Notes and Texts on “Linden Terrace” from the composer Paul Brantley

As denizens of Washington Heights know, Linden Terrace is a favorite spot in Fort Tryon Park high overlooking the Hudson River. And what many of us can relate to is that this wonderful park became such a sanctuary during the deep, dark days of the lockdown. It became such a daily haven for me that I knew I would eventually compose some kind of love-letter in its honor. And then one gorgeous fall day in 2022, sitting under the canopy of linden trees, seeing the towers of the Cloisters just to the north, the piece came to me: I was reminded of the German medieval poem, “Under der Linden” which I set almost immediately. And then two more linden/Cloisters-inspired texts fell out of my memory, progressively exploring romantic, platonic, and spiritual love.

I. Under der Linden
I have loved the poem “Under der linden” (Under the Linden Tree) since my early 20’s when I first discovered it in e.e. cummings’ i six non-lectures. Cummings offered no translation of this Middle High German poem (his “favorite love poem”) which sent me on a new adventure. That these were the actual words of Walther von der Vogelweide — mentioned in Wagner’s Die Meistersinger — only added to my fascination. From the poem it was not difficult to transpose the young woman’s passion for her lover to my own deep affection for this spot in the park that peers out and over the Hudson River from under the canopy of magnificent Lindens — from where indeed I imagined her singing her heart out in the open, bracing, air.

Under the linden
by the meadow,
where our bed was,
there you can find,
beautifully broken,
the flowers and the grass.
Before the forest in a valley—
Tandaradei—
Beautifully sang the nightingale.

I came walking
to the meadow,
my lover had come there already before.
There I was received,
(Holy Virgin!)
for that I am happy forever.
Did he kiss me? At least a thousand times.
tandaradei—
See, how red my mouth is!

There he made—
so splendidly,
a bed out of flowers.
Those will laugh,
heartily,
who come by on the path
and see by the roses,
tandaradei—
where my head lay.

That he lay with me—
if anyone knew
(God forbid) I would be ashamed.
How he was with me,
Never, no one
may find out, except for him and me,
and a little bird
tandaradei—
that will well keep my secret.

1. Under der linden
an der heide,
dâ unser zweier bette was,
dâ muget ir vinden
schône beide
gebrochen bluomen unde gras.
vor dem walde in einem tal,
tandaradei,
schône sanc diu nahtegal.

2. Ich kam gegangen
zuo der ouwe:
dô was mîn friedel komen ê.
dâ wart ich empfangen
hêre frouwe
daz ich bin sælic iemer mê.
kust er mich? wol tûsentstunt:
tandaradei,
seht wie rôt mir ist der munt.

3. Dô hete er gemachet
alsô rîche
von bluomen eine bettestat.
des wirt noch gelachet
inneclîche,
kumt iemen an daz selbe pfat.
bî den rôsen er wol mac
tandaradei,
merken wâ mirz houbet lac.

4. Daz er bî mir læge,
wesse ez iemen
(nu enwelle got!), so schamte ich mich.
wes er mit mir pflæge,
niemer niemen
bevinde daz wan er und ich
und ein kleinez vogellîn:
tandaradei,
daz mac wol getriuwe sîn.

(Walther von der Vogelweide)

II. Feirefiz (episode from Parzival)
This operatic movement is truly the center-piece of this song-cycle as it sets lines from the “Feirefiz” episode in Wolfram’s Parzifal, a chapter which I feel has an uncanny resonance and relevance to our world right now. Feirefiz is the “moorish” half-brother of Parsifal, but at our point in the story they meet for the first time — on the battlefield — completely unaware of who the other is until they begin to fight and to discover they have finally found each other’s match. At two crucial moments each Knight has the opportunity to deliver a deathblow to “the other”, but some instinct of compassion prevents them from doing so. Instead each is “unmasked” (un-helmeted) and so they discover who they are to each other. Brothers. This recognition is so moving... their hard-won reconciliation and acceptance.

(57)
In due time this lady was delivered of a son who
was of two colors and in whom God had wrought a
marvel, for he was both black and white.
Immediately the queen kissed him over and over
again on his white spots, and on her little child
the mother bestowed the name of Feirefiz Angevin.
He was to become a waster of forests, for the jousts of
his hand were to shatter many a spear and riddle
many a shield with holes. Like a magpie was the
color of his hair and of his skin.

(740)
I cannot refrain from speaking up: I must mourn
their fighting from loyalty of heart because one
flesh and one blood are doing one another such
harm. Both of them were, after all, sons of one
man, the foundation stone of pure loyalty.

The heathen swung his sword aloft, and many of
his blows were so dealt that Parzival sank to his
knees. One my say that “they” were fighting this
way if one wants to speak of them as two, but
they were indeed only one.

(744)
Then chips, I fancy, flew from the heathen’s shield,
several hundred marks’ worth. In one blow the
stout sword of Gaheviez broke over the heathen’s
helmet so that the brave stranger staggered down
to a posture of prayer on his knees.

“I see, brave man, that your fighting would have
to continue without a sword. But what renown
would I win from you that way?”

57
diu frouwe an rehter zît genas
eins suns, der zweier varwe was,
an dem got wunders wart enein:
wîz und swarzer varwe er schein.
diu küngîn kust in sunder twâl
vil dicke an sîniu blanken mâl.
diu muoter hiez ir kindelîn
Feirefîz Anschevîn.
der wart ein waltswende:
die tjote sîner hende
manec sper zebrâchen,
die schilde dürkel stâchen.
Als ein agelster wart gevar sîn hâr und och sîn vel
vil gar.

740
Daz ich die rede mac niht verdagen,
ich muoz ir strît mit triwen klagen,
sît ein verch und ein bluot
solch ungenâde ein ander tuot.
si wârn doch bêde eins mannes kint,
der geliutren triwe fundamint.

der heiden warf daz swert ûf hôch.
mane sîn slac sich sus gezôch,
daz Parzivâl kom ûf diu knie.
man mac wohl jehn, sus striten sie,
der se bêde nennen wil ze zwein.
si wârn doch bêde niht wan ein.

744
dô sprungen (des ich waene)
von des heidens schilde spaene,
etslîcher hundert marke wert.
von gaheviez daz starke swert
mit slage ûfs heidens helme brast,
sô daz der küene rîche gast
mit strûche venje suochte.

"ich sihe wol, werlîcher man,
din strît wurde ân swert getân:
Waz prîss bejagete ich danne an dir?

(Wolfram von Eschenbach)

III. Swevenes
This cycle closes with a setting of Chaucer’s “Swevenes” — now in Middle English, which we can read without translation, I think. These opening words from "The House of Fame” had inspired my Swevens Sonata for flute and piano from about 10 years ago, but I always knew I would one day make an actual vocal setting of these beautiful words, and in the original language.

Just what is a “sweven”? It is a forgotten word and concept that apparently lies somewhere along the field of vision, revelation, and dream... but is none of these. Some have inferred it is a kind of epiphany, an instant understanding, that occurs while we are still in the dream state.

"...God turne us every drem to goode!
For hyt is wonder, be the roode,
To my wyt, what causeth swevenes
Eyther on morwes or on evenes,
And why th'effect folweth of somme, And of
somme hit shal never come;

Why that is an avision
And why this a revelacion,
Why this a drem, why that a sweven...”

(Geoffrey Chaucer)