Toggenburg the Knight
(Poet's title: Ritter Toggenburg)
Set by Schubert:
D 397
[March 13, 1816]
»Ritter, treue Schwesterliebe
Widmet Euch dies Herz.
Fordert keine andre Liebe,
Denn es macht mir Schmerz.
Ruhig mag ich Euch erscheinen,
Ruhig gehen sehn.
Eurer Augen stilles Weinen
Kann ich nicht verstehn.«
Und er hört’s mit stummem Harme,
Reißt sich blutend los,
Presst sie heftig in die Arme,
Schwingt sich auf sein Ross,
Schickt zu seinen Mannen allen
In dem Lande Schweiz,
Nach dem heil’gen Grab sie wallen,
Auf der Brust das Kreuz.
Große Taten dort geschehen
Durch der Helden Arm,
Ihres Helmes Büsche wehen
In der Feinde Schwarm.
Und des Toggenburgers Name
Schreckt den Muselman.
Doch das Herz von seinem Grame
Nicht genesen kann.
Und ein Jahr hat er’s ertragen,
Trägt’s nicht länger mehr,
Ruhe kann er nicht erjagen,
Und verlässt das Heer,
Sieht ein Schiff an Joppes Strande,
Das die Segel bläht,
Schiffet heim zum teuren Lande,
Wo ihr Atem weht.
Und an ihres Schlosses Pforte
Klopft der Pilger an,
Ach, und mit dem Donnerworte
Wird sie aufgetan:
»Die ihr suchet, trägt den Schleier,
Ist des Himmels Braut,
Gestern war der Tag der Feier,
Der sie Gott getraut.«
Da verlässet er auf immer
Seiner Väter Schloss,
Seine Waffen sieht er nimmer,
Noch sein treues Ross,
Von der Toggenburg hernieder
Steigt er unbekannt,
Denn es deckt die edlen Glieder
Härenes Gewand.
Und erbaut sich eine Hütte
Jener Gegend nah,
Wo das Kloster aus der Mitte
Düstrer Linden sah;
Harrend von des Morgens Lichte
Bis zu Abends Schein,
Stille Hoffnung im Gesichte,
Saß er da allein.
Blickte nach dem Kloster drüben,
Blickte stundenlang
Nach dem Fenster seiner Lieben,
Bis das Fenster klang,
Bis die Liebliche sich zeigte,
Bis das teure Bild
Sich ins Tal hinunter neigte,
Ruhig, engelmild.
Und dann legt’ er froh sich nieder,
Schlief getröstet ein,
Still sich freuend, wenn es wieder
Morgen würde sein.
Und so saß er viele Tage,
Saß viel Jahre lang,
Harrend ohne Schmerz und Klage,
Bis das Fenster klang.
Bis die Liebliche sich zeigte,
Bis das teure Bild
Sich ins Tal herunter neigte,
Ruhig, engelmild,
Und so saß er, eine Leiche,
Eines Morgens da,
Nach dem Fenster noch das bleiche
Stille Antlitz sah.
“Knight, the faithful love of a sister
Is what this heart can dedicate to you,
Ask for no other love
For that would be painful to me.
I can be calm when you appear
And calm if I see you leave.
It is the quiet weeping of your eyes
That I cannot understand.”
And he listens to this with a silent grief,
He tears himself away, bleeding,
Presses her ardently in his arms,
Leaps onto his horse,
And sends for all his troops
In the land of Switzerland;
They go off on pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre
With a cross on their breasts.
Great deeds are performed there
Using the strong arms of heroes,
The plumes on their helmets blow
Amongst the swarm of enemies,
And the name of Toggenburg
Terrifies the Muslims;
But his heart still feels its grief
And cannot be healed.
And having borne this for a year,
He cannot bear it any longer,
He cannot attain any inner peace
And he leaves the army,
He sees a ship off the coast at Jaffa
With its sails billowing,
He takes the ship home to the dear land
Where her breath blows.
And when he comes to the door of her castle
The pilgrim knocks on it,
Oh! and with thunderous words
The door is opened:
“The woman you are looking for is now wearing the veil,
She is the bride of heaven;
Yesterday was the day when we celebrated
Her giving herself to God.”
And so he leaves for ever
The castle of his forefathers,
He never again sees his weapons
Or his faithful horse.
He leaves Toggenburg behind,
Descending without being recognised,
For his noble limbs are now covered
With a hairshirt.
And he builds himself a hut
Close to that area,
Where he could see the cloister from the middle
Of gloomy lime trees;
Waiting from the first light of day
Until the last glow of evening,
With hope on his face,
He sat there alone.
He looked over at the cloister,
He watched for many an hour
Keeping an eye on his beloved’s window,
Until there was a sound at the window,
Until the beloved showed herself,
Until the dear image
Bent down towards the valley,
Peacefully, as gentle as an angel.
And then he lay down happily,
Fell asleep feeling comforted,
Looking forward to the point when once again
It would be morning.
And thus he sat for many days,
He sat for many long years,
Waiting without pain or complaint
Until there was a sound at the window.
Until the beloved showed herself,
Until the dear image
Bent down towards the valley,
Peacefully, as gentle as an angel.
And similarly he was still sitting there, a corpse,
One morning, there he was,
Still looking at the window, his pale,
Quiet face still watching.
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:
Angels Arms and embracing Bending Boats Breath and breathing Castles and towers Chest / breast The cross and crucifixes Doors and gates Evening and the setting sun Eyes Faces Farewell and leave taking Gazes, glimpses and glances Hearts Heaven, the sky Hermits and hermitages Pictures and paintings Hope Horses Huts Knights Leaping and jumping Lime trees (Lindenbaum) Longing and yearning Morning and morning songs Nuns, monks and monasteries On the water – rowing and sailing Pilgrims and pilgrimage Riding – on horseback Ships Sleep Soothing and healing Tears and crying Thunder and lightning Valleys Veils War, battles and fighting Windows
People with this sort of intensity can be very hard to deal with. They take things seriously, quite rightly, because things are serious, but somehow they make the rest of us feel that we are being frivolous or childish if ever we need to a break from such absolute focus. Their devotion to causes, their determination to fulfil what they see as their duty or calling can sometimes leave little room for compromise or any realisation that the apparently beneficial projects to which they are attached may not be universally admired or as effective as intended. Most of us, if invited to marry such an intensely focused individual, would probably say something on the lines of the girl’s speech in the first stanza: thank you, but no thank you.
The Knight of Toggenburg does not do things by half. If he is not going to get married and sire heirs with the bride he has chosen, he will be a total soldier. He therefore calls up his vassals (we have to wonder how willingly they followed him) and takes the cross as part of the Papal army sent out to ‘liberate’ or ‘defend’ the Holy Sepulchre (the site of Christ’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection) in Jerusalem. He may have been part of the surprisingly successful First Crusade, which managed to take control of the holy sites in 1099, only for people to realise that there had been no planning for the post-war situation and they were therefore unsure about what to do next.
It might have come as a surprise to a man of his disposition that his role on the battlefield was not sufficiently all-pervading to drive away thoughts of his lost love. Or was it the rejection that eventually got to him? He perhaps began to feel that he had not done enough to show that he was a worthy suitor, that he needed to demonstrate his sincerity. He decided that he had to go back and try again (perhaps it was his failure rather than her rejection that was rankling). He takes the first available ship from Jaffa.
Did the girl know that he was on his way back? It seems an odd coincidence (though of course these things are to be expected in this sort of ballad) that it was only the day before his return that she locked herself into a nunnery. Needless to say, the knight is not the sort of man that will admit any sort of defeat or acknowledge that he has been outwitted. He takes her decision as a personal challenge: he will show her what devotion and renunciation mean! The knight sees the world as a battlefield and he jumps at the chance to indulge in some competitive asceticism. Before he has got to the bottom of the steps leading from the beloved’s front door he has put on the hairiest of hair-shirts.
What follows is an episode of eremitical stalking. Hermits are supposed to cut themselves off from worldly concerns and devote themselves to piety and spiritual improvement. However, this is not the knight’s style. He settles down to spy on the beloved, even though she only looks out of her window once a day. He tells himself that this is enough. He just needs to know that he will see her again. And again. And again.
Schiller as narrator makes no comment. We are allowed to make our own judgement as to whether this is an admirable example of loving devotion and knightly valour or just a futile fantasy. We are not told if the woman who is looking out of the window and up the valley is aware that there is someone in the hut gazing in her direction. If she is, does she regret her rejection of the Knight or does she just feel harrassed? Is she perhaps looking out for him? Is she too, like the knight, going to die from all of this gazing?
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Original Spelling and note on the text Ritter Toggenburg »Ritter, treue Schwesterliebe Widmet Euch dieß Herz, Fordert1 keine andre Liebe, Denn es macht mir Schmerz. Ruhig mag ich Euch erscheinen, Ruhig gehen sehn. Eurer Augen stilles Weinen Kann ich nicht verstehn.« Und er hört's mit stummem Harme, Reißt sich blutend los, Preßt sie heftig in die Arme, Schwingt sich auf sein Roß, Schickt zu seinen Mannen allen In dem Lande Schweiz, Nach dem heil'gen Grab sie wallen, Auf der Brust das Kreuz. Große Thaten dort geschehen Durch der Helden Arm, Ihres Helmes Büsche wehen In der Feinde Schwarm, Und des Toggenburgers Name Schreckt den Muselmann, Doch das Herz von seinem Grame Nicht genesen kann. Und ein Jahr hat er's ertragen, Trägt's nicht länger mehr, Ruhe kann er nicht erjagen, Und verläßt das Heer, Sieht ein Schiff an Joppe's Strande, Das die Segel bläht, Schiffet heim zum theuren Lande, Wo ihr Athem weht. Und an ihres Schlosses Pforte Klopft der Pilger an, Ach! und mit dem Donnerworte Wird sie aufgethan: »Die Ihr suchet, trägt den Schleier, Ist des Himmels Braut, Gestern war der Tag der Feier, Der sie Gott getraut.« Da verlässet er auf immer Seiner Väter Schloß, Seine Waffen sieht er nimmer, Noch sein treues Roß, Von der Toggenburg hernieder Steigt er unbekannt, Denn es deckt die edlen Glieder Härenes Gewand. Und erbaut sich eine Hütte Jener Gegend nah, Wo das Kloster aus der Mitte Düstrer Linden sah; Harrend von des Morgens Lichte Bis zum Abendschein, Stille Hoffnung im Gesichte, Saß er da allein. Blickte nach dem Kloster drüben, Blickte stundenlang Nach dem Fenster seiner Lieben, Bis das Fenster klang, Bis die Liebliche sich zeigte, Bis das theure Bild Sich ins Thal hinunterneigte, Ruhig, engelmild. Und dann legt er froh sich nieder, Schlief getröstet ein, Still sich freuend, wenn es wieder Morgen würde seyn. Und so saß er viele Tage, Saß viel Jahre lang, Harrend ohne Schmerz und Klage, Bis das Fenster klang. Bis die Liebliche sich zeigte, Bis das theure Bild Sich ins Thal herunterneigte, Ruhig, engelmild. Und so saß er, eine Leiche, Eines Morgens da, Nach dem Fenster noch das bleiche Stille Antlitz sah. 1 Schubert changed 'fodert' to 'fordert' (no essential change of meaning - just more up to date spelling)
Confirmed by Peter Rastl with Musen-Almanach für das Jahr 1798, herausgegeben von Schiller. Tübingen, in der J.G.Cottaischen Buchhandlung, pages 105-109; and with Gedichte von Friederich Schiller, Erster Theil. Zweite von neuem durchgesehene Auflage. Leipzig, 1804, bei Siegfried Lebrecht Crusius, pages 73-77.
To see an early edition of this text, go to page 105 [115 von 336] here: http://digital.onb.ac.at/OnbViewer/viewer.faces?doc=ABO_%2BZ163576800