Franz Schubert
Songs Without Words

Paintings Without Words

To die young seems to be a romantic obligation that Franz Schubert (1797 - 1828) could not escape, having departed from this vale of tears at just 31 years old. During his short life, however, he had the time to write frantically pages of music that have made his name immortal, worthy of being remembered in the empyrean of the greatest composers alongside Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, etc. In the Schubertian corpus, alongside symphonic works, we find an immense catalog of chamber music: compositions for piano, trios, quartets, etc. The album I am talking about contains, for instance, a splendid sonata in A minor (D 821) for Piano and Arpeggione, the latter being an instrument also known as the guitar of love and popular in Vienna in the early decades of the 19th century, now fallen into disuse and usually replaced by the cello.

Schubert, however, built much of his celebrity on Lieder, a form of song (from the German Liod, song) that reached its most complex and elevated structure during the Romantic era. Schubert's Lieder, in particular, are, in my opinion, among the most beautiful ever written, not only for the melodiousness of the tunes and the balance of the forms but also because they often contain such a unique atmosphere—distinctly Schubertian—that one cannot do without it once it is known. Their beauty, however, is owed not only to the music but also to the words of splendid poets like Goethe, Heine, Rellstab, and Ruckert.
However, as the title suggests, in this album, we have the opportunity to appreciate exclusively the musical aspect of Schubert's Lieder, which reveal themselves in all their warmth. The CD, in fact, contains a collection "sung" by a melodious cello, divinely played by Mischa Maisky, one of the world's greatest interpreters of this instrument, while at the piano is the pianist Daria Hovora. The cello, therefore, takes the place of the voice, playing themes that originally did not belong to it. Perhaps, then, something is lost, on the other hand, something else is gained because this interpretation allows us to fully grasp the absolute value of the Viennese composer's music, "purified" of the text.

Now, according to the script, I should delve into the details, and as often happens, to do so I make use of background listening; at this moment, for example, "Am Meer" (D 957 No. 12) resonates, perhaps one of the most profound and intense melodic motifs I have heard in my life. But I confess that I feel a sort of embarrassment. For two reasons. The first I keep to myself, the second is that I find no words. How is it possible to describe the breath of this cello? How is it possible to convey to you the beauty of these prolonged notes that the piano discreetly accompanies? How is it possible to attribute a meaning even remotely comparable to these registers now languid, sad and poignant, now gentle, candid and innocent? No, it is not possible. Words do not exist. The more I listen, the more I realize that writing about it would mean doing an injustice to these notes because the dimension of their beauty cannot in any way be framed by any word, which, when compared to them, would always appear unjust or, at best, bland.

This is because the notes of this music express the exalted language of a tormented soul. Immense beauty like the sky and fragile like a dry leaf carefully preserved between the pages of a book. A beauty without compromise that captivates for life and in a way different from that of other composers. Because if Bach amazes for the perfection of his counterpoints, if Mozart transports for the crystalline purity of his melodies, if Beethoven drags for his monumental and vital energy, if Brahms fascinates for the complexity of his evolving variations, Schubert, instead, makes one fall in love with his pure heart translated into notes of a thousand colors. Each Lieder is thus a painting, where sometimes strokes of melancholy prevail, sometimes lightness, sometimes an unexpected impetus that upsets everything and unsettles everything. Each painting cannot be described, seen, or even imagined, but only felt and loved.