effect of nature (birdsong in particular) in contrast to the limitations of human art:

     King David was a sorrowful man:         
	No cause for his sorrow had he; 
And he called for the music of a hundred harps,
        	To ease his melancholy.      

     They played till they all fell silent:
	Played and play sweet did they; 
But the sorrow that haunted the heart of King David  
	They could not charm away. 

     He rose; and in his garden   
      	Walked by the moon alone, 
A nightingale hidden in a cypress tree,  
	 Jargoned on and on.      

     King David lifted his sad eyes
      	Into the dark-boughed tree -- 
"Tell me, thou little bird that singest,         
	Who taught my grief to thee?"      

     But the bird in no-wise heeded;
	And the king in the cool of the moon 
Hearkened to the nightingale's sorrowfulness,
	Till all his own was gone.

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Original Spelling 

Liedesend

Auf seinem goldnen Throne 
Der graue König sitzt - 
Er starret in die Sonne, 
Die roth im Westen blitzt.  

Der Sänger rührt die Harfe, 
Sie rauschet Siegessang; 
Der Ernst jedoch, der scharfe, 
Er trotzt dem vollen Klang.  

Nun stimmt er süße Weisen, 
An's Herz sich klammernd an: 
Ob er ihn nicht mit leisen 
Versuchen mildern kann.  

Vergeblich ist sein Mühen, 
Erschöpft des Liedes Reich - 
Und auf der Stirne ziehen 
Die Sorgen wettergleich.  

Der Barde, tief erbittert, 
Schlägt seine Harf' entzwey, 
Und durch die Lüfte zittert 
Der Silbersaiten Schrey.  

Doch wie auch Alle beben, 
Der Herrscher zürnet nicht; 
Der Gnade Strahlen schweben 
Auf seinem Angesicht.  

»Du wolle mich nicht zeihen 
Der Unempfindlichkeit: 
In lang verblühten Mayen 
Wie hast du mich erfreut!  

Wie jede Lust gesteigert, 
Die aus der Urne fiel! 
Was mir ein Gott verweigert, 
Erstattete dein Spiel.  

Vom kalten Herzen gleitet 
Nun Liedeszauber ab; 
Und immer näher schreitet 
Vergänglichkeit und Grab.«

Note on the text

Schubert made two (similar) settings of this text in September 1816 and seems to have made a number of minor changes (in bold) to Mayrhofer’s poem (possibly with the author’s approval). It may simply be that Schubert was working from Mayrhofer’s first manuscript draft, which was modified before his poems were printed in 1824. Many thanks to Peter Rastl for identifying these details.

Auf seinem goldnen Throne 
Der graue König sitzt - 
Und starret in die Sonne, 
Die roth in Westen blitzt.  

Der Barde rührt die Harfe, 
Sie rauschet Siegessang; 
Der Ernst jedoch, der scharfe, 
Er trotzt dem vollen Klang.  

Nun stimmt er süße Weisen, 
An's Herz sich klammernd an: 
Ob er ihn nicht mit leisen 
Versuchen mildern kann.  

Vergebens ist sein Mühen, 
Erschöpft des Liedes Reich - 
Und auf der Stirne ziehen 
Die Sorgen wetterschwer.  

Der Barde, tief erbittert, 
Schlägt die Harf' entzwey, 
Und durch die Lüfte zittert 
Der Silbersaiten Schrey.  

Und wie auch Alle beben, 
Der Herrscher zürnet nicht; 
Der Gnade Strahlen schweben 
Auf seinem Angesicht.  

»Du wolle mich nicht zeihen 
Der Unempfindlichkeit: 
In lang verblühten Mayen 
Wie hast du mich erfreut!  

Wie jede Lust gesteigert, 
Die aus der Urne fiel! 
Was mir ein Gott geweigert, 
Erstattete dein Spiel.  

Vom kalten Herzen gleitet 
Dein Liedeszauber ab; 
Und immer näher schreitet nun
Vergänglichkeit und Grab.«

Confirmed by Peter Rastl with Gedichte von Johann Mayrhofer. Wien. Bey Friedrich Volke. 1824, pages 40-41.

Note: Schubert received Mayrhofer’s texts generally in manuscript; the printed edition of Mayrhofer’s poems appeared much later and usually presents the texts in a revised version.

To see an early edition of the text, go to page 40 [54 von 212] here: http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ177450902