Laura Buff
mezzo-soprano
Ināra Zandmane,
piano and harpsichord
Graduate Recital
Thursday, March 5, 2015
5:30 pm
Recital Hall, Music Building
Program
Evening Hymn, Z. 193 Henry Purcell
(1659-1695)
Diporti di Euterpe, Op. 7 Barbara Strozzi
Lagrime mie (1619-1677)
From the Diary of Virginia Woolf Dominick Argento
I. The Diary (April, 1919) (b. 1927)
II. Anxiety (October, 1920)
III. Fancy (February, 1927)
VI. War (June, 1940)
VIII. Last Entry (March, 1941)
Intermission
L’histoires naturelles Maurice Ravel
Le paon (1875-1937)
Le martin-pêcheur
La pintade
Lieder aus des Knaben Wunderhorn Gustav Mahler
Rheinlegendchen (1860-1911)
Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen
Lob des hohen Verstands
Laura Buff is a student of Ms. Clara O’Brien.
________
In partial fulfillment of the degree requirements for the
Master of Music in Performance
Henry Purcell:
Evening Hymn
Text by William Fuller (1608-1675)
Now that the sun has veil’d his light.
And bid the world good night.
To the soft bed my body I dispose.
But where shall my soul repose?
Dear God, even in thy arms,
And can there be any so sweet security?
Then to thy rest, o my soul, and singing,
praise the mercy that prolongs thy days.
Hallelujah.
Barbara Strozzi:
Lagrime mie
Text by Pietro Dolfino (1636-1709)
Lagrime mie, à che vi trattenete?
Perchè non isfogate il fier dolore
che mi toglie 'l respiro e opprime il core?
Lidia che tant'adoro,
perch'un guardo pietoso, ahi, mo donò
il paterno rigor l'impriggionò.
Tra due mura rinchiusa
sta la bella innocente
dove giunger non può raggio di sole;
e quel che più mi duole
ed accresc'al mio mal tormenti e pene,
è che per mia cagione
provi male il mio bene.
E voi, luni dolenti, non piangete?
Lagrime mie, à che vi trattenete?
Lidia, ahimè, vedo mancarmi
l'idol mio che tanto adoro;
sta colei tra duri marmi,
per cui spiro e pur non moro.
Se la morte m'è gradita,
hor che son privo di speme,
deh, toglietemi la vita,
ve ne prego, aspre mie pene.
Ma ben m'accorgo
che per tormentarmi maggiormente
la sorte mi niega anco la morte.
Se dunque è vero, o Dio,
che sol del pianto mio
il rio destino ha sete;
lagrime mie, à che vi trattenete?
My tears
My tears, why do you hold back?
Why do you not pour out the fierce sorrow
That takes away my breath and oppresses
my heart?
Lydia, who I love so much,
Alas, because she gave me a pitying glance,
The paternal strictness imprisons her.
Trapped between two walls
Is the innocent beauty,
Where no ray of sun can reach;
And that which most sorrows me
And adds torments and pains to my ills,
Is that by my cause
My loved one suffers.
And you, sorrowful eyes, do you not weep?
My tears, why do you hold back?
Lydia, alas, I see missing me
My idol whom I love so much;
She remains in hard marble,
For whom I sigh and yet do not die.
If death is welcome to me,
Now that I am devoid of hope,
Then, take my life,
I pray to you, my harsh pains.
But I comprehend well
That to torment me more
Fate denies me even death.
If therefore it is true, oh God,
That only for my weeping
Evil fate thirsts;
My tears, why do you hold back?
Dominick Argento:
From the Diary of Virginia Woolf
Text by Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
The Diary (April, 1919)
What sort of diary should I like mine to be?
Something . . . so elastic that it will embrace
anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that
comes into my mind. I should like it to
resemble some deep old desk . . . in which
one flings a mass of odds and ends without
looking them through. I should like to come
back, after a year or two, and find that the
collection had sorted itself and refined itself
and coalesced, as such deposits so
mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent
enough to reflect the light of our life . . .
Anxiety (October, 1920)
Why is life so tragic; so like a little strip of
pavement over an abyss. I look down; I feel
giddy; I wonder how I am ever to walk to
the end. But why do I feel this: Now that I
say it I don’t feel it. The fire burns; we are
going to hear the Beggar’s Opera. Only it
lies all about me; I can’t keep my eyes shut.
. . . And with it all how happy I am – if it
weren’t for my feeling that it’s a strip of
pavement over an abyss.
Fancy (February, 1927)
Why not invent a new kind of play; as for
instance:
Woman thinks . . .
He does.
Organ plays.
She writes.
They say:
She sings.
Night speaks
They miss
War (June, 1940)
This, I thought yesterday, may be my last
walk . . . the war – our waiting while the
knives sharpen for the operation – has
taken away the outer wall of security. No
echo comes back. I have no surroundings . .
Those familiar circumvolutions – those
standards – which have for so many years
given back an echo and so thickened my
identity are all wide and wild as the desert
now. I mean, there is no “autumn”, no
winter. We pour to the edge of a precipice . .
and then? I can’t conceive that there will be
a 27th June 1941.
Last Entry (March, 1941)
No: I intend no introspection. I mark Henry
James’ sentence: observe perpetually.
Observe the oncome of age. Observe greed.
Observe my own despondency. By that
means it becomes serviceable. Or so I hope.
I insist upon spending this time to the best
advantage. I will go down with my colors
flying . . . Occupation is essential. And now
with some pleasure I find that it’s seven;
and must cook dinner. Haddock and
sausage meat. I think it is true that one
gains a certain hold on sausage and
haddock by writing them down.
Maurice Ravel
L’Histoires naturelles
Text by Jules Renard (1864-1910)
Le paon
Il va sûrement se marier aujourd'hui.
Ce devait être pour hier. En habit de gala, il
était prêt.
Il n'attendait que sa fiancée. Elle n'est pas
venue. Elle ne peut tarder.
Glorieux, il se promène avec une allure de
prince indien et porte sur lui les riches
présents d'usage.
L'amour avive l'éclat de ses couleurs et son
aigrette tremble comme une lyre.
La fiancée n'arrive pas.
Il monte au haut du toit et regarde du côté
du soleil.
Il jette son cri diabolique :
Léon ! Léon !
C'est ainsi qu'il appelle sa fiancée.
Il ne voit rien venir et personne ne répond.
Les volailles habituées ne lèvent même
point la tête. Elles sont lasses de l'admirer.
Il redescend dans la cour, si sûr d'être beau
qu'il est incapable de rancune.
Son mariage sera pour demain.
Et, ne sachant que faire du reste de la
journée, il se dirige vers le perron.
Il gravit les marches, comme des marches
de temple, d'un pas officiel.
Il relève sa robe à queue toute lourde des
yeux qui n'ont pu se détacher d'elle.
Il répète encore une fois la cérémonie.
Le martin-pêcheur
Ça n'a pas mordu, ce soir,
mais je rapporte une rare émotion.
Comme je tenais ma perche de ligne tendue,
un martin-pêcheur est venu s'y poser.
Nous n'avons pas d'oiseau plus éclatant.
Il semblait une grosse fleur bleue
au bout d'une longue tige.
La perche pliait sous le poids.
Je ne respirais plus, tout fier d'être pris
pour un arbre par un martin-pêcheur.
Et je suis sûr qu'il ne s'est pas envolé de
peur,
mais qu'il a cru qu'il ne faisait que passer
d'une branche à une autre.
Natural Histories
The peacock
He will surely be getting married today.
It should have been yesterday. In his best
attire, he was ready.
He awaited only his fiancé. She did not
come. She will not be long.
Gloriously, he strolls with the allure of an
Indian prince and wears the customary rich
presents.
Love kindles the radiance of his colors and
his aigrette trembles like a lyre.
His fiancé does not arrive.
He climbs to the top of the roof and looks
toward the sun.
He flings his diabolical cry:
“Leon! Leon!”
It is thus that he calls to his fiancé.
He sees nobody coming, nobody responds.
The hens, accustomed to this, do not even
lift their heads. They are weary of admiring
him. He comes back down into the yard, so
certain of being handsome that he is
incapable of resentment. His wedding will
be tomorrow. And, not knowing what to do
With the rest of the day, he proceeds to the
front steps. He climbs the steps, like steps of
a temple, with an official step.
He picks up his tailcoat so heavy with eyes
that cannot tear themselves away from it.
He repeats the ceremony one more time.
The kingfisher
Nothing bit this evening,
but I felt a rare emotion.
As I held my pole with line taut,
a kingfisher came to rest on it.
There is no more dazzling bird.
It resembled a large blue flower
at the end of a long stem.
The pole bent under its weight.
I did not breathe at all, too proud to have
been taken for a tree by a kingfisher.
And I am sure that he did not fly away
from fear,
but that he thought that he was simply
passing from one branch to the next.
Le pintade
C'est la bossue de ma cour.
Elle ne rêve que plaies à cause de sa bosse.
Les poules ne lui disent rien :
Brusquement, elle se précipite et les harcèle.
Puis elle baisse sa tête, penche le corps,
et, de toute la vitesse de ses pattes maigres,
elle court frapper, de son bec dur,
juste au centre de la roue d'une dinde.
Cette poseuse l'agaçait.
Ainsi, la tête bleuie, ses barbillons à vif,
cocardière, elle rage du matin au soir.
Elle se bat sans motif,
peut-être parce qu'elle s'imagine toujours
qu'on se moque de sa taille,
de son crâne chauve et de sa queue basse.
Et elle ne cesse de jeter un cri discordant
qui perce l'aire comme un pointe.
Parfois elle quitte la cour et disparaît.
Elle laisse aux volailles pacifiques
un moment de répit.
Mais elle revient plus turbulente et plus
criarde. Et, frénétique, elle se vautre par
terre.
Qu'a-t'elle donc ?
La sournoise fait une farce. Elle est allée
pondre son oeuf à la campagne.
Je peux le chercher si ça m'amuse.
Et elle se roule dans la poussière comme
une bossue.
Gustav Mahler:
Lieder aus Des Knaben Wunderhorn
Texts collected and edited by
Clemens Brentano (1778-1842) and
Achim von Arnim (1781-1831)
Rheinlegendchen
Bald gras’ ich am Neckar,
bald gras’ ich am Rhein;
bald hab’ ich ein Schätzel,
bald bin ich allein!
Was hilft mir das Grasen,
wenn d’Sichel nicht schneid’t;
was hilft mir ein Schätzel,
wenn’s bei mir nicht bleibt!
So soll ich denn grasen
am Neckar, am Rhein,
so werf’ ich mein goldenes
Ringlein hinein.
Es fließet im Neckar
und fließet im Rhein,
soll schwimmen hinunter
The guinea-fowl
It is the hunchback of my yard.
She dreams only of wounds because of her
hump.
The hens say nothing to her:
Suddenly, she rushes over and harasses
them.
Then she lowers her head, leans her body,
And, with all the speed of her skinny legs,
She sharply strikes, with her hard beak,
A turkey right in the center of the circle.
That imposter annoys her.
Thus, with her blue head, her plumage on
high, she rages from morning to evening.
She fights without reason,
perhaps because she always thinks that
someone makes fun of her size,
of her bald head and of her low tail.
And she unceasingly flings a discordant cry
that pierces the air like a spear.
Occasionally, she leaves the courtyard and
vanishes. She gives the peaceful fowls
a moment of respite.
But she returns more boisterous and shrill.
And, frenetic, she sprawls on the ground.
So what is the matter with her?
The sly one plays a prank. She went to lay
her egg in the country.
I could look for it if I should like.
And she rolls around in the dirt like a
hunchback.
Rhine Legend
Now I mow by the Neckar,
Now I mow by the Rhine;
Now I have a sweetheart,
Now I am alone!
How does mowing help me,
If the sickle doesn’t cut;
What good is a sweetheart,
If she/he doesn’t stay with me!
So should I then mow
By the Neckar, by the Rhein,
Then I will throw my gold
Little ring within.
It flows in the Neckar
And flows in the Rhein,
It shall swim down
in’s Meer tief hinein.
Und schwimmt es, das Ringlein,
so frißt es ein Fisch!
Das Fischlein soll kommen
auf’s König’s sein Tisch!
Der König tät fragen,
wem’s Ringlein sollt’ sein?
Da tät mein Schatz sagen:
„Das Ringlein g’hört mein!“
Mein Schätzlein tät springen
Berg auf und Berg ein,
tät mir wied’rum bringen
das Goldringlein mein!
Kannst grasen am Neckar,
kannst grasen am Rhein!
Wirf du mir nur immer
dein Ringlein hinein!
Wo die schönen Trompeten blasen
Wer ist denn draußen und wer klopfet an,
der mich so leise wecken kann!?
Das ist der Herzallerlieble dein,
steh’ auf und laß mich zu dir ein!
Was soll ich hier nun länger steh’n?
Ich seh’ die Morgenröt’ aufgeh’n,
die Morgenröt’, zwei helle Stern’.
Bei meinem Schatz da wär ich gern’,
bei meinem Herzallerlieble.
Das Mädchen stand auf und ließ ihn ein;
sie heißt ihn auch willkommen sein.
Willkommen lieber Knabe mein,
so lang hast du gestanden!
Sie reicht’ ihm auch die schneeweiße Hand.
Von ferne sang die Nachtigall,
das Mädchen fängt zu weinen an.
Ach weine nicht, du Liebste mein,
auf’s Jahr sollst du mein Eigen sein.
Mein Eigen sollst du werden gewiß,
wie’s Keine sonst auf Erden ist!
O Lieb auf grüner Erden.
Ich zieh’ in Krieg auf grüne Haid,
die grüne Haide, die ist so weit!
Allwo dort die schönen Trompeten blasen,
da ist mein Haus,
mein Haus von grünem Rasen!
Lob des hohen Verstands
Einstmals in einem tiefen Tal
Kukuk und Nachtigall
Täten ein Wett' anschlagen:
Zu singen um das Meisterstück,
Gewinn' es Kunst, gewinn' es Glück:
Dank soll er davon tragen.
Der Kukuk sprach: "So dir's gefällt,
Hab' ich den Richter wählt",
Und tät gleich den Esel ernennen.
Into the sea deep down.
And it will swim, the little ring,
Then a fish will eat it!
The little fish shall come
Onto the king’s table!
The king will ask,
Whose ring might this be?
Then will my sweetheart say:
“The ring belongs to me!”
My sweetheart would spring
From mountain to mountain,
And would bring back to me
My little gold ring!
You can graze by the Neckar,
You can graze by the Rhein!
You can always toss
Your little ring in to me!
Where the fair trumpets play
Who then is outside and who knocks,
That can so gently awaken me?
It is your dearly beloved,
Get up and let me come to you!
Why should I stand here any longer?
I see the red of morning rising,
The red of morning, two bright stars.
By my sweetheart I long to be,
By my dearest beloved.
The maiden stood up and let him in;
She bade him also welcome be.
Welcome, my dear lad,
How long have you been standing!
She offered him also her snow-white hand.
From afar the nightingale sang,
And the maiden began to weep.
Ah, do not weep, my love,
In a year you shall be my own.
My own you should be,
As none other on the earth is.
O love on the green earth.
I go to war on the green heath,
The green heath, it is so far!
There where the fair trumpets sound,
There is my house,
My house of green grass!
In praise of high understanding
Once in a deep valley
The cuckoo and the nightingale
Struck up a bet:
Whoever could sing a masterpiece,
Won by art, won by luck:
Thanks would he bear.
The cuckoo said: “If it pleases you,
I have chosen the judge,”
And he at once appointed the ass.
"Denn weil er hat zwei Ohren groß,
So kann er hören desto bos
Und, was recht ist, kennen!"
Sie flogen vor den Richter bald.
Wie dem die Sache ward erzählt,
Schuf er, sie sollten singen.
Die Nachtigall sang lieblich aus!
Der Esel sprach: "Du machst mir's kraus!
Du machst mir's kraus! I-ja! I-ja!
Ich kann's in Kopf nicht bringen!"
Der Kukuk drauf fing an geschwind
Sein Sang durch Terz und Quart und Quint.
Dem Esel g'fiels, er sprach nur
"Wart! Wart! Wart! Dein Urteil will ich
sprechen,
Wohl sungen hast du, Nachtigall!
Aber Kukuk, singst gut Choral!
Und hältst den Takt fein innen!
Das sprech' ich nach mein' hoh'n Verstand!
Und kost' es gleich ein ganzes Land,
So laß ich's dich gewinnen!"
“For since he has two large ears,
So can he hear so much the better
And know what is right!”
They soon flew before the judge.
As he was told the matter,
He declared that they should sing.
The nightingale sang out sweetly!
The ass said: “You make me confused!
You make me confused! I-ja! I-ja!
I can’t get it into my head!”
The cuckoo then began quickly
His song in thirds and fourths and fifths.
The ass was pleased, he said only
“Wait! Wait! Wait! Your verdict I will
declare,
You sang well, nightingale!
But cuckoo, you sing a good chorale!
And you hold the pulse precisely!
This I declare by my high intellect!
And even if it costs a whole country,
So I declare you the winner!”
