Juliane Banse & Marcelo Amaral
Brahms, Debussy, Fauré
Musical Performance Voice / Duo 0“But something often stirs and speaks deep within a person, almost unconsciously, and sometimes it manifests itself as poetry or music,” Johannes Brahms wrote in July 1896 to the daughters of his friend and confidante Clara Schumann, who had died the previous month at the age of 76. His Vier ernste Gesänge (Four Serious Songs), completed shortly before Clara’s death, now seemed like a dark foreboding of events. In their recital, Juliane Banse and Marcelo Amaral present Brahms’s musical reflection on the transience of human life together with Claude Debussy’s settings of equally ephemerous poems by Stéphane Mallarmé and works by Gabriel Fauré and André Caplet.
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Johannes Brahms (1833–1897)
Serenade op. 106 Nr. 1 (Kugler)
To the Nightinagle op. 46 Nr. 4 (Hölty)
Sapphische Ode op. 94 Nr. 4 (Schmidt)
Auf dem Kirchhofe op. 105 Nr. 4 (Liliencron)
Die Mainacht op. 43 Nr. 2 (Hölty)
Unbewegte laue Luft op. 57 Nr. 8 (Daumer)
Dein blaues Auge op. 59 Nr. 8 (Groth)
Claude Debussy (1862–1918)
Trois poêmes de Stéphane Mallarmé (1913)
I. Soupir
II. Placet futile
III. Éventail
André Caplet (1878–1925)
Trois fables de Jean de La Fontaine (1919)
I. Le Corbeau et le renard
II. La Cigale et la fourmi
III. Le Loup et l’agneau
Intermission
Gabriel Fauré (1845–1924)
Cinq mélodies « de Venise »
nach Gedichten von Paul Verlaine op. 58 (1891)
I. Mandoline
II. En sourdine
III. Green
IV. À Clymène
V. C’est l’extase
Johannes Brahms
Vier ernste Gesänge op. 121 (1896)
I. Denn es gehet dem Menschen
II. Ich wandte mich
III. O Tod, wie bitter bist du
IV. Wenn ich mit Menschen- und mit Engelzungen redete
Johannes Brahms
Serenade
The moon shines over the mountain,
Just right for the people in love;
A fountain purls in the garden—
Otherwise silence far and wide.
By the wall in the shadows,
Three students stand
With flute and fiddle and zither,
And sing and play.
The sound steals softly into the dreams
Of the loveliest of girls,
She sees her fair-headed lover
And whispers: “Remember me.”
Franz Kugler (1808–1858)
To the Nightingale
Do not pour so loudly the full-throated
sounds
Of your love-kindled songs
Down from the blossoming boughs of
the apple tree,
O nightingale!
The tones of your sweet throat
Awaken love in me;
For the depths of my soul already
quiver
With your melting lament.
Sleep once more forsakes this couch,
And I stare
Moist-eyed, haggard, and deathly pale
At the heavens.
Fly, nightingale, to the green darkness,
To the bushes of the grove,
And there in the nest kiss your faithful
mate;
Fly away, fly away!
Ludwig Christoph Heinrich Hölty (1748–1776)
Sapphic Ode
I gathered roses from the dark hedge
by night,
The fragrance they breathed was
sweeter than by day;
But when I moved the branches, they
showered
Me with dew.
And the fragrant kisses thrilled me as
never before,
When I gathered them from your
rose-bush lips by night;
But you, too, moved in your heart like
those roses,
Shed the dew of tears.
Hans Schmidt (1854–1923)
In the Churchyard
The day was heavy with rain and
storms,
I had stood by many a forgotten grave.
Weathered stones and crosses, faded
wreaths,
The names overgrown, scarcely to
be read.
The day was heavy with storms and
rains,
On each grave froze the word:
Deceased.
How the coffins slumbered, dead to
the storm—
Silent dew on each grave proclaimed:
Released.
Detlev von Liliencron (1844–1909)
May Night
When the silvery moon gleams
through the bushes,
And sheds its slumbering light on
the grass,
And the nightingale is fluting,
I wander sadly from bush to bush.
Covered by leaves, a pair of doves
Coo to me their ecstasy; but I turn
away,
Seek darker shadows,
And the lonely tear flows down.
When, O smiling vision, that shines
through my soul
Like the red of dawn, shall I find you
here on earth?
And the lonely tear
Quivers more ardently down my
cheek.
Ludwig Christoph Heinrich Hölty
Motionless Mild Air
Motionless mild air,
Nature deep at rest;
Through the still garden night
Only the fountain plashes;
But my soul swells
With a more ardent desire;
Life surges in my veins
And yearns for life.
Should not your breast too
Heave with more passionate longing?
Should not the cry of my soul
Quiver deeply through your own?
Softly on ethereal feet
Glide to me, do not delay!
Come, ah! come, that we might
Give each other heavenly satisfaction!
Georg Friedrich Daumer (1800–1875)
Your Blue Eyes
Your blue eyes stay so still,
I look into their depths.
You ask me what I seek to see?
Myself restored to health.
A pair of ardent eyes have burnt me,
The pain of it still throbs:
Your eyes are limpid as a lake,
And like a lake as cool.
Klaus Groth (1819–1899)
Claude Debussy
Three Poems by Stéphane Mallarmé
I. Sigh
My soul rises toward your brow
where, calm sister,
An autumn strewn with russet spots
is dreaming,
And toward the restless sky of your
angelic eye,
As in some melancholy garden
A white fountain faithfully sighs
toward the Azure!—
Toward the tender Azure of pale
and pure October
That mirrors its infinite languor in
the vast pools,
And, on the stagnant water where
the tawny agony
Of leaves wanders in the wind and
digs a cold furrow,
Lets the yellow sun draw itself out
in one long ray.
II. Futile Supplication
Princess! In envying the fate of a Hebe
Who appears on this cup at the kiss
of your lips,
I expend my ardor but have only
the modest rank of abbé
And shall not figure even naked
on the Sèvres.
Since I am not your bearded lap-dog,
Nor lozenge, nor rouge, nor affected
games,
And know you look on me with
indifferent eyes,
Blonde, whose divine coiffeurs are
goldsmiths—
Appoint me… you whose many
laughs like raspberries
Are gathered among the flocks of
docile lambs
Grazing through all vows and bleating
at all frenzies,
Appoint me… so that Love winged
with a fan
May paint me there, fingering a flute
and lulling this fold,
Princess, appoint me shepherd of
your smiles.
III. Fan
O dreamer, that I may plunge
Into pure pathless delight,
Contrive, by a subtle deception,
To hold my wing in your hand.
A twilight freshness
Reaches you at each flutter,
Whose captive stroke distances
The horizon delicately.
Vertigo! See how space
Shivers like an immense kiss
Which, mad at being born for no one,
Can neither burst forth nor abate.
Can you feel the wild paradise
Just like buried laughter
Flow from the corner of your mouth
Deep into the unanimous fold!
The scepter of rose-colored shores
Stagnating over golden evenings—
such is
This white furled flight which you set
Against a bracelet’s fire.
Three Fables of Jean de La Fontaine
I. The Crow and the Fox
Master Crow, perched on an oak,
Was holding a cheese in his beak.
Master Fox, lured by the scent,
Spoke more or less like this:
“Good day, my dear Sir Crow,
How smart you are! How debonair
you are!
In truth, if your song
Be as fine as your plumage,
You are the phoenix of these woods.”
At this, the crow grew wild with glee;
And to display his minstrelsy,
He opens a big beak and drops his
booty.
The fox snaps it up, saying: “My dear
Sir,
Learn that every flatterer
Depends on an audience to live at ease.
This lesson is doubtless cheap at a cheese.”
The crow, shamefaced and in troubled
state,
Vowed to be tricked no more—a little
late.
II. The Grasshopper and the Ant
The grasshopper, having sung
All summer long,
Found herself most destitute,
When the North Wind came.
Not a morsel to her name
Of either fly or worm.
She blurted out her tale of want
To her neighbor Mistress Ant,
And begged her for a loan
Of grain to last her
Till the coming spring.
“I shall pay you,” were her words,
“On insect oath, before the fall,
Interest and principal.”
Mistress Ant is not a lender—
That’s the last thing to reproach her with!
“Tell me how you spent the summer?”
Was what she asked this borrower.
“Night and day, to every comer,
I sang, so please you ma’am.”
“You sang? I’m overjoyed.
Now off you go and dance!”
III. The Wolf and the Lamb
The mightiest are always right,
Which we shall now set out to prove.
A lamb was slaking its thirst
In the waters of a limpid stream.
A famished wolf arrived to try his
luck,
Drawn by hunger to this place.
“Who made you so bold to foul my
drink?”
Said this animal full of rage:
“You shall be punished for such
cheek.”—
“Sir,” said the lamb, “so please your
grace,
Do not fly into a rage;
Consider, rather, first,
The stream where I assuage my thirst
Is twenty yards downstream,
Below your place,
It can in no way therefore be the case
That I am fouling your drink.”
“You foul it all the same,” the cruel
beast went on,
“And last year I know that you
slandered me.”—
“How can that be, if I wasn’t yet
born?”
Replied the lamb, “my mother still
suckles me.”—
“If it isn’t you, it’s your brother
then.”—
“I have no brother.”—“Then some
relation:
For you are always plaguing me,
You, your dogs, and shepherds, too,
They tell me I should wreak revenge.”
Whereupon the wolf dragged him
through
The forest’s depths and ate him up
Without further ado.
Gabriel Fauré
Five Venetian Melodies
I. Mandolin
The gallant serenaders
And their fair listeners
Exchange sweet nothings
Beneath singing boughs.
Tirsis is there, Aminte is there,
And tedious Clitandre, too,
And Damis who for many a cruel maid
Writes many a tender song.
Their short silken doublets,
Their long trailing gowns,
Their elegance, their joy,
And their soft blue shadows
Whirl madly in the rapture
Of a grey and roseate moon,
And the mandolin jangles on
In the shivering breeze.
II. Muted
Calm in the twilight
Cast by loft boughs,
Let us steep our love
In this deep quiet.
Let us mingle our souls, our hearts
And our enraptured senses
With the hazy languor
Of arbutus and pine.
Half-close your eyes,
Fold your arms across your breast,
And from your heart now lulled to rest
Banish forever all intent.
Let us both succumb
To the gentle and lulling breeze
That comes to ruffle at your feet
The waves of russet grass.
And when, solemnly, evening
Falls from the black oaks,
That voice of our despair,
The nightingale shall sing.
III. Green
Here are flowers, branches, fruit,
and fronds,
And here too is my heart that beats
just for you.
Do not tear it with your two white
hands
And may the humble gift please
your lovely eyes.
I come all covered still with the dew
Frozen to my brow by the morning
breeze.
Let my fatigue, finding rest at
your feet,
Dream of dear moments that will
soothe it.
On your young breast let me cradle
my head
Still ringing with your recent kisses;
After love’s sweet tumult grant it
peace,
And let me sleep a while, since you
rest.
IV. To Clymène
Mystical barcarolles,
Songs without words,
Sweet, since your eyes,
The color of skies,
Since your voice,
Strange vision that unsettles
And troubles the horizon
Of my reason,
Since the rare scent
Of your swan-like pallor,
And since the candor
Of your fragrance,
Ah! since your whole being—
Pervading music,
Haloes of departed angels,
Sounds and scents—
Has in sweet cadences
And correspondences
Led on my receptive heart—
So be it!
V. It is Languorous Rapture
It is languorous rapture,
It is amorous fatigue,
It is all the tremors of the forest
In the breezes’ embrace,
It is, around the grey branches,
The choir of tiny voices.
O the delicate, fresh murmuring!
The warbling and whispering,
It is like the sweet sound
The ruffled grass gives out…
You might take it for the muffled
sound
Of pebbles in the swirling stream.
This soul which grieves
In this subdued lament,
It is ours, is it not?
Mine, and yours too,
Breathing out our humble hymn
On this warm evening, soft and low?
Johannes Brahms
Four Serious Songs
I. For That Which Befalleth the Sons of Men
For that which befalleth the sons of
men befalleth beasts; as the one dieth,
so dieth the other; yea, they have all
one breath; so that a man hath no
pre-eminence above a beast; for all is
vanity.
All go unto one place; all are of dust,
and all turn to dust again.
Who knoweth the spirit of man goeth
upward and the spirit of the beast that
goeth downward to the earth?
Wherefore I perceive that there is
nothing better, than that a man should
rejoice in his own works, for that is his
portion.
For who shall bring him to see what
shall happen after him?
Prediger Salomo / Ecclesiastes 3:19–22
II. So I Returned
So I returned, and considered all
the oppressions that are done under
the sun; and behold the tears of such
as were oppressed, and they had no
comforter; and on the side of their
oppressors there was power; but they
had no comforter.
Wherefore I praised the dead which
are already dead more than the living
which are yet alive. Yea, better is he
than both they, which hath not yet
been, who hath not seen the evil work
that is done under the sun.
Prediger Salomo / Ecclesiastes 4:1–3
III. O Death
O death, how bitter is the remembrance
of thee to a man that liveth at rest in
his possessions, unto the man that
hath nothing to vex him, and that hath
prosperity in all things; yea, unto him
that is yet able to receive meat!
O death, acceptable is thy sentence
unto the needy and unto him whose
strength faileth, that is now in the last
age, and is vexed with all things, and
to him that despaireth, and hath lost
patience!
Sirach 41:1–2
IV. Though I Speak With the Tongues of Men
Though I speak with the tongues of
men and of angels, and have not charity,
I am become as sounding brass or a
tinkling cymbal.
And though I have the gift of prophecy,
and understand all mysteries, and all
knowledge; and though I have all faith,
so that I could remove mountains, and
have not charity, I am nothing.
And though I bestow all my goods to
feed the poor, and though I give my
body to be burned,
it profiteth me nothing...
For now we see through glass, darkly;
but then face to face: now I know in
part, but then shall I know even as also
I am known.
And now abideth faith, hope, charity,
these three; but the greatest of these is
charity.
Korinther 13:1–13
Translations (except Four Serious Songs):
© Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber).
Provided via Oxford Lieder (oxfordlieder.co.uk)