TEXTS & TRANSLATIONS Oxford Lieder on Radio 3 In Concert Ashley Riches baritone Caitlin Hulcup mezzo-soprano Jonathan Stone violinist Sholto Kynoch pianist The Hermes Experiment Héloïse Werner soprano Oliver Pashley clarinet Anne Denholm harp Marianne Schofield double bass Thursday 1 October | 7.30pm BBC Maida Vale
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TEXTS & TRANSLATIONS Oxford Lieder on Radio 3 In Concert
The Hermes Experiment Héloïse Werner soprano Oliver Pashley clarinet
Anne Denholm harp Marianne Schofield double bass
Thursday 1 October | 7.30pm BBC Maida Vale
PROGRAMME Barbara Strozzi, arr. Werner Tradimento Giorgio Tani Soosan Lolavar Mâh Didam Rahi Mo'ayyeri (1909 - 1968) Rebecca Clarke (1886 - 1979) The Tailor and His Mouse Anon. Benjamin Britten (1913 - 1976) At the railway station, Upway
Thomas Hardy (1840 - 1928)
Hugo Wolf (1860 - 1903) Das Ständchen Joseph von Eichendorff (1788 - 1857) Der Musikant
Wie lange schon war immer mein Verlangen
Paul Heyse (1830 - 1914)
Louis Spohr (1784 - 1859) Der Spielmann und seine Geige Henriette Wilhelmine Auguste von Schorn
(1807 - 1869) Camille Saint-Saëns (1835 - 1921) Violons dans le soir (1907) Comtesse Anna de Noailles (1876 - 1933) Danse macabre (1872)
Henri Cazalis (1840 - 1909)
Emily Hall (b. 1978) I am happy living simply Marina Tsvetaeva (1892 - 1941) Freya Waley-Cohen (b. 1989) Oyster Octavia Bright (b. 1986)
Errolyn Wallen (b.1958) Gun gun gun Therese Svoboda (b. 1950) Emily Hall The end of the ending Marina Tsvetaeva Robert Schumann (1810 - 1856) Dichterliebe 1. Im wunderschönen Monat Mai Heinrich Heine (1797 - 1856) 2. Aus meinen Tränen sprießen
Betrayal! Treason! Love and Hope want to make me a prisoner and my sickness is so advanced that I have discovered that I am happy just thinking of it. Betrayal! Hope, in order to bind me, entices me with great things. The more I believe what she says the tighter she ties the laces that enchain me. My heart, take arms against the treacherous one! Take her and kill her, hurry, hurry! Every moment is dangerous. Betrayal! Reproduced with permission from Cor Donato Editions - BarbaraStrozzi.com
I saw the moon, it reminded me of your beautiful face.
THE TAILOR AND HIS MOUSE Clarke / Anon. A tailor had a little mouse Hi diddle um come feed-al They lived together in one house Hi diddle um come feed-al Hi diddle um come tarum tirum, Through the town of Ramsey, Hi diddle um come over the lea, Hi diddle um come feed-al The tailor thought his mouse was ill Hi diddle um come feed-al So he gave it half of one blue pill Hi diddle um come feed-al Hi diddle um come tarum tirum, Through the town of Ramsey, Hi diddle um come over the lea, Hi diddle um come feed-al The tailor thought his mouse would die Hi diddle um come feed-al So he baked it in an apple pie Hi diddle um come feed-al Hi diddle um come tarum tirum, Through the town of Ramsey, Hi diddle um come over the lea, Hi diddle um come feed-al The tailor thought his mouse was dead Hi diddle um come feed-al So he bought another in his stead Hi diddle um come feed-al Hi diddle um come tarum tirum, Through the town of Ramsey, Hi diddle um come over the lea, Hi diddle um come feed-al
AT THE RAILWAY STATION, UPWAY - 'THE CONVICT AND THE BOY WITH THE VIOLIN' Britten / Hardy 'There is not much that I can do, For I’ve no money that’s quite my own!' Spoke up the pitying child— A little boy with a violin At the station before the train came in— 'But i can play my fiddle to you, And a nice one ‘tis, and good in tone!' The man in the handcuffs smiled; The constable looked, and he smiled, too, As the fiddle began to twang; And the man in the handcuffs Suddenly sang With grimful glee: 'This life so free Is the thing for me!' And the constable smiled, and said no word, As if unconscious of what he heard; And so they went on till the train came in— The convict, and boy with the violin.
The moon from pallid clouds Gazes out across the roofs, There in the street a student sings Before his sweetheart’s door. And again the fountains murmur In the silent loneliness, And the woods on the mountain Murmur, as in the good old days. Likewise in my young days, Often on a summer’s night I too plucked my lute here, And composed some merry songs.
Aber von der stillen Schwelle Trugen sie mein Lieb zur Ruh’ – Und du, fröhlicher Geselle, Singe, sing nur immer zu!
But from that silent threshold My love’s been taken to rest – And you, my blithe friend, Sing on, just sing on!
I simply love to wander, And live as best Ican, And were I to exert myself, It wouldn’t suit at all. Beautiful old songs I know, Barefoot out in the cold I pluck my strings, Not knowing where I’ll rest at night. Many a beauty gives me looks, Says she’d fancy me, If I’d make something of myself, Were not such a beggar wretch. – May God give you a husband, Well provided with house and hime! If we two were together, My singing might fade away.
How long have I yearned To have a musician as lover! Now the Lord has granted me my wish, And sends me one, all pink and white. And here he comes with gentle mien, And bows his head and plays the violin.
With God and the sunset as witnesses, She gave me ring and vow; The ring snapped in two, she broke her faith, My longing was all that remained. A dandy, handsome and flighty, Lured her with empty words; She followed; with smiles she offered My breaking heart as reward. The sun gleams through dark clouds! Joy is allied with pain; My grief abides for ever, it will always Reign upon these pale lips. Set free, O fiddle, the host of demons, My magic wand beckons - Rage, O madness; dark serpent locks, Be my sorrow’s grave!
But softly, like Aeolian harps, She soothes my heart; The sound of her balm-drenched soul Assuages my deep pain.
When evening has fallen and all’s at last quiet In warm nature, There stirs beneath tree and heavenly sky The most painful agony.
On silver gravel, in hushed woods, Frenetic violins are heard: A stream of cries, of sobs and kisses, Unrestrained and unremitting.
Il semble que l'archet se cabre, qu'il se tord Sur les luisantes cordes, Tant ce sont des appels de plaisir et de mort Et de miséricorde. Et le brûlant archet enroulé de langueur Gémit, souffre, caresse, Poignard voluptueux qui pénètre le coeur D'une épuisante ivresse. Archets, soyez maudits pour vos brûlants accords, Pour votre âme explosive, Fers rouges qui dans l'ombre arrachez à nos corps Des lambeaux de chair vive!
The violin bow seems to rear and writhe Across the shining strings— For these are true cries of pleasure, death And mercy. And the buming bow in its affliction, Groans, suffers and caresses— A voluptuous dagger that pierces the heart With exhausted ecstasy. May you bows be cursed for your scalding chords, For your explosive soul: Molten swords that at night rip from our bodies Shreds of living flesh!
Tap, tap, tap—Death rhythmically, Taps a tomb with his heel, Death at midnight plays a gigue, Tap, tap, tap, on his violin. The Winter wind blows, the night is dark, The lime-trees groan aloud; White skeletons flit across the gloom, Running and leaping beneath their huge shrouds Tap, tap, tap, everyone’s astir, You hear the bones of the dancers knock, A lustful couple sits down on the moss, As if to savour past delights. Tap, tap, tap, Death continues, Endlessly scraping his shrill violin A veil has slipped! The dancer’s naked! Her partner clasps her amorously. They say she’s a baroness or marchioness, And the callow gallant a poor cartwright. Good God! And now she’s giving herself, As though the bumpkin were a baron!
Zig et zig et zig, quelle sarabande! Quels cercles de morts se donnant la main! Zig et zig et zag, on voit dans la bande Le roi gambader auprès du vilain! Mais psit! tout à coup on quitte la ronde, On se pousse, on fuit, le coq a chanté… Oh! La belle nuit pour le pauvre monde! Et vive la mort et l’égalité!
Tap, tap, tap, what a saraband! Circles of corpses all holding hands! Tap, tap, tap, in the throng you can see King and peasant dancing together! But shh! Suddenly the dance is ended, They jostle and take flight—the cock has crowed… Ah! Nocturnal beauty shines on the poor! And long live death and equality!
I AM HAPPY LIVING SIMPLY Hall / Tsvetaeva trans. Ilya Kaminsky and Jean Valentine
I am happy living simply: like a clock, or a calendar.
OYSTER Waley-Cohen / Bright Watching you drink me, feeling you think me, I drown in the threads of your thoughts as they struggle to sink me. Alchemy. Notes trill through my teeth like krill through a reef and I atrophy. Barnacled bricks stuck limpet slick, Knuckles are shredded, my blood runs thick, Breathing the depths of your full fathom eyes, my oyster esh pinking in sympathy. from Octavia Bright’s - Huit(re)
GUN GUN GUN Wallen / Svoboda It's like this: gun gun gun you’re dancing in the back no front no on the table no in the Gents sounds like a pop track sounds like backfire firing then he laughs shoots at no one the crowd into it please please not you crawl skitter skitter off your heels floor slick already hit you closet yourself mop-first two other guys mop wounds it’s dark sirens call out shout back you sink to your knees almost a dance one guy breathes loud one guy pees fear crouches outside gun- ready what if they hit dark in that closet you can only outside touch bullhorns music plays on music enters time enters you tick tick you’re losing it tick to the floor tick a bomb blast lights a vehicle groans sheetrock smoke a single no shots loud a man at the closet a reman hatchet help you cry you fall into his arms Therese Svoboda (b. 1950), ‘Orlando is Us’ from Professor Harriman’s Steam Air-Ship (Eyewear, 2016)
THE END OF THE ENDING Hall / Tsvetaeva, trans. Emily Hall We’ve reached the end of the ending And there is nothing left to lose: We’ve reached the end of the ending, So I stroke and stroke your face.
In the wondrous month of May, When all the buds burst into bloom, Then it was that in my heart Love began to burgeon. In the wondrous month of May, When all the birds were singing, Then it was I confessed to her My longing and desire.
From my tears there will spring Many blossoming flowers, And my sighs shall become A chorus of nightingales. And if you love me, child, I’ll give you all the flowers, And at your window shall sound The nightingale’s song.
Rose, lily, dove, sun, I loved them all once in the bliss of love. I love them no more, I only love She who is small, fine, pure, rare; She, most blissful of all loves, Is rose and lily and dove and sun.
When I look into your eyes, All my pain and sorrow vanish; But when I kiss your lips, Then I am wholly healed. When I lay my head against your breast, Heavenly bliss steals over me; But when you say: I love you! I must weep bitter tears.
Let me bathe my soul In the lily’s chalice; The lily shall resound With a song of my beloved. The songs shall tremble and quiver Like the kiss that her lips Once gave me In a wondrously sweet hour.
In the Rhine, in the holy river, Mirrored in its waves, With its great cathedral, Stands great and holy Cologne. In the cathedral hangs a picture, Painted on gilded leather; Into my life’s wilderness It has cast its friendly rays. Flowers and cherubs hover Around Our beloved Lady; Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks Are the image of my love’s.
I bear no grudge, though my heart is breaking, O love forever lost! I bear no grudge. However you gleam in diamond splendour, No ray falls in the night of your heart. I’ve known that long. For I saw you in my dreams, And saw the night within your heart, And saw the serpent gnawing at your heart; I saw, my love, how pitiful you are. I bear no grudge.
If the little flowers knew How deeply my heart is hurt, They would weep with me To heal my pain. If the nightingales knew How sad I am and sick, They would joyfully make the air Ring with refreshing song. And if they knew of my grief, Those little golden stars, They would come down from the sky And console me with their words. But none of them can know; My pain is known to one alone; For she it was who broke, Broke my heart in two.
What a fluting, what a scraping, With trumpets blaring in; That must be my dearest love Dancing at her wedding feast. What a clashing, what a clanging, What a drumming, what a piping; And the lovely little angels Sobbing and groaning in between.
When I hear the little song That my love once sang, My heart almost bursts With the wild rush of pain. A dark longing drives me Out to the wooded heights, Where my overwhelming grief Dissolves in tears.
A boy loves a girl Who chooses another; He in turn loves another And marries her. The girl, out of pique, Takes the very first man To come her way; The boy is badly hurt. It is an old story, Yet remains ever new; And he to whom it happens, It breaks his heart in two.
One bright summer morning I walk around the garden. The flowers whisper and talk, But I walk silently. The flowers whisper and talk, And look at me in pity: ‘Be not angry with our sister, You sad, pale man.’
I wept in my dream; I dreamt you lay in your grave. I woke, and tears Still flowed down my cheeks. I wept in my dream; I dreamt that you were leaving me. I woke, and wept on Long and bitterly. I wept in my dream; I dreamt you loved me still. I woke, and still My tears stream.
Nightly in my dreams I see you, And see your friendly greeting, And weeping loud, I hurl myself Down at your sweet feet. Wistfully you look at me, Shaking your fair little head; Stealing from your eyes Flow little tears of pearl.
Du sagst mir heimlich ein leises Wort Und gibst mir den Strauss von Zypressen. Ich wache auf, und der Strauss ist fort, Und’s Wort hab’ ich vergessen.
You whisper me a soft word And hand me a wreath of cypress. I wake, the wreath is gone, And I cannot remember the word.
A white hand beckons From fairy tales of old, Where there are sounds and songs Of a magic land; Where brightly coloured flowers Bloom in the golden twilight, And glow sweet and fragrant With a bride-like face; And green trees Sing primeval melodies, Mysterious breezes murmur, And birds too join in warbling; And misty shapes rise up From the very ground, And dance airy dances In a strange throng; And blue sparks blaze On every leaf and twig, And red fires race Madly round and round; And loud springs gush From wild marble cliffs. And strangely in the streams Reflections shine on and on. Ah, could I but reach that land, And there make glad my heart, And be relieved of all pain, And be blissful and free! Ah, that land of delight, I see it often in my dreams, But with the morning sun It melts away like mere foam.
Und holt eine Totenbahre Und Bretter fest und dick; Auch muss sie sein noch länger, Als wie zu Mainz die Brück’. Und holt mir auch zwölf Riesen, Die müssen noch stärker sein Als wie der starke Christoph Im Dom zu Köln am Rhein. Die sollen den Sarg forttragen, Und senken ins Meer hinab; Denn solchem grossen Sarge Gebührt ein grosses Grab. Wisst ihr, warum der Sarg wohl So gross und schwer mag sein? Ich senkt’ auch meine Liebe Und meinen Schmerz hinein.
The bad old songs, The bad and bitter dreams, Let us now bury them. Fetch me a large coffin. I have much to put in it, Though what, I won’t yet say; The coffin must be even larger Than the vat at Heidelberg. And fetch a bier Made of firm thick timber: And it must be even longer Than the bridge at Mainz. And fetch for me twelve giants; They must be even stronger Than Saint Christopher the Strong In Cologne Cathedral on the Rhine. They shall bear the coffin away, And sink it deep into the sea; For such a large coffin Deserves a large grave. Do you know why the coffin Must be so large and heavy? I’d like to bury there my love And my sorrow too.
Translations
Richard Stokes is the author of The Book of Lieder, A French Song Companion and The Penguin Book of English Song. Alma Classics have recently published Richard's translation of Jules Renard's
complete Histoires naturelles in a bilingual edition. Richard was awarded the Order of Merit of the Federal Republic of Germany in 2012. Richard’s new book, The Complete Songs of Hugo Wolf
(Faber), will be launched at Wigmore Hall on 2 October 2021.