Aus alten Märchen winkt es [From Fairy Tales of Old] is the third song of Dichterliebe that speaks of dreams, after Ich hab' im Traum geweinet and Allnächtlich im Träume. It is also the song that opens the way to acceptance of the loss by the poet, definitively.
While in the two previous dreams he dreamed of the beloved, he does not mention her here. What he dreams now is a land of fairy tale; we find there the flowers and birds that had accompanied him throughout much of the cycle, forests and fountains. But there we also find –after all, the dream evokes ancient stories– mysterious figures who dance and play in this charming and, perhaps, enchanted environment. In the penultimate stanza, the poet speaks of his desire to be happy, freed from his anguish, in this ideal world that vanishes every morning.
The eight stanzas of the poem inspired Robert Schumann to write the longest song in the cycle. It has the indication “lebendig” [lively], and has a peculiar structure, a kind of rondo in which the repeated theme appears both in the vocal line and in the piano interludes. The lively music makes us believe that the healing process that began a few songs before comes to an end, as if the poet accepted that stories are great for children, but adults must understand that in due time, we must adapt to reality. We are in the penultimate song of the cycle, and, indeed, we will confirm our theory in the last one.
At the moment, we're listening to Aus alten Märchen winkt es, performed by Jonas Kaufmann and Helmut Deutsch. I hope you will enjoy the version. And, as always, I invite you to listen to the whole cycle, that half hour of music that transports us, if not to an ancient tale, to a wonderful world.
Aus alten Märchen winkt es
Hervor mit weißer Hand,
Da singt es und da klingt es
Von einem Zauberland;
Wo bunte Blumen blühen
Im gold'nen Abendlicht,
Und lieblich duftend glühen,
Mit bräutlichem Gesicht;
Und grüne Bäume singen
Uralte Melodei'n,
Die Lüfte heimlich klingen,
Und Vögel schmettern drein;
Und Nebelbilder steigen
Wohl aus der Erd' hervor,
Und tanzen luft'gen Reigen
Im wunderlichen Chor;
Und blaue Funken brennen
An jedem Blatt und Reis,
Und rote Lichter rennen
Im irren, wirren Kreis;
Und laute Quellen brechen
Aus wildem Marmorstein.
Und seltsam in den Bächen
Strahlt fort der Widerschein.
Ach, könnt' ich dorthin kommen,
Und dort mein Herz erfreu'n,
Und aller Qual entnommen,
Und frei und selig sein!
Ach! jenes Land der Wonne,
Das seh' ich oft im Traum,
Doch kommt die Morgensonne,
Zerfließt's wie eitel Schaum.
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