Texts
Forests & Fantasies
Joanna Harries – mezzo-soprano
Thomas Ang – piano
HUGO WOLF Elfenlied (Mörike Lieder)
CLAUDE DEBUSSY La Chevelure (Chansons de Bilitis)
FRANZ SCHUBERT An Emma
BENJAMIN BRITTEN Johnny (Cabaret Songs)
***
CLARA SCHUMANN Lorelei
FRANZ SCHUBERT Heidenröslein
FRANZ SCHUBERT Der Jüngling auf dem Hügel
MANUEL ROSENTHAL La Souris d‘Angleterre (Chansons de Monsieur Bleu)
GERALD FINZI Ode on the rejection of St Cecilia
***
HUGO WOLF Nimmersatte Liebe (Mörike Lieder)
WILHELM STENHAMMAR Til en Ros
AGATHE BACKER-GRØNDAHL Skjaerer
AGATHE BACKER-GRØNDAHL Mot Kveld
WILHELM STENHAMMAR Jungfru Blond och Jungfru Brunnett
CHERYL FRANCES-HOAD Rubbish at Adultery (One Life Stand)
HUGO WOLF
Elfenlied (from Mörike Lieder)
Text: Eduard Mörike
Bei Nacht im Dorf der Wächter rief: „Elfe!“
Ein ganz kleines Elfchen im Walde schlief –
Wohl um die Elfe –
Und meint, es rief ihm aus dem Tal
Bei seinem Namen die Nachtigall,
Oder Silpelit hätt ihm gerufen.
Reibt sich der Elf die Augen aus,
Begibt sich vor sein Schneckenhaus,
Und ist als wie ein trunken Mann,
Sein Schläflein war nicht voll getan,
Und humpelt also tippe tapp
Durchs Haselholz ins Tal hinab,
Schlupft an der Mauer hin so dicht,
Da sitzt der Glühwurm, Licht an Licht.
„Was sind das helle Fensterlein?
Da drin wird eine Hochzeit sein:
Die Kleinen sitzen beim Mahle,
Und treibens in dem Saale;
Da guck ich wohl ein wenig ’nein!“
– Pfui, stösst den Kopf an harten Stein!
Elfe, gelt, du hast genug?
Gukuk! Gukuk! Gukuk!
Elf Song
At night in the village, the watchman cried: “Eleven!”
A very tiny elf was asleep in the woods –
Just around eleven o’clock –
And thinks, out of the valley
A nightingale was calling his name.
Or perhaps Silpelit had called for him.
The elf rubs at his eyes,
Sets off from his Snail House,
And is like a drunken man;
He hadn’t fully finished sleeping,
And hobbles, tippetty tap,
Through the hazel wood down into the valley,
Presses himself close to the wall,
Where a glow-worm is sitting, alight.
“What are these bright little windows?
There must be a wedding inside:
The little ones are sitting to feast,
And there’s dancing in the ballroom;
I’ll just peek a little inside!”
– Ugh, he bumps his head on the hard stone!
Elf, say, have you had enough?
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuckoo!
CLAUDE DEBUSSY
La chevelure (from Trois Chansons de Bilitis)
Text: Pierre Louÿs
Il m’a dit: «Cette nuit, j’ai rêvé. J’avais ta chevelure
autour de mon cou. J’avais tes cheveux comme un
collier noir autour de ma nuque et sur ma poitrine.
«Je les caressais, et c’étaient les miens; et nous
étions liés pour toujours ainsi, par la même
chevelure la bouche sur la bouche, ainsi que deux lauriers
n’ont souvent qu’une racine.
«Et peu à peu, il m’a semblé, tant nos membres
étaient confondus, que je devenais toi-même ou
que tu entrais en moi comme mon songe.»
Quand il eut achevé, il mit doucement ses mains sur
mes épaules, et il me regarda d’un regard si tendre,
que je baissai les yeux avec un frisson.
The hair
He said to me: ‘Last night I dreamed. I had your
hair around my neck. I had your hair like a black
necklace around my nape and over my chest.
‘I caressed it and it was mine; and we
were united for ever, by the same hair,
mouth on mouth, just as two laurels
often share one root.
‘And little by little it seemed to me, so intertwined
were our limbs, that I was becoming you, or that you
were entering inside of me like a dream.’
When he had finished, he put his hands gently on
my shoulders, and looked at me so tenderly
that I lowered my eyes with a shiver.
FRANZ SCHUBERT
An Emma (D113)
Text: Friedrich von Schiller
Weit in nebelgrauer Ferne
Liegt mir das vergang’ne Glück,
Nur an Einem schönen Sterne
Weilt mit Liebe noch der Blick.
Aber, wie des Sternes Pracht,
Ist es nur ein Schein der Nacht.
Deckte dir der lange Schlummer,
Dir der Tod die Augen zu,
Dich besässe doch mein Kummer,
Meinem Herzen lebtest du.
Aber ach! du lebst im Licht,
Meiner Liebe lebst du nicht.
Kann der Liebe süss Verlangen,
Emma, kann’s vergänglich sein?
Was dahin ist und vergangen,
Emma, kann’s die Liebe sein?
Ihrer Flamme Himmelsglut
Stirbt sie, wie ein irdisch Gut?
To Emma
Far away in the misty grey distance
Lies my past happiness.
On one star alone
Lingers my loving gaze.
But, like the splendour of the star
It is only an illusion of the night.
If the long sleep of death
Should close your eyes,
I should still possess you in my sadness,
In my heart you would live on.
But, ah! You live in the light,
It is my love that you do not live for.
Can love’s sweet yearning,
Emma, can it be perishable?
What is past and gone,
Emma, can it be love?
Its heavenly flames die,
Like a mundane, earthly thing?
BENJAMIN BRITTEN
Johnny (from Cabaret Songs)
Text: W H Auden
O the valley in the summer where I and my John
Beside the deep river would walk on and on,
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above
Whispered so soft in reciprocal love,
And I leaned on his shoulder; ‘O Johnny, let’s play’:
But he frowned like thunder and he went away.
O the evening near Christmas as I well recall
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;
‘Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let’s dance till it’s day’:
But he frowned like thunder and went away.
Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera
When music poured out of each wonderful star?
Diamonds and pearls they hung like ivy down
Over each gold or silver gown;
‘O Johnny I’m in heaven,’ I whispered to say:
But he frowned like thunder and went away.
O but he was as fair as a garden in flower,
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,
When the waltz throbbed out down the long promenade
O his eyes and his smile went straight to my heart;
‘O marry me, Johnny, I’ll love and obey’:
But he frowned like thunder and went away.
O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,
You’d the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,
Every star rattled a round tambourine;
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:
But you went away.
CLARA SCHUMANN
Lorelei
Text: Heinrich Heine
Ich weiß nicht, was soll es bedeuten,
Daß ich so traurig bin;
Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,
Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.
Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,
Und ruhig fließt der Rhein;
Der Gipfel des Berges funkelt
Im Abendsonnenschein.
Die schönste Jungfrau sitzet
Dort oben wunderbar,
Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet,
Sie kämmt ihr goldenes Haar.
Sie kämmt es mit goldenem Kamme
Und singt ein Lied dabei,
Das hat eine wundersame,
Gewalt’ge Melodei.
Den Schiffer im kleinen Schiffe
Ergreift es mit wildem Weh;
Er schaut nicht die Felsenriffe,
Er schaut nur hinauf in die Höh’.
Ich glaube, die Wellen verschlingen
Am Ende Schiffer und Kahn;
Und das hat mit ihrem Singen
Die Lorelei getan.
Loreley
I don’t know what it means
That I am so sad;
There’s a fairy tale from old times,
I can’t get out of my head.
The air is cool and it grows dark,
And the Rhine flows peacefully;
The tops of mountains glitter
In the evening sunlight.
The most beautiful of maidens sits
Up there, wonderful,
Her golden jewellery sparkles,
She combs her golden hair.
She comes it with a gold comb
And sings a song,
It has a wonderous,
Powerful melody.
The sailor in his boat
It grips with wild pain;
He doesn’t see the rocky reef,
He looks only upwards into the heavens.
I think the waves devour
The sailor and his boat in the end;
And it was with her singing
That the Loreley did this.
FRANZ SCHUBERT
Heidenröslein (D257)
Text: Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Sah ein Knab’ ein Röslein stehen,
Röslein auf der Heiden,
War so jung und morgenschön,
Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn,
Sah’s mit vielen Freuden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
Knabe sprach: Ich breche dich,
Röslein auf der Heiden!
Röslein sprach: Ich steche dich,
Dass du ewig denkst an mich,
Und ich will’s nicht leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
Und der wilde Knabe brach
’S Röslein auf der Heiden;
Röslein wehrte sich und stach,
Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach,
Musst es eben leiden.
Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot,
Röslein auf der Heiden.
Little Rose
A boy saw a little rose there,
A rose in the heather;
It was so young, and beautiful as the morn,
He ran quickly to look more closely,
And saw it with great joy.
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Rose in the heather.
The boy spoke: I’ll snap you,
Little rose in the heather!
The rose said: I’ll prick you,
So that you will always remember me,
And I won’t suffer it.
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Rose in the heather.
And the wild boy snapped
The little rose in the heather,
The little rose defended herself and pricked,
But no painful outcry could help her,
She must suffer.
Little rose, rose, red rose,
Rose in the heather.
FRANZ SCHUBERT
Der Jüngling auf dem Hügel (D702)
Text: Heinrich Hüttenbrenner
Ein Jüngling auf dem Hügel
Mit seinem Kummer sass;
Wohl ward der Augen Spiegel
Ihm trüb’ und tränennass.
Sah frohe Lämmer spielen
Am grünen Felsenhang,
Sah frohe Bächlein quillen
Das bunte Tal entlang;
Die Schmetterlinge sogen
Am roten Blütenmund,
Wie Morgenträume flogen
Die Wolken in dem Rund;
Und Alles war so munter
Und Alles schwamm in Glück,
Nur in sein Herz hinunter
Sah nicht der Freude Blick.
Ach! dumpfes Grabgeläute
Im Dorfe nun erklang,
Schon tönte aus der Weite
Ein klagender Gesang;
Sah nun die Lichter scheinen,
Den schwarzen Leichenzug,
Fing bitter an zu weinen,
Weil man sein Röschen trug.
Jetzt liess den Sarg man nieder,
Der Totengräber kam,
Und gab der Erde wieder,
Was Gott aus selber nahm.
Da schwieg des Jünglings Klage,
Und betend ward sein Blick,
Sah schon am schönern Tage
Des Wiedersehens Glück.
Und wie die Sterne kamen,
Der Mond heraufgeschifft,
Da las er in den Sternen
Der Hoffnung hohe Schrift.
The Young Man on the Hill
A young man sat on the hill
With his sorrow;
His eyes were a mirror
Of his sadness, wet with tears.
He saw the lambs playing
On the green hillside,
He saw the little brook
Welling up along the bright valley.
The butterflies sucked
At the red flowers mouths,
Like morning dreams
The clouds floated about.
And everything was so cheerful,
And everything swam in happiness,
Only in his heart
He couldn’t see the sights of joy.
Ah! The dull thud of the death-knell
Just rang out in the village,
And already from afar
Echoes a lamenting song.
He saw the lights shining,
The black funeral procession,
And began to bitterly weep,
Because they carried his little Rose.
Now the lowered the coffin down,
The gravedigger came
And gave the earth once more,
What God had taken from it.
Then the youth silenced his lamenting
And prayer-like was his gaze,
He already saw the beautiful day
Of the joyful reunion.
And as the stars came out,
And the moon rose up,
He read in the stars
A message of hope written high above.
MANUEL ROSENTHAL
La Souris d’Angleterre (from Chansons de Monseiur Bleu)
Text: Michel Veber
C’était une souris qui venait d’Angleterre,
Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,
Ell’ s’était embarquée au port de Manchester
Sans même savoir où s’en allait le navire.
No, Madam’, no, my dear.
Elle avait la dent long’ comme une vieille Anglaise,
S’enroulait dans un plaid à la mode écossaise
Et portait une coiffe en dentelle irlandaise.
Dans le port de Calais, elle mit pied à terre,
Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,
Elle s’en fut bien vite à l’hôtel d’Angleterre,
Et grimpe l’escalier tout droit sans rien leur dire,
No, Madam’, no, my dear,
Le grenier de l’hôtel lui fut un vrai palace,
La souris britannique avait là tout sur place,
Du whisky, du bacon, du gin, de la mélasse.
Chaque soir notre miss faisait la ribouldingue,
Yes, Madame, yes, my dear,
C’était toute la nuit des gigues des bastringues,
Les bourgeois de Calais ne pouvaient plus dormir,
No, Madam’, no, my dear,
En vain l’on remplaçait l’appât des souricières,
Le Suiss’ par le Holland’, le Bri’ par le Gruyère,
Rien n’y fit, lorsqu’un soir on y mit du Chester.
C’était une souris qui venait d’Angleterre,
Yes, Madame, yes, my dear.
The English Mouse
There once was a mouse who came from England,
Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,
She had embarked at the Port of Manchester
Without even knowing where the ship was going.
No, Madam, no, my dear.
She had high standards like an old English lady,
Was wrapped in plaid in the Scottish style
And wore an Irish lace headdress.
At the Port of Calais, she disembarked,
Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,
She went quickly over to the Hotel d’Angleterre,
And scurried straight upstairs without a word,
No, Madam, no, my dear,
The attic of the hotel was truly a palace,
The British mouse had everything laid out just so,
Whisky, bacon, gin, and molasses.
Every night our little miss threw a party,
Yes, Madam, yes, my dear,
All night there were jigs and revels,
The citizens of Calais couldn’t sleep,
No, Madam, no, my dear,
In vain, they sought to appease the mouse’s palate,
From Swiss to Dutch, from Brie to Gruyère,
Nothing worked, until one night they tried Cheddar.
There once was a mouse who came from England,
Yes, Madam, yes, my dear.
GERALD FINZI
Ode on the rejection of St Cecilia (Op.13a, No.6)
Text: Edmund Blunden
Rise, underground sleepers, rise from the grave
Under a broken hearted sky
And hear the swan singing nightmare grieve
For this deserted anniversary
Where horned a hope sobs in the wilderness
By the thunderbolt of the day.
Echoing footstep in the ruins of midnight
Knock like a clock in a catacomb
Through the toothless house and the derelict skull
Where once Cecilia shook her veils,
Echo and mourn.
Footstepping word, attend her
Here, where, in echoes, she prevails.
Sleep, worm eaten weepers.
Silence is her altar.
To the drum of the head, muffled
In a black time, the sigh is a hecatomb.
Tender Cecilia silence. Now, silence is tender
As never a word was. Here, dumb-struck she mourns
in long abandoned grandeur.
O stop the calling killer in the skull
Like beasts we turn towards!
For was the catterwaulling siren beautiful
Chanting warlong until her bed was full
Of the uxorious dead?
Let the great moaners of the Seven Seas
Let only the seas mourn,
With the shipwracked harp of creation on their knees
Till Cecilia turns to a stone.
HUGO WOLF
Nimmersatte Liebe (Mörike Lieder)
Text: Eduard Mörike
So ist die Lieb! So ist die Lieb!
Mit Küssen nicht zu stillen:
Wer ist der Tor und will ein Sieb
Mit eitel Wasser füllen?
Und schöpfst du an die tausend Jahr,
Und küssest ewig, ewig gar,
Du tust ihr nie zu Willen.
Die Lieb, die Lieb hat alle Stund
Neu wunderlich Gelüsten;
Wir bissen uns die Lippen wund,
Da wir uns heute küssten.
Das Mädchen hielt in guter Ruh,
Wie’s Lämmlein unterm Messer;
Ihr Auge bat: „Nur immer zu!
Je weher, desto besser!“
So ist die Lieb! und war auch so,
Wie lang es Liebe gibt,
Und anders war Herr Salomo,
Der Weise, nicht verliebt.
Never-satisfied Love
So is love! So is love!
It cannot be quietened with kisses:
Who is such a fool that they’d want
To fill a sieve with just water?
And if you were to try for thousands of years,
And to kiss for ever and ever,
You’d still never satisfy it.
Love, love has in every hour
New, wonderful desires;
We bit our lips raw,
When we kissed today.
The girl kept perfectly still,
Like a lamb beneath the knife;
Her eyes bade me: “Keep going!
The more painful, the better!”
So is love! And it has always been so,
As long as there has been love,
And even old Mr Solomon the wise
Loved no differently!
WILHELM STENHAMMAR
Till en ros (Op.8, No. 4)
Text: Johan Ludvig Runegerg
O, du min källa sval,
O, du min ros så röd,
Ros, som så snart slog ut!
Hvem skall jag ge dig åt?
Månne åt moder min?
Har ju ej moder mer.
Månne åt syster då?
Fjerran hos maken hon.
Månne åt broder då?
Drog ju i härnad han.
Månn’ åt min älskling då?
O, han är långt från mig,
Bakom tre skogars löf,
Bakom tre strömmars våg.
To a rose
O you my cool spring
O you my rose so red,
Rose, that has too soon unfurled!
Who shall I give you to?
Perhaps to my mother?
I don’t have a mother anymore.
Perhaps to my sister?
She’s far away with her husband.
Perhaps to my brother?
He’s gone to war.
Perhaps to my lover?
O he is far from me,
Beyond the leaves of three forests,
Beyond the waves of three rivers.
AGATHE BACKER-GRØNDAHL
Skjærene (Op.52, No.6)
Text: Andreas Grimelund Jynge
En skjære paa Gjære
i Hvidt og i Sort,
Som svanset og danset,
Og husj! Fløi hun
bort til Kirsebærtræet.
I Svingen hun Vingen
Mod Grenene strøg
Og smeldret og gneldret
Saa Blomsterne føg
Af Kirsebærtraeet.
“Forresten her næsten
Jo staseligt er”
Hun skratter: “Kom Fatter!
Saa bygger vi her
I Kirsebærtræet!”
Han skraggret og flaggret
Og Stjerten stod stiv,
Tog Svingen slog Vingen
omkring hendes Liv
i Kirsebærtræet.
Hun ventet, han hentet
Blot sølete Mos.
Hun smeldte, han skjældte,
De kaglet og slos
I Kirsebaertraeet.
Hun hakket, han takket,
Han vingerne strøg,
Hun deiset, han seiset,
Saa Fjærene føg
I Kirsebaertraeet.
The Magpies
A swaggering magpie,
white and black,
flicked her tail and danced,
and whoosh! She flew
away into the cherry tree.
She turned her wing
and stroked it against the branches
and flapped and squawked
so that the flowers flew
from the cherry tree.
“Well, here it’s
almost a palace”
she laughed: “Come on Dad!
We’ll build here
in the cherry tree!”
He fluttered and preened
and his tail stood stiff,
and turned and wrapped his wing
around her waist
in the cherry tree.
She waited, and he picked up
wet, muddy moss.
She smacked, he scolded,
they cackled and fought
in the cherry tree.
She pecked, he thanked,
he stroked his wings,
she sighed, he cried,
and feathers flew
in the cherry tree.
AGATHE BACKER-GRØNDAHL
Mot Kveld (Op.42, No.7)
Text: Andreas Grimelund Jynge
Alle de duggvaate blomster har sennt
Solen det sisste Godnat.
Sanktehansormen sin lykte har tennt,
Sitter og lyser i krat,
Sommerfugl tat sine duggsokker paa,
Lagt sig til hvile i klokken, den blaa,
Drømmer saa deilig om solen,
Drømmer om duft af fiolen.
Towards Evening
All the dew-soaked flowers have sent
The sun their last Goodnight.
The glow-worm has lit his lantern,
Sitting and shining in the bush,
The butterfly has put on his dew socks,
And laid himself down to rest in the bluebell,
Dreaming so deliciously of the sun,
Dreaming of the scent of violets.
WILHELM STENHAMMAR
Jungfru blond och Jungfru brunett (Op.26, No. 4)
Text: Bo Bergman
Jungfru Blond och jungfru Brunett
dansa med fingret på kjolen.
Så höstklar är luften och lätt, lätt, lätt,
lätt som de svingande
jungfrurnas klingande
glädje i solen.
Se på.
Nu höja de sig,
nu böja de sig,
och ögonen lysa och flätorna slå
och kinden har heta fläckar –
men långst öfver ängens gulnade vall
står rymden kall,
och nakna stå träd och häckar.
O jungfrur, hvi dansen I än
och sjungen och skratten?
Det faller en stjärna igen,
och snart kommer natten.
Den kommer som tjufven
när ingen ser, och ingen ber.
Som en roffågelssvärm slår den ner
och förmörkar vägar och vatten.
Jungfru Blond och jungfru Brunett
stanna förskrämda i dansen.
Hur hemskt blef allting med ett
i den sista döende glansen.
Det hvisslar i vinden och smyger på tå
och skrattar i ris och dungar.
De stackars jungfrurna små
skälfva som fogelungar.
Och hvita i kinden,
med flätor som slå, slå, slå
rusa de hemåt båda.
Här ute är villor och våda,
men hemma är världen en spiselvrå
och mor den enda i världen.
Hon sitter så tyst
och tvinnar och snor
och stirrar frysande
in i de lysande
glöden på härden.
De gömma sitt hjärta hos mor
och kyssa den gamlas händer.
Och timmarna rinna och kvälln blir stor,
det rasslar i brasans bränder.
Men ute som troll på tå
det mumlande mörkret skrider:
Ni käraste jungfrur små,
jag tar er väl hvad det lider…
The Blond and Brunette Maidens
The blond maiden and the brunette
dance with fingers at their skirts.
So autumn-ready the air is and light, light, light,
light as the swinging
maids’ resounding
joy in the sun.
Watch.
Now they rise,
now they bow,
and their eyes shine and their braids flap
and their cheeks are stained with heat –
but far above the yellowed grass of the meadow,
the sky is cold,
and trees and hedgerows stand bare.
Oh maidens, do you still dance
and sing and laugh?
Another shooting star falls again
and soon the night will come.
It comes like a thief,
that no-one sees, at no-one’s behest.
It strikes like a swarm of birds of prey,
and darkens roads and water.
The blonde and brunette maidens
stop dancing, frightened.
How awful everything has become all at once
in the last dying glow of light.
The wind whistles, and sneaks on tiptoe
and laughs in the bushes and groves.
The poor little maidens
tremble like baby birds.
And with white cheeks,
and braids that fly, fly, fly
they both rush home.
Out here are dangers and perils,
but at home the world is a fireplace
and mother is the only one in the world.
She sits so quietly
and twists and spins her thread
and stares freezing
into the glowing
embers of the hearth.
They hide their hearts in mother
and kiss her old hands.
And the hours run on and the evening grows late,
And the flames rattle in the fire.
But outside, like a troll
the murmuring darkness tiptoes:
You dearest little maidens,
I will take you one day…
CHERYL FRANCES-HOAD
Rubbish at Adultery (from One Life Stand)
Text: Sophie Hannah
Must I give up another night
To hear you whinge and whine
About how terribly grim you feel
And what a dreadful swine
You are? You say you’ll never leave
Your wife and children. Fine;
When have I ever asked you to?
I’d settle for a kiss.
Couldn’t you, for an hour or so,
Just leave them out of this?
A rare ten minutes off from guilty
Diatribes—what bliss.
Yes, I’m aware you’re sensitive:
A tortured, wounded soul.
I’m after passion, thrills, and fun.
You say fun takes its toll,
So what are we doing here? I fear
We’ve lost our common goal.
You’re rubbish at adultery.
I think you ought to quit.
Trouble is, at fidelity
You’re also slightly shit.
Choose one and do it properly
You stupid, stupid git.