CLICK HERE for the entire set of six French poems by Gautier as set by Berlioz, along with the new English translation/versification
The side-by-side original text with the English version also displayed on the concert blog page: http://mainconcerts.blogspot.com/2009/05/526-615-pm-anne-elise-richie.html
Program Notes, by Ed Lein, Music Librarian
The French Romantic Hector Berlioz (1803-1869) was among the most progressive composers of his era, and his original blending of symphonic forms with dramatic narrative, coupled with his keen insight into orchestration, had profound influence on the creative development of such luminaries as Richard Wagner and Franz Liszt. As a composer, Berlioz was never very popular with the French musical establishment, and despite his early successes he had difficulty getting his later works performed unless he paid for the concerts himself. But he did enjoy success as an author and music critic, and gained international fame as a conductor. In 1850 he was appointed Head Librarian of the Paris Conservatoire, which provided not only financial stability, but also something of an ironic twist to his biography. As a youth Berlioz had been sent to Paris to attend medical school, but rather than study human anatomy (which repulsed the young Hector) he preferred to study music scores, so he would sneak into—and then be kicked out of—the very library he would later manage. Especially famous for his Symphonie fantastique (1830) and Grande Messe des morts (Requiem Mass, 1837), Berlioz wrote about 50 songs with piano or guitar accompaniment, and among these the six songs from Les nuits d’ete (“The Nights of Summer”), Op. 7 (1841, orchestrated 1856) are easily the best known. Although the lyrics of all the opus 7 songs are by the influential French poet and critic Théophile Gautier (1811-1872), apparently the composer’s original intent was not that they be performed as a song cycle. Instead, he conceived them as separate songs to be performed variously by tenor, baritone, contralto, and mezzo-soprano, and was only later (but easily) convinced to orchestrate the whole set by an admiring music publisher. The selections this evening are the first, second and sixth songs from the set. Villanelle, a rustic song, joyously welcomes the returning spring with renewed hopefulness as the countryside begins to reawaken. In Le spectre de la rose (“The Ghost of the Rose”), a fading blossom at first seems to lament having been cut down in its prime, only to rejoice in its happy fate of having adorned the belle of the ball as its perfume lingers on. In the concluding barcarolle, L'île inconnue ("The Unknown Island"), a flirtatious gondolier asks his pretty young passenger to imagine which exotic shores she'd like to be whisked away to--she responds, "To the faithful shore where we're always in love!"
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| Les nuits d’été on poems by Théophile Gautier Villanelle Quand viendra la saison nouvelle, Quand auront disparu les froids, Tous les deux nous irons, ma belle, Pour cueillir le muguet aux bois. Sous nos pieds égrénant les perles Que l'on voit, au matin trembler, Nous irons écouter les merles Siffler. Le printemps est venu, ma belle; C'est le mois des amants béni; Et l'oiseau, satinant son aile, Dit vers au rebord du nid. Oh! Viens donc sur ce banc de mousse, Pour parler de nos beaux amours, Et dis-moi de ta voix si douce: “Toujours!” Loin, bien loin égarant nos courses, Faisons fuir le lapin caché, Et le daim, au miroir des sources Admirant son grand bois penché; Puis chez nous, tout heureux, tout aises, En paniers, en laçant nos doigts, Revenons, rapportant des fraises, Des bois. | The Nights of Summer English version ©2009, by Edward Lein (Notify/credit if reprinting) Villanelle When the new season ventures here, When it drives away the cold wind, Into the woods we shall go, dear, There lilies of the valley to find. Where, underfoot, dew shines like pearls Seen shimmering in the morning sun, We’ll listen to the whistling blackbirds' New song. The springtime has come, my darling, 'Tis the month that all lovers have blest; And the bird, his satin wings preening, Sings verses perched high on his nest. Oh! Come sit on the bank so mossy, We'll speak of our sweet loves all day, And you’ll whisper to me so softly: “Always!” We’ll trod far off the footpath, wandering And frightening the hare from his form, And a deer, at the mirror-like spring Admiring his great branching horns. Then home again, all sound, all merry, Bringing baskets, our fingers entwined, Returning with fresh strawberries Grown wild. |
Le spectre de la rose Soulève ta paupière close Qu'effleure un songe virginal; Je suis le spectre d'une rose Que tu portais hier au bal. Tu me pris encore emperlée Des pleurs d'argent de l'arrosoir, Et parmi la fête étoilée Tu me promenas tout le soir. Ô toi qui de ma mort fus cause, Sans que tu puisses le chasser, Toutes les nuits mon spectre rose A ton chevet viendra danser. Mais ne crains rien, je ne réclame Ni messe ni De profundis; Ce léger parfum est mon âme, Et j'arrive du paradis. Mon destin fut digne d'envie, Et pour avoir un sort si beau, Plus d'un aurait donné sa vie Car sur ton sein j'ai mon tombeau, Et sur l'albâtre où je repose Un poète avec un baiser Écrivit: "Ci-gît une rose Que tous les rois vont jalouser." | The Ghost of the Rose Open those eyelids now closed, Soft-touched by a maiden’s pure dream; I am the ghost of the rose That you wore to the ball yester-even. You snipped me while yet I was pearly With the watering can’s silvery tears, And about the glittering soirée You paraded me under the stars. O to thou who brought about my death (For to chase death away you’ve no chance), Every night my rose-colored wraith Will appear at thy bedside and dance. But fear not, for I am now owed Neither Mass nor De profundis. This fragile perfume is my soul, And I’ve arrived here from paradise. My destiny was to be envied, And to suffer so lovely a fate More than one would gladly have died, For thy bosom became my grave; And on the alabaster where I repose The poet there with his soft kiss Has inscribed: "Here lies the rose Who made even emperors jealous." |
L’île inconnue Dites, la jeune belle, Où voulez-vous aller? La voile enfle son aile, La brise va souffler! L'aviron est d'ivoire Le pavillon de moiré, Le gouvernail d'or fin; J'ai pour lest une orange, Pour voile une aile d'ange, Pour mousse un séraphin. Dites, la jeune belle, Où voulez-vous aller? La voile enfle son aile, La brise va souffler! Est-ce dans la Baltique, Dans la mer Pacifique, Dans l'île de Java? Ou bien est-ce en Norvège, Cueillir la fleur de neige, Ou la fleur d'Angsoka? Dites, la jeune belle Où voulez-vous aller? Menez-moi, dit la belle, A la rive fidèle Où l'on aime toujours. ---Cette rive, ma chère, On ne la connaît guère Au pays des amours. Où voulez-vous aller? La brise va souffler! | The Unknown Island Tell me, my dear young thing, Where might you wish to go? The sail unfurls its wing, The breeze begins to blow! The oar’s made of ivory The flag of silk moiré, A golden helm most fine; For ballast I have oranges, For sails, the wings of angels, For shipmate, a seraphim. Tell me, my dear young thing, Where might you wish to go? The sail unfurls its wing, The breeze begins to blow! Might it be the Baltic? Or the wide Pacific? To the Isle of Java? Or to Norway might we go To cull flowers in the snow, Or a bloom from Angsoka? Tell me, my dear young thing, Where might you wish to go? “Carry me,” said the beauty, “To that shore where truly We’ll find eternal love.” --That certain shore, my dear, Is rarely known, I fear, In the realm of love. Where might you wish to go? The breeze begins to blow! |
CLICK HERE for another translation of Les nuits d’été.
CLICK HERE to see Janet Baker sing a Villanelle excerpt on youtube.
CLICK HERE to see Janet Baker sing Le spectre de la rose on youtube.
CLICK HERE to see Janet Baker sing L'île inconnue on youtube.
Italian composer Francesco Santoliquido (1883-1971) completed the music and lyrics of his earliest surviving songs, I canti della sera (“The Songs of the Evening”) in 1908. They were published by Ricordi in 1912, and the journal Musical America recommended them “as the finest of modern concert songs” in 1922. But in addition to composing, Santoliquido published books of verse and short stories, and in 1937 and 1938 he penned several fascist, anti-Semitic articles, and also decried musical modernism. As a result he was effectively ostracized from the progressive arts community. Ironically, his third wife, pianist Ornella Pulti Santoliquido, had been a student of Alfredo Casella (a prominent Jewish-Italian composer and a particular target of Francesco's), and she became known as an advocate of modern music. As these four evocative "evening songs" demonstrate, Santoliquido’s early style blends characteristics of Debussy and Richard Strauss (by way of Puccini!), but they do not yet show the influence of the Arabic music that colored his later works, the result of a nine-year sojourn to North Africa which began in 1912. The first song, L’assiola canta (“The Horned Owl Sings”), is an invitation to share an intimate walk through the woods on a still, starry evening, interrupted only by the mournful sigh of an owl. Alba di luna sul bosco (“Moonrise over the Woods”) artfully depicts the appearance of a red moon over the forest and it’s shimmering reflection caught on the surface of a pond; this in turn leads the poet to reflect on the surrounding vast stillness and peace, and how such a perfect sense of communion mirrors, or perhaps even inspires newly found love. As its title suggests, the mood of Tristezze crepuscolare (“Twilight Gloom”) changes from peaceful contemplation to sorrowful angst and agitation as the incessant pealing of evening church bells unearths painful memories of a lost love. The final song, L’incontro (“The Encounter”), ends the cycle on a more hopeful note as it relates the happy reunion of a couple who years before had enjoyed a similar twilight flirtation, with evening bells and sqwaking seabirds now heard in the distance, just the same as before. The accompaniment includes rhythmic patterns similar to those used in the preceding songs, perhaps suggestive of the imperfectly-recalled memories mentioned in the lyrics.
I canti della sera ("The Songs of the Evening")
Italian lyrics by the composer (1908)
English translations by Ed Lein (©2009, E. Lein -- please notify and credit if reprinting)
L'assiolo canta Vieni! Sul bosco splende serena la notte dell’estate e l’assiolo canta. Vieni, ti voglio dir quel che non dissi mai. E sul sentiero fioriscono le stelle, magici fiori. Inoltriamoci insieme e là nel folto ti dirò perchè piansi una triste sera che non c’eri. Inoltriamoci insieme. Un mistero c’invita, Odi: l’assiolo canta. | The Horned Owl Sings O come! The summer night shines so serene above the woods and the horned owl sings. So come, I wish to tell you what I've never said before. Above our path the stars are blooming, like magic flowers. We'll enter together and there in the thicket I'll tell you why I cried one sad twilight when you were gone. So let's enter together. A mystery invites us-- O hear: the horned owl sings. |
Alba di luna sul bosco Guarda, la luna nasce tutta rossa come una fiamma congelata nel cielo, Lo stagno la riflette e l’acqua mossa dal vento Par rabbrividire al gelo. Che pace immensa, Il bosco addormentato, si riflette nello stagno. Quanto silenzio intorno! Dimmi: È un tramonto o un’alba per l’amor? | Moonrise Over the Woods Look, the moon appears all red like a frozen flame in the heavens, reflected on the pond where the water shimmers in the wind as if shivering from the cold. Such immense peace, the sleeping wood, itself reflected in the pool. Such great silence surrounds us! Tell me: Is this the twilight or the dawning of love? |
Tristezza crepuscolare È la sera. Dalla terra bagnata sale l’odore delle foglie morte. È l’ora delle campane, è l’ora in cui respiro il vano profumo d’un amore passato. E sogno e piango. È la sera. È la sera, una sera piena di campane, una sera piena di profumi, una sera piena di ricordi e di tristezze morte. Piangete, piangete campane della sera, empite tutto il cielo di malinconia. Ah! Piangete ancor… Questa è l’ora dei ricordi, è l’ora in cui l’antica flamma s’accende nel cuore disperatamente e lo brucia. Campane. Odore di foglie morte. Tristezze dissepolte! | Twilight Gloom It's the evening. Out of the damp earth rises the smell of dead leaves. It's the hour of pealing bells, it's a time to breathe the faded perfume of a bygone love. And I dream and I weep. It's the evening. It's the evening, an evening full of bells, an evening full of perfumes, an evening full of memories and death's own sadness. Weep, O weep you bells of the evening, fill the vastness of heaven with melancholy. Ah! Weep again … This is the hour of remembrance, it's the time when the old flame engulfs my desperate heart and ignites it. Pealing bells. The smell of dead leaves. Sorrows unearthed! |
L’incontro Non mi ricordo più quando noi c’incontrammo la prima volta ma fu certo una lontana sera tutta soffusa di pallide tristezze lungo un benigno mar! A noi giungevano di lontano suoni di campane e di greggi ed una pace strana ci veniva dal mare. Questo rammento! Cosa dicemmo quel giorno Io rammentate? Io non ricordo più. Ma che importa? Oggi mi fiorisce nel cuore la dolcezza appassita di quell’ora lontana. E m’è dolce stringere nella mia la vostra mano bianca e parlarvi d’amor, anch’oggi vengono di lontano suoni di campane e di greggi e anch’oggi il mar come allora ci sorride lontano. Ma oggi forse m’amate un poco, non sorridete più. Ah! La vostra mano trema. Se oggi le belle labbra voi mi darete non scorderemo più questa dolce ora d'amor! | The Encounter I no longer remember when it was that we met, but surely the first time was a bygone dusk perfused with faded sadness along a friendly sea! The sounds of bells and birds came to us from afar and a strange peace washed over us from the sea. I do remember that! Do you remember what I said that day? I no longer recall. But who cares? Today my heart blooms with sweet passion from that time long past. It's so sweet for me to clasp your white hand in mine and speak to you of love, for today, just as then, there comes from afar the sounds of bells and birds, with the sea, just as then, smiling at us in the distance. But maybe today you love me a little-- you're not smiling now ... Ah! Your hand trembles. If you'll give me your beautiful lips today we will never forget this sweet moment of love! |
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