72. The connection with the Rückert Lied is very common: see, for example, HLM 2:817; Carr, Mahler, 131. Mitchell (MC 317–318) maintains that there is a closer connection to the second of the Kindertotenlieder; for the reasons given in the text, I take him to be right about this.
73. The relation between theory and independent judgment is thus analogous to the “reflective equilibrium” Rawls seeks between ethical generalizations and individual ethical judgments. See his Theory of Justice (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1971), §9. For further discussion, see section 8.
74. A confession is in order: over a period of four decades, I have often sung the Rückert-Lied and the second of the Kindertotenlieder, and my study of these songs predated my first hearing of the Fifth Symphony. As the movement began, I was overcome by an intense experience of familiarity.
75. Of course, in the context of the whole Fifth Symphony this is eminently comprehensible, since the Adagietto is a prelude intended to flow seamlessly into the Finale that follows it. Hence Mitchell’s emphasis on not viewing the Adagietto as a standalone work (MC 308–311).
76. The idea is vigorously pursued in Wilfrid Mellers, Caliban Reborn (London: Gollancz, 1968).
77. Floros (Symphonies, 155) adduces Mahler’s paraphrase as evidence for the reliability of Mengelberg’s story, claiming that “Alma was a good musician and talented composer; she was bound to understand.” As I suggest in the text, I think any “message” in the score was double edged.
78. There is considerable debate about Mahler’s success in balancing the challenge of the opening funeral march. Adorno (Mahler: A Musical Physiognomy [Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992], 136–137) finds it “too lightweight.” Mitchell defends the movement (MC 319–325), noting wryly that Adorno may have been deaf to Mahler’s humor and suggesting that the movement triumphs in the possibility of the human creation of joy. I hope I do not share Adorno’s supposed deafness, but, to my ears, the challenge has been shrugged off rather than faced and met. As the next section will suggest, Mahler was more successful later.
79. According to Alma, Mahler started work in the summer of 1907 on “long, lonely walks” (AMML). Because Bethge’s book was only published in October 1907, after the Mahlers had left the mountains, some commentators have concluded that Alma’s report must be inaccurate. La Grange, however, offers an account of how Mahler might have received an advance copy (HLM 4:215). In any event, Mahler’s letters to his close friend Bruno Walter suggest that his exercise was greatly limited: “An ordinary moderate march gives me such quickening of pulse and anxiety that I never achieve the goal of walking: to forget one’s body” (GMB 368).
80. The earliest manuscripts (of the second movement) date from July 1908; HLM 4:1908. GMB 365–366, 367–368.
81. GMB 371.
82. Cited by La Grange: HLM 4:1317, from Bruno Walter, Gustav Mahler: Ein Porträt (Frankfurt: Fischer, 1957); English translation: Gustav Mahler (New York: Da Capo, 1970), 123–124.
83. Mahler toyed with the idea of using this as the title of the entire work. For reasons that will become apparent, I think he was right to reject it in favor of the actual title.
84. The challenge posed to the singer in this movement, to ring above a large orchestra playing at high volume, is frequently too great—even tenors with “large” voices often only succeed in making isolated words audible.
85. See HDL and Eveline Nikkels, “O Mensch! Gib’ Acht!”: Friedrich Nietzsches Bedeutung für Gustav Mahler (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1989). Hefling’s scholarly work on Das Lied is so informative and illuminating that I hesitate to criticize his invocation of philosophical influence, but he is another unfortunate victim of the view that Nietzsche’s Birth of Tragedy is a crucial text for understanding early twentieth-century works of literature or music. To view the opening movement of Das Lied as pervaded by “Dionysian abandon” (“Das Lied von der Erde” in MC 441) is, I suggest, not only to offer a shallow and inaccurate reading of Nietzsche but also to undercut the shattering power of the movement. As the setting of “O Mensch! Gib’ Acht!” in the Third Symphony makes apparent, Mahler had long been familiar with the works of Nietzsche’s maturity, and it is surely these that lie behind the first movement of Das Lied. As I propose in the text, the singer attempts a Nietzschean affirmation of life, one that decisively fails. The palm goes to Schopenhauer, who seems to offer the only solution, the resignation of the final version of the refrain. Yet that cannot be sustained either, as the subito ff makes clear.
86. Thus I attribute to Mahler, as I did to Mann in chapter 1, the third grade of philosophical involvement. All the attempts I know of that treat Mahler philosophically seem to me to be handicapped by the thought that he could only be a derivative philosopher, one who endorsed the ideas of some antecedent thinker, or moved their categories around, like counters on a board (“an eruption of the Dionysian” in the first movement, for example). Mahler felt, and thought, more deeply than that.
87. Mahler changed the title of the poem from Die chinesische Flöte, switching the gender from feminine (die Einsame) to masculine (der Einsame). Given that most of the manuscripts of the score specify a female voice (“Alt”) for the even-numbered movements, the amendment is strange and may be taken to reflect a license to substitute a baritone for the mezzo-soprano/contralto. Mahler’s intentions on this issue are matters of controversy: it seems to me, however, that the performances and recordings featuring a female voice are both more suited to the even-numbered songs and more powerful.
88. HDL 96; the comparison to a mirage (which Hefling quotes) is from Adorno (Mahler, 152).
89. TB (1946–1948) 73–74. In December 1946, when this was written, Mann was much preoccupied with the conflict between the superpowers—the entry concludes by recalling that he felt wretched (elend). He had heard Das Lied, perhaps for the first time, nearly six years earlier, at a performance in New York, conducted by Bruno Walter, a friend he shared with Mahler, and had reported its great effect on the audience (TB [1940–1943] 214–215; January 23, 1941). A year and a half later, in June 1942, he received a recording of Das Lied for his sixty-seventh birthday and listened to it the next day. From 1942 onward, the work figures from time to time in his evening listening at home, and, even after the negative judgment of December 1946, Mann went back to it (for example, on November 2, 1947; TB [1946–1948] 179). Interestingly, a few years later he referred to Das Lied as Mahler’s “happiest work” (“Mahlers glücklichstes Werk”—the words support the connotation that this is Mahler’s most “fortunate,” that is, best, composition). Mann’s negative assessment of the fifth movement misquotes the text: the bird is located in a tree, not simply in the wood (“Ein Vogel singt im Baum”).
90. At the premiere of Das Lied, Webern was deeply impressed by the moment at which the singer listens to the bird, describing it as “the most enigmatic thing ever.” See HDL 102.
91. The sun “departs”—“Die Sonne scheidet.”
92. As already noted, these words are Mahler’s own. They replace the reproachful exhortation that ends the Mong-Kao-Jen poem, “O kämst du, kämst du, ungetreuer Freund!” (“O that you would come, that you would come, unfaithful friend!”). Plainly, the resonances are very different—as are those indicated by Mahler’s earlier modifications of the verses he found in Bethge.
93. Again, Mahler amends Bethge’s gloss on Wang-Wei, replacing the idea of a voluntary departure with a necessary one: “warum er reisen wollte” becomes “warum es müsste sein.”
94. At this point there is an awkwardness in Mahler’s text. The reply should come from the vocal persona, but Mahler needs to indicate that he is moving from the Friend to the original singer. Consistency would require him to replace Bethge’s third person with a first-person pronoun—“Er sprach” should become “Ich sprach.” But that will not do, since the voice is not commenting on a previous declaration but making the declaration. So Mahler leaves the original words: “He spoke; his voice was muffled.�
� It is better, I suggest, to view these as the persona’s comment on the act of questioning just performed by the friend—although that would require a change of punctuation (a period instead of a colon) that is not noted in the score. Perhaps the fermata that follows “umflort” (“muffled”) is intended to serve this function?
95. Again, Mahler moves the Bethge text in the direction of acceptance and consolation. Instead of “Müd ist mein Fuss, und müd ist meine Seele” (literally: “My foot is tired, and my soul is tired”), he gives us “Still ist mein Herz und harret seine Stunde” (“My heart is still, and awaits its [final] hour”).
96. “Ewig” is set to a descending whole tone. The first three occasions are paired: the singer sings two Ewigs—e-d, d-c. For the last, only the first half of the paired phrase is given: “Ewig,” e-d. Perhaps the voice has been interrupted by the anticipated death; the marking that follows in the score is “completely dying away” (“Gänzlich ersterbend”).
97. Quoted in HDL 116.
98. Thomas Nagel, “Secular Philosophy and the Religious Temperament,” in Secular Philosophy and the Religious Temperament (New York: Oxford University Press, 2010), 3–17.
99. Ibid., 8. Nagel is effectively renewing the investigation pioneered by Schopenhauer and Nietzsche in the nineteenth century, and his essay offers a cogent defense of that project against the efforts of Anglophone (“analytic”) philosophers to dismiss it.
100. My reasons for maintaining this are given in the last chapter of Living with Darwin (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).
101. The considerations that arise here are similar to those raised long ago by Plato in the Euthyphro.
102. Thus La Grange supposes that “Mahler’s favorite philosopher” lies behind the Seventh Symphony; HLM 3:851.
103. See FGM 150, and for more extensive discussion HDL 116–117; Hefling, “Das Lied von der Erde” (MC 438–467), 442–443.
104. See section 4.
105. “Der Einsame” (“the lonely one”) has been a phrase frequently used to designate Aschenbach. The Herbstlichkeit (“autumnal quality”) of the beach is marked by the absence of color, the discolored sand, and the cold breeze—counterparts to the faded flowers, the frost, and the wind described by Mahler’s singer. Mann’s characterization of the scene is unusually visual and specific, and the introduction of the unattended camera suggests a condition of detached observation. Perhaps we should conclude that Aschenbach has attained a new and purified aesthetic stance, that he has transcended the connection of beauty with the erotic, escaped the lure of beauty. The coda would thus consist in a repudiation of the Platonic argument that has preceded it (see section 5 of chapter 2).
106. GKFA 8.1:523–524; LP 21, L 212, K 17–18, H 36.
107. GKFA 8.1:536; LP 31, L 221, K 26, H 55.
108. Ibid. In apprehending the eternal, the permanent, the enduring, Aschenbach has already moved toward the vocabulary of his Socratic reflections.
109. Compare Vere’s final reflections in Britten’s Billy Budd. We might think of both Vere and Aschenbach as “lost on the infinite sea” and as discovering a right conclusion for their lives through the beauty manifested in a young boy.
110. Essays 1:108. The echoes of Schopenhauer are evident both in the sympathy for Indian thought and in the dislike of individuation (division and measurement). Those echoes permeate the following discussion of the moral perspective.
111. Essays 1:109.
112. Essays 4:283.
113. Many writers have commented on the various allusions to and presentations of Hermes in Mann’s fiction. The confidence trickster, Felix Krull, is a Hermes figure, and an Egyptian version of Hermes is woven into the Joseph novel. Death in Venice is framed by characters who take up characteristic poses of Hermes—Mann alludes to famous statues of the deity—the challenging presence in the cemetery chapel portico and Tadzio’s stance on the sandbar. The two appearances correspond to the principal forms in which Hermes is depicted: as a mature man and as a “beardless youth.”
114. WWV 1, book 4 §54; 2:349.
115. See below.
116. Thus, although I have read Death in Venice against the grain of many common assessments of it, my intention has not been to insist that the interpretation I have woven around my three thematic clusters—Discipline, Beauty, Shadows—is the unique best approach to the novella. Rather I have aimed to uncover possibilities, lines of thought often overlooked or dismissed by eminent commentators and critics, who press on to the motifs they favor, with unprobed assumptions about issues they do not perceive as open—as with the hasty diagnosis of Aschenbach’s death. Surely, too, I have been similarly hasty at some junctures and have overlooked important further possibilities.
117. DF 602.
118. DF 648.
119. Of course, Mann might have asked one of the composers he knew to write a piece to his specifications, or he might have selected an existing work and revealed its identity. Zeitblom’s exhortation makes excellent sense even in the absence of these potential extensions of the novel.
120. To fill in the outline completely would require a psychological account and a synthesis of psychology with philosophy that we do not yet have. Nevertheless, existing psychology and philosophical psychology might make some progress with the spare sketch I shall give. I aim only to offer what is needed for my principal purposes.
121. Bentham notoriously draws this conclusion, prompting Mill to enter the lists on behalf of higher pleasures. As I suggest in “Mill’s Consequentialism,” in The Routledge Companion to Nineteenth-Century Thought, ed. Dean Moyar (London: Routledge, 2010), Mill’s attempt to “rank” pleasures is neither successful nor his considered position: he subscribes to the view defended in the text, to wit that works of art rightly make a lasting difference.
122. Because previous sections have been focused on literature and music, I shall confine my attention to these art forms. The fact that painting and sculpture, architecture and dance, are not included should not be taken to imply that the approach I outline could not be extended to them.
123. Very occasionally, of course, we identify particular musical sounds with scenes in nature or with human activities: we hear the motion of Gretchen’s spinning wheel even before she begins to sing, we hear birdsong in Messaien’s orchestral works, and so forth. By far the more common experience, however, is the less definite attribution of mood or emotion.
124. My formulation here is inclusive, in recognition of the fact that an emotion may be attributed without being felt: one can judge the music to be sad without feeling sad (and without any conclusion about the sadness of composer or performers). For subtle exploration of these and kindred issues, see Christopher Peacocke, “The Perception of Music: Sources of Significance,” British Journal of Aesthetics 49 (2009): 257–275. I have learned much from Peacocke’s writings about music and from discussions with him.
125. See Bleak House, chaps. 25, 46, 47.
126. John Dewey, Experience and Nature, vol. 1 of John Dewey: The Later Works (Carbondale, Ill.: University of Southern Illinois Press, 1985), 306. The passage is quoted at the end of section 2 of chapter 1, text to n. 92.
127. For insights into the focusing of musically expressed emotion through the setting of poetry, see Peacocke, “The Perception of Music,” 263–264; as Peacocke rightly observes, the text can enable the expressed emotion to be specified more exactly, and the musical setting can allow for an expression that the words alone could not have achieved. Hence the possibility of philosophical content, and novel philosophical content. Recognition of the content then enables the listener to hear similar themes, and novel developments of them, where there are no words—thus the “bridge” referred to in the text. I do not suppose, however, that this is the only way in which philosophical issues and perspectives can be discerned in instrumental and orchestral music. The question of alternative routes can be left open.
128. Here I draw on a familiar philosophical distinction: investigators ca
n think up new hypotheses in all sorts of ways, but responsible investigation then requires the gathering of evidence.
129. If someone does not share the contemporary scientific understanding of inorganic and organic things, her panpsychical inclinations may be forgiven—the leap she makes is diminished, since the place in which she lands is already prepared by her antecedent attitudes. Of course, if she lives among us, she should be diagnosed as urgently in need of education.
130. My suggestion here is a version of the ideal of reflective equilibrium, originally introduced by Nelson Goodman in connection with inductive judgments and transferred by John Rawls to the moral-political sphere. See Nelson Goodman, Fact, Fiction, and Forecast (Indianapolis, Ind.: Bobbs-Merrill, 1956); John Rawls, A Theory of Justice (Cambridge, Mass.:: Harvard University Press, 1971).
131. I develop an approach of this sort in The Ethical Project (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2011); another version is articulated by T. M. Scanlon in What We Owe to Each Other (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998).
132. The first of these points is proposed and defended in The Ethical Project, chaps. 8, 9; the second in Science in a Democratic Society (Amherst, N.Y.: Prometheus, 2011).
133. See TB (1953–1955) 81 (July 6, 1953). Similar judgments are made less explicitly at other places in the same volume: 104–105, 234, 241 (August 28, 30, 1953; June 4, 1954; June 19, 1954). Expressions of discontent at his failing powers permeate the years during which he was struggling to write Felix Krull (TB [1951–1952]).
134. For presentation of this approach to the Ninth and critical discussion of it, see HLM 4:1394–1400; Floros is more sympathetic (Gustav Mahler: The Symphonies, 272–275). Feder supposes that “tragic autobiography,” specifically Mahler’s awareness of the Gropius affair, is “encoded in the Tenth Symphony” (FGM 197).
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