tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222625576455946162.post6271611710061180633..comments2024-03-12T16:31:25.752+01:00Comments on silvae: Washington Crossing the DelawareUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222625576455946162.post-68339474411333323992010-03-01T20:49:35.667+01:002010-03-01T20:49:35.667+01:00Ein aller slawischen Sprachen mächtiger Freund, de...Ein aller slawischen Sprachen mächtiger Freund, der noch dazu engste Verbindungen zur Düsseldorfer Schule des 19. Jahrhunderts hat, wies mich darauf hin (da er irgendwie beim Eingeben des Kommentars gescheitert war), dass das Lieder der Düsseldorfer Künstler wahrscheinlich auf die Melodie des russischen "Stenka Razin" zu singen sei. Nachdem ich mir Nicolai Ghiaurovs "Stenka Razin auf YouTube angehört habe, wurde mir klar, dass ich das Lied unter dem Titel "Unrasiert und fern der Heimat" kannte. Ich habe daraufhin das Lied mit dem Delawarius und dem Washingtoon zu dieser Melodie einmal durchgesungen. Und siehe da: es funktioniert. Danke dottore FHjayhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/03297885808320517891noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222625576455946162.post-34776717863593582642010-02-28T10:39:22.710+01:002010-02-28T10:39:22.710+01:00"No impression here, however, was half so mom..."No impression here, however, was half so momentous as that of the epoch-making masterpiece of Mr. Leutze, which showed us Washington crossing the Delaware in a wondrous flare of projected gaslight and with the effect of a revelation to my young sight of the capacity of accessories to 'stand out.' I live again in the thrill of that evening — which was the greater of course for my feeling it, in my parents' company, when I should otherwise have been in bed. We went down, after dinner, in the Fourteenth Street stage, quite as if going to the theatre; the scene of exhibition was near the Stuyvesant Institute (a circumstance stirring up somehow a swarm of associations, echoes probably of lectures discussed at home, yet at which my attendance had doubtless conveniently lapsed,) but Mr. Leutze's drama left behind any paler proscenium. We gaped responsive to every item, lost in the marvel of the wintry light, of the sharpness of the ice-blocks, of the sickness of the sick soldier, of the protrusion of the minor objects, that of the strands of the rope and the nails of the boots, that, I say, on the part of everything, of its determined purpose of standing out; but that, above all, of the profiled national hero's purpose, as might be said, of standing up, as much as possible, even indeed of doing it almost on one leg, in such difficulties, and successfully balancing. So memorable was that evening to remain for me that nothing could be more strange, in connection with it, than the illustration by the admired work, on its in after years again coming before me, of the cold cruelty with which time may turn and devour its children. The picture, more or less entombed in its relegation, was lividly dead — and that was bad enough. But half the substance of one's youth seemed buried with it." (Henry James, A Small Boy and Others, 1913)Morgenländerhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/02318419347365471040noreply@blogger.com