This essay was originally published in the Journal of the RVW Society, No. 42, July 2008.
The deeper one peers into the life
and works of Ralph Vaughan Williams, the more enigmatic they both become.
Rarely in the post-romantic world has there been a major composer so reticent
about sharing his inspirations, his beliefs, or even his inner life. Before his
day it had already become common practice for major composers to be, in a
sense, literary men as well. Perhaps the most exaggerated example of this can
be found in Richard Wagner, whose writings seem an apotheosis for the 19th
century German Romantic movement. In his typically paradigm-defining manner,
Wagner wrote volume after volume detailing his artistic ideology, that his
works might be framed within a specific context. This in turn set an example
for many of the composers who followed. Tracing the history of European art
music since the Romantic period, we find the necessity of a dual discipline
emerging—what can be called the composer as critic, or even the composer as the
primitive musicologist of his own work. By the mid-twentieth century it had
become both commonplace and expected that a prominent composer should publish
manifestoes on art in the form of concert notes, articles, or even books. Some
used their literary gift as a means of promoting the musical theories behind
their works, others as a means of defending themselves against newspaper
critics, others still as an almost parallel art form. A fascinating library of
works was thus developed over the decades, including books that are interesting
almost entirely in their own right, only tangentially related to the music they
took as their original raison d’etre.
The writings of Erik Satie, Charles Ives’s Essays
before a Sonata, Constant Lambert’s Music
Ho!, and John Cage’s Silence are
but a few examples of the many books that fascinate even on non-musical levels.
Gone were the days when major composers were considered mere servants to
aristocratic culture. Indeed, the modern world somewhat surprisingly expected
composers to be more than mere musicians: it demanded political theorists,
sociologists, even seers—very clearly men of the written word as well as the
musical score.
It should be noted that this was a
relatively recent development before the day of Vaughan Williams. In the
century before his birth we cannot even imagine the notion of Mozart writing an
extended philosophical text detailing with the implications of The Magic Flute, or propagating a
treatise on The Marriage of Figaro which
subsequently might have driven him into political exile. Before this, the idea
of Bach writing a multiple volume summa on
the spiritual and political importance of cantatas and passion settings is
unthinkable. Still farther back, the notion that anyone in Tudor England would
have considered the theological opinions of William Byrd, in any substantial
and serious way, is at least mildly ridiculous.
Vaughan Williams, for his own part,
might have found the era in which he came of age to be at least mildly
ridiculous as well. Perhaps he found writing about his own work too
narcissistic, perhaps he found it too intrusive. He did what was expected of a major composer,
publishing program notes, criticisms, lectures and books—but a close reading of
them certainly makes one wonder whether he didn’t disdain the discipline or see
it as somewhat irrelevant to the business of music-making. His program notes,
especially for the more emotionally challenging and darker works, are filled
with self-deprecation, quips, and almost a contempt for the exercise at hand.
In this way, RVW seems to have deliberately worked at odds with the normal
function of 20th century program notes: Whereas composers like Ives,
Cage, Messiaen and others gave notes to clarify their intent, providing the
listener with a context for the hearing of a work, VW’s tend to cloud the
meaning, cloaking the intent behind a bluff, mock-disinterested demeanor. Of
his writings, it may be said that the most philosophical and revealing are
those dealing with folk-song. There he seriously puts forth a case for great
music as being necessarily local in origin. But this, it must be stressed, is
related to music in general; of his own works, when he is not self-deprecating,
he is rather remarkably quiet. Had he composed under the political conditions
of Stalinist Russia, musicologists might have assumed this reticence to have
been out of political tact or obvious fear of the gulag, so strange is it. Yet
though Vaughan Williams lived in free society, still there is a similar
smokescreen between the genesis and meaning of his pieces and their audience.
The flippancy of his program notes to the tumultuous Sixth Symphony is matched
only by his silence regarding so many of his profound pieces with text. No
reasoning is offered for the selections from Whitman for the Sea Symphony, nor are we giving a
glimpse of his rationale for the libretti of Dona Nobis Pacem or Hodie. What
prompted him to write these pieces when he did? Why did he select the texts and
arrange them in these particular configurations? We are left to speculate on
these puzzles, with the knowledge that more often than not, the composer
himself chastised many of the critical attempts to elucidate them. In the study
of Vaughan Williams’s art we are therefore perpetually accompanied by a twofold
enigma: First, what is the deeper meaning of the piece before us? And second,
why was the composer so reticent about our knowing his inspiration for it? The
first might be answered convincingly, if subjectively, while the second is
perhaps beyond our reach at present, and maybe permanently.
We are left with the dilemma that
Vaughan Williams’s approach to what might be called the literary dimension of
his career was atypical, enigmatic, and perhaps even counterproductive to a
deeper understanding of works in a purely musicological sense. This can be
generally said to extend over the majority of the more significant works in his
canon. But among these works is one veiled and unusual, yet also important
enough to the rest of his output that it might be called a central enigma. That
piece is Flos Campi, a suite for
viola, orchestra, and wordless chorus, first performed in Queen’s Hall on 10
October 1925 by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra under Sir Henry Wood, with Lionel
Tertis taking the solo viola part.[1]
The history of this piece, and the symbolism hinted at in it, seem to me
significant to those who would investigate the complete works of RVW. This
brief essay is an attempt to place the symbolic importance of the piece in the
light of his complete works.
Like so many of RVW’s works
referencing biblical texts, Flos Campi
is a mixture of various religious strands that weave throughout English
history. I hope that the many previous articles of mine have put to rest the
notion that RVW’s involvement with scriptural texts was merely an act of
veneration for the prose of the Authorized Version. If there is any remaining
doubt, however, the very text and title to Flos
Campi should eradicate it. Here the Authorized version makes an appearance
in the score, but only as a translation of the primary source text, which is,
somewhat surprisingly for an non-Catholic Englishman of RVW’s age, taken from
the Song of Songs in the Latin Vulgate (called the “Song of Solomon” in the
KJV). This is a very odd and a perhaps cryptic choice of texts by Vaughan
Williams. The Vulgate was St. Jerome’s translation of the scriptures, standard
for the Western Church for over a thousand years and monumentally influential
upon European history—it was Gutenberg’s printing of the Vulgate in 1456, for
example, that in so many ways spurred modern history.[2]
Yet by Vaughan Williams’s day several centuries of Protestant rule had long
supplanted the once historically authoritative air of St. Jerome’s work with
the equally venerated King James or Authorized Version. Yet in the score of Flos Campi, the Vulgate takes precedence
while the Authorized Version is quoted only as an aid to translation. Why RVW
chose to do this is puzzling and is something the present article cannot fully
answer. At the very least, however, it removes the piece from the realm of the
merely nationalistic—the Vulgate being international in its influence, and to
certain segments the English population of RVW’s age, even foreign.
Annoyed with the initial critical
response and misinterpretations of the work (which was paradoxically a
self-generated situation VW might easily have spared himself, had he been more
forthcoming about his artistic intent), Vaughan Williams at last decided to
publish some terse notes to the piece, criticizing those who had missed his
meaning, yet offering no real firm direction for interpretation. Thus he writes
for a performance in 1927:
When this work was first
produced two years ago, the composer discovered that most people were
not well enough acquainted with the Vulgate (or perhaps even its English
equivalent) to enable them to complete for themselves the quotations from the
‘Canticum Canticorum’, indications of which are the mottoes at the head of each
movement of the Suite.[3]
The ‘English equivalent’ of which
he speaks is a bit confusing. Most scholars would probably agree that the
closest English-language equivalent to the Vulgate is the Douay-Rheims Bible,
published by exiled Roman Catholics between 1582 and 1610.[4] Yet this is probably not what RVW here
refers to; more likely he is equating the Vulgate and the Authorized Version,
under the suggestion that the latter had assumed the public and cultural mantle
of the former in the English speaking world. Still, like so many of the
composer’s statements, it remains at least a bit unclear.
VW goes on to bluntly refute both
the idea that Flos Campi is about
“buttercups and daisies” or that it has any “ecclesiastical basis.” He then
reiterates the quotations in both Latin and English while interspersing several
very basic musical comments, mentioning the opening theme, some orchestration,
a “march”, a “persistent rhythm on the percussion.” None of this brief
analysis, however, gives any hint as to a more substantial interpretation of
the program. The piece is not “buttercups and daisies”, nor is it
“ecclesiastical”, but what is it and what does it mean? Vaughan Williams does
not and perhaps will not say: we are left with the words, the notes, and the
context within his life and career; nothing else.
As for context, in many ways Flos Campi can be seen, somewhat
remarkably, as part of a symbolic centerpiece to Vaughan Williams’s many pieces
containing Christian mystical symbolism. Earlier articles of mine have gone
into some analysis of this, most specifically regarding the Eucharistic
symbolism of the Five Mystical Songs
and Dona Nobis Pacem, and the
symbolism found in Sancta Civitas. In
some ways, Flos Campi is their
symbolic meeting point. Where Sancta
Civitas outlines the apocalypse as a precursor to the Wedding Feast of the
Lamb, in a broad civic or corporate sense, Flos
Campi deals with marital ecstasy in the more personal sense—both in
yearning preparation and in erotic fulfillment.[5]
And as I have detailed in an article on The
Pilgrim’s Progress, VW uses the theme indicating mystical union in Flos Campi as symbolic of the Delectable
Mountains in Bunyan.[6]
Taken chronologically we see Vaughan Williams building upon his symbolism and
contrasting the personal with the corporate, masculine subjects with feminine—Five Mystical Songs (1911) followed by
the Shepherds of the Delectable Mountains
(1922)[7];
then Flos Campi and Sancta Civitas, both significantly in the
same year of 1925; Magnificat (1932),
Dona Nobis Pacem (1936), and finally, The Pilgrim’s Progress (1951). It is
easy, therefore, to see the chronological centrality of Flos in the midst of all of these heavily theological and mystical
texts.
It is important to remember that Vaughan Williams understood the
allegorical meaning of the Song of Songs,
as demonstrated by a letter to Mrs. Joyce Hooper from 31 October 1951, wherein he wrote:
As regards my other point, human love has
always been taken as a symbol of man’s relation to divine things. The Song of
Solomon has been treated in all of the Churches as a symbol of the relationship
of God to man. And what about Isaiah and his “beloved’s Vineyard”? And is not
the Church in the Book of Revelations always symbolized as the bride?
Thus the path is legitimately
opened to read Flos Campi as an
expression of mystical theology—the piece was perhaps even meant by RVW to be
experienced in precisely this way. Taken with
two other scriptural works of the same period, we have a remarkable
outline: Flos Campi may be taken as
the relation between God and Man (in an intensely personal, though universal
sense); Sancta Civitas may likewise be seen as expressing the relation between God
and Humanity as a whole (in a corporate sense), while in VW’s emphasis of an
erotic element in the score of the Magnificat,
Mary is presented as both mother of God and bride of Christ (a very Catholic
understanding of Mary as a symbol of the whole Church). The ultimate ‘meaning’
of femininity, of masculinity, and of humanity and society, wrapped in and
penetrated by the presence of God’s love in the midst of tumultuous human
history all seem to have been presented by RVW in the same era. A thread runs
through them, unifying the three pieces into a Triptych of sorts. It would be
fascinating to hear them performed on the same program.
It is worth pointing out that Flos, though influential upon his later
works, seems to have puzzled almost everyone. As VW himself implied in his
later program note to the piece, the meaning was initially missed altogether.
On a musical level, too, even the closest of friends were baffled. Gustav Holst
confessed that he could not penetrate the piece or fully enter into it.[8] And as James Day has kindly pointed out to me
in an email, even the instrumentation seems to be calculated to keep the piece
a secret, so unlikely is it that such orchestration might be regularly
assembled in concert for a piece of comparatively short duration.
An analysis of the piece itself,
how the music goes about expressing the words in quotation above the movements,
is beyond the scope of this brief essay.
Context among other works, we have seen, can be understood in a
theological sense, as the reading of the mystical symbolism seems to offer a
profound means of understanding the works. But as always with Vaughan Williams,
original intention and inspiration are terribly difficult to glean. His
well-documented reticence, the obscure and incomplete data of his religious
beliefs, and the veil of time have clouded what we can realistically discuss.
Furthermore, there is at least the potential that Flos Campi may have been written for other purposes than its
apparent theological symbolism. Currently, there are rumors circulating among
scholars of a more sordid variety, touching upon this and others of RVW’s
pieces—of potentially cryptic and scandalous personal meanings. Perhaps the
rumors are true, and those who knew the composer will not have published
everything they yet intend to; perhaps our image of the composer is not exactly
the reality of the man who was. The potential that some new information, sordid
or otherwise, might yet change our interpretation of these pieces dramatically
certainly exists, and it is wise to qualify our readings of these pieces as
precisely that: they are readings of the symbolism of the works taken as a
whole, and not intended to necessarily define Vaughan Williams’s intent. But it
seems reasonable to propose that Vaughan Williams’s reticence might have been
for this very purpose: perhaps he wanted the meanings of his pieces to extend
beyond the specific condition under which they were composed. And perhaps he knew, or hoped, that they
would in some way touch people in a more universal sense.
With this in mind it will be
fascinating to watch as our understanding of Flos Campi deepens. Although it is such a short, odd piece, it fits
into an impressive symbolic center to so much of RVW’s work. I wrote at the
beginning of this brief essay that the further one studies RVW’s life and
works, the more enigmatic both of them become. I suspect that Flos Campi is in some ways part of the central
enigma of RVW’s life and career: a secret door with a great deal more behind it
than we know. Perhaps this door is destined to remain closed—and perhaps this
is as it should be. But regardless of this potential, and heedless of rumors
spread whether true or false, the cumulative symbolic effect of the triptych of
Flos Campi, Sancta Civitas, and Magnificat is unique indeed in the
history of music, and ought to be acknowledged as a great achievement. Taken
together, they speaks beyond the circumstances of one individual, to a
profoundly beautiful expression of something touching upon the mystery of our
existence.
ERIC SEDDON
[1] Kennedy,
503.
[2] As
George Steiner put it: “With Jerome’s readings of Hebrew and their implicit theory
of translation, we stand, in a sense, at the doors of modernity.” From his
Introduction to the KJV, Everyman edition,
xv.
[3] Kennedy,
503
[4] Steiner,
xvii.
[5] I have
been taken to task, in private, by more than one theologian for my use of the
word ‘erotic’ in such instances. There seems to be an ongoing debate over the proper understandings of the Greek
categories of love and their relative compatibility (or lack thereof) with
Christian theology in both Catholic and Protestant circles—and often the issue
is discussed without full agreement between rival theological understandings.
If it helps such theologians to take my use of the word ‘erotic’ for simply
‘sexual’, I have no objection, but will continue to use the latter term for a
number of reasons: first, it is the term that has been used regarding VW’s work
for multiple generations now, and second, in light of a great deal of
scholarship relating to poetry, scripture, and the arts, it seems both too much
of a quibble to constantly redefine terms and too confusing to change it. That
Pope Benedict XVI’s first encyclical (Deus
Caritas Est, 2005) uses the term ‘erotic love’ in a virtuous sense would
seem to me at least to indicate that a fear of the term as incompatible with
Christianity is intellectually obsolete. But I leave it to qualified
theologians to debate their own discipline—my only hope here is for simplicity
and clarity.
[6] See
“Turn Up My Metaphor and Do Not Fail” from the March 2007 Issue of the RVW
Journal.
[7] The Shepherds does not contain the thematic
link with Flos that VW was later to
add to the full version of The Pilgrim’s
Progress, but the mystical/erotic symbolism is still to be found in the
arrow plunged into Pilgrim’s heart before his crossing of the River of Death.
[8] Kennedy,
186.
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