Welcome to the digital program notes page for Jeff Scott’s “Veil of Solitude.”

This work was conceived as a spiritual successor to Robert Schumann’s Dichterliebe - a piece which holds deep musical and personal significance for me. Like the Dichterliebe, “Veil of Solitude” is crafted around specific poems. Each movement is based on its own poetry. All in all, “Veil of Solitude” has four movements which I will outline below:

1. Das Spiegelbild (The Reflection)

   Subtitled “The Mocking Mirror” by Jeff Scott

   “Das Spiegelbild” is a poem by German romantic poet and composer Annette von Droste-Hülshoff (1797-1848). It expresses a complicated, multilayered, and troubled fascination with the self that characterizes much of Droste’s work. The poem reads as follows:

   Schaust du mich an aus dem Kristall,
   Mit deiner Augen Nebelball,
   Kometen gleich die im Verbleichen;
   Mit Zügen, worin wunderlich
   Zwei Seelen wie Spione sich
   Umschleichen, ja, dann flüstre ich:
   Phantom, du bist nicht meines Gleichen!
   
   Bist nur entschlüpft der Träume Hut,
   Zu eisen mir das warme Blut,
   Die dunkle Locke mir zu blassen;
   Und dennoch, dämmerndes Gesicht,
   Drin seltsam spielt ein Doppellicht,
   Trätest du vor, ich weiß es nicht,
   Würd' ich dich lieben oder hassen?
   
   Zu deiner Stirne Herrscherthron,
   Wo die Gedanken leisten Frohn
   Wie Knechte, würd ich schüchtern blicken;
   Doch von des Auges kaltem Glast,
   Voll todten Lichts, gebrochen fast,
   Gespenstig, würd, ein scheuer Gast,
   Weit, weit ich meinen Schemel rücken.
   
   Und was den Mund umspielt so lind,
   So weich und hülflos wie ein Kind,
   Das möcht in treue Hut ich bergen;
   Und wieder, wenn er höhnend spielt,
   Wie von gespanntem Bogen zielt,
   Wenn leis' es durch die Züge wühlt,
   Dann möcht ich fliehen wie vor Schergen.
   
   Es ist gewiß, du bist nicht Ich,
   Ein fremdes Daseyn, dem ich mich
   Wie Moses nahe, unbeschuhet,
   Voll Kräfte die mir nicht bewust,
   Voll fremden Leides, fremder Lust;
   Gnade mir Gott, wenn in der Brust
   Mir schlummernd deine Seele ruhet!
   
   Und dennoch fühl ich, wie verwandt,
   Zu deinen Schauern mich gebannt,
   Und Liebe muß der Furcht sich einen.
   Ja, trätest aus Kristalles Rund,
   Phantom, du lebend auf den Grund,
   Nur leise zittern würd ich, und
   Mich dünkt - ich würde um dich weinen!

   English Translation (courtesy of Rosalin Blue)

   You look at me from crystal mirror

   with your two eyeballs' hazy sphere,

   of fading comets they remind;

   With features in which, oh surprise,

   two souls are stroking quite like spies

   around each other, then I sigh:

   Dear Phantom, you are not my kind!

    

   You just slipped from the care of dreams

   to chill my warm blood to the freeze,

   or pale my dark brown locks of hair;

   And yet, You dim and dusky face,

   in which a curious twilight plays,

   If you stepped out, I could not place,

   if love or hate for you I'd bear?

    

   Up to your brow, the master's throne,

   the place your thoughts do labour from

   like farm-hands, I would shyly look;

   And yet, before the eye's cold glass,

   of dead light full, near brokenness,

   so ghostlike, I, a timid guest,

   far, far my little stool would put.

    

   And what plays softly round the lip,

   as sweet and helpless as a kid,

   I wish to save to loyal protection;

   And when again the mirror taunts

   and aims his bow at me like taut,

   when silence through his features haunts,

   I want to run like from the henchmen.

    

   One thing is sure, you are not me,

   and I approach you, unknown being,

   without my shoes, like Moses, humble,

   with strengths unconscious, unexpressed,

   with unknown woes and unknown zest;

   May God have grace, if in my chest

   your soul lies with me in my slumber!

    

   And yet, I'm drawn like in a spell,

   a kindred spirit, to your chill,

   and love must with my fear unite.

   If you stepped out from crystal's round,

   alive, dear Phantom, on this ground,

   I'd shudder only gently, bound

   to think, I'd weep for you tonight!

2. Sanctum

   “Sanctum” is a subtle poem about grief by contemporary Beulah B. Malkin (1903-1990). It reads as follows:

   I built a tiny garden

   In a corner of my heart.

   I kept it just for lovely things

   And bade all else depart.

   And ever was there music,

   And flowers blossomed fair;

   Yet never was it perfect

   Until you entered there.

3. La Belle Dame sans Merci: A Ballad

   “La Belle Dame sans Merci” is a poem by English romantic poet John Keats (1795-1821). It exemplifies Keats’ fascination with death and the romantic metaphor of love for life’s struggles. The poem reads as follows:

   O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

   Alone and palely loitering?

   The sedge has withered from the lake,

   And no birds sing.

   O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

   So haggard and so woe-begone?

   The squirrel’s granary is full,

   And the harvest’s done.

   I see a lily on thy brow,

   With anguish moist and fever-dew,

   And on thy cheeks a fading rose

   Fast withereth too.

   I met a lady in the meads,

   Full beautiful—a faery’s child,

   Her hair was long, her foot was light,

   And her eyes were wild.

   I made a garland for her head,

   And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

   She looked at me as she did love,

   And made sweet moan

   I set her on my pacing steed,

   And nothing else saw all day long,

   For sidelong would she bend, and sing

   A faery’s song.

   She found me roots of relish sweet,

   And honey wild, and manna-dew,

   And sure in language strange she said—

   ‘I love thee true’.

   She took me to her Elfin grot,

   And there she wept and sighed full sore,

   And there I shut her wild wild eyes

   With kisses four.

   And there she lullèd me asleep,

   And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!—

   The latest dream I ever dreamt

   On the cold hill side.

   I saw pale kings and princes too,

   Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

   They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci

   Thee hath in thrall!’

   I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

   With horrid warning gapèd wide,

   And I awoke and found me here,

   On the cold hill’s side.

   And this is why I sojourn here,

   Alone and palely loitering,

   Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

   And no birds sing.

4. The Taxus Hedge/Lírios (in response)

   “Die Taxuswand” is another poem written by Annette von Droste-Hülshoff. It again presents a profound fascination with the self, this time with one’s own past and loss. The poem reads as follows:

   Ich stehe gern vor dir,
   Du Fläche schwarz und rauh,
   Du schartiges Visier
   Vor meines Liebsten Brau',
   Gern mag ich vor dir stehen,
   Wie vor grundirtem Tuch,
   Und drüber gleiten sehen
   Den bleichen Krönungszug;
   
   Als mein die Krone hier,
   Von Händen die nun kalt;
   Als man gesungen mir
   In Weisen die nun alt;
   Vorhang am Heiligthume,
   Mein Paradiesesthor,
   Dahinter Alles Blume,
   Und Alles Dorn davor.
   
   Denn jenseits weiß ich sie,
   Die grüne Gartenbank,
   Wo ich das Leben früh
   Mit glühen Lippen trank,
   Als mich mein Haar umwallte
   Noch golden wie ein Stral,
   Als noch mein Ruf erschallte,
   Ein Hornstoß, durch das Thal.
   
   Das zarte Epheureis,
   So Liebe pflegte dort,
   Sechs Schritte, - und ich weiß,
   Ich weiß dann, daß es fort.
   So will ich immer schleichen
   Nur an dein dunkles Tuch,
   Und achtzehn Jahre streichen
   Aus meinem Lebensbuch.
   
   Du starrtest damals schon
   So düster treu wie heut',
   Du, unsrer Liebe Thron
   Und Wächter manche Zeit;
   Man sagt, daß Schlaf, ein schlimmer,
   Dir aus den Nadeln raucht, -
   Ach, wacher war ich nimmer,
   Als rings von dir umhaucht!
   
   Nun aber bin ich matt,
   Und möcht an deinem Saum
   Vergleiten, wie ein Blatt
   Geweht vom nächsten Baum;
   Du lockst mich wie ein Hafen,
   Wo alle Stürme stumm,
   O, schlafen möcht ich, schlafen,
   Bis meine Zeit herum!
   

   English Translation

   I gladly stand before you,
   you surface black and rough,
   you jagged visor
   before my beloved's brow,
   I gladly want to stand before you,
   as before a ground cloth,
   and see
   the pale coronation procession glide over it;
   
   as if the crown were mine here,
   from hands that are now cold;
   as if someone had sung to me
   in melodies that are now old;
   the curtain at the sanctuary, the
   gates of my paradise,
   behind which all is flower,
   and all is thorn before it.
   
   For beyond I know it,
   the green garden bench,
   where I drank life early
   with glowing lips,
   when my hair
   still waved around me like a golden ray,
   when my call still rang out,
   a horn blast, through the valley.
   
   The tender ivy,
   so loved there,
   six steps - and I know,
   I know then that it is gone.
   So I will always creep
   just to your dark cloth
   and erase eighteen years
   from my book of life.
   
   You stared then
   as gloomily faithful as today,
   you, our love's throne
   and guardian for many a time;
   They say that sleep, a bad kind,
   smokes from your needles, -
   Ah, I was never more awake
   than when you breathed around me!
   
   But now I am weary
   and would like
   to slip away on your hem like a leaf
   blown from the nearest tree;
   You lure me like a harbor
   where all storms are silent,
   Oh, I would like to sleep, sleep,
   until my time is up!
   

   This movement is also based on the short story “Lírios” written by Joyce M. Scott - Jeff Scott’s wife - in response to “Die Taxuswand.” This story takes a literal reading of the text in Droste’s poem and crafts a succinct, fantastical tale in response. For purposes of this webpage, press the button below to navigate to “Lírios”: