Like many of Liszt’s contributions to piano literature, this dainty and
most pleasing little work is not exclusively his own; that is, it is not
an original melodic creation, but the admirably clever arrangement or
setting of an old Venetian boat-song. The melody has been in existence
for many decades, perhaps centuries, and may be heard by any one who
visits Venice, as sung by the gondolier in time to the swing of his
dextrously handled single oar. It is called “La Biondina in Gondoletta”
(“the blond maid in a gondola”), and was originally composed by
Pistrucci, to words by Peruchini, and harmonized later by Beethoven, in
his folk-songs, entitled “Zwölf verschiedene Volkslieder.”
It is a distinctly Italian melody, with no pretensions to great depth or
dramatic intensity, but simple, tender, and sweet, winning rather than
commanding—a lyric of the sensuously beautiful type, but not to be
despised, as it is a spontaneous product of the sunny-tempered,
warm-hearted children of the South. It contains no hint of the Venice of
mystery, of secret cruelty, of world-wide powers, of the Council of the
Ten, that masked midnight tribunal of former days; but breathes only of
Venice the fair, in her moonlit beauty—of Venice, “the Bride of the
Sea.”
Liszt’s setting gives us not only the melody enhanced by effective
harmonic coloring and delicate embellishment, but a characteristic and
picturesque background of accompaniment suggesting the scene, the mood,
and the environment; the low murmur of the Adriatic, at the distant
water-gate, pleading to be admitted to the presence of his Queen; the
soft ripples stealing up the long winding canals, whispering their love
secrets under the palaces of Juliette and Desdemona, and creeping
fearfully beneath the Bridge of Sighs, and past the dreaded dungeons of
the doges; the silvery moonlight gleaming upon marble frieze and column,
and touching to soft brilliancy the fadeless tints of glass mosaic; the
dip and sway of the graceful gondola as it glides on its silent way
along those water streets between rows of stately buildings, every
carved stone of which is alive with history or with some romantic
legend.
All these are delicately yet graphically depicted, while the boatman’s
song rises and falls, seeming now near, now distant, as it is borne to
us on the varying breath of the light sea-breeze. The whole picture is
one of subdued evening tints, of half-disclosed, half-hinted outlines,
with a pervading mood of dreamy fancy, of wistful tenderness. It seems
to me one of Liszt’s most perfect and ably sustained efforts in the
purely lyric, yet suggestively descriptive vein.
At the close, the great, sonorous bell of St. Mark’s Cathedral strikes
midnight, its grave, deep-toned voice majestically commanding the
attention. The F sharp here used to produce the bell effect, and at the
same time serving as bass in a prolonged organ-point throughout the
coda, is the actual keynote of the St. Mark’s bell, ingeniously utilized
for this double purpose. Meanwhile, the last notes of the song die away
in the distance, and slumber, like a veil of mist floating in from the
summer sea, envelops the city.