MetLiveArts presents
The Little Match Girl Passion
by David Lang (b. 1957)
Friday, January 5, 2024 at 7:30 pm
Saturday, January 6, 2024 at 7:30 pm
Gallery 305, Medieval Sculpture Hall
Molly Netter, soprano
Kate Maroney, alto
Gene Stenger, tenor
Dashon Burton, bass
David Lang (b. 1957)
the little match girl passion (2007)
come, daughter
it was terribly cold
dearest heart
in an old apron
penance and remorse
lights were shining
patience, patience!
ah! perhaps
have mercy, my God
she lighted another match
from the sixth hour
she again rubbed a match
when it is time for me to go
in the dawn of morning
we sit and cry
Words by David Lang, after H.C. Andersen, H.P. Paull, Picander, and Saint Matthew
| come, daughter help me, daughter help me cry look, daughter where, daughter what, daughter who, daughter why, daughter patient daughter guiltless daughter gone |
| 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. |
| 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? |
| 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. |
| 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 |
| 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. |
| patience. patience! |
| 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. |
| 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 |
| 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. |
| 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 |
| 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, “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. |
| 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 |
| 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. |
| 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 |
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 naïve 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 or 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.
In a traditional Passion 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 texts of the crowd and character responses in the Bach. The libretto is by me, after texts by H.C. Andersen, H.P Paull (the first translator of the story into English, in 1872), Picander (the nom de plume of Christian Friedrich Henrici, the librettist of the Bach), 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', (I hope) elevating her sorrow to a higher plane.
—David Lang
—
the little match girl passion was co-commissioned by the Carnegie Hall Corporation and The Perth Theater and Concert Hall. The World Premiere was given by Theatre of Voices, conducted by Paul Hillier in Zankel Hall at Carnegie Hall, New York City on October 25, 2007.
The commission of this work was made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts, a state agency.
the little match girl passion was awarded the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for Music. The first recording, by Paul Hillier and Theatre of Voices, received a Grammy Award in 2010.
The composer would like to thank Jeffrey Douma for his help coaching this performance, and also Limor Tomer and everyone at MetLiveArts for their continued support and friendship.
the little match girl passion is dedicated to Suzanne Bocanegra
Leadership support for MetLiveArts provided by:
The Adrienne Arsht Fund for Resilience through Art
Jody and John Arnhold, Frank and Lydia Bergen Foundation, Betsy and Edward Cohen / Areté Foundation, the Director’s Fund, Kathryn O. Greenberg, The Kaplen Brothers Fund, New York State Council on the Arts, Stavros Niarchos Foundation, Cynthia Hazen Polsky and Leon B. Polsky, The Howard and Sarah D. Solomon Foundation, the estate of Katherine Walter Stein, Douglas Dockery Thomas, Barbara Tober
Additional major supporters:
Sarah Arison, The David Berg Foundation, Doris Duke Charitable Foundation, The Fan Fox & Leslie R. Samuels Fund, the Adbul Latif Jameel Community Initiatives Fund, the Muriel Kallis Steinberg Newman Fund, the Grace Jarcho Ross and Daniel G. Ross Concert Fund, Peter Steinberg and Kathrine Gehring, Helen Lee Warren and David Warren, William H. Wright II
Firebird Fellows and Firebirds:
Jenny Gerard Brown and Barry L. Brown, Magda Dvir, Constance Emmerich, Kenneth Koen, Deborah Paul, Barbara A. Pelson, Rajika and Anupam Puri, Douglas and Jean Renfield-Miller, Meryl Rosofsky and Stuart H. Coleman, Bonnie J. Sacerdote, Melanie Shorin and Greg S. Feldman, Beatrice Stern, Douglas Dockery Thomas, Lulu C. and Anthony W. Wang
Produced by The Metropolitan Museum of Art's Department of Live Arts
Limor Tomer, Lulu C. and Anthony W. Wang General Manager of Live Arts
Art Priromprintr, Senior Administrator
Nunally Kersh, Senior Producer
Harrison Corthell, Production Manager
Emery Kerekes, Program Coordinator
Madyson Barnfield, Production Associate
Audrey Rosenblith, Associate for Administration
Ricardo V. Barton, Associate for Administration
Kerrigan Quenemoen, Producing Associate
The Metropolitan Museum of Art is on the island known as Mannahatta—now called Manhattan—in Lenapehoking, the homeland of the Lenape people.
