Recital: Marina Beeson '21 BM, Soprano

Ridente la calma

Ridente la calma nell'alma si desti; 
Né resti più segno di sdegno e timor.

Tu vieni, frattanto, a stringer mio bene,
Le dolce catene sí grate al mio cor.

Anonymous

May a Happy Calm Arise

May a happy calm arise in my soul
and may neither a bit of anger nor fear survive in it.

In the meantime you are coming, my beloved, to grasp
those sweet chains that make my heart so grateful. 

Translation copyright © Mario Giuseppe Genesi from the LiederNet Archive https://www.lieder.net/

Vado, ma dove?

Vado, ma dove? O Dei
Se de' tormenti suoi,
se de' sospiri miei
non sente il ciel pietà!
Tu che mi parli al core,
Guida i miei passi, amore;
Tu quel ritegno or togli
Che dubitar mi fa. 

Lorenzo Da Ponte

Where am I going?

Where am I going? Oh Gods!
If for his torments
If for my sighs
Heaven feels no pity!
You who speak to my heart
Guide my footsteps, love;
Now remove that restraint
Which makes me doubt. 

Translation by Marina Beeson

La dame d’André

André ne connaît pas la dame
Qu’il prend aujourd’hui par la main.
A-t-elle un coeur à lendemains,
Et pour le soir a-t-elle une âme?

Au retour d’un bal campagnard
S’en allait-elle en robe vague
Chercher dans le meules la bague
Des fiançailles du hassard?

A-t-elle eu peur, la nuit venue,  
Guettée par les ombres d’hier.
Dans son jardin lorsque l’hiver  
Entrait par la grande avenue? 

Il l’a aimée pour sa couleur
Pour sa bonne humeur de Dimanche.
Pâlira-t-elle aux feuilles blanches
De son album des temps meilleurs?

Louise de Vilmorin

André’s Lady friend

André does not know the woman
Whose hand he takes today.  
Has she a heart for the future,
And for evening has she a soul?

Returning from a country dance,
Did she in her loose-fitting gown
Go and seek in the haystacks
The ring of random betrothal? 

Was she afraid, when night fell,
Watched by the ghosts of the past,
In her garden, when winter    
Entered by the wide avenue? 

He loved her for her complexion,
For her Sunday good humour.
Will she fade on the blank pages
Of his album of better days?

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Dans l’herbe

Je ne peux plus rien dire
Ni rien faire pour lui.
Il est mort de sa belle
Il est mort de sa mort belle
Dehors     
Sous l’arbre de la Loi
En plein silence
En plein paysage
Dans l’herbe.

Il est mort inaperçu  
Encriant son passage
En appelant, en m’appelant
Mais comme j’étais loin de lui
Et que sa voix ne portait plus
Il est mort seul dans les bois
Sous son arbre d’enfance
Et je ne peux plus rien dire
Ni rien faire pour lui. 

Louise de Vilmorin

In the Grass

I can say nothing more 
Do nothing more for him.
He died for his fair one
He died a fair death
Outside  
Beneath the tree of Justice
In utter silence
In open country
In the grass.

He died unnoticed 
Crying out as he passed away
Calling, Calling me
But since I was far from him  
And since his voice no longer carried
He died alone in the woods
Beneath his childhood tree
And I can say nothing more   
Do nothing more for him. 

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Il vole

En allant se coucher le soleil
Se reflète au vernis de ma table:
C’est le fromage rond de la fable
Au bec de mes ciseaux de vermeil. 

– Mais où est le corbeau? – Il vole.

Je voudrais coudre mais un aimant
Attire à lui toutes mes aiguilles.
Sur la place les joueurs de quilles
De belle en belle passent le temps.

– Mais où est mon amant? – Il vole.

C’est un voleur que j’ai pour amant,
Le corbeau vole et mon amant vole,
Voleur de cœur manque à sa parole
Et voleur de fromage est absent.

– Mais où est le bonheur? – Il vole.

Je pleure sous le saule pleureur
Je mêle mes larmes à ses feuilles
Je pleure car je veux qu’on me veuille
Et je ne plais pas à mon voleur.

– Mais où donc est l’amour? – Il vole.

Trouvez la rime à ma déraison
Et par les routes du paysage
Ramenez-moi mon amant volage
Qui prend les cœurs et perd ma raison.

Je veux que mon voleur me vole

Louise de Vilmorin

Stealing Away

The sun as it sets
Is reflected in my polished table –
It is the round cheese of the fable
In the beak of my silver scissors. 

But where’s the crow? Stealing away on its wing.

I’d like to sew but a magnet
Attracts all my needles.
In the square the skittle-players
Pass the time playing game after game.

But where’s my lover? Stealing away on his wing.

I’ve a stealer for a lover,
The crow steals away and my lover steals,
The stealer of my heart breaks his word
And the stealer of cheese is absent.

But where is happiness? Stealing away on its wing.

I weep under the weeping willow
I mingle my tears with its leaves
I weep because I want to be wanted
And because my stealer doesn’t care for me.

But where can love be? Stealing away on its wing.

Find the sense in my nonsense
And along the country ways
Bring me back my wayward lover
Who steals hearts and robs me of my senses.

I want my stealer to steal me.

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Mon cadavre est doux comme un gant

Mon cadavre est doux comme un gant        
Doux comme un gant de peau glacée
Et mes prunelles effaces
Font de mes yeux des cailloux blancs.

Deux cailloux blancs dans mon visage,       
Dans le silence deux muets        
Ombrés encore d’un secret
Et lourds du poids mort des images.

Mes doigts tant de fois égarés
Sont joints en attitude sainte     
Appuyés au creux de mes plaints
Au noeud de mon coeur arrêté.

Et mes deux pieds sont les montagnes.
Les deux derniers monts que j’ai vus
À la minute où j’ai perdu
La course que les années gagnent.

Mon souvenir est ressemblant.
Enfants emportez-le bien vite,    
Allez, allez, ma vie est dite.
Mon cadavre est doux comme un gant.

Louise de Vilmorin

My corpse is as soft as a glove 

My corpse is as soft as a glove 
soft as a glove of glacé kid
And my hidden pupils
Make two white pebbles of my eyes.

Two white pebbles in my face
Two mutes in the silence 
Still darkened by a secret
Laden with the dead weight of what they’ve seen.

My fingers that roved so often
Are joined in a saintly pose    
Resting in the hollow of my sorrows      
At the center of my arrested heart.

And my two feet are mountains
The last two hills I saw          
At the very moment I lost the race
That the years always win.

Your memory of my is true-   
Children bear it swiftly away,
Go, go, my life is over
My corpse is as soft as a glove,

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Violon

Couple amoureux aus accents méconnus
Le violon et son joueur me plaisent.
Ah! j’aime ces gémissements tendus
Sur la corde des malaises.
Aux accords sur les cordes des pendus
À l’heure où les Lois se taisent   
Le coeur en forme de fraise
S’offre à l’amour comme un fruit inconnu.
 

Louise de Vilmorin

Violin 

Loving couple of misapprehended sounds
Violin and player please me. 
Ah! I love these long wailings
Stretched on the string of disquiet.
To the sound of strung-up chords
At the hour when Justice is silent
The heart shaped like a strawberry
Gives itself to love like an unknown fruit.

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Fleurs

Fleurs promises, fleurs tenues dans tes bras,
Fleurs sorties des parenthèses d’un pas,
    Qui t’apportait ces fleurs l’hiver
    Saupoudrés du sable des mers?

Sable de tes baisers, fleurs des amours fanées
Les beaux yeux sont de cendre et dans la cheminée
    coeur enrubanné de plaints   
    Brûle avec ses images saintes.

Louise de Vilmorin

Flowers 

Promised flowers, flowers held in your arms,
Flowers from a step’s parentheses,
        Who brought you these flowers in winter
        Sprinkled with the sea’s sand?

Sand of your kisses, flowers of faded loves
Your lovely eyes are ashes and in the hearth
          A moan-beribboned heart
          Burns with its sacred images.

Translation © Richard Stokes from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000) provided
courtesy of Oxford Lieder-www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Gruss

Leise zieht durch mein Gemüt
Liebliches Geläute.
Klinge, kleines Frühlingslied,
Kling hinaus ins Weite.
Zieh hinaus, bis an das Haus,
Wo die Veilchen sprießen.
Wenn du eine Rose schaust,
Sag, ich lass’ sie grüßen.

Heinrich Heine

Greeting 

A sweet sound of bells
Peals gently through my soul.
Ring out, little song of spring,
Ring out far and wide.
Ring out till you reach the house
Where violets are blooming.  
And if you should see a rose,
Send to her my greeting.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Dereinst, Gedanke mein

Dereinst, 
Gedanke mein                                          
Wirst ruhig sein.
Läßt Liebesglut
Dich still nicht werden:
In kühler Erden
Da schläfst du gut;
Dort ohne Liebe
Und ohne Pein
Wirst ruhig sein.

Was du im Leben
Nicht hast gefunden,
Wenn es entschwunden
Wird’s dir gegeben.
Dann ohne Wunden 
Und ohne Pein
Wirst ruhig sein. 

Emanuel Geibel

One day, my thoughts

One day,
My thoughts,
You shall be at rest.
Though love’s ardor
Gives you no peace,
You shall sleep well
In cool earth;
There without love 
And without pain
You shall be at rest. 

What you did not 
Find in life
Will be granted you
When life is ended.
Then, free from torment
And free from pain,
You shall be at rest.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Wir haben uns noch nie bestellt,
Es ist nur so der Lauf der Welt.

Ich weiß nicht, wie es so geschah,
Seit lange küss’ ich sie,
Ich bitte nicht, sie sagt nicht: ja!
Doch sagt sie: nein! auch nie.
Wenn Lippe gern auf Lippe ruht,
Wir hindern’s nicht, uns dünkt es gut.

Das Lüftchen mit der Rose spielt,
Es fragt nicht: hast mich lieb?
Das Röschen sich am Taue kühlt,
Es sagt nicht lange: gib!
Ich liebe sie, sie liebet mich,
Doch keines sagt: ich liebe dich!

Johann Ludwig Uhland

The Way of the World 

Every evening I go out,
Up the meadow path
She looks out from her summer house
Which stands close by the road. 
We’ve never planned a rendezvous
It’s just the way of the world.

I don’t know how it came about
For a long time I’ve been kissing her,
I don’t ask, she doesn’t say yes!
But neither does she ever say no!
When lips are pleased to rest on lips,
We don’t prevent it, it just seems good.

The little breeze plays with the rose,
It doesn’t ask: do you love me?
The rose cools itself with dew,
It doesn’t dream of saying: give!
I love her, she loves me,
But neither says: I love you!

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Die Verschwiegene Nachtigall

Unter den Linden,
An der Haide,
Wo ich mit meinem Trauten saß,
Da mögt ihr finden,
Wie wir beide
Die Blumen brachen und das Gras.
Vor dem Wald mit süßem Schall,
Tandaradei!
Sang im Tal die Nachtigall.

Ich kam gegangen
Zu der Aue,
Mein Liebster kam vor mir dahin.
Ich ward empfangen
Als hehre Fraue,
Daß ich noch immer selig bin.
Ob er mir auch Küsse bot?
Tandaradei! 
Seht, wie ist mein Mund so rot!

Wie ich da ruhte,
Wüßt’ es einer,
Behüte Gott, ich schämte mich.
Wie mich der Gute
Herzte, keiner
Erfahre das als er und ich—
Und ein kleines Vögelein,
Tandaradei!
Das wird wohl verschwiegen sein

Karl Joseph Simrock

The Secretive Nightingale

Under the lime trees
By the heath
Where I sat with my beloved,
There you may find
How both of us
Crushed the flowers and grass.
Outside the wood, with a sweet sound,
Tandaradei!
The nightingale sang in the valley.

I came walking
To the meadow,
My beloved arrived before me.
I was received
As a noble lady,
Which still fills me with bliss.
Did he offer me kisses?
Tandaradei!
See how red my mouth is!

If anyone knew
How I lay there,
God forbid, I’d be ashamed.
How my darling hugged me,
No one shall know
But he and I—
And a little bird,
Tandaradei!
Who certainly won’t say a word.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Zur Rosenzeit

Ihr verblühet, süße Rosen,
Meine Liebe trug euch nicht;
Blühet, ach! dem Hoffnungslosen,
Dem der Gram die Seele bricht!

Jener Tage denk’ ich trauernd,
Als ich, Engel, an dir hing,
Auf das erste Knöspchen lauernd
Früh zu meinem Garten ging;

Alle Blüten, alle Früchte
Noch zu deinen Füßen trug
Und vor deinem Angesichte
Hoffnung in dem Herzen schlug.

Ihr verblühet, süße Rosen,
Meine Liebe trug euch nicht;
Blühet, ach! dem Hoffnungslosen,
Dem der Gram die Seele bricht.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Time of Roses

You fade, sweet roses,
My love did not wear you;
Ah! You bloom for one bereft of hope,
Whose soul now breaks with grief!

Sorrowfully I think of those days,
When I, my angel, set my heart on you,
And waiting for the first little bud,
Went early to my garden;

Laid all the blossoms, all the fruits
At your very feet,
With hope beating in my heart,
When you looked on me.

You fade, sweet roses,
My love did not wear you;
Ah! you bloom for one bereft of hope,
Whose soul now breaks with grief.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk

Ein Traum

Mir träumte einst ein schöner Traum:
Mich liebte eine blonde Maid;
Es war am grünen Waldesraum, 
Es war zur warmen Frühlingszeit:

Die Knospe sprang, der Waldbach schwoll,
Fern aus dem Dorfe scholl Geläut—
Wir waren ganzer Wonne voll,
Versunken ganz in Seligkeit.

Und schöner noch als einst der Traum
Begab es sich in Wirklichkeit—
Es war am grünen Waldesraum,
Es war zur warmen Frühlingszeit:

Der Waldbach schwoll, die Knospe sprang,
Geläut erscholl vom Dorfe her—
Ich hielt dich fest, ich hielt dich lang
Und lasse dich nun nimmermehr!

O frühlingsgrüner Waldesraum!
Du lebst in mir durch alle Zeit—
Dort ward die Wirklichkeit zum Traum,
Dort ward der Traum zur Wirklichkeit!

Friedrich Martin von Bodenstedt

A Dream

I once dreamed a beautiful dream:
A blonde maiden loved me,
It was in the green woodland glade, 
It was in the warm springtime:

The buds bloomed, the forest stream swelled,
From the distant village came the sound of bells—
We were so full of bliss,
So lost in happiness.

And more beautiful yet than the dream,
It happened in reality,
It was in the green woodland glade,
It was in the warm springtime:

The forest stream swelled, the buds bloomed,
From the village came the sound of bells—
I held you fast, I held you long,
And now shall never let you go!

O woodland glade so green with spring!
You shall live in me for evermore—
There reality became a dream,
There dream became reality!

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder, published by Faber, provided courtesy of Oxford Lieder, www.oxfordlieder.co.uk