Isle of the Dead

This week's song is "Isle of the Dead" by Sergei Rachmaninov

I recently posted "Trolltog" a lyrical piece by Edvard Grieg. It is a fast little piece of music that gets straight to the point. It is easy to imagine trolls marching around to the frantic music that the pianist is playing. Either that or he is simply trying to swat a mosquito. Either way, it is fast and furious and entertaining, all in about three minutes.

"Isle of the Dead" by Sergei Rachmaninov is just about the opposite. Marking its time at some twenty-one minutes, this symphonic poem takes its time developing themes and lettering an intimate missive, unlike the quick note that is Trolltog.

This piece unravels the foreboding tale of traveling to the end. Yes, that end. The end we will all meet someday. Inspired by a black and white reproduction of the Swiss Arnold Böcklin's painting of the same name, the music begins with slow and deep bellowing breaths of a boat leaving shore to an unknown destination. Three figures adorn the vessel. The first is a festooned figure, laying across the bow, already prepared for its final rest. The second is rowing, striding ever forward at the pace of the dirge. The final figure stands in the boat dressed in all white, ghastly. The in and out whooshing of the water continues.

Neither the painter nor the composer explain what or who these figures are. Perhaps the grim figure in white is the deceased's soul itself watching and wait to be lain. Perhaps the rower is the listener, propelling from the stern. Shwoosh. A bit of water leaps into the boat. Maybe the oarsman is the listener, and the figure in white is also the listener, and the empty coffin is the destination of them both. Perhaps this is our journey. We propel ourselves through life, our soul ever watching – ever seeing, what we do not see. Knowing one day the book will end, and a new one will begin.

The somber notes continue. Throbbing toward something ahead. No looking back now. Whatever is ahead is ahead. In the ebb and flow a glimpse of what is to come can be seen. More water from the oars flutter in to the boat. What is that. Massively high cliffs. Cypress trees just as tall. Frightening. Yet...peaceful.

The vision of the islet brings about objects of symbolism and yet this is false. These are not symbols. This is the reality that the end is ending. The destination is set. The dark waving water and the grim dark sky is offset by the light shining on those in the boat. The splashing light from behind leaves drips of the past on our passengers.

Now we can see the water gate and the sea wall. They cypress trees are larger than life. Bigger than they should be. The cliffs are jagged and tall. The rowing has changed. We are no longer coming from, but arriving at. A thousand thoughts race by, all at once. The missed opportunities. The times we got it right. All in a blurring whirlwind of thought. And yet, there is a inerrant peace at hand. We are not the first to arrive here. Not the last. We are so close now. What comes next? What is it? Who knows? I surely do not.

Perhaps now we arrive at the gate and exit the boat. We march at the same lamenting pace as before. Realizing this is too fast, we slow to a new pace. We look. What is here? Those that came before us. We were not the first here, and we will not be the last. Our turn has come.

The music returns to the same theme we heard in the beginning. The rowing. The swaying. The splash of the wave. Breaking from the mirage of the isle, we are alive. There is still time. Life is not yet over. Remember. There will be a time. The final note is drawn out and we are drawn back to reality.

Do not fear death. Fear not living.