Lotte Lehmann's first English poem

Bridge To Eternity

You, who for a moment's span were made --
Song, word, and evanescent tone -
Are not lost forever in the shade,
In mystic darkness of a source unknown.

Boldly snatched from time's remorseless flight,
By new-found might of Science held in place,
You live, enchanted, in the glorious light
Of immemorial and eternal space.

O wondrous force! How strange it is to think
That man's unfathomed genius can prolong
The fragile chain that holds from Lethe's brink
The fleeting beauty of a moment's song.

Introduction (unused) to Eighteen Song Cycles

The Lotte Lehmann Foundation has recently purchased Lehmann's introduction to her last book, Eighteen Song Cycles. As you read it, you'll understand that, though it expressed Lehmann's thoughts, it wasn't something that a publisher would choose to put at the front of a book.

"In writing this book I feel very strongly that the young generation of singers will not care for it. The world has changed so much - there are really very few singers who can afford to give Lieder recitals of German songs. One can count them on the fingers of one hand. Opera companies have been built up - and I am the last one not to be grateful for that! But the audiences [missing word] easily guided, like more the more spectacular and understandable stories of operas, and the recitals go slowly into oblivion. And yet I feel almost forced to say what I have to say about Lieder, to keep up the interest in them, the subtle and wonderful message of beauty which they - indestructibly - tell the willing listener...Everything in life goes in circles, I believe. There may also come a time again in which one longs for the Lied. May be that then this humble book will come into its own....

I have taken some of the Cycles from my book, "More than Singing." This book is for a long time out of print. But how could I leave out in this new book, for instance Schubert's famous and moving Cycles? Therefore I have put together what in my opinion has to be assembled in one place: This book, which I send into the world, asking for understanding and kind acceptance."

Lehmann's Poetry (in English Translation)

Lehmann was blessed as a singer, poet, writer, artist and teacher. Here's a sampling of her poetry in English translations by Judy Sutcliffe.

My mother's voice of dark gold
Rings out to me from distant child days.
She could, singing, say the most beautiful things,
And carry us, instinctively, involuntarily,
Out of the twilight of the everyday.

My mother's voice of shattered glass--
So I heard her sing when grey--
A tremulous search for silent sounds,
And I saw her eyes, wet with tears.

My own voice's burning glow
Rings out to me from a long lifespan,
From many coastlines, wonderful,
Far from my white and silent shore.

My own voice of shattered glass--
Lets me measure my mother's sorrow:
My eyes brim with the heat
Of her unforgotten tears
For this treasure she and I possessed.

---------------------------------------------

Roadrushing telegraph poles—
Graywhite smokeballs of cloudplay—
My train, toward its ever distant end
Racing, stamps its wellknown melody
Across the wide, waving prairie,
Through a still and golden evening light.

This breathless forward rushing,
This never pausing, never standing still,
This restless coming, restless going on
Was the surging song of my life,
Was music to me and delight and the sound
Of the turbulent beating of my heart.

But now I feel the tumult die away—
And a deep stillness wakes in me,
As I, surfacing from chaotic night,
See the world for the first time
And its beauty entirely understand,
Falling enraptured to my knees.

God fully gave to me his blessings,
And my voice offered praise in song,
It was my inmost melody.
But now my eyes will bathe
In the new beauty of blessings yet unheard,
In newly wakened, deeply conscious life.

-----------------------------------------------

I never knew how much loveliness lives
In the branches of bare and leafless trees,
Nor that gold and silver lovingly weave themselves
Into bronze webbing in which buds dream
Of the coming, springdrunk exuberance;
I never knew of these best,

These sublime gifts, strewn before us,
I never had that time, could never rest,
Was always driven like a hunted animal.
But now the hunter is my quarry.
I've caught what hunted me, Time—and today
Upon its wings it has renewed my world.

---------------------------------------------

I was looking through old music scores today—
And the past hurled itself into my present...
O bounteous beauty that once was mine...
O fatefully renewed
In fleeing, world-vanishing time!
The delight of transformation—who can measure it,
Who only lives ONE life, bounded by reality?
Who never knows that sweet self-forgetfulness,
That lavish squandering of the self in Time,
The ego released in singing,
Loving and suffering—floating as if on wings
To a destiny foreign yet strangely one's own,
Soaring on the wings of music!

Eternal Flight

The Lotte Lehmann Foundation has recently purchased Lehmann's only novel Eternal Flight published in 1937.

Here are some excerpts in English translation by Elsa Krauch.

Of the lead character, a dancer, Lehmann writes:
"She was like a bird of passage, brilliant and restless. Her life taxed her energies to the fullest. She had painfuly little time for herself. Her ambition knew no bounds. Fame--always purchased dearly--demanded its price of complete self-surrender..."

Lehmann describes a famous opera singer:
"She was a strange creature. People thought her haughty, cruel, calculating. In reality she was none of these things. She was a miserably lonely woman, beset by a frantic fear of anyting that might disturb this loneliness....She had been happy today when she was singing Isolde. It was as though her real life did not begin until she stood there on the stage in another incarnation, released from herself and her loneliness, experiencing joys and sorrows that were not her own, yet of which she was so keely conscious. Her art was no profession to her, no mere means of making money."

Lieder Interpretation

An Introduction to Eighteen Song Cycles: Studies in Their Interpretation by Lotte Lehmannn; published in 1972.

Interpretation means: individual understanding and reproduction. How then is it possible to teach interpretation? It seems almost paradoxical to emphasize the necessity for individuality in interpretation and at the same time want to explain my own conceptions of singing. First and foremost I want to say that this book will fail in its purpose, if the young singers, for whom I am writing it, should consider my conceptions as something final and try to imitate them instead of developing their own interpretations which should spring with originality and vitality from within themselves.

For imitation is, and can only be, the enemy of artistry. Everything which has the breath of life is changeable: a momentary feeling often makes me alter an interpretation. Do not build up your songs as if they were encased in stone walls. They must soar from the warm, pulsing beat of your own heart, blessed by the interpretation of the moment. Only from life itself may life be born.

What I want to try to explain here is not any final interpretation, but an approach which may be an aid towards the development of your individual conceptions. I want to point a way which might lead from the lack of understanding of those singers, who seem to consider only voice quality and smooth technique, to the boundless world of expression. And it will be seen that there is not just one, but an infinitely varied pattern of ways, which lead to this goal. Only he who seeks it with his whole heart will find his own approach to interpretation.

I have listened to many young singers, and have found with ever increasing astonishment that they consider their preparation finished when they have developed a lovely voice, a serviceable technique and musical accuracy. At this point they consider themselves ready to appear before the public.

Certainly no one can question that technique is the all-important foundation—the a b c of singing. It goes without saying that no one can master too carefully the technique of voice production. Complete mastery of the voice as an instrument is an ideal towards which every singer must work assiduously. But that technique must be mastered to the point of being unconscious, before you can really become an interpreter.

That God-given instrument—the voice—must be capable of responding with the greatest subtlety to every shade of every emotion. But it must be subordinate, it must only be the foundation, the soil from which true art flowers.

It is only with the greatest hesitation that I dare put into words my ideas regarding the interpretation of Lieder and of French Chansons. For is it not dangerous to give definite expression to something which must essentially be born from inspiration and be, above all things, vitally alive? Yet I have so often been urged by experienced musicians to help the younger generation with such a book as this, that I have decided to put down my ideas in spite of my hesitation. But I should like to take as the motto of this book Goethe's words from Faust: 'Grau, teurer Freund, ist alle Theorie —und grün des Lebens gold'ner Baum.' ('Grey, dear friend, is all theory and green the golden tree of life'.) So may you young, aspiring singers, for whom I write this book, take the fullness of my experience, of my studies, of my development and discoveries as the simile of the golden tree, but it is for you to pluck the fresh, living fruit from its branches. It is for you to infuse with your own spirit, that which comes to you as advice, as suggestion. When you have a deep inner conviction about a song—the words as well as the music—then be sure that your conception is a right one, even though it may differ from what is traditional.

For what is tradition?

The mother earth, from which springs everything which may grow and flower. The creator's conception of an idea, a work of art, which has been handed down from generation to generation, which has been cherished and developed until it spreads before us as a network of determined paths which are to be followed without questioning. Strict tradition dictates that not a single step may be taken from these paths.

But you are young and the youth of every generation is eager and should be eager for new ways. You have a different viewpoint from that of your parents and teachers. You do not necessarily care for the old, recommended, well-travelled roads. You want to venture into new, alluring fields, to lose yourselves in the mysterious depths of the forests. I know that I am committing a fearful sin against holy tradition when I say: Excellent! Seek your own way! Do not become paralysed and enslaved by the set patterns which have been created of old. Build from your own youthful feeling, your own hesitant thoughts and your own flowering perception—and help to further that beauty which has grown from the roots of tradition. Do not misunderstand me: naturally I do not mean that you should despise the aspirations and the knowledge of earlier generations. I only mean that tradition is not an end but a beginning. Do not lose yourself in its established pattern but let your own conceptions and expression be nourished from it as a flower blooms from the life forces provided by its roots. Simply let them bloom more richly in the light of your own imagination. Certainly you will make mistakes. You will often take the wrong road before you find your true way, just as I have. I grew up in Germany, in the tradition of Lieder singing. I might have come much earlier to that holiest of all—the Lied, had I not been so completely immersed in the theatre. I lived, so to speak, in the opera house and took my few concerts on the side without much preparation. May Schubert, Schumann, Brahms and Wolf forgive me for the sins which I committed in their name!

As the reputation which I had won through my work in opera became known in other countries, concerts became more frequent, so that there dawned upon me a new and overpowering realization: that as a Lieder singer, I was at the very dawn of an awakening.

This was the first step: the awareness of my ignorance.

My approach was a hesitant one and I often went astray. In the beginning I felt that this came more from the words than from the music. If I had not been born a singer, endowed with a touch of the golden quality of voice of my good mother, I would without doubt have become an actress. Actually, throughout my whole life I have envied those who are free to express without the limitation of opera singing. So in singing Lieder, the words, the poem became the main thing for me, until—much later—I found and captured the true balance between words and music.

In general I find that the words are too much neglected. On the other hand I should like to protect you from the stage which I had to go through: of feeling first the word and only finally the melody. Learn to feel as a whole that which is a whole in complete harmony: poem and music. Neither can be more important than the other. First there was the poem. That gave the inspiration for the song. Like a frame, music encloses the word picture—and now comes your interpretation, breathing life into this work of art, welding words and music with equal feeling into one whole, so that the poet sings and the composer becomes poet and two arts are born anew as one.

That is the Lied.

Dynamic shadowings are like sketches but the enchanting in-between colours alone can give the tone picture a personal quality. There is a clear, silvery pianissimo which sounds light and ethereal, and there is a veiled pianissimo which trembles with passion and restrained desire. There is a bright forte--strong and forceful like a fanfare—and a darkly coloured forte, which breaks out sombrely, in grief and pain. The 'veiled' piano which I have mentioned is a vibration of tone which has no place in the realm of technique and yet, in my opinion, it cannot be neglected in inspired singing; in fact, it is of the utmost importance. How much restrained passion can be conveyed by a veiled tone and how much floating purity in a clear flute-like pianissimo!

One seldom hears a voice which is capable of altering its timbre. For me it goes absolutely against the grain to sing always with the same tone colour. Dynamic gradations seem dead without the animating interplay of dark and light, clear and restrained.

It almost seems superfluous to emphasize that a phrase must always have a main word and, with it, a musical highpoint. Yet it is incredible how often this elementary and self-evident fact is neglected. Again and again I am astonished by a lack of musical feeling for the essential nature of a phrase. Every phrase must be sung with a sweeping line, not just as a series of words which have equal weight and no grace. It is the floating sweep, not just a long breath, which makes the beautifully rounded phrase. The best help in learning to feel how a phrase should sound is to recite the poem. In speaking, you would never give equal emphasis to every syllable as you so often do in singing—through eagerness to hold the tempo or to give each note its exact value or above all to show that your singing is supported by excellent breath control. In my opinion, more important than all these factors, valuable as they are, is giving life to the phrase through emphasizing what is important and making subsidiary the words which have only a connecting value.

Singing should never follow a straight line. It should have a sweeping flow, it should glide in soft rhythmical waves which follow one another harmoniously. (I am referring here to the musical line of a phrase and not to sliding from syllable to syllable which generally has a sentimentalizing effect and should only be made use of most sparingly.) Each new sentence should have a new beginning, the new thought should live, should breathe, emerging from the previous sentence. Create yourself each new thought as if it had just come to life in you. Let it arise from your own inner feeling. Do not sing just a melody, sing a poem. Music lifting the poem from the coldness of the spoken word has transfigured it with new beauty. But you, the singer, must make your listeners realize that the poem, far from losing its beauty through becoming music, has been ennobled, born anew in greater splendour and loveliness. Never forget: recite the poem when you sing—sing the music as you recite the words of the poem in the Lied. Only from the equal value of both creations can perfection arise.

I should like to touch here upon a question, which often arises, as to whether a woman should sing Lieder which, according to the poem, are written for a man. I say with emphasis: Yes!

Why should a singer be denied a vast number of wonderful songs, if she has the power to create an illusion which will make her audience believe in it? It would be a very sad indication of incapacity if one could not awaken in the listener sufficient imagination to carry him with one into the realms of creative fantasy. If you sing of love and happiness, you must be a young person convincingly—and perhaps in reality you are neither young nor beautiful. The stage sets limitations which simply do not exist on the concert platform: on the stage you see the person who is represented, your representation must in some measure correspond outwardly to the character which you portray. The imagination of the audience has its limits: it sees the figure before it in the framework of the role, surrounded by the characters of the story which is being unfolded. In a certain sense it is very much more difficult to retain the illusion of a portrayal when the limits are set by reality. On the other hand on the concert stage it is the unlimited power of your art which must change you into just that figure which you seek to bring to life. You are without any material aids, without any gestures, without the footlights which separate so wonderfully the world of the stage from the world of reality. You stand close to the audience. Almost one with it, you take it, so to speak, by the hand and say: 'Let us live this song together! Forget with me that I cannot have a thousand real forms, for I will make you believe in all these forms as I change my personality in every song. Let us together put aside reality, and let us, singing and hearing, soar away into the limitless realms of fantasy.' As Mignon says in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister—'und jene himmlischen Gestalten, sie fragen nicht nach Mann und Weib . . .' ('And there each celestial presence shall question naught of man and maid . . .')—so the singer soars above all limitations, is young, is beautiful, is man or woman, longing and fulfillment, death and resurrection.

It is my hope that through this book I may open a door which may lead you to feeling what you understand—and understanding what you feel.

The road to the ever unattainable goal, perfection, is long and hazardous. No success with the public, no criticisms however wonderful, could ever make me believe that I have reached 'perfection.' Everyone has his own limitations and imperfections. Everyone is to a certain extent the victim of his nerves, his momentary mood and disposition. I am rightly reproached for breathing too often and so breaking phrases. This is one of my unconquerable nervous inadequacies. It is often not enough to know and to feel and to recognize. Human, all too human are the weaknesses under which all of us suffer, each in our own way. In a certain sense, it seems that perfect technique and interpretation which comes from the heart and soul can never go hand in hand and that this combination is an unattainable ideal. For the very emotion which enables the singer to carry her audience with her into the realm of artistic experience is the worst enemy of a crystal-clear technique. Perhaps, in this case, I am the well-known fox for whom the grapes hang too high! But I have found, again and again, that a singer who delights in technique (much as I may admire her virtuosity) still, in some way, leaves my heart cold. Do not misunderstand me: control of the voice is the soil from which interpretation springs. But do not despair over small imperfections, over mistakes which are difficult to eliminate. For if your spirit can soar above technique and float in the lofty regions of creative art, you have fulfilled your mission as a singer. For what mission can be greater than that of giving to the world hours of exaltation in which it may forget the misery of the present, the cares of everyday life, and lose itself in the eternally pure world of harmony ?

Listening to My Old Records

by Lotte Lehmann

[in the booklet of Angel's "Great Recordings of the Century" LP COLO 112]

Listening to my old records—which I very seldom do—is a rather frustrating sensation for me. It makes me sad that " my time " is over. That my voice, once the instrument of my emotions, does not obey me any more, only—quite naturally—obeying the cruel demands of time.... I don't belong to those who live in the past. I like to look forward, not back. The present and the future have yet promises for me—and always a goal. But, listening to these recordings, the past opens once more its golden gates, and the radiant light of happy memories envelops me anew.

Fidelio! How could I ever try to relate the excitement, the intoxication of those times! From the first performance—at the Beethoven centenary—this was one of my favourite roles. Franz Schalk, at that time Director of the Vienna Staatsoper, wanted me to sing it, brushing away my fear that the role might be vocally too dramatic. I am eternally grateful to him—because singing Leonore, acting Leonore, was one of my greatest artistic experiences. I sang it under the baton of great conductors: Schalk,Walter, Beecham, Strauss, Furtwängler and Toscanini. The whole performance under Schalk went to Paris—and Leonore brought me my first French medal, the Golden Palm, which later on was followed by the Legion of Honour.

What memories! It is all so long ago that I may be permitted to mention it without being accused of boasting.... But you see, I lived this life in another world, upon another star, brighter than my world of today.

My repertory was rather varied. It certainly is a big step from Fidelio to Werther's Lotte, from Beethoven to Massenet. But what a challenge to do roles which are so entirely different! I loved singing Lotte. Our Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra seemed to like it too: they had always a lot of fun when at my first entrance I was surrounded by "my family "—all the children chanting "Lotte, Lotte, Lotte! " I never forget how all my friends below in the orchestra turned their heads, smilingly greeted me, as if they joined the action on the stage.... Most of the time, Alfred Piccaver was my Werther—his heavenly voice caresses yet my ears.

The role of Ariadne was really a "second love " for me: my first one was the Composer, this short and excitingly lovely part in the so-called "Prelude" of Ariadne auf Naxos. When I came to Vienna (1916) I got the role of the Composer as understudy (which hurt my feelings terribly by the way . . .). But Richard Strauss heard me once in one of the last rehearsals before the premiere, when I substituted for the excellent artist [Marie Gutheil-Sehoder] who was chosen to sing the premiere—and immediately he decided to change his plan: I sang the premiere. It was the beginning of my "career", an opening of doors into the great world.... One will understand that I always had a deep love for this role—and when later on I took over Ariadne I always stood in the wings during the Prelude, envy in my heart, listening to the Composer and wishing it would be possible to sing both roles....

Once something very funny happened: when Bacchus appears, Ariadne greets him singing, "Hail to thee, O messenger of messengers", but strangely enough I forgot it, thinking that Bacchus had these lines—God knows why I was so mixed up! . . . Strauss sent me a card the next day, saying: "Because the high B flat was so beautiful, I forgive you. In the next performance you will have to sing the phrase twice. But never mind, it was very lovely . . . Your sincere admirer, Strauss."

The sentimental, sweet Agathe in Weber's Freischütz has a special significance for me: it was my debut performance in Vienna in 1916. And, two years earlier, I had taken part in a very good performance of this opera in the wonderful open-air theatre of Zoppot, with Richard Tauber as my Max.

D'Albert's Die toten Augen also played an important part in my 1ife: the role of the blind woman whom Christ gives back her sight, and who—shocked by reality—prefers to be blind again, was the role I chose for my farewell performance in Hamburg in 1916, when I left the Hamburg Stadttheater for Vienna's Hofoper. It is not great music, but the role is magnificent and gives an opportunity to act as well as to sing—which I always especially enjoyed.

Das Wunder der Heliane by Erich Korngold was another exciting event. This opera is not very well known, but the recorded aria was chosen for that reason, I suppose. It is very melodious and a kind of "luscious" music, demanding the utmost of vocal power and endurance. The aria is the confession and defence of the lovey Queen, who is accused of immorality because she tried to give beauty to the youth who—innocently—was condemned to death.

What a change to sing Frau Fluth in Die lustigen Weiber von Windsor! Is it not wonderful to be able to live so entirely different personalities, living many lives, feeling the heartbeat of so many people? Frau Fluth—what fun it was, to become the gaily scheming happy woman who—in this recorded aria—rehearses the act with which she plans to fool the silly old Sir John! I think I always had as much fun as the audience.

Another humorous role, that of Rosalinde in Die Fledermaus, is a very pleasant memory for me because of the wonderful performance we had at Covent Garden, under the baton of Bruno Walter, with Elisabeth Schumann as Adele. I really don't think I was very good in this role, but the gaiety of the music may add something enjoyable to this record—at least, that is the reason it has been included. (1)

And now, as the last, we have Isolde's Liebestod. Isolde—the role I never sang, the role which I longed to sing through many, many years—never being able to fulfil this dream: my voice was not "high-dramatic"—I believe the role would have been the end of my singing career. Oh—at that time of my life I was touchingly foolish enough to say: "So be it my end! Could there be a better way of losing one's voice? " Fortunately I was wisely advised—and buried this dream. But at least I sang the Liebestod! I sang it for the first time under the baton of Arturo Toscanini in Vienna. For me it was one of those unforgettable hours of blissful abandonment, of dying in the surging waves of music, forgetting the world of reality . . . "Ertrinken, versinken" —there is nothing like it.

Now I close the shining doors of the past again and am back in my Today. It is good and wonderful, it is full of activities, of deeply gratifying work. I hope I will have yet the strength for some time to come, to look forward. Yesterday was beautiful—but there is always a beautiful Tomorrow.

1 Mme Lehmann is far too modest. London rightly adored her Rosalinde, and on the record her comical intonation (at the beginning of the second verse) on the word 'Pascha' shows how completely she entered into the fun of the part.

Lotte Lehmann on Der Rosenkavalier:
Perspectives from Her Spoken Interpretation

by Dr. Daniel Jacobson
Professor of Music, Western Michigan University.

Lotte Lehmann enjoyed a long and illustrious association with Der Rosenkavalier. She was the first singer to perform, in succession, all three of the opera's principal soprano roles, and she was the composer's favorite Marschallin. Lehmann was fascinated with the interpretative complexities of Rosenkavalier, and through her own diverse experiences and a unique perspective derived from her many conversations about the work with both Strauss and Hofmannsthal, she became one of the great authorities on the subject. Although her books and other published writings devote considerable space to her views on this opera, the following—excerpted from an operalogue presented by Mme Lehmann in August1958 to preview a production of Rosenkavalier at the Music Academy of the West in Santa Barbara, California, where she taught—contains her distilled insights into this work. Even though the informal nature of the remarks, coupled with the speaker's occasionally irregular English, renders a verbatim transcript somewhat inappropriate for a final-form written context, the original format and content of Mme Lehmann's text has been carefully preserved. The reel-to-reel tapes that were the source of this lecture are housed in the Lotte Lehmann Archives of the Library of the University of California at Santa Barbara.

The publication of written and visual Lehmann materials is by kind permission of Dr. Frances Holden and the Lotte Lehmann Archives of the Library of the University of California at Santa Barbara.

Lehmann Speaks:

Der Rosenkavalier is an opera which has played a substantial part in my life as an artist. I think you know that the Marschallin is one of my favorite roles and was also the favorite of my audiences all over the world. I worked my way up to the Marschallin, so to speak. I started with the role of Sophie and then sang Octavian for quite a while until I took over the Marschallin, which I sang many times and which in fact was the very last role I performed in my career as an opera singer. But I don't want to talk about myself tonight at all. I want to tell you the story of Rosenkavalier.

You may say: "But we know Rosenkavalier. We have seen it." But I had a very revealing experience after my book My Many Lives came out—a book on opera, in which I analyze several of my roles and in which I devote considerable time to the role of the Marschallin. In response to my commentary, I received many letters from people who had seen Rosenkavalier numerous times and had thought that they had known it precisely, yet they explained that my insights helped them understand the opera much better. (By the way, this book is out of print, so this is not a commercial.) I want you to know this opera as well as I do. I have lived with these parts. I have lived in these parts. They were such a large part of my life, and therefore it is my desire to help you understand this opera better than any public that has ever listened to Rosenkavalier.

The story takes place in the early years of the reign of the Empress Maria Theresa in Austria. She was a very highly moral woman, and she had a strict eye on the people at the court. But the people had a strict eye on the French court, where the life was a rather frivolous one. They were very successful in imitating this frivolity, and the empress could not do a thing about it. So, it may not surprise you when I tell you that Marie Therese, the wife of the great field marshal Prince von Werdenberg, had several lovers in her married life —all of the others did it, so why shouldn't she?!

The Marschallin is a woman between the ages. By the way, I have often been asked, "How old is the Marschallin really?" Strauss and Hofmannsthal said this is a woman in her thirties, because in this eighteenth-century setting a woman in her late thirties was considered already an old woman. But I always have felt her older—in her forties. It goes more with our times, because today a woman of thirty would probably never fall in love with such a young boy—it sounds highly improbable to me. Being at this critical age, the Marschallin has been attracted by a seventeen-year-old boy, the enchantingly handsome Count Octavian Rofrano. She has an affair with him, and after we recover from our shock in this realization, we have to excuse her. She has always been surrounded by overly sophisticated men, by men who flirt and who play the game of love to the utmost, and she is a little tired of such men. Then this young impetuous boy comes into her life, full of fire and adoration for her, and thus it is understandable that she takes him as her lover.

When the curtain rises, we see the very peccant situation of the morning after Octavian and the Marschallin have spent the night together. Hofmannsthal's libretto specifies that the Marschallin lies in bed and Octavian kneels beside her; however, at the time of the premiere, the German empress would have been carried away in an ambulance if she had seen a bed on the stage, so this item was strictly forbidden. But today, the bed is always used. Perhaps I am a terrible prude, but I don't like it. I saw such a scenario at the Metropolitan, and it was very embarrassing to me. The Marschallin was lying in bed, but one did not see her—only her knees. Octavian was kneeling beside the bed, and really there was not much which was left to the imagination. Our performance at the Music Academy will do it in the good old Vienna tradition —with both of them sitting on a sofa.

Octavian and the Marschallin have a very tender conversation which is interrupted by the arrival of breakfast, which is brought to the bedside by a little page boy. In fear of being discovered, Octavian has quickly hidden, but he is mortified in realizing that he has left his sword out in full view. When the page boy disappears, the Marschallin reproaches Octavian for this oversight and reminds him that in the bedroom of a lady a gentleman never leaves his sword! Octavian is very embarrassed. He already suffers from an inferiority complex. He is intimidated by all the very mature and sophisticated people who surround the Marschallin, and he is disturbed by how boyish they make him feel. Affectionately, the Marschallin restores him to good spirits.

This intimate mood is suddenly disrupted by a loud noise, which is thought to be the sound of the Marschallin's husband returning earlier than expected from a hunt. Octavian, in chivalrous exuberance, wants to defend her and expose this tryst to her husband. She is very frightened that Octavian might do so, for that is the last thing she wants! She wants him to hide. But you must know she is not frightened of her husband. She has learned to respect and to admire him, for he has made a great career in his life. He is one of the most important personalities in Austria—a great field marshal—and she is proud of him and his position. But her heart has never trembled when he draws her near, and this is why she searched for the delights of love in the arms of other men. The discovery of such a lady with a lover would in itself be a somewhat ordinary occurrence at the court—as I said, all the married ladies had secret lovers. But if she was found with Octavian it would be especially embarrassing for one reason: she feared that her husband would look at her scornfully and say, "Oh, you are growing old. . . a seventeen-year-old! . . . that's now your lover?" This particular humiliation she would find difficult to withstand.

Fortunately, it is not her husband. She recognizes it as quite another voice, that of her cousin Baron Ochs of Lerchenau. He is a middle-aged, ill-mannered country bachelor who has spent most of his life in unrefined pursuits. He is always very unsympathetic toward her, and she sorely dislikes him.

Suddenly, the Marschallin remembers receiving a letter from him several days earlier, but she does not have the faintest idea of its contents—in her preoccupation with Octavian she neglected to open it. It amuses her that the boy could confuse her life in such a way.

Meanwhile, while trying to hide, Octavian finds the dress of a chambermaid and assumes this disguise in hopes of slipping out unnoticed. Surely, with so many servants in the household he would not attract much attention. As he tries to exit he bumps up against the Baron, who thinks he is a very attractive young girl. In an attempt to strike up a conversation, the Baron says to "her," "I hope I have not hurt you." Octavian acts very shy and embarrassed. As the Baron turns to speak to the Marschallin, Octavian tries again to escape; however, he runs into two servants who are bewildered by their inability to recognize him. To avoid a scene, Octavian is forced back into the room.

By the way, I am also often asked, "Why has Strauss written the role of Octavian for a woman and not for a man?" I asked this of Strauss himself, and he gave me two reasons: one artistic and one practical, which is very typical for Strauss. The artistic reason is that he was intrigued by the idea of writing something for three soprano voices. The practical reason is: who can find a tenor who looks beautiful, who looks seventeen, and yet is mature enough to sing and play this role? Even if such a man does exist, Strauss jokingly argued that we could only perform Rosenkavalier in that one town where this beautiful tenor lives! I must say that Strauss liked his operas to be widely performed, not only because he wanted to expand his musical reputation, but also because he liked to get the royalties.

But back to the story. When Octavian finds no means of escape, the Marschalhn becomes rather embarrassed and uncertain of what to do. She gives him a sign that he had better stay and act as a servant girl, who is quickly given the name of Mariandel. Baron Ochs tells the Marschallin why he has come, as explained in his letter: He is in the process of marrying a very young girl who is fresh out of the convent. Her father has been newly ennobled by the empress, but more importantly he owns half of Vienna and is in ill health. So, of course, Baron Ochs believes these are the makings of a wonderful marriage.

The Marschallin is initially amused at the thought of the Baron taking a bride, but when she hears who he will marry, she becomes disgusted. She recalls how she similarly left the convent to marry a man that she did not love. She knows too well what this girl will go through; except for her, fate will be even worse, for at least the Marschallin had the good fortune to marry a decent man. There is no conversation about this—this is only her inner reaction to the Baron. The Baron has come to ask her if she can recommend a young cavalier who can present the ceremonial silver rose to the bride on his behalf. It was customary that the fiancée send such a messenger as a sign of love to precede his proposal. The Baron knows no one of such refinement, and thus he asks the Marschallin for her counsel.

Now the shrewd Marschallin conceives a wonderful idea: She has said to herself: "One day soon Baron Ochs will meet Octavian, and he will remember this girl whom he has seen in my bedroom. He is too knowledgeable in the ways of intrigue not to put two and two together and discover my affair, and certainly he will broadcast it to all Vienna." So she reasons that if she shows him a picture of Octavian as her candidate to bear the silver rose, the Baron will see the resemblance with this servant girl, who can be explained as the illegitimate child of Octavian's father. The Marschallin flawlessly executes her plan and then provides an exit for Octavian by commanding him to usher in those who are waiting outside to see her.

Now comes the so-called levée. It was customary that prominent ladies of society would be attended to every morning—have their hair and hands done, be made up, et cetera—an event which took considerable time. To help pass the hours, merchants and various advisors would come to consult the lady. For instance, during the Marschallin's levée she is met by a milliner showing his hats, and then by an animal vendor. Once in Vienna this collection of animals included a little monkey, because the libretto says "he has dogs, birds, and a monkey." So the man came in with the monkey, but this was eliminated in subsequent performances because the audience didn't listen to the music or the action—they just watched the monkey.

Next, a writer comes to show the Marschallin his newest book. Then the chef brings in his menu for her approval. During my performances in Vienna they always tried to make me laugh, so they came up with the craziest menus —"salad of worms," "snakeskin fries"—oh, terrible things and I always had to look at it. Finally, the hairdresser comes, but seeing that she looks unusually tired he decides to do something special. He tries very hard but without success, for she takes one look into the mirror and says to him, "My dear Hippolyte, today you have made an old woman out of me," which greatly saddens her. She is not furious—she says it quite kindly—but she is depressed in realizing that her days are numbered and she must be more reasonable from now on. This is the critical moment in which she first really sees the lines in her face and the tiredness of her eyes. Yes, she did have a rather tiring night I suppose, but she should have been accustomed to that by now.

During all this, Baron Ochs has been intensely negotiating with an attorney in an effort to increase his compensation from Faninal, the father of his bride-to-be. In addition to the dowry, the Baron insists on receiving a castle and several other things. When the attorney will not accommodate his demands, he becomes furious, shouting, "I want it!" This moment is especially awkward because the Baron has disturbed the lovely aria of an Italian court singer, whose dismay is calmed by a gentle gesture from the Marschallin. She calls for all to vacate her chambers, and, with some difficulty, even the Baron is convinced to leave.

Alone now, the Marschallin sings her wonderful and very famous monologue, in which she recalls her own youth and her life in the world of the field marshal. She recalls: "I was such a lovely young girl, but where is that girl now? And where is the snow from years past—it is gone, gone forever. I used to be a young girl, but soon I'll be old. And when I pass people on the street they will look at me and say, 'There goes the marshal's old princess'. Oh, how can this possibly happen? Why does God make us look at this with open eyes? It would be so much better if He would conceal it from us so that we are suddenly old without feeling the change". It is humorous, but in a painful sort of way. Yet she realizes that this is something that we all have to endure, and it is how we endure it that makes all the difference.

At this moment Octavian returns. She had almost forgotten that he is yet with her. With boyish egotism, Octavian asks if he is the reason for her sadness, or if she is still fearing her husband's return? The Marschallin says with a smile, "Maybe a little bit, but I'll know what to do." Octavian, in his youthful exuberance, wants to embrace her and renew their previous bliss, but she rejects him, saying: "Don't be as every man is! I thought you were different, but now I see that you are thoughtless and cruel like all other men!" Octavian says: "I don't know how they are. I only know one thing, that I love you, I adore you, and I want to be yours forever." She replies, "Octavian, very soon there will come a time when we will separate, for you will find a girl who is younger and lovelier than I."

It disturbs her a bit that she has to say lovelier because she herself is a very famous beauty; thus, in her heart she hopes that this younger one would not really be more beautiful than she. Octavian says: "Never! Not today and not tomorrow!" She says: "Beware, sooner or later that time is coming. And what is time? It is something intangible, but it is always around us. First, we live through time without fearing it, without realizing its presence, but then suddenly there comes a day when time is overwhelmingly there—when you feel time. You feel it going through your forehead, you feel it in your hands, you see it in the mirror. You feel the time between us drifting slowly away like sand in an hourglass, and you cannot stop it. Sometimes I am so afraid of time that I get up in the middle of the night, and I go from one clock to the other and make it stop. But that's so silly. It doesn't help. One shouldn't be afraid of time. Time is something which God has given to us, and we have to live through it, and with it, and in dignity."

Octavian does not want to listen to all this. He says: "How can you be so philosophical when I am here—when I tell you how I adore you? I am near you and you talk so much!" She just reiterates to him that he will leave her one day and then admits: "It is as difficult for you as it is for me—don't think that this is easy. Yet, there is one great wisdom that I have learned in my life: one must have humor, one must have lightness of spirit, one cannot go to pieces about things which you cannot alter, which you cannot change. Because if you do, God will not help you. God has given you time to live, and you must find the strength to be worthy of this gift."

Octavian has not understood a word she has said. He has only heard her talk of God so much as to sound like a preacher. He cries, "It is inconceivable that I should not be near you nor ever kiss you again,” but the Marschallin responds by asking him to leave. At this moment he realizes that she is sincere in this request, and he turns to go. As he takes one final gaze at her, she adds, "I will now go to church." This is too much for him. He puts on his sword, and is very, very hurt. She says, "When I have made my confession, and when all my sins are forgiven, then I will visit my Uncle Greisenklau," who is an old and paralyzed man—and very boring, I might add—"and I will dine with him, since that will serve as a kind of punishment which I must bear in repentance for our encounter last night." She tells Octavian that later she will have a message for him if he takes his horse and meets her carriage in the Prater. "There I will sit in the carriage looking very beautiful"—she doesn't say that, but she thinks it—"and I will be proud to have you escorting my chariot because you are so young and handsome. And you will be very proud of me, that I, the great wife of the field marshal, allow you to ride beside my carriage." He thanks her and kisses her hand and attempts a kiss on the lips, which she refuses, saying, "You'd better go." Now he is very hurt, and he departs.

Sometimes we want something, and yet at the same time we don't want it. The Marschallin wanted Octavian to go away, but still his departure was quite unpleasant for her. She felt that he left in anger and that perhaps she should not have made him leave without a kiss. She considers calling him back but realizes it is better not to. She sends for her little page and gives him the box containing the silver rose, saying: "Take this to Count Octavian. He already knows what he must do with it." When the page leaves, the Marschallin has a strange premonition. She gets the distinct feeling that she has done something very foolish. "Perhaps I shouldn't have sent the rose to Octavian. Oh, what am I saying? I am very nervous and tired and I have to sit down." She sits down and accidentally her glance gazes upon the mirror. She sees how drawn her face looks. She takes a little hand mirror, and she looks at the lines in her face, saying, "Oh, this is a face I never want to see again." And she is in great desperation for a moment. But soon her positive philosophy comes forth again, and she thinks to herself, "I knew this would happen, and I want to endure it with a smile. I am the Marschallin. I am not an average woman who goes to pieces over such things. I have to live up to this." And as she smiles, the curtain closes, signaling the end of the first act.

The second act gave both Strauss and Hofmannsthal tremendous headaches. At one point in their correspondence concerning Rosenkevalier, Strauss expresses his feeling that the whole second act must be redone. He says, "The act is lacking in spirit, and that is not what I intended." After considerable effort, the composer and librettist together found the right way. The result is very wonderful.

The second act has a rather complicated story. Octavian comes bearing the silver rose to the young and enchanting Sophie. Naturally he falls in love with her. In the moment, he knows that this Sophie is the great love of his life, and the image of the Marschallin has faded from his view. But Sophie thinks, "If the messenger is this handsome, how much more beautiful must my bridegroom be?" However, when Baron Ochs makes his disgusting entrance, she is horrified and tells her father that she will never marry this man. The Baron behaves dreadfully. He has no idea how one should treat a decent girl because he never had the occasion. So he handles her in his accustomed way, which shocks both her and Octavian. Faninal, the father, is in an awkward position, for on the one hand he desperately wants his daughter to become a baroness and join the long line of Austrian nobility. But, at the same time, he sees that this Baron does not behave in the manner of a nobleman. Neverthcless, he is so eager to have this marriage consummated that he says: "Perhaps it is all right. Aristocrats may be like that—I don’t know—I’ve only been one for a few days." Thus, he is not of any help to Sophie—nor is her governess, Marianne, who is overjoyed that a Baron would marry into this family. She tries to convince Sophie that marrying the Baron is the honorable thing, to do and that she should not jeopardize her position by fighting his advances. Eventually, the Baron goes to attend to the necessary legal paperwork, leaving Octavian and Sophie alone. As they come together, Octavian promises that, with her help, he will defend her. By the way, in the first act during, the levée two Italians appear, an uncle and his niece—at least that's what they say they are. These two intriguers have offered their services to the Baron for a price--vowing to keep an eye on his bride-to-be. Here in the second act they observe Octavian and Sophie embracing each other and professing their mutual love. When informed of this, the Baron is not distururbed. In fact, he himself had encouraged the cavalier to flirt with Sophie, hoping the young lad could loosen up her inhibitions so the Baron could take full advantage of her later.

When Ochs finally confronts Sophie, she is beside herself. Octavian intercedes, explaining that she no longer intends to marry him. The Baron asks: "Oh, doesn't she like me? Well, she will learn to,” as he beckons her towards him. A terrible confrontation commences between the Baron and Octavian, who wants to duel at that very moment. In the course of the scuffle, Octavian's sword scratches the Baron's arm, but the Baron, of course, makes a tremendous scene as if he is mortally wounded. There is a great uproar. The doctor comes in as well as the servants. Faninal says: "Oh, they have murdered my son-in-law. This is terrible. My daughhter will marry him anyway and if he is dead she'll just have to marry a dead man. If she refuses, she must go to the cloister and stay there for the rest of her life"

During the commotion, the two Italian intriguers, who are angered by the Baron's refusal to pay them their due, decide that Octavian would certainly pay them much better. So when Octavian is thrown out by the father, the Italians impede his exit and offer their services to him. Octavian concocts a brilliant plan: he will show Faninal what a worthless rascal this Baron Ochs is, because if Faninal can be convinced of this, he surely must love his own daughter enough to stop her marriage to such a scoundrel. This would free the way for Octavian to take her as his own. The Count engages these two to assist in the trickery that unfolds in the final act. Meanwhile, Faninal and the others tend to the Baron, who is eventually consoled with a bottle of wine and a featherbed.

The third act begins in a private room of a disreputable inn, where the final preparations for the intrigue are being set into place. Several men ready themselves behind trap doors, as the Baron enters with Octavian, who is once again playing the role of the chambermaid, Mariandel. An extremely humorous situation develops as Octavian pretends to lose control through intoxication, and the enamored Baron tries to kiss him. But upon seeing Octavian's face he is reminded of the young man who wounded him and of the rival he so despises. At this moment, the men look out of the trap doors one-by-one, making the Baron think he is going crazy. He rings for his servants, but in their place appears an Italian woman with four little children. She pretends to be his wife, as the children unceasingly cry out, "Papa, papa!" Hearing the disturbance, a police officer enters the room and begins his interrogation by asking the Baron to identify himself. He answers, "I am Baron Faninal, and this woman is Mrs. Faninal." (Here Mme Lehmann condenses too much. The Innkeeper identifies Ochs to the Police Officer [“Das ist der Herr Baron von Lerchenau”], Ochs claims that Octavian-Mariandel is Sophie, Faninal’s daughter [“Ist die Junger Faninal, Sophia Anna Barbara, Tochter des...Herrn von Faninal”] and upon his entrance, Faninal identifies himself and sends at once for the real Sophie, who is waiting downstairs in the coach.) Octavian is infuriated that even the low and tactless Baron would dare to defame Sophie's name and imply that she would ever make a rendezvous with him in this disgusting place.

Meanwhile, one of the conspirators has sought out Faninal, who arrives with his daughter and faints from disbelief at the sight. He has finally seen what a dreadful person the Baron is, and he withdraws his blessing of the marriage. Now the Marschallin arrives, and very few people understand why she comes. In fact, one man in particular, who should know better, has recounted to me this absolutely incorrect explanation: she comes to aid the Baron because he is her cousin. Not at all! Actually, one of the Baron's body servants, who is known to be Och's illegitimate son, asks the Marschallin to help get the Baron out of this predicament. He explains how the Baron has been entrapped by the Marschallin's own maid, who she soon realizes is Octavian. She asks herself, "Why would Octavian do such a thing?" and then decides to get to the bottom of the matter by seeing it in person. She would never help the Baron, nor would she step foot in such a decadent place for any other reason. She only goes because she is consumed by curiosity.

After her arrival, the Marschallin quickly sums up the situation and demands that the Baron leave at once, for the engagement is nullified. The Baron flees and is pursued by an angry mob, leaving the Marschallin, Octavian, and Sophie behind. The Marschallin is not angry that Octavian has abandoned her, since she has long expected it. Perhaps it happened a little earlier than she would have liked, but she was still prepared. Yet, she is annoyed that Octavian does not have the courage to ask for her forgiveness or to even admit that he has fallen in love with Sophie. As Octavian stands there in embarrassment, the Marschallin bids him to go to Sophie and do as his heart commands. Sophie does not fully understand the situation, but she senses that there is some unspoken connection between the Marschallin and her beloved Octavian, and she, too, becomes indignant.

The Marschallin sees that Octavian cannot reconcile the situation on his own, so she takes matters into her own hands. She decides that she must do the decent thing and bring these two lovers together. Ignoring Octavian, she goes to Sophie and asks if she truly loves the young Count. Sophie pales and chattily tries to explain this as the result of concern over her father's well-being. The Marschallin looks at her and thinks how terrible it is that Octavian has spurned her for such a girl—one who is indeed pretty but has little else to recommend her. She encourages Sophie to relax, for her father will be invited to join the three of them for a carriage trip to the field marshal's castle, where they can talk things over.

Octavian is quite overwhelmed by the Marschallin's kindness, and he thanks her and tells her of her goodness; however, she cannot find the words to respond. I am not so sure that in this situation anyone in the Marschallin's position would want to hear that she is so good. At this moment commences the wonderful famous trio, after which Octavian leaves to confront Faninal. He tells him that his daughter may have lost a baron, but she has won a count—and even better, she has been saved from a scoundrel while gaining the love of a very enchanting young man. Faninal naturally agrees. When Octavian returns, he finds Sophie alone and joins her in a love duet. Faninal remarks to the Marschallin, "Young people are like that,” to which she replies,"Ja, ja." (There’s an “all’s well that ends well” in which the little page, Mahomet, waves to the audience the handkerchief that Sophie dropped [as she and Octavian leave the stage at the very end of the opera], and which he has been sent to retrieve. The final curtain falls as he dashes out to join the young couple in their carriage.)

I have to tell you a very funny story which happened to me when we made our recording in Vienna. I had forgotten that I had to sing "Ja, ja"—the trio was over and it had been a very tiring day with many retakes, so I went home. So of course when they reached this point in the opera, no Marschallin was there. They couldn't wait for my return because it was rather late and time is money, so Elisabeth Schumann, who was the Sophie, said: "Oh, you don't have to call her back. I can imitate her voice." So what you hear on the old record of Rosenkavalier is the voice of Elisabeth Schumann, not mine.

This is my understanding of the story of Rosenkavalier. I hope it helps you to enjoy the opera much more fully."