the little match girl passion – for chorus (2008) 35'
Text by David Lang (after H.C. Andersen, H.P. Paulli, Picander and Saint Matthew)
chamber choir, plus 4 voices (SATB) each playing simple percussion
the National Chamber Choir of Ireland
program note
I wanted to tell a story. A particular story — in fact, the story of The Little Match Girl by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. The original is ostensibly for children, and it has that shocking combination of danger and morality that many famous children’s stories do. A poor young girl, whose father beats her, tries unsuccessfully to sell matches on the street, is ignored, and freezes to death. Through it all she somehow retains her Christian purity of spirit, but it is not a pretty story.
What drew me to The Little Match Girl is that the strength of the story lies not in its plot but in the fact that all its parts—the horror and the beauty—are constantly suffused with their opposites. The girl’s bitter present is locked together with the sweetness of her past memories; her poverty is always suffused with her hopefulness. There is a kind of naive equilibrium between suffering and hope.
There are many ways to tell this story. One could convincingly tell it as a story about faith or as an allegory about poverty. What has always interested me, however, is that Andersen tells this story as a kind of parable, drawing a religious and moral equivalency between the suffering of the poor girl and the suffering of Jesus. The girl suffers, is scorned by the crowd, dies, and is transfigured. I started wondering what secrets could be unlocked from this story if one took its Christian nature to its conclusion and unfolded it, as Christian composers have traditionally done in musical settings of the Passion of Jesus.
The most interesting thing about how the Passion story is told is that it can include texts other than the story itself. These texts are the reactions of the crowd, penitential thoughts, statements of general sorrow, shock, or remorse. These are devotional guideposts, the markers for our own responses to the story, and they have the effect of making the audience more than spectators to the sorrowful events onstage. These responses can have a huge range—in Bach’s ”Saint Matthew Passion,” these extra texts range from famous chorales that his congregation was expected to sing along with to completely invented characters, such as the ”Daughter of Zion” and the ”Chorus of Believers.” The Passion format—the telling of a story while simultaneously commenting upon it—has the effect of placing us in the middle of the action, and it gives the narrative a powerful inevitability.
My piece is called The Little Match Girl Passion and it sets Hans Christian Andersen’s story The Little Match Girl in the format of Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion, interspersing Andersen’s narrative with my versions of the crowd and character responses from Bach’s Passion. The text is by me, after texts by Han Christian Andersen, H. P. Paulli (the first translator of the story into English, in 1872), Picander (the nom de plume of Christian Friedrich Henrici, the librettist of Bach’s Saint Matthew Passion), and the Gospel according to Saint Matthew. The word ”passion” comes from the Latin word for suffering. There is no Bach in my piece and there is no Jesus—rather the suffering of the Little Match Girl has been substituted for Jesus’s, elevating (I hope) her sorrow to a higher plane.
—David Lang
Libretto
the little match girl passion
words and music by david lang
after h.c. andersen, h.p. paull, picander and saint matthew
libretto
1. Come, daughter
Come, daughter
Help me, daughter
Help me cry
Look, daughter
Where, daughter
What, daughter
Who, daughter
Why, daughter
Guiltless daughter
Patient daughter
Gone
2. It was terribly cold
It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the
old year, and the snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness,
a poor little girl, with bare head and naked feet, roamed through
the streets. It is true she had on a pair of slippers when she left
home, but they were not of much use. They were very large, so large,
indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor little
creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two
carriages that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the
slippers she could not find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran
away with it, saying that he could use it as a cradle, when he had
children of his own. So the little girl went on with her little
naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold.
So the little girl went on.
So the little girl went on.
3. Dearest heart
Dearest heart
Dearest heart
What did you do that was so wrong? What was so wrong?
Dearest heart
Dearest heart
Why is your sentence so hard?
4. In an old apron
In an old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her
hands. No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had any
one given her even a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept
along; poor little child, she looked the picture of misery. The
snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which hung in curls on her
shoulders, but she regarded them not.
5. Penance and remorse
Penance and remorse
Tear my sinful heart in two
My teardrops
May they fall like rain down upon your poor face May they fall down like rain
My teardrops
Here, daughter, here I am
I should be bound as you were bound
All that I deserve is
What you have endured
Penance and remorse.
Tear my sinful heart in two
My penance
My remorse
My penance
6. Lights were shining
Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory
smell of roast goose, for it was New-year’s eve- yes, she remembered
that. In a corner, between two houses, one of which projected beyond
the other, she sank down and huddled herself together. She had drawn
her little feet under her, but she could not keep off the cold; and
she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and could not take
home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her;
besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only
the roof to cover them, through which the wind howled, although the
largest holes had been stopped up with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold.
Her little hands were almost frozen with the cold.
7. Patience, patience!
Patience.
Patience!
8. Ah! perhaps
Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from
the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew one
out-“scratch!” how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright
light, like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was
really a wonderful light. It seemed to the little girl that she was
sitting by a large iron stove, with polished brass feet and a brass
ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed so beautifully warm that the
child stretched out her feet as if to warm them, when, lo! the flame
of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only the
remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.
She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and
where its light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil,
and she could see into the room. The table was covered with a snowy
white table-cloth, on which stood a splendid dinner service, and a
steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples and dried plums. And what
was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from the dish and
waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast, to
the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing
but the thick, damp, cold wall before her.
9. Have mercy, my God
Have mercy, my God.
Look here, my God.
See my tears fall. See my tears fall.
Have mercy, my God. Have mercy.
My eyes are crying.
My heart is crying, my God.
See my tears fall.
See my tears fall, my God.
10. She lighted another match
She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting
under a beautiful Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully
decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door at
the rich merchant’s. Thousands of tapers were burning upon the green
branches, and colored pictures, like those she had seen in
the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched out
her hand towards them, and the match went out.
The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to
her like the stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving
behind it a bright streak of fire. “Some one is dying,” thought the
little girl, for her old grandmother, the only one who had ever
loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that when a star
falls, a soul was going up to God.
11. From the sixth hour
From the sixth hour there was darkness over all the land until the ninth hour. And at the ninth hour
she cried out:
Eli, Eli.
12. She again rubbed a match
She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round
her; in the brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining,
yet mild and loving in her appearance. “Grandmother,” cried the little
one, “O take me with you; I know you will go away when the match burns
out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the
large, glorious Christmas-tree.” And she made haste to light the whole
bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother there. And
the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day,
and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She
took the little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in
brightness and joy far above the earth, where there was neither cold
nor hunger nor pain, for they were with God.
13. When it is time for me to go
When it is time for me to go
Don’t go from me
When it is time for me to leave
Don’t leave me
When it is time for me to die
Stay with me
When I am most scared
Stay with me
14. In the dawn of morning
In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale
cheeks and smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been
frozen to death on the last evening of the year; and the New-year’s
sun rose and shone upon a little corpse! The child still sat, in the
stiffness of death, holding the matches in her hand, one bundle of
which was burnt. “She tried to warm herself,” said some. No one
imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory she
had entered with her grandmother, on New-year’s day.
15. We sit and cry
We sit and cry
And call to you
Rest soft, daughter, rest soft
Where is your grave, daughter?
Where is your tomb?
Where is your resting place?
Rest soft, daughter, rest soft
Rest soft
Rest soft
Rest soft
Rest soft
You closed your eyes.
I closed my eyes.
Rest soft
score preview
first performance:
libretto (English) by David Lang, after H.C. Andersen, H.P. Paulli, Picander and Saint Matthew
also available for SATB quartet playing simple percussion.
