The Miller and the Brook

I once heard a piece of music that bowled me over. It was a song written over two hundred years ago. It featured a baritone voice and a piano. It was sung in German. It was called Der muller und der bach (the miller and the brook). I didn’t understand the words. I didn’t need the words to tell me that it was sad.

Now I know something more about the song and its context. The poet who wrote the lyrics was Wilhelm Muller and the composer who put it to music was Franz Schubert. It is the second last of twenty poems that comprise the story of the fair maid of the mill (die schone mullerin). Schubert put all the poems to music in what is called a song cycle.

Die schone mullerin is about a young journeyman miller. A journeyman is a tradesman who works for someone rather than runs his own business. Full of life and optimism, he is walking in the country.  He comes across a brook and follows it to a mill. He sees the owner’s beautiful daughter and falls instantly in love with her. He tries to woo her but her responses are tentative at best. Then she gives her heart to a hunter. Utterly despondent, the young man drowns himself in the brook.

The miller and the brook is the penultimate song in the cycle, arguably the saddest, which ends with the young miller lying down in the brook, and the water gently closing over him.

Franz Liszt discovered this song and turned it into a piano solo which is no less beautiful than the original song. Liszt was a genius at creating piano solos from works composed for other instruments.

The song cycle is crammed with some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard. Listen to it some time.

Der muller und der bach

The Miller and the Brook

Where a true heart
dies of love,
the lilies wilt
in their beds.

There the full moon
must disappear behind clouds
so that mankind
does not see its tears.

There angels
cover their eyes
and, sobbing, sing
the soul to rest.

And when love
struggles free of sorrow,
a new star
shines in the sky.

Three roses,
half-red, half-white,
spring from thorny stems
and will never wither.

And the angels
cut off their wings,
and every morning
descend to earth.

Ah, brook, beloved brook,
you mean so well:
ah, brook, but do you know
what love can do?

Ah, below, down below,
is cool rest!
Brook, beloved brook,
sing on.

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