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Gustav Leonhardt
古斯塔夫·萊昂哈特
Gustav Leonhardt, harpsichordist and father of the early-music movement, died on January 16th, aged 83.
羽管鍵琴家，早期音樂運(yùn)動(dòng)之父古斯塔夫.萊昂哈特于1月16日去世，享年83歲。
A CONCERT by Gustav Leonhardt was not like any other. He approached his harpsichord with the air of a mortician, slightly flexing his long, delicate hands.
古斯塔夫·萊昂哈特的演奏會(huì)與眾不同。他帶著一種殯儀師的氣質(zhì)慢慢走近他的羽管鍵琴，輕輕地扭動(dòng)一下他那纖細(xì)修長的雙手。
As he played he sat bolt upright, gaunt and aquiline, unsmiling in his crisp, perfect suit, with his elbows held close to his sides.
在演奏時(shí)他的背挺得筆直，瘦削且輪廓分明，穿著一身干凈得體的西裝而表情嚴(yán)肅，手肘緊靠在身體兩側(cè)。
No unnecessary gesture, no hint of emotion: senza baldanza, as a composer might have marked it. He did not have the look of a man on a mission. But he was.
沒有花俏的手勢，沒有透露出一點(diǎn)情緒，作曲家可能會(huì)把這叫做“缺乏自信”。他看上去不像一個(gè)肩負(fù)使命的人，但他是的。
Mr Leonhardt's life-work was to persuade the world how beautiful the harpsichord was, and how the harpsichord repertoire should be played.
萊昂哈特先生的畢生心血都花在讓世界了解羽管鍵琴是多么美好的一種樂器，以及應(yīng)該怎樣彈奏羽管鍵琴曲目上面。
When he first fell in love with it, in the shape of the fairly bad instrument his parents bought for their house at Graveland in the Netherlands, he recognised it as the king of keyboards.
當(dāng)初，他父母替位于荷蘭格雷弗蘭村的房子買了一臺音質(zhì)很差的羽管鍵琴，從那時(shí)起他就愛上了這種樂器，認(rèn)識到它是鍵盤樂器之王。
Organs were noble characters, and he played church organ for years. Virginals were pleasing; he wrote a book on Flemish examples.
風(fēng)琴具有高貴的特色，他曾在教堂彈奏多年的風(fēng)琴。小鍵琴則悅耳動(dòng)聽，他曾著過一本討論弗蘭芒小鍵琴的書。
But fortepianos were awful, the sound muffling all over the place when the hammer hit the keys, which put him off playing his beloved Mozart; and modern grands were unspeakable.
但是古典鋼琴糟透了，當(dāng)琴槌敲出音調(diào)時(shí)到處都是壓抑的聲音，讓他在彈奏他鐘愛的莫扎特時(shí)大受打擊，至于現(xiàn)代鋼琴，簡直糟得無法形容。
None had that direct pluck of plectrum on string for which he loved the harpsichord—though that mechanism was also fearsomely exacting, even “diabolical”, and that was why he did not smile as he played.
所有這些樂器都沒有琴撥在琴弦上的直接撥動(dòng)，而這正是他熱愛羽管鍵琴的原因。不過同時(shí)要掌握這種發(fā)聲機(jī)制也費(fèi)勁得令人害怕，簡直有如“惡魔”一般，這也是為什么他在演奏時(shí)從不微笑的原因。
It would also have been vulgar. Mr Leonhardt was ever on the watch for that, whether in the form of electric lighting, or showy articulation, or hotel breakfast buffets, or Beethoven’s Ninth.
而且羽管鍵琴的演奏也容易流于低俗。不管是電燈照明，或是浮華的發(fā)音，抑或旅館的自助早餐，還是貝多芬的第九交響樂里。
"That ‘Ode to Joy', talk about vulgarity! And the text! Completely puerile!"
“那首《歡樂頌》，簡直是低俗的代表！再看看歌詞！幼稚極了！”
His own manners were exquisitely courteous; he seemed to have stepped from the past, and even a shockingly fast drive in his Alfa Romeo might end with Mr Leonhardt, lost, finding his way home not by sat-nav but the stars.
萊昂哈特一直小心翼翼，讓自己遠(yuǎn)離低俗。他自己的行為舉止都帶有一種高雅的禮貌，就好像他來自于過去的時(shí)代，給人感覺萊昂哈特就算開他自己的那輛快得讓人乍舌的阿爾法·羅密歐去兜風(fēng)，最后可能也會(huì)落得迷路下場，而且他會(huì)借助星星而不是導(dǎo)航器的指引找到家。
When he began to study harpsichord seriously, at Basel in 1950, the instrument had been neglected, or overlaid with Romantic sweetness, for decades.
1950年他開始在巴塞爾正式學(xué)習(xí)羽管鍵琴，當(dāng)時(shí)這種樂器要么被人忽略，要么就是用來表現(xiàn)浪漫風(fēng)格的甜蜜感，這種情況已經(jīng)有幾十年了。
He intended to restore it to the simple, original sound, “salt rather than sugar”, that Johann Sebastian Bach had written for.
他決定要讓羽管鍵琴重拾它原本那種簡單的聲音，那種“是鹽，而不是糖”的聲音，約翰·塞巴斯蒂安·巴赫當(dāng)初就是為這種聲音作曲的。
If people found that sound too thin for modern halls, and the pitch disturbingly low, too bad; their ears would just have to get used to it. And after a while, they did.
如果人們覺得這種聲音對于現(xiàn)代音樂廳來說太過于稀薄了，或是調(diào)子低得令人不安，太糟了，讓他們?nèi)チ?xí)慣這種聲音吧。實(shí)際上，經(jīng)過一段時(shí)間，人們真得習(xí)慣了。
It meant hard work for him.
這對他來說可不是輕松的工作。
He began by tirelessly hand-copying hundreds of original scores in the Vienna Library, when he was meant to be studying conducting.
就在他本應(yīng)學(xué)習(xí)指揮的時(shí)間里，他孜孜不倦地從維也納圖書館手抄了數(shù)百份原譜。
but he scorned conducting, thinking it "the easiest way out" in music, with never a wrong note to worry about.
他本來就很輕視指揮，認(rèn)為這是音樂中“最輕松的一條路”，從不需要擔(dān)心彈錯(cuò)音。
He continued by making a definitive recording in 1953 of Bach's “Art of Fugue”, and publishing an impassioned argument that the piece had been written for solo harpsichord rather than ensemble.
繼續(xù)努力，在1953年錄制了一張巴赫《賦格的藝術(shù)》的權(quán)威唱片，同時(shí)出版了一篇熱情洋溢的論文，提出這首曲子并不是為了合奏，而是為了羽管鍵琴獨(dú)奏而寫的觀點(diǎn)。
That stirred up interest in pre-Romantic music, though still not enough to fill a room when his little consort played Biber's unpublished “Fidicinium sacro-profanum”, or other treasures he had unearthed.
他這激起了人們對前浪漫主義音樂的興趣，雖然在他的小樂隊(duì)演奏比貝爾的《宗教世俗弦樂集》以及其它他挖掘出來的寶藏時(shí)，這種興趣還沒有大到可以讓聽眾填滿一個(gè)房間。
He thought of those as his catacomb days.
他后來回憶時(shí)說那是一段暗無天日的時(shí)期。
Fairly quickly, however, listeners warmed to Byrd and Frescobaldi, Rameau and Ritter; his own recordings, especially with Nikolaus Harnoncourt of all Bach's Cantatas, fanned the flame; and the early-music movement has flourished ever since.
不過，很快的，聽眾對伯德，弗雷斯科巴爾迪，拉莫，斯瑞特的曲子反應(yīng)熱烈，他自己的一些唱片，尤其是和尼古勞斯·哈農(nóng)庫特合作錄制的巴赫康塔塔全集進(jìn)一步提高了他的聲望，從那之后早期音樂運(yùn)動(dòng)就如火如荼地展開了。
What would Bach do?
巴赫會(huì)怎么做？
Mr Leonhardt's own standards of “authenticity” were severe, as befitted a man whose brick house in Amsterdam had shelves, tiles and floorboards unaltered from its last updating, in 1750.
萊昂哈特先生自己的“正統(tǒng)”標(biāo)準(zhǔn)是很嚴(yán)格的，這點(diǎn)很符合他的個(gè)性，他在阿姆斯特丹的房子保留了上一次1750年翻修后所有的架子，地磚和地板。
It certainly did not mean just stringing a modern violin with gut and buying an old bow, while keeping the modern bridge.
“正統(tǒng)”可不是指買一把帶著現(xiàn)代弓背的老弓來拉奏帶著腸弦的現(xiàn)代小提琴。
It did not mean playing a harpsichord strung with modern steel, or fussy ornamentation as a piece was played.
或是彈奏帶有現(xiàn)代鋼弦的羽管鍵琴，或是在演奏曲目時(shí)加入講究的裝飾音。
For years he laboured to find the most authentic replica harpsichord; his favourite, by Martin Skowroneck of Bremen, which had pride of place in his huge drawing room, was made of 18th-century woods.
多年來他一直努力尋找最正統(tǒng)的復(fù)古羽管鍵琴，他的愛琴來自不來梅的馬丁·斯科羅耐克琴廠，在他的巨大客廳中占有中心位置，是由18世紀(jì)的木材制成的。
That may have been why it sounded better than any other, but he could not exactly tell.
也許這是為什么它的聽上去比其它琴更好的緣故，可惜他也說不出準(zhǔn)確的原因。
The search for authenticity often ended in a mystery.
對于正統(tǒng)的尋找經(jīng)常會(huì)以迷惑結(jié)束。
It was never just a matter of getting the instruments right.
找到對的樂器只是第一步。
Who knew how Bach, the greatest musical genius who had ever lived, had played?
誰知道歷史上最偉大的音樂天才，巴赫在世時(shí)是怎么演奏的呢？
There was no phrasing, no indication of loud or soft, on scores from his time.
他那個(gè)時(shí)代的樂譜上還沒有短句，也沒有強(qiáng)弱記號。
That run of notes—legato or non legato? Equal or unequal? Nobody knew.
那一串音符，要不要連奏？是不是等音？沒人知道。
And on top of that came the mysteries of performance.
除這些之外還有演奏本身的神秘感。
Did Bach lead from the harpsichord or the violin?
巴赫是讓羽管鍵琴帶頭呢還是讓小提琴帶頭？
Did he like the acoustics in St Thomas’s in Leipzig, or did he hate them?
他是喜歡還是討厭萊比錫圣多馬教堂的音效？
When Mr Leonhardt taught in Vienna and Amsterdam, never taking more than five pupils at a time (many of them becoming distinguished harpsichordists in turn), he never imposed a method on them.
萊昂哈特先生在維也納和阿姆斯特丹教琴時(shí)，他從不同時(shí)帶超過五個(gè)學(xué)生（這些學(xué)生中很多后來成為了著名的羽管鍵琴家），他從不將任何演奏方法強(qiáng)加于他們。
he simply listened to their playing, heard what they lacked, and worked on it.
他只是聽他們的演奏，聽出不足之處再設(shè)法改進(jìn)。
Their approach was up to them. Music could not be authentic, he often said, in the way a poem or a painting was.
具體用什么方法隨個(gè)人喜好。他經(jīng)常說，音樂不可能達(dá)到詩歌或是繪畫那種意義上的正統(tǒng)。
You could never know exactly what was in the composer's head.
你永遠(yuǎn)不可能準(zhǔn)確知道作曲家腦子里在想什么。
Nonetheless, when he was asked in the mid-1960s to play the part of his favourite composer in “The Chronicle of Anna Magdalena Bach”, and was filmed in a long periwig and a frock-coat forging elegantly through the fifth Brandenberg Concerto, many listeners may well have felt that this was as near the mind of Bach as any man could reasonably get.
但是，當(dāng)他在20世紀(jì)60年代中期受邀于《安娜·瑪格達(dá)麗娜·巴赫記事》一片中扮演那位他最喜愛的作曲家時(shí)，當(dāng)他在片中頂著飄揚(yáng)的假發(fā)，穿著禮服優(yōu)雅地模仿彈奏第五勃蘭登堡協(xié)奏曲時(shí)，許多聽眾可能會(huì)感覺到，沒有人能比他更神似巴赫了。
