Most famous and decidedly most dramatic of these is the “Erlkönig.” All
German students and most vocalists are familiar with the text of this
song, which is its own best explanation; but the piano student may find
a sketch of the story helpful. It is a legend of the Black Forest in
Baden, brought to the world’s notice by Goethe in one of his most
dramatic and perfectly wrought ballads. This ballad Schubert set to
music in a moment of highest inspiration; then, in the natural reaction
and discouragement following such a supreme effort of genius, he threw
the manuscript into the waste-basket as unsuccessful and impracticable.
It was rescued a few hours later by a celebrated tenor of the day, who
chanced to call, and accidentally discovering this gem among the torn
papers, saved it to the world. Liszt recognized its immense
possibilities as a piano number and gave the song an instrumental
setting which is even more effective than the original vocal
composition.
The story is briefly this. A horseman is riding homeward through the
depths of the Black Forest at midnight in a raging tempest, bearing in
his arms his little boy, wrapped safely against the storm, held close
for warmth and safety. The “Erlkönig,” or, as we should say, “Elf King,”
is abroad in the dark, storm-racked forest. He espies the boy, takes a
freakish fancy to him, determines to possess the child, approaches
softly, with coaxing and persuasion, offers flowers, playthings, pretty
elf playmates, everything he can think of, to tempt the boy to leave his
father, and come with him. But the little one is terrified, shrieks to
his father for protection; and the father, while striving to quiet his
fears, spurs onward at utmost speed, seeking in vain to distance the
pursuing Elf King.
The composition is graphically descriptive and contains many varied, yet
blended elements. The swift gallop of the horse over the broken ground
is given in rapid triplets as a continuous accompaniment; the rush of
the storm-wind through the moaning pine-tops, the roar of the thunder,
the chill and gloom and terrors of the wild night, are forcefully
depicted in the sweeping crescendos and somber harmonies of the left
hand, while the three voices engaged in the flying, intermittent
colloquy are rendered the more distinct and easy to follow, by being
played in different and suitable registers; the father’s voice in the
baritone—grave, stern, impressive; the child’s in the
soprano—plaintive and pathetic; and the Elf King’s high in the
descant—sweet, seductive, persuasive, impossible to mistake. Three
times this colloquy is renewed, with growing agitation, each time ending
with the terrified shriek of the child, while the flight and pursuit
continue with increasing speed, and the tempest grows apace. Finally the
Elf King loses patience, throws off the mask of friendly gentleness,
declares that if the child will not come willingly he shall use force,
and tries to take him by violence. The child shrieks for the third time
in an anguish of fear, for the touch of the elf is death to a mortal.
The father, now himself frantic with terror, spurs on madly for home,
with the tempest crashing about him. He reaches his door at last and
dismounts in fancied security, only to find the boy dead in his arms;
and perhaps the most impressive moment of the whole composition is that
at its suddenly subdued, solemnly mournful close, when he stands at the
goal of his furious but futile race, and gazes, by the light of his own
home fire, into the dead face of his child.