Junior Recital
Wednesday
May 5, 2010, 8:00 pm
Kulas Recital Hall
Concert No. 362
Julia Dawson, mezzo-soprano
George Somerville, tenor
Der Gang zum Liebchen (Wenzig)
Wenn du nur zuweilen lächelst (Daumer)
Minnelied (Hölty)
O wüsst ich doch den Weg zurück (Groth)
Botschaft (Daumer)
Johannes Brahms
(1833–1897)
Eugene Kim, piano
Trois Chansons de Bilitis (P. Louÿs)
La Flûte de Pan
La Chevelure
Le Tombeau des Naïades
Claude Debussy
(1862–1918)
Chien-Lin Lu, piano
Lamento (Gautier)
Chanson triste (Lahor)
Le manoir de Rosemonde (de Bonnières)
Henri Duparc
(1848–1933)
Eugene Kim, piano
Sechs Lieder, Op. 48 (transl. W. H. Halverson)
Gruss
Dereinst, Gedanke mein
Lauf der Welt
Die verschwiegene Nachtigall
Zur Rosenzeit
Ein Traum
Edvard Grieg
(1843–1907)
Chien-Lin Lu, piano
Please silence all cell phones and refrain from the use of video cameras
unless prior arrangements have been made with the performers.
The use of flash cameras is prohibited. Thank you.
Translations
Der Gang zum Liebchen
The moon gleams down,
I should yet again
Go to my darling,
How does she fare?
Alas, she's despondent
And laments and laments,
That I will never see her
Again in her life!
The moon sinks,
I hurry off briskly –
Hurrying so that nobody
Shall steal my love away.
O coo, you doves!
O whir, you breezes! –
So that nobody
Shall steal my love away!
Wenn du nur zuweilen lächelst
If you would only smile now and then,
Now and then fan coolness
On my boundless passion Then I would wait with patience
And let you persist in doing all those things
That injure my love.
Minnelied
Delightfully sound the birdsongs
When the pure angel
Who conquered my young heart
Wanders through the wood.
Redder bloom the valleys and meadows,
Greener becomes the grass
Where the fingers of my lady
Are picking little mayflowers.
Without her, everything is dead.
Blossoms and herbs are wilted;
And no spring sunset
Would seem to me as fair and fine.
Darling, lovely woman,
Never wish to flee;
That my heart, as well as this meadow,
Might bloom in joy!
Brahms
O wüßt ich doch den Weg zurück
Oh, if I only knew the road back,
The dear road to childhood’s land!
Oh, why did I search for happiness
And leave my mother's hand?
Oh, how I long to be at rest,
Not to be awakened by anything,
To shut my weary eyes,
With love gently surrounding!
And nothing to search for, nothing to beware of,
Only dreams, sweet and mild;
Not to notice the changes of time,
To be once more a child!
Oh, do show me the road back,
The dear road to childhood's land!
In vain I search for happiness,
Around me naught but deserted beach and sand!
Botschaft
Blow, Breeze, gently and lovingly
About the cheeks of my beloved;
Play tenderly in her locks,
Do not hasten to flee far away!
If perhaps she is then to ask,
How it stands with poor wretched me,
Tell her: “Unending was his woe,
Highly dubious was his condition;
However, now he can hope
Magnificently to come to life again.
For you, lovely one,
Are thinking of him!”
Trois Chansons de Bilitis
The Pan Pipes
For the festival of Hyacinthus
he gave me a syrinx, a set of pipes made
from well-cut reeds joined
with the white wax
that is sweet to my lips like honey.
He is teaching me to play, as I sit on his knees;
but I tremble a little.
He plays it after me, so softly
that I can scarcely hear it.
We are so close that we have
Debussy
nothing to say to one another;
but our songs want to converse,
and our mouths are joined
as they take turns on the pipes.
It is late:
here comes the chant of the green frogs,
which begins at dusk.
My mother will never believe
I spent so long
searching for my lost waistband.
The Hair
He told me: “Last night I had a dream.
Your hair was around my neck,
it was like a black necklace
round my nape and on my chest.
“I was stroking your hair, and it was my own;
thus the same tresses joined us forever,
with our mouths touching,
just as two laurels often have only one root.
“And gradually I sensed,
since our limbs were so entwined,
that I was becoming you
and you were entering me like my dream.”
When he'd finished,
he gently put his hands on my shoulders,
and gazed at me so tenderly
that I lowered my eyes, quivering.
The Tomb of the Water-Nymphs
I was walking along in the frost-covered woods;
in front of my mouth
my hair blossomed in tiny icicles,
and my sandals were heavy
with muddy caked snow.
He asked: “What are you looking for?”
“I'm following the tracks of the satyr his little cloven hoofprints alternate
like holes in a white cloak.”
He said: “The satyrs are dead.
“The satyrs are dead, and the nymphs too.
In thirty years there has not been such a terrible winter.
That's the trail of a he-goat.
But let's pause here, where their tomb is.”
With his hoe he broke the ice
of the spring where the water-nymphs used to laugh.
There he was, picking up large cold slabs of ice,
lifting them toward the pale sky,
and peering through them.
Lamento
Do you know the white tomb
Where floats with plaintive sound,
The shadow of a yew?
On the yew a pale dove,
Sad and alone under the setting sun,
Sings its song:
One would say that an awakened soul
Is weeping under the earth in unison
With this song,
And from the misfortune of being forgotten,
Moans its sorrow in a cooing
Quite soft.
Oh! never again near the tomb
Shall I go, when night lets fall
Its black mantle,
To hear the pale dove
Sing on the limb of the yew
Its plaintive song!
Chanson triste
Moonlight slumbers in your heart,
A gentle summer moonlight,
And to escape the cares of life
I shall drown myself in your light.
I shall forget past sorrows,
My sweet, when you cradle
My sad heart and my thoughts
In the loving calm of your arms.
You will rest my poor head,
Ah! sometimes on your lap,
And recite to it a ballad
That will seem to speak of us;
And from your eyes full of sorrow,
From your eyes I shall then drink
So many kisses and so much love
That perhaps I shall be healed.
Le Manoir de Rosemonde
Duparc
Love, like a dog, has bitten me
With its sudden, voracious teeth...
Come, the trail of spilt blood
Will enable you to follow my tracks.
Take a horse of good pedigree
And set off on the arduous route I took,
Through swamps and overgrown paths,
If that's not too exhausting a ride for you!
As you pass where I passed,
You will see that I travelled
Alone and wounded through this sad world,
And thus went off to my death
Far, far away, without ever finding
Rosemonde's blue manor-house.
Sechs Lieder, Op. 48
I. Soft and gently through my soul
sweetest bells are ringing,
speed you forth, my little song,
of springtime blithely singing.
Speed you onward to a house
where sweet flowers are fleeting,
if perchance a rose you see,
Say, I send her greeting.
II. One day, one day, O my mind,
You will be at peace.
Love's ardour
will not leave you alone,
In the cool earth,
There you sleep well
and without suffering;
You will be at peace:
What you have not
found in life,
When it has vanished,
Will be given to you;
Then without wounds
and without pain
you will be at peace.
Grieg
III. Each evening I go out,
over the meadow-path.
She looks out from her summerhouse,
which stands by the pathway.
We have never questioned this,
it is just the way things are.
I don't know how it happened so,
for a long time I kiss her,
I don't ask, she doesn't say yes,
however, she also never says no.
If lips like to rest on lips,
we forbid them not, it pleases us well.
The little breeze plays with the rose,
it doesn't ask: do you love me?
The little grasses are chilled by the dew,
they don't often say: stop!
I love her, she loves me,
however neither says: I love you!
IV. Under the lindens
on the heath
at the spot where I sat with my boyfriend
you might discover
how he and I
squashed the flowers and the grass.
From the woods came a sweet sound "Tandaradei!"
- the nightingale singing in the valley.
I came
to the meadow;
my sweetheart had arrived before me.
He greeted me
as a noble lady
(I'm still very happy about that).
Did he offer me kisses?
“Tandaradei!”
- See how red my lips are!
If anyone found out (God forbid!)
what happened as I lay there,
I would be deeply ashamed.
May nobody know
how the young man embraced me
except him and me and a little bird “Tandaradei!”
- who will certainly keep a secret.
V. You are wilting, sweet roses my love could not sustain you.
Bloom for hopelessness then,
for he whose soul is breaking from sorrow!
I think mournfully of those days
when I hung on you, angel,
waiting for your first little bud
and going to my garden early;
Every blossom, every fruit
I carried to your feet;
and before your countenance,
hope throbbed in my heart.
Bloom for him who waits for your first bud,
going to his garden early;
alas, I think mournfully of those days
when I hung on you, my angel.
VI. I once had a beautiful dream:
I was in love with a fair-haired young woman,
we were in a green forest glade,
it was warm spring weather,
the buds were sprouting,
the brook was running strong, the sounds of the distant village could be heard,
we were full of joy,
immersed in bliss.
And even more beautiful than the dream
was what occurred in reality:
it was in a green forest glade
it was warm spring weather,
the buds were sprouting,
the brook was running strong, the sounds of the distant village reached our ears –
I held you tight, I held you long,
and now will never again let you go!
Oh the spring-green glade
is alive in me for all time!
That is where reality became a dream
and the dream became reality!