Rivers (Bach)

Beck, Farndale, Yorkshire. Photo: Malcolm Wren
Beck, Farndale, Yorkshire. Photo: Malcolm Wren
Ins Grüne, ins Grüne,
Da lockt uns der Frühling, der liebliche Knabe,
Und führt uns am blumenumwundenen Stabe
Hinaus, wo die Lerchen und Amseln so wach,
In Wälder, auf Felder, auf Hügel, zum Bach,
Ins Grüne, ins Grüne.

Into the countryside, into the countryside!
Spring, that lovely lad, is luring us there
And leading us with a staff that has flowers twisted around it,
Outside, where the larks and blackbirds are so awake,
Into the woods, onto the fields, onto the hills, to the river,
Into the countryside, into the countryside.

Reil, Das Lied im Grünen	D 917

Dornbach is the name of a small village and a brook (Bach) in the Vienna Woods (the Wienerwald), and this is where Reil and his friends were bound as they sang these verses. The brook is central to their idea of the countryside as an idyllic escape. Although the city has a major river (the Danube), its inhabitants feel the need to stroll by a smaller stream.

The Bach (cognate with the word ‘beck’, which is still used to refer to small unnavigable rivers in the north of England) is central to pastoral poetry in German. When Moses Mendelssohn produced a German version of Psalm 23 (a quintessential pastoral text) he translated ‘he leadeth me beside the still waters’ as ‘Er leitet mich an stillen Bächen’.

Gott ist mein Hirt, mir wird nichts mangeln,
Er lagert mich auf grüne Weide,
Er leitet mich an stillen Bächen.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: 
he leadeth me beside the still waters.

Moses Mendelssohn, Der 23. Psalm 	D 706

When Gottfried August Bürger hymned the attractions of his rural retreat, it was a small stream that was central to the idyll:

Dort kränzen Schlehen 
Die braune Kluft, 
Und Pappeln wehen 
In blauer Luft. 
Mit sanftem Rieseln 
Schleicht hier gemach 
Auf Silberkieseln 
Ein heller Bach,
Fließt unter den Zweigen, 
Die über ihn 
Sich wölbend neigen, 
Bald schüchtern hin. 
Lässt bald im Spiegel 
Den grünen Hügel, 
Wo Lämmer gehn, 
Des Ufers Büschchen 
Und alle Fischchen 
Im Grunde sehn.

Over there sloe bushes garland
The brown cleft,
And poplar trees sway
In the blue air.
With a gentle burbling
And without hurrying, sneaking along
Over the silver pebbles 
Is a clear brook;
It flows under the branches
Which cover it
As they bend over and look down,
Suddenly bashful;
Then it serves as a mirror
For the green hill
Where lambs gambol,
For the bushes on the bank
And all the fish
On the river bed can be seen.

Gottfried August Bürger, Das Dörfchen	D 598, D 641

These pastoral settings with their gentle streams are comfortable refuges but even in Arcadia there is loss and grief. A number of the Schubert song texts about small rivers are inevitably laments.

In dem Murmeln des Bachs Hör ich bebend nur Klageton.  In the babbling of the brook, Trembling, I only hear the sound of lament. Human beings hear their own concerns in the sounds of streams. Babbling brooks accompany our laments, but also other emotions. For people in love the stream might sigh with the beloved’s name:

Leise rieselnder Quell! ihr wallenden, flispernden Pappeln;
Euer Schlummergeräusch wecket die Liebe nur auf.
Linderung sucht' ich bei euch, und sie zu vergessen, die Spröde,
Ach und Blätter und Bach seufzen, Luise! dir nach.

Gentle, trickling spring! You swaying, whispering poplars;
Your sleepy sounds only serve to awaken love.
I came to you looking for comfort and to forget her - the one who is hard to get.
Alas, both the leaves and the brook are sighing for you, Luise!

Salis-Seewis, Der Jüngling an der Quelle	D 300

Yet for those in agony, on the verge of the abyss, the sound of a similar small stream can evoke a howl of pain:

Horch - wie Murmeln des empörten Meeres,
Wie durch hohler Felsen Becken weint ein Bach,
Stöhnt dort dumpfig tief ein schweres, leeres
Qualerpresstes Ach!

Listen! Like the murmuring of the rebellious sea,
Like a brook crying its way through a hole in hollow rock,
Deep down there in the damp you can hear the groaning of a heavy, empty
Agonised Ahh!

Schiller, Gruppe aus dem Tartarus	D 396, D 583

When brooks babble and streams sigh in pastoral poetry there is an inevitable sense of motion and change. The river is not a static image. Its flow evokes the passage of time and the inexorability of death. In Der Jüngling am Bache Schiller gives voice to a young lad sitting by the source of a river (eine Quelle) which soon turns into a flowing stream. It is not just flowing past him, it is flowing away, as is his own youth and the hope that is supposed to accompany it.  

An der Quelle saß der Knabe,	
Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz,
Und er sah sie fortgerissen,	
Treiben in der Wellen Tanz.	
Und so fliehen meine Tage	
Wie die Quelle rastlos hin,		
Und so bleichet meine Jugend,	
Wie die Kränze schnell verblühn.	

Fraget nicht, warum ich traure	
In des Lebens Blütenzeit!	
Alles freuet sich und hoffet,	
Wenn der Frühling sich erneut.
Aber diese tausend Stimmen	
Der erwachenden Natur
Wecken in dem tiefen Busen	
Mir den schweren Kummer nur.

A lad sat by the spring
Binding flowers into a wreath,
And he watched them being pulled away
Swirling in the dance of the waves.
"And that is how my days fly off
Without a rest, like this spring!
That is how my youth fades,
Just as quickly as blossoms on wreaths.

Do not ask why I am mourning
In the blossom time of life.
Everything enjoys itself and is hopeful
When spring renews itself.
But these thousand voices
Of awakening nature
Wake in the depths of my breast
Nothing but great misery.

Schiller, Der Jüngling am Bache	D 30, D 192, D 638

If a babbling brook and a flowing stream symbolise the passage of time and the course of human life what is the significance of a frozen and silent beck? This is one of the questions posed by Müller in Winterreise.

Der du so lustig rauschtest,
Du heller, wilder Fluss,
Wie still bist du geworden,
Giebst keinen Scheidegruß!

Mit harter, starrer Rinde
Hast du dich überdeckt,
Liegst kalt und unbeweglich
Im Sande ausgestreckt.

In deine Decke grab ich
Mit einem spitzen Stein
Den Namen meiner Liebsten
Und Stund und Tag hinein:

Den Tag des ersten Grußes,
Den Tag, an dem ich ging;
Um Nam und Zahlen windet
Sich ein zerbrochner Ring.

Mein Herz, in diesem Bache
Erkennst du nun dein Bild? -
Ob's unter seiner Rinde
Wohl auch so reißend schwillt?

You who used to babble with such pleasure,
You bright, savage river,
How quiet you have become,
You have not even said 'goodbye'.

With a solid, stiff crust
You have covered yourself,
You are lying cold and motionless
Stretched out in the sand.

On your surface I shall carve,
Using a sharp stone,
The name of my beloved
Along with the the date and time:

The day of our first greeting,
The day when I left,
Wound around the name and figures 
Is a broken ring.

My heart, in this stream
Do you recognise an image of yourself?
Under its crust is there
A similar tumultuous swelling?

Müller, Auf dem Flusse	D 911/7

☙

Descendant of: 

WATER  


Texts with this theme: