Simon Keenlyside (baritone) & Malcolm Martineau (piano)

Robert Schumann: Ballade des Harfners
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
English Translation © Richard Stokes

What do I hear at the gate,
What sounds on the bridge?
Let that song for our ears
Echo in this hall!’
So said the king, the page ran;
The page returned, the king cried:
‘Let the old man be admitted!’
‘Hail to you, noble lords,
Hail to you, fair ladies!
How rich a Heaven! Star upon star!
Who shall tell their names?
In this hall of glory, of splendour,
Close, eyes; now is no time
To feast yourselves and marvel.’
The minstrel shut tight his eyes
And with full-blooded tone did play;
Manfully the knights gazed on,
And the beautiful lady looked down.
The king, pleased by the song,
To praise him for his music,
Sent for a chain of gold.
‘The chain of gold give not to me,
The chain give to your knights,
Before whose bold countenance
The enemy lances splinter;
Give it to your chancellor,
And let him bear that golden burden
Together with his others.
‘I sing as sings the bird
That lives amongst the branches;
The song that bursts from the throat
Is its own rich reward.
But if I may, one thing will I ask:
Let me be served your best wine
In a clear glass.’
To his lips he put it, drank it off:
‘O draught of sweet refreshment!
O thrice highly-favoured house
Where that is but a small gift.
Should you fare well, then think of me,
And thank God as warmly as I
Thank you for this draught.’

Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Franz Schubert: Liebesbotschaft / Love’s message
Text by Ludwig Rellstab
English Translation Richard Wigmore

Murmuring brook, so silver and bright,
do you hasten, so lively and swift, to my beloved?
Ah, sweet brook, be my messenger.
Bring her greetings from her distant lover.

All the flowers, tended in her garden,
which she wears so charmingly on her breast,
and her roses with their crimson glow:
refresh them, brooklet, with your cooling waters.

When on your banks she inclines her head
lost in dreams, thinking of me,
comfort my sweetheart with a kindly glance,
for her beloved will soon return.

When the sun sinks in a red flush,
lull my sweetheart to sleep.
With soft murmurings bring her sweet repose,
and whisper dreams of love.

Franz Schubert: Alinda
Text by: Johann Rochlitz
English Translation © Richard Wigmore

The sun sinks into the deep ocean,
she was due to come.
Calmly the reaper walks by.
My heart is heavy.

‘Reaper, have you not seen my love?
Alinda! Alinda!’
‘I must go to my wife and children,
I cannot look for other girls.
They are waiting for me beneath the linden tree.’

The moon entered its heavenly course,
she still does not come.
There a fisherman lands his boat.
My heart is heavy.

‘Fisherman, have you not seen my love?
Alinda! Alinda!’
‘I must see how my oyster baskets are,
I never have time to chase after girls;
look what a catch I have!’

The bright stars appear,
she still does not come.
The huntsman rides swiftly along.
My heart is heavy.

‘Huntsman, have you not seen my love?
Alinda! Alinda!’
‘I must go after the brown roebuck,
I never care to look for girls;
there he goes in the evening breeze!’

The grove lies here in blackest night,
she still does not come.
I wander alone, away from all mankind,
anxious and troubled.

‘To you, Echo, I confess my sorrow:
Alinda! Alinda!’
‘Alinda’, came the soft echo;
Then I saw her at my side.
‘You searched so faithfully. Now you find me.’

Franz Schubert: An den Mond in einer Herbstnacht / To the Moon on an Autumn Night
Text by: Aloys Wilhelm Schreiber
English Translation © Richard Wigmore

Your face is kind,
son of heaven.
Softly you move
through the airy waste,
fair companion of the night.

Your shimmering light is gentle and refreshing,
like a word of comfort
from the lips of a friend
when a terrifying vulture
gnaws at the soul.

You see many a tear
and many a smile;
you hear lovers’ intimate whispers
as you shine for them on their quiet way;
on your beams hope streams down
to the silent sufferer,
wandering all alone on the thorny path.

You see my friends, too,
scattered in distant lands;
you shed your light
upon the happy hills
where I often played as a boy,
and where, as you smiled down,
an unknown longing
often seized my youthful heart.

You gaze also upon the place
where my loved ones rest,
where the dew falls on their graves
and the grass above them
blows in the evening breeze.

But your light does not penetrate
the dark chamber
where they rest from life’s toil,
and where I, too, shall soon rest.
You will go and return again,
you will see many more smiles.
Then I shall smile
and weep no more;
I will no longer be remembered
on this fair earth.

Franz Schubert: Ständchen ‘Hark, hark, the lark’ / Serenade (‘Hark, hark! The lark!’)
Text by William Shakespeare

Hark, hark! the lark at heaven’s gate sings,
And Phoebus ’gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chalic’d flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To open their golden eyes;
With everything that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;
Arise, arise!

Hugo Wolf: Gedichte von J W von Goethe No 18: Blumengruß / Flower Greeting
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 
English Translation © Richard Stokes 2005

May this garland I have gathered
Greet you many thousand times!
I have often stooped down,
Ah, at least a thousand times,
And pressed it to my heart
Something like a hundred thousand!

Hugo Wolf: Mörike Lieder No 2: Der Knabe und das Immlein / The Boy and the Bee
Text by Eduard Mörike 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

On the hill-top vineyard
There stands a hut so timidly,
It has neither door nor window
And feels time dragging by.

And when the day’s so sultry
And every little bird is silent,
A solitary bee
Buzzes round the sunflower.

My sweetheart has a garden
With a pretty beehive in it:
Is that where you’ve flown from?
Did she send you to me?

‘Oh no, you handsome boy,
No one bade me bear messages;
This child knows nothing of love,
Has scarcely even noticed you.

What can girls know
When hardly out of school!
Your beloved sweetheart
Is still her mother’s child.

I bring her wax and honey;
Farewell! – I’ve gathered a whole pound;
How your beloved will laugh!
Her mouth’s already watering.’

Ah, if only you would tell her,
I know of something much sweeter:
There’s nothing lovelier on earth
Than when one hugs and kisses!

Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Hugo Wolf: Mörike Lieder No 40: Der Jäger / The Huntsman
Text by Eduard Mörike 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Three days of endless rain,
No sunshine even now;
Not one kind word for three whole days
From my beloved’s lips.

She sulks and so do I,
That’s how she wanted it;
But it gnaws at my heart,
This sulkiness and sullenness.

Welcome, then, to the hunter’s joy,
To thunderstorm and rain!
I’ll button tight the ardent breast,
And fly to you rejoicing!

She’ll be sitting at home and laughing now,
And joking with her siblings;
I can hear the old leaves whispering
In the forest night.

Now she’ll be sitting and weeping aloud
For sorrow in her little room;
I feel as cosy as any deer,
Hidden in the darkness.

No stag or roe anywhere!
A shot will pass the time!
The healthy crack and echo
Refresh the marrow in my bones. –

But as the thunder dies away
In the valleys all around,
I’m assailed by sudden pain,
My heart sinks like a stone.

She sulks with me and I with her,
That’s how she wanted it;
But it gnaws at my heart,
This sulkiness and sullenness.

So let’s away to my love’s house!
And clasp her round the waist!
“Wring out these soaking locks of mine
And kiss and take me back again!”

Hugo Wolf: Gedichte von J W von Goethe No 45: Wie sollt ich heiter bleiben / How can I remain cheerful?
Text by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Translation by Malcolm Wren

How can I remain cheerful
so far from day and light?
But now I want to write
and I can’t drink.

When she drew me to herself
no words were used.
Just as my tongue stopped then
So has my pen stopped now.

So then! I’ll allow the barman
to continue to top up my glass.
I just say, “Remember”
and people immediately know what I want.

Hugo Wolf: Mörike Lieder No 38: Lied vom Winde / Song of the wind
Text by Eduard Mörike 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Storming wind, roaring wind,
Now here, now there!
Tell me where your homeland is!

“Child, we’ve travelled
For many many years
Through the wide wide world,
We too want to know,
Seek out the answer
From the mountains, the seas,
The resounding hosts of heaven:
They never know.
If you’re smarter than they,
You can tell us.
– Off, away!
Don’t delay us!
Others follow, our brothers,
Ask them!”

Stop! Stay
A little while!
Say where love’s home is,
Where does it begin and end?

“Who could say!
Impish child,
Love’s like the wind,
Swift and brisk,
Never resting,
Everlasting,
But not always constant.
– Off, away!
Don’t delay us!
Away over stubble and woods and fields!
If I see your sweetheart,
I’ll blow her a kiss.
Child, farewell!”

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Johannes Brahms: Nachtigallen schwingen Op 6 No 6 / Nightingales flutter
Text by August Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Nightingales joyfully
Flutter their feathers,
Nightingales sing
Their old songs,
And the flowers
Wake again
At the tones and sounds
Of all these songs.

And my longing becomes a nightingale
And flies out into the blossoming world,
And asks everywhere of every flower,
Where might my own floweret be?

And the nightingales
Flutter their dances
Beneath leafy arbours
Among blossoming boughs,
But I must keep silent
About all the flowers,
I stand among them
Sadly lost in silent thought;
I see a flower
That does not wish to bloom.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Johannes Brahms: Verzagen Op 72 No 4 / Despair
Text by Karl Lemcke 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

I sit by the shore of the raging sea
Searching there for rest,
I gaze at the waves’ motion
In numb resignation.

The waves crash on the shore,
They foam and vanish,
The clouds, the winds above,
They come and go.

You, unruly heart, be silent
And surrender yourself to rest;
You should find comfort
In winds and waves — why are you weeping?

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Johannes Brahms: Über die Haide Op 86 No 4 / Over the heath
Text by Theodor Storm 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Over the heath my steps resound;
Muffled sounds from the earth wander with me.
Autumn has come, Spring is far distant,
Did rapture once really exist?
Swirling mists ghost about,
The heather is black and the sky so empty.
Had I never wandered here in May!
Life and love – how they flew by!

Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Johannes Brahms: O Kühler Wald Op 72 No 3 / O cool forest
Text by Clemens Brentano
English Translation © Richard Stokes

O cool forest,
In which my beloved walks,
Where are you murmuring?
O echo,
Where are you listening,
Who love to understand my song?

Deep in the heart
Is where the forest murmurs,
In which my beloved walks,
The echo
Fell asleep in sorrow,
The songs have blown away.
Translations by Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Johannes Brahms: Es Schauen die Blumen Op 96 No 3 / The flowers all turn their faces
Text by Heinrich Heine 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

The flowers all turn their faces
Up to the radiant sun,
The rivers all run their course
Down to the radiant sea.
My songs all flutter their way
To my radiant love;
Take with you my tears and sighs,
O wistful and gloomy songs!

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of The Book of Lieder (Faber, 2005)

Henri Duparc: Phidylé
Text by Charles-Marie-René Leconte de Lisle 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

The grass is soft for sleep beneath the cool poplars
On the banks of the mossy springs
That flow in flowering meadows from a thousand sources,
And vanish beneath dark thickets.

Rest, O Phidylé! Noon on the leaves
Is gleaming, inviting you to sleep.
By the clover and thyme, alone, in the bright sunlight,
The fickle bees are humming.

A warm fragrance floats about the winding paths,
The red flowers of the cornfield droop;
And the birds, skimming the hillside with their wings,
Seek the shade of the eglantine.

But when the sun, low on its dazzling curve,
Sees its brilliance wane,
Let your loveliest smile and finest kiss
Reward me to for my waiting!
Translation © Richard Stokes, from A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)

Claude Debussy: Voici que le printemps / Romance
Text by Paul Bourget 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Behold the Spring, that delicate son of April,
A handsome page in green velvet embroidered with white roses,
Behold how nimble, how dashing he is, with hands on his hips,
Like a prince being hailed on his return from long exile.

The branches of verdant bushes hem in
The path he dances along like a jester;
A nightingale perches on his left shoulder,
And on his right shoulder a blackbird has alighted.

And the flowers that slumbered beneath the forest moss
Open their eyes, on which a vague tender shadow quivers;
And their little feet stand on tiptoe to hear
The two birds whistle and sing together.

For the blackbird whistles and the nightingale sings;
The blackbird whistles for those who are not loved,
And for spellbound and languishing lovers
The nightingale pours out a touching song.

Translation © Richard Stokes, author of A French Song Companion (Oxford, 2000)

Gabriel Fauré: En sourdine Op 58 No 2 / Muted
Text by Paul Verlaine 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

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.

Gabriel Fauré: La papillon et la fleur Op 1 No 1 / The butterfly and the flower
Text by Victor Hugo
English Translation © Richard Stokes

The humble flower said to the heavenly butterfly:
Do not flee!
See how our destinies differ. Fixed to earth am I,

You fly away!
Yet we love each other, we live without men
And far from them,
And we are so alike, it is said that both of us
Are flowers!

But alas! The breeze bears you away, the earth holds me fast.
Cruel fate!
I would perfume your flight with my fragrant breath
In the sky!

But no, you flit too far! Among countless flowers
You fly away,
While I remain alone, and watch my shadow circle
Round my feet.

You fly away, then return; then take flight again
To shimmer elsewhere.
And so you always find me at each dawn
Bathed in tears!

Ah, that our love might flow through faithful days,
O my king,
Take root like me, or give me wings
Like yours!

Francis Poulenc: Métamorphoses No 3: Paganini
Text by Louise de Vilmorin 
English Translation © Richard Stokes

Violin sea-horse and siren,
Cradle of hearts heart and cradle
Tears of Mary Magdalene
A queen’s sigh
Echo

Violin pride of delicate hands
Departure on horseback over the waters
Love astride mystery
Theif at prayer
Bird

Violin morganatic wife
Puss-in-Boots ranging the forest
Well of capricious truths
Public confession
Corset

Violin alcohol of the troubled soul
Preference muscle of the evening
Shoulders of sudden seasons
Oak-leaf
Mirror

Violin knight of silence
Toy escaped from happiness,
Breast of a thousand presences
Pleasure-boat
Hunter.

Francis Poulenc: Le disparu / He has disappeared
Text by Robert Desnos 
Translation © 2002 by Peter Low

I don’t like the Rue Saint-Martin any more,
not since André Platard left it.
I don’t like the Rue Saint-Martin any more.
There’s nothing I like, not even wine.

I don’t like the Rue Saint-Martin any more,
not since André Platard left it.
He’s my friend, he’s my buddy.
We shared a room, we shared our food.
I don’t like the Rue Saint-Martin any more.

He’s my friend, he’s my buddy.
One morning he disappeared.
They took him away, and we’ve heard nothing since.
He’s not been seen again in the Rue Saint-Martin.

It’s not worth praying to the saints –
Saint Merri or Saint Jacques, Saint Gervais or Martin,
or even Valérien who hides up on the hill.

Time passes. We know nothing.
André Platard has left the Rue Saint-Martin.

Francis Poulenc: Carte postale / Postcard
Text by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki
Translation copyright © 2007 by Derek Welton

The shade of her who is very sweet is evoked here,
Indolent, and playing an air which is also doleful,
Nocturne or Lied in a minor key which makes one’s soul swoon,
In the shadow where her long fingers bring death to a phrase
On the piano which mons like a poor woman.

Francis Poulenc: Avant le cinema / Before the cinema
Text by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki
Translation copyright © 2007 by Derek Welton

And then this evening we shall go
To the cinema

Artists: what are they therefore
They are no longer those who cultivate the Fine Arts
They are not those who take interest in Art
Poetic art or even music
Artists are actors and actresses
If we were artists
We would not say ‘the cinema’
We would say ‘the ciné’

But if we were old professors from the provinces
We would say neither ‘ciné’ nor ‘cinema’
But rather ‘cinematograph’

So, my goodness, we need to have some taste.

Francis Poulenc: 1904
Text by Wilhelm Albert Włodzimierz Apolinary Kostrowicki
Translation copyright © 2000 by Faith J. Cormier

In 1904, I went to Strasbourg
for the Monday before Lent.
In the hotel, I sat by the fireside
near an opera singer
who only talked about the theatre.

The red-headed Kellnerine
was wearing a pink hat
such as Hebe, servant to the gods,
never had. Oh, things of beauty
– Carnival, pink hat, Ave!

In Rome, in Nice and in Cologne,
among the flowers and confetti,
Carnival, I’ve seen your ugly face.
Oh, richer, kinder king than Croesus,
Rothschild and Torlogne.

I ate a bit of foie gras for supper,
with tender venison,
pies, flans, etc.
A little kirsch warmed me up.

Why weren’t you in my arms?