For these few brief thoughts I am returning to Oliver Soden's comment recorded at the start of my last Blog, 'The Past and I':
'As with all the best setting of poetry, the words were liberated by the music.'
I realise I did not investigate this contention as fully as it deserves, but I hope to make some amends now, beginning by saying that what Soden claims is not always the case: for example, John Donne's Holy Sonnet 'Batter my heart' is not liberated in the very different settings by Benjamin Britten and John Adams, we might look at the poem with fresh eyes after listening to each interpretation but that is not the same thing: the Donne sonnet was magnificent before any composer considered it and it remains magnificent afterwards - two great composers have produced great pieces of vocal music as a result of their consideration of the poem but this does not affect the poem's original status as a poem.
With Gustav Holst's four part (TTBB) male voice setting of Hardy's poem 'The Homecoming' something different happened, and I would contend that Hardy's words really have been 'liberated by the music' so that we are made more fully aware of the poem's potential. Let us look at the poem first:
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,
And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.
"Now don't ye rub your eyes so red; we're home and have no cares;
Here's a skimmer-cake for supper, peckled onions, and some pears;
I've got a little keg o' summat strong, too, under stairs:
- What, slight your husband's victuals? Other brides can tackle theirs!"
The wind of winter mooed and mouthed their chimney like a horn,
And round the house and past the house 'twas leafless and lorn.
"But my dear and tender poppet, then, how came ye to agree
In Ivel church this morning? Sure, there-right you married me!"
"Hoo-hoo!--I don't know--I forgot how strange and far 'twould be,
An' I wish I was at home again with dear daddee!"
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller downland broad and bare,
And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.
"I didn't think such furniture as this was all you'd own,
And great black beams for ceiling, and a floor o' wretched stone,
And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,
And a monstrous crock in chimney. 'Twas to me quite unbeknown!"
Rattle rattle went the door; down flapped a cloud of smoke,
As shifting north the wicked wind assayed a smarter stroke.
"Now sit ye by the fire, poppet; put yourself at ease:
And keep your little thumb out of your mouth, dear, please!
And I'll sing to 'ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,
And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o' trees."
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,
And lonesome was the house, and dark; and few came there.
"Now, don't ye gnaw your handkercher; 'twill hurt your little tongue,
And if you do feel spitish, 'tis because ye are over young;
But you'll be getting older, like us all, ere very long,
And you'll see me as I am--a man who never did 'ee wrong."
Straight from Whit'sheet Hill to Benvill Lane the blusters pass,
Hitting hedges, milestones, handposts, trees, and tufts of grass.
"Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you'd be,
I'd have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.
But since I can't, I've half a mind to run away to sea,
And leave 'ee to go barefoot to your d-d daddee!"
Up one wall and down the other--past each window-pane -
Prance the gusts, and then away down Crimmercrock's long lane.
I--I--don't know what to say to't, since your wife I've vowed to be;
And as 'tis done, I s'pose here I must bide --poor me!
Aye--as you are ki-ki-kind, I'll try to live along with 'ee,
Although I'd fain have stayed at home with dear daddee!"
Gruffly growled the wind on Toller Down, so bleak and bare,
And lonesome was the house and dark; and few came there.
"That's right, my Heart! And though on haunted Toller Down we be,
And the wind swears things in chimley, we'll to supper merrily!
So don't ye tap your shoe so pettish-like; but smile on me,
And ye'll soon forget to sock and sigh for dear daddee!"
The setting for male chorus means that the frightened little child-bride is surrounded by men: her husband, author, composer and performers, but by and large she is treated kindly. The bleakness and strangeness of Toller Down is not underplayed, with Holst providing suitably unsettling, almost macabre music for the opening lines, but her husband is given a far warmer, folk-like melody to introduce his wife to the simple pleasures of their wedding supper, and the 'little keg of summat strong' that perhaps they'll both need to make the consummation of their marriage rather less embarrassing and fraught. If he is hurt by his bride's rejection of this little feast, his good humour is still maintained as he reminds his wife that they have been married in the sight of God 'in Ivel church' In print the bride's plaintive 'Hoo hoo' just looks and sounds ridiculous but sung high in the tenor register it becomes rather poignant and makes us less irritated at her wish to be at home again with 'dear daddee'.
Amusingly, the bride's objections to the marriage seem rather domestic, focussing on the decor in her husband's cottage and the rather uncouth eating utensils. She implies she is accustomed to better:
"And nasty pewter platters, horrid forks of steel and bone,
And a monstrous crock in chimney. 'Twas to me quite unbeknown!"
That the husband remains outwardly cheerful is further indication of his robust good nature and kindness but the next two stanzas of the poem reveal greater levels of complexity. He exhorts his wife to 'keep your little thumb out of your mouth dear please!' and ''Now, don't ye gnaw your handkercher; 'twill hurt your little tongue,'. He acknowledges his wife is 'over young' and calls her 'poppet' but he doesn't want a child for a wife, he wants a woman: not simply as a sexual partner but as a practical farmer's wife who will share his bleak, bare and rather lonely existence and work with him in partnership. Touchingly he says he will,
'...sing to 'ee a pretty song of lovely flowers and bees,
And happy lovers taking walks within a grove o' trees.'
Hardy was well aware that the life of working countrymen and women was very different from the pastoral idyll some folk songs presented and Holst, as a collector of folk songs would have known the same, so there is a conscious irony at work when these pretty songs don't help the increasingly tense situation between the married pair and although the husband tries to excuse his wife's 'spitish' (spiteful) nature as it is the result of her being 'over-young', he becomes increasingly vexed that she cannot '...see me as I am--a man who never did 'ee wrong.' For this section the folk tune is abandoned and the husband is given more serious, more personal music: the vocal lines are angular and uncomfortable. The folk idiom is re-established for the next section, but his words take on a bitter, even threatening, edge:
"Well, had I only known, my dear, that this was how you'd be,
I'd have married her of riper years that was so fond of me.
But since I can't, I've half a mind to run away to sea,
And leave 'ee to go barefoot to your d-d daddee!"
The penultimate line is poetically and psychologically weak but the final line of the stanza is more powerful, and Holst underlines this with a low note, sinister dischord amongst the basses which makes 'd-d daddee' sound more sinister than potentially welcoming of his prodigal daughter.
Whether it be the potential ignominy of returning to her father (who might not welcome her return) or the mention of her rival 'of riper years' the bride's attitude begins to soften. She acknowledges her husband's kindness, agreeing to try to live with him, and while she still yearns for her 'dear daddee' the tone here is muted, melancholy and nostalgic: she accepts in her heart of hearts that there is no going back.
The husband expresses his contentment in the richest, most exultant harmonies so far; he seems confident he will replace 'dear daddee' in his bride's affections. There might be some way to go before marital concord is established, but they seem to be moving in the right direction.
So it is that a seemingly quaint and, by Hardy's standards, undistinguished poem is 'liberated' by Holst's deeply sympathetic and subtle setting. The performance by the Baccholian Singers of London, a small ensemble containing some of the finest concert singers of the time (1969) is simply exemplary, apart from the curious failure to observe the bride's stuttering on 'Aye - as you are k-k-kind'.
As a footnote, it is interesting to compare Hardy's poem with Charlotte Mew's 'The Farmer's Bride' (1921); a similar story but with a far bleaker outcome.
Three summer's since I chose a maid,
Too young may be - but more's to do
At harvest time than bide and woo.
When us was wed she turned afraid
Of love and me and all things human;
Like the shut of a winter's day.
Her smile went out, and 'twasn't a woman-
More like a little frightened fay.
One night, in the fall, she runned away.
"Out 'mong the sheep, her be," they said,
Should properly have been abed;
But sure enough she wasn't there
Lying awake with her wide brown stare.
So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down
We chased her, flying like a hare
Before our lanterns. To Church-town
All in a shiver and a scare
We caught her, fetched her home at last
And turned the key upon her fast.
She does the work about the house,
As well as most, but like a mouse:
Happy enough to chat and play
With birds and rabbits and such as they,
So long as men-folk keep away.
"Not near, Not near," her eyes beseech
When one of us comes within reach.
The women say that beasts in stall
Look round like children at her call.
I've hardly heard her speak at all.
Shy as a leveret, swift as he,
Straight and slight as a young larch tree,
Sweet as the first wild violets, she,
To her wild self. But what to me ?
The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,
The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,
One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,
A magpie's spotted feathers lie
On the black earth spread white with rime,
The berries redden up to Christmas- time.
What's Christmas-time without there be
Some other in the house but we.
She sleeps up in the attic there
Alone, poor maid. 'Tis but a stair
Betwixt us. Oh! My God! the down,
The soft young down of her, the brown,
The brown of her - her eyes, her hair ! her hair !
No musical setting exists as far as I have been able to ascertain. I think it would be a fine subject.
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