October 28, 2021 Concert Program Notes and Translations

Oct. 15, 2021

Program Notes

The poetry and miniature form of art song has such an incredible ability to speak to a vast array of topics in an intimate way. Today, we are presenting an art song recital exploring the theme of mental health – a topic that touches us all today and has always touched humanity through the ages.    

Purcell’s “Bess of Bedlam” paints a portrait of a young woman who has experienced trauma related to her romantic life, maybe even a sexual assault. She switches violently between realities and moods, sometimes seeming to be in a dissociative or even psychotic state – something we now know can happen to people who experience trauma, especially at a very young age – eventually deciding to stay in a happy reality of her own creation, rather than dealing with the challenges of her real life.   \

Both of us have always loved Debussy, who was highly involved in both the visual art and literary scenes of his time.  Probably no other French composer was as attuned to blending poetry and music. Debussy’s Ariettes oubliées, with poetry by Paul Verlaine, is an often-performed cycle, but how often do we think deeply about Verlaine’s life, and the inspiration for his poetry? Paul Verlaine led an extremely troubled life. For many years he lived as a closeted gay man, and it may have been his inability to live according to his authentic identity that led to his struggles with addiction. He also experienced and wild swings in his emotions, and may even have been suffering from bipolar disorder. These poems were written at or about a wide variety of times in his life. “C'est l'extase” evokes shared post-coital bliss and a sensual connection to nature. “Il pleure” is listlessly descriptive of depression – unhappiness with no cause. “L'ombre” presents deep disappointment in the self. Perhaps this is the feeling Verlaine experienced when he realized that his wife would not take him back after his violent bouts of alcoholism and after leaving her for fellow-poet Arthur Rimbaud. “Chevaux” was written in a sort of mania, when Verlaine had travelled to Belgium in the first bright happiness of his affair with Rimbaud. “Green” is an expression of energetic youthful love, written in his first obsession with Mathilde, the young woman who would become his wife. Finally, “Spleen,” the organ once thought to cause ill temper and melancholy as well as erratic mood swings, describes the feeling of fear of abandonment, often present in Verlaine's stormy relationship with Rimbaud.  

Jocelyn Morlock’s “Somewhere along the line” sets the lyrics of legendry playwright, poet, librettist, curator, and philanthropist Tom Cone. This piece was created by collaboration between Morlock and Cone during Cone’s final illness before his 2012 death from cancer. Both the text, and the sparseness of the music are evocative of the complex feelings associated with coming to terms with one’s own mortality. There is confusion and grief, but also some relief.    

Like Debussy, Wolf was one of the greatest German masters of the art of blending musical and poetic language. The miniatures of his Italienisches Liederbuch, are brilliant at bringing to life snapshots from everyday life. Like many music instructors, during the pandemic Elizabeth regularly met with students in online lessons. Her high school students often lamented how difficult it was to see friends or significant others during the lockdowns. Instead of being able to grow and establish their own independent lives, they were stuck inside with their families, and often felt like they were being treated like children. The first two Wolf songs we are performing today are evocative of that feeling of isolation, and of being forbidden from seeing one’s significant other. The third song we are performing also has a specific tie-in with the pandemic – that of being stuck at home with someone who you have never found so irritating! Finally, we are ending today’s performance with a beautiful song that expresses one of the coping mechanisms that has gotten us through the worst of the pandemic: gratitude for the little things in life. 

Lyrics and Translations

Bess of Bedlam 

From silent shades, 

and the Elysian groves, 

Where sad departed spirits 

mourn their loves; 

From crystal streams 

and from that country 

where Jove crowns the fields with flowers all the year, 

Poor senseless Bess, 

cloth'd in her rags and folly, 

Is come to cure 

her lovesick melancholy. 

Bright Cynthia kept her revels late, 

While Mab, the Fairy Queen did dance, 

And Oberon did sit in state, 

When Mars at Venus ran his lance. 

In yonder cowslip lies my dear, 

Entombed in liquid gems of dew; 

Each day I'll water it with a tear, 

Its fading blossoms to renew. 

For since my love is dead, 

And all my joys are gone, 

Poor Bess for his sake, 

A garland will make, 

My music shall  be a groan. 

I'll lay me down and die, 

Within some hollow tree, 

The rav'n and cat, The owl and bat, 

Shall warble forth my elegy. 

Did you but see my love as he passed by you? 

His two flaming eyes, 

if he come nigh you, 

they will burn up your hearts! 

Ladies beware ye, 

Lest he should dart a flame 

that may ensnare ye. 

Hark! Hark! 

I hear old Charon bawl, 

His boat he will no longer stay, 

And Furies lash their whips and call, 

“Come, come away, come come away.” 

Poor Bess will return 

to the place whence she came, 

Since the world is so mad 

she can hope for no cure; 

For love's grown a bubble, 

a shadow, a name,  

Which fools do admire 

and wise men endure. 

Cold and hungry am I grown, 

Ambrosia will I feed upon, 

Drink nectar still and sing. 

Who is content, does all sorrow prevent, 

And Bess in her straw, 

Whilst free from the law, 

In her thoughts is as great, 

great as a King. 

Ariettes Oubliées 

(Forgotten Songs) 

C'est l'extase langoureuse 

(It is languorous ecstasy) 

C’est l’extase langoureuse, 

C’est la fatigue amoureuse, 

C’est tous les frissons des bois 

Parmi l’étreinte des brises, 

C’est, vers les ramures grises, 

Le chœur des petites voix. 

Ô le frêle et frais murmure! 

Cela gazouille et susurre, 

Cela ressemble au cri doux 

Que l’herbe agitée expire … 

Tu dirais, sous l’eau qui vire, 

Le roulis sourd des cailloux. 

Cette âme qui se lamente 

En cette plainte dormante 

C’est la nôtre, n’est-ce pas? 

La mienne, dis, et la tienne, 

Dont s’exhale l’humble antienne 

Par ce tiède soir, tout bas? 

It is languorous ecstasy, 

it is amorous fatigue, 

it is all the tremors of the woods 

in the embrace of the breezes, 

it is, in the grey branches, 

the choir of tiny voices. 

O the frail, fresh murmuring! 

That chirping and whispering 

is like the sweet cry 

breathed out by the ruffled grass... 

You would say, beneath the swirling waters, 

the muted rolling of the pebbles. 

This soul which mourns 

in subdued lamentation, 

it is ours, is it not? 

Mine, say, and yours, 

breathing a humble anthem 

in the warm evening, very softly? 

Il pleure dans mon cœur 

(It is raining in my heart) 

Il pleure dans mon cœur 

Comme il pleut sur la ville; 

Quelle est cette langueur 

Qui pénètre mon cœur? 

Ô bruit doux de la pluie 

Par terre et sur les toits! 

Pour un cœur qui s’ennuie 

Ô le bruit de la pluie! 

Il pleure sans raison 

Dans ce cœur qui s’écœure. 

Quoi! nulle trahison? … 

Ce deuil est sans raison. 

C’est bien la pire peine 

De ne savoir pourquoi 

Sans amour et sans haine, 

Mon cœur a tant de peine. 

It is raining in my heart 

like it rains upon the town, 

what is this languor 

that pervades my heart? 

O gentle sound of the rain 

on the ground and on the roofs! 

For a listless heart, 

O the sound of the rain! 

Tears fall without reason 

in this sickened heart. 

What, no betrayal? 

This sorrow has no cause. 

Indeed it is the worst pain 

not to know why, 

without love and without hate 

my heart feels so much pain!  

L'ombre des arbres 

(The Shadow of the trees) 

L’ombre des arbres dans la rivière embrumée 

Meurt comme de la fumée 

Tandis qu’en l’air, parmi les ramures réelles, 

Se plaignent les tourterelles. 

Combien, ô voyageur, ce paysage blême 

Te mira blême toi-même, 

Et que tristes pleuraient dans les hautes feuillées 

Tes espérances noyées! 

The shadow of the trees in the misty river 

dies away like smoke, 

while on high, among the real branches, 

the doves sing their lament. 

How much, o traveller, this pallid landscape 

you reflect with your own pallor, 

and in the high foliage how sadly wept 

your drowned hopes. 

Chevaux de bois 

(Carousel/Wooden Horses) 

Tournez, tournez, bons chevaux de bois, 

Tournez cent tours, tournez mille tours, 

Tournez souvent et tournez toujours, 

Tournez, tournez au son des hautbois. 

L’enfant tout rouge et la mère blanche, 

Le gars en noir et la fille en rose, 

L’une à la chose et l’autre à la pose, 

Chacun se paie un sou de dimanche. 

Tournez, tournez, chevaux de leur cœur, 

Tandis qu’autour de tous vos tournois 

Clignote l’œil du filou sournois, 

Tournez au son du piston vainqueur! 

C’est étonnant comme ça vous soûle 

D’aller ainsi dans ce cirque bête: 

Rien dans le ventre et mal dans la tête, 

Du mal en masse et du bien en foule. 

Tournez, dadas, sans qu’il soit besoin 

D’user jamais de nuls éperons 

Pour commander à vos galops ronds: 

Tournez, tournez, sans espoir de foin. 

Et dépêchez, chevaux de leur âme, 

Déjà voici que sonne à la soupe 

La nuit qui tombe et chasse la troupe 

De gais buveurs que leur soif affame. 

Tournez, tournez! Le ciel en velours 

D’astres en or se vêt lentement. 

L’église tinte un glas tristement. 

Tournez au son joyeux des tambours! 

Turn, turn, good wooden horses, 

turn a hundred, turn a thousand times, 

turn often, and turn always, 

turn to the sound of oboes. 

The red child and the pale mother, 

the boy in black and the girl in pink, 

one down-to-earthy and the other showing off. 

Each pays a Sunday penny. 

Turn, turn, horses of their heart, 

while around all your whirling 

squints the eye of the pickpocket, 

turn to the sound of the triumphant cornet. 

It is astonishing how intoxicating it is 

to ride in this stupid circle, 

with an empty stomach and an aching head, 

heaps of discomfort and plenty of fun. 

Turn, hobby-horse, without any need 

to ever use spurs 

to keep you at a gallop, 

turn, turn, without hope of hay. 

And hurry, horses of their souls, 

already the supper bell is ringing, 

night falls and chases away the troop 

of jovial drinkers famished by their thirst. 

Turn, turn! The velvet sky 

is slowly dressing herself with golden stars. 

The church bell tolls a mournful peal 

turn to merry beating of drums. 

Green 

Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches 

Et puis voici mon cœur qui ne bat que pour vous. 

Ne le déchirez pas avec vos deux mains blanches 

Et qu’à vos yeux si beaux l’humble présent soit doux. 

J’arrive tout couvert encore de rosée 

Que le vent du matin vient glacer à mon front. 

Souffrez que ma fatigue à vos pieds reposée 

Rêve des chers instants qui la délasseront. 

Sur votre jeune sein laissez rouler ma tête 

Toute sonore encore de vos derniers baisers; 

Laissez-la s’apaiser de la bonne tempête, 

Et que je dorme un peu puisque vous reposez. 

Here are fruits, flowers, leaves, and branches, 

and here too is my heart that beats only for you. 

Do not destroy it with your two white hands, 

and to your lovely eyes may the humble gift seem sweet. 

I arrive covered with dew 

that the morning breeze chilled on my brow. 

Allow my weariness, resting at your feet, 

dream of dear moments which will bring repose. 

On your young breast let me rest my head 

still ringing with your last kisses; 

let it be appeased after the good tempest, 

that I may sleep a little as you rest. 

Spleen 

Les roses étaient toutes rouges 

Et les lierres étaient tout noirs. 

Chère, pour peu que tu te bouges, 

Renaissent tous mes désespoirs. 

Le ciel était trop bleu, trop tendre, 

La mer trop verte et l’air trop doux. 

Je crains toujours,—ce qu’est d’attendre!— 

Quelque fuite atroce de vous. 

Du houx à la feuille vernie 

Et du luisant buis je suis las, 

Et de la campagne infinie 

Et de tout, fors de vous, hélas! 

The roses were all red, 

and the ivy all black. 

Dearest, if you so much as move 

all my despair begins again. 

The sky was too blue, too tender, 

the sea too green and the air too soft. 

I fear always – such is the consequence of waiting!,  

some atrocious abandonment by you. 

Of the holly with its glossy leaves 

and of the shining box tree, I am weary, 

and of the boundless countryside, 

and of everything but you, alas! 

Somewhere along the line 

Somewhere along the line 

the ball bounced too high 

never to return 

causing a stir in the equation. 

To say the least. To say the least. 

And I thought three plus three 

meant something 

meant 

something 

somewhere 

down the line. 

The ball, 

oh the ball plus three 

begs for a chance. 

I try, but can’t 

and wonder why it’s so perfect to say 

Never to return never to return never to return. 

Selections from Italienisches Liederbuch (Italian Songbook) 

Mein Liebster singt am Haus 

(My beloved sings by the house) 

Mein Liebster singt am Haus im Mondenscheine, 

Und ich muß lauschend hier im Bette liegen. 

Weg von der Mutter wend' ich mich und weine,  

Blut sind die Thränen, die mir nicht versiegen. 

Den breiten Strom am Bett hab' ich geweint, 

Weiß nicht vor Tränen, ob der Morgen scheint. 

Den breiten Strom am Bett weint' ich vor Sehnen; 

Blind haben mich gemacht die blut'gen Tränen. 

My beloved sings by the house in moonlight, 

And I must lie here in the bed, listening. 

I turn myself away from my mother, and weep; 

My tears are blood, and never run dry. 

I have wept the broad stream by the bed; 

Through my tears I know not if the morning shines. 

For longing have I wept the broad stream by the bed; 

The bloody tears have made me blind. 

Man sagt mir 

(They told me) 

Man sagt mir, deine Mutter woll' es nicht 

Man sagt mir, deine Mutter woll' es nicht; 

So bleibe weg, mein Schatz, thu' ihr den Willen. 

Ach Liebster, nein! thu ihr den Willen nicht, 

Besuch' mich doch, thu's ihr zum Trotz, im Stillen! 

Nein, mein Geliebter, folg' ihr nimmermehr, 

Thu's ihr zum Trotz, komm öfter als bisher! 

Nein, höre nicht auf sie, was sie auch sage; 

Thu's ihr zum Trotz, mein Lieb, komm alle Tage! 

They told me your mother does not want it; 

So stay away, my darling, carry out her wishes. 

Ah, dearest, no! Do not carry out her wish - 

Do visit me, do it in spite of her, in secret! 

No, my beloved, never listen to her, 

Do it in spite of her, come here often! 

No, do not listen to what she might say; 

Do it in spite of her, my love, come every day! 

Schweig' einmal still 

(Be silent for once) 

Schweig' einmal still, du garst'ger Schwätzer dort! 

Zum Ekel ist mir dein verwünschtes Singen. 

Und triebst du es bis morgen früh so fort, 

Doch würde dir kein schmuckes Lied gelingen. 

Schweig' einmal still und lege dich aufs Ohr! 

Das Ständchen eines Esels zög ich vor. 

Be silent for once, you nasty loudmouth! 

Your cursed singing makes me sick. 

And if you carried on so until tomorrow morning, 

You would still not manage a decent song. 

Be silent for once, and lay your ear down! 

I would prefer the serenade of a donkey! 

Auch kleine Dinge 

(Even little things) 

Auch kleine Dinge können uns entzücken, 

Auch kleine Dinge können teuer sein. 

Bedenkt, wie gern wir uns mit Perlen schmücken; 

Sie werden schwer bezahlt und sind nur klein. 

Bedenkt, wie klein ist die Olivenfrucht, 

Und wird um ihre Güte doch gesucht. 

Denkt an die Rose nur, wie klein sie ist, 

Und duftet doch so lieblich, wie ihr wisst. 

Even little things can delight us, 

Even little things can be valuable. 

Think how we gladly adorn ourselves with pearls; 

They are heavily paid for, and yet are small. 

Think how small is the olive's fruit, 

And is still sought for its virtue. 

Think only on the rose, how small she is, 

And yet, smells so sweet, as you know.