Verklärte Nacht, Op.4

When Schoenberg’s string sextet Verklärte Nacht was first submitted to the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein in 1900 it was rejected with the comment that it “looks as if someone had smeared the score of Tristan while it was still wet.” When it eventually was presented at a concert of the same society three years later, the performance ended, according to the composer, “in a riot and in actual fights.”

What upset the audience, however, was probably not Schoenberg’s extension of Wagnerian harmony so much as the complexity of a long single-movement construction that was not only based on a poem - which was unheard of in chamber music - but based on a poem offensive to the bourgeois morality of the day. Richard Dehmel’s Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) from his Weib und Welt (Woman and the World) is about two people walking through a wood on a cold moonlit night. She confesses that she is about to bear a child, but not by him. Unhappy, her maternal instincts unfulfilled, to give meaning to her life she had got herself pregnant by a stranger. She had not regretted it until she met her present lover. They walk together in the moonlight, in silence, until he answers. He tells her not to allow the unborn child to be a burden on her conscience. Just as the moonlight transforms everything they can see around them, the warmth of their love will transfigure the child and make it his. He embraces her and they continue their walk through the radiant night.

The work begins in D minor with a dark-coloured theme walking in stepwise descent over repeated Ds in the bass. When that theme appears high on first violin the lovers look into the moon which, in a sense, is the central character of the poem. It is represented by a short but eloquent melody on first viola a few bars later. The woman’s confession begins as the tempo accelerates and the first viola enters with a passionate reshaping of the first theme. Her past unhappiness is suggested with much pathos by another variant of the same theme on first cello. This is at the beginning of a longer episode which, after a magical change of key to E major, is matched by another episode tenderly expressive of her maternal longings. The rest of the first half of the work, however, is riddled with guilt, high on violin perhaps or in panic-stricken pizzicato outbursts on viola.

The walk continues in silence as the opening bars are recalled, heavy with apprehension. A reminder of the moonlight on viola and in a violin cadenza motivates a remarkable modulation from E flat minor to D major. At this point the voice of the man is heard for the first time in a broadly generous melody on first cello. The moon now shines radiantly in sustained harmonics, overlaid by muted runs, and a violin and cello duet emphasises the intimacy of the situation. Lyrical new themes are mingled with reminiscences of earlier material which now, in this fresh light, is transformed in meaning. The reconciliation is confirmed by a climactic recall of the D major melody.

The beautifully scored coda, beginning with a distant echo of the walking theme, consists, according to the composer, “of themes of the preceding parts, all of them modified anew, so as to glorify the miracle of nature that has changed this night of tragedy into a transfigured night.”

When Schoenberg first submitted his string sextet Verklärte Nacht to the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein in 1900 it was rejected with the comment that it “looks as if someone had smeared the score of Tristan while it was still wet.” When it eventually was presented at a concert of the same society three years later, the performance ended (according to the composer, “in a riot and in actual fights.”

What upset the audience was probably not Schoenberg’s extension of Wagnerian harmony, however, or even the one uncatalogued dissonance which zealous scholars had discovered in it. It was probably more to do with the complexity of a long single-movement construction that was not only based on a poem, which was bad enough, but based on a poem offensive to the bourgeois morality of the day. Richard Dehmel’s Verklärte Nacht (from Weib und Welt) is about two people walking through a wood on a cold moonlit night. She confesses that she is about to bear a child, but not by him. Unhappy, her maternal instincts unfulfilled, to give meaning to her life she had got herself pregnant by a stranger. She had not regretted it until she met her present lover. They walk together in the moonlight, in silence, until he answers. He tells her not to allow the unborn child to be a burden on her conscience. Just as the moonlight transforms everything they can see around them, the warmth of their love will transfigure the child and make it his. He embraces her and they continue their walk through the radiant night.

In the composer’s version for string orchestra, made in 1917 and revised in 1943, the poetic content of the sextet is actually enhanced, largely because of the possibility of contrasting solo instruments with the orchestra. The work begins in D minor with a dark-coloured theme walking in stepwise descent over repeated Ds in the bass. When that theme appears high on solo violin the lovers look into the moon which, in a sense, is the central character of the poem. It is represented by a short but eloquent viola solo a few bars later. The woman’s confession begins as the tempo accelerates and the violas enter with a passionate reshaping of the first theme. Her past unhappiness is suggested with much pathos by another variant of the same theme on cellos. This is at the beginning of a longer episode which, after a magical change of key to E major, is matched by another episode tenderly expressive of her maternal longings. The rest of the first half of the work, however, is riddled with guilt, high on violins perhaps or in panic-stricken pizzicato outbursts on the violas.

The walk continues in silence as the opening bars are recalled, heavy with apprehension. A reminder of the moonlight on violas and in a solo violin cadenza motivates a remarkable modulation from E flat minor to D major. At this point the voice of the man is heard for the first time in a broadly generous melody on cellos. The moon now shines radiantly in sustained harmonics, overlaid by muted runs, and a violin and cello duet emphasises the intimacy of the situation. Lyrical new themes are mingled with reminiscences of earlier material which now, in this fresh light, is transformed in meaning. The reconciliation is confirmed by a climactic recall of the D major melody.

The beautifully scored coda, beginning with a distant echo of the walking theme, consists, according to the composer, “of themes of the preceding parts, all of them modified anew, so as to glorify the miracle of nature that has changed this night of tragedy into a transfigured night.”

“I had intended,” Dehmel wrote to Schoenberg after the first performance in 1903, “to follow the motives of my text in your composition but soon forgot to do so, I was so enthralled by the music.

Two people are walking through a bare, cold wood;

the moon keeps pace with them and draws their gaze.

The moon moves along above tall oak trees,

there is no wis of cloud to obscure the radiance

to which the black, jagged tips reach up.

A woman’s voice speaks:

“I am carrying a child, and not by you.

I am walking here with you in a state of sin.

I have offended grievously against mystels.

I despaired of happiness,

and yet I still felt a grievous longins

for life’s fullness, for a mother;s joys

and duties; and so I sinned,

and so I yielded, shuddering, my sex

to the embrace of a stranger,

and even thought myself blessed.

Now life has taken its revenge,

and I have met you, met you.”

She walks on, stumbling.

She looks up; the moon keeps pace.

Her dark gaze drowns in light.

A man’s voice speaks:

“Do no let the child you have coceived

be a burden on your soul.

Look, how brightly the universe shines!

Splendour falls on everything around,

you are voyagin with me on a cold sea,

but there is the glow of inner warmth

from you in me, from me in you.

That warmth will transfigure the stranger’s child,

and you will bear it me, begot by me.

You have transfused me with splendour,

You have made a child of me.”

He puts an arm about her string hips.

Their breath embraces in the air.

Two people walk on through the high, bright night.

arranged for piano trio (1932) by Eduard Steuerman (1892–1964)

When Schoenberg’s string sextet Verklärte Nacht was first submitted to the Vienna Tonkünstlerverein in 1900 it was rejected with the comment that it “looks as if someone had smeared the score of Tristan while it was still wet.” When it eventually was presented at a concert of the same society three years later, the performance ended, according to the composer, “in a riot and in actual fights.”

What upset the audience, however, was probably not Schoenberg’s extension of Wagnerian harmony so much as the complexity of a long single-movement construction that was not only based on a poem – which was unheard of in chamber music – but based on a poem offensive to the bourgeois morality of the day. Richard Dehmel’s Verklärte Nacht (Transfigured Night) from his Weib und Welt (Woman and World) is about two people walking through a wood on a cold moonlit night. She confesses that she is about to bear a child, but not by him. Unhappy, her maternal instincts unfulfilled, to give meaning to her life she had got herself pregnant by a stranger. She had not regretted it until she met her present lover. They walk together in the moonlight, in silence, until he answers. He tells her not to allow the unborn child to be a burden on her conscience. Just as the moonlight transforms everything they can see around them, the warmth of their love will transfigure the child and make it his. He embraces her and they continue their walk through the radiant night.

Whatever the reaction of the audience in Vienna in 1903, Verklärte Nacht is now accepted not only as a masterpiece of programme music but also as one of the most accomplished of all examples of scoring for string sextet. While it is understandable that Schoenberg himself should want to arrange it for string orchestra, as he did in 1917 and again in 1943, he scarcely improved it by rescoring it in that way. It is less understandable that Eduard Steuermann, a pupil of Schoenberg in Vienna and a trusted participant in the first performances of several of the master’s works, should want to arrange the string sextet for piano trio. Perhaps, as pianist of Schoenberg’s Verein für musikalische Privataufführungen (Society for Private Musical Performances), where arrangements were a regular feature of the programmes, he believed it was an entirely legitimate procedure. But exactly why he did it –whether it was a purely practical exercise, to make it available to a different ensemble including a piano part for himself, or whether it was a more theoretical strategy to make a point about the work – we do not know.    Every member of the audience will have his or her own ideas on how successful the arrangement is. But it is probably worth suggesting that Steuermann felt that the dialogue between Dehmel’s protagnists would be more personally expressive if entrusted to a solo violin and solo cello while the piano looks after the rest. Although that division of responsibility is not sustainable throughout the work, it does seem to be the thinking behind the piano-trio version.   

As Steuermann presents it, the work begins on the piano with a dark-coloured theme    in D minor walking in stepwise descent over repeated Ds in the bass. As that theme passes to the cello and then the violin the lovers look into the moon which, in a sense, is the central character of the poem. It is represented by a short but eloquent melody on piano a few bars later. The woman’s confession begins as the tempo accelerates and the cello, followed immediately by violin, enters with a passionate reshaping of the first theme. Her past unhappiness is suggested with much pathos by another variant of the same theme on cello echoed high on violin. This is at the beginning of a longer episode which, after a magical change of key to E major, is matched by another episode tenderly expressive of her maternal longings. The rest of the first half of the work, however, is riddled with guilt, high on violin perhaps or in panic-stricken pizzicato outbursts on the two string instruments.

After a sustained crisis of despair, the walk continues in silence as the opening bars are recalled, heavy with apprehension. A reminder of the moonlight on violin and a cadenza of tearful arpeggios motivate a remarkable modulation from E flat minor to D major. At this point the voice of the man is heard in a new and broadly generous melody on cello. The moon now shines radiantly in sustained harmonics, overlaid by runs in quiet parallel thirds on the piano, and a violin and cello duet emphasises the intimacy of the situation. Lyrical new themes are mingled with reminiscences of earlier material which now, in this fresh light, is transformed in meaning. The reconciliation is confirmed by a climactic recall of the D major    melody on cello.

The radiantly expressive coda, beginning with a distant echo of the walking theme, consists, according to the composer, “of themes of the preceding parts, all of them modified anew, so as to glorify the miracle of nature that has changed this night of tragedy into a transfigured night.”