From the depths of this abyss, with the words souvenir de douleur (remembered pain), which evoke a whole past, there springs up a new thought of exquisite tenderness; and here we have a glimpse of the key of F major, but only for a moment, the melody falling back into F minor.
“L’orage grondait ainsi en mon cœur” (Thus rolled the storm within my heart). Here, for the moment, passion carries the day; the three cries of terror, interrupted at the opening, are uttered again, more hurriedly, at the remembrance of this distracting love “which agitated her by day and night,” then a fresh burst of despair recurs in the chromatic descent which takes us back to F minor.
“Ainsi flétrie, ma triste vie se consumait.”[171]
In this line we hear once more, but for the last time and very softly, the gloomy burden of the bass, immediately after which reappears the A natural, which victoriously restores
the key of F major. Light has banished darkness, and life has vanquished death.
“La paix est rentrée à jamais dans mon cœur” (Peace has returned to dwell for ever in my heart), sings the young nun in an inspired voice. This time the triumph is complete. At the words, “Descend, my Saviour, from the eternal home,” the musical phrase mounts like a thanksgiving hymn. The effect is marvellous, and what is not less so is the fact that Schubert has recourse only to the most natural means to produce it. A simple change of key, the passage in the major—a form so frequently insipid—is, in his hands, invested with a surprising power.
Among the other Lieder of the sombre kind is one deserving especial attention—namely, “The Young Girl and Death” (La Jeune Fille et la Mort). In this we are attracted not so much by the beauty of the melody as by the musical problem which it may help us to solve. How ought music to speak of supernatural beings? How is it to be made suitable to the utterances of the Divinity, of demons, or of Death? We have here a serious difficulty. Is it fitting that the musician should put a melody into the mouths of abstract beings? Whatever may be the beauty of the phrase that is sung, the effect does not meet the requirements of the case or answer our expectations. Is it, then, needful to have recourse to recitative? But recitative has not the depth demanded by the subject. What, then, must be done? Let us refer to Gluck; this great master has more than one secret to reveal to those who thoroughly study him.
Gluck was the first to discover the most suitable form in which to
represent spiritual voices, and so well has he succeeded that no one has been able to ignore his influence. At the risk of being otherwise either cold or ridiculous, it has been necessary for all to adopt, in this particular, his manner.
“Tremble, ton supplice s’apprête” (Thy doom is even now prepared), says a mysterious voice to Thoas (Iphigenia in Tauris). The phrase, given slowly and softly by voices and trombones in unison, on re penetrates us with a mysterious fear.