The Schumann set was both extremely familiar and utterly new to me. Hampson's informative comments before the program explained all this. The 20 short poems dealing with love were intended to be published as a cycle, but, as often happened with Schumann, the number was cut down to the 16 that lieder fans know as Dichterliebe, Op. 48. The original full set, which was never even assigned an opus number, has only recently been resurrected from the dead. Similarly reconstructed and expanded Schumann works have not been uncommon. Much the same happened 40 years ago when Schumann's popular piano work, the Symphonic Etudes, Op. 13, had a traditional dozen variations expanded to include all 17 in the original manuscript. Hampson's presentation of the complete 20 songs — a first encounter for me — turned out to be a fitting tribute in observing the 150th anniversary of Schumann's death on July 29, 1856.

The four reclaimed songs of the original, now being added to the Poet's Love cycle, include Dein Angesicht so lieb und schön (Your Face So Lovable and Fair), Lehn deine Wang' an meine Wang' (Lay Your Cheek Against My Cheek), Es leuchtet meine Liebe (My Love Gleams), and Mein Wagen rollet langsam (My Cart Rolls Slowly). They're not a whit untypical of the other songs in the cycle except for the unexpected cart song. The piano part is odd for Schumann in its light, almost impressionistic sonority. The soft, fluttering sounds suggest something more like Fauré or early Debussy songs than Schumann. One does not encounter Schumann's usual richness of resonance in piano writing. That's appropriate to the text, given a cart rolling down "... the cheerful forest green, through flowery valleys...."

The well-known Schubert songs revealed mostly the dramatic power of storytelling in song, each like a condensed opera. As so experienced an opera singer, Hampton achieved especially brilliant sound painting. His Der Atlas (Atlas complaining that he bears "The world — the whole world of sorrow ..." ) was hurled at us with angry Wagnerian intensity. But Hampson could turn that kind of vocalism upside down for the hushed desperation in Irh Bild (I stood darkly dreaming) and the genuinely eerie Die Stadt (The Town), each sung as from the grave. His performance of the disconsolate meditation Am Meer (By the Sea) was so emotionally moving that even I choked up a bit. I've always adored that song but can remember being no more captivated by any other rendition.

Hampson would subtly act out these and the Schumann songs, mostly through change of facial expression as well as variation in vocal color and degree of vibrato. Only occasionally did he use his hands to reach out and grab at the air. Such gestures were discreet and infrequent, and they proved all the more effective for that. He might bob his head a little for the lighthearted moments in Schumann, covering just a hint of smile, or turn as stern as a Verdian Iago for some threat in words. It was all most effective, and a great relief from the simple stand-and-deliver format of some recitalists.

A word or two of high praise is also due for pianist Rieger, especially in the critical Schumann cycle, where the pianist has as much to contribute to the projection of the texts as the vocalist. He had those epilogues for the piano alone, speaking eloquently of each song itself. With most composers, the words have stopped and the pianist merely plays a cadence — boom, plop, and it's over. But in Schumann's lieder, the pianist takes over and plays and plays at amazing solo codas — sometimes for a couple of minutes at a time. The pianist thus carries the ultimate poetic effect, once the vocalist is done. It's as if Schumann felt he'd done his duty for the poet's text, and now he wanted some personal time for his own expression.

Only one passage held Rieger back from a perfect evening: that damnable fast coda at the end of Und wüssten's die Blumen (If the little flowers knew) in Dichterliebe, which is basically unplayable. Columbia once issued a live Carnegie Hall recording of Dichterliebe, accompanied by Vladimir Horowitz, no less, and even he made a mess of that coda. When I once complimented Christoph Eschenbach on his perfect recorded rendition of that passage, he told me they had wanted to do another take, "but I refused. I got it right once and wasn't sure that could be done twice in a row." (Both pianists, by the bye, were accompanying Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.)

I half hoped for an encore, perhaps one of the Hans Christian Anderson songs that had been dropped: The Soldier, forced to kill his friend as part of a firing squad, or The Fiddler, the ghost of a musician playing away, with its final prayer after the fast, spooky song, "Oh God, graciously protect us from the madness that may overtake us. For I am myself a poor musician." This, as poor Schumann was on the edge of just that madness.

But no, no encore was forthcoming. Maybe next time.