The Secret Songs - Lyrics
American Humbug • My Toy Theatre • Illustrated Lady • How Deep Is The Red? • She Was No Good
The Misfit • She Handed Me A Mirror • He Has Forgotten Me Completely • Red Cotton • The Famous Artificial Bird
A caption reads: "1850 - New York - P.T. Barnum, The King of Humbug, announces the arrival in New York of Jenny Lind, The Swedish Nightingale. Renowned among the Crowned Heads of Europe"
P.T. Barnum enters and moves to the very edge of the stage playing a banjo.
American Humbug
Barnum:
Let me read this manifest
What is worst and what is best?
What is it that could be hidden in the belly of this groaning ship?
All broken biscuits and china cups
Perfumes and parchments
Canvases and tweeds
A length of hemp and a sack of hops
A quantity of fine oak beams
A box of bulbs and seeds
Eleven of the rarest orchids still living under glass
A quantity of Belgian lace
Twenty phials of dragon's blood
Pictures and periodicals
Tin tubes and rubber plants
Pamphlets and iron jackets
Cherries and immigrants
Stamped and sealed documents
Red velvet drapes
A range of leather harnesses
Some silver plate that tarnishes
Two barrels of mercury
One barrel of the cold black earth
Who will take this string of pearls and tell what they are worth?
Coloured ribbons and dried flowers
A roll of printed Chinese silks
Fourteen pairs of soft kid gloves
The finest cork is Portuguese
Tins of mussels and Spanish anchovies
Cases of vinegar
Vermouth and opium
Bottles of German hock
Finest French cognac
Goat's skin and peacock plumes
Fine purple twine
The chimes from six grandfather clocks
A mynah bird that sometimes talks
Two barrels of mercury and one barrel of the cold black earth?
Who will take this string of pearls and tell me what it is worth?
In among the motley and the mess
There must be one precious cargo
She will be my triumph with the first rank of society
I bring you, singer of great renown, of purest piety
The crowned heads of Europe are walking in a trance
Their glance is dimmed as if trimmed by some sleeping drug or draft
Accolades and faint applause are no match for catch sprung by the King of American Humbug
Frauds and freaks walk incognito
Curiosities that seem to speak
Now from the man who brought you:
The Fiecee Mermaid!!!
Made from a monkey's torso and a desiccated fishtail
George Washington's nursemaid!!!
Who was really a blind and penniless slave
I buried the bill of sale
Or the tiny Tom who was General Thumb
Who rode in a coach and Shetland Four through each and every court
The New York throng are rarely wrong
They are not taken in by hoaxers and fakers
Or bootleggers who end their days as kingmakers
Jenny sailed from Liverpool having thrilled both one and all inside the Philharmonic Hall
Victoria and her German cousins by the gross and by the dozens wept into their ermine robes as sainted Jenny sailed around the globe
The cheers became hysterical and frantic as she descended from the S.S. Atlantic
The multitude called loud and long
Almost seven thousand strong
To hear her first American song
How, but by trickery alone could so many hear her silver tones?
Twenty Turkish strongmen will exhale to waft the breeze unto the ears of every swell and hale
20,000 butterlies will beat their wings until they die to send Italian melodies way up into the galleries
30,000 silk worms spin a web of gauze as her voice soars high above the wild applause
50,000 glow worms or more will illuminate the curtain that will rise upon each encore
Sold for 625 dollars to Mr. Ossian F. Dodge, the auctioneer hollers
So, gentle folk beg to consider, tickets to the highest bidder
Pay once more and pay no less
"This way to the egress"
Find yourself where you began
In what seems a tiny span
The study of this lizard-like man...
The study of H.C. Andersen is revealed. He sits behind a writing desk. A cardboard toy theatre that stands on a small table, illuminated by incongruously modern Danish standing lamps.
A caption reads: "1844, H.C. Andersen is writing one of many memoirs"
My Toy Theatre
Andersen:
When I was born and placed upon my parent’s bridal bed
Made from the timber of a nobleman’s unwanted coffin
They say I screamed an endless song
Beyond that snuffed out spark
Frightened of the dark
That covers land like blight
Now all the verses that I sing
Are pulled out of the superstitious night
My poor mad grandfather would take his knife and carved strange beasts
Sometimes he’d wander from the forest with garlands in his hair
He sat shaping creatures that resembled dogs with wings
As harmless lunatics weave cradles out of twine
But deep within the spinning room
I feared one day this madhouse might be mine
All of them had recognised their worth
Accept for the changeling that lives beneath the stairs
I knew I was a foundling of some noble birth
My father dreamed some rare dreams for a shoemaker
He made for me this very fine toy theatre
He taught me how I might first cut and then dress the paper dolls
Showed me strings I should attach to every puppet and fool
And in time it came to me to give to them their stories and their souls
So do you think that my pale eye
Would fail to spy the street below?
Where gutters run with butcher’s blood
They say untold wealth lies
Beneath all unholy cries
While the poor pour fiery furnaces that spout
The brass that’s battered out into cornets that will trump
Notes from the wan fanfare of every loveless chump
Slumped in doorways, dimmed like lamps
Airs are strained with brazen verses
Harlot’s curses, dipping into beggar’s purses
Gambler’s hunches
Songs of finches
Forfeit these and sweeter stenches
Old men die by shrunken inches
Infants chained to factory benches
And yet I wait for him or is it her?
Hoping that they may appear
In My Toy Theatre
The words I really long to reach
Hide behind each halting speech
Just as some familiar hand lies just beyond my grasp
From that first fine entrance and through each mistake until our life’s last gasp
Illustrated Lady
Andersen:
I dip my pen into the well and draw up
An indolent Princess, insolent soldiers and invisible garments thrown over old tyrants
A heart that beats within a spinning top
Scratched upon blank paper
Stain it with Indian ink
Now let me think
How does a glass containing ruby wine fill up once it is drunk?
Why does that song come from branches of a lightening blasted trunk?
Friends said I would recognise her by her silhouette
And that I’d be sorry for that merry day before we met
But where on earth is my ideal?
Is this she the latest one who makes me feel my heart, my heart
My heart is set upon?
But if my past I should reveal then I may well be undone
My mother was laundress
Wading in the icy river
The blue veins raised upon her skin like carnival tattoos
Washing out of secrets found in other people’s dirt
Gin to cheer her when the waters were turbulent
And laughing at the scandal of a noble mistress beaten by her servant
Her sister ran a wanton house of dubious repute
Her daughter fell into the arms of every brute
Who offered her a tiny fist of coins and drunken punches
Blows and blessings raining down in bunches
And I gathered up these splinters put them in my tales and misadventures
Where is the one that I hold sacred
Everything that I hold dear
Anyone that I wanted but can’t hold near for fear
For fear, for fear, for fear
Anyone one that I wanted
Anyone that I hold dear
For fear
For fear
They said that Jenny, too was once an ugly wretch
And how her dress was torn and ragged
Back when her life was bleak and rugged
She had no sense for fine perfume
And still her eyes cast down as she walks through each gilded room
You’ll note her gowns are never hung with a strings of pearls
No one who sees her, plain and modest, senses the illegitimate girl
Hidden within…
So, hark and hail “The Swedish Nightingale”
Jenny Lind enters as if in concert...
How Deep Is The Red?
Andersen:
They said that Jenny too was once an ugly wretch
And how her dress was torn and ragged
Back when her life was brief and rugged
She had no sense for fine perfume
And still her eyes cast down as she walks
through each gilded room
You'll note her gowns are never hung with a string of pearls
No one who sees her, plain and modest, senses the illegitimate girl
Hidden within ...
So, hark and hail "The Swedish Nightingale"
Lind:
Is this is not a pretty tale?
Is this not a riddle?
A bow shoots arrows through the air
A bow drags notes from a fiddle
But who is the beau of poor girl’s dreams?
That a king may send to battle
Is this not a pretty tale?
Is this not a riddle?
If red is the breast of soldier’s tunic hung with a silver medal
And red is the thorn that protects the rose, a deeper red than the petal
How deep is the red our redeemer bled, the debt of our sins to settle?
How deep is the red?
How deep is the red?
How deep is the red our redeemer bled?
How deep is the red?
Lind exits. Barnum rushes in as if anxious to interrupt the preceding piety.
Caption reads: "1852, Onboard the riverboat, "Magnolia" bound for Nachez, Mississippi."
She Was No Good
She could be no good, I'm telling you
Gather round boys for a tale that is tragic and true
On the Mississippi riverboat, "Magnolia"
No one onboard was smelling too sweet
That precious one must have been stamping her feet
Dictating demands all well and fine
A few rods west of the Bridgeport line
But the veil was drawn and the halo slipped
Tippling tinctures and reciting scripture
Faces where slapped just as kid gloves were suffered
Vile threats were uttered and challenges offered
On the Cumberland riverboat, "E.W. Stephens"
Daggers were drawn on pistols pulled
Staggering ‘til dawn filled up with whiskey and rum
And several drunken players ran amok
Rampaging with the crew around the deck
And I received a blow that was unkind
It turned my cheek to the colour of gentian violet
I wouldn't say that this journey had quite been the highlight
Of the All-American Tour
Teetering on the edge of war
Out of the genteel Northern prosceniums
Filled up with imitation Europeans
Down along the river of rough damnations
By the blood-stained cotton and the slave plantations
Now I know that human life may come in each variety
But I have the mind with a plain view of society
Sometimes a man needs some calm and clarity
So, I called for my wife, who is named for Charity
Let me quote my spouse on the scandal of ballet:
"Every one of those half-naked trollops should be taken out and horsewhipped a good fine wallop
For showing their brazen nakedness they should be living on bread and water or much less
Until they gain a decent living
They'll need repenting and forgiving"
Now let me quote my dear on the subject of the opera:
"Well, it is nothing but unnatural screechings, telling a most unlikely tale. The men are much worse than the woman, screaming like females"
Caption reads: "Liverpool - 1850"'
Jenny Lind enters, dressed for a sea journey.
Andersen is present on the stage, unlit, but does not acknowledge Lind's presence.
The Misfit
Lind:
I have received a letter that is requesting my consent
To give my voice to one poor man’s confession
If only he would repent
The date of my departure is coming very near
You ask I sing in private, my dear friend
Some songs composed in secret with a tender hand
For you know words once written down
Fade from the page or are misunderstood
And so the eye may search in vain
For their meaning
Or something more that is worth the keeping
He fell to uncontrollable weeping
Over terrors that come to you while sleeping
Lind sings from Andersen's memoir
“Once there was a boy, came dancing to my door
He wore a threadbare beggar’s suit
Flinging all his limbs in each direction
Reciting verse with perfect diction
Such wretched grammar
Such melodrama
Next year he returned, his lessons not quite learned
Flashing eyes for my affection
Reciting verse out loud
Declaiming to the gathering
A voice that some called ‘immature’
Though it was plain to see
That like a child spoke honestly”
Lind returns to her own thoughts
And yet his grasp was frail
So deathly pale and bound to fail
Loving someone unattainable
Now the chill of night is warmed
The fever on his brow is calmed
His neck stretched like a proud young swan
Transfigured and transformed
And this poor unfortunate
His hopes were crushed or slim
At another’s whim
Seeking someone
Someone similar
Still less a duckling than a gull
Believing every word that falls
From each promise and each spell
Fearing all the fires of hell
And it was I, who recognized his calamity
How promiscuity lives next door to poverty
So through that holy vow and our manners prim
My beating heart became contained in him
My beating heart became contained within him
Lind vanishes.
Caption reads: "1850 - The same hour in Copenhagen".
Andersen is alone. He picks up a guitar.
She Handed Me A Mirror
Andersen:
She handed me a mirror
That she had gazed upon
The glass still held an image
The glass still held an image
But it was of a man
I turned from the reflection
To see who it might be
Is that poor vanity quite how she pictures me?
She handed me a mirror
Rather than tell me “no”
She let slip her handkerchief
Gentle laughter flowed
Just as her lips bestowed
The dashing word like “brother”
The crushing word like “friend”
If there was no beginning
How could this be the end?
She handed me mirror
So I could recognise
The distance from my heart to hers
The distance from my heart to hers
The pity in her eyes
She liked my pretty story
I thanked her for her song
And then I wrote a tale not very long to tell
"You are much more than pretty. You are beautiful."
She handed me mirror and I saw her instead
She handed me a mirror
She handed me a mirror
And that is all she did…
Andersen stands and paces, quite alone.
He Has Forgotten Me Completely
Andersen:
O, I implore you to sing this melody before you go
If I may be so bold
It may be very many years until we meet again
So I shall teach you this, my most pitiful refrain
“She has forgotten me completely
My grief, my grief she does not see
So, take these scissors and this paper
And cut out any likeness that you have of me”
Andersen hallucinates that Lind is present
Lind:
He has forgotten me, completely
My grief, my grief he does not see
Would he even raise a hand to greet me?
My grief, my grief and my grief, my grief he does not see
It only took the briefest of absence
To shatter my belief
And as wretched as I am
Maybe it is better that you don’t remember me
And if time may bring forgiveness
There will be a day when understanding can return
Andersen:
O, no that’s not it at all you’ve changed the air and the meaning
Though your voice is so endearing and so tender, you have confused the gender
Lind:
Gentle Brother, just as the French say “vous” for “you” and “tu” for sentimental lovers
There is a word that truly must be heard from him and from no other
“He has forgotten me, completely
My grief, my grief he does not see
Would he even raise a hand to greet me?
My grief, my grief and my grief, my grief he does not see
It only took the briefest of absence
To shatter my belief
And as wretched as I am
Maybe it is better that you don’t remember me
And if time may bring forgiveness
There will be a day when understanding can return”
Lind disappears.
Andersen is alone once more
Caption reads: "1860 - Iranistan - The Connecticut Estate of Phineas Taylor Barnum"
Barnum enters cutting a piece of fabric with a large pair of dressmaker's scissors.
Red Cotton
I'm cutting up her pure white dress
That I dyed red
That I dyed red
I'm putting scraps in cheap tin lockets
What time erases and memory mocks
I'll send them over the ocean foam
Right into those gentle European homes
The slave ship "Blessing" slipped from Liverpool
Over the waves the Royal Navy rules
To go and plunder the Kingdom of Benin
Where certain history ends and shame begins
Dahomey traders paid in powder and shot
Line up their prisoners and they sell them in lots
They packed them tight inside those coffin ships
And took them to the brand new world of
auction blocks and whips
I'm cutting up her pure white dress
That I dyed red
That I dyed red
I'm putting scraps in cheap tin lockets
What time erases and memory mocks
I'll send them over the ocean foam
Right into those gentle European homes
White is the sheet on your fine linen bed
The blood stained red on each cotton thread
Merchants will gather at St. George's Hall
To unveil the kneeling slave who is carved upon the wall
So picture the scene on the Old Salt House docks
Where they loaded the iron shackles and locks
Between a sandstone crocodile, a barrel and a bale
You will see the nameless faces they were offering for sale
So, I sing the praises of God's glory
As a blue cetacean floats in the basement
An elephant on the second storey
They queue all day to see him
In my American Museum
But the Lord will judge us with fire and thunder
As man continues in all his blunders
It's only money
It's only numbers
Maybe it is time to put aside these fictitious wonders
But man is feeble
Man is puny
And if it should divide the Union
There is no man that should own another
When he can't even recognise his sister and his brother
Caption reads: "1875 - Copenhagen".
Andersen is terminally ill. He sits on a chair, reminiscing. The toy theatre is missing. A glass carafe of water and a glass, containing a spoon, are in its place.
The Famous Artificial Bird
I recall they offered me a woman in a Parisian hotel
Or maybe it was brothel or a boy it's hard to tell
And I, who had once trembled at sight of an artist's model
Now I stumbled for excuses and retreated to the moral
The morphine takes a swift effect and eases the pain
And soon I will be sleeping
Dreaming again
In that dream I take the songs that I have long locked away
And send them to the huckster who put Jenny on display
The mechanical wings flutter as it sings
No expense shall be spared
Cheer loud and long
For such a shrill, hard-hearted song
"You haven't lived until you've heard
The Famous Artificial Bird"
The showman and the automaton make a murderous pair
One spouts false claims
The other imitates the airs
That stole from the throat of a songbird
The very one that I hold dear
But by my notes the fraud and fake appear to be sincere
Children send me money from their American pockets
Believing that I live in genteel poverty
Women care to wear my likeness in their delicate lockets
Men whisper that my tales lack any gravity
In the court they sense the mildew on the ermine and the valvet
Tarnished orders hanging from a sash of satin
Veneers and vain vendettas weary on like operettas
And erase the marble letters of the lost and Latin
The grains are in the glass
A nightmare troubles my slumber
As the waves crash over the bow
And flood precious cargo
Buried in the hull
Addressed to the damn contraiption
That calls like the cries of scavenging gulls
Mocking the broken backs of ships and poor drowned sailors souls
On the eve of his hanging, John Brown read "By The Outermost Sea"
While the ship went down with all hands and secret melodies
They lie just off the union with the Massachusetts shore
And the muffled drums of slow approaching war
