Per questa nuovo articolo della mia rubrica sull’ interpretazione liederistica comparata, ho scelto la ballata Belsatzar di Heinrich Heine, musicata da Robert Schumann come op. 57. Insieme a Die Loreley e Die Grenadiere, questa è la più conosciuta fra le Ballate del poeta di Düsseldorf, che secondo la germanista Lydia Fritzlar venne ispirato nella scelta dell’ argomento dalla lettura della poesia Vision of Belshazzar di Lord Byron. La ballata appartiene al ciclo poetico Junge Leiden, scritto fra il 1817 e il 1821 e pubblicato nel Buch der Lieder, raccolta uscita nel 1827 ad Hamburg. La poesia è strutturata in 21 strofe, ciascuna di due versi in Paarreim (rima baciata) e struttura metrica a tetrametri giambici con l’ eccezione costituita dall’ anapesto presente nei versi 14-15.
Ecco il testo poetico.
Die Mitternacht zog näher schon;
In stummer Ruh’ lag Babylon.Nur oben in des Königs Schloß,
Da flackert’s, da lärmt des Königs Troß.Dort oben in dem Königsaal,
Belsatzar hielt sein Königsmahl.Die Knechte saßen in schimmernden Reihn,
Und leerten die Becher mit funkelndem Wein.Es klirrten die Becher, es jauchzten die Knecht’;
So klang es dem störrigen Könige recht.Des Königs Wangen leuchten Glut;
Im Wein erwuchs ihm kecker Mut.Und blindlings reißt der Mut ihn fort;
Und er lästert die Gottheit mit sündigem Wort.Und er brüstet sich frech und lästert wild;
Die Knechtenschar ihm Beifall brüllt.Der König rief mit stolzem Blick;
Der Diener eilt und kehrt zurück.Er trug viel gülden Gerät auf dem Haupt;
Das war aus dem Tempel Jehovas geraubt.Und der König ergriff mit frevler Hand
Einen heiligen Becher, gefüllt bis am Rand.Und er leert ihn hastig bis auf den Grund
Und rufet laut mit schäumendem Mund:«Jehova! dir künd’ ich auf ewig Hohn –
Ich bin der König von Babylon!»Doch kaum das grause Wort verklang,
Dem König ward’s heimlich im Busen bang.Das gellende Lachen verstummte zumal;
Es wurde leichenstill im Saal.Und sieh! und sieh! an weißer Wand
Da kam’s hervor wie Menschenhand;Und schrieb, und schrieb an weißer Wand
Buchstaben von Feuer, und schrieb und schwand.Der König stieren Blicks da saß,
Mit schlotternden Knien und totenblaß.Die Knechtenschar saß kalt durchgraut,
Und saß gar still, gab keinen Laut.Die Magier kamen, doch keiner verstand
Zu deuten die Flammenschrift an der Wand.Belsazar ward aber in selbiger Nacht
Von seinen Knechten umgebracht.
Ed ecco la traduzione italiana, a cura di Amelia Imbarrato
La mezzanotte si avvicinava,
in tacita calma stava Babilonia.Solo su nel castello del re,
balenavano luci, schiamazzava la corte.Lassù nella sala del re
Belsazar teneva il suo banchetto regale.I suoi uomini sedevano in splendidi seggi
e vuotavano coppe di vino lucente.Tintinnavano le coppe, gridavano gli uomini;
questi suoni piacevano all’empio sovrano.Le guance del re erano rosse;
col vino gli cresceva l’impudente coraggio.E cieco orgoglio lo trascina
a oltraggiare la divinità con parole blasfeme.E si vanta sfacciato, e bestemmia selvaggio;
la corte scoppia in applausi.Il re chiama con sguardo fiero;
il servo si affretta a venire da lui.Porta molti oggetti preziosi sulla testa,
predati dal tempio di Jehova.E il re afferra con mano rapace
una coppa sacra, piena fino all’orlo.E la vuota in un sorso,
e grida forte, la schiuma alla bocca:“Jehova! Ti annuncio a tuo scherno eterno –
Io sono il re di Babilonia!”Ma, appena risuonò la terribile parola,
il re provò un’angoscia misteriosa.Le risate sguaiate tacquero di colpo,
nella sala, silenzio di tomba.E guarda! Guarda! Sul muro bianco
venne fuori qualcosa come una mano umana,e scrisse, e scrisse sul muro bianco
lettere di fuoco, le scrisse e scomparve.Il re rimase a guardare fisso,
gli tremavano i ginocchi, pallido come un morto.Gli uomini sedevano agghiacciati, inorriditi,
in silenzio, senza dire parola.Vennero i magi, ma nessuno seppe
spiegare lo scritto di fuoco sul muro.Ma Belsazar quella stessa notte
dai suoi uomini fu assassinato.
Tra i poeti di cui musicò i testi, Schumann aveva una particolare predilezione per Heine. Nel 1840, il cosiddetto Liederjahr in cui il compositore si dedicò quasi esclusivamente a questa forma musicale, su una produzione complessiva di 138 Lieder ben 45 furono scritti su testi di Heine, del quale Schumann aveva già messo in musica nell’ op. 49 le ballate Die Grenadiere e Die feindlichen Brüder.
Seguendo il consueto schema della rubrica, veniamo adesso ai contributi critici. Il primo che vi propongo è un estratto dallo studio Schumanns Vertonungen von Heine – Ballade di Alexander von Nell.
Der Stoff für ,,Belsatzar” entstammt der Bibel, Buch Daniel, Kapitel 5. In der biblischen Vorlage wird ein Fest Belsazars geschildert, währenddessen er sich betrinkt und im berauschten Zustand Gott lästert, indem er und seine Festgäste aus einem geheiligten Becher des jüdischen Tempels trinken. Daraufhin erscheint eine Feuerhand, die den Spruch ,,mene mene tekel ufarsin” an die Wand schreibt. Belsazar verspricht Macht und Reichtum demjenigen, der ihm die Schrift deuten kann. Keiner der herbeigerufenen Weisen des Königs ist dazu fähig. Daniel wird gerufen, er lehnt die Geschenke ab, deutet dem König aber die Schrift dahingehend, daß die Tage des Königreiches gezählt seien, Belsazar vor Gott nicht bestehen könne und daß Babylonien an die Medäer und Perser fallen werde. In der Nacht nach dieser Weissagung wird Belsazar umgebracht. Heine wandelt den Stoff insofern, daß er Belsatzar alleine den Frevel begehen läßt, die Deutung des Spruchs durch Daniel streicht und so die Schrift als Rätsel bleibt. In der Romanze wird Belsatzar von seinen Knechten umgebracht. Dadurch wird ein inhaltlicher Akzent gesetzt: Die Knechte handeln aus Angst vor der Lästerung, die sie nicht mitvollzogen haben, und aus der Erkenntnis, daß es eine höhere Macht als Belsatzar gibt. Heine faßt diesen Stoff in einundzwanzig Verspaare, die anfangs in gleichmäßigen vierhebigen Jamben im Paarreim angeordnet sind. Dieses Reimschema wird das ganze Gedicht über durchgehalten. Ab dem dritten Paar wird der Rhythmus unregelmäßig, er verwendet Daktylen und Anapästen, die Verspaare sechs und acht sind wieder jambisch. Durch die Rhythmuswechsel erreicht Heine eine unstete Grundstimmung, womit er das rauschende und in der Stimmung ambivalente Fest illustriert. Das Gedicht läßt sich in drei Abschnitte gliedern: Der erste Abschnitt (Vers 1-10) beschreibt Ort, Zeit und Atmosphäre eines Königmahls. Der zweite (Vers 11-26) stellt zwei Gotteslästerungen des Belsatzar dar. Die erste nur durch Worte, die zweite als Tat. Im dritten Abschnitt (Vers 27 – 42) wird die übernatürliche Erscheinung und der Mord an Belsatzar durch seine Knechte geschildert. Heine benutzt häufig Elemente der Alltagssprache, die leicht verständliche klare Bilder evozieren. Durch diese formalen Mittel wird ein eingängiger Volkston erreicht, der das Thema besonders hervorhebt. Thema ist der Tyrann, dem das Volk gezwungener Maßen zujubelt, ihn aber fallen läßt, sowie sich zeigt, daß es Mächtigere als ihn gibt. Da dieses Gedicht innerhalb eines Zyklus’ steht, ist es angebracht, auch einen Blick auf den inhaltlichen Bezug zu den es umgebenden Romanzen zu werfen. ,,Belsatzar” vorangestellt ist ,,Don Ramiro”, eine Dichtung mit Gespenstersujet, in welcher der unerhörte Liebende seiner Angebeteten als Vision bei ihrer Hochzeit erscheint und diese zum Tanz auffordert. Nachdem die Braut diese Vision hatte und den Namen Don Ramiro nennt, berichtet ihr Bräutigam, daß dieser bereits mittags starb. Diese Romanze bezieht sich inhaltlich direkt auf ,,Belsatzar”. Eine Gespenstererscheinung während eines ausgelassenen Festes wandelt die Stimmung in einen bedrohlichen Stimmung. Am Ende steht wie bei Belsatzar der lapidare Bericht über den Tod eines Menschen. Ebenso läßt sich ein Bezug zu dem nachfolgenden Gedicht ,,Die Minnesänger” herstellen. Auch hier wird ein Fest, ein Turnier geschildert. Jedoch stehen das Werben um Liebe und die emotionale ,,Todeswunde”, die eine unerfüllte Liebe entstehen läßt im Vordergrund, wodurch zu den nächsten Romanzen im Zyklus übergeleitet wird. Schumann komponiert die Ballade ,,Belsatzar” am 7.Februar 1840 und schreibt an Clara: ,,Ich schwärme jetzt viel Musik wie immer im Februar. Du wirst Dich wundern, was ich alles gemacht in dieser Zeit – keine Klaviersachen […]” und am 24. Februar 1840: ,, […] Außerdem noch eine Ballade ,,Belsatzar” […] Meistens mache ich sie [die Lieder] stehend oder gehend, nicht am Clavier. Es ist doch ganz andere Musik [als die Klaviermusik] viel unmittelbarer und melodiöser.” Die Ballade ist als durchkomponierte Form konzipiert, läßt sich aber in drei, jeweils durch Klavierzwischenspiele getrennte Strophen einteilen. Diese Einteilung hat Schumann nach dramaturgischen Gesichtspunkten getroffen. Die erste Strophe schildert das Festgelage (Vers 1 – 16 / Takt 1 -35) und die erste Lästerung Jehovas durch Belsatzar. Das Lied beginnt mit einem zweitaktigen Klaviervorspiel, das aus unruhigen Sechzehntelbewegungen besteht, die durch einen verminderten Dominantseptnonakkord, mit Sekundreibung eingeleitet, und im zweiten Takt leicht variiert wiederholt werden. Dieses Motiv läßt eine Gefahr ahnen, die im Text anfangs noch nicht geschildert wird. Gleichzeitig illustriert es in seiner Drehbewegung die Trunkenheit der Festgesellschaft. Die Gesangsstimme beginnt im dritten Takt auf der Tonika (g-Moll) in Piano den Text auf eine einfache Melodie zu deklamieren, während das Klavier zwei weitere Takte das Motiv des Vorspiels vorträgt und es dann zu variieren beginnt. Gänzlich aufgelöst wird diese Figur in T. 14. Gleichzeitig erhält die Melodie durch punktierte Rhythmen einen marschähnlichen Charakter, durch die die Knechte des Königs beschrieben werden. Ab t15 beginnt die erste Forte – Stelle der Gesangsstimme. Die rechte Hand der Begleitung spielt leere Oktaven, in der linken Hand werden die Töne der Gesangsstimme colla voce geführt und durch Terzen ergänzt. Durch diese Mittel erreicht Schumann eine musikalische Illustration des Festes. Den Höhepunkt des Festes schildert Schumann in den Takten 14 bis 22, in denen die dynamische Bezeichnung durchweg forte / fortissimo lautet und der Spitzenton g’ oft gesungen wird. Nach dieser Beschreibung der äußeren Umstände des Festes richtet sich der Blick ab T. 22 auf die größenwahnsinnige Haltung Belsatzars. Die Dynamik wechselt wieder ins Piano. Die Begleitung ähnelt der in den Takten 14 – 18, die Oktaven in der rechten Hand werden aber im Unterschied zu der ersten Stelle harmonisiert. Wie vorher schildert diese Begleitung einen Höhepunkt, der sich sukzessive durch dynamische Steigerung, Verdichtung des Satzes, Harmonisierung der Oktaven, Komplementärrhythmik und Akzentuierung aufgebaut hat. Hier wird aber kein äußerer, sondern ein innerlicher Höhepunkt geschildert. Belsatzar ist vollständig betrunken und lästert Jehova. In diesem Stadium bekommt er noch die Zustimmung seiner Knechte. Der berauschte Zustand wird durch die Begleitung in aufsteigenden auftaktigen Sechzehntelbewegungen illustriert. Die zweite Strophe (Zeile 17 – 26 / T. 36 – 60) befaßt sich mit der Schändung des heiligen Bechers. Das erste Zwischenspiel entspricht dem Vorspiel, setzt aber in der Oberquart ein. Es vollzieht sich eine dynamische Steigerung von einem Piano am Anfang zu einem Forte am Schluß der Strophe. Sie schließt mit einer Phrase, die auf dem Spitzenton g’ mit Akzent auf das Wort ,,ich” (bin der König von Babylon) beginnt. Erst in dem Moment als der König den heiligen Becher ergreift, beginnt das Crescendo, welches zusätzlich durch ein Riterdando verschärft wird und der eigentliche Hö- hepunkt – ungewöhnlicher Weise – in einem Rezitativ dargestellt wird. Die Begleitung weist in der rechten Hand durchgehend synkopische Sechzehntelbewegungen auf, die ab T. 49 erneut leere Oktave umfassen. Die linke Hand spielt eine einfache Melodie, die ab T. 52 durch Oktaven verdoppelt wird. Dieser stetige Aufbau entspricht genau der Dynamik im Text. Nachdem die Lästerung ausgesprochen ist, verstärkt Schumann die Spannung in der dritten Strophe durch ein vorangesetztes viertaktiges Zwischenspiel, welches das Motiv des ersten Zwischenspiels aufgreift, es aber oktaviert . In dem Moment, in dem die Gesangsstimme mit der dritten Strophe (Vers 27 – 42 / T. 61 – 99) einsetzt, beginnt eine Reduktion der musikalischen Mittel, die der Steigerung im Text entgegengesetzt ist. Die bisher vorherrschende unruhige Sechzehntelbewegung der Begleitung wird durch gleichmäßig pulsierende Achtel ersetzt, die Stimme unterbricht immer wieder ihre Deklamation, nach dem ersten Reimpaar der 3.Strophe sogar für fünf Takte Klavierzwischenspiel. Dieses ist auf den pulsierenden Achteln aufgebaut und läßt in der Melodik, dem Text entgegenstehend, keine Gefahr ahnen. Ab der Erscheinung der Geisterhand (T. 75) kommt es zu einer ,,Zangenbewegung”. Der Baß steigt sekundweise auf während sich die Stimme in Sekunden abwärts bewegt. Das Ende der Erscheinung wird durch Halbschluß und durch eine anschließende Generalpause verstärkt. Die Reaktionen auf die Vision ist in rezitativischer Form vertont, in der noch einmal Dynamik und Tempo reduziert werden. Schumann setzt den musikalischen Spannungsablauf bewußt gegen den der Textvorlage, um dadurch einen größeren Effekt zu erzielen. Die durchgehende deklamatorische Gesangsweise, die an den entscheidenden Stellen sogar rezitativisch begleitet wird, stellt sicher, daß die Grausamkeit der Handlung auf jeden Fall deutlich bleibt. Schumann schildert die Wendung eines rauschenden Festes zu Angst und Tod durch die kontinuierliche Zurücknahme musikalischer Mittel. Friedrich Schnapp deutet diese Behandlung des Materials und die im Erstdruck der Komposition als Text vorangestellte Romanze: ,,Schumann hatte solche Ehrfurcht vor dem genialen Stück Heinischer Gestaltungskraft, daß er seiner 1846 erschienen Komposition den Text gesondert vordrucken ließ; meines Wissens der erste Fall in der Musikliteratur.” Über diese Ballade hat es in der Forschung zahlreiche abschätzige Stimmen gegeben, die Schumann ,,kindliche Naivität”, ,,motivische Zergliederung”, oder gar falsche Behandlung des Stoffes[11] vorhielten. Eine wesentliche Problematik des Textes ist die Weitläufigkeit der Motivik und Stimmungen. Jedoch scheint mir die Motivwahl Schumanns sehr bewußt gesetzt. Durch das erste Motiv nimmt er das Gefahrenmoment vorweg. Er wählte eine klare Aufgabenverteilung von Klavier und Stimme, indem er letztere den Text deklamieren läßt und nur an wenigen Stellen auf eine lyrische Melodieführung Wert legt, dem Klavier aber die Illustration der Stimmungen und Gefühle überläßt, die jedoch nicht zeitgleich mit der in der Gesangsstimme geschilderten Emotion auftreten müssen. Der Vorwurf der Naivität wird für mich obsolet, da ich annehme, daß diese zeitliche Verschiebung von geschilderter und illustrierter Emotion gewollt ist, da durch das zeitliche Auseinanderklaffen der Stimmungen in Begleitung und Gesang ein großer Spannungsmoment entsteht, den Schumann intensiv genutzt hat. Der Komponist verfolgt mit der Vertonung dieser Ballade durch die beschriebenen Mittel die Verstärkung des Textes in Richtung einer einprägsamen Gruselballade, die im Sinne des Volkstones ist.
A questa dettagliata analisi, molto accurata e di grande precisione, aggiungo uno degli splendidi saggi scritti da Graham Johnson, pianista e musicologo rhodesiano naturalizzato inglese che rappresenta un’ autentica leggenda vivente nel campo della liederistica del nostro tempo e che oltre alla sua monumentale monografia in tre volumi intitolata Franz Schubert – The Complete Songs, pubblicata nel 2014, ha scritto altre pagine fondamentali della letteratura critica come ad esempio tutte le note di presentazione dei suoi cicli integrali di Schumann, Schuber e Brahms registrati per la Hyperion. E proprio dal booklet dell’ integrale schumanniana traggo questa analisi della ballata.
The first edition of this song (1846) prints the poem in full on the page facing the music – almost certainly the first time this was done in single-song publication, and reminiscent of Schiller’s Musenalmanach format from the late 1790s where fold-out settings of the words were printed side by side with the poems; the songs of Mignon and the Harper (in Reichardt’s settings) were also folded into the text of the first edition (1795) of Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister. This had been an indication that Goethe and Schiller understood the power of music to render their lyrics memorable. But in Belsatzar a subtle change has taken place – here it is the composer paying tribute to the importance of the poet’s words in their own right, as if to say ‘from these words sprang this music’.
Indeed the song is a tightly sprung coil which unwinds bit by bit – or so it should if the composer’s direction are followed: ‘Im Anfange nicht zu schnell, nach und nach rascher’ (‘in the beginning not too fast, and then faster and faster’). A metronome mark would have been more helpful, not to mention clear indications of tempo changes, but this is not Schumann’s way, at least not at the very beginning of his song-writing career. The music seems to have been conceived during a fevered session of piano improvisation, by moonlight one imagines, with an added vocal line sung in an enraptured (though probably not enrapturing) voix de compositeur. The original key of E minor, a minor third lower than the key recorded here, suggests that the composer allowed his own untrained voice, singing along with the piano, to determine the song’s tessitura. Thus it is probably almost by accident that we have that rarest of things, a Schumann song for bass; in G minor, however, the piano writing has greater clarity and both voice and piano sound more exciting at the climaxes.
There is more than enough mood music here to suggest the mystery of midnight, the eastern exoticism of Babylon (a place of dark evil and pagan cruelty), a sense of impending doom (the enemies of God struck down from on high) – indeed all the things which have made biblical epics (the poem’s source is Chapter 5 of the Book of Daniel) popular from the beginnings of the cinema. Perhaps that is why the piano writing sometimes seems suited to the accompaniment of a silent film. The song starts with a panoramic view of Babylon at midnight, then pans into the royal palace behind the doors of which there is an orgy of blasphemous celebration. We move from the general to the particular in a way that suggests the cinema techniques of wide shot and close-up.
As this is one of Schumann’s first 1840 songs one has the feeling that Belsatzar is a transitional work, as if Schumann is feeling his way into song-composing. The piano writing is more dense than in most of the lieder, nearer to the textures of his solo pieces. And there are so many ideas on the drawing-board that they jostle with each other for attention. In one of his letters to Clara Wieck, Schumann mentions that he is ‘brimming with music’, and there are ideas enough for three songs in this one ballad. If there is any sense of unity it is because the music is bound together by a fragment of melody (the first four bars of the vocal line) and one principal pianistic idea. This motif is a bar long: it consists of an ominous staccato bass note followed by a slew of semiquavers snaking their way between right hand and left, and from the middle of the keyboard down into the bass clef, and back again. Hairpin dynamic markings squeeze the musical tension to the middle of the bar, an effect which contributes to the melodramatic effect of the music. There is something of a Bach-like organ prelude in this chromatic figuration; Eric Sams detects the influence of Beethoven (the last movement of the ‘Appassionata’, for example) and the same writer notes that the composer’s use of the diminished seventh is a motif associated with night-time – In der Nacht (Spanisches Liederspiel Op 74) and Zwielicht (from the Eichendorff Liederkreis Op 39, and also in E minor) are other songs which use the harmony of the diminished seventh to depict nocturnal mystery.
This poem is, however, far from the nature poetry of Geibel and Eichendorff. There is a rip-roaring story to be told and Heine is on superb form. Surely he was inspired by his admired Byron’s Hebrew Melodies (1815) where the poem The Vision of Belshazzar deals with the same subject. Heine had probably read Franz Theremin’s clumsy translation of this poem and resolved to do better by the same biblical theme. At a later date the poet claimed also to have been influenced by the Hebrew hymn ‘Bachazoz halajla’. But if Byron was indeed Heine’s inspiration it would make nonsense of his later claim to have written the poem by the age of seventeen (c1814). It is now thought likely that the poem was written in 1820 at the earliest. It is typical of this poet’s output that the story can be held up to be both Jacobin and anti-monarchist (the destruction of an unjust king) and ultra-conservative (the destruction of anyone who attempts to subvert the divine order).
Heine, normally king of the quatrain, here chooses to express himself in twenty-one two-lined rhyming couplets. As a result, the pace is breathlessly terse and exciting. The trick in musical performance is not to play one’s trump card too soon. The semiquavers which open Belsatzar can be made to rush past, but they can also be made to spread slowly across the stave like a thick blanket of chromatic fog, an opaque mist of evil, as if even a mention of Babylon were enough to summon images of a dangerous place, devious and depraved. The two bars of piano introduction are in the dominant, which adds to the sense of impending doom. Many performances of Belsatzar begin precipitously, but Schumann’s markings permit, even enjoin, opening with a slower tempo to depict the ‘stummer Ruh’ which envelops the city. (One is reminded of the opening of the Eichendorff setting Zwielicht.)
By the ninth bar (verse 2) the left-hand staccati illustrate the flickering of the palace torches and the pace begins to gather momentum. With the words ‘dort oben in dem Königssaal’ the vocal line rises up with the narrator’s gaze towards the palatial heights, only to plunge to the bottom of the stave in horror: the word ‘Belsatzar’ is set on a downward trajectory, the last syllable (‘zar’) a melismatic shudder of semiquavers. In this we hear both the composer’s contempt for the son of Nebuchadnezzar, as well as the unhinged nature of a despot who is both bad and mad. The word ‘Königsmahl’ ushers in a drinking scene. Belshazzar depends on his vassals for his power. They are no doubt all armed to the teeth, so the jollifications are depicted in clattering dotted rhythms appropriate to military might and heartless pomp. In this mirthless celebration of Babylonian power (and in the hysteria of a high-lying phrase like ‘Es klirrten die Becher, es jauchzten die Knecht’) there is a prophecy of the rallying cries of Nuremberg. The piano writing here is very inventive: arpeggios tumble down the stave and adjacent tones bump into each other in clashing major seconds in the pianist’s right hand, as if they were goblets clinking together in a bloodthirsty toast.
Verse 6 initiates the ‘scene’ devoted to the king’s drunken state. Appropriately enough, this is one of the most chromatic (and harmonically unstable) sections of the song. The piano writing under ‘Und blindlings reisst der Mut ihn fort; / Und er lästert die Gottheit mit sündigem Wort’ is unique in Schumann’s songs – the normal pattern of four semiquavers is reduced to three with semiquaver rests on the second and fourth beats in the left hand. This wrong-foots the music and makes it convulsive, as if the king were reeling, stumbling and foaming at the mouth (we later get this very image: ‘mit schäumendem Mund’). The blasphemous obscenities are as yet implied rather than specific, but the composer leaves us in no doubt concerning their crudity and ugliness. The short piano interlude in staccato quavers after ‘lästert wild’ depicts the laughter (again mirthless, as if forced and automatic) of the dangerous sycophants who will later murder their master. The cadence which takes us back into the home key at ‘ihm Beifall brüllt’ is hammered out in double octaves, the doubling of note upon note an analogue for cheering in regimented unison.
Verse 9 is introduced by another statement of the opening motif, this time (unlike the introduction) on the tonic. The first four bars of the vocal line are the same as for the opening of the song, but this is only a hint of a strophic aspect to Schumann’s treatment of the poem. At ‘Er trug viel gülden Gerät auf dem Haupt’ there is a momentary lightening of tension as our attention shifts to the ‘Diener’, the slave who has been told to fetch the holy artefacts of the Jewish temple into the king’s presence. The music for this section is new and somewhat puzzling. Does the presence of the major key merely betoken the king’s glee, or could it be that Schumann has imagined a type of blasphemous dance to the sway of this music, as if a eunuch were carrying the precious vessels on his head and making fun of them as he does so? Or perhaps this interlude is meant to describe his efforts to carry a large tray of heavy objects on his head: the vocal line, balanced on the bass like a weight supported by uncertain feet, settles briefly into the equilibrium of E flat major (on ‘gülden Gerät’) before returning to the swaying uncertainties of B flat7 (note the stumble of the left-hand quavers under ‘war aus dem Tempel Jehovahs geraubt’). A vivid little moment this, during which the composer’s imaginative response to the words is usually overlooked.
As soon as the king stretches out to snatch a holy goblet (verse 11) the music is steered back into the minor key. Happiness at the arrival of the stolen booty is replaced by something far more sinister – a sequence of modulations support a chromatically ascending vocal line which indicates the king’s boorish demeanour and his overweening arrogance. This is a wonderful example of a harmonic crescendo where Schumann uses the ever-widening distance between the vocal line (climbing gradually higher as if growing bolder by degrees) and the bass (marching to the lower reaches of the stave as if determined on depravity) to paint an ever more intense picture of Belshazzar’s drunkenness. It is one of the composer’s achievements that this music, impressively loud though it may be, is not at all heroic; indeed this chromatic vacillation makes a suitably craven impression. At verse 13 and the reckless challenge addressed to Jehovah (‘Ich bin der König von Babylon!’) we have the posturing of a spoiled child despite all the grandeur of the musical trappings, and the ominous quaver chords which staunch the flow of semiquavers and enable the phrase to be delivered as a recitative of some grandeur. Eric Sams points out that the high note on ‘Ich’ makes it sound as if the Babylonian succession were in dispute; it is this that emphasises the king’s petulance. He is a god, and Babylon is the only state he knows – he is unable to conceive of a more powerful world of the spirit. There is something about that shriek on the word ‘Ich’ which diminishes all Belshazzar’s majesty. This cry to the heavens is followed by four bars of piano interlude; the familiar semiquaver patterns (beginning higher on the keyboard) are now made to crash and roar as much as possible. It is as if the king has terrified himself with his own outburst, and this is indeed what the poem says (verse 13). The effect should be like those rumblings of thunder which signal divine wrath in biblical cinema epics. It is just a pity that a mere piano is scarcely up to such an awe-inspiring task, and it is here that the silent cinema, and its accompaniment, comes to mind.
This is the last time in the song that this motif is heard. Having shot his bolt, the composer, perhaps wisely, does not attempt to cap what has gone before in terms of pianistic virtuosity. Melodrama must now be served by other means. Unfurling semiquavers are replaced by quavers which pulsate through verses 13 to 17 like a heart beating in suspense. (Again this is prompted by the poem itself in the lines ‘Dem König ward’s heimlich im Busen bang’ – Schumann repeats ‘heimlich’ to masterful effect.) For the song’s last page these nervous quavers will be reduced to mere interjections on the first and third beats. This gradual thinning of the piano writing successfully depicts a sense of shrunken fear and the king’s increasing isolation. Little bursts of left-hand staccato quavers add to the sense of unease. After ‘Busen bang’ there is a four-bar interlude which incorporates a mirror image of those descending left-hand staccato quavers which are now transferred to the right hand in an ascending pattern followed by accented crotchets which paint the king’s increasing panic. It is difficult for music to depict the sound of silence, but accents in the right hand, and offbeat left-hand quavers (at ‘Das gellende Lachen verstummte zumal’) depict Belshazzar’s uncomfortable reaction to it.
The hand of God writing on the wall (the Bible, not Heine, tells us the words are ‘MENE, MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN’) appears without further ado. Under an A flat pedal in the vocal line (transfixed, the singing observer forgets about melody) the pianist’s left hand is given its own marking of ‘pianissimo’ and makes an eerie entry deep in the bass clef on the notes B natural to C. In the next bar we hear C – D flat. So far the message has been ‘Minim, Minim …’ (or rather dotted minims). The vocal line falls to a G, another upper pedal; the hand, now warming to its task, rises from D flat to D natural; immediately afterwards this is followed by B flat – to B natural as if the left hand were writing two letters of a word rather than one. The same pair of motifs is heard a semitone higher in the following bar. Under ‘Und schrieb und schrieb’ (verse 17) these tentative beginnings crystallise into clear and continuous script – syncopated ascending sixths in the left hand which drag themselves across the stave like the movement of a writer’s hand across a blackboard (‘upon the plaister of the wall’ says the Bible). The vocal line is now falling at the faster rate of two notes per bar. It is as if Belshazzar is being squeezed in a vice, caught between the waxing wrath of God and the waning confidence of his own followers. All of this is achieved by rather phlegmatic musical means; for example no attempt is made to paint the image of ‘letters of fire’ – more important is the vacuum left with the words ‘und schwand’. The composer manages to create here a remarkably silent image of silence.
Verses 18 to 21 are treated as stunned recitative. Significantly, there is so little accompaniment that we have to listen twice to realise that the melody for ten bars of this section is taken, almost note for note, from the song’s opening vocal line. But the composer tells us (‘leise und deutlich zu rezitieren’) that he wants to hear the piece less sung and more spoken. Only the bare bones of the harmony remain to support the singer; an analogue perhaps for a tyrant about to be stripped of his kingdom. The events leading up to Belshazzar’s downfall are quickly sketched. The spare quaver interjections do good service to depict the ‘schlotternden Knien’ of the king – ‘the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against the other’ as the Authorised Version of the Bible has it. In his narrative, Heine has no time for the prophet Daniel and his interpretation of the handwriting on the wall. (This part of the story was also excised in Osbert Sitwell’s libretto for William Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast.) According to the Bible, astrologers, Chaldeans and soothsayers were first called on to interpret the text (these Heine refers to under the blanket title of ‘Magier’). Daniel was then summoned and gave the meaning of the writing for which he was clothed in scarlet and a chain of gold. Only after this, on the same night, was Belshazzar slain. Heine, with a superb disregard for biblical accuracy, brings the regicide forward, and makes it both sudden and almost non-consequential. In this music, the phrase ‘banality of evil’ comes to mind, as well as the banal way in which the mighty perish, often at the hands of their former supporters. The word ‘umgebracht’ is intoned in ‘Adagio’ tempo and with horror certainly, but it is set simply and without pianistic fuss. With it the song comes to an unceremonious end. It is difficult to decide whether this was simply the result of attenuation of musical invention or a conscious attempt musically to reflect the poet’s tendency to dry and ironic endings. Another biblical character, Salome, is made to meet her fate in the same sudden way in the last moments of Strauss’s opera. Both Oscar Wilde and Heine understood that when tyrants and monsters fall from power, death is something that follows quickly and inevitably.
Interestingly enough, Belsatzar is one of the only Schumann songs composed in 1840 that has nothing to do with love. In it there is no role for his beloved Clara, although one might imagine that the composer might have hoped that the tyrannical Friedrich Wieck might be murdered by his piano pupils, or by some other form of divine intervention. But the song, standing right at the beginning of the year, opened a very important door. Robert was able to interpret its meaning as easily as any Daniel: he had a talent for lieder composition and in a very short while – a matter of weeks rather than months – he would find himself to be an out-and-out master of the medium. For all future lovers of song this was the handwriting on the wall.
from notes by Graham Johnson © 2010
Dal punto di vista della vocalità, questo è un brano che pone una serie di problemi abbastanza complessi dal punto di vista dell’ omogeneità e scorrevolezza della linea di canto. Come ho già scritto in post precedenti di questa serie, Schumann risulta molto più difficile da cantare di Schubert che, come suol dirsi in gergo, “scriveva bene” per la voce perché conosceva a fondo lo strumento e la linea musicale nei suoi brani risulta sempre naturale, rispettosa delle esigenze fisiologiche. Schumann invece usa la voce in modo assolutamente strumentale. Da qui l’ esigenza per il repertorio liederistico schumanniano di avere interpreti tecnicamente ferrati, con fonazioni duttili e impostazioni belle solide, altrimenti la sua linea vocale ti taglia, letteralmente, la gola. Schumann non ammette tecniche mediocri, pena il crollo verticale della qualità interpretativa.
Veniamo adesso agli ascolti che ho scelto per questa puntata, che avranno un carattere abbastanza diverso da quelli che di solito scelgo di proporre. Tenendo conto del fatto che sono molto pochi i cantanti storici presenti nella discografia del brano, questa volta ho scelto di dare spazio ad alcuni tra i liederisti più interessanti della nostra epoca. Iniziamo con Olaf Bär, baritono nato a Dresden nel 1957 che oltre a una carriera operistica di primissimo piano ha svolto anche un’ intensa attività come liederista. Insignito dalla Semperoper Dresden, a cui è strettamente legato sin dagli inizi della sua carriera, del prestigioso titolo di Kammersänger, il baritono sassone ha avuto sempre una particolare predilezione per la musica vocale di Schumann di cui è considerato interprete fra i più accreditati al punto di essere insignito, nel 1998, del Robert-Schumann-Preis dalla città di Zwickau, che dette i natali al compositore.
Una bella linea di canto, un fraseggio molto attento nell’ evidenziare i significati del testo e una notevole sottolineatura del carattere epico-romantico della ballata sono le caratteristiche migliori di questa esecuzione, registrata nel 1997 per la EMI insieme al grande pianista Helmut Deutsch.
Passiamo adesso a Florian Boesch, quarantanovenne baritono austriaco figlio di Christian Boesch, artista che ancora oggi viene ricordato per la sua celebre interpretazione di Papageno nell’ allestimento della Zauberflöte al Salzburger Festspiele con regia di Jean Pierre Ponnelle e la direzione musicale di James Levine, replicato per otto anni consecutivi dal 1978 al 1986. Florian Boesch, che è stato allievo del grande Robert Holl, è considerato oggi, insieme a Georg Nigl e Christian Gerhaher, come uno tra i liederisti più illustri della nostra epoca. Ecco la sua esecuzione, tratta da un album interamente dedicato a Lieder di Schumann su testi di Heine inciso insieme al pianista scozzese Malcolm Martineau e pubblicato nel 2009.
Su questo CD, la recensione di Andrew Clements su The Guardian si esprimeva nei seguenti termini.
Though Boesch sometimes makes a bit too much of expressive effects, so that his rubato distorts the shape of a phrase, in general he is an outstanding interpreter, with a wonderful range of colours in his voice which he uses with great discrimination and effect. His account of the Liederkreis is a slow-burning, introspective affair. But he can be totally forthright, as in the ballad Balthazar, which has a tremendous dramatic presence. Having an accompanist as perceptive and exquisitely musical as Malcolm Martineau is a big asset, too. These are lieder performances of very high quality indeed.
Come giustamente notato dal critico inglese, la presenza drammatica e il clima di forte impatto tragico espressi dal fraseggio del baritono austriaco e perfettamente sostenuti dal pianismo elegantemente raffinato di Martineau rendono la sua interpretazione davvero molto pregevole.
Veniamo adesso a tre cantanti della giovane generazione, che io sinceramente conoscevo poco e il cui ascolto ha costituito per me una piacevolissima sorpresa. Questo è Samuel Hasselhorn, trentenne baritono originario di Göttingen che dalla scorsa stagione è membro stabile dell’ ensemble alla Wiener Staatsoper, qui ripreso durante un concerto tenuto nel 2017 insieme alla pianista Renate Rohlfing.
Lo strumento di Hasselhorn è davvero di qualità molto pregevole, basato su un’ impostazione sicura che gli permette di risolvere agevolmente tutti i punti in cui la scrittura vocale di Schumann si fa ruvida. Ma l’ aspetto che colpisce maggiormente in questa esecuzione è la maturità interpretativa davvero inusuale in un cantante cosí giovane, che rende il fraseggio ispiratissimo e coinvolgente soprattutto nella caratterizzazione drammatica della sezione centrale. Una lettura originale e coinvolgente, da parte di un artista che ha tutti i numeri per diventare un grande.
Di livello altrettanto elevato è l’ esecuzione di Konstantin Krimmel, ventisettenne nativo di Ulm, uscito dalla Staatlichen Hochschule für Musik und Darstellende Kunst Stuttgart, in carriera da soli cinque anni e considerato uno tra i giovani cantanti più promettenti delle ultime generazioni. Dopo aver vinto concorsi importanti come il Deutsche Musikpreis, l’ Helmut-Deutsch-Liedwettebewerb e il secondo premio al concorso liederistico della Heidelberger Frühling, il giovane baritono ha pubblicato lo scorso anno per la Alpha Classic il suo primo CD, intitolato Saga, in collaborazione con Doriana Tchakarova, sua abituale partner pianistica. Il disco ha ricevuto ottime recensioni dalla stampa specializzata, come quella di Thilo Braun su Deutschlandfunk da cui riporto un brano:
Konstantin Krimmel ist einer der vielversprechendsten Sänger seiner Generation. Mit nur 26 Jahren besitzt er bereits eine interpretatorische Tiefe und eine technische Souveränität, mit der er auch den Vergleich zu großen Liedsängern seines Stimmfachs nicht scheuen muss. Neben dem Kunstlied ist Krimmel mittlerweile auch immer stärker im Opern- und Oratorienbereich gefragt – auch das spricht für seine Vielfalt und Flexibilität. Wenn es ihm gelingt, seine Kräfte und Qualitäten auch in Zukunft so gut einzuschätzen wie er es auf seiner Debüt-CD bewiesen hat, hat er eine glänzende Zukunft vor sich.
Ed ecco l’ esecuzione di Belsatzar.
Anche qui è davvero notevole la personalità interpretativa che questo giovanissimo artista esibisce nel suo fraseggio, realizzando una bellissima progressione drammatica fino alla bestemmia di Belsatzar e al progressivo trapasso nel tono allucinato, di angoscia stupefatta della parte finale.
Ma di livello ancora superiore a mio avviso è questa incisione di Benjamin Appl, trentottenne nativo di Ravensburg allievo di Rudolf Piernay e poi perfezionatosi con Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, di cui è stato uno tra gli ultimi allievi. Come lui stesso ha dichiarato nelle note biografiche del suo sito web:
(…) my years of working with Fischer-Dieskau were invaluable and had a hugely formative influence on me. He is an inspiration – someone who is always searching and seeking a deeper understanding of music and of life. He was a role model for how to prosper as an artist, never just delivering, but each time creating.
Benjamin Appl, premiato nel 2016 dalla rivista Gramophone come New Artist of the Year, è ospite regolare di rassegne liederistiche prestigiose come quelle di Schwarzenberg e Hohenems, ha al suo attivo una nutrita discografia e ha registrato la ballata nel suo CD dedicato a Lieder su testi di Heine, intitolato Stunden, Tage, Ewigkeit pubblicato nel 2016 dalla Champs Hill Records. Il pianista è James Baillieu.
Questa, per il mio gusto, è la versione più completa delle cinque finora proposte in questo articolo. Il lavoro di cesello sulla dinamica e sulla struttura delle frasi, la qualità dello strumento e la concentrata intensità del fraseggio rendono questa interpretazione assolutamente esemplare. Splendida in particolare la mezzavoce delle battute iniziali, che introduce alla perfezione il tono di angoscia stupefatta, allucinata su cui si basa tutta l’ atmosfera espressiva creata dal cantante. Perfetto anche il tono quasi di recitazione della parte finale, esplicitamente prescritto da Schumann e realizzato in maniera davvero splendida.
Come dimostrano questi ascolti, esistono al giorno d’ oggi diversi giovani cantanti che sono perfettamente in grado di interpretare il Lied in maniera convincente e con personalità interpretative ragguardevoli. Oltre che ai cantanti citati nel presente articolo, tra le voci femminili possiamo contare su artiste come Christiane Karg, Okka Von Der Damerau, Hanna-Elisabeth Müller e Anna Lucia Richter che sono esecutrici liederistiche di primissimo livello. In tal senso, il panorama esecutivo odierno nel campo del Lied è quantitativamente ampio e di ottima qualità.
Buon ascolto a tutti e appuntamento alle prossime puntate della rubrica.
mozart2006 