Schubert-Novellen. Wagner, Innsbruck, 1862
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| Schubert has long been a
subject for fictional story weaving, what the Germans would call a
Roman. We are all aware, I’m sure, of at least one
Schubert-Roman: the infamous
Schwammerl,
by Rudolf Hans Bartsch which was the source of the operetta
Das Dreimäderlhaus,
and thus indirectly of Lilac Time and Blossom
Time. Despite the disapproval of Schubert scholars, this
practice has continued to the present day. |
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| What may surprise many
readers is quite how long this tradition has been going on. One of
these Romane was published in Innsbruck as far back as 1862. At that
time there was still not a full size biography of the composer
(Heinrich Kreissle von Hellborn’s
Franz Schubert Eine
biographische Skizze had been published the year before, but
his full size
biography did not appear until 1865). This book, Schubert-Novellen,
subtitled Sechs Blätter aus dem Liederkranze des
unsterblichen Meistersängers (‘six leaves from the
song garland of the immortal master’) consists of 6 fictional
stories in which Schubert is the main character, woven around
impressions left by famous Schubert songs: Erlkönig,
Trockne Blumen, Der Leiermann, Der
Fischer, Der Lindenbaum and Der Doppelgänger. |
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| It appears in various
bibliographies, but is very difficult to find: I do have a copy
(spot the gloat) but no other of my collector friends have ever seen
a copy, except mine. It’s a dainty book (4½" x 6½"),
in green boards, with 128 pages of gothic type (inevitably) and no
pictures. Foxton Ferguson appears to have done a very straight
translation. Of particular interest to me is the inscription
carefully written on the front flyleaf, and dated the year of
publication. It appears to be dedicated to his wife and signed by a
Heinrich Schubert ! Schubert had 2 nephews called Heinrich, both
painters, one the son of Ferdinand , and the other the son of Karl.
I would be most grateful if anyone who has access to documents
signed by either of these Heinrich’s could compare them with
this signature, and rule in or out any possible association.
Curiously, both Heinrich’s have potential connections to the
work: Ferdinand’s son was married in Innsbruck, and Karl’s
son was married in October 1862 ! |
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| However, somewhat
surprisingly, the book was ‘adapted’ or translated (the
book uses both terms) into English, and published in Boston over 50
years later in 1914. The translation was the work of A. Foxton
Ferguson, and it is clear from his introduction that some of the
translations had previously appeared in the "Girl’s Own
Paper". In the preface, Foxton Ferguson remarks that "…The
following stories are Fiction, but might just as well be fact.
Indeed, many of the details given are historically true, while all
of them bear some relation to proved characteristics of Schubert…".
Finding these "historically true details" can be rather
difficult, it must be said! Nobody would claim that this book has
any particular literary merit, but nevertheless, it offers a
fascinating glimpse into Schubert’s early reception history,
and must be considered in that light. Somewhat surprisingly, it does
not contain any of the ‘romanticised’ pictures which were
typical of the era. |
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| Any Schubert book as
early as 1862, should it ever appear for sale, would be fairly
expensive. With very little past sales history to go on, judging a
price for Schubert-Novellen is difficult, but I would
expect any copy to be at least £100 (no, mine isn't for sale).
The Boston translation is not a common book, but that does not
necessarily mean that it would be expensive. In several years of
very active searching for Schubert books, I have only come across 3
copies, each of which cost me less than £10 from general
booksellers. I would anticipate being charged somewhat more for a
copy from a Music specialist should they ever come across one. |
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| Since the Boston translation is now
comfortably out of copyright, and copies are so difficult to find, I
thought it might be amusing to show readers what these stories are
like. What follows is one of the shorter stories (the last),
entitled The Phantom Double. The stories are all
written in the same ‘romantic’ style, but there are no
significant links between them. In the first, a dying youth (the one
whose grave is visited in the story below) inspires Schubert to
write his first song (Erlkönig). In others,
Schubert is bequeathed a letter from a girl who was consoled by his
song Trockne Blumen, helps to pardon an organ grinder
unjustly condemned, and rescues a rich heir from a fortune seeking
woman in Der Fischer. Der Lindenbaum
features Beethoven’s distant beloved, and the tree under which
he used to compose. All can more or less happily stand alone. |
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© Richard Morris January 2001 |
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| The full text of the story is as
follows: |
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THE PHANTOM DOUBLE |
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| WINTER prevailed in all its rigour:
the fields were clad in snow, giving promise of a rich fruit harvest
to come. The leafless trees were glittering and sparkling with a
thousand borrowed jewels, while the roofs of the houses and cottages
were almost buried under the weight of their white mantles. By the time that the clock in the church steeple had struck five, the gray sky was already hidden behind the black veil of night. Snow was falling in great flakes, the streets and alleys were all deserted, the roads were impassable, and only one single traveller seemed to brave the cruel elements, as he slowly made his way to the Währing cemetery. Boldly, and step by step, he battled against the storm, till at last he reached the iron gates, and violently pulled the bell which communicated with the gravedigger's house. After a moment the light of a lantern became visible, and finally a fur-clad form appeared, hobbled slowly to the gate, and peered out to see who it was that came so late, and in such weather, to disturb the place. "Come, open, my good fellow; 'tis already late enough, and I have a sacred duty to fulfil. I have a wreath here which I want to lay on the grave of one whom I must ever keep in memory — tomorrow is Nov. 4th, his birthday — alas, that he left us so soon !" While he was speaking the gravedigger opened the gate. Startled by the noise, a flock of ravens rose up and sped across the cemetery in frantic flight, filling the air with their hoarse croaking. |
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| The stranger chose the left-hand path,
and advanced towards the wall of the cemetery. "I am coming,
Carl," whispered the unknown one to himself; "you didn't
expect me so late, and thought I had forgotten you —you who are
the very image of my own past boyhood. Years have flown since then,
when you inspired me to compose my first song — at least the
first that you ever heard — and also the last. Your dying soul
it was that awakened mine. Many is the song that I have composed
since that night, and today, if the leaves of Fame are rustling
round my head, it is all your doing, Carl; the applause which my
works have gained in the world of music brings me neither pride nor
happiness — for all happiness, all pride end here !" Muttering thus, he went slowly on in face of the storm and blinding snow, with head bent to the ground, for right well he knew the spot where the cold earth covered his dear friend. At last he looked up, and there on the grave mound he saw a Figure sunk in prayer. "Who is there but I," thought the lonely traveller, over whom an involuntary shudder passed, "that would be likely to perform this little act of love towards the unknown boy?" Hastily, the better to solve the riddle, he approached the Figure, which, without so much as heeding him, raised itself up and scurried away. It was an unsubstantial, ghostly form, which froze the blood in his veins, and made his heart stand still. |
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| Without looking round, for fear that
he should again see the ghastly apparition, he moved close up to the
grave and hung the fresh wreath of flowers upon the snow-clad cross.
"Accept, my Carl, the wreath I bring thee. It is a remembrance
of my loyalty and affection, and it speaks to thee and says, ‘Bloom
on, thou lovely flower, in the garden of thy Lord, and grow under
the eye of God until thou comest to the joys of Heaven and
everlasting blessedness.’ " He made the sign of the Cross,
and then silently repeated the Lord's Prayer for the sleeping child.
His prayer ended, he was just about to go, when his glance fell
again on the Figure he had previously seen, which was now kneeling
in prayer before an empty space close by the cemetery wall. No tombstone, no cross marked the place. The unknown man approached the Figure — at all costs he must know who this was that had prayed in front of him at Carl's grave. "Sir", he said, with trembling voice, "I find you praying at the grave of my dear pupil … Did you know Carl ?" The Figure, which appeared to be that of a man, nodded in the affirmative. "I meet you here at this place? Without doubt there lies here someone who is dear to you ?" Not a word. Meantime, the snow-laden clouds had been swept away, and on the horizon the moon came up, shedding its pale bright light around. |
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| "At least, you know the man, who
after life's hard battle has at length found rest here ?" The Figure turned to the questioner — the cloak fell open — the features became visible — a piercing cry rang out — Schubert turned and fled. The face that he had seen was — his own! A peal at the bell before Schubert's house made Therese, his old servant, quake in her shoes. She was all alone, and had been saying her prayers in the dark, till, favored by the prevailing stillness, she had dropped off to sleep in the middle. It was just then that the violent ringing of the bell frightened her out of her dozing and dreaming. She got up, procured a light, and opened the front door, holding the lamp up in the direction of the visitor, so that the light fell full on his face. She started back in horror — it was as though she had gazed upon a visitant from another world. Without doubt the features she had seen were those of Schubert, and yet — there was a something not his about them. A deathly pallor was on his cheeks, and his glassy eyes stared lifelessly out of their sockets, just as through they had lost their power of sight. Schubert appeared not to observe the terror of the servant. With a feeble "Good evening, Therese," he rushed past her and up to his room. Shaking her head significantly, the maid stole after him, and placed her ear close to the door to listen. Not that she was inquisitive, but truly and sincerely anxious for the welfare of the man whom she had fondled and nursed as a child in the old parental home. She knew where he had come from, and had already noticed how excited he was, when he had bidden her go out to buy the wreath. The faithful soul stood with folded hands before the door. Then she heard the piano open, and tones like funereal dirges struck upon her listening ear. |
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| "Ah, how they wail and sigh!
Something must be done to cure my poor master of this melancholy
mood. I've never seen him like this before, though many's the time
he's come back straight from his old pupil's grave ! How can I help
him ? Can't I go and ask —" She took a step or two to her chamber, and taking up a sealed packet, she began to talk to herself in self-satisfied accents, "God willing, this will help him; this is the best medicine for his distracted state!" She knocked gently at the door and entered the room, within which she found Schubert sitting at the piano, indulging in the profoundest rhapsody. "Franz," she said, for her age and circumstances gave her the privilege of calling her master by his Christian name, "this afternoon a servant left this packet for you." "Just leave it there, it's only the proof my last Sonata. Diabelli chases me about like a hunted hare. There's the usual letter inside to ask if another song is not ready — oh, how many more must I compose before I make a name," said Schubert, under his breath, "and can feel independent and careless?" "But the message doesn’t come from the publisher at all. As if I didn’t know Lawrence when I see him ? This was a servant in blue livery." "In blue livery — with a silver border?" asked Schubert; "quickly, give me a light." The maid hastily did as she was bid; and then, overjoyed at seeing her Franz occupied with other thoughts, she left the room. Schubert's eyes sparkled with pleasure when he saw the address on the packet, and recognised the handwriting. |
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| "From her !" he joyously
exclaimed, aloud; then fearing lest he should be overheard by
someone, he muttered: "How imprudent of me" and hastily
tore off the cover. A beautifully bound book, with an inscription in
gold lettering, "In everlasting memory of G. C.,"
presented itself to his astonished gaze, and within it lay a tiny
sheet of paper, delicately folded together. This Schubert proceeded
to open. Scarce had his first glance fallen upon it than his face
grew white, the blood rushed to his heart, and with trembling lips
he read half aloud as follows: — "My Dear Friend, |
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| "When these lines
reach you, I shall be far from the Residence. My husband became, in
the most unaccountable way, possessed of our sweet secret, and it
was in vain that I tried to deceive him. Only one way is left,
though it is with a torn and bleeding-heart I write it. I myself
have proposed to him that we move right away from the Residence.
That he consented to this plan I thank that same Providence that
allowed me to learn to know you, my beloved, and transformed for me
so many bitter hours into happy minutes. Schubert, the parting from
you means the numbing of my soul; henceforth, I am alone. The rough
north wind has given me my deserts, and nipped my love in the bud.
Now I follow my unloved husband, Heaven knows for how long, without
a friend! As for you, give yourself up to your Muse, and draw from
it inspiration and — forgetfulness. The accompanying Book of
Songs, which Heine has written out of very riot and tempest of soul,
accept from one who will ever think of you with blissful affection.
May these inspire you to new songs of love! This is the wish of your
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| "GABRIELLE."
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| The paper fell to the ground. "
’Tis the last will and testament of one who abandons me for love," sighed Schubert, "and high in reverence will I hold it." He opened the book and his eyes fell upon a poem. Scarcely had he read the first lines than the blood rushed to his cheeks. "Fate," cried he, in an agony of pain, "dost thou again mock me, thou pale companion mine, or do I already belong to another world ?" In feverish haste he turned to the piano and struck a loud chord. "Thank God, I am still alive; my heart still beats, my mind still acts;" and full of emotion he seized paper and pen. "Gabrielle, I thank thee for thy gift; ’tis I will be thy singer; to thee shall the first song from the book be devoted." "Alas !" sighed Therese; "there, he's beginning to play again. I thought I had cured him of all his mysterious dreams yet once more I hear those gloomy tones, as though he were chanting his own funeral Dirge." Weirdly clang the chords of the key of B minor, and went trembling through the room like voices from the grave. The old woman stood like one petrified before the door. The clock from the neighbouring church steeple struck eleven in sepulchral tones. "Silent the streets, by night overtaken; This house my loved one's presence did grace; But she the town has now forsaken, Though there the house stands in the self-same place. "And there stands a man, who upwards is staring, His hands hard wringing in outbursts of woe; I shudder, his form with mine comparing, The moon to me doth my own features show. Thou pale companion, thou counterfeit fellow, Why act this hideous pantomime? — Why ape the pangs that here I suffer'd, So many a night in former time?" |
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| "Nay, cost what it will, he must
to rest," whispered the anxious listener, and flung open the
door of his room. Her beloved master lay senseless on the floor!
The tones of the Lyre had died away — its golden strings had snapped in twain ! On the afternoon of Nov. 21st, 1828, the remains of the Master singer, who had caught typhoid fever during his visit to the cemetery, were laid in the ground, at that very spot where a few days before he had seen his own wraith praying. And his immortal soul was wafted up into the kingdom of indissoluble harmony. |
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